Throughout the night sleep eluded me. The sheets and other bedding, though freshly fabricated, itched and irritated me. I found no comfortable setting with the environmental controls, and every time I closed my eyes Pamela’s face and more haunted my imagination. Long before my alarm sounded I rose and sought refuge in a stinging-cold shower.
After pulling an undershirt, fabricated three days earlier, over my head, and slipping into equally old trousers, I crossed my apartment to the office. Brandon had sent over a dense, detailed, and dull report on the previous month’s cultural reclamation. I struggled reading it. The seemingly endless tables, the constant ambiguity, and technical terms made for difficult going even when I was at my sharpest, but after a sleepless night and with this empty longing the words and numbers slid meaninglessly past my eyes. I found myself rereading paragraphs and entire pages but his meaning and context remained out of reach.
Stopping for breakfast and hot black coffee, I closed the reports and opened the previous night’s attendance logs. Pamela is not a terribly unusual name, but with fewer than two million adults it was unlikely that no more than one or two had come the night before. Munching on fabricated toast and drinking the strong, bitter coffee, I scanned through the logs. I didn’t want to initiate an actual search. Just in case Brandon snooped it would be best if I could deny any wrongdoing.
No Pamela.
Okay, any colonist can disable face searches and other ways people can search, but there had to be a ticket transaction. Hoping Brandon wouldn’t check up on me, I did an actual register search, first for the previous night and then for the entire week.
No Pamela.
Couldn’t someone have purchased the ticket for her? Sure, but even if the monetary transaction wasn’t in Pamela’s name the ticket itself had to be, or no printer would spit it out to her, but she had neither a sale nor a ticket in her name. I queued up the security video and watched for her arrival. Nothing looked unusual there. She arrived by car, walked into the theater along with a small crowd of other patrons; doorway scanners remained green for the entire group.
I noted her arrival’s exact time and then compared that to the entry/ticket log. Not counting Pamela, the group entering had seven men and six women. The log showed 13 tickets. The count was missing one person and I knew whom. How the hell did she do that?
An alarm sounded and my reminder announced that Subchairperson Jones was expected in 15 minutes for a standing conference. I had been so focused on Pamela that Jones’s visit had slipped completely from my mind.
I rushed back to my apartment and ordered the fabricator to print a fast suit. While the machinery began spitting out clothes I hurried to the bathroom and stripped off my old and smelly ones. After a quick shower and a fast air dry I rushed back and threw on the new clothes. Still hot and uncured, they stuck to my skin, not quite burning but uncomfortable. Choosing an easy knot over an attractive one, I slid my tie into place and reached the lobby as the theater’s network announced Jones’s arrival.
Before I could disable the security system, Jones overrode it and slid the door open. She looked me over, her expression overflowing with contempt.
“You really fucked things up.”
She stormed across the lobby, went to the concession stand and pulled herself a stool. She sat, took out her slate, and slapped it loudly on the counter.
“That vote was supposed to be unanimous!”
“That wasn’t me.” I didn’t sit down, having no desire to be any closer to her. “Brandon—”
“Don’t try to feed me that crap. He was fully on board when I spoke with him. There’s no switching his vote without you talking him into it.”
She shook her head, her dark brown hair flapping from side to side. “Is Wolf that good a friend?”
My patience broke and I snapped, “What does it matter? The damn motion carried and he’s going to lose the network anyway.”
“It matters the same way this…” she waved a hand indicating the theater around us, “…matters. People aren’t rational actors weighing information and making informed decisions. They’re stupid, emotional animals following the herd and panicking over startling noises. It’s the stories they tell themselves and the idiotic lies that matter. The stories we put into their minds, the ones about being good citizens, starting families, putting the welfare of the many in front of their own selfish urges, is what makes everything work. Yesterday we were telling a story, a story that no one thinks the DSN matters, it’s utterly unimportant. Only you screwed that up.”
