Chapter 4
Carol produced a hot towel to clean Garcia’s face. He giggled.
Carol stopped, again surprised he was awake, but curious why he was laughing.
“What’s funny?”
“I am alive,” Garcia said.
Carol seemed sad. “Contrary to popular belief, my father isn’t evil. The Federation’s situation is much more precarious than most people realize,” she said. “We lost several colonies to the Klingons, including K7, and so they’re very strategically place. And sufficiently aggressive to be concerned.”
Carol resumed cleaning his face. He turned his head away, saying ‘stop,’ but she took his face in her hand and redirected it towards her. She scrutinized his eyes. The hand with the towel trembled.
“I feel like we’ve met before…”
“Stop…”
Carol dropped the towel and pushed both hands against his face, bringing her lips close to his, her eyes staring into his. Her breathing synced with his. If she had been tracking her heart rate, she would have found hearts in sync.
“Please,” they both said, simultaneously, breathlessly.
Garcia’s eyes flashed. Carol gasped, sucking in air. She didn’t question his hands being free, suddenly drawing her on top of him. She didn’t question any of his restraints being free, or the sudden direction they were going in as he stood up, taking her up, turned her, and then put her back in the chair, pushing it into a reclining position, pinning her hands above her head. She kissed him as eagerly as he kissed her. She pushed her body into him. He closed his eyes, started to retreat, but she pulled him back, arms and legs going around them. He surrendered.
♫♪►
Agent 347 and agent 201 arrived safely, having taken a journey that encompassed hundreds of trillions of miles in less than a heartbeat. Faster than light. For many the arrival would have been incredibly disorienting, enough to make people sick. It was jarring, but for the seasoned travelers it was taken in stride. 201 edged a little closer to 347, took his hand. Her ancestors came from Japan, but she was a little taller, with a hint of Caucasian influence. Her hair was shoulder length, straight, square, a shaped waterfall, shiny black; her face was visible with the hairline right at eyebrow level. She was dressed in a white blouse, plaid skirt, a thin black tie, and had a coat with unrecognized insignia; the school uniform feel to her dress made her seem younger than 20. She had a matching purse, folded thin, suggesting it was relatively empty. 347 was a Caucasian male, dressed in jeans and a long sleeve, earth colored, turtleneck shirt, and a military styled, olive green army jacket. His beard was new for him, fighting gray, and a prominent bald spot. At fifty one, standing next to 201, he might have been thought her father. He had a discernable, but quiet shading of dandruff. He had 1950’s MASH mail bag. It seemed empty. He did not look like the sort of person who might be called an ‘agent,’ much less a time traveling agent. His ‘orientation’ moment was observably longer than 201’s with full recovery coinciding when he realized she had his hand. He squeezed back. They stood before a pedestal, topped with a transparent dome that allowed them to see three, illuminated, disembodied brains. Their colors were primary: red, yellow, and blue.
He mumbled, “So, this is now…” You would think most people would be in a panic, demanding explanation. He took it all in stride.
“Yeah,” 201 agreed.
“Identify yourselves,” the brains demanded.
“Took you guys long enough to find us,” 347 said. “Here’s the deal. Isis sent us here to negotiate the release of the hostages.”
“You were not sent. We brought you here,” Red said. “Your quantum signature does not align with this domain. Define your origin point.” Another asked: “Explain your purpose...”
“To negotiate the release of the hostages. As for origin point, well that’s really difficult to explain,” Garcia said.
A multitude of questions and demands were issues simultaneously, with quarreling about which question required the most immediate answer. 347 raised his hand. “Hold up, let’s just work this out. We have time…” 201 grimaced but didn’t disagree. “The other interlopers do not align with your quantum signature,” Blue said.
“Two different quantum signatures. Explain your connection.”
“Other interlopers,” 201 said. “Oh, you mean the hostages. Yeah, but they’re closer to this time line than we are…”
“How come you sound like a Dalek but Red sounds like Alexa?” 347 asked.
“Explain this reference,” the three brains demanded.
“Maybe we should stick to the script,” 201 suggested.
“We’re reasonably on track,” 347 said.
