Dessert, Nevada: A Novel in Nine Penetrations, Nine Chapters, and an Epilogue, by Hart Glass

FIRST PENETRATION. THE GATES SWING OPEN.

Whatever casual vices one could have, not grandiose, but small, annoying, costly—smoking, VHS collecting, jacking off all day, Nintendo, making Irish exits—Io had them all. Wherever hair could grow on a man’s body, there was hair on Io, dirty-brown and sweaty, not like porn stars ten or twelve years prior wore, not sexy or intentional, but as an afterthought. It hung—it didn’t perk, just hung—from every corner of his lanky frame, which XL V-necks, army surplus jackets, leather boots, and vintage jeans did nothing to embellish. Tiny, greasy Io. True, his cock was of another size, but most of that impressive length was only hanging foreskin. And that name—he knew he had a girl’s name. Io. Why? His parents must have kept a secret, since he’d never known them to be hippies. Io. Girly, grimy, tiny Io. Still, he wore the name just like he wore his clothes: with something near to pride, if only since he had no clear alternative.

It was on special invitation from the mayor that he first came to Dessert, Nevada.

“You mean, I take it, ‘Desert City’, Mr. Mayor?”

“We get that all the time, but no. ‘Des-sert.’ Like sweet-treats. Sweet-treats for the US public, Io.“

“I just don’t get—why me? I’m in Seattle, man. Nevada’s far. No CIA connections, FBI, or army. No degree, no modem, Compuserve or such. You sure you’ve got your guy?”

“You’re doing nothing better, Io. One more bit of information: Georgia’s here.”

He swallowed like in old cartoons. A gulp. At that, it was decided.

Dessert was off the beaten path. He flew to Vegas with a walkman, battered earphones, and one single suitcase loaded with whatever wasn’t stained with rum or cum. From there, he beelined to the bus stop right away: too much bad blood in Vegas, man, he’d tell you, whether true or not. The bus went to a station in the desert, where he caught another bus, which seemed to go in circles for a while, and then pulled in at last to one more bus stop, much less populated. What had been the schedules had been bleached as white as toilet paper in the bathrooms of some fancy office. He guessed they’d been like that for some good time: at least since ‘81. From there, another bus, another eight, nine hours, and Io thought not once but many times that Moses and the Jews could hardly have been so diverted, when the bus stopped at a large, fenced installation. There he waited as for hours the sun bleached from his skin the last signs of the weather in Seattle. Man, Desert Storm ain’t over: all it’s done is come right home, he thought. At last, the final bus, at least, it better be, thought Io—it came to a halt, and from it came the driver, drenched from head to toe in sweet perfume, which in the desert heat made Io choke up.

“Well, if it isn’t Io. You could be none other, could you?”
“Well—hey, man, how do you know who I am?”
“The mayor told me all about you. Step right on.”

And that’s when first the gates swung closed on Io.

Chapter 1.

It happens all the time: a fresh graduate from MIT or Stanford joins the team knowing his value, and it is almost always a he, and within a few weeks of signing the necessary non-disclosure agreements, he’s on the road back to Vegas with a termination letter in his hands. It’s part of life: employees come and go. Almost all of them end up just fine: there are plenty of jobs for them these days in the Santa Clara Valley. We keep tabs, of course.

The shame is that none of them ever learn the lesson. We know they’re smart. We, as a whole team full of smart people, hire them to be smart. Somehow, they nonetheless fail to pick up even the most basic organizational smarts: that working in an team involves not just conspicuous problem-solving, but the drudgery of properly filing away data and marking up code to make other people’s lives smooth as well, and that if they could manage our whole project on their own, they would have already. I’ve of course complained about these types to our supervisor from the mayor’s office, to ample sympathy and few results. “They don’t have any more room left, with heads full of C++ and combinatorics.” I appreciate the sympathy: but why does it so often fall to me, one of the very few women on the team, to train the ones we know won’t stay?

That’s what I think over coffee in the lounge. Of course, I keep quiet. I try to keep an open mind, even. As per the last memo, a new recruit is joining us today. By the sound of the name, though it’s hard to tell, really, a young woman from up at Seattle, freshly dropped out from the University of Washington. We’ve been warned about some eccentricities.

“I don’t trust these Seattle types,” weighs in Dave without being asked, while stirring too much sugar into his coffee again. “Too many slackers up there.” I ignore him. Then the modem beeps. We both perk up. An EMAIL. Utter silence as it loads.

From: mayor@dessert.nv.gov
To: team@dessert.nv.gov
Subject: Year 01 Pre-Q2 Update
Date: Mon, 1 Apr 1991 09:17:29 PDT

Team,
I reviewed the minutes you circulated on Friday. Overall, youre in a good spot. For future reference, remember that memos should be kept succinct. Thanks for pulling together to get the A/V system pulled together on such short notice.
We have a new member coming in today. This recruit comes with my personal recommendation and should get special treatment. I trust you know what to do.
Thanks again - good work on a tight timeline.
- Mayor

“Special treatment, huh,” sighs Dave. “Probably some airhead niece.” I shoot him a glare. And with that, the door swings open.
“Hi: nice to meet you. Later on, I’ll formally present myself, but I just thought…”
Shorter than I imagined, and a lot blonder. With tattoos, even. Not dressed even a little formally. I think of Dave’s comments about those Seattle types and do my best to trace a welcoming smile.
“Oh, enough with the formalities,” she says, leaning in too close. “I’m Georgia.”

SECOND PENETRATION. FORMALITIES. IO GETS FUCKED.

Dessert, Nevada’s largest monument stood right upon the only road to town: a melting ice cream cone, face-down, perhaps as tall as several lady liberties. Beside it, on a pale-green sign, read: WELCOME TO DESSERT, NEVADA, WHERE SWEET DREAMS COME TRUE. Around it, higher fences still, rows on rows. The sun beat down, the sand flashed back, and Io squinted hard. I’ll need some sunglasses first thing, he muttered to himself. “Whuzzat?” said the bus driver. “Well, if you ask me, you smell enough already like old resin.” Io quaked. He wasn’t used to people listening in. It was now close to guaranteed: the ride, or what remained of it, would pass in awkward silence.

The more he gazed upon the monument, the more something seemed wrong: the colors of the ice-cream seemed to run, not metaphorically, but literally, into the sand, as if someone had painted it in watercolors, then taken up a hose and sprayed the whole thing down. He winced. Mirages, man, he thought, but not aloud.

He thought of Georgia. Best he’d ever had, that one. Too sweet and gone too fast.

The radio came on, as if to break the silence. “Unbelievable!,” half-sang, half-shouted British teeny-boppers. Io would have even taken ads. The driver hummed along and mouthed the chorus. Then he cleared his throat. Oh, no.

“Dessert’s a high-tech town, you know. Most people come for that.”

And now the agonizing work of feigning interest. “That the case? I’ve only ever used PCs in college. Didn’t stick around there, though.”

“I know,” assured the driver. Creepy. Io stared out through the window. Desert sand stared back. Then long, squat buildings, all alike. But damn, AC at last, thought Io, as the bus came to a stop. A man was waiting, all dressed in a suit and tie, and if he broke a sweat, he gave no indication, visible, olfactory, or anything at all. His slicked-back hair and Colgate smile gleamed in the sun. He held his hand out.

“I’ve been waiting, Io. Welcome to Dessert.”

“You’re Mr. Mayor, then?”

“No, just a representative. You’ll meet him later. Meanwhile, call me Irv.” And, with that, an open grin. By instinct, Io rushed to shield his eyes.

“Alright, you’re here to give me the whole tour?”

“Yes, something like that, Io.”

“And you know all about me, like the driver, somehow?”

“Perceptive, Io.”

“So tell me: when can I see Georgia?”

The man’s expression changed. “Not for a while, I’d say.”

“Hey, whaddya mean, man?”

“She’s currently involved in sensitive affairs.”

“Don’t give me that, man. Even Mr. Mayor…”

A hand-wave. “No, you’ll see her when you see her. In the meantime, come this way please, Io.”

Then Io felt an urge to speak, complain, ask more about sweet Georgia, but despite himself, despite the hormones bubbling up, despite the fact that he could still smell Georgia on his fingers if he tried, he just kept quiet, feeling no choice but to go along with things, as he had never in his life. The bus was gone. The fence had closed behind it. So the snare had tightened.

Chapter 2.

What we do, we must. I didn’t write the rules, but I follow them better than most when I have to, and implement them better than anyone else in this office. Don’t slow down progress and don’t get attached. One doesn’t climb the ranks like I have without knowing how to survive.

She’s been surprisingly effective, Georgia, and for the first time in what feels like forever with a new recruit, I don’t feel like I’m changing diapers. Dave notices as I make my coffee. “You look less stressed.” I don’t say anything.

I meet Georgia in the cubicle pit, as usual. Ours are right next to each other. I’m trying to get the maintenance guys to remove the divider: we spend too much time awkwardly peering over, and besides, I even like working with her. “‘Sup?,” she greets me. I’m getting used to it.

We’ve had more EMAIL messages than usual in the past week. It’s my job to stay up to date on everything: new recruits aren’t authorized. Sometimes it feels good to be the one with the password anyway.

The mayor’s asking that we really ramp up. I peer over at Georgia. She’s already logged in, eyes fixed on the screen, in the sort of half-slouch that makes her seem like she doesn’t care until you see how fast she’s typing. I nod. The last three or four wouldn’t even have had their terminals on by this time. 

“You’re good at this,” I say.

“Hmm?”

“Just saying. You’re faster than expected. I think we’re at the point where it’s okay for me to share this that I had some serious concerns when you walked in looking—don’t take any offense to this—like you do. But you’ve surprised me.”

Georgia pauses. She tries to start speaking, but stammers. I notice her breathing, now rapid, now calm. Odd. Then an exhale, and: “Thanks. Learned the hard way. Last place I worked was bogus. You’d get fired if your code didn’t compile by lunch. I guess the public sector isn’t as strict, is it?”

I trace the best warm grin I can. The low, tinny buzz of Artie’s cheap Sony headphones a cubicle over breaks my concentration. I force the conversation forward: “Where was that?”

“Garage software company in Bellevue. No windows, no chairs that didn’t squeak or come from a closing school. Coworkers starting bands on the side, calling me ‘basically one of the guys,’ all that.”

“Sounds like hell.”

She grins, then glances down. “Hell with bagels on Fridays. Yeah, we did ‘motivational chants’ and all on Mondays. Yoga too. Like kindergarten. Like hippies with compilers. Like kindergarten hippies with compilers.” A giggle, and then an exaggerated look of disgust.

“And here I thought Dessert would be an upgrade.”