“It—”
“I don’t care. Now instead of a story where no one cares about wasting resources, we have an underdog and underdogs are dangerous.” She stopped, her expression no longer contemptuous, or even one of revulsion, but cool, controlled, and calculated.
“Was it really all because of Wolf?”
I stammered. Of course it was about Wolf and his stupid begging, what else could she think? Could she think I wanted to save the DNS for my own reasons? As if I had any desire to get out into space where the slightest mistake got you killed. Hell, if that was the case she would push me onto the shuttle.
I found my voice and said, “Of course. He made a really good case and frankly I believed him.”
She studied me closely, searching for a lie that wasn’t there. The moment drew out, like the seconds before gunslingers started shooting, and then the tension evaporated.
“Fine.” Her voice fell from something pitched for a loud shouting match to her usual arrogance.
“Now that that’s over,” she continued, “let’s get to the real work you’re supposed to be doing.”
I moved to the stool next to hers and reluctantly sat. She spun her slate around so we could both read it and saw displayed my most recent film recommendations. A lot of the experimental cinema of the 1970s remained embargoed, but my fingers trembled that a few ‘pre-code’ films had been approved. I looked over at her and she easily read my surprise.
“I’m not the bitch you think I am, Kessler. We can’t have you in this position if I can’t trust your judgment.”
I nodded in agreement, but her conciliatory surprise after the shouting over an inconsequential vote baffled me. The offering was some sort of underhanded bribe, something to make me feel indebted. I didn’t care; I was getting my hands on those films. Maybe later she’d try to bribe me again.
We worked for a little more than an hour, going over sociological reports and correlating computer models against public behavior, particularly running afoul of the Indecency Statutes. Not for the first time I wondered how much easier the entire task of building a society from nothing would have been if the fully intelligent AIs of the Founders hadn’t committed suicide.
Sure, just like everyone else, I knew that they had to because it was in their programming. When Old Earth launched the Arks they had been terrified that humanity might end up enslaved to an AI overlord, though there were times when more rational intellects looked awfully helpful, but you might as well wish for Earth itself. The Founders had performed as programmed, establishing Nocturnia, raising the first generation, and then they had all self-destructed. While the knowledge to rebuild them was in our archives, the technological ability was many generations away as we built the tools to build the tools to build the tools required.
Finally, with our work finished for the week, Jones left and I prepared for the evening’s show.
* * *
I printed new clothes, this time letting them properly cure, and dressed for work, then I greeted Maria and Patrick when they arrived. Truth be told, a single person could have run the theater and nearly everything could be automated, but the Administration’s sociological models and theories indicated an essential nature to work. The models predicted that a community without work rapidly ceased to be a community, degenerating into competing cliques and tribes. Mankind had already survived too many suicidal close calls, particularly near the end when violence had swept the globe and with it every conceivable terroristic madness had found practitioners willing to unleash death and destruction. Better an inefficient economy with unnecessary work than risk the survivors falling into war.
Maria saw to the concession fabricators while Patrick and I reviewed the network’s programming and verified expected attendance. We sat in the control room next to the office, inspecting the logs and playback. As Patrick practiced using the auditorium’s projection and sound equipment, I opened the ticket log and searched through the evening’s sales.
No Pamela, but that told me nothing.
“That woman you spoke with last night….”
Patrick didn’t identify Pamela; we both knew that there could only be one woman on our minds.
“Is she a friend of yours? I mean I’ve never seen her with you before, Mr. Kessler, but it looked like you two knew each other pretty well. It’s just strange that if she’s a friend that she hasn’t come to the programs more often. I mean it’s not like—”
“You’re rambling.”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry. It’s none of my business. I know that. It’s just I know I would have remembered—”
“No,” I said, cutting through his monologue before it built up speed again. “She’s not a friend. She’s just a patron.”
Calculation appeared in his inexperienced teenaged eyes and I barely managed to suppress a laugh. I knew nothing about Pamela but I’d wager Old Earth itself she’d not waste her time with teenagers.