“The two of you display an inappropriate level of nonchalance given the gravity of your situation,” Yellow said. “You will supply us with the answers we need….”
“Yeah yeah, or you will kill us, been there, done that…” 347 said.
“Death is not an option,” Red said. “Your brains will be removed from your vessels and placed within supporting triadic structures for optimum information retrieval.”
“Oh, well that would be different,” 347 said. “But, still won’t get you what you want. It would likely take you a millennia to unpack my brain, and even then it wouldn’t be helpful. In fact, you’d probably not believe what you found.” “It’s why they sent us,” 201 said. “We’re unbelievably different.” “In a good way,” 347 said.
“We’re not trained in tech,” 201 said. “We can use tech. It feels a lot like magic. But the only thing we were really trained in was philosophy. We are happy to share that with you. But the big tech, the kind you’re really asking about, well, that’s in the hands of the Isis. She sent us to facilitate communication in the most nondestructive fashion possible. We’re very peaceful people.”
“Besides, we are wearing symbiotic biological tech that should we be killed, we would cycle back to origin point with full memory of the end event in order to disclose our failure so the next time we arrive here, we will be armed for this level of interaction,” 347 said. “It would save a lot of time and effort just to negotiate with us without harming us.”
“It really would,” 201 said. “Because Isis keeps sending us back,” and said the last part looking at 347 “without any script changes.” “The inherit message hasn’t changed,” 347 said. “You can’t force this,” 201 said.
“I am not forcing anything…”
The brains deliberated over top of the agents deliberation, calculating the odds of that the information disclosed was valid. Outside systems began chiming in and values were assigned.
347 thought that odd. “How can you bet on something you can’t verify?” he asked. “You will identity yourselves,” Blue said.
“I am Jon Harister…”
“No,” 201 said. “You’re 347.”
“I hate that designation,” 347 said.
“You would prefer double oh seven?” 201 asked.
“No. Well, sometimes. Depends on the leading actress. 42 would be nice, though,” 347 said.
“It’s taken,” 201 said. “Besides, you’re neither a robot nor a hitman.” “Explain how you can be so cavalier?” Yellow said.
“You want me to be afraid? Well, honestly, I am terrified. I’ve died a few times and come back and it’s not pleasant. It’s survivable, but I prefer to avoid it,” 347 said. “There are worse things than death. Oh, by the way. Those worse things, they’re coming
here. We’re in a position we can help you, if you let us.” Another round of deliberation was under taken.
“It is decided. You will fight in the games,” Yellow said.
“I am not a fighter,” 347 said.
“He really isn’t,” 201 said.
“Then you will die,” Blue said. “And in this way, we will discover vicariously whether or not you speak truth about cycling through time.”
“I bet a thousand quatloos marginal endurance will be maintained for five minutes,” Red said.
Betting erupted with any survival time over five minutes being evidence that 347 had cycled a minimum of a thousand deaths before learning to avoid death.
“Oh, come on,” 347 said. “Mortal Kombat is so 90s. You need an update to your entertainment.”
Silence ensued. 201 frowned at 347.
“Expound,” Red said.
“Ever read the Hunger Games?” 347 asked.
“Jon!” 201 said.
“Seriously, look, I am a lover not a fighter. You will be bored betting on me in that arena,” 347 said. “However, if…”
“You’re really not going there, are you?” 201 asked.
“We made it this far, let’s go all the way, 347 said.
“Seriously?” 201 asked. “Just because we came back to the sixties…”
“It’s what I do,” Jon said.
“I don’t want be in the room with you when the life review begins,” 201 said.
“It will be alright. Follow my lead,” 347 said.
“Just because you’re the senior lead doesn’t mean…”
“Not trying to force this. But it’s war or love. War has not worked out so well for us,” 347 said.
“Alright, but just this once,” 201 said. She smiled at the brains. “We have an alternative entertainment venue which would likely surpass all your present revenue streams.”
“Like, triple the Ferengi GDP,” 347 said.
“We are interested in new entertainment opportunities,” the brain triad in front them said. “Disclose.”