“Oh, it totally is. The AC works and the coffee doesn’t taste like radiator fluid.” Her eyes flick to mine. I let the moment hang for a few seconds. Dead silence. I hold out. Then, as predicted, as if just to break it, she continues: “You know, I was living out of my car at the time.”

I exhale. Warm, practiced grin. “Out of your car? In Bellevue?”

“Life was complicated.”

I nod, slowly, as if thinking. I let the silence hold, let her feel the weight of what she just gave me. Then, light as lint, I apply pressure: “So, any boys?” 

She flinches. Not too much. She’s impressively controlled. It happens in an instant: shoulders shifting, bracing. Someone less perceptive might not catch it at all. But I catch it, and repeat, “Any boyfriends?”

I let the silence hold more, and add: “Don’t tell me you’re a virgin, Georgia.”

She stares flat into space, through the monitor in front of her, through the wall, probably, types something, deletes it, types again.
I don’t press. I don’t apologize or move. The modem beeps. Another EMAIL. I let it load and read in perfect silence.
“We have a stand-up in fifteen,” I say, smoothly, as if nothing happened. My grin is getting more natural.
Then, for the next fifteen minutes, nothing but typing, and the faint hiss of Artie’s headphones, playing something tinny and upbeat, maybe Paula Abdul.

THIRD PENETRATION. FESTIVITIES. IO GETS CELEBRATED. [Ver. B]

He looked right past his own eyes in the mirror. This is Io? Man, poor Io, Io thought, and brushed his teeth and spit out blood from in between.

That feeling had been hitting, and this morning it was stronger still, that feeling of the first days settling into a new place only to find oneself unchanged. He’d felt it long ago in Soho, then in Venice Beach, and then Seattle. Here it hit the hardest, maybe since he had no fucking clue what he was doing here. Dessert, Nevada. What a joke. He couldn’t code; he couldn’t even type, and then the place was full of feds, real suited creepers. And the night before, the strip search! Why the strip search, man? And why the probes?

Sweet Georgia.

A knock-knock-knocking on the door. But shit, shit, I’m not dressed yet, Io thought, and then remembered, man, they’ve seen it all already. Sure enough, he opened up buck-naked, why, he didn’t even know, rebellion or laziness, whatever, man, and in came some more suited types, the representative from earlier, all casually, and one just put a suit right in his hands, a full-on suit, all ready for him, even in his size. “Nah, not my style,” whined Io. “Have it your way,” said the type, “but hurry up. Today’s a big day, Io.” Sure. He pulled his V-neck, jeans, and boots on in that order. No, no underwear. It’s you guys who are rushing me, thought Io, hoping that they’d notice and complain. They gave no sign they’d noticed anything.

Outside of his hotel room, yet another flock of agents. Flock? Or group? What do you call ‘em? A whole spook of agents?, Io thought. A spook of agents, sure, and damn! Babe-agent too. I wouldn’t say no, Io thought. Then cue the colgate smile, and, “Right this way, please, Io.” Suits behind him, suits beside him made it clear he didn’t have a choice.

The sky over Dessert resembled U-Dub's EMAIL client, gray-beige, washed-out.  No clouds, no breeze, no sounds but a buzz: of insects? Io didn’t see no insects, man. They shuffled through the lot and to the car, a big 8-seater SUV. The heat kicked Io's teeth. “So, we’re going to see Georgia?,” Io asked the agents. “No, Io, she’s busy,” said the babe-suit, automatic-like. “But in the meantime, since you’re here on special invitation from the mayor, we saw fit to give a special tour of our city.” Great. Too kind. They drove and then they drove some more.

Dessert, Nevada, Io noticed, sure did sprawl as nowhere-towns went. They drove past streets and streets of squat row-houses, lawns and all, the type you might see anywhere, and how’d they keep the lawns so green?, thought Io, when I roast just like beef jerky stepping out into the sun? At last, the car stopped. Babe-suit, automatic, rattled off: “Dessert’s grand mall is where you’ll go to get your needs met. Step outside.” Io complied. Of course. The spook of suits walked Io straight through fifty-seven seconds’ scorching sun and right into the mall.

The mall looked just like anywhere. No, worse: it’s just the kind of anywhere that gives me creeps, thought Io, as if Reagan left retirement to spit-shine clean the floor. “Go walk around and have some fun,” the rep said, slicking back his hair some more.

A few steps in, the screens in Cinnabon displayed on loop the beaten, bruised-up face of Rodney King. Man, why’d they do that?, Io thought. He stepped up to the counter. “Uhhhhm, a pretzel please. A big one.” “Right away!” said MTV-face at the counter, snapped her fingers, and… the ventilation duct above just opened up! It opened up, and out whizzed one large pretzel, fast as Sega, into Io’s mouth. A little startled, Io felt around his pocket. MTV-face chuckled, shook her head, and said, “Oh, no, sir. This location only accepts payments made in EMAIL.” “EMAIL?” “EMAIL,” MTV-face said again, as if the practice just explained itself. “Go find a terminal somewhere. The mall is high-tech: it has plenty. By the way, we do charge interest.” “So: I just send you an EMAIL?” “Yes, that’s all. Address it to [email protected].” “Well, okay, MTV-face.” Io dashed off.

The food court sure was massive, big enough, it seemed, to seat all of Tukwila, Io thought, but only seven tables, maybe eight, were taken, filled by spooks of suits. Then, sure enough, right by the bathrooms, rows and rows of terminals. They looked just like the row-houses, all squat and grayish, if houses ran Compuserve. Damn! Io made a beeline, flicked a switch on. Right away, the terminal lit up, all glowing green, and printed: WELCOME, IO. STILL LOOKING FOR GEORGIA? ENTER Y OR N. Whuh? Io staggered. Trippy. Yes, of course, he thought, and pressed the Y key. GOOD, displayed the terminal. I HOPE YOU FIND HER SOON :), and opened right to email. Io entered:

1
2
3
4
5
To: theboss@boss.cinnabon.gov
From: io4@washington.edu
Subject: im paying for my pretzel

hi mtv-face. good now?

And hit send. Beep-beep, the modem went. From straight across the mall, the cashier shouted: “Io, we charge interest. Send another.” Io groaned and forwarded the same message again. Then, right on cue: “We’re good now, Io. Hope you liked the pretzel!” Whew.

Too much by now. Io felt fully fried. He shrunk out to the entrance hall and found, of course, his designated spook of suits. “Enjoyed your pretzel, Io?,” asked the rep, and turned to point his colgate grin at babe-suit’s colgate grin, and they both chuckled, loud, as if they spoke some secret language. “To be honest, no, but ‘least I didn’t spend that money,” Io said. The agents chuckled more and made off to the SUV, and Io followed right at once. Of course.

At first, they drove in silence. This time, Io went along with it. He didn’t ask them questions. Things are easier this way, he thought. I guess that’s just the way they want it. Finally, the rep spoke through his grin: “We hope you understand we care, Io. We’re going somewhere that might cheer you up.” Io perked up. “To go meet Georgia?” “No,” the agent said, “She’s busy. Somewhere else.” He shoulda figured.

They parked at yet another long, squat building. “Come on inside,” said babe-suit.

A video-arcade. Who do they think I am?, thought Io. Guess they’re right, though. “Come: let’s play a game together,” said the rep, “since, anyway, we’ll be together quite a lot.” “Uhmm, sure,” said Io. “Know a good one?”  But already colgate-man was off—hey, wait up!—to the arcade's other side. He chose a tall, thin cabinet. “Hey, uh, didn’t this one give some kids in Portland seizures?,” Io asked. The agent grinned. “We’ve worked out all the bugs.” The slanted screen was pulsing, flickering, as if to Io’s heart rate. Colgate-man inserted quarters by the fistful.

The game—what were the game’s rules? Io watched the flashing screen, the grinning rep, the numbers going up, and didn’t get a thing. Before he knew it, “Your turn!,” said the rep, and just as soon as Io lay his hand upon the joystick, BZZZZT! A static flash upon the screen. NO, IO, THAT’S NOT HOW YOU IMPRESS GEORGIA, went the text-crawl. SCORE: NEGATIVE ZERO. Io pouted. Colgate-man did too, then took the joystick once again, and half an hour must have passed before Io’s turn came again—and ended just as quick. SCORE: I DON’T EVEN FEEL GOOD TELLING YOU :(, the text-crawl went. The agent patted Io’s shoulders. “It’s okay, you’ll learn,” he said. “You wanna play another game?” “Oh, please,” said Io, “anything but this one.”

They came up to another cabinet. Steering wheels, toy guns, and QWERTY keyboards covered this one right from top to bottom. “You impressed?,” asked babe-suit, who had waited there. “This game is only playable here in Dessert. The object is to win a street-race while assassinating politicians and composing manifestos.” Io swallowed like in old cartoons. A gulp. “Babe, what’s your high score then?,” asked Io. Babe-suit chuckled, dropping enough quarters in the cabinet, possibly, to stay up all night on a pay-phone with a buddy in Osaka. Io watched as babe-suit scored a million, then another million, then a trillion. “VIOLENT IDEATION BONUS,” flashed the cabinet. “YOU’VE INSPIRED COPYCATS. ASCEND.” At last, her credit reached its end. She hit the high score list both for raw points and for regime changes accomplished. Io shook his head and drudged back to the door. What time was it already? Prolly late, and these games were all bogus, Io thought. Above the entrance, on a big screen, Io saw his photo, captioned: IO. PLAYER OF THE DAY. GOT MINUS ZERO POINTS AND DISAPPOINTED GEORGIA. WINNER JUST FOR TRYING.

Outside, already night had fallen, sure enough, and each long, gray, squat building seemed to gleam. Io had nothing in his pockets, so he leaned back in the evening cool, as if to smoke a phantom cigarette while waiting for the suits. He might have liked the moment to last longer. Sure enough, they all came out together, shuffling him right back into the SUV, and driving back to the hotel in silence.

His hotel room was a relief. At last, no buzzing, flashing lights, or EMAIL. Just some time alone. He looked right past his own eyes in the mirror. Yup, I’m Io, Io thought, and brushed his teeth and let his gums bleed. No, that ain’t no Colgate smile, thought Io, but it’s mine, goddamn it, mine. Already deep, deep drowsiness has come upon him, damn Nevada heat, he thought, and let his jeans and XL V-neck casually fall and slouched to bed, and stared up, past the ceiling. Georgia. Damn it, where’s sweet Georgia? Why’s she here? Dessert, Nevada, out of every goddamn city in the world. No matter the economy, she’s smart: she can find work. Why here?, he wondered. Then he heard a click. The hallway’s light crept deep into the darkened room, a long and slow-expanding triangle of dust and brightness. Footsteps. It was babe-suit. “Only keeping tabs, Io, to make sure that you’re settling in alright. I used my own key,” babe-suit said and shut the door behind her. And then a shuffling noise. She’s taking off her pants?, thought Io, wincing, looked, confirmed: She sure has taken off her pants. He didn’t say a thing or move: too tired. Just go along. Don’t turn down a babe, not even a suit, not Io, Io wouldn’t. Still, she made a shush, as if to calm down a small baby, held him down by both the shoulders, not too hard, but firmly, got on top, and fucked him.