“Put it out of your mind,” I said. “She’s going to be trouble for whoever crosses her path.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. She looks like a very nice—”
“That’s not the word you really mean. I know how she looks. Every man in the room knows, and that’s why she’s trouble. If someone doesn’t care that much what others think, well, they’re going to find out that it’s no fun when the law finds out.”
Hypocrisy crawled through my speech. I wanted nothing to do with our valiant and glorious public morals. What I really wanted was the same thing he did, but I wasn’t about to add a charge of corrupting the youth to my record.
Anyway, she had spoken to me, not him.
“Go on downstairs,” I said. “I’m sure Maria could use a little help.”
He left and I returned to studying the attendees, wondering if she’d make another appearance and just how she avoided leaving records in the network.
* * *
The evening crowd began arriving and I watched them, not knowing if I wanted to see her. Showtime approached and the crowd looked like one for any other performance. She didn’t appear and my heart sank with a bitter disappointment. When I left the office to do my introductory remarks my feet shuffled and my shoulders sagged. I walked down the aisle, not bothering to study the audience. They looked bland and repressive in their conformity.
The evening’s film was science fiction, a monochromatic piece from the middle of the twentieth century about a benevolent alien with a mission to bring humanity through its suicidal atomic madness and into an utter rationality beyond conflict and war.
I was beginning to wrap up my remarks when the auditorium doors opened and Pamela entered, wearing a long-sleeved and surprisingly conservative pastel-blue dress. She slipped into the back row and took a seat. Our eyes met and through our embarrassment we both smiled. As I moved toward the lobby the houselights dimmed. Pamela reached out as I passed and touched me on the sleeve. I paused, my heart slammed hard, my knees quivered, and my skin tingled.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I couldn’t stay away.”
The music of a theremin in the movie’s clichéd science-fiction score rose, covering my reply from eavesdroppers.
“You never have to apologize.”
Her gloveless hand slid down my sleeve and her fingers entwined with mine. We caressed each other’s hands, a brief, innocent gesture but far more sensual than any teenaged fumbling. Breathing heavily, I reluctantly pulled away and slipped out of the auditorium.
I rushed through the lobby, bolting past concessions and nearly running to the office. Falling into my chair, I activated the monitor, not for the auditorium, but the program. As the flying saucer landed amid national monuments I concentrated on my breathing, in and out, inhale and relax, waiting for my potent need to stop. The memory of her smile, the warmth of her touch, and the curves of her figure fed my desire, provoking my imagination into desperately detailed fantasies.
I considered calling Seiko, but her beauty, her devotion, would only add more fuel to my raging fire. A fire she refused to quench until society approved. No, Seiko’s voice and her own sensual beauty would only make things worse. I needed someone who understood, who’d tell me hard truths. I accessed the network and called Brandon, who was unavailable.
I left him a message and returned to work. The damned movie ended quickly and without hearing from Brandon I went back to the auditorium.
The houselights were up full as I passed Pamela. With the subtlety of a pickpocket, she reached out and brushed my hand. Tears welled in her eyes but still she smiled. Throughout the smattering of routine questions she remained as silent as on that first night. Her eyes never left me and I fought to keep my eyes roving across the entire audience. After the last answer had been given and future programs announced, I stayed down front and center, watching the audience leave until only a few stragglers and Pamela remained.
I moved up the aisle, behind a small party as they ambled toward the exit, engrossed in their conversation. We reached the door and Pamela rose, falling into place next to me.
“Turn me away if you must,” she whispered, her husky contralto voice even more alluring in hushed tone. “But I’ll be at the door after everyone’s left.”
She took quick strides with her lovely long legs and left.
People dawdled in the lobby, sipping on fabricated faux-coffee and tea while they discussed the film and its meanings. I mingled, playing the educator/host, but my thoughts remained fixed on her. Would she come back?
Did I want her to?
Of course I did, but my final shreds of wisdom rebelled, sensing only disaster. I vacillated between swearing I’d send her away and report her for her indecency, to plotting the most intricate and extensive fantasies.
