Discovered in a Christmas Card - 2nd January - The Waters and the Wild by Slantedlight (Part 1)
Okay, I can't believe that I think I've finally got this story finished! I started writing it sometime in about 2007 (maybe 2006, but certainly 2007) and since it's now 2017 that makes it a ten year old wip! It's not even "officially" novel-length (50,000 words) - though it is nearly 45,000. Anyway - posted here in parts for the length (I'll post it to A03 eventually, but that requires more mucking around with images than I have time for right now) - here is The Waters and the Wild.
It's a cross-over of sorts with the Speilberg film Artificial Intelligence (in turn based on Super-Toys Last All Summer Long by Brian Aldiss). You don't really need to know the plot of the film, and the characters play relatively minor roles in my story, but you might want to look at the trailer to get an idea of the setting and the sort of feel of things. The film and story are set in the future, the late 22nd century - so it's an AU Bodie and Doyle. *g*
The only possibly annoying news is that I have to go out in twenty minutes, and so I only have time to post the first part now - but I'll post the others as soon as I come back! Sorry about that. And I'll use links between the posts, for easy navigation - but the first won't work until I get the second up etc.
The Waters and the Wild
by Slantedlight
(for heliophile_oxon, who was very patient)
"Those were the years after the icecaps had melted because of the greenhouse gases, and the oceans had risen to drown so many cities along all the shorelines of the world - Amsterdam, Venice, New York, forever lost. Millions of people were displaced, climate became chaotic, hundreds of millions of people starved in poorer countries, elsewhere a high degree of prosperity survived where most governments in the developed world introduced legal sanctions to strictly license pregnancies - which was why robots, who were never hungry and did not consume resources beyond those of their first manufacture, were so essential and economically the chainmail of society."
- Artificial Intelligence (2001, Steven Speilberg)
o0o
Cowley's office was high in the building, though not on the top floors, which were sealed from the world outside, shuttered and secured. This room had a long stretch of window - a real window, showing the real view: flashing, neon-lit darkness streaked at ground level with a thousand rushing car lights, and in the air above with the glowing flyers of the rich and privileged and the deep electric blue of police helis and ambulances. If Doyle looked to the west he could see the lingering glow of sunset on the horizon, to the east he could imagine the waters washing blackly along the shoreline of Old London, worlds away.
There were people still there, of course, because there were people everywhere, eking out a living in the old towers and skyscrapers, clinging on to what they were calling life, like ghosts of ghosts, their world long gone. It was no way to live, Doyle thought, every time he heard the Lifemechas called out to them again, alone with the ocean and the eternal fear that perhaps your tower would be the next one to fall, victim to the storms and surges, ever crumbling into the howl of winter wind and rain, or the squall of spring. And yet... sometimes, when his alarm was ringing yet again, when he was sent to yet another screaming domestic, or rogue mecha, or flesh fair riot, he wondered if maybe there was a simpler life somewhere out there.
But if that was true, then why was he here? Why was he here at CI5 HQ, exactly where he'd always wanted to be?
It was dark in the room, and quiet, save for the soft burrrr of Cowley's computer. The man himself seemed to wait patiently, although he tapped a single finger against the frame of the glasses he held in one hand. Another affectation, Doyle thought, shifting in his own seat; Cowley wasn't that old, his eyes must have been lasered like anyone else's. In all his life he'd only come across one person who couldn't be lasered, and that was because she'd been mad as a hatter, clawing at her own eyeballs, terrified it meant they were turning her into some kind of mecha half breed. As if anyone would, or even could. Nasty case that, he remembered, turning again in his chair. Where the bloody hell was...
The door opened behind him, and Cowley sat upright, put on his glasses, and frowned.
"You're late."
"Sorry sir, trouble with the flyer!"
A flyer? Great, a jumped up boy racer who couldn't even get to a meeting on time, and Doyle was going to have to work with him.
"Have your mechanics look at it, Bodie, I have more important things to do than wait for you!"
"Sorry, sir..."
Doyle didn't grin, but he let the light of it play in his eyes as he looked this Bodie up and down. Short ex-army haircut, fashionable clothes, barely dampened glee on his face, despite having been dressed down within half a minute of meeting Cowley. Well, he couldn't fault him for being excited, not when they'd been seconded by CI5. CI5 - the big A! You didn't apply to join CI5, they found you, and every cadet he'd known on the force had spent their duties hoping that one day they'd be noticed, one day they'd be summoned by their commander and...
And here he was.
"I've brought you both here partly on the recommendation of your superiors, and partly due to a certain amount of surveillance you've been under," Cowley began. "As a result, your security ratings were approved yesterday."
Surveillance? Doyle blinked, but apart from that kept his face still.
"For something in particular?" the man beside him asked.
"Yes Bodie, for something in particular. I need two new faces, men with your skills and your contacts."
"Undercover work?"
Cowley glanced at Doyle, nodded approvingly. "Aye, very particular undercover work. You'll have separate roles, but will act as contact and back-up to each other. You will also both report back to me individually."
"A long term assignment, sir?"
"You have somewhere you'd rather be, Bodie?"
"Me sir? No sir!"
Doyle glanced at him. Bodie was sitting comfortably in his chair, and yet something still shouted parade rest. Bloody toy soldier. Still, at least he should find it easy enough to obey orders.
"I'm glad to hear it. If I didn't believe it you wouldn't be here now." Cowley stood abruptly, taking off his glasses and wandering to the windows, where he gazed thoughtfully outwards for a moment before turning back again. "As you know, CI5's aegis is domestic security, but every now and then we are called upon to deal with something much more far reaching. This case could be one or it could be the other, and that is just one of the things that you will need to find out. You'll have heard of Sir John Newbolt?"
Who hadn’t heard of the flamboyant and scandalous Newbolt? "The Minister for Overseas Intervention?"
"Just so. He appears recently to have somewhat confused his social and his political lives. Normally he would be disciplined by the House in the usual way, but unfortunately there are complications."
"He's got himself mixed up with someone he shouldn't?" Doyle hazarded. "You want us to go in and find out how far it goes?"
"Partly. He is either guilty of a high level of corruption himself, or he is under attack from outside forces as yet unknown, forces with the kind of power that could seriously affect the stability of our government." Cowley returned to his seat, leaned forward to rest on his elbows, looking from Bodie to Doyle and back again. "Bodie, we're expecting that certain of your mercenary contacts may be useful there."
Doyle shot a sharp look at his new partner. A soldier and a mercenary? No wonder he could afford the flyer. Bodie turned his head and met Doyle's gaze, held it. His eyes, Doyle thought, inconsequentially, were very blue.
"Doyle, you will inveigle your life with the Minister's, move with him in social circles, watch who he meets and listen very carefully to everything he says."
"What?" How did Cowley expect him to manage that? "But..."
"You will be given a cover and impeccable references to help you accomplish this. You will also be... disguised quite heavily, so your constant attention to the role will be required. One of your strengths, so I'm told."
"I don't..."
"You will become the Minister's latest love mecha, which will ensure your presence at the vast majority, if not all, of his social functions."
He would become a love mecha? No one had told him that Cowley was mad.
Beside him, Bodie was openly grinning.
"Why not just use a real mecha?" he asked, frowning in Bodie's direction.
"A real mecha can be switched off, unable to record... indiscretions."
"I'll be switched off fast enough when they realise I'm orga!"
"You'll be wearing a Skin," Cowley continued, as if he had never been interrupted. He was a smooth old bastard, if nothing else. "CI5 has access to some of the foremost minds in the country, and they have created the perfect simulacrum of a simulacrum. The underlying organics cannot be detected by any known scanner, and both optically and aurally... well, the illusion cannot be faulted. I'll take you up to Mechtronics shortly for your fitting.
"What about Bodie, will he be wearing one of these... Skins as well?"
"No, Bodie will be playing himself, as it were. Rumour has it that the Minister is involved in some shaky manoeuvrings on behalf of a country to the south - we'll leave it unnamed for now - and that a certain soldier of fortune is raising a small but elite army that will act under the Minister's command to both bring down the government of certain islands, and to establish its own particular brand of rule."
Bodie's attention was all on Cowley now. He raised an eyebrow. "Krivas?"
"Perhaps." Cowley was giving away no secrets. "That's what we need you to tell us. You've heard something?"
"Just rumours that he was back in the country. Could be his sort of deal."
"Find out. And find his connection to the Minister!"
"Sir."
"What's our cover for meeting up?" Doyle asked, so that Bodie turned to look at him again. "There's not much natural contact between a mercenary and a... oh."
"Bodie will hire you for your professional services, that way you can spend as much or as little time together as necessary, and it will give you an opportunity for catching up on sleep. There are certain procedures for such meetings - you will meet in hotels that have not been arranged in advance, you will not meet in the same hotel twice in a row, and preferably not twice at all. Where possible, for Doyle's... for health reasons specific to the Skin, you will spend the night together - your night in fact being the Minister's day, of course."
Of course... Whatever he'd been expecting from CI5, this wasn't it. "With respect sir, taking on the role of a love mecha..."
"One of the reasons you were seconded for this assignment - you were both seconded for this assignment - was your particularly high scores for libido. Are you telling me that you have moral objections to sex that would preclude your working for CI5, Doyle?"
Doyle took a breath. Exactly where he'd always wanted to be... "No sir."
"Good, good. Bodie - do you have any objections?"
"As long as I don't have to follow through on the roleplay, no sir."
Follow through on the... Doyle turned and glared at him, but Bodie was still watching Cowley, sitting casually in his chair now, hands linked over his stomach, one leg hooked over the other with ankle resting on knee. Yet Doyle could swear that he was tense, that...
Didn't matter, he told himself, breathing deeply, it didn't matter. If he survived this assignment then surely he'd be in, away from the casual corruption of the drug squad and the squalor of vice, away to a more certain black and white. Cowley had a reputation as a hard man, as someone who should never be crossed, who made his own rules - but he had a reputation for fairness too, for incorruptibility, and that, that was what Doyle wanted. A simpler, clearer life, if not a gentler one.
He wanted CI5, and so he wanted this.
o0o
In the end, Cowley's phone rang before he could accompany them to Mechtronics, and he spoke into it impatiently before pulling a series of files from a desk drawer, and sending them away to find the boffins themselves. Bodie followed Doyle from the office, down a short hallway, and - ignoring the lift - up three flights of stairs to much longer hallways. At least the man moved like a love mecha, he thought, watching him take the steps three at a time. Strong thighs, a good arse - and he supposed you didn't need too much more for a role like that. Christ only knew where Cowley had found him...
"DC Ray Doyle," the man finally said when they reached the right floor for Mechtronics, stopping and turning, hand outstretched to shake Bodie’s.
"Bodie," he replied, amused and not bothering to hide it. This bloke was a copper? A low-ranking, common or garden, street piggie?
"Just Bodie?"
"Just Bodie," he confirmed. Buggered if he was going to pretend they'd ever be best friends. A copper... A discreet sign on the wall caught his eye. "Left here."
Doyle frowned, looked as if he was going to speak again, but closed his mouth on the words and turned away instead. Much better, they'd get on like a house on fire if he could keep that up.
"Regular army then, is it?"
Or not. Bodie turned to glare at him. The jumped up little helmet actually sounded contemptuous. "SAS," he said shortly, intending that it shut him up once and for all. At least he'd realise that he should do as he was told.