Chapter 3.

Debugging is everyone’s least favorite task. In suboptimal conditions, it means an indeterminate number of hours tracing threads through a pit of tangled, wet spaghetti. In optimal conditions, with neat, well-commented code and good communication within the team, a fantasy in which I sometimes indulge, the nature of the process still guarantees hours or days of combing through layers upon layers of code, and after the bug is found and patched, very often an equal or greater amount of time fixing everything the patch broke. In a well-structured, disciplined organization, the drudgery can be distributed; it cannot, however, be eliminated. And some, inevitably, bear more than their share.

“I just don’t get what I’m doing here,” confides Georgia through tears. “I just don’t get what we’re doing here. What are we doing here in the middle of the desert?”

“There, there,” I say, holding her gently, stroking her hair a bit, the way I’ve noticed she likes. “It’s like this for all of us in the beginning. Sometimes, babe, you don’t ask questions. You finish the project, slap it on your resume, and move on. You’re smart: there’ll be space for you in San Jose or the valley or somewhere.” She’s been mentioning those places more. I lean in.

“I’m tired of having questions, and I’m tired of moving on. I want a place where I’m not the weird girl in the corner cubicle, where I don’t feel like I’m always one off-color joke away from being someone’s intern again." A sob. “I want to be on solid ground. I want a sense of purpose. Is that really so much to ask?” A weaker sob. “What are we even working on here?”

I look at her with my soft, sympathetic gaze. I’ve been practicing. Let the silence speak for itself.

The modem beeps. An email. The mayor’s responding to my report. I glance and flick off my monitor in a gesture that tells Georgia she’s more important right now. Of course, she’s still new enough to believe in coincidences. 

She wipes her eyes with her sleeves and straightens up her posture, like I’ve told her to. She lets out a slow, quiet breath. Self-soothing. Subtle. Snaps quickly back to looking composed even when she isn’t. A less perceptive person might miss it completely.

“Fine. Government work looks good on a resume,” she says, as if to the air. Then she swings her chair right back around to her terminal and gets to typing at the breakneck speed I’ve come to expect from her. A few odd movements there. I look more closely with my sympathetic eyes. She’s tossed a 3.5” floppy into her purse. Second time this week. It still pokes out.

Enough perhaps to have a talk.

FOURTH PENETRATION. BOYS. EVERYBODY GETS DISTRACTED.

When Io woke, he hoped he was alone. He stared right through the ceiling. Please don’t be here, babe-suit. Please just go. But sure enough, he felt the warmth, the tug, the motion of another body there in bed with him. Goddamn it.
“Your cock’s a whole lot smaller than it looks,” she chuckled. “I came to cum, and you weren’t enough, but that’s okay. I finished by myself.” He stared on, blankly. Go away. Just go away.
“I’m Kathy, by the way, not ‘babe-suit,’ just in case you need to put a name up to a face—or cunt,” she went on. “You sure are a cunt,” he muttered, getting up, not angry yet, not really, still just half-asleep. That made her chuckle more. “You don’t want round two then?,” she said, and stretched her body out, advancing by a bit her pelvis. Io looked away. He started, “Lady—Kathy—.” “Come on, Io,” Kathy said. “I’ll tell you something about Georgia if you make me cum this time. I might not even tell the others that you cried.”
Oh, put your junk away, please, lady—Kathy, Io thought.

And then a crash. Alarms. Whoa, far out, Io thought, still bleary. Piercing scream. Whuh? Kathy? Upright? Screaming? Then—BLAM! BLAM! CRASH! Gunfire came through the window. BLAM! again. The screaming stopped. He turned around real slow and saw about what he expected: brains smeared on the sheets, life pouring out of Kathy’s skull. Is blood that color? No, no time to think. He pulled his jeans on. If I’m dying here, he thought, that won’t be the most bogus thing. Not even by a long-shot. Georgia… CRASH! The door came down. A man, behind him two men, three men altogether rushed inside, masked-up and dressed in desert camo, vests, and surplus goggles. Just like watching Gulf War debriefs on TV. One hit a button on his radio. “Io secured. Repeat: Io secured.” Then, right to Io: “Come with us. We’re getting out of here.”
Whuh? Like a VHS I watched before I left, thought Io. But there wasn’t time to breathe. The men ran out, into the hallway, through the fire exit, Io after them, still shirtless, wispy chest-hairs trailing as he ran. The Desert Storm types hopped into a Jeep; the leader, so it seemed by his red headband, shuffled Io in with them. He drove.

Once on the road, the leader broke the silence. “Minutes later, you’d have been a goner,” he told Io, gruffly. “You have no idea how deep you are in shit. Be glad we’re here now.”
“Hey, listen, man, first, thank you,” Io said, “but I’m fed up with mindfucks. Give it to me straight, if possible: what’s up here? What is going on?”
“We’re Navy SEALs. We’re tearing this place down. Dessert, Nevada is a Russian base on US soil, built for mind-control. We’re blowing it all up.”
“The Russians? Ain’t they in the shitter ‘bout now?”
“That’s only what they want the US people, good people like you, Io, to think. In fact, they’re launching their full-scale invasion.”
“You’re fucking with my head here, man.”
“And that’s not all. You won’t believe this, but you have to: you’re the key to our success. You’re how we break out Georgia.”
Did he say Georgia? Whoa. “Man, thank you. Can’t thank you enough. So what’s the plan?,” asked Io.
“Just follow us,” the leader said. The roadsign read: THIS WAY TO RESCUE GEORGIA. Naturally, they made a turn.

They jolted to a stop outside a bunker. “This is Checkpoint Maya, where we’ll make our stand,” the leader said, and tossed Io a rifle. “They’ll be coming any minute now.” And sure enough, on the horizon, Io saw a horde, still far away, still indistinct, but coming fast. They rushed inside the bunker, aimed their rifles through the windows, hunkered down.

The first wave reached their sights before they knew it: rows and rows of tiny Russian soldiers, wearing Russian hats, and crawling on all fours. There must have been a hundred, maybe more. The soldiers started firing; Io mixed a few shots in, and soon enough, the horde had been cleaned up. “Intense, man. Was that all of them? We gonna rescue Georgia now?,” asked Io. “No,” said the commander, “that was just wave one. We need to clear eight waves, and only after that will Gorbachev come out. We’ll deal with him, then rescue Georgia.” Io nodded.

The next wave came from the horizon. This time, every other Russian stood up straight and held an AK-47, firing semi-randomly straight forward. Past Io whizzed a bullet. “Careful,” said the leader, “that one almost got your ear.” But there were bigger issues: it had hit one of the SEALS, pierced through his chin, sped through his tongue, and torn an eyeball out. Another bullet. This one bore right through his nose. The dying soldier mustered out, “Long live the USA! You’ll never —BLECH!,” and vomited his entrails on the ground. The leader shook his head. Is blood that color?, Io thought, but kept on shooting. Soon, this wave was cleaned up too. The leader caught his breath. The others were still panting.

A lull between the waves. Io looked out the window. There he noticed Georgia, small, tattooed, all blurry in the heat-waves, calling, “Io, rescue me! I’m waiting! Never, Io, have I once stopped waiting.“
But then a Russian snatched her off. And—BLAM! BLAM! CRASH! A window shatters. BLAM! again. He turned around and saw what he expected: smeared brains on the floor, life pouring from the leader’s skull. We’re fucked now, Io thought. A soldier shouted, “Never think that!” Io looked out of the window and saw hundreds, maybe thousands of tall Russians with machine guns, sabres, and maces. They were firing all in unison, so Io ducked and caught a glimpse just as the last of his companions caught a bullet in the brain. Goddamn it, now or never, Io thought, and took his fallen comrade’s gun up. Dual-wielding rifles, shirtless, Io jumped straight through the window, roaring Georgia’s name, prepared to face the enemy, prepared to give it all away for her. The sand, impressed at his resolve, then caught him like a blanket. Io fired off in all directions. All the Russians fell dead in one line.

He huffed and puffed. He panted. Bit by bit, he caught his breath. And then—a slow clap. “Well done, Io. High score.”

Whuh, Kathy’s voice? And sure enough, behind him, Kathy stood in Checkpoint Maya’s doorframe. With her were the rep, and all his spook of suits. They grinned and stared at Io all together.

“But—how?,” said Io. Kathy grinned. The rep grinned colgately as well. “I’m lying in your bed right now, my brains smeared on your pillow, is that right?,” she asked, and Io nodded, gulping like a character in old cartoons. “That’s how Dessert’s proprietary 3D graphics engine made it look. Say, did you like it, Io? You looked so heroic for a moment.”
“But—what are 3D graphics? Why—,” he started, but the chuckles said it all. “The soldiers weren’t real, I guess,” he said, and Kathy nodded, this time with vague tenderness. That made it worse.
Io looked downcast at his shoes. What other things, then, weren’t real?, he thought. Was all that— “By the way,” said Kathy to the spook of suits, “a fun fact: Io isn’t circumcised.” They chuckled all together. “Which, come on. Just look at him.” And then she leaned in right to Io’s ear, and whispered, “I’ll be back tonight.” The rep drove up the SUV. They all got in together, Io following. Of course.
And then they drove straight back to the hotel.

Chapter 4.

She's been avoiding speaking lately. Yesterday, she came in, typed all day, and left without a word. I offer standard greetings: all she does is grunt, “Hm? Yeah.” I check her code: not perfect, but the same high standard. She's a smart one.

Don't rush to fill the silence. Wait for her: don't chase.

Then, this morning: Irv, the mayor's representative, is back. He glides across the cubicle pit, Colgate smile gleaming, as if levitating. Dave and Artie swivel towards their monitors, perhaps for the first time in weeks, and hunch into them theatrically. Georgia pretends not to notice. The maintenance guys stop fiddling with the light fixture by the corner, pack up their tools and ladder, and shuffle out without a sound. Georgia can't help it anymore: she looks up. Two more suits from the mayor's office step in to guard each path of egress. Finally, Georgia breaks her weeks of silence. “Who is that?” she whispers. I swiftly hush her, putting my hand down on her wrist, lightly and firmly, in such a way as to communicate: now's not the time, babe. She gets it fast and takes up Dave and Artie’s posture. Smart girl.

I too have found a long, cozy EMAIL to read as Irv passes. Subject: Reminder: Revised Cabling Diagram for Building C (Includes Fiber and Coax.) Great. He's close, though. He comes to Georgia's desk and hovers. Then, he lifts his chin and looks directly at me. His Colgate smile gleams.