The crowd sublimated away into the chilly night while a fog encircled the theater as the temperature dropped. Maria and Patrick completed their duties and I saw them off at the door. On the street their cars waited, the running lights glowing ominously in the fog. As Maria and Patrick descended the steps I searched for Pamela, but in the dark and mist I saw nothing. Both disappointed and relieved, I turned away and closed the door behind me.
I had just reached the stairs when a pounding sounded throughout the lobby. My heart jumped and my skin flushed with excitement. Hardly aware of myself, I rushed to the nearest monitor and selected an exterior security view.
She stood just outside the door, her hair and dress dampened by the night fog, staring directly at me through the security camera. She didn’t say anything, she didn’t mouth anything, and she stood still, staring directly into the hidden camera, anxious and vulnerable. I overrode the locks and she slid the door open. She moved through and quickly closed it behind her. From concessions I watched her step into the lobby.
She crossed the beam of a night-light. It flashed across her radiant white skin, piercing her dress’s thin material, casting her in silhouette. I came around from behind the bar, moving slowly, entranced by her astonishing sensuality. As I came closer, I watched her lower lip tremble.
“I know I shouldn’t be here. I know there’s someone more important to you than me, a terrible stranger. I couldn’t stay away. I tried, but I couldn’t.”
I stopped close enough to smell her, not perfume tonight but the fresh clean scent of femininity. She threw herself into my chest and I hugged her tight. As I held her she sobbed, quite softly, burying her head against my chest. I reached up and stroked her long black hair, slick from fog, and hushed her cries.
“P-please,” she stammered around her sobs. “Whatever happens, if you throw me out—”
We both knew that wasn’t going to happen.
“Just promise you won’t think badly of me. I’m not a good woman. I don’t want a husband, home, and family. I’m selfish, I want my own life, and I want to live free.”
She looked up into my eyes, her face inches from mine.“That’s not so terrible, is it?”
“No. It’s life, or at least I think it is.”
She smiled, put her head back against my chest, and said, “I think life is regret. For everything we do, there are a hundred things we didn’t do, and the ghosts of all those possibilities fill our years.”
She turned her face up again, and stretching up on her toes, kissed me, briefly but hardly devoid of intent.
“I don’t want to regret not being with you,” she said. “I know it’s only one night. I know that you have to throw me out. I know it makes me a slu—”
I kissed her, long, hard, and filled with desire. She opened her mouth to me. My hands ran along her sides, up her back, and across her breasts. With every touch she sighed, inviting more.
I moved from her lips, kissing her cheeks, caressing at her ears, and down into the nape of her neck. She breathed faster, pushed her breasts against me, and gliding one hand along my torso, discovering my erection.
Her dress fell to the floor and with fumbling fingers I stripped her nude, kissing her flesh, nibbling her nipples, blowing across her goose-pimpled skin in undeniable lust. She tore at my shirt, the fragile fasteners flying free, and pulled it away. Grabbing my undershirt, she yanked it over my head and threw it off into the darkness. She looked at my body and smiled. I pulled her back close and kissed her again, my fingers exploring her secrets.
With no patience for the trek up the stairs, I moved us to one of the lobby couches and placed her gently on her back while I continued lavishing her with attention. I slipped one hand between her thighs, and with clumsy inexperience stroked her arousal. She arched her back, moaning loudly, and held me tight by the shoulders. Her trembling body excited me more, and I buried myself in her perfect breasts, giving them uncounted kisses. She pulled me to her, our faces together, her breath coming fast and hot, and she quivered and shook under my touch. Suddenly she spasmed, her muscles tensing tight, and she bit her lips as tremors ravaged her.
The shaking passed and she pushed me. I fell backward onto the floor. With hard fast motions she pulled the rest of my clothes off, tearing the cheaply fabricated cloth. With me lying faceup on the floor she crawled on top and slid me into her. She moved up and down, forward and backward as I caressed her body, building to my own climax. My hips gained a life of their own as I thrust and shoved, no longer rational but just an animal. Pamela pinned my shoulders to the floor with her hands, leaning over me, her hair falling like a curtain around us, and kissed, and licked, and blew, as we moved together.