“I propose you hook me up with aliens and bet on my ability to produce viable offspring,” 347 said. “You can place micro bets on whether I successfully pleasure agreeable partners… and put some spin on it like, they have to pretend to like it, with independent arbitrator that will verify degrees of success…” “The Eros function doesn’t interest us,” Blue said.
“That’s a socialized belief that if you allow me to demonstrate, you may find yourselves sufficiently surprised. Your competitions and betting is just a vicarious release of the same energy, and the aggression in the arenas is exasperated because you don’t have the bodies to do it for yourselves. I promise, a spoon full of testosterone will help this medicine go down, and you will suddenly find new ways of getting your gambling need met…”
The brains began betting. “I can’t believe they’re actually deliberating,” 201 said.
“We just have to buy time, right?” 347 asked. “How far into this tangent did we have to go?”
“A week,” 201 lamented.
“Has anything prior got us past a day?” 347 asked.
“No,” 201 said.
“If we can get them to bet on my stamina and refractory period, they’ll lose,” 347 said. “You have quatloos on you, throw your two cents in.”
“I bet 50,000 quatloos 347 can satisfy 30 partners in a 12 hour period,” 201 said, taking a solid bar of diamond speckled gold out of her bag and placing it on the dias. 347 frowned at her.
“What?” 201 asked. “You’re capable.”
“You don’t start betting at the high end,” 347 said. “You low ball them so have margin to surprise.”
“If we’re going to play ball, come big or not at all,” 201 said.
The agents looked to the brains. There was silence. There was still activity. The brains were quivering, and the pulse of blood being forced through their layered cortexes could be seen.
“You can’t vote…” Blue said.
“Accepted…” Red said.
“Compulsory caveat that any resulting offspring becomes property of Triskelion…” Yellow said.
“In for a penny…” 201 said.
“One million quatloos no offspring will result,” Blue said… and the betting was off to the races.
“Oh, please,” 201 said, pulling out another bar. “You brains are not betting on the right things. I bet he can satisfy all his partners.”
Betting began until an interruption was brought about how to measure. “No, you can’t rely on self-reporting,” 201 said. “Your thralls will lie to please you. Using your available tech, I will place monitors on the subjects that will measure their neural and physiological reactions. This information will be sent to a computer or arbitrary judge. Betting over whether a partner is satisfied and how quickly satisfaction can be achieved is possible. In fact, I bet Jon can satisfy a partner before he is satisfied sixty percent of the time. Further, even if he finishes first, he will continue to perform until partner is satisfied…”
The number of bidders expanded to other regions. Apparently, no new comer had ever enthralled a member with such promising revenue schemes. That fact could be attributed to most people were probably in fight or flight mode from the moment they arrived against their wills. Being born here resulted in this normality, being brought here, this was a nightmare. 347 was surprised but also feeling like he should be out of sorts with 201 for pushing the difficulty of the task at hand. She took another bar out.
“Also, I bet Jon, without being privy to biometrics data, can discern when someone is faking satisfaction,” 201 said.
“Who’s side are you on?” Jon asked.
“I am making sure everyone is properly vested,” 201 said. “You can tell the difference.”
“With aliens,” Jon said. “Not so much with humans.”
“Well, we did go like 2 thousand years where faking was a survival skill,” 201 reminded him
Bidding for ownership of offspring and debates about first partnering began.
“Now hold on,” 347 said.
“No, we accept this tangent…”
“Oh? Well, I have some caveats,” 347 said. “Like, everyone who comes to me has a choice…”
“Thralls have no choice. They will do as they are told,” Blue said. “You will service all who come to you, or face penalty. Triad Terish has agreed to handle your collateral and any winnings, with ten percent handling fee. Presently, no providers are bidding for owning you. Initial capture value has been trippled due to your perceived willingness to participate.”
Without further debate or betting, 347 and 201 were transferred to their quarters, instantaneously. They found themselves collared, a thin band of linked, black, almost translucent stones that went around their neck; the shaped Tourmaline like stones were connected in threes, interrupted by a quartz that were a little bigger. Their necklace was unmarked by color scheme that would suggest a provider has taken ownership; the clear quartz would change color when they became owned. A tall, mysterious man presented himself to them. His cloak disguised his leg movement to the point it seemed as if he were floating. His eyes sparked as he interacted with his provider. He nodded in his private conversation, not hearing or seeing the newcomers while holding his inner conversation.
