Broken Mirror (37 page)

“Because it’s hard to duplicate. My guess is at some point they made you do it in a cup.”

Victor had a sinking feeling. The nurses at Oak Knoll
had
made him jerk off once. They said they were testing for something
—
he couldn’t remember what. Probably whether he would pass the MRS gene to his descendants.

Tosh said, “Come on, Victor. Just give your junk a few yanks, and let’s move on.”

“I’m not—there’s no hope with you standing out there listening.”

Tosh opened the door and pointed at Victor’s crotch. “You need help?”

“No! You’re not going to do anything to me.”

“Relax, we’ll order in.”

Tosh waved him into the room, and Victor followed reluctantly, taking one step at a time, inching toward the exit. He’d take his car and go, maybe all the way back to Springboard Café. He just had to get past Tosh first.

Tosh pointed at the vidscreen on the desk. “Pull up a chair,” he said.

Victor stood a few steps away. “I can see from here.”

“Suit yourself. Let’s see. It’s girls you like, right? Men don’t seem to be your thing. Your loss, by the way. So, do you like white girls, black girls, brown girls, yellow? Red?”

Victor felt like smacking Tosh on the back of the head, but he resisted. “They’re not crayons.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass. Now, what shape do you want?”

“I’m not doing this.”

“Nonsense. It’ll take twenty minutes. We order, she comes in, gets you off, and maybe the egg opens.”

“But it’s—I’d be exploiting them.”

Tosh pointed to a gallery of women’s faces, torsos, and nether regions on the vidscreen. “They want to be here, okay? They’re happy whores who’ve got a sweet setup. They get to choose their clients. They live in luxury. They get to spend their time not working however they want, and they fuck for a buck. What’s not to love?”

“You don’t really believe that, do you?” Victor asked.

“How many whores do you know?” Tosh countered.

“None,” he admitted.

Tosh shrugged. “If you don’t choose, I’ll choose for you.”

“Whatever. That one. Trina.” Victor pointed to a picture of a woman on the screen with dark brown eyes and jet-black hair, with lips whose corners turned up, and a large rounded nose. She looked friendly.

“Doesn’t that look a little too much like your friend?” Tosh asked.

“Fuck you.”

Tosh confirmed Victor’s selection with a tap of his fingers. An automated voice chimed, “Pose for your photograph in 3 . . . 2 . . .” Tosh reached over and pulled Victor onto his lap. “1 . . .” A bright flash filled the room. To Victor’s ears, it sounded like glass breaking. The photograph captured him with his mouth open, a surprised expression on his face.

Tosh laughed. “We might need to retake it.”

A chat screen opened with a message from Trina.
Are you a jokester?
it read.

Inexperienced and nervous, i.e. young,
Tosh typed.

The response came through quickly,
I love popping cherries. Be right there.

Butterflies flitted in Victor’s stomach. He had to nip this in the bud.

Tosh laughed at him. “Are you nervous? Is this your first time?”

“First time with a prostitute? Yeah.”

“Are you a virgin, though?”

Someone knocked on the door.

“Our order’s up.” Tosh stepped to the door and opened it.

Trina whose face still stared from the vidscreen stood at the door in a white silk nightgown that dipped in a sharp
V
to reveal large swaths of cleavage. Her hair was pinned up in a bun.

“Good evening, gentlemen.” Her voice was light and sweet, with a soft playful lilt.

“Good evening, lady.” Tosh bowed.

“Hello,” Victor said, plotting a route between the two of them out the door and back to his car.

Trina breezed into the room and sat on the edge of the bed, one leg splayed to the side. The hem of her robe fell only to the tops of her thighs. Her fingers ran along one edge of the robe’s lacy lining next to her breast. She smiled, “How would you two like to proceed?”

Tosh lifted his hands and smiled. “I’m just a tourist. He’s going to do all the work.” Tosh nodded at Victor.

She turned her eyes to him, and her smile deepened, her nostrils flared, a subtle blush rose in her chest. Her arousal sparkled around the edge of Victor’s vision. Electricity rose from his groin and turned into a warm flush when it reached his chest.

She turned her body to him. “This is a treat. It’s rare I get to work on men under thirty, and so handsome.”