"Ah, the glory boys..."
Bodie breathed slowly, met his look with a calm smile. "That's right, when it all gets a bit rough for you boys in blue, we're the ones who bail you out."
"Oh like the Embassy siege - how many dead was that?"
Fourteen, two of them children, and that cock up should never have been allowed, no matter how many civilians were rescued. Bloody mechas. If he'd been in charge...
He'd barely opened his mouth to haul the little yoik down a peg or two when he found himself in front of a pair of opaque glass doors that announced they had reached "Mechtronics - all security passes required". They seemed to glow softly from within, a peaceful pallidity that surely belied what went on inside.
"This is it," Doyle said, then waved a hand mock politely "After you."
"No, no, this is your department sunshine - after you..."
"If you'd care to get a move on, perhaps we can get started?" Cowley's voice from behind startled them both. He’d been silent as a cat - or perhaps a snake - and at his sarcasm Doyle swiped his card for entry. Bodie followed, again, and there they were, surrounded by a sea of sterile white, by quietly moving figures, both real and mecha, and by the hum of concentrated electricity.
"Mr Cowley - we're ready for you in D12 sir, if you'd like to step this way?"
Corridors and cubicles, and always that endless background buzz that set Bodie's teeth on edge. He supposed he needed to see Doyle in the Skin, but he could have done without the rest.
"Ah, Patricks - good morning."
"Good morning, sir." One of the boffins tore himself away from a bizarre tangle of circuitry and wiring that hung from a hook in the centre of the room, looked them both over once and then turned to Doyle. "There are a number of things you'll need to know about the Skin. The first is that it is bullet and laser proof, and that if hit by either a recall will be activated that will immediately bring CI5 backup in the guise of Mechtronic Repair Agents. The second..."
"You're expecting direct attack?" Bodie saw that Doyle wasn't going to say anything, turned to Cowley. Soirees and sex might not be the cushy end of the assignment after all.
"We always expect attack," Cowley said brusquely, "Of course we expect our agents to be protected - and to protect each other - at all times. But this is merely a precaution. Please continue, Doctor."
"The second thing is that the bonding is so good that you must completely remove the Skin for at least an hour a day, preferably longer - which is where your partner comes in."
"Bonding?" Doyle asked, with a sideways glance at Patricks.
"The Skin is made of a substance that bonds on two levels with your own dermis. The first is for fit - there are no external indications that you are clothed at all - the second is a side effect of that fit, and must be controlled for at any cost. Well..." Patricks seemed to consider what he'd just said, "... at almost any cost."
"So if the cost is exposure as a fake or..."
"There are emergency measures you can take yourself, but they may cause damage to the Skin, and therefore risk your position. It is better by far to ensure that you meet with your contact at least once in every twenty four hours - and I understand that this has been accounted for within your time budget."
There were rarely time budgets in undercover work, surely anyone who worked in security had to understand that? Bodie opened his mouth to say as much, but Patricks was reaching for the wires and circuits he'd been fussing with when they came in.
"Mr Doyle, if you would care to undress?"
Here? But Doyle was already stripping, no qualms at all, in front of the boffin, Cowley, everyone. No wonder they'd picked him for the love mecha role, he obviously had no pride at all. Probably hung out on the Pleasure Beaches, flaunting himself. Bodie let his eyes drift casually down Doyle's body as it was exposed. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, good arse, just as he'd thought. He still moved smoothly, even bared to their view like this, limbs flowing, body twisting easily when Patricks requested his attention. Bending...
And his cock was bigger than Bodie'd expected.
Well naturally he noticed, could hardly not with Doyle waving it all round the place. Patricks had handed him the Skin, which looked like nothing more than a body suit, flexible electronics sandwiched between two transparent layers, and Doyle hitched himself onto the central bench and slid himself into either leg, gently pulling the Skin upwards.
"It won't tear through normal handling - it's very durable," Patricks was reassuring him, alternately scrunching and tugging at the fabric of one arm until Doyle took it from him with a grimace.
Where he was already wearing the Skin, from the feet up, it appeared to crackle for a moment, and then it tightened to impossibility, and the circuitry faded from view. Bodie's eyes widened as he watched it encase Doyle's entire body, disappearing between his buttocks, somehow stretching over his balls and even his cock and...
Patricks caught him staring. "The Skin does not bond with mucous membranes, it rather dissolves on continuous contact, allowing the body to... carry out its normal functionality. As most sex simulators are designed to mimic the human body for best... um... utility, this will appear entirely normal.
"Gosh, thanks," Doyle muttered, flexing and twitching within the Skin. He held up the final flap of circuitry. "And this?"
"Just smooths over your face," Patricks said. "It might seem alarming, but it's perfectly safe, I promise you. It will dissolve around your eyes, nostrils, mouth and ears within seconds, and the next time you wear it will automatically adjust to the best fit where the bonding has previously been made. It doesn't reach over your head - just to your hairline - and that is your one place of human vulnerability while wearing the Skin."
"Right..." Doyle took a deep breath, and began to smooth the Skin up his throat, and onto his face. Bodie found himself wincing sympathetically. Couldn't be nice, that, not at all... There was a small gasp of air as the Skin dissolved around Doyle's mouth, another, deeper breath, and then "There, how does it look?"
It looked... unnatural, Bodie thought. Doyle was still Doyle, his shape the same, his movements unrestricted, but he was a smooth, hairless, slightly too shiny Doyle. No longer quite real.
"How does it feel?" Patricks asked, eyeing him critically.
"It... tingles."
"That's the electricity I'm afraid, nothing we can do about that. The body produces its own, of course, and there's a slight incompatibility. It won't harm you, just... keep you on your toes."
"Great..." Doyle fidgeted again, shrugging his shoulders, running his hands down his flanks and over his hips and buttocks. "How do I get it off?"
"In an emergency, you find the slight Skin tag that is left in the navel area and pull. As I said, this will damage the Skin and restrict the fit, and should be used in the last resort. Normally," Patricks beckoned Bodie closer, handed him a small white tube, "your partner will coat his fingers with this gel, then run them down your back in a smooth line. This will temporarily split and thus substantially loosen the Skin so that it can be removed. It won't work without the gel, which is the de-bonding agent."
"And it has to be his back?" Bodie asked, looking without enthusiasm at the colourless gel on his fingers.
"To best preserve the fit on reapplication, yes. The flexibility and yet smoothness of the human skin means that the de-bonding agent spreads most quickly from..."
Bodie stopped listening, took his own deep breath, and ran a finger down Doyle's spine, over the warmth of the Skin, over a slight shiver of movement, down and down to the small of his back, to where, if he flattened his hand, if he continued the movement, he'd feel the curve and rise of... He snatched his hand away.
Bloody ridiculous job.
He watched instead as the Skin seemed to split, revealing Doyle himself underneath, loosening itself until he was able to wriggle out of it, to pull it from his face and become... human again.
"Bit rum, innit?" Doyle said finally, perhaps the biggest understatement Bodie'd ever heard.
"Unfortunately it's a rum affair we're trying to uncover," Cowley spoke up from the corner of the room. Bodie had practically forgotten he was there with them. "Patricks, it looks like everything runs smoothly enough, so I'll leave you to go through the process at least half a dozen times with them, give them any more information you feel they require, and then send them down to Personnel to access the detailed assignment specs if you please."
He turned at the door. "I'll expect to hear from you both through the coded channels you're given, within the next twenty four hours. Good luck, gentlemen."
The door closed.
"Right then - Doyle, if you could strip and Skin up again please. Mr Bodie, do you still have that gel?"
His fingers were still sticky with it, could still feel a warm tingle from baring Doyle's skin. It was the electricity, he told himself, nodding at Patricks, hating that he was half hard and that his breath caught at the thought of touching Doyle again.
It was just the electricity.
o0o
The Rains had started by the time they were released, instructions and directions committed firmly to memory, the Skin folded and tucked into his pocket, where it seemed to shock against his fingers whenever they touched it. He had just twelve hours in hand to turn his life into something else entirely. Doyle stopped to stare at the sky a moment, the downpour not yet begun, a fine misting of water against his face, getting cooler now that it was heading for winter. Barely pausing beside him, Bodie rolled his eyes and turned immediately away, strong stride taking him off somewhere into the City, so that Doyle changed his mind all over again about offering to buy him a drink. Supercilious bastard - tomorrow would be soon enough to see him again, way too soon.
Across the street the Tube sign flashed orange neon at him - his Tube - and he crossed hurriedly to catch it, jostling his way through the growing crowds, all bent on getting out of town and home for the weekend. He caught the lift just as the doors twitched inwards, pressing close to the suits and bags to squeeze himself in as they slammed shut and everything juddered into motion. There was a vague pull upwards, and then the doors shook open again, expelling them onto the platform where the Tube was waiting with its own impatience. He took a last glance down to street level, then up at the distant sweeps of flyer lights, and then he was swallowed again with the crowd, shoved inside and onto a thinly-cushioned seat, and then they were whizzing along the elevated tracks.
A simwindow showed the idealised version of their journey, and he watched it absently, comforted and disturbed by the familiar view. It had been over a year since he'd seen a sunset anything like the window was playing, and then it had heralded one of the worst storms of the winter - actual snow that coated the ground like fairytale icing sugar for two days, closed down the Tube and set the Media to speculating about a new Ice Age, frozen rivers and seas such as hadn't been seen since the twentieth century.
He sniffed, frowned. Bloody twentieth century - it was everywhere at the moment and showed no sign of going out of fashion. Come to think of it, Bodie's gear had had that historical twist to it, his trousers some slight flare, a hint of collar to his neckline... Yeah, he'd be the type to keep up with all the latest trends alright, to worry about the length of his hair and the width of his sleeves... Mind you, he wasn’t bad looking, if you liked the type, he thought fairly, all dark mystery and muscle. Probably had every woman from here to - well, where ever he'd ever been as a merc, and that could have been anywhere...
Cowley recruited mercenaries to CI5? It didn't seem right, somehow, didn't sit with what he'd heard of the man... Bodie'd got into the SAS on top of it mind, so he must have twisted back the right way for some reason. Kept his contacts though. Interesting.
The Tube slowed, his stop flashing above the door, and he stood and swayed for the last few metres, took a deep breath of fresh - ish - air when it invaded the carriage as the door slid open, pulled up his hood and stepped out thankfully onto the platform. Once upon a time the Tube had actually run underground, so his schoolteachers had said, a nightmare of a journey through a maze of tunnels that were still down there somewhere, under Old London, awash now of course, though no doubt some entrepreneurial amphibicopter company had their eye on it, would be offering overpriced historical tours. Doyle had enough to deal with in the here and now.
The Skin…
He didn't like it, not one little bit, though apart from the vague tingling it was comfortable enough - almost too comfortable, in fact. Would it fool someone like the Minister? His security guards? Patricks had run him through half a dozen types of scanner to demonstrate just how undetectable the Skin was, but…
But nothing, he was just nervous.
Undercover as a mecha - he'd never heard of it being done before. Attempts at disguise that ran the other way, of course, mechas were always trying it on, covering up one malfunction or another that was just enough to send them Rogue and have them condemned, but never a human trying to pass as mecha. Why would you? And a love mecha at that… He'd seen enough of them in his time, and like most ordinary people he’d tried them out once or twice and enjoyed it, but they weren't real, and they weren't love. At the end of the day they were more worried about their operating tags.