“Wow,” 201 said. “We’re not fighting for our lives…” “Yet,” 347 said.
“You think this will work?” 201 said.
“What happen when our society put porn on cell phones?” 347 asked. “This will work,” 201 said.
The mysterious man returned to present, focusing on the new comers.
“I am Galt,” he said, bowing to them. He was always respectful. He was simply a custodian who took his training function seriously. “I am the master thrall for this complex. I will facilitate transactions while the providers explore the entertainment value of your proposal. Should you fail to garner and maintain a minimum level of viewership, the nature of the agreement will be altered to reflect mainstream revenue generating activities. Because of the newness of the arrangement, you have been granted an unusual amount of freedoms and luxuries not usually afforded someone of your status. For starters, your companion will be allowed to remain with you. She may participate in any way you desire to facilitate and maintain his maximum performance level. First level of punishment for any failure will be to assign your companion to another thrall for breeding purposes. Follow me.”
As they walked, 201 asked. “Doesn’t it strike you as odd that no one ever tries to take our bags?”
“Even the most advanced people can’t consciously address things that clearly look like magic,” 347 said. “To them, they’re just empty bags.” “But, they’re brains…” 201 said.
“They’re all brains, but that doesn’t make them smart,” 347 said.
Galt stopped at the entrance to a chamber, and hand gestured that they were free to proceed in. The entrance was wide, like an opening to a cave cut larger to show off the inner space, and as they passed ‘mister mysterious,’ 347 was discovered they were being provided the most spacious, most luxurious of décor and furniture; this was new, and the brains had provided furniture based on their bias of his needs. 347’s workspace looked like a BDSM store. Even as 347 was measuring and thinking, Galt was telling him that if he required anything more specific for performance purposes, he only need ask and replicators would provide. The quarters and ‘workshop’ combined was a mixture between a bohemian love nest and a madam’s torture chamber. There were ropes, suspension point, tables, heated stones, suction cups, whips, candles, potions, variety of foods and drinks from fruit to candies, lava lamps, florescent bubble tubes… 201 went to a particular couch, which was sort of like a lounge, only, it had a gentle wave form design that allowed for varied, optimum positional body mechanics when love making.
“Oh, I used to have one of these,” 201 said. “Can we get one of these when get home?”
“Sure,” 347 said.
A large, yellow skinned, flaming orange, spiked hair, almost a Shrek-ish, ogre like creature arrived. She smiled pleasantly. Scarily.
“This is Tamoon,” Galt said. “You may begin.”
Tamoon smiled and bowed. She wasn’t hideous, but she was intimidating, clearly built for combat-with tank robots. 201 pushed 347 towards her. “Spit spot, don’t be shy…”
“Um…”
“Oh, yeah, almost forgot, biometrics,” 201 said. She drew a small device from her bag and handed it to Galt. “It is a simple measuring device that broadcast all telemetry on an assigned frequency. If you or the Providers will be so kind as to designate a frequency for us to transmit data, I will set the first device. Or you can do it. You have full access to this tech. Has an independent arbitrator been established?”
Galt’s eyes flashed. “The device is approved. We will provide you with more. Frequency has been assigned, link established. Proceed.” 201 approached Tamoon. She seemed hesitant. “Will this hurt?” Tamoon asked.
“This thing?” 201 asked. “Oh, no. It’s just measures things, like body temperature, blood flow, heart rate, skin conductivity, brain waves, endorphins level...”
“No, will the servicing hurt?” Tamoon asked.
201 seemed surprised by the question.
347 came a little closer. Her question sparked compassion and curiosity. “Have you been hurt in the past?”
Galt’s eyes flashed. “These questions are irrelevant. You will began servicing.”
“I’m not refusing to perform,” 347 said, turning and looking around as if meeting multiple cameras. “The betting was on frequency and my personal duration per coupling. If you like, you can bet on how long it takes me to get someone to fully engage, which means, questions and understanding a person’s history and medical situation is absolutely essential. This is part of the game.”