“How did you, uh, choose this line of work?” Victor asked. He took a few wooden steps toward the door, conscious of pressure building in his pants.

Trina ran a hand down her smooth leg. “Who wouldn’t want to do this? When I was eighteen, I got the Impulse implant. Love is my drug, as they say. You can come here now.”

“See, it’s already working,” Tosh said, pointing toward Victor’s tented pants.

“Now, now, tourist,” she said, “No talking during the show.”

Victor blinked once slowly and was startled to discover that his feet had crossed the distance toward her. His fingers reached out, slipped her robe off, and dug into her arms. She gasped and then growled in satisfaction. She pressed against him, a wave of mind-numbing physicality.

He sank to his knees. Her scent moved inside him, filling his sinuses. His mouth met her skin where wiry hairs grew below her belly button. He pressed his face against her, immersed in pleasure. Everything else fell away.

His lips and tongue traced a path down and inward. The woman rocked back and bowed her legs as a sigh rushed out of her. Victor continued to explore between her legs, seeking combinations to arouse and surprise. The sounds she made felt like they were coming from his throat, through his mouth. Salt and musk and softness enveloped him.

She pushed him away and commanded him to undress. Her eyes were haloed with deep-purple fireworks. Victor was barely aware that Tosh sat watching them.

Victor tore at his shirt while she worked to unbuckle his belt, unclasp his pants, and pry off his stretched briefs. Slipping to her knees, she returned his favors unhurriedly, stimulating his shaft and balls. Victor moaned, his pulse and breath quickening. A buzzing sensation rose from his groin, spreading heat throughout his entire body.

The woman stood and pulled Victor to her. They took baby steps toward the bed and lowered themselves down. She helped him enter her as she shuddered, clenched, and moaned. He started to undulate, pressing into her, feeling her arousal in her breath on his neck. A wave grew as he kept thrusting, approaching orgasm.

“Not like that, sweetie,” she instructed. “Not like a machine. Like rain. Random. Here.” She rolled 180 degrees, then sat up, pressing down on Victor. “Feel that?” She moved against him slowly, quickened, and changed again. Her body flushed, and he felt her shaking with an orgasm; her cry vibrated as it left her body.

“Now you,” she told him breathily.

He rolled onto her. He lifted and pressed forward, not following a preconceived rhythm; each new sensation guided him. Sweat formed on his brow and dripped onto her neck.

His entire body
—
his hands and feet, all along his pelvis
—
heated up and became sublimely sensitive. Ripples moved over him, traveling through his skin and nerves, signaling an incipient euphoria.

Happy, unreserved. Beastly. His thoughts had fallen so far from his mind, he forgot he’d ever had them. Strain in his throat melted away, and his breath vibrated, a low hum. A counterpoint sounded, but he ignored it. His hips rose and fell faster, urgently. He saw colors and patterns behind his eyelids
—
heard another strange, unhappy sound
—
his hands pressed down, his pelvis redoubled its rhythm, pounding harder, coming closer, the wave building.

“Not so fast,” she moaned, though he heard it faintly, as if it traveled a long distance from her lips to his ears, instead of mere centimeters.

The woman was yelling. He opened his eyes; her hair spread out. She moved against him, and he slowed, worried he might come before the wave built even higher.

Blankness hovered close, but he ran from it; thrusting seemed to keep it away.

“Stop!” she raged at him, beating his chest with her fists. “Didn’t you hear me?” Why was she angry?

His groin fluttered. He pressed into her at many places at once, all over. He moved spastically, chasing the onrushing feeling like an electrical charge building before a thunderstorm.

“I’m going,” he said, hoping she felt how he did
—
bright, pure, hot
.

“Get off me!” she yelled.

Tosh gripped Victor’s arms, pulling him off her. He moaned and came suddenly, but not pleasurably. His groin surged, and he splattered on the carpet, only he didn’t feel the wave. The delicious tension had vanished. He felt only an empty pumping. She’d ruined it. Why?

Victor turned toward her, opened his mouth to ask her, but something was wrong. She sat facing away from him, slouched, withdrawing and recovering, in a position he recognized after a moment of study. He had felt that way many times when someone had shamed him. But he didn’t understand why. He stood there, not knowing what to say or do.