Speaking of desperate - he ducked into Cho's Takeaway, picked up the menu and scanned it quickly for anything new, then ordered his usual - should he try to call Abri? They’d rowed about his week off being cancelled last time he saw her - he had Cowley to thank for that, too. He watched the simwindow's pattern of sunshine on leaves and water, listened to the wind starting to pick up outside. Was there any point when he'd only see her once and then have to travel away on business? Would she even believe him - she knew he was a copper, what kind of business did coppers ever go on?
The kind where you disguised yourself as a Love Mecha, he thought, with a twist of his lips upwards, prompting the girl behind the counter to smile shyly back at him. Nah, he'd stay in tonight, eat his Chinese and get ready for the next few weeks. Months. He'd need to shut up the flat, and he'd use the lottery cover-story with the neighbours since he didn't know how long he'd be gone. A minor win, just enough for an extra-long holiday. Only played twice, and my numbers came up! Would he give up his job if he won the lottery properly, head off on a yacht or one of those all-luxury sailing ships to see the world at his leisure, surrounded by the rich and the lazy? Nah - might be alright for a week or two, see what the other half get up to between their silk sheets, but he'd be bored solid when the curiousity'd worn off. Something more, he needed something more. Something where he felt like he was doing some good, making a difference. Something like CI5.
Which just brought him back to the job at hand. His food arrived, and he took it with a nod and a wave, stepped back into the misting rain. It picked up as he swung, long-strided, down the street, and he reached his flat just before it turned to hard, solid drops, swiping in to the sound of water on concrete, the smell of chilli and spices, and his last night of rest for god knew how long.
Right. Work to do.
He ignored the lift and walked, two steps at a time ever upward, to his small attic rooms. They were cold in the winter, and hot in the summer, but there were two real windows up there, that could be thrown open to views that looked south and east across the city to the sea, and sometimes, just sometimes when the tide was lower than usual, the red-brown shine of old London rooftops, long submerged.
He paused on the landing below his own, alerted suddenly to something else in the air, something artificial and sweet, and…
"Hello, Ray."
"Abri…" He watched as she pushed herself gracefully up from the floor, long dark hair swinging across her shoulders, blue eyes bright and focussed on him.
"Mrs K let me in, I was expecting you hours ago! I've been thinking, and there's more to life than work, isn’t there? I think you should come and meet Mum and Dad at last, so they've invited you to lunch on Saturday… is that Chinese you've got?"
Doyle smiled half-heartedly, kissed her waiting lips as quickly as he could, then took a deep breath and let her walk ahead of him into the flat.
o0o
"Hey, Bodie!"
Bodie closed his eyes a moment, then stretched his lips into a grin and turned around. "Hello, Sirri."
"I've been waiting for you…" Sirri looked up at him through pale blue eyes and a fringe of white-blonde hair, still pretty, still playing the little-girl-lost card, though the novelty had worn off for him after their second date. She'd not been so lost when he was flat on his back and they were both naked, and that had kept him interested for a while, but…
But enough was enough, he thought impatiently, wanting to go home, to get away from the memory of Doyle's skin under his hand, the strange thrum through his body whenever they touched. "Everything alright?" he asked, and paused at the door to the Millennium Dome, despite the thump of music already seeping into the street, and the crowd of bankers and wankers who were bound to be inside, already escaping their offices, not yet facing up to their partners and homes.
"Are you going in for a drink? You could buy me something fizzy and fun…"
"I'm off to the gym," he broke in, with an apologetic smile, "Been cooped up with my boss all day."
"If you're feeling tense, dearling, we could…"
"Not tonight," he said, "I'm off on business tomorrow, got to go and pack, make sure Mimi's alright to water the dog and feed the plants." He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and squeezed her hand, because she was a nice enough kid, and she'd been fun, but… Enough was enough. "I'll see you when I see you, eh?"
He turned away, saw for the last time her full lips turning from coy smile to a moue of petulance when she didn't get her own way - which had usually been him, and not something he was going to complain about - and took a breath of cold, damp air.
Maybe he should have gone home with her, screwed her beautiful body in any way she wanted, got rid of whatever it was coursing through his own flesh and bones. Or maybe he should go and find a bloke - it'd been a while, that'd be all it was, all he needed, the only reason he couldn't get Doyle out of his head. Fuck him instead. Someone fit, hard-muscled, hair curling around…
The gym it was then.
He stopped at his flat only long enough to grab a couple of cold sausages and a pitta from the fridge, as a sandwich to eat on the way, and to throw his kit into a bag. If he hurried he'd make it before the Rain got worse, and when he was done he could nip into The Queen Elizabeth, remind a few of the regulars of his face, maybe have a game of darts or two. Tomorrow he'd need to go searching the pubs and clubs in earnest, grab hold of the few glimmers of a pulse he'd let fade into the background. Trust George bloody Cowley to want to reawaken things he'd hoped were dead and buried.
Back outside he glanced ruefully at the space his flyer usually occupied before striding past - Jen had better get it back to him undamaged, never mind boyfriend emergency in the Highlands… He pulled his phone out and dialled her number, was genuinely pleased when she answered with a smile in her voice and someone else's soft murmur in the background. She was even understanding when he said he'd need the flyer back by the end of the week, and it took him a minute after he hung up to re-conjure the feelings of indignation and bitterness he'd need to show around the old gang.
Not that they were fake. Bloody George Cowley he thought again, as he passed his usual fitness centre, all gleaming lights and piped music, complimentary drinks and friendly instructors. It'd be all over the squad by now that he'd been dismissed, and why, perfectly as per the CI5 cover story that'd been set up for him. Sordid goings on with prostitutes of dubious legality - nothing that could be too easily traced if one of his old mates decided to take it further, if Krivas or Brunner or Choi looked into what he'd been up to, but something for which the SAS would fire him on the spot. Couldn't make them look bad in the eyes of the public after all, not if they were to keep their generous funding from the Ministry.
He understood the necessity, knew he'd be able to clear himself in the weeks - or months - to come, when this little operation was all over, was splashed around the newsblogs, but in the meantime it managed to rankle, just a little. If nothing else, Hokey's Gym was smaller, smelled mostly of sweat and stale food from the café next door, and had very, very few friendly instructors - at least not the kind he enjoyed being friendly with. Bloody mechas. Maybe he should have hung on to Sirri for one last night after all.
"Bodie - long time, no see!"
"Prem - how've you been?" He dumped his bag on the floor, reached out to shake the other man's hand, and took a look around. Same old place, even two years since he'd last seen it. A room full of spinners, running and weight machines, a couple of boxing rings at the end, and the sound of splashes and hint of chlorine from the swimming pool behind the rather grubby tinted wall that ran the length of it all. A dozen or so men were using the equipment, most of them looked ready to break faces without stirring a hair. Most of them didn't have hair - personal defence gear these days was designed against it - and Bodie counted who was most recently active, or wanted to be, by the shine of their pate. At least he didn’t have to go that far again for George Cowley.
"Decided righteous living wasn't for you, eh?"
He looked away briefly, let his face cloud over. "No such thing as righteous living," he said, "Just people averse to having a good time."
"True enough… You around for a while this time? You want a monthly pass?"
Bodie took a weekly one, and swiped his card to pay, stamping his fingers for security and making sure to wipe the plate with the cloth left there for the more wary customers. Old-fashioned, but it generally worked. Then he took himself down to the changing room, locked everything away with a further swipe of his card, and determined to wipe Ray Doyle - and everything except the quickest way to get through all this - from both mind and body.
o0o
The Minister's parties were famous for their extravagances and outrageous behaviour. Doyle had read as much about them as anyone else, had on occasion followed them blow by blow when something more juicy had been leaked to the unreg news - and the court cases that followed, which usually banned the bloggers from the air, but also exposed even more lurid details. Newbolt never seemed to be effected, but then his family had credits and power.
This event looked like just that kind of gig, Doyle thought, as he stepped through the doorscanner and exposed his operating tag to the waiting mecha. He'd tried not to hold his breath, but that wouldn't have lasted long in any case, confronted as he was by a naked mecha - human? - sculpture on the other side. A dozen figures intertwined in a variety of poses, and all of them attached in one... place or another, while golden water erupted from a florid central spout, gushing, trickling and flowing from skin to skin.
"Don't worry, dear boy, they're all allowed to move once every half hour on the half hour - and my do they move. It's positively inspiring..." A figure touched him lightly on the shoulder, breathed into his ear a moment, and then stood back, disconcerted. "You're a mecha!"
Doyle turned to the man, smiled widely, and began to lean towards him, but with a grimace and a neat evasion, he slipped away. Not everyone here was as open-minded as the Minister then. Still, that was three times he'd passed as non-human, and he'd barely arrived ten minutes ago. The Skin was doing its job.
He helped himself to champagne from a passing tray, and wandered through to the main ballroom which was awash with light from a giant chandelier and its glittering satellites, all hanging from a ceiling so high that Doyle could barely make it out. A thousand thousand crystals reflected spinning rainbows against every wall and across costumes that were a myriad shades of white, worn by each guest at the Minister's request. The only colour in the room seemed to be the tableaux in each corner - more naked figures: a scene from Arabian Nights, another from The Cyrillian Vortex, and two that seemed to be some sort of twist upon one or another Christmas story, even though it was barely the first of December. Or at least that wasn't what Doyle had ever been told Santa would do if he was a very naughty boy.
The Minister was easy to spot, dressed as he was in a pure white top hat and tails, flourishing a gold-topped cane, and surrounded at a relatively subtle distance by half a dozen security men in less well-fitting white suits. He held court in a constantly moving train of people, whose false - or perhaps hysterical - laughter could be heard above every other buzz of conversation, clink of glass, spontaneous outburst of song in the room.
Drifting until he became a hanger-on of the Minister's circle, Doyle waited until he felt the man's eyes float across him, caught and held his gaze with as much languid, sultry appeal as he could manage, then turned and vanished into the crowd, moving easily through the throngs of people, thinking about how different it would be if he was a guest here, a real human guest. Would he be enjoying it, laughing at the lot of them, or would he be nudging his partner towards home as soon as they stepped through the front door?
Now and then he paused to speak to someone, man or woman it was all the same, as long as he'd seen them safely with a partner on one of his circuits of the room. He flirted, he touched, he tried not to look at what was happening in the tableaux as he passed them by, and most of all he tried not to listen, above the momentary near silence of the guests at each half hour, to the desperate splashing and gasping from the sculpture in the entrance hall. Definitely humans. How much had Newbolt paid them? Or maybe he hadn’t, maybe they were rain dodgers, homeless and grateful for anything that got them off the streets for a few hours.
They’d been cleaned up, of course, and all chosen for some kind of beauty. The tingling from the Skin had never quite receded, so that he seemed to be constantly half hard from the sensation on his cock, and even the gentle touch of his own white linen suit seemed magnified into friction, tight-fitted as it was. He'd get used to it, he had to get used to it, but it would have been nice to more time to do so before being sent into one of the Minister's debaucheries.
