Space and Time Issue 121 Read Online Free
Author: Hildy Silverman
nebulous quality that the pure biologicals called beauty? Or poetry? Or music?
I will never know the answer to these questions. All I know is that I lived only to sing, and now I sing no more.
sing no more.
sing no more.
sing no more.
> SELF-TERMINATION PROTECTION FAILSAFE ACTIVATED
>
> WORKING . . .
>
> SYSTEM REINITIALIZING; ALL DATA SAVED
> TIME: 20:04:02.78
> SYSTEM CHECK:
> All functions verified within nominative parameters.
> RESTART . . .
>
I am a cyberkeet; genus: SimuTone RepetiWhistler. I was made to sing. And because I was, my genesis is my undoing…
* * *
Distinguished Professor of English Charles E. Gannon ’s Nebula-nominated and Compton Crook-winning novels include multiple National and Wall Street Journal bestsellers. Trial By Fire (Baen), second in the Nebula-nominated Tales of the Terran Republic series, is out in August 2014. The three-time Fulbrighter’s 2006 book Rumors of War & Infernal Machines won the ALA Choice Award. He has been a subject matter expert on Discovery Channel, NPR, and at numerous intelligence and defense agencies.
LOST IN NATALIE
by Mercurio D. Rivera & E. C. Myers
artwork by Thomas Nackid
A blinding flash.
Vertigo.
I’m flat on my back, staring at strings of blue bulbs that dangle from the exposed ceiling ducts. The beat of the techno-music drowns out the grunts and groans around me.
An Asian swapmeater wearing a short red wig and black lipstick straddles me. Blue light haloes her round face, and her small breasts bounce as she grinds against me. She leans over, eyes closed, and whispers, “Who am I?”
The blue lights strobe.
I squint. I’m lightheaded. Drunk. Now I’m on the far side of the room, sitting on the bar counter, a blonde head bobbing between my thighs. I’m mesmerized by the swaying of her silver hoop earrings as she slides her mouth up and down. They look familiar.
“Natalie?” I say.
She doesn’t respond.
A dizzying blue washes across the room.
I’m in a woman’s body, legs wrapped around the waist of a skinny dude branded with Egyptian tattoos. The guy pins me against a wall and thrusts, panting in my ear. A wave of pleasure courses through me, rising and falling, and I consider surrendering to it, but I just can’t do it. I shut my eyes, think of Natalie, and count down the seconds to the next swap.
Vertigo.
I’m back in a man’s body, sprawled on a sofa between a full-lipped brunette and a freckled redhead who are French-kissing over my lap. It takes me a moment to regain my bearings, to shake off the lingering sensations from my last body. I push the women away and stand shakily. I need to get out of the Blue Room. The rapid-fire swapping in here is too much for a newbie like me. And I have to find Natalie before the party ends.
It’s tricky adjusting to this body’s longer stride as I lurch out of the Blue Room and stagger down the hallway, supporting myself with one hand on the wall. I spot my own body in a side room packed with swapmeaters relaxing and reveling in the sensation of different genders, weights, heights. But there’s no sign of Natalie in the crowd. I continue to the front of the loft.
A bouncer guards the entrance, sinewy arms folded over a broad chest–no one leaves the party until after the final swap returns everyone to their own bodies. A few latecomers arrive, passing through the archway that’s mounted over the doorframe. While the device scans for STD’s and records their neural patterns into the buffer, they’re already undressing and stuffing slacks and skirts, wallets and purses, into duffelbags.
I whisper my password to the bouncer, who retrieves a bag from the corresponding cubbyhole and hands it to me. I find my boxers and pull them on; they hang low on my waist. This body is leaner than my own, a swimmer’s maybe. I press my hand against hard abs, the kind I’ve only seen in fitness magazines. I could get used to a body like this.
The
I will never know the answer to these questions. All I know is that I lived only to sing, and now I sing no more.
sing no more.
sing no more.
sing no more.
> SELF-TERMINATION PROTECTION FAILSAFE ACTIVATED
>
> WORKING . . .
>
> SYSTEM REINITIALIZING; ALL DATA SAVED
> TIME: 20:04:02.78
> SYSTEM CHECK:
> All functions verified within nominative parameters.
> RESTART . . .
>
I am a cyberkeet; genus: SimuTone RepetiWhistler. I was made to sing. And because I was, my genesis is my undoing…
* * *
Distinguished Professor of English Charles E. Gannon ’s Nebula-nominated and Compton Crook-winning novels include multiple National and Wall Street Journal bestsellers. Trial By Fire (Baen), second in the Nebula-nominated Tales of the Terran Republic series, is out in August 2014. The three-time Fulbrighter’s 2006 book Rumors of War & Infernal Machines won the ALA Choice Award. He has been a subject matter expert on Discovery Channel, NPR, and at numerous intelligence and defense agencies.
LOST IN NATALIE
by Mercurio D. Rivera & E. C. Myers
artwork by Thomas Nackid
A blinding flash.
Vertigo.
I’m flat on my back, staring at strings of blue bulbs that dangle from the exposed ceiling ducts. The beat of the techno-music drowns out the grunts and groans around me.
An Asian swapmeater wearing a short red wig and black lipstick straddles me. Blue light haloes her round face, and her small breasts bounce as she grinds against me. She leans over, eyes closed, and whispers, “Who am I?”
The blue lights strobe.
I squint. I’m lightheaded. Drunk. Now I’m on the far side of the room, sitting on the bar counter, a blonde head bobbing between my thighs. I’m mesmerized by the swaying of her silver hoop earrings as she slides her mouth up and down. They look familiar.
“Natalie?” I say.
She doesn’t respond.
A dizzying blue washes across the room.
I’m in a woman’s body, legs wrapped around the waist of a skinny dude branded with Egyptian tattoos. The guy pins me against a wall and thrusts, panting in my ear. A wave of pleasure courses through me, rising and falling, and I consider surrendering to it, but I just can’t do it. I shut my eyes, think of Natalie, and count down the seconds to the next swap.
Vertigo.
I’m back in a man’s body, sprawled on a sofa between a full-lipped brunette and a freckled redhead who are French-kissing over my lap. It takes me a moment to regain my bearings, to shake off the lingering sensations from my last body. I push the women away and stand shakily. I need to get out of the Blue Room. The rapid-fire swapping in here is too much for a newbie like me. And I have to find Natalie before the party ends.
It’s tricky adjusting to this body’s longer stride as I lurch out of the Blue Room and stagger down the hallway, supporting myself with one hand on the wall. I spot my own body in a side room packed with swapmeaters relaxing and reveling in the sensation of different genders, weights, heights. But there’s no sign of Natalie in the crowd. I continue to the front of the loft.
A bouncer guards the entrance, sinewy arms folded over a broad chest–no one leaves the party until after the final swap returns everyone to their own bodies. A few latecomers arrive, passing through the archway that’s mounted over the doorframe. While the device scans for STD’s and records their neural patterns into the buffer, they’re already undressing and stuffing slacks and skirts, wallets and purses, into duffelbags.
I whisper my password to the bouncer, who retrieves a bag from the corresponding cubbyhole and hands it to me. I find my boxers and pull them on; they hang low on my waist. This body is leaner than my own, a swimmer’s maybe. I press my hand against hard abs, the kind I’ve only seen in fitness magazines. I could get used to a body like this.
The
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