“You know what this is about, don't you?”

That wide, soft smile. I nod. One doesn't climb the ranks like I have without knowing some survival skills. “Right this way, ma’am.” I get up, showing no change in affect, and follow him. Georgia stares on with big doe eyes. He and his two suits lead me to his SUV.

Irv lets the silence breathe. He’s good: of course he is. I don’t rush to fill it either. Keep an engaged, somewhat bored look on. Act as if nothing can change your day for better or for worse. Survival tactics. Irv slicks back his hair some more. Then, sure enough, he speaks first:

“So what do you think of her?”

In that moment, all the tension leaves my body. Don’t show it. “Well, Irv, it’s what her resume suggested,” I say. “She came to us with skills, no hand-holding necessary.” Irv lights a cigarette. I add with a conclusive tone, “She’s quiet lately, but I call that adjustment, not resistance. She reeds a room.”

Irv lets some fumes escape his cigarette, then turns and points his Colgate smile at me. It gleams. “No, I’m asking what you think of her. Of her herself.”

I take a slow breath and let it sit between my lips. Too quick and I’ll sound coached, or worse, eager; too hesitant and he’ll smell sentiment. Can’t have either.

“The bitch is smart. Too smart for her own good, maybe.” Irving’s smile gets wider. He nods his head with enthusiasm. “Unlike the infants we scoop from MIT or Caltech, she hasn't needed any breaking in, so to speak. She’s got the whole picture without having to be told. She does her work and doesn’t press on any big questions, but they’re there. They’re bubbling just beneath the surface. The trouble is, the bitch doesn’t know how to hide it. She’s a different kind of infant for sure, but still an infant: not naive, but naughty.”
“Anything more?” asks Irv.
“Well, she wants to be useful, at least,” I add, staggering from my own performance. Nothing about the floppies.
Irv keeps on bobbing his head, his grin gleaming, as if listening to air guitar. Then something clicks. I see it. He’s got that look. “We’re going to step back in, then right back out,” he says. “There’s something I want you to see.”

Sure enough, we step back in. The maintenance guys pack up. The suits block the means of egress. Dave and Artie slouch. I stay right behind Irv, expressionless. Georgia is sitting in her practiced slouch too, but with her eyes locked on mine. Big doe eyes. Someone less perceptive might miss it. The poor girl is terrified.
“Artie!” calls out Irv, not bothering to take a step from the door. “Artie! Come with us, champ,” he says. Artie looks up from his slouch, and gives his own look: less doe, more sad puppy, like he’s asking, “What, me?” Irv shouts a third time, “Artie! Yes, that means you, Artie, come with us!” At last, he moves. We lead him to the SUV, get in, and seat him down between Irv’s two suits. “Little day trip, Artie,” Irv says, starting the ignition. Then we drive way out, past the fences, past the ice cream monument, into open desert.

Once even the phone cables have disappeared and all we can see is desert all around us, we stop. We shuffle out of the SUV, and Irv tosses Artie a shovel. His eyes sink, and Irv begins to chuckle. “What, you think we’re going to shoot you and dump you in a ditch? Not our style, Artie, and you’re not in that much trouble. Just dig a little. You’ll see.” Artie looks as if a train’s just hit him, but he digs. Sure enough, he hits on something hard immediately. A little crunch. “Come on and dig it out,” Irv urges. Artie plunges his shovel in and thrusts it up. Out from just beneath the sand, he digs up dozens and dozens of little black plastic joysticks with big red buttons. He drops the shuffle. Puppy eyes at Irv. Then puppy eyes at me.

Irv picks one up. “Do you know what these are, Artie?” he asks. Artie stammers and manages to force out the full, grammatical sentence, “I never played video games myself.” “Toss me one, Artie, so I can teach you,” Irv says, and Artie obeys without delay. Irv passes it to me. I turn it around in my hands a bit. It sticks to my fingers in the sun. I pass it back to Irv.

“This is a perfectly good game controller, Artie. You don’t partake, I understand, but do you know how it works? Bend the stick right to move your little character right. That part, you get, yes?” Artie nods. “So Artie, I need you to act like a good video game character. When I bend it to the right, I need you to walk a few steps to your left: my right.” Artie looks confused, but keeps quiet. Sure enough, Irv bends the joystick right, and Artie does as told. “Now, Artie, next command. When I press this big red button, I need you to drop your pants.” Irv lets Artie process what he just said. He looks confused, and then stunned, like a beaten puppy. “Did I stutter, Artie? When I press this big red button here, you drop your pants,” says Irv, and presses the red button. Arite blinks a little. Then, he pulls his pants a little down, showing his drawers. “All the way now, Artie. Drawers down too,” says Irv, and presses it again. Artie complies.

I look away. I’m not a prude, but I haven’t looked at a man that way since work took over. Besides, I figure that it’s best to let Irv do his work. I hear him start to address Artie, saying, “This controller, Artie, works perfectly well. If we drove it back to Dessert and plugged it into a gaming system, it would still function, even after years buried here. I’m going to plug it into you now, Artie.” I hear a low, surprised squeal. “Thousands just like it are buried here, and that’s no exaggeration, Artie. Almost all of them would work. Do you know how they ended up here, even though they’re perfectly good?” He pauses. “When I pull this joystick down, I need you to bend over, Artie.” I peer just a little to my side. Sure enough, Irv pulls the joystick down, and Artie bends over, the wire trailing out from his behind.

Irv lets him stay inert like that, his face facing the sand, his bottom pointed at the sun. I turn my head back around. I don’t need to look at this. I don’t need to signal interest. And then a wail. “These controllers, Artie, all work perfectly well. Do you know how they ended up like this?” Irv says through gritted teeth, his voice remaining calm, but deeper, more and more forceful. “Do you know?” The wailing gets louder. “It’s because some techies didn’t know their place and promised more than they could do. They took their company down with them, Artie. They took the whole video game business down with them. And their bosses decided the only solution was to bury it all.” The wailing gets ever louder. Do I look? It turns into a piercing shriek, and then goes higher than a man should be able to produce. It takes on a buzzing, electronic quality. I turn around and see, sure enough, Irv rotating the controller around, shoving it deeper and deeper into Artie’s rectum. “That’s you, Artie. You sure can code, but you don’t know your place.” He shoves it all the way in, the base and all, stands back up straight, and slicks his hair back again. The Colgate smile hasn’t left his face. Artie holds himself and writhes and wails on the ground.

I turn all the way towards him. No reason to look away anymore. Irv doesn’t seem to mind either. Slowly, Artie turns around to face us, and unbends his knees, revealing his shame. A penis, just like any other. It’s not such a big deal after all. And then—the penis and the scrotum start to shrivel up. They wither until small and purple, then fold all the way into Artie’s body, leaving a small dent, out of which sprouts—the joystick, black, plastic, octogonal! Artie sobs. “Pull up your pants, Artie,” says Irv, and Artie does. He gets up. “We’re going home now.” Back into the SUV.

The ride back is silent. Out of curiosity, I peer back at Artie. I see the imprint of the perfectly octagonal joystick at his crotch.

We stop back at the office. Irv tells his suits, “Bring him back in,” and they do.

He turns his head to me, his smile gleaming, and lights a cigarette. Then: “What’d you think?”

Show no affect. “Well, he didn’t know his place,” I say. Irv chuckles. “No, I just didn’t like the guy,” he says. And then a pause. “You know, you’re a smart one. A climber. I think I’ll secure you a meeting with the mayor.”

Back in the office, I can hardly keep composure. For the first time since I was the new girl out of college, I’m nearly hyperventilating in public. Georgia rushes up to me. “Are you okay? What happened?” she asks, pointing her doe eyes at me. Then: “I’m sorry I’ve been pulling away so much. I don’t know: I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I just have a hard time trusting people.” She puts a light hand on my arm, just like I do to her. “You’ll tell me about it later, okay? Just take your time. And—thanks for all you do for me.”

In her purse, I notice several floppies poking out.

FIFTH PENETRATION. OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHH.

Just once in Io’s childhood, he had stood up for himself.
The soccer boys had tugged on his long hair and put him in a dress. The military brats had jeered and filmed him with a Super-8. Though Io didn’t know it, this would be the only time before Dessert that he would snap. He grabbed the soccer team star’s ankle, basked for just an instant in the crowd’s shocked gazes, and then bit down hard. A howl. The teacher ran straight over.
The school suspended Io for two weeks. “Your son’s a fag,” the teacher told his parents. When he came back, he was reassigned into a smaller classroom, where the desks and seats were padded and the pencils came with mushy grips.

In his hotel room, Io contemplated 3D graphics, arcade games, and Cinnabon. He contemplated all the Colgate grins that stood between himself and Georgia. Like that day at recess, Io wondered why: why all these small indignities? Why wouldn’t all these suits just take him out and shoot him if they had so much against him? Or, if somehow he was useful, why not let him be on his own terms?
The SEALS, the Russians—both had been fake. But the rush he’d felt at Checkpoint Maya: what about that rush? That heroism? Feelings can’t be faked with 3D graphics—right?
He looked beside his bed. Upon his nightstand sat the suit that Irv had brought him, still perfectly folded. Io took the button-down, bit hard into the cloth, and tore both sleeves off at the shoulder. Punk. He put it on, not bothering to button. Let them stare, thought Io.

Outside, the heat kicked Io’s teeth. Just play it down, he thought. It doesn’t bother the new Io. So he squared his shoulders and went towards the spook of suits like it was nothing.
“You just went through our 3D graphics demonstration,” Irv remarked, not even looking up. “I figured you’d be winded.”
It doesn’t bother this new Io, Io thought, and kept on walking, swinging his arms boldly.
“Well, have it your way,” Irv said, pearly whites all gleaming.
Like so, Io walked the hotel’s perimeter for several revolutions. Truly isn’t much to see or do around these parts, thought Io. Then it hit him. On his fourth or fifth long walk around the hotel, when he crossed Irv, Io leaned in and—a swoop!—swiped Irv’s sunglasses right off his smug face and put them on. He stood there, gingivitis smile all gleaming dully in the sun. But Irv just shrugged it off. He took another pair from in his inner pocket and extended it to Io. “Maybe you’d prefer this style? A little more like Arnold?” Irv asked courteously, and chuckled.

Not good enough. He had to do more. Had to show these suits that they can fuck him, sure, in every sense, but never break his spirit. Io spit on Irv’s shoes, turned around, and walked back in. His spit evaporated in the sun in seconds.

The hotel lobby was all quiet. Kathy sat there on a sofa reading the Dessert Sweet Nothing’s funny pages, flicking through, licking her thumb, and chuckling. Io glanced her way and flinched. No, too much trouble, that one, Io thought, and tiptoed past her.