The night wore on and the brilliance of the chandeliers dimmed until the light was butterfly soft and shadowed, the hum of voices drowsy and drunken as insects on a summer's day. Doyle flitted past the Minister when he could, drank a little too much champagne but not nearly enough, and managed to give the impression on several occasions, of disappearing off with some young lovely. Finally, just when he'd thought it would never happen and he'd have to try again the next night, be more blatant, firm hands grasped his arms from behind, steered him towards a corner beside the North Pole tableau.
"I'd like to see you make use of the North Pole with them," the Minister's voice said softly in his ear, his hands moving to rub up and down Doyle's chest. "I've been watching you, mecha - you move like a dream."
"I am a dream," Doyle answered automatically, feeling a hundred kinds of fool, wishing the tingling would stop, wishing he could close his eyes against the play being enacted in front of them, that he could go home and wash this night away. "I could be your dream. My name is Ray..."
"What do you say, Ray?"
"I say yes. I always say yes. Would you like me to suck you off while you use the North Pole? In front of all these people? Or would you rather use me?" He lowered his voice to a whisper, closed his eyes. "I like to be used by a big, powerful..."
The Minister groaned into his ear, and Doyle felt his nipples pinched, felt a hardness thrust once, twice, three times against his arse, and then a wetness soaking through his trousers between his thighs. The man had exposed himself to do this, he thought, he's a government minister and he'd all but had sex with Doyle in the shadows of a very public ballroom... He couldn't be guilty of anything - he was a sex-addicted madman, plain and everyone already knew it.
"I'll take a D and D on you," the Minister said, biting Doyle's ear sharply enough through the Skin that it was all he could do not to wince, "Tomorrow night, come to my home address at midnight." He flicked his mobile across Doyle's operating tag, keyed in the numbers, and reached around to find Doyle's own cock, hot and hard from the Skin and t he evening, and gave it a squeeze. "Keep that up for me."
And then he was gone.
In front of him the tableau continued to make unorthodox use of an igloo and somewhere in the distance Doyle heard the splashing start again.
o0o
If there was a god at all, Raymond Doyle would also be in hell tonight, Bodie thought from the depths of his third watered down pint. The Lasersight might have changed its name and its allegiance to follow the current fad for the twentieth century, but The King and Bullion was still the same dump it had ever been. The seats were hard, the tables filthy and covered with scratched messages, and there was the eternal tang of aggression in the air, of slights intended and imagined, and then settled out back at the end of a knife or a taser or a gun.
"Still can't believe you went back there," Silva shook his head, "Not with Ho Fat living it up with his boys."
"Living it too high, wasn't he?" Bodie said lazily, "Couldn't see what was in front of him..."
"Yeah, but his entire stock of twelve-thirty-ones?"
"Had to be all of them, Marty was very insistent."
"Would have liked to see his face..."
Bodie rolled his eyes. "He's all talk, up there on this throne. Wouldn’t know a bad deal if it kicked him."
"Yeah, but he put down the Lloyd brothers when they tried it, didn't he. You remember..?"
Bodie shot Silva a cynical glance and drained his glass. Politics. Used to be he'd cared - there was a bit of him that still did, had to be or he wouldn't be joining up with Cowley's lot for all the money and excitement in the world - but no matter what this lot thought, they had no idea of the intricacies of couping the Island Nations, let alone any of the bigger States of Africa.
Unfortunately the odds were high that they had heard something about Krivas and his latest movements, or at least a whisper about where the money was likely to be this season, and so Bodie'd let it be known he was up for a ship out of port if the job was right, and he sat and he drank and he listened.
"Oy, Evan - your round mate!" he said, shoving his glass across the table. Evan shrugged philosophically and gestured for one of the servemechas. He tapped in his order and then, with a twist of his fingers and a flourish to catch everyone's attention, he passed his wrist across the card reader. The mecha obediently began to serve drinks, and Evan grinned around the table.
"That's a bit mecha, innit?" Davey asked, voicing what Bodie had been half-thinking. Of course it wasn't the same, and people'd been talking about bank implants for a long time, but it was the first time he’d seen one - and in this dive, for fuck’s sake.
"Where'd you take the jump for that, then?" Silva grabbed Evan's hand and pushed his sleeve up to reveal what was now nothing more than a small white scar.
"It's the way of the future, my man," Evan grinned, "Keep your credits close..."
"They'll figure out some way to whack that off without losing the credits," Bodie said dryly, "And then there'll be an awful lot of one armed bandits in this town..."
"Ha ha," Evan grimaced at him, "If you're gonna run with the rich like I do, you gotta play like the rich..."
He was interrupted by a predictable chorus of laughs and jeers for that one, Bodie joining in without any problem at all. Money wired to your veins, he thought grimly, they were getting further and further from humanity all the time, ever-closer to the world of mecha. How long would it take before they were all lost, before there was nothing left?
The night wore on, through five pints, six, seven, and they talked of implants, and bank accounts, and who had lost how much, and politics and profit over and again. This country was unstable, that country was unstable - they rose, they fell, their people starved and turned on each other, and once upon a time Bodie had grown rich from the inevitability of it all. He'd been young when he set out, young enough to know everything and nothing, and there were days like today when he envied that young self.
"...took five of 'em to hold him down in the end, but he was a sailor when we were done!"
And other times when he wanted nothing more than to have been born twenty eight years old and fully grown. "Right," he lifted the shot glass Silva had given him last round, swallowed the burning whisky with a salute to them all, "I'm off to find something softer and prettier than you lot. I'll see you round."
Deep in reminiscences and their haze of alcohol, they shouted him off with a series of curses and advice on exactly what to do and how, and Bodie escaped through the thinning crowd with relief, avoiding a bloke with a grudge and frowning away a hopeful youth with a knife.
Outside the city was three a.m. quiet, the daily roar of cars and flyers no more than an occasional rush of sound now, clubs and revellers died down to muted music and low laughter from doorways. Bodie paused, took a breath of cold, moist air. Patches of fog drifted by just overhead, and he thought he could taste the salt of it. The street was still electric-lit with signs that offered anything a man could want.
It wasn't exactly Rouge City, but why go all that way when you could find almost anything you needed right here in town? There were still a few hours before he was due to meet Doyle, and a wealth of pubs and clubs surrounding him. He took a deep breath, shoved his hands in his pockets, and set off into the night, towards streets where the lighting was sympathetically low and the gardens artfully planted, where he could walk and think in peace.
To where Sarah, with a little luck, would be waiting for him.
o0o
By the time Doyle reached Club Tropic, he was tired, out of sorts, and in no mood for Bodie's dark glares and silence. He ordered a drink from one of the mechas - an orange juice short, cold and freshly squeezed to wash away the sickly taste of champagne - drank it down in a single gulp, the way some mechas did if they were trying to fit in with humans, and made his way to the corner where Bodie stood, apparently oblivious to the speculative and lustful looks he drew, somehow aloof even in this crowd.
"So you're a mecha poof?" Bodie greeted him as they eyed each other warily, smoke and shadows half-hiding them even from each other, lights strobing red and green and silver for Christmas, so that Doyle felt mildly claustrophobic. Advertisements played across the roof, garish and distracting, and every now and then one of the floor mechas tried to catch his eye to sell him something.
To take his mind off it, he smiled dangerously, seductively, and stepped closer, hooking his arms over Bodie's shoulders and running his hands through the shortness of his dark hair. "I'm the best lovermech you'll ever meet," he said loudly, "The things I could do to you..." He leaned in still further, turned his head and exhaled slowly across an exposed ear. "Get your mind out of the twentieth century, Bodie, you lost that war a long time ago, and we're everywhere now. Get used to it..."
Bodie reached up and wrapped his hands around Doyle's arms, tightening his hold to the point of pain. Doyle wondered vaguely if the Skin would protect him from bruising as well as bullets. He refused to flinch, worked harder at keeping a smile on his face. "I've a D and D on a room just down the road, sir," he said, "If you'd care to follow me..."
Bodie released him, and Doyle turned and led the way back through the crowds, up the staircase and out into the early morning air. The darkness still glowed with neon and electricity, but there was a different buzz about it now, a going-to-work buzz where the passers-by wore suits and looked at them disdainfully as they emerged, and the sky to the east was glowing with a grey winter dawn.
The hotel Doyle had chosen was unassuming, not too proud to rent rooms by the hour, and kept scrupulously clean by a small woman with pale hair and sharp blue eyes. She scanned Doyle's D and D, checked his operating tag, and sniffed at Bodie who stared straight through her. Doyle grinned at her, received a similar sniff, and, ignoring the lift, led them upstairs.
Their room was six flights up, a small corner double with a tiny barred window in the bathroom overlooking a sheer drop to the ground, and two simwindows of sunshine through the leaves and branches of trees, snatches of blue skies beyond. Doyle muted it to sunset, turned to see what Bodie was doing, and started to strip. He wanted out of these stupid clothes, out of the Skin, and under a shower now.
Bodie was staring around the room, although he stopped and watched Doyle with a frown when he saw what he was doing.
Doyle frowned back. "Don't get your hopes up, Butch, I'm knackered and I'm choosy."
Bodie twisted his lips sardonically, and just for a moment Doyle thought he might actually be amused. "Get over yourself, Doyle, you're the one who ordered a double bed."
"You've just brought a lovermech to a hotel room," Doyle pointed out, "Do you really think asking for a double was over the top?"
Bodie shrugged. "Did you see the Minister?"
"Yeah. He's an idiot."
"If he's an idiot he'll trip himself up sooner," Bodie said briefly, finally taking off his own jacket, and heeling off his shoes. "No secrets divulged, I take it?"
"Give me a chance - I only just met the man!"
"I'm the best lovermech..." Bodie mimicked, so that Doyle wanted to hit him.
"Some of us use a little finesse in our work. Have a good night with your mates, did you?" Sitting around a table enjoying yourself while I was out in the middle of it?
Bodie snorted. "That lot? Give me some credit... They know Krivas is hiring, but not what for or where. They know more at The Barrister but they're more suspicious too. Takes time."
"Yeah..." That was the job. "Give us a hand, will you?"
Bodie reached into his pocket, brought out the tube of gel, and moved towards him. Doyle turned around, trying not to be bothered by the fact that he was still half hard, the Skin tight and tingling, and a moment later he felt fingers on his skin, felt them sliding down his back, cool and impersonal and... freeing.
God it felt good. Good to get out of the Skin.
"Thanks," he said, turning for the shower, "Bloody thing itches. Be glad to get this job over with."
When he emerged from the bathroom, finally feeling clean again, Bodie had turned the Windows all the way down to night, and was already in bed.
Not asleep though, he couldn't be asleep yet.
"You're not from around here, then?" he asked, wanting suddenly to make some kind of overture to the man he was partnered with on this job, to someone who must, somewhere, have a little human decency. After all, he'd been seconded to CI5, just as Doyle had, so he couldn't be all bad.
"Aren't I?" Bodie sounded bored, sleepy, he obviously didn't want to make the same effort.
"Not with that accent." Doyle was good with accents, he could tell Bodie wasn't from Town any more than he was. "Up north?"
Bodie just grunted, and that, Doyle thought, was that.
Then: "'Pool Island."
That made sense. If you were from the Island you either ran away to sea or rotted where you were.
"Yeah?" he asked, carefully.
"Yeah, now is there any chance of letting me get some sleep?"