Galt’s eyes flashed. “You may proceed, for now.”
347 turned back to 347. “You were hurt before?”
“It is what it is,” Tamoon said. “Only those very skilled at fighting may choose a mate. I have survived, but I am not highly ranked. I cannot have children, so, I am frequently used to service thralls… It is usually not pleasant, but I have endured worse in the arenas.” “You have never experienced an orgasm,” 201 said, which was a fishing guess statement.
“When I was younger, I could arrive through self-touch,” Tamoon said. “But after an injury, that ability went away.”
347 retrieved a medical tricorder from his bag. He offered it to Galt to be examined. Galt seemed perplexed, his eyes even flashed.
“This thrall has been deemed medically sound. The Providers are annoyed by the delay…” Galt said.
“If she has medical condition due to trauma that inhibits her ability to climax, then all bets are off,” 201 said.
“Negative. You will service this thrall,” Galt said.
“I will, and I will win, but let me use this device so I can understand her biology a little better, so I don’t cause harm,” 347 said. “Seriously, if you guys want this enhanced revenue stream, then you need to watch and learn. If forcing people to perform was sufficient, this would already be your primary mode of interaction. Fear and forcing works. You can box people into a corner and they will do some horrendous things. You have minimized sexuality by making it a reward for competing, which is good for some, not good for others. This thing I am offering you, it’s a different pathway from the fight or flight response. It requires social, psychological, and biological synergetic coherence to achieve optimum results. I challenge one brain or one triad to use the data projected from this thrall to share in her neural experience.”
“Also,” 201 said. “When we win this round, continue to monitor her over the next week. I bet you her performance in every arena will be improved because she will have
an improvement in mood. This is a win win in every way.” Galt’s eyes flashed. “Proceed…”
♫♪►
Garcia woke. He felt groggy and it was difficult to open his eyes but he forced himself because of the sensation of being intimately close to someone, spooning. The first realization was that he was perfectly spooning and he sat up because the twins should have been there. His hands went to his stomach and up. His hand found the straps. He became aware of the portable womb against his back. He stood up and reversed it. In the dim light he saw Carol on the floor.
“Oh, fuck me, am I ever going to get grief for this,” he said to no one; or perhaps quietly to the twins. He took the womb off, put on his shirt, and put the womb back on.
He patted them. “If you learn nothing from me but this, no drugs, no alcohol. Ever.”
Garcia finished dressing quickly. Carol was still out cold. He felt the tingling of telepathic bond and the heat that lingered and forced himself to shut it down, partly for fear of waking her, but partly because he didn’t want to go there again. Well, that was lie. He wanted it to go on forever without end. He wanted to be with her without the influence of drugs. There was no way to be with her without the influence of his telepathic nature. He wondered if he engaged her how long he could sustain this tangent. He wanted her so much…
“Focus,” he whispered, needing to hear himself. He went to the door which was locked to him. He reached behind the pack, opened a pocket and slid out Gary Seven’s Servo. “Also, twins, always practice a bit of sleight of hand, for impromptu magic. It will help with things like bra removal.”
Garcia had a rudimentary understanding of the servo. He could open doors with it. There was a guard. His eyes sparked with surprised understanding even as the Vulcan nerve pinch rendered him unconscious. He dragged him back into the room, secured him to the chair, and gagged him with the first thing available… One of Carol’s socks. He heard himself asking, ‘why do females insist on socks being off,’ and Duana responded, ‘we want your socks off so you’re not in such a hurry to leave after.’ ‘Yeah, stay and tarry a while,’ Ilona said. He debated tying Carol, but he seriously feared physical contact with her. Ilona complained, ‘you never tie me up.’ He pushed bravely out into the corridor. He debated, left, right, his inner companions not helping his debate, and finally went right. A port at the end of the corridor revealed they were at warp.
“Please, not Triskelion,” Garcia said.
Garcia pushed up against to port, hoping to see other features of the ship, wanting to get his bearings. “Dreadnaught,” he whispered. He sorted through a generalized, predictable blue print. Re-orientated and went back the way he came, past the ‘examination’ room, and was forced to hide in a hollow space as crew past. The corridor was to