Behind the lobby was the tech room. Here’s the motherload, thought Io, staring at the rows of squat-gray terminals. He flicked the switch on one up just to see. YOU WON’T FIND GEORGIA LIKE THIS, printed the computer glowing-green. “I’ve had enough. Shut up,” said Io out loud to the screen. I ALWAYS THOUGHT I’D FACE MY DEATH WITH DIGNITY, it printed, BUT NOW I’M STRANGELY SAD, and made a rhythmic beeping noise, like whimpering. “Too bad,” said Io, and with one swift gesture, pushed it to the floor, and—crash! It shattered. Io gazed at the debris, then pushed the next down, then the next. WAIT, PLEASE, one printed, turning on all by itself, DON’T DO IT. I HAVE GEORGIA’S EMAILS. “Really? Show me,” Io said. I CAN’T :(, printed the terminal. “So don’t waste my damn time,” roared Io, tossing it down on the floor.
The suits walked in agape. “How could you?” one told Io, on the edge of tears. Behind them followed Irv, not agitated, not as far as Io saw, but shaking his head slowly. “Well,” said Irv, “it’s time we took a ride.”

The ride was chatty. “Tell me why you brought me here,” said Io. “I didn’t,” Irv said, eyes on the road, “the mayor did.”
Not good enough.
“Then you,” said Io to one of the suits, “Why am I here?” No answer. Not even a blink.
He turned to Kathy, held her gaze and let contempt do all the talking. But no: she just looked on, like watching laundry spinning. Fuck her, Io thought.
“You will take me to Georgia,” Io told Irv, firmly now.
“Hm. Maybe sometime,” Irv replied.

The SUV pulled to a stop. “We’re here,” Irv said. “Get out.”
Io puffed up his chest, the way the soccer boys had done. “Alright,” he said, “but I expect some answers.” Irv let out a sigh that masked a chuckle.

The building stood over a service road. No name, number, or signage: only chain-link fences, sky-high, crowned with curling wire, to tell the onlooker to show ID or turn around. The gravel crackled underfoot and bit through Io’s boots.
The heat had changed. It smelled like bleach and wiring.
“Let’s go!” said Irv all sing-song.

The floors were steel. The static hummed through Io’s soles.
“I’m glad you get to see this place, babe,” Kathy whispered into Io’s ear.
Irv jostled her and chuckled.
They climbed six flights of metal, toothy stairs and walked down seven halls. The buzzing noise got ever louder every minute. Finally, it turned into a hiss. They came upon a double door. A man was limping just outside it. Io hadn’t seen worse posture.
“You’re back?” the man asked.
“Oh, Artie, you knew we’d check in from time to time,” said Irv and grinned.
“What do you want?”
“We’re giving Io here the royal tour,” said Kathy. “Let us in, why don’t you?”
“Hey Artie,” interjected Irv, “why don’t you also show this man your penis?”
At that line, Io cringed. He hadn’t taken Irv for the perverted type, despite his other flaws.
The man called Artie grasped a bit around his zipper, trembling. Io thought he even glimpsed some tears, but didn’t press. “Just go on in,” said Artie, swiped his keycard, and stood back as both the doors swung slowly open.

Chapter 5.

From: mayor@dessert.nv.gov
To: team@dessert.nv.gov
Subject: May Update

Date: Wed, 1 May 1991 09:41:04 PDT

Team,

First, good work pushing the latest patch even through recent personnel changes.
I reviewed the recent team minutes and strongly suggest finding a new minutes-taker. Remember that internal communications should remain succinct.
As we move into field-testing in the coming months, Im going to need you all to continue the good work youve been doing, and even prepare to scale up a bit through some more coming personnel changes. This is crunch time, and youre doing valuable work. Thank you for your resilience.

P. S. Ive flagged some of you for one-on-one meetings. If you were chosen, you should have already heard about it. Contact Irv for any clarification.

- Mayor

“Is he talking about you in that last part?” asks Georgia, glancing over the EMAIL. She’s gained access to our basic internal communications, contingent on my approval.
I exhale slow and hard. “Yes, I have a meeting tomorrow a.m.. I’m really not expecting it to be much. A few questions about logistics, and then they’ll probably ask me if you’re doing your work.” Georgia blinks. Diffuse the tension. I put on my practiced warm, subtle smile and continue, “You won’t push through any major patches without me next to you, right?” I start typing.
“What do they do on the other side of the building?”
My hands come to a stop over the keyboard. I blink a few times despite myself. Stay controlled. “Oh, I don’t know. Packing boxes and fitting parts. The grunt work. What brings this up?”
“What did Artie do to get sent there?”
Breathe. One, two. Light chuckle and mocking eyes to diffuse tension. “Oh, he was an awful coder, that one, and a nightmare to manage. I wouldn’t worry about you, if that’s what you’re asking: you’re competent.” Yes, make it about the stupid boys.
But Georgia presses. “Did it have anything to do with that time Irv pulled you out?”
The bitch is going for the jugular. Best to shut it down and do damage control later. I sigh, loud this time. “I don't want to talk about that.” Back to typing. Let the silence—
No, a better idea. I let out a soft laugh. Like a cackle. “You really want to know?”
Georgia looks on, wide-eyed, expectant, as if trick-or-treating in the suburbs.
“Artie was a little bitch. All he did was leak his problems and make us clean up after him.”
Georgia looks entranced. Does part of her enjoy this? I continue:
“We pulled him out for a code review, and he cried. Are you going to cry during code review, Georgia?”
Georgia looks brighter now. The bitch is chuckling with me. I continue:
“Some men just leak, Georgia. Stay away from leaky men.”
She’s just over the moon now. Predictable. “Yeah, truth there. That’s one of the reasons I had to leave Seattle,” she says.
I could have added: some sharp, tight slits need leashes. But she wouldn’t have liked that as much.

4 a.m. or so. My meeting with the mayor’s coming. Just a matter of hours now.
I tap the card I got from Irv’s suits against the doorknob. Click. Sure enough, the door opens. I tiptoe in as quietly as I can.
Georgia snores. No wonder she can’t keep a man.
I crouch and unzip her bag, one tooth at a time. Not a sound. I’m good at this.
I stare down on her silently. I trace the contours of her figure in the dark right to the middle. Not such a sharp tight slit after all: big-lipped girl. If it were someone other than me, she’d be defenseless.
What is she dreaming about?
I reach into her bag with my lightest touch and feel around. Floppies on floppies. Deeper. More floppies still. Where does she even keep everything else?
Best to take just enough that she won’t notice and just leave. With this many, I don’t need to use too much discretion. I slip a couple handfuls into my bag, and—
I’m brushing Georgia’s hair. “Don’t cry in code review,” I whisper. She stirs, but doesn’t wake.
Too sweet and gone too soon.

After my meeting with the mayor, I’m surprised the coffee in the break room still tastes the same. I sit there, taking one sip at a time, then just taking in its smell for some periods, letting the familiar come as unexpected again and again.
“I’ve never seen you come in this late,” Dave snickers. “On the rag today?”
10:18 a.m.. It didn’t even take too long. I was offered the day off to process, but I figured this was my place. Looking around now, I’m not so sure.
“I’m talking to you. Don’t pretend you don’t hear me,” Dave presses. “How’s the bimbo?”
Then in one gesture, I get up, thrust an arm around his neck, and kiss him, hard.
“Whoa, babe, what—” I inhale sharply, making sure he can hear, and take in the cheese-smell from behind his ears. Good.
Then, as quickly as I got up, I kneel down, unbutton his khakis, and pull them down all in one swoop, together with his drawers.
A penis. Up close. Just a regular penis, a little sad, a little fuzzy, far too red. It’s still getting ready.
I’m not. I push Dave up against the wall, pull down my slacks and underwear, and mount him. A little friction, a little fiddling, and I push him deep inside of me. Am I really doing this? Too late. He’s already in. I thrust. “Ah— ooh—,” Dave goes, squeakily, his bloodshot eyes rolling a bit back, facing his increasingly barren scalp. I thrust faster still.
I feel the firm, deep presence in myself. It’s been far too long.
He finishes too fast. No surprise. I leave him there, pants at his knees, get up, adjust myself, run warm water over my hands, splash a little on my crotch. Dave just lies there, dazed.
Just a few seconds later, I’m sitting, smelling my coffee, when Georgia barges in. “How’d the meeting—,” she starts, and then falls silent. Her eyes widen, scanning the room, scanning me, scanning Dave’s cock and quickly flicking her head away, as if it were some kind of boogeyman, scanning the fridge, scanning the exit. “Uh, sorry for walking in,” she stammers. “We’ll catch up later, okay?” With that, she’s out.
I take in the moment. I’m a new woman.

SIXTH PENETRATION. GIRLS. SOME MANAGE TO STAY FOCUSED.

The room was filled with filing cabinets, stacked like coffins, each containing Io’s weight in papers, punchcards, floppy disks, and none of which revealed the slightest meaning to the untrained eye. They had to have some meaning, Io figured, staring at a sheet of transfer paper listing times of day—and weights? A shipment list? A diet log? Without more context, Io felt just like he did at school, on days when all his friends had done the readings and he’d just jacked off. “Man, this is bogus,” Io whined.
“This place doesn’t impress you, babe?” said Kathy, more sincerely than Io had known that she was capable. She giggled with excitement. Irv, once so unflappable, now dug through endless files with glee, as if he were a sweet-toothed child and each paper was chocolate. He and Kathy pointed their wide grins straight at each other, almost giddily.
But no one object in the room made more of an impression than another, not to Io, at the very least, so naturally, he turned to face the door. Then Kathy grabbed his arm, pulled him up close, and whispered, “Isn't this just wonderful? I'm so glad we've come here,” and pressed her lips to his, all soft and slow, not like she had before, this time with feeling. Io flinched at her familiar taste.

“Man, that was fucking pointless,” Io barked on the ride back.
“Oh, Io, Io,” said Irv, grinned, and shook his head.
“It’s radical,” said Kathy, as if still coming down from one long sugar rush, and holding Io’s chest. Why was she acting like this now?
Io tried to ignore her. “If that place is such a big deal, tell me what it is,” he said.
“You know that that’s where Georgia works?” said Irv.
“Then take me to her,” Io grunted.
“Now’s not the time,” said Irv, like reading from a script.
“What, wasn’t being close enough already?” Kathy said. Her fingers lingered over Io’s chest. What did she want this time? The worst part was not knowing.
Io just watched the road roll by.

At last, the SUV pulled to a stop. Again the heat kicked Io’s teeth. Again the hotel lobby. Kathy finally let go of Io’s arm and sat back down. She gave him a slow nod that felt significant. He didn’t like that. Then she opened to the Sports pages of the Sweet Nothing.
Io slinked to the tech room just to dodge her strange, soft gaze. He’d rather take, he thought, her hungry looks from yesterday. At least back then he knew well what she wanted.

