In the spaces between words she searches for clues.
Pathways into the cyphered heart of Big Daddy.
The virus of the new world disorder takes on the
transglobal fathernet of power and ambition.
Dirty work. For slimy girls.
Replicating her way through the Shadow's dingily
seductive maze of data massage parlors. Freezers
and Hots, Gen was inevitably reminded of Circuit
Boy, a.k.a. Mission Improbable. Boy w a s rapidly
losing his promise as an easy route into Big Daddy.
Maybe he w a s just a mindless technobimbo, a
limbless hole, good for a quick buttfuck or alpha
exchange and not much else, a s the Cortex Crones
had predicted. Well, she'd suck on his memory some
more, hardwire his balls and then see what else the
Zone could offer.
Suck, flick and split, as the Sisters say.
Any mission has its highs and lows, but this particular
quest had been stranded on a barren plateau of
spaghettied code and deviant data for too long. Dry
and chaotic when she needed wet and elegant.
Big Daddy w a s becoming more ethereal with each
transaction (the mythology expanding exponentially).
His constructs were more ambiguous, more resistant
to the mercenaries of slime.
She considered that an impasse is merely a state of
mind and that with a subtle cognitive shift she could
locate more yielding data. A shift is a s good as a
holiday and she w a s overdue for some bonding with
her sisters in slime, the lusciously wet DNA Sluts.
Although it had been a few weeks since she had
bonded with the Sisters, Gen knew how to find them.
She calculated . . . it was after midnight. . . they were
true children of the Zone . . . one perfect environment
. . . the Alpha Bar.
The Alpha Bar. The place for transgressive time out in
the Zone. Provocative. Pornographic. Perverse. Her
kind of place. Her kind of constructs. Every child
player wins a prize.
Leaving the Shadow, G e n self-replicated through the
Zone's biomembraned back blocks and reached the
Alpha Bar in record time. A s she'd determined, her
Home Girls were well represented at the bar.
Beg, Bitch, and Snatch were in a dark place,
superbonding with some exotic tribal constructs. The
feathers were flying.
Cunt was giving a couple of the Zone Boys a hard
time about something, probably Smarts. She never
could say no to drugs and rough Zone traders had
their own perverted appeal for Cunt.
The Princess of Slime w a s visible by her absence.
She was probably grinding her way through her
favorite bar. The Space with No Face, followed as
always by her acolytes. Fallen and Abject.
Sublime w a s blissing out on Dance, bonding to the
rhythm, sliming to the beat.
As for the other Sisters, where they were and what
they were doing w a s anyone's calculation.
Recreational options in the Zone were plentiful and
diverse; Sex, Trance, and Dance the most favored.
Sliding through the press of bodies, constructs, and
grams. G e n selected one of her favorite bonding
booths, placed her hand on the palm code reader
and entered. It was a booth Japanese, fitted out with
futon, screens, antique pillow book, incense. As she
had a rep for being the hottest bioconstruct on the
block, the strangest attractor, she never had to wait
long to replenish her slime banks.
She had transmutated into an Hispanic model of
human female, optimized for the slime exchange. Gen
pleasured herself, familiarizing her sensors with the
cool olive languidness of the body she had chosen.
A screen by the door displayed the image of a visitor.
Mistress Beg. Requesting entry. The door opened.
Silk ropes in hand, the Mistress of Detestable
Pleasure approached Gen. Beg's method of bonding
was dangerous, addictive, and severe. Activated by
stored memories, Gen's slime levels began a slow
rise.
The screen flickered on again. A geisha construct
with a tray of sake and sashimi. S h e entered. Placed
a redly laqueured tray on the low table. Served the
sake. Waited. B e g instructed the geisha to return
later, when her help would be required. Cruel
anticipation. Gen's slime bank shivered to another
level a s the geishacon scrolled out.