Doyle closed his eyes, lay in the dark too wound up to sleep and with Bodie's warmth beside him, and thought about Liverpool Island, about mercenaries, and soldiers and the kind of men that Cowley recruited, and the operation they were on. Two mysteries, his ticking brain told him, two mysteries to solve…
o0o
To Part Two...
It's a cross-over of sorts with the Speilberg film Artificial Intelligence (in turn based on Super-Toys Last All Summer Long by Brian Aldiss). You don't really need to know the plot of the film, and the characters play relatively minor roles in my story, but you might want to look at the trailer to get an idea of the setting and the sort of feel of things. The film and story are set in the future, the late 22nd century - so it's an AU Bodie and Doyle. *g*
Click to viewThe only possibly annoying news is that I have to go out in twenty minutes, and so I only have time to post the first part now - but I'll post the others as soon as I come back! Sorry about that. And I'll use links between the posts, for easy navigation - but the first won't work until I get the second up etc.
The Waters and the Wild
by Slantedlight
(for heliophile_oxon, who was very patient)
"Those were the years after the icecaps had melted because of the greenhouse gases, and the oceans had risen to drown so many cities along all the shorelines of the world - Amsterdam, Venice, New York, forever lost. Millions of people were displaced, climate became chaotic, hundreds of millions of people starved in poorer countries, elsewhere a high degree of prosperity survived where most governments in the developed world introduced legal sanctions to strictly license pregnancies - which was why robots, who were never hungry and did not consume resources beyond those of their first manufacture, were so essential and economically the chainmail of society."
- Artificial Intelligence (2001, Steven Speilberg)
o0o
Cowley's office was high in the building, though not on the top floors, which were sealed from the world outside, shuttered and secured. This room had a long stretch of window - a real window, showing the real view: flashing, neon-lit darkness streaked at ground level with a thousand rushing car lights, and in the air above with the glowing flyers of the rich and privileged and the deep electric blue of police helis and ambulances. If Doyle looked to the west he could see the lingering glow of sunset on the horizon, to the east he could imagine the waters washing blackly along the shoreline of Old London, worlds away.
There were people still there, of course, because there were people everywhere, eking out a living in the old towers and skyscrapers, clinging on to what they were calling life, like ghosts of ghosts, their world long gone. It was no way to live, Doyle thought, every time he heard the Lifemechas called out to them again, alone with the ocean and the eternal fear that perhaps your tower would be the next one to fall, victim to the storms and surges, ever crumbling into the howl of winter wind and rain, or the squall of spring. And yet... sometimes, when his alarm was ringing yet again, when he was sent to yet another screaming domestic, or rogue mecha, or flesh fair riot, he wondered if maybe there was a simpler life somewhere out there.
But if that was true, then why was he here? Why was he here at CI5 HQ, exactly where he'd always wanted to be?
It was dark in the room, and quiet, save for the soft burrrr of Cowley's computer. The man himself seemed to wait patiently, although he tapped a single finger against the frame of the glasses he held in one hand. Another affectation, Doyle thought, shifting in his own seat; Cowley wasn't that old, his eyes must have been lasered like anyone else's. In all his life he'd only come across one person who couldn't be lasered, and that was because she'd been mad as a hatter, clawing at her own eyeballs, terrified it meant they were turning her into some kind of mecha half breed. As if anyone would, or even could. Nasty case that, he remembered, turning again in his chair. Where the bloody hell was...
The door opened behind him, and Cowley sat upright, put on his glasses, and frowned.
"You're late."
"Sorry sir, trouble with the flyer!"
A flyer? Great, a jumped up boy racer who couldn't even get to a meeting on time, and Doyle was going to have to work with him.
"Have your mechanics look at it, Bodie, I have more important things to do than wait for you!"
"Sorry, sir..."
Doyle didn't grin, but he let the light of it play in his eyes as he looked this Bodie up and down. Short ex-army haircut, fashionable clothes, barely dampened glee on his face, despite having been dressed down within half a minute of meeting Cowley. Well, he couldn't fault him for being excited, not when they'd been seconded by CI5. CI5 - the big A! You didn't apply to join CI5, they found you, and every cadet he'd known on the force had spent their duties hoping that one day they'd be noticed, one day they'd be summoned by their commander and...
And here he was.
"I've brought you both here partly on the recommendation of your superiors, and partly due to a certain amount of surveillance you've been under," Cowley began. "As a result, your security ratings were approved yesterday."
Surveillance? Doyle blinked, but apart from that kept his face still.
"For something in particular?" the man beside him asked.
"Yes Bodie, for something in particular. I need two new faces, men with your skills and your contacts."
"Undercover work?"
Cowley glanced at Doyle, nodded approvingly. "Aye, very particular undercover work. You'll have separate roles, but will act as contact and back-up to each other. You will also both report back to me individually."
"A long term assignment, sir?"
"You have somewhere you'd rather be, Bodie?"
"Me sir? No sir!"
Doyle glanced at him. Bodie was sitting comfortably in his chair, and yet something still shouted parade rest. Bloody toy soldier. Still, at least he should find it easy enough to obey orders.
"I'm glad to hear it. If I didn't believe it you wouldn't be here now." Cowley stood abruptly, taking off his glasses and wandering to the windows, where he gazed thoughtfully outwards for a moment before turning back again. "As you know, CI5's aegis is domestic security, but every now and then we are called upon to deal with something much more far reaching. This case could be one or it could be the other, and that is just one of the things that you will need to find out. You'll have heard of Sir John Newbolt?"
Who hadn’t heard of the flamboyant and scandalous Newbolt? "The Minister for Overseas Intervention?"
"Just so. He appears recently to have somewhat confused his social and his political lives. Normally he would be disciplined by the House in the usual way, but unfortunately there are complications."
"He's got himself mixed up with someone he shouldn't?" Doyle hazarded. "You want us to go in and find out how far it goes?"
"Partly. He is either guilty of a high level of corruption himself, or he is under attack from outside forces as yet unknown, forces with the kind of power that could seriously affect the stability of our government." Cowley returned to his seat, leaned forward to rest on his elbows, looking from Bodie to Doyle and back again. "Bodie, we're expecting that certain of your mercenary contacts may be useful there."
Doyle shot a sharp look at his new partner. A soldier and a mercenary? No wonder he could afford the flyer. Bodie turned his head and met Doyle's gaze, held it. His eyes, Doyle thought, inconsequentially, were very blue.
"Doyle, you will inveigle your life with the Minister's, move with him in social circles, watch who he meets and listen very carefully to everything he says."
"What?" How did Cowley expect him to manage that? "But..."
"You will be given a cover and impeccable references to help you accomplish this. You will also be... disguised quite heavily, so your constant attention to the role will be required. One of your strengths, so I'm told."
"I don't..."
"You will become the Minister's latest love mecha, which will ensure your presence at the vast majority, if not all, of his social functions."
He would become a love mecha? No one had told him that Cowley was mad.
Beside him, Bodie was openly grinning.
"Why not just use a real mecha?" he asked, frowning in Bodie's direction.
"A real mecha can be switched off, unable to record... indiscretions."
"I'll be switched off fast enough when they realise I'm orga!"
"You'll be wearing a Skin," Cowley continued, as if he had never been interrupted. He was a smooth old bastard, if nothing else. "CI5 has access to some of the foremost minds in the country, and they have created the perfect simulacrum of a simulacrum. The underlying organics cannot be detected by any known scanner, and both optically and aurally... well, the illusion cannot be faulted. I'll take you up to Mechtronics shortly for your fitting.
"What about Bodie, will he be wearing one of these... Skins as well?"
"No, Bodie will be playing himself, as it were. Rumour has it that the Minister is involved in some shaky manoeuvrings on behalf of a country to the south - we'll leave it unnamed for now - and that a certain soldier of fortune is raising a small but elite army that will act under the Minister's command to both bring down the government of certain islands, and to establish its own particular brand of rule."
Bodie's attention was all on Cowley now. He raised an eyebrow. "Krivas?"
"Perhaps." Cowley was giving away no secrets. "That's what we need you to tell us. You've heard something?"
"Just rumours that he was back in the country. Could be his sort of deal."
"Find out. And find his connection to the Minister!"
"Sir."
"What's our cover for meeting up?" Doyle asked, so that Bodie turned to look at him again. "There's not much natural contact between a mercenary and a... oh."
"Bodie will hire you for your professional services, that way you can spend as much or as little time together as necessary, and it will give you an opportunity for catching up on sleep. There are certain procedures for such meetings - you will meet in hotels that have not been arranged in advance, you will not meet in the same hotel twice in a row, and preferably not twice at all. Where possible, for Doyle's... for health reasons specific to the Skin, you will spend the night together - your night in fact being the Minister's day, of course."
Of course... Whatever he'd been expecting from CI5, this wasn't it. "With respect sir, taking on the role of a love mecha..."
"One of the reasons you were seconded for this assignment - you were both seconded for this assignment - was your particularly high scores for libido. Are you telling me that you have moral objections to sex that would preclude your working for CI5, Doyle?"
Doyle took a breath. Exactly where he'd always wanted to be... "No sir."
"Good, good. Bodie - do you have any objections?"
"As long as I don't have to follow through on the roleplay, no sir."
Follow through on the... Doyle turned and glared at him, but Bodie was still watching Cowley, sitting casually in his chair now, hands linked over his stomach, one leg hooked over the other with ankle resting on knee. Yet Doyle could swear that he was tense, that...
Didn't matter, he told himself, breathing deeply, it didn't matter. If he survived this assignment then surely he'd be in, away from the casual corruption of the drug squad and the squalor of vice, away to a more certain black and white. Cowley had a reputation as a hard man, as someone who should never be crossed, who made his own rules - but he had a reputation for fairness too, for incorruptibility, and that, that was what Doyle wanted. A simpler, clearer life, if not a gentler one.
He wanted CI5, and so he wanted this.
o0o
In the end, Cowley's phone rang before he could accompany them to Mechtronics, and he spoke into it impatiently before pulling a series of files from a desk drawer, and sending them away to find the boffins themselves. Bodie followed Doyle from the office, down a short hallway, and - ignoring the lift - up three flights of stairs to much longer hallways. At least the man moved like a love mecha, he thought, watching him take the steps three at a time. Strong thighs, a good arse - and he supposed you didn't need too much more for a role like that. Christ only knew where Cowley had found him...
"DC Ray Doyle," the man finally said when they reached the right floor for Mechtronics, stopping and turning, hand outstretched to shake Bodie’s.
"Bodie," he replied, amused and not bothering to hide it. This bloke was a copper? A low-ranking, common or garden, street piggie?
"Just Bodie?"
"Just Bodie," he confirmed. Buggered if he was going to pretend they'd ever be best friends. A copper... A discreet sign on the wall caught his eye. "Left here."
Doyle frowned, looked as if he was going to speak again, but closed his mouth on the words and turned away instead. Much better, they'd get on like a house on fire if he could keep that up.
"Regular army then, is it?"
Or not. Bodie turned to glare at him. The jumped up little helmet actually sounded contemptuous. "SAS," he said shortly, intending that it shut him up once and for all. At least he'd realise that he should do as he was told.
"Ah, the glory boys..."
Bodie breathed slowly, met his look with a calm smile. "That's right, when it all gets a bit rough for you boys in blue, we're the ones who bail you out."