“I don’t know where you went, but it wasn’t a good place,” she said quietly. “You almost broke my wrists! Damn, I was going to let you come in me. Gets me twice as high!”

He couldn’t see her face. It had been good. But when he had opened his eyes . . . 

Victor balled his fists. He had done it again. Hurt somebody without realizing it. Badly.

Victor jumped up when the woman started toward the door.

“Wait!” he called. “I’m sorry. That was my first time doing it for real. I didn’t mean to
—
”

She turned and stared at him. The look on her face dried up his voice and he gulped. His saliva had evaporated, leaving his throat sealed by glue.

“Please,” he tried again, “I—I got carried away. I didn’t know I was hurting you.”

She crossed her arms in front of her naked breasts and leaned against the doorway, scowling at him.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, sitting on the bed, looking at the carpet, stained by his ejaculate.

“I won’t report it,” she said. From the corner of his eye, Victor saw Tosh hand her her robe. She left and shut the door behind her.

Victor searched for words in the dirty carpet near his naked feet, but he found none.

“Well, mission accomplished. And in record time.” Tosh rubbed the data egg across the sticky carpet.

Nothing happened. The data egg stayed locked.

Victor turned away. He’d never felt so alone, but tears wouldn’t come. He was as dry as the desert.

The Vatican’s fall as a result of the Communion Crisis removed one of the last remaining counterweights to the accelerated evolution, and dissolution, of Christianity. As a result, today’s many splintered sects look nothing like the congregations of 150 years ago. Church-sanctioned miracles have been replaced by magic. Charisma serves in the place of doctrine. People looking to a higher power are sucked into the chaotic maw of solipsistic thinking.

It’s no wonder that people speak longingly and hopefully of an Age of Quiet; they yearn for a moment of theological silence to find their bearings. But do not be fooled. Silence in a time of menace can only result in decline.

—Circe Eastmore’s
Race to the Top
(1991)

Victor stared at the ceiling, at nothing. He was useless. Worse, he was hurtful and out of control.

Tosh snored in a bed on the other side of the darkened room. Victor wanted to hold a pillow over his mouth.

Victor’s therapy should have kept him from making such loony mistakes. He shouldn’t have let Tosh pressure him. He shouldn’t have had sex with the woman. And he shouldn’t have gone blank during it.

He’d really not come very far at all in managing his condition. All of Dr. Tammet’s therapy amounted to gimmicks. All of Granfa Jeff’s lessons were a pittance compared to the waywardness of Victor’s misbehaving brain.

Tosh snored so loudly that Victor thought the man’s skull might implode.

If Victor couldn’t control himself, he could at least control whom he surrounded himself with. Tosh was bad, through and through. He should have seen that earlier. Victor wouldn’t trust him anymore.

And Elena . . . What should he do about Elena? She wanted to help him, she said. But she might get him captured or killed.

Victor tossed and turned, fretting, unable to decide, and fell asleep just as dawn began to brighten the room.

***

Jets of fire scorched Victor’s prone body and roared in his ears. Heat seared his skin, muscles, and bone as they vaporized and joined the surge of combustible gas flowing through the chamber surrounding him.

Another painful dream of suffocating conflagration. The details had changed
—
this time he was reclining in a small stone chamber, a kind of blast furnace
—
but the feeling of his body flaring like a match remained the same.

His dreams always repeated several times per night, like a second hand that ticks back and forth, repeating the same moment over and over. This time the fire dream
—
a common one
—
started with Victor’s body lying on a stone slab beneath superheated gas jetting into the chamber. His arm hair burned, atomized, and blew away. Every cell caught fire, chemical bonds rupturing, electrons splitting from atomic nuclei, as Victor turned to plasma and dissipated.

Then the second hand ticked backward, and his body reformed.

The repeating second wasn’t the only way that time behaved strangely in the fire dreams. Time moved forward at different speeds, sometimes so slow that each electromagnetic pulse in his nerves lasted as long as a relaxed breath, sometimes speeding so fast that the entire dream lasted for the blink of an eye. The fire dreams always ended with his body’s dissolution.

Victor clutched at lucidity: the infernal torture wasn’t real, and he would wake up unburned. But his real life seemed far away and as illusory as dreams seem during wakefulness.