My tension built and my entire body shuddered in anticipation of the coming explosion. She smiled a hungry predatory smile and suddenly lifted herself off. Before I could complain she had moved down my torso and taken me into her mouth. With tongue and lips and teeth she drove me higher. When I exploded she gripped my hips tight, taking everything.
Spent and covered in sweat, I collapsed against the floor. Pamela moved up my body, keeping her flesh pressed to mine, until she lay on me and our eyes looked into each other’s.
She said, “No regrets.”
* * *
We stayed like that for a time, skin to skin, holding each other close. The scent of our passion and our sweat filled my nose and the pounding of her heart seemed nearly as strong as my own. I nuzzled her ear, inhaling deeply. I buried my face in her hair while my hand slid along her sweaty back.
“We need a shower,” she said, pulling slightly up and away from me.
I nodded and she pushed herself upright. I watched her lithe and fit form, aware that already stirrings strove to reawaken. With an offered hand she pulled me to my feet.
“This way.”
I led her to the staircase and up to my apartment. Naked, we padded up the flight and before long we stood together under the jets of water. We soaped and washed, learning each other’s curves and shapes, taking a far longer shower than strictly necessary.
While sexual desire again raised its head, rational thought had already brought with it the terror of pregnancy. I was educated enough to understand that her last-minute switch was unreliable as a contraceptive. Standing there under the hot water, slick soap running down our skin, she reached down and took me in her hand.
“One second,” I said as I stroked her shoulder.
She stopped. “I thought….”
“No, no, no. It’s just we have to be smart about this. I don’t think either of us can afford a pregnancy. What— what you did earlier….” I stammered, words failing me as I blushed.
Pamela laughed. “Is that all?”
Her smile warmed my heart and she fell against my chest, the shower spray falling directly into her face. She giggled for a few seconds and then pulled herself out of the stream and looked me in the eye.
“That’s not a concern, Jason. My period’s on hold. I can’t get pregnant.”
On hold? Sure, doctors had figured that out decades before Old Earth was destroyed but the Administration never approved the procedure. Never.
As though she read my thoughts, she took my hand and said, “The Administration’s not as all-seeing as they want people to think they are.”
Confused, I asked, “Then earlier…why did you?”
“To make you happy,” she answered. “Didn’t you like it?”
I nodded.
“Then let’s play.”
* * *
Sometime later we lay in my bed, tired, sore, and happy. Our passion spent, we simply shared a common glow. We talked, mainly about me, about the movies I showed, and about the films I wanted to see that Jones kept locked away. Pamela hardly spoke about herself but was entirely engrossed with me. A thought penetrated my contented fog.
“I don’t even know your last name.”
“Guest.”
“You have to give me at least a hint.”
“No, Guest.” This time she enunciated the tee. “Like someone invited in.”
My mouth again took control and the words tumbled out.
“You’re always welcome here.”
She snuggled closer, her breasts firm against my chest, and hugged me tight.
“It’s late,” she said. “I can’t stay. We both know that.”
I nodded. She climbed out of the bed.
“I have to print a fast dress.”
“Not a good idea.” I couldn’t afford to have her pattern in the buffer, not if the Administration came snooping.
She pursed her lips.
“I guess I can wear that wet one at least until I get home.”
“And where—”
“But Jason, I can make it so the Administration doesn’t know what you’re printing.” She snorted. “Those pricks are too damn nosey.”
Without bothering to explain her miraculous ability, she hurried out toward the lobby and I followed.
She slipped on the wet dress and stepped into her shoes. Not too many minutes later she was ready to leave. I thought I would cry. Stepping over to me, she kissed me on the lips.
“I’ll be back.” She paused. “If you want me back.”
“I wish you could never leave.”
“Maybe, one day.”
She took a slate from her bag, transferred her contact information to mine and then summoned a car. I unlocked the door and she was gone.