"Oh like the Embassy siege - how many dead was that?"
Fourteen, two of them children, and that cock up should never have been allowed, no matter how many civilians were rescued. Bloody mechas. If he'd been in charge...
He'd barely opened his mouth to haul the little yoik down a peg or two when he found himself in front of a pair of opaque glass doors that announced they had reached "Mechtronics - all security passes required". They seemed to glow softly from within, a peaceful pallidity that surely belied what went on inside.
"This is it," Doyle said, then waved a hand mock politely "After you."
"No, no, this is your department sunshine - after you..."
"If you'd care to get a move on, perhaps we can get started?" Cowley's voice from behind startled them both. He’d been silent as a cat - or perhaps a snake - and at his sarcasm Doyle swiped his card for entry. Bodie followed, again, and there they were, surrounded by a sea of sterile white, by quietly moving figures, both real and mecha, and by the hum of concentrated electricity.
"Mr Cowley - we're ready for you in D12 sir, if you'd like to step this way?"
Corridors and cubicles, and always that endless background buzz that set Bodie's teeth on edge. He supposed he needed to see Doyle in the Skin, but he could have done without the rest.
"Ah, Patricks - good morning."
"Good morning, sir." One of the boffins tore himself away from a bizarre tangle of circuitry and wiring that hung from a hook in the centre of the room, looked them both over once and then turned to Doyle. "There are a number of things you'll need to know about the Skin. The first is that it is bullet and laser proof, and that if hit by either a recall will be activated that will immediately bring CI5 backup in the guise of Mechtronic Repair Agents. The second..."
"You're expecting direct attack?" Bodie saw that Doyle wasn't going to say anything, turned to Cowley. Soirees and sex might not be the cushy end of the assignment after all.
"We always expect attack," Cowley said brusquely, "Of course we expect our agents to be protected - and to protect each other - at all times. But this is merely a precaution. Please continue, Doctor."
"The second thing is that the bonding is so good that you must completely remove the Skin for at least an hour a day, preferably longer - which is where your partner comes in."
"Bonding?" Doyle asked, with a sideways glance at Patricks.
"The Skin is made of a substance that bonds on two levels with your own dermis. The first is for fit - there are no external indications that you are clothed at all - the second is a side effect of that fit, and must be controlled for at any cost. Well..." Patricks seemed to consider what he'd just said, "... at almost any cost."
"So if the cost is exposure as a fake or..."
"There are emergency measures you can take yourself, but they may cause damage to the Skin, and therefore risk your position. It is better by far to ensure that you meet with your contact at least once in every twenty four hours - and I understand that this has been accounted for within your time budget."
There were rarely time budgets in undercover work, surely anyone who worked in security had to understand that? Bodie opened his mouth to say as much, but Patricks was reaching for the wires and circuits he'd been fussing with when they came in.
"Mr Doyle, if you would care to undress?"
Here? But Doyle was already stripping, no qualms at all, in front of the boffin, Cowley, everyone. No wonder they'd picked him for the love mecha role, he obviously had no pride at all. Probably hung out on the Pleasure Beaches, flaunting himself. Bodie let his eyes drift casually down Doyle's body as it was exposed. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, good arse, just as he'd thought. He still moved smoothly, even bared to their view like this, limbs flowing, body twisting easily when Patricks requested his attention. Bending...
And his cock was bigger than Bodie'd expected.
Well naturally he noticed, could hardly not with Doyle waving it all round the place. Patricks had handed him the Skin, which looked like nothing more than a body suit, flexible electronics sandwiched between two transparent layers, and Doyle hitched himself onto the central bench and slid himself into either leg, gently pulling the Skin upwards.
"It won't tear through normal handling - it's very durable," Patricks was reassuring him, alternately scrunching and tugging at the fabric of one arm until Doyle took it from him with a grimace.
Where he was already wearing the Skin, from the feet up, it appeared to crackle for a moment, and then it tightened to impossibility, and the circuitry faded from view. Bodie's eyes widened as he watched it encase Doyle's entire body, disappearing between his buttocks, somehow stretching over his balls and even his cock and...
Patricks caught him staring. "The Skin does not bond with mucous membranes, it rather dissolves on continuous contact, allowing the body to... carry out its normal functionality. As most sex simulators are designed to mimic the human body for best... um... utility, this will appear entirely normal.
"Gosh, thanks," Doyle muttered, flexing and twitching within the Skin. He held up the final flap of circuitry. "And this?"
"Just smooths over your face," Patricks said. "It might seem alarming, but it's perfectly safe, I promise you. It will dissolve around your eyes, nostrils, mouth and ears within seconds, and the next time you wear it will automatically adjust to the best fit where the bonding has previously been made. It doesn't reach over your head - just to your hairline - and that is your one place of human vulnerability while wearing the Skin."
"Right..." Doyle took a deep breath, and began to smooth the Skin up his throat, and onto his face. Bodie found himself wincing sympathetically. Couldn't be nice, that, not at all... There was a small gasp of air as the Skin dissolved around Doyle's mouth, another, deeper breath, and then "There, how does it look?"
It looked... unnatural, Bodie thought. Doyle was still Doyle, his shape the same, his movements unrestricted, but he was a smooth, hairless, slightly too shiny Doyle. No longer quite real.
"How does it feel?" Patricks asked, eyeing him critically.
"It... tingles."
"That's the electricity I'm afraid, nothing we can do about that. The body produces its own, of course, and there's a slight incompatibility. It won't harm you, just... keep you on your toes."
"Great..." Doyle fidgeted again, shrugging his shoulders, running his hands down his flanks and over his hips and buttocks. "How do I get it off?"
"In an emergency, you find the slight Skin tag that is left in the navel area and pull. As I said, this will damage the Skin and restrict the fit, and should be used in the last resort. Normally," Patricks beckoned Bodie closer, handed him a small white tube, "your partner will coat his fingers with this gel, then run them down your back in a smooth line. This will temporarily split and thus substantially loosen the Skin so that it can be removed. It won't work without the gel, which is the de-bonding agent."
"And it has to be his back?" Bodie asked, looking without enthusiasm at the colourless gel on his fingers.
"To best preserve the fit on reapplication, yes. The flexibility and yet smoothness of the human skin means that the de-bonding agent spreads most quickly from..."
Bodie stopped listening, took his own deep breath, and ran a finger down Doyle's spine, over the warmth of the Skin, over a slight shiver of movement, down and down to the small of his back, to where, if he flattened his hand, if he continued the movement, he'd feel the curve and rise of... He snatched his hand away.
Bloody ridiculous job.
He watched instead as the Skin seemed to split, revealing Doyle himself underneath, loosening itself until he was able to wriggle out of it, to pull it from his face and become... human again.
"Bit rum, innit?" Doyle said finally, perhaps the biggest understatement Bodie'd ever heard.
"Unfortunately it's a rum affair we're trying to uncover," Cowley spoke up from the corner of the room. Bodie had practically forgotten he was there with them. "Patricks, it looks like everything runs smoothly enough, so I'll leave you to go through the process at least half a dozen times with them, give them any more information you feel they require, and then send them down to Personnel to access the detailed assignment specs if you please."
He turned at the door. "I'll expect to hear from you both through the coded channels you're given, within the next twenty four hours. Good luck, gentlemen."
The door closed.
"Right then - Doyle, if you could strip and Skin up again please. Mr Bodie, do you still have that gel?"
His fingers were still sticky with it, could still feel a warm tingle from baring Doyle's skin. It was the electricity, he told himself, nodding at Patricks, hating that he was half hard and that his breath caught at the thought of touching Doyle again.
It was just the electricity.
o0o
The Rains had started by the time they were released, instructions and directions committed firmly to memory, the Skin folded and tucked into his pocket, where it seemed to shock against his fingers whenever they touched it. He had just twelve hours in hand to turn his life into something else entirely. Doyle stopped to stare at the sky a moment, the downpour not yet begun, a fine misting of water against his face, getting cooler now that it was heading for winter. Barely pausing beside him, Bodie rolled his eyes and turned immediately away, strong stride taking him off somewhere into the City, so that Doyle changed his mind all over again about offering to buy him a drink. Supercilious bastard - tomorrow would be soon enough to see him again, way too soon.
Across the street the Tube sign flashed orange neon at him - his Tube - and he crossed hurriedly to catch it, jostling his way through the growing crowds, all bent on getting out of town and home for the weekend. He caught the lift just as the doors twitched inwards, pressing close to the suits and bags to squeeze himself in as they slammed shut and everything juddered into motion. There was a vague pull upwards, and then the doors shook open again, expelling them onto the platform where the Tube was waiting with its own impatience. He took a last glance down to street level, then up at the distant sweeps of flyer lights, and then he was swallowed again with the crowd, shoved inside and onto a thinly-cushioned seat, and then they were whizzing along the elevated tracks.
A simwindow showed the idealised version of their journey, and he watched it absently, comforted and disturbed by the familiar view. It had been over a year since he'd seen a sunset anything like the window was playing, and then it had heralded one of the worst storms of the winter - actual snow that coated the ground like fairytale icing sugar for two days, closed down the Tube and set the Media to speculating about a new Ice Age, frozen rivers and seas such as hadn't been seen since the twentieth century.
He sniffed, frowned. Bloody twentieth century - it was everywhere at the moment and showed no sign of going out of fashion. Come to think of it, Bodie's gear had had that historical twist to it, his trousers some slight flare, a hint of collar to his neckline... Yeah, he'd be the type to keep up with all the latest trends alright, to worry about the length of his hair and the width of his sleeves... Mind you, he wasn’t bad looking, if you liked the type, he thought fairly, all dark mystery and muscle. Probably had every woman from here to - well, where ever he'd ever been as a merc, and that could have been anywhere...
Cowley recruited mercenaries to CI5? It didn't seem right, somehow, didn't sit with what he'd heard of the man... Bodie'd got into the SAS on top of it mind, so he must have twisted back the right way for some reason. Kept his contacts though. Interesting.
The Tube slowed, his stop flashing above the door, and he stood and swayed for the last few metres, took a deep breath of fresh - ish - air when it invaded the carriage as the door slid open, pulled up his hood and stepped out thankfully onto the platform. Once upon a time the Tube had actually run underground, so his schoolteachers had said, a nightmare of a journey through a maze of tunnels that were still down there somewhere, under Old London, awash now of course, though no doubt some entrepreneurial amphibicopter company had their eye on it, would be offering overpriced historical tours. Doyle had enough to deal with in the here and now.
The Skin…
He didn't like it, not one little bit, though apart from the vague tingling it was comfortable enough - almost too comfortable, in fact. Would it fool someone like the Minister? His security guards? Patricks had run him through half a dozen types of scanner to demonstrate just how undetectable the Skin was, but…
But nothing, he was just nervous.
Undercover as a mecha - he'd never heard of it being done before. Attempts at disguise that ran the other way, of course, mechas were always trying it on, covering up one malfunction or another that was just enough to send them Rogue and have them condemned, but never a human trying to pass as mecha. Why would you? And a love mecha at that… He'd seen enough of them in his time, and like most ordinary people he’d tried them out once or twice and enjoyed it, but they weren't real, and they weren't love. At the end of the day they were more worried about their operating tags.