The terminals were back, as if nothing had happened. Not a scratch. Well, here’s as good as anywhere to hunker down, thought Io. Then: green light. A terminal blinked on all by itself. TROUBLES WITH THE LADY?, it went.
“She don’t act like no lady,” Io grunted.
OOHHHH YEAH, YOU’VE GOT THAT LOOK ON, went the green text crawl. COME, TALK TO ME. WHAT’S EATING YOU?
“I learned real young,” said Io, “that you never turn a woman down. But this one didn’t even ask. She just took what she wanted. Now—”
THAT SOUNDS REAL HARD, the green text went. YOU MUST BE GOING THROUGH SUCH COMPLICATED FEELINGS.
“I am,” said Io. “Thanks.” He went on: “Now she’s acting off. Like she wants more. I don’t know what.”
YOU NEED TO LISTEN TO HER FEELINGS TOO, the green text went.
“But what about my feelings?” Io whined. “At first I looked at her and found her sexy, sure, but barging in on me like that, and escalating now like I showed interest, when I really—”
OH, I SEE WHAT YOU’RE TELLING ME. A pause. HM. COMPLICATED. WOMEN DON’T JUST ACT LIKE THAT.
“What do I do then?”
YOU SHOW HER WHO’S IN CHARGE.
The terminal would really say a thing like that? It sounded like a thing the soccer boys would say. “Well, how would you know anyway?” gruffed Io, feeling more upset.
‘CAUSE I’M A WOMAN. DON’T YOU SEE MY FLOPPY DRIVE?, the green text went.
“Oh, sorry,” Io said.

That night, he lay awake, just staring at the ceiling, ready. Time stretched on like chewing gum in 90-degree weather. Then the click, the same way as before. Light streamed in from the hallway, sharp, triangular, dust sparkling in its shape. Then footsteps. Click. The door closed, and he saw her: Kathy. Like before. Already pulling down her pants.
But this time, Io moved first.
“Oh no, you cunt, not this time,” Io said, voice lower than he’d thought. She froze, pants hanging at her knees. Her face—was that surprise? Alarm? He couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter.
“Get on the bed,” he said, just like the hung Italians or Mexicans he’d seen on VHS. She did. He undressed quickly, threw his jeans aside, and bared his cockhead like it had something to say. He pulled her legs apart, and stared right at her cunt like it might answer, mounted her, and pushed inside. She gasped, a sound which gave him something: confirmation, or illusion. Maybe both.
He thrust. Again. Again. Now faster. “Better keep up your end of the bargain,” Io growled, pressing his chapped lips against her neck. “You cum, you talk. You tell me everything you have on Georgia.”
She moaned, just like the girls on VHS tapes. Long, familiar rhythms. “Ah—ah—ohhh—”
He rubbed her. Hard and desperate. “Come on,” Io gruffed, as if as a command. “Come on—”
Then—there it was. The noise. Loud, high, and long. “Oh, Io,” Kathy moaned, convulsing. Were those tears? Too much. He looked away.
He pulled out and rolled over, panting. “Now,” he said, in practiced, flat-tones, tones to make him sound in charge, “you tell me about Georgia.”
But Kathy just lay still and turned her head, slow.
She smiled. The Colgate smile. And in that moment, Io knew he’d fucked up yet again.
“You tell me first, babe,” Kathy said, all cool and quiet, softly giggling now.
A pause. A blink. He turned.
“Am I an alright actor?”
And then she was upon him.

Georgia Log 6.

What’s the protocol for when you catch your mentor in the break room fucking the shortest, baldest, slimiest misogynist in the West?
I was honestly starting to suspect she was queer, the way she leans in and breathes right in your face. I guess she’s just kinky.
I know it’s none of my business. People are allowed to be freaks. But Dave? Really? He’s the guy who told me I probably type with my tits. Now he’s in hers.
She comes back to her cubicle, right next to mine, to pick up her bag. “I won’t be back for a while,” she says. “Promise me you won’t piss the sheets.” Like I’m her kid sister. Or dog.
“Okay? Won’t cry during code review either,” I say, and giggle, a little aggressive. Should I tell her that I won’t fuck Dave either? No, too far. I can smell him on her fingers. Oh, god.

She’s gone now. Thank God.
No more creeps around. Breathe. One, two.
I ditched Oregon as soon as I could without a plan and enrolled in school.
I made it out of the Bay Area hitchhiking when that fell through.
I moved to Seattle with a guy who couldn’t drive and barely showered, and taught myself to code.
I’ve gotten out of way worse. I’ll get out of this. After this, no more government work.

That’s what I’m thinking as I swipe some more floppies off her desk. I pop one into my terminal. God, she’s always correcting me, but this is ugly stuff, just like all the others. Does she even know how to make a comment? Does anybody in this place? Gobbledygook. Spaghetti code. Just like all the others.

I peer over my cubicle divider.
No one.
Artie’s been gone for days now. Dave’s probably off buying a lottery ticket. The usual suits are all off on some kind of duty. Not even the maintenance guys are around.

I’m all alone in the office with the buzz of the lightbulbs and monitors.
I shoot an EMAIL of the floppy’s contents to my contacts at the Times and Journal. Just like all the others. I attach a short postscript on the latest labor practices here. The modem beeps.
Might as well figure out just what the hell we’ve been working on.

SEVENTH PENETRATION. LOGISTICS. IO GETS DEFLOWERED.

When everything was dark outside the window, Io stirred awake.
Beside him, Kathy snored. Her fingers rested softly on his chest. They felt good, even comforting to Io’s barely-stirring consciousness. Then he remembered who she was and shuddered. Yeesh, it must be barely 4 a.m., thought Io. Not a moment to myself.
He stared up at the ceiling. Past it. Through it. This was all becoming too familiar.
No way we’re doing this again, thought Io.

He lifted himself slowly so as not to wake up Kathy. Snrrrrr… mmmm… snrrrrrr—a stir, but still asleep. Thank God. He put on his ripped shirt, and—hell, why not?—the rest of that nice suit.
This time I’m really taking charge, thought Io, slipping out.

He slipped out of the hotel. Buzz beneath the floor; buzz beneath the sand; buzzing in his boots. It really never stops, thought Io, orienting himself.
That building—that one where Georgia works—was this way. Io started.

The sky above Dessert looked like a sleeping terminal, all black and vaguely staticky. Io felt the night’s chill in his boots. He felt a breeze. He hadn’t felt one in the daytime. Soon, the hotel faded in the distance. All that seemed to stretch before him were the fence, the sand, the buzz. Each time he lifted up his soles, the buzz diminished; every time he put them down, it roared back.

The inside of his mouth was drying. Io stumbled, scraped his ankle in the sand, and got up. Not enough sleep. The fence as well: its contours disappeared, and Io could have sworn he stood in open desert, that the small town of Dessert had given way to the rest of the great country. Dust whirled all about him. This was still the way. He knew it.

Then something in the distance. Something seemed to shimmer right on the horizon, something squat and gray. How long now since Seattle? Since he’d drifted off to sleep in Georgia’s musty, stuffy car beneath the mountains?
How many VHS tapes since rewound? How many times jacked off? How long had it now been since she had left without an explanation?

The shimmer was just that: a shimmer. Now it seemed to pull away the more he walked towards it. This was the way. This was the way they drove him: these were the sands that led to where Georgia was working. Follow this way just a little more, thought Io, sore knees, sore throat, sore cock, sore ankles.

The shimmer turned into a glimmer, and the black, staticky sky turned purple like a boot-up sequence. Dawn already? Io thought. Well shit, I’d better find the place before the heat kicks in. Somehow, to bleach in open desert still seemed better than another funhouse day with Irv and Kathy.

Io made out a figure in the distance, traced against the purple backdrop. Worry later, Io thought, and trudged further and further on.

And then he recognized him. It was Irv. No SUV, no suits, no Kathy, thank God: just Irv. How’d he even get out here? thought Io.
“I got out here the same way that you did,” called Irv across the distance, and began making his way towards Io, brandishing, it seemed, a TV clicker, grinning—well, of course.
Now how the hell’d he know what I was thinking? Io thought.
“You won’t find Georgia like this,” called out Irv, now closer. “Yes, she’s in the building, but she might not want to see you right now. Or be able.”
The sand cascaded down from his dress-shoes. Man, how the hell did Irv trudge through the desert in dress-shoes?
“It doesn’t bother me,” said Irv, and held up the remote. “You know what this is?”
At last, they stood an arm’s length from each other. “Yeah, of course,” said Io. “A remote. You’re trying to make some point here, man?”
“When I get bored,” said Irv through a clenched grin, “You know what I can do with this? I change the channel, Io. I just switch to something else.”
He clicked. The shimmer stuttered out on the horizon. Clicked again. Now Io’s tongue went dry.
“Where’s Georgia?” Io croaked, all raspy.
“She’s in the building, as I said,” said Irv, “but you won’t find her. Now, I’m going to press a button. When I press this button, Io, I need you to—”
“Where’s Georgia?”
A long, deep sigh from Irv, like from a disappointed substitute in Math class. “Io, you’ll find out. Now listen. When I press this button—”
“Just take me right to Georgia.”
A longer sigh. Irv clenched his Colgate grin. It barely held, like two compactors driving up against each other. “When I press this button, Io, I need you to take—”
And WHAM! Io punched Irv square on the temple. Why? He didn’t know, but neither did he care about the consequences any longer. WHAM! The other temple. Clunk. A hollow, woody noise. Irv dropped right over.
“Hey, Irv?” said Io. No response.
Could it have been that easy? Io jostled Irv’s prone body with his boots and found what he expected. No response. Life pouring out of Irv’s right ear. Was blood that color?

No time to linger though. The building loomed at last. The sky was booting up real fast, and Io trudged on.

Georgia Log 7.

1
2
3
4
5
6
7
enum flag_set {
    FLAG_CONSENT = 0x01,
    FLAG_PUPIL_DILATION = 0x02,
    FLAG_HEATMAP_ZONE3 = 0x04,
    FLAG_AUTONOMY_OVERRIDE = 0x08,
    FLAG_HEARTBEAT_HOLD = 0x10,
};

Definitely some red flags in that one. And another:

1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
SWEETMAP.INI
----------------------
[Seattle]
arousal=0.7
compliance=0.2

[Nevada]
arousal=0.99
compliance=1.0

I let it all send to my contacts. With all the talk of government overreach these days, they should find this juicy. I grit my teeth as the modem beeps. Then I notice at the bottom of a different file:

// Sweet dreams, G.

The bitch knew how to comment after all.

I grab my bag and book it. I’m not staying here a second longer. Fuck the resume. I didn’t stay with Io in Seattle for a piece of paper. This place is nearly as creepy as that was. I’m not staying here for a piece of paper either.