Speaking of desperate - he ducked into Cho's Takeaway, picked up the menu and scanned it quickly for anything new, then ordered his usual - should he try to call Abri? They’d rowed about his week off being cancelled last time he saw her - he had Cowley to thank for that, too. He watched the simwindow's pattern of sunshine on leaves and water, listened to the wind starting to pick up outside. Was there any point when he'd only see her once and then have to travel away on business? Would she even believe him - she knew he was a copper, what kind of business did coppers ever go on?
The kind where you disguised yourself as a Love Mecha, he thought, with a twist of his lips upwards, prompting the girl behind the counter to smile shyly back at him. Nah, he'd stay in tonight, eat his Chinese and get ready for the next few weeks. Months. He'd need to shut up the flat, and he'd use the lottery cover-story with the neighbours since he didn't know how long he'd be gone. A minor win, just enough for an extra-long holiday. Only played twice, and my numbers came up! Would he give up his job if he won the lottery properly, head off on a yacht or one of those all-luxury sailing ships to see the world at his leisure, surrounded by the rich and the lazy? Nah - might be alright for a week or two, see what the other half get up to between their silk sheets, but he'd be bored solid when the curiousity'd worn off. Something more, he needed something more. Something where he felt like he was doing some good, making a difference. Something like CI5.
Which just brought him back to the job at hand. His food arrived, and he took it with a nod and a wave, stepped back into the misting rain. It picked up as he swung, long-strided, down the street, and he reached his flat just before it turned to hard, solid drops, swiping in to the sound of water on concrete, the smell of chilli and spices, and his last night of rest for god knew how long.
Right. Work to do.
He ignored the lift and walked, two steps at a time ever upward, to his small attic rooms. They were cold in the winter, and hot in the summer, but there were two real windows up there, that could be thrown open to views that looked south and east across the city to the sea, and sometimes, just sometimes when the tide was lower than usual, the red-brown shine of old London rooftops, long submerged.
He paused on the landing below his own, alerted suddenly to something else in the air, something artificial and sweet, and…
"Hello, Ray."
"Abri…" He watched as she pushed herself gracefully up from the floor, long dark hair swinging across her shoulders, blue eyes bright and focussed on him.
"Mrs K let me in, I was expecting you hours ago! I've been thinking, and there's more to life than work, isn’t there? I think you should come and meet Mum and Dad at last, so they've invited you to lunch on Saturday… is that Chinese you've got?"
Doyle smiled half-heartedly, kissed her waiting lips as quickly as he could, then took a deep breath and let her walk ahead of him into the flat.
o0o
"Hey, Bodie!"
Bodie closed his eyes a moment, then stretched his lips into a grin and turned around. "Hello, Sirri."
"I've been waiting for you…" Sirri looked up at him through pale blue eyes and a fringe of white-blonde hair, still pretty, still playing the little-girl-lost card, though the novelty had worn off for him after their second date. She'd not been so lost when he was flat on his back and they were both naked, and that had kept him interested for a while, but…
But enough was enough, he thought impatiently, wanting to go home, to get away from the memory of Doyle's skin under his hand, the strange thrum through his body whenever they touched. "Everything alright?" he asked, and paused at the door to the Millennium Dome, despite the thump of music already seeping into the street, and the crowd of bankers and wankers who were bound to be inside, already escaping their offices, not yet facing up to their partners and homes.
"Are you going in for a drink? You could buy me something fizzy and fun…"
"I'm off to the gym," he broke in, with an apologetic smile, "Been cooped up with my boss all day."
"If you're feeling tense, dearling, we could…"
"Not tonight," he said, "I'm off on business tomorrow, got to go and pack, make sure Mimi's alright to water the dog and feed the plants." He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and squeezed her hand, because she was a nice enough kid, and she'd been fun, but… Enough was enough. "I'll see you when I see you, eh?"
He turned away, saw for the last time her full lips turning from coy smile to a moue of petulance when she didn't get her own way - which had usually been him, and not something he was going to complain about - and took a breath of cold, damp air.
Maybe he should have gone home with her, screwed her beautiful body in any way she wanted, got rid of whatever it was coursing through his own flesh and bones. Or maybe he should go and find a bloke - it'd been a while, that'd be all it was, all he needed, the only reason he couldn't get Doyle out of his head. Fuck him instead. Someone fit, hard-muscled, hair curling around…
The gym it was then.
He stopped at his flat only long enough to grab a couple of cold sausages and a pitta from the fridge, as a sandwich to eat on the way, and to throw his kit into a bag. If he hurried he'd make it before the Rain got worse, and when he was done he could nip into The Queen Elizabeth, remind a few of the regulars of his face, maybe have a game of darts or two. Tomorrow he'd need to go searching the pubs and clubs in earnest, grab hold of the few glimmers of a pulse he'd let fade into the background. Trust George bloody Cowley to want to reawaken things he'd hoped were dead and buried.
Back outside he glanced ruefully at the space his flyer usually occupied before striding past - Jen had better get it back to him undamaged, never mind boyfriend emergency in the Highlands… He pulled his phone out and dialled her number, was genuinely pleased when she answered with a smile in her voice and someone else's soft murmur in the background. She was even understanding when he said he'd need the flyer back by the end of the week, and it took him a minute after he hung up to re-conjure the feelings of indignation and bitterness he'd need to show around the old gang.
Not that they were fake. Bloody George Cowley he thought again, as he passed his usual fitness centre, all gleaming lights and piped music, complimentary drinks and friendly instructors. It'd be all over the squad by now that he'd been dismissed, and why, perfectly as per the CI5 cover story that'd been set up for him. Sordid goings on with prostitutes of dubious legality - nothing that could be too easily traced if one of his old mates decided to take it further, if Krivas or Brunner or Choi looked into what he'd been up to, but something for which the SAS would fire him on the spot. Couldn't make them look bad in the eyes of the public after all, not if they were to keep their generous funding from the Ministry.
He understood the necessity, knew he'd be able to clear himself in the weeks - or months - to come, when this little operation was all over, was splashed around the newsblogs, but in the meantime it managed to rankle, just a little. If nothing else, Hokey's Gym was smaller, smelled mostly of sweat and stale food from the café next door, and had very, very few friendly instructors - at least not the kind he enjoyed being friendly with. Bloody mechas. Maybe he should have hung on to Sirri for one last night after all.
"Bodie - long time, no see!"
"Prem - how've you been?" He dumped his bag on the floor, reached out to shake the other man's hand, and took a look around. Same old place, even two years since he'd last seen it. A room full of spinners, running and weight machines, a couple of boxing rings at the end, and the sound of splashes and hint of chlorine from the swimming pool behind the rather grubby tinted wall that ran the length of it all. A dozen or so men were using the equipment, most of them looked ready to break faces without stirring a hair. Most of them didn't have hair - personal defence gear these days was designed against it - and Bodie counted who was most recently active, or wanted to be, by the shine of their pate. At least he didn’t have to go that far again for George Cowley.
"Decided righteous living wasn't for you, eh?"
He looked away briefly, let his face cloud over. "No such thing as righteous living," he said, "Just people averse to having a good time."
"True enough… You around for a while this time? You want a monthly pass?"
Bodie took a weekly one, and swiped his card to pay, stamping his fingers for security and making sure to wipe the plate with the cloth left there for the more wary customers. Old-fashioned, but it generally worked. Then he took himself down to the changing room, locked everything away with a further swipe of his card, and determined to wipe Ray Doyle - and everything except the quickest way to get through all this - from both mind and body.
o0o
The Minister's parties were famous for their extravagances and outrageous behaviour. Doyle had read as much about them as anyone else, had on occasion followed them blow by blow when something more juicy had been leaked to the unreg news - and the court cases that followed, which usually banned the bloggers from the air, but also exposed even more lurid details. Newbolt never seemed to be effected, but then his family had credits and power.
This event looked like just that kind of gig, Doyle thought, as he stepped through the doorscanner and exposed his operating tag to the waiting mecha. He'd tried not to hold his breath, but that wouldn't have lasted long in any case, confronted as he was by a naked mecha - human? - sculpture on the other side. A dozen figures intertwined in a variety of poses, and all of them attached in one... place or another, while golden water erupted from a florid central spout, gushing, trickling and flowing from skin to skin.
"Don't worry, dear boy, they're all allowed to move once every half hour on the half hour - and my do they move. It's positively inspiring..." A figure touched him lightly on the shoulder, breathed into his ear a moment, and then stood back, disconcerted. "You're a mecha!"
Doyle turned to the man, smiled widely, and began to lean towards him, but with a grimace and a neat evasion, he slipped away. Not everyone here was as open-minded as the Minister then. Still, that was three times he'd passed as non-human, and he'd barely arrived ten minutes ago. The Skin was doing its job.
He helped himself to champagne from a passing tray, and wandered through to the main ballroom which was awash with light from a giant chandelier and its glittering satellites, all hanging from a ceiling so high that Doyle could barely make it out. A thousand thousand crystals reflected spinning rainbows against every wall and across costumes that were a myriad shades of white, worn by each guest at the Minister's request. The only colour in the room seemed to be the tableaux in each corner - more naked figures: a scene from Arabian Nights, another from The Cyrillian Vortex, and two that seemed to be some sort of twist upon one or another Christmas story, even though it was barely the first of December. Or at least that wasn't what Doyle had ever been told Santa would do if he was a very naughty boy.
The Minister was easy to spot, dressed as he was in a pure white top hat and tails, flourishing a gold-topped cane, and surrounded at a relatively subtle distance by half a dozen security men in less well-fitting white suits. He held court in a constantly moving train of people, whose false - or perhaps hysterical - laughter could be heard above every other buzz of conversation, clink of glass, spontaneous outburst of song in the room.
Drifting until he became a hanger-on of the Minister's circle, Doyle waited until he felt the man's eyes float across him, caught and held his gaze with as much languid, sultry appeal as he could manage, then turned and vanished into the crowd, moving easily through the throngs of people, thinking about how different it would be if he was a guest here, a real human guest. Would he be enjoying it, laughing at the lot of them, or would he be nudging his partner towards home as soon as they stepped through the front door?
Now and then he paused to speak to someone, man or woman it was all the same, as long as he'd seen them safely with a partner on one of his circuits of the room. He flirted, he touched, he tried not to look at what was happening in the tableaux as he passed them by, and most of all he tried not to listen, above the momentary near silence of the guests at each half hour, to the desperate splashing and gasping from the sculpture in the entrance hall. Definitely humans. How much had Newbolt paid them? Or maybe he hadn’t, maybe they were rain dodgers, homeless and grateful for anything that got them off the streets for a few hours.
They’d been cleaned up, of course, and all chosen for some kind of beauty. The tingling from the Skin had never quite receded, so that he seemed to be constantly half hard from the sensation on his cock, and even the gentle touch of his own white linen suit seemed magnified into friction, tight-fitted as it was. He'd get used to it, he had to get used to it, but it would have been nice to more time to do so before being sent into one of the Minister's debaucheries.
The night wore on and the brilliance of the chandeliers dimmed until the light was butterfly soft and shadowed, the hum of voices drowsy and drunken as insects on a summer's day. Doyle flitted past the Minister when he could, drank a little too much champagne but not nearly enough, and managed to give the impression on several occasions, of disappearing off with some young lovely. Finally, just when he'd thought it would never happen and he'd have to try again the next night, be more blatant, firm hands grasped his arms from behind, steered him towards a corner beside the North Pole tableau.
"I'd like to see you make use of the North Pole with them," the Minister's voice said softly in his ear, his hands moving to rub up and down Doyle's chest. "I've been watching you, mecha - you move like a dream."
"I am a dream," Doyle answered automatically, feeling a hundred kinds of fool, wishing the tingling would stop, wishing he could close his eyes against the play being enacted in front of them, that he could go home and wash this night away. "I could be your dream. My name is Ray..."
"What do you say, Ray?"
"I say yes. I always say yes. Would you like me to suck you off while you use the North Pole? In front of all these people? Or would you rather use me?" He lowered his voice to a whisper, closed his eyes. "I like to be used by a big, powerful..."
The Minister groaned into his ear, and Doyle felt his nipples pinched, felt a hardness thrust once, twice, three times against his arse, and then a wetness soaking through his trousers between his thighs. The man had exposed himself to do this, he thought, he's a government minister and he'd all but had sex with Doyle in the shadows of a very public ballroom... He couldn't be guilty of anything - he was a sex-addicted madman, plain and everyone already knew it.
"I'll take a D and D on you," the Minister said, biting Doyle's ear sharply enough through the Skin that it was all he could do not to wince, "Tomorrow night, come to my home address at midnight." He flicked his mobile across Doyle's operating tag, keyed in the numbers, and reached around to find Doyle's own cock, hot and hard from the Skin and t he evening, and gave it a squeeze. "Keep that up for me."
And then he was gone.
In front of him the tableau continued to make unorthodox use of an igloo and somewhere in the distance Doyle heard the splashing start again.
o0o
If there was a god at all, Raymond Doyle would also be in hell tonight, Bodie thought from the depths of his third watered down pint. The Lasersight might have changed its name and its allegiance to follow the current fad for the twentieth century, but The King and Bullion was still the same dump it had ever been. The seats were hard, the tables filthy and covered with scratched messages, and there was the eternal tang of aggression in the air, of slights intended and imagined, and then settled out back at the end of a knife or a taser or a gun.
"Still can't believe you went back there," Silva shook his head, "Not with Ho Fat living it up with his boys."
"Living it too high, wasn't he?" Bodie said lazily, "Couldn't see what was in front of him..."
"Yeah, but his entire stock of twelve-thirty-ones?"
"Had to be all of them, Marty was very insistent."
"Would have liked to see his face..."
Bodie rolled his eyes. "He's all talk, up there on this throne. Wouldn’t know a bad deal if it kicked him."
"Yeah, but he put down the Lloyd brothers when they tried it, didn't he. You remember..?"
Bodie shot Silva a cynical glance and drained his glass. Politics. Used to be he'd cared - there was a bit of him that still did, had to be or he wouldn't be joining up with Cowley's lot for all the money and excitement in the world - but no matter what this lot thought, they had no idea of the intricacies of couping the Island Nations, let alone any of the bigger States of Africa.
Unfortunately the odds were high that they had heard something about Krivas and his latest movements, or at least a whisper about where the money was likely to be this season, and so Bodie'd let it be known he was up for a ship out of port if the job was right, and he sat and he drank and he listened.
"Oy, Evan - your round mate!" he said, shoving his glass across the table. Evan shrugged philosophically and gestured for one of the servemechas. He tapped in his order and then, with a twist of his fingers and a flourish to catch everyone's attention, he passed his wrist across the card reader. The mecha obediently began to serve drinks, and Evan grinned around the table.
"That's a bit mecha, innit?" Davey asked, voicing what Bodie had been half-thinking. Of course it wasn't the same, and people'd been talking about bank implants for a long time, but it was the first time he’d seen one - and in this dive, for fuck’s sake.
"Where'd you take the jump for that, then?" Silva grabbed Evan's hand and pushed his sleeve up to reveal what was now nothing more than a small white scar.
"It's the way of the future, my man," Evan grinned, "Keep your credits close..."
"They'll figure out some way to whack that off without losing the credits," Bodie said dryly, "And then there'll be an awful lot of one armed bandits in this town..."
"Ha ha," Evan grimaced at him, "If you're gonna run with the rich like I do, you gotta play like the rich..."
He was interrupted by a predictable chorus of laughs and jeers for that one, Bodie joining in without any problem at all. Money wired to your veins, he thought grimly, they were getting further and further from humanity all the time, ever-closer to the world of mecha. How long would it take before they were all lost, before there was nothing left?
The night wore on, through five pints, six, seven, and they talked of implants, and bank accounts, and who had lost how much, and politics and profit over and again. This country was unstable, that country was unstable - they rose, they fell, their people starved and turned on each other, and once upon a time Bodie had grown rich from the inevitability of it all. He'd been young when he set out, young enough to know everything and nothing, and there were days like today when he envied that young self.
"...took five of 'em to hold him down in the end, but he was a sailor when we were done!"
And other times when he wanted nothing more than to have been born twenty eight years old and fully grown. "Right," he lifted the shot glass Silva had given him last round, swallowed the burning whisky with a salute to them all, "I'm off to find something softer and prettier than you lot. I'll see you round."
Deep in reminiscences and their haze of alcohol, they shouted him off with a series of curses and advice on exactly what to do and how, and Bodie escaped through the thinning crowd with relief, avoiding a bloke with a grudge and frowning away a hopeful youth with a knife.
Outside the city was three a.m. quiet, the daily roar of cars and flyers no more than an occasional rush of sound now, clubs and revellers died down to muted music and low laughter from doorways. Bodie paused, took a breath of cold, moist air. Patches of fog drifted by just overhead, and he thought he could taste the salt of it. The street was still electric-lit with signs that offered anything a man could want.
It wasn't exactly Rouge City, but why go all that way when you could find almost anything you needed right here in town? There were still a few hours before he was due to meet Doyle, and a wealth of pubs and clubs surrounding him. He took a deep breath, shoved his hands in his pockets, and set off into the night, towards streets where the lighting was sympathetically low and the gardens artfully planted, where he could walk and think in peace.
To where Sarah, with a little luck, would be waiting for him.
o0o
By the time Doyle reached Club Tropic, he was tired, out of sorts, and in no mood for Bodie's dark glares and silence. He ordered a drink from one of the mechas - an orange juice short, cold and freshly squeezed to wash away the sickly taste of champagne - drank it down in a single gulp, the way some mechas did if they were trying to fit in with humans, and made his way to the corner where Bodie stood, apparently oblivious to the speculative and lustful looks he drew, somehow aloof even in this crowd.
"So you're a mecha poof?" Bodie greeted him as they eyed each other warily, smoke and shadows half-hiding them even from each other, lights strobing red and green and silver for Christmas, so that Doyle felt mildly claustrophobic. Advertisements played across the roof, garish and distracting, and every now and then one of the floor mechas tried to catch his eye to sell him something.
To take his mind off it, he smiled dangerously, seductively, and stepped closer, hooking his arms over Bodie's shoulders and running his hands through the shortness of his dark hair. "I'm the best lovermech you'll ever meet," he said loudly, "The things I could do to you..." He leaned in still further, turned his head and exhaled slowly across an exposed ear. "Get your mind out of the twentieth century, Bodie, you lost that war a long time ago, and we're everywhere now. Get used to it..."
Bodie reached up and wrapped his hands around Doyle's arms, tightening his hold to the point of pain. Doyle wondered vaguely if the Skin would protect him from bruising as well as bullets. He refused to flinch, worked harder at keeping a smile on his face. "I've a D and D on a room just down the road, sir," he said, "If you'd care to follow me..."
Bodie released him, and Doyle turned and led the way back through the crowds, up the staircase and out into the early morning air. The darkness still glowed with neon and electricity, but there was a different buzz about it now, a going-to-work buzz where the passers-by wore suits and looked at them disdainfully as they emerged, and the sky to the east was glowing with a grey winter dawn.
The hotel Doyle had chosen was unassuming, not too proud to rent rooms by the hour, and kept scrupulously clean by a small woman with pale hair and sharp blue eyes. She scanned Doyle's D and D, checked his operating tag, and sniffed at Bodie who stared straight through her. Doyle grinned at her, received a similar sniff, and, ignoring the lift, led them upstairs.
Their room was six flights up, a small corner double with a tiny barred window in the bathroom overlooking a sheer drop to the ground, and two simwindows of sunshine through the leaves and branches of trees, snatches of blue skies beyond. Doyle muted it to sunset, turned to see what Bodie was doing, and started to strip. He wanted out of these stupid clothes, out of the Skin, and under a shower now.
Bodie was staring around the room, although he stopped and watched Doyle with a frown when he saw what he was doing.
Doyle frowned back. "Don't get your hopes up, Butch, I'm knackered and I'm choosy."
Bodie twisted his lips sardonically, and just for a moment Doyle thought he might actually be amused. "Get over yourself, Doyle, you're the one who ordered a double bed."
"You've just brought a lovermech to a hotel room," Doyle pointed out, "Do you really think asking for a double was over the top?"
Bodie shrugged. "Did you see the Minister?"
"Yeah. He's an idiot."
"If he's an idiot he'll trip himself up sooner," Bodie said briefly, finally taking off his own jacket, and heeling off his shoes. "No secrets divulged, I take it?"
"Give me a chance - I only just met the man!"
"I'm the best lovermech..." Bodie mimicked, so that Doyle wanted to hit him.
"Some of us use a little finesse in our work. Have a good night with your mates, did you?" Sitting around a table enjoying yourself while I was out in the middle of it?
Bodie snorted. "That lot? Give me some credit... They know Krivas is hiring, but not what for or where. They know more at The Barrister but they're more suspicious too. Takes time."
"Yeah..." That was the job. "Give us a hand, will you?"
Bodie reached into his pocket, brought out the tube of gel, and moved towards him. Doyle turned around, trying not to be bothered by the fact that he was still half hard, the Skin tight and tingling, and a moment later he felt fingers on his skin, felt them sliding down his back, cool and impersonal and... freeing.
God it felt good. Good to get out of the Skin.
"Thanks," he said, turning for the shower, "Bloody thing itches. Be glad to get this job over with."
When he emerged from the bathroom, finally feeling clean again, Bodie had turned the Windows all the way down to night, and was already in bed.
Not asleep though, he couldn't be asleep yet.
"You're not from around here, then?" he asked, wanting suddenly to make some kind of overture to the man he was partnered with on this job, to someone who must, somewhere, have a little human decency. After all, he'd been seconded to CI5, just as Doyle had, so he couldn't be all bad.
"Aren't I?" Bodie sounded bored, sleepy, he obviously didn't want to make the same effort.
"Not with that accent." Doyle was good with accents, he could tell Bodie wasn't from Town any more than he was. "Up north?"
Bodie just grunted, and that, Doyle thought, was that.
Then: "'Pool Island."
That made sense. If you were from the Island you either ran away to sea or rotted where you were.
"Yeah?" he asked, carefully.
"Yeah, now is there any chance of letting me get some sleep?"
Doyle closed his eyes, lay in the dark too wound up to sleep and with Bodie's warmth beside him, and thought about Liverpool Island, about mercenaries, and soldiers and the kind of men that Cowley recruited, and the operation they were on. Two mysteries, his ticking brain told him, two mysteries to solve…
o0o
To Part Two...