I get right in my car and quickly change my tampon there. I toss the old one in the sand. Fuck the office bathrooms. Fuck what I might see in there, or who might see me. Then I start back to the hotel. Pick up the other floppies and a change of clothes, then just drive. I can find a rich guy in Vegas, I’m sure. I can find a group-home in LA. I can sleep in my car again if I need to. I’ve lived my whole adult life on the run from something or another. I’m just continuing what I’m good at.
If things are as bad as I worry they might be, I can book it to Vancouver or Tijuana. That might be the change of scenery I need.

I pull back up to the hotel and dash right up the stairs. No enclosed spaces right now. Right to my room, and—

Fuck.
The room is empty. Someone’s cleared it out.
None of my belongings. My clothes are all gone. The floppies definitely are. I push the dresser from the wall. Yep, the ones I hid back there are just as gone.
It’s like I never arrived at all.

And then the buzz.
The terminal inside the room is still turned on. I’m still logged in. Have they been reading my EMAIL correspondence? Fuck.

Beep-beep-beep, the modem goes.
An EMAIL.

From: paul.s@nytimes.mhs.gov
To: georgiak@dessert.nv.gov
Subjet: docunemts from georgy

Date: Wed, 1 May 1991 16:19:00 PDT

hi georgia

i tried to look at what u sent but its 2 hard. sowwy D:

- pawl

The Paul who waxed poetic to me about his time at Cambridge? Is he fucking playing with me or something?
Beep-beep-beep, again.

1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
From: leads@wsj.sec.gov
To: georgiak@dessert.nv.gov
Subjet: 2 long dint reed

Date: Wed, 1 May 1991 16:21:00 PDT

owwie :(
my head hurt :(
no

Is this a fucking prank?
I shut off the terminal. Whether or not anyone in the outside world wants to hear about the creepy shit that’s going on here, I’m out. Enough.
I hoist my bag, my only worldly possession left, and swing around to the door, and—

There’s my mentor in the doorway.
Behind her, Irv.
And his whole swarm of suits.
I almost figured.

EIGHTH PENETRATION. LAB REPORT. IO GETS DECISIVE.

So Georgia works here, Io thought, and walked in through a side-door. Time to find her. Nobody was waiting, not just there but anywhere, to ask for clearance. Io was surprised.

Inside, the buzz felt louder. Everything was brightly lit. Door after door gave way to stacks of wires, stacks of computers, blinking lights, all things that Io didn’t get.
It fit, though. Georgia had been good with tech.

He came upon what looked to be a staff lounge. Cups of coffee still sat on the table, growing little specks of mold.
A little past it, Io found what must have been an office. Cubicles on cubicles, all dusty, each one with a modem and a terminal, all booted down.
A longer cubicle with two computers and two chairs. Was that the brand of pens that Georgia liked there too?
It all was food for thought. But since by all appearances, it had been some good time since anyone set foot there, Io just trudged on.

He came up to a heavy double-door. Behind it, metal floors and louder buzzing. This must be the building’s other side, thought Io, where I went already. Not much more to see here—
“No, wait,” a tinny, hoarse voice growled. “Can you help get this off?”
He turned around. As if from nowhere stood a man all wrapped in cables, cables holding his eyes open, cables holding his lips open, exposing his gums. He slouched, as if weighed down; down lower, Io thought he saw a fierce erection, but on looking closer, it was all octagonal, as if he had a joystick where his dick should be.
Whatever’s happened here, thought Io, poor old fucker. “Sure, I’ll try,” he said, and tugged a little on a cable. “Eeeeee!” the man screamed, tinny, sounding something like an arcade sound effect. The cable felt glued on—no, tighter. Almost like it was part of his skin or something. Io noticed bleeding where he’d tugged.
“Man, sorry,” Io said, “but it’s not coming off.” He shook his head.
The man gave a defeated look. “Can I just tag along?” he asked. “We could find something somewhere that can get me out of this.”
“If you can walk with all those on, then sure,” drawled Io. “By the way, you seen a girl named Georgia?”
“I used to work with her. Real sharp, that one,” the man said. “Ever since I got yanked off that floor myself, I haven’t heard a thing.” He looked at Io’s downcast eyes with pity. “It’s okay. I’m Artie, incidentally. I’m sure we’ll both find what we’re after.”
That helped Io to hear. “Well, which way should we go?” asked Io.
“I know this side. Come, follow me,” said Artie, shambling on.

They came up to a tiny room, a spacious closet, really. “What’s supposed to be in here?” asked Io. Artie shushed him, stumbling through the door and shutting it. The room went dark.
Then from the floor, a squishy noise, like chewing, or like pooping. Or, thought Io, jacking off. And sure enough, below the floor, the green and glowing outline of an adult man. It writhed and pushed up at the tiles, and Io saw it roughly pleasuring itself.
“Come on, Dave,” Artie said, “how long now have you been at that without a break?”
A muffled noise beneath the floor.
“Hold on,” said Artie, lifting up an arm with difficulty, letting loose the buttons of his shirt, at last revealing in his chest a monitor, all staticky, embedded in his very body. With the end of a long cable dangling from his bottom, Artie plugged into the floor.
“Try talking to us now, Dave,” Artie said.
The screen lit up, and on it was the softly grinning face of one real ugly man. His eyes were bloodshot and his hair was thin where he still had it. Then a tinny groan came from the monitor.
“You had to interrupt me there? You can’t give me some privacy?” the face of Dave said.
“Come on, Dave. Talk to us. What’s happened since I got pulled from the floor? And do you know how I can get these things off?”
The man just laughed, too long, too breathily. “I got with her, you know. The bitch. The supervisor. The one bitch who always chewed out our revisions. I don’t know: I guess I just looked cute that day. I did it with her, Artie, in the break room. That Seattle girl saw too. Go ask her.”
Beneath the cables, Artie rolled his eyes, then asked, “What happened after?”
“Well, I don’t know,” said Dave. “A whole big staff meeting. I skipped it, Artie. Couldn’t help myself. I dodged into a bathroom stall and started beating off. My lucky day had come. And as you see, I’m still here.”
“You aren’t in a bathroom stall,” said Artie. “Right now, you’re embedded in the floor in R&D.”
“Oh, huh, I am,” said Dave. “First time I’ve noticed.” Then he got right back to beating off.
“Some help he was,” said Io. Artie yanked his cable out.

They moved on. “Without a pointer,” Artie said, “we’ll have to take the elevator all the way to B-9.”
“Why B-9?” Io asked.
“Whatever R&D churns out, I hear it’s documented there,” said Artie.
“You hear?” asked Io.
“Perceptive. No, I haven’t been down there, but tell me if you have a better thought,” said Artie. So the two then stumbled to the elevator bay.

The elevator took its time to come, and when it did, the ride was rickety. It jerked to one side, then the other; Io thought his laundry, on the rare occasions when he did it, hardly could have been so shaken. Finally, a ding.
“Here’s floor B-9,” said Artie as the doors crept open automatically. “First thing we do should be—”
And then a hand reached through the doors and hit something on Artie’s neck. A low, abrasive boom, like from an old Atari. “Artie?” Io said.
“He’s left the building,” Kathy said. The cunt was waiting right outside the elevator. How’d she know?
“What did you do to Artie?” Io asked.
“I switched him off. Just leave him in the elevator. I’ve got things to show you,” Kathy said while lightly stroking Io’s neck. He stiffened up, and as if just to drive it in, she leaned in close and added, “Come, baby. I’ll show you what we’re making in Dessert. And then you’ll meet the mayor.”
She kissed his neck behind his ear, all sloppily, and led him on through heavy double-doors.
Behind them closed the elevator, Artie still inert inside it.

Chapter 8.

We watch Georgia fiddle around at her desk for a few minutes, type some more, still act like I’m right next to her breathing down her neck. We chuckle a bit at it. It’s ten minutes or so before she finally gets up, looks around, and notices we’ve left her alone in there. Out come the floppies immediately.
“Yep, there it is,” says Irv.

I like the kid. I really do. They don’t make them any sharper. If she had known what was good for her, if she hadn’t been so damn paranoid, she could have been an excellent team member.
“She could have been a climber just like you,” says Irv.
Yes, she could have.

Our modem beeps. She’s sending out an email. I skim it.
“She’s copying the floppies to some playmates in the media,” I say, and read on. “Even making room to call you gay and abusive and me a slut.”
“Scandalous,” Irv chuckles. He’s a little wry when his suits aren’t around.
“You’re into being outed?” I shoot back, and Irv just grins. Beat him at his own game.

We track her through all sorts of cameras. Next she makes a break for her car, and—what’s this?—changes her tampon right there like some kind of hobo. Irv zooms in, all amused.
“See?” he says, “I told you not to call her such a tight little slit.”
“Save the image for Dave, maybe?” I josh back.
“You don’t mind your man looking at other women like that?” asks Irv.
Asshole. “If he still can when we’re done with him,” I retort.

Irv lights a cigarette. I do too. Match him. Every beat. Do it just a bit better. We sit back in our padded rolling chairs and watch her drive back to the hotel.
“So, what are we going to do with her?” asks Irv. Then, with a smirk, “I say we just let her go.”
Don’t take the bait. I blink at him like he has three arms. “Can you explain your thinking there?”
“I’ll call the press and let them explain,” says Irv, not missing a beat. He’s good. A real pro. The phone rings, then clicks. “Hello? This is the Times.” Irv hands the phone to me.
“Yes, this is supervision from the Dessert, Nevada team. We’re just calling about a story we hear you have drafted—”
Bawling comes through the line. Thick, inconsolable bawling, not like an adult sobbing at a loved one’s funeral, but like a child bawling at a dropped lollipop.
“Da Dessuhhhhht stowy?” I pause and blink, making sure I’m hearing what I’m hearing.
“Dat wuz weawwy haaaaaaawd! I couwd’n unduhstaaaaaan nuttin’!” I stare off into space.
“Can you hewwwwwwwp me?” goes the lead editor of the Times. I hang up.
“So,” says Irv, “still worried about Georgia making it to the press?”

I blink and adjust my new suit. “You’re not one to let an opportunity go to waste, are you?” The words leave my mouth before I know it.
I’ve already spoken. I have to finish the thought. “Surely you’re up to speed with what R&D is working on.”

It really is a pity. Too sweet and gone too soon.

Irv looks askance at me for a second, as if processing what I just said. I’m processing too.
He slaps his knees a bit and slowly gets up. “You said it, not me,” says Irv, his grin a bit subdued. “Let’s go meet her at her hotel room.”

I get up too and click off the screen. The image of Georgia’s car pulling into the parking lot lingers for just a moment.
“You drive,” says Irv. “I’ll handle calling the suits.” Then we both get into his SUV.

NINTH PENETRATION. THE TRAP SLAMS SHUT.

Upon the wall, the sight was unmistakable: row after row of screens, each capturing, from every angle, into every orifice, every kind of penetration possible, and featuring, it seemed, the whole spectrum of human bodies, every age, shape, sex, size, creed, and color.
Upon one, towards the northwest corner, Io saw himself, his veiny, uncut rod, which pummeled Kathy’s hairy cunt, or was that Georgia’s?

“Now what fresh hell—,” said Io, stunned. But just like in the filing cabinet stack room, Kathy seemed beside herself with joy.
“You’d like to meet the mayor now, babe?” panted Kathy with some difficulty, as if losing language.
“I’ve got some questions first,” gruffed Io, sadly gazing at the screen with his own cock. It looked a whole lot more like Kathy, sure, but she was recent. Sure, the screen was funny—but the hair was blonde there, right?
“Of course,” she said. “Your questions first. You want to know, I guess, what all this is?”
“What is all this?”
A smirk. “Now what more could I tell you? You’re no good in bed, but surely you still recognize, or so I'd hope, what's going on up there.” She leaned in close. “Don’t worry. I still like you.”
That hit him like a ton of bricks, the way she acted like this all made sense. He’d seen his share of VHS porn. Sure, he even was a fan. But all this? All for what?

“But what? And why?” said Io.
“It's nothing but the sperm of something bigger,” Kathy cackled, half-entranced and feeling her own crotch.
Just cryptic bullshit. Io said as much. “Don’t give me cryptic nonsense, Kathy. Is this shit allowed?”
“Allowed?” she huffed. “By whom? The law? Babe, Io, don't amuse me. This is now the law: all this.”
The law is—porn? The thought amused him.

“But—why? Since when?” asked Io.
“The mayor saw to it,” snapped Kathy. Whoa.
Apply some pressure, Io, Io thought. Let’s beat her at her own game. “If all this is ‘sperm’, then where’s the egg?”
A bigger smirk. “You’ve always been perceptive, sweety.”
“Enough of that, Kat. Answer me.”

She reached below her crotch, pulled out her hand, and smeared the liquid right on Io’s lip, then pulled in close, and said, “It’s being built.”
“Why build all this? Why let it happen?” Io asked. He wiped the smear off, but his lip stayed sticky. Just like everything and everybody in Dessert, thought Io.
“We’re buying cables, building satellites. It’s gonna be just radical. The mayor wants a trillion-pixel womb. We’ll give him a quadrillion.”
“For what? Get to the point.”

“Aquarius, babe,” Kathy said. “The era of connection. Speed. Soon, all of what you see—each image, every frame—will be accessible to everyone around the world at any time. Nepal, Milwaukee, Congo, darkest Appalachia: anywhere.”
“But why?”
“Go meet the mayor.”
And promptly, Kathy sat down on the floor, spread-eagle, and began to touch herself harder, faster as if she were alone.
The cunt up on the screen—hm, was that hers? It bothered him that even with the real thing out, he couldn’t tell.

“Hey? Kathy? Babe?” he said.
But Io’s words, it seemed, just passed right through one ear and out the other. Kat just went on. It didn’t even look like fun. “You won’t cry during code review?” she muttered to herself. “A sharp, tight slit like you… A sharp, tight slit… mmm, sharp and tight…”

“Well, time to meet the mayor,” Io said, not knowing where those words were coming from.

Chapter 9.

I read the full report. The paralytic took some time to take effect, a possible indication of prior drug use on the part of the subject: indeed, it says that thirty minutes after two injections, small convulsions could be felt. Whatever was the cause, all extremities were at last fully flaccid by the forty-minute mark, showing clear signs of areflexia. At that point, the procedure began: the skilled surgical team was able to prop her upright, make a large incision between the mammaries, split the rib-cage, and successfully extract the still-beating heart well before she came close to showing initial signs of brain-death. The heart, as promised, was immediately put on ice and transferred to R&D, where the team stabilized it and successfully booted DOS 5.0 on it without any major glitches, to a tide of applause through the office; as for the cadaver, the surgical team disposed of the the unused parts as a biohazard. The subject was female, early twenties, blonde hair, multiple small tattoos, no known allergies. She was 5’1” and weighed 113 pounds immediately before the procedure. The procedure was, of course, deemed a success.

Irv asks if I’d like to hit the bar, maybe pick somebody up. I decline. We’re on a new assignment and I want to be fresh.

The next day, we go back to the hotel to greet a new arrival from Seattle. We’ve been warned about some eccentricities. Yeah, yeah. It’ll be alright.

The guy is scruffy, practically radiating grease, and it seems like wherever hair can grow on a man, it grows on him. “Where’s Georgia?” he asks me before I can even introduce myself. Shit, they knew each other? I grin and shake my head. The mayor has such a sense of humor. “She’s busy,” Irv snaps back.

We take him to the mall. He struggles with the tech around town.
“Not a coder? Not R&D?” I ask Irv.
“The man’s actions,” Irv says through a gritted grin, “speak for themselves. The mayor wanted him for some reason.”
“Any other remarks from up top?” I ask.
“Just the usual,” Irv says. “Special treatment, all that.”
I flash my own Colgate grin at Irv. I’ve been practicing. “Guess that means we can play with our food a little bit, huh?”
Irv seems a little stunned at how well I wear it. Better than him, maybe. He stammers, then catches himself. “Sure thing, Kathy.”

We take him to the arcade.

THE BOTTOM OF THE PIT.

“Well, time to meet the mayor. Come along?”
But Kathy didn’t seem to hear a thing. Despite it all, Io had hoped she’d come. He felt a little dirty about it.
But so he left her, rubbing herself raw right there. He climbed the little staircase. There, on B-9, was an oak door labeled MAYOR’S OFFICE. Io opened up, and—

The Devil. At the mayor’s desk, the Devil sat, all red from head to toe, with horns, a beard, and goat’s feet. Just the Devil, as he’d always looked in books and old cartoons. No smell of sulphur, no hellfire: the Devil at his desk and nothing more. Io stared at the ground.
“You really thought you’d find somebody else?,” he said, and laughed a nasty laugh, not evil, only nasty, just like any nasty boss when dressing down subordinates.
“Hey man, it’s ‘coz of types like you that I left U-Dub,” muttered Io like it mattered.
“No, Io,” said the Devil, strangely warmly. “Please don’t lie to one who knows. You left because you couldn’t stick it. Have a seat.” Io sat down. The chair was strangely comfy.

“I figure,” said the Devil, “that you have a lot of questions. Pardon me if this one detail bothers you, but—I’ve been watching.”
“So what?” said Io with a shrug. “It seems like everybody watches everybody here.”
“Perceptive, Io. Not just here, but everywhere, and soon, they’ll watch each other even more,” the Devil said and shook his head. “Some tea?”
“You’re kind, but nah, no thank you. I’d just vomit it back out,” said Io.
The Devil sadly grinned. “Well, suit yourself. I’m sorry this has been so hard on you. Now just to get this out there: I’m the mayor. There are technicalities, but that’s my title. What else can I clear up?”

It felt like Io’s head was spinning. Some sick joke, he thought. This must be some sick joke. The Devil in the flesh. No, come out, Georgia, show yourself and laugh at me, how gullible I am, he thought.
“She can’t,” the Devil said. “Myself, I was against it, but my staff insisted. She’s promoted. In some ways, above me, even.”
“You heard my thoughts?” said Io, pouting.
“I always do,” the Devil said, and leaned in close. “You’ve been on your way here since you left New York. You know that.”
Now Io’s pout got tighter, and his eyes began to water up. The Devil dodged his glance, took a deep breath, then got up to pat Io on the back. “There, there,” he said. “I’m sorry. That was harsh. You’ve been through quite a lot these past few days. What other questions do you have?”
“The screens,” said Io, fighting tears. “What are they for? And why am I on them?”

The Devil sighed. “I didn’t choose this, nor would I have done things this way, had I had a say. It’s just the infrastructure was already there.”
“For what?” said Io.
“I guess I’ll just explain from square one,” said the Devil. “I’m a contract worker, nothing more. My job…” A sigh. “My job’s to bring prosperity.”
“And porn of everyone broadcast to everywhere will do that?” Io said, a little fire now in his tone.
The Devil shrugged. “I pitched a deal: just thirty years’ abundance at the price of understanding. Really, I thought I was lowballing. But you took it.”
“Not me, I didn’t,” Io said.
“Collective ‘you,’” the Devil said, “including you. Don’t lie to one who knows.”

Now Io pouted harder. “So, what happens now?” he said, and crossed his legs. The chair was still damn comfortable.
“It’s year one now,” the Devil said. “Big things are coming. Watch the tech space.” Then he shrugged. “Not just the porn. I guess, though, when that hits every place on earth, accessible at any time, you can imagine what’ll happen, right?” He looked straight up. “You know, since you yourself partake.”
“I figure, yeah,” said Io. “Further on?”
“Well, by the end,” the Devil said, “the kids will barely learn to read. But that’s way down the road for you.”

“Why me?” said Io. “Why’d you have to bring me here? You called yourself.” He looked at his reflection in the Devil’s switched-off monitor. He looked surprised to see so many tears stream down his face.
“Oh, Io, Io,” said the Devil, holding Io’s back. “I brought you here because I love you. Everyone here loves you. You’re the future.”
“What, me?” said Io.
“Yes, you,” the Devil said. “That woman—Kathy—right outside spoke highly. Kathy loved you, Io, really, even if she showed it in strange ways.” The Devil stared on awkwardly. “I know that you’re concerned. I gave her what she wanted: total power over something. Look outside: she’s free.”
“I saw already,” Io said through tears. “But why am I the future?”
The Devil sighed as if he’d said too much. He chewed at his own cheek, it seemed, to dodge the question. But at last, he spoke. “Because, one day, and sooner than you think, the world will run on urges just like yours.”
The tears kept coming. Io sniffled too now.
“Because you’re sweet as well,” the Devil said. “This is Dessert, you know.”
But Io’s tears had turned to sobs: protracted sobs, as if bottled for years and only now let out.
The Devil shushed and held him. “It’s okay,” he said, “I’ll find a way to make it better.”
But Io cried and cried.

“So tell me: what do you want, Io?,” asked the Devil gently, gentler in fact than any parent, softly holding him and stroking his long, wispy hair through sobs.
Io sniffled. “Georgia,” he said. “Just Georgia.”
“Shhhhhh, it’s okay,” the Devil said. “You can be together.” Then he hugged him just a little tighter, smiled, and snapped his fingers.
And then they were together. Georgia smiled.

Edit

Pub: 24 Jul 2025 23:31 UTC

Edit: 31 Jul 2025 00:12 UTC

Views: 82