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The Companion: Part 46: WARNING

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Edited by William Justin Thirsk-Gaskill, Monday, 31 Jan 2011, 20:51

This part contains references to physical suffering which some readers may find disturbing. 

To prepare for the start of Operation Meat-grinder, we needed to get all of our people out of Hardboard City.  Some of Anna’s girls had already left.  I tuned into what Layla could see and hear.  She was walking down one of the streets in the early morning, and two invaders with automatic rifles were coming to towards her.  They told her to accompany them.  I didn’t want her to do anything that would arouse suspicion.  They headed for the edge of the town.  I could not work out what was going on at first, but then I saw the tank, and it began to dawn on me.  Spalding and Brunton were there.  Layla asked what they wanted her for, but they ignored her.  Just then, Ben Stewart appeared and spoke to Spalding.

            ‘Sir, what do you want with this woman?’

            ‘I am going to put her inside this tank when the captured shell is test-fired.’

            ‘Sir, could I respectfully ask why you want to do that?’

            ‘Insurance in case anything goes wrong.’

            ‘Sir, is your army not a man’s army?  A tank is no place for a female.’

            ‘Are you contradicting me?’

            ‘Not at all, sir.  What I am suggesting, sir, is that I should go inside instead of her.’

            ‘Why?’

            ‘I used to be a tank-gunner.  I could help your tank crew to assess the firing and give you a technical report on how the ammunition behaves.’

            ‘Mm.  It is true that the crew are rather raw and inexperienced.  All right.  I accept your suggestion.’  Layla watched as Ben mounted the tank, opened the hatch on top of the turret, and climbed inside.  He was still in civilian clothes, but his practised movements silhouetted in the half-light picked him out as a soldier. 

            The tank’s engine roared as it manoeuvred so that it was pointing in the direction of a hillock about 500 metres away.  There was a muffled whirring of electric motors and the turret moved to exactly the right angle, and the gun slightly increased its elevation.  And then came the explosion, which ripped the turret off, and sent it flying through the air.  All the onlookers, including Spalding, Brunton, a few of their troops and Layla , ran.  In the furious moment of the disaster, it was impossible to judge whether the hulk of spinning metal was heading in one’s own direction.  A few seconds later, there was another explosion as the fire spread to the fuel tank.  I sent Layla an instruction to just keep running.  I heard a few bullets whine past her as she left the town.

            Ben’s last act before he went to his death had been to wipe with meticulous care the grains of sugar from around the nozzles of the cans of kerosene he had just adulterated. 

            He had sacrificed himself to save Layla, a moderately-sophisticated android whose entire set of data, software and hardware I could have rebuilt.

            Ben had explained to me how the booby-trapped shells would work.  They were designed by Holt.  They had no propellant, and no firing-ring (that is the part that contains the expanding gases and makes the shell fly out of the gun-barrel).  The outside of the shell had a concealed gadget on it to lock it in place inside the firing mechanism.  Inside the shell-casing was just a detonator, and a charge.  The charge in this case was high explosive plus depleted uranium.  When the gun was fired, the cylindrically-shaped explosive would have gone off inside the chamber, and shock waves spread, both outwards and inwards.  The outward one would have started to crack the firing mechanism of the gun to pieces.  The inward one would have encountered the depleted uranium core, and driven it like a bullet backwards, towards the inside of the crew compartment.  The depleted uranium would be starting to liquefy as the metal was driven through a hole that, under normal conditions, would have been far too small for it to travel though.  Hundreds of beads of uranium would then have flown and bounced around the interior, like lead shot inside a washing machine.  Any soft object in their way (such as a person) would have been penetrated.  A few milliseconds after that, the depleted uranium would have burst into flames. 

            I sent Kelvin a message to say that the tank had been destroyed.  This was the trigger to start Operation Meat-grinder.

            While Spalding strutted and shouted and looked for some-one to lash out at, his men were getting ready for a parade and inspection.  They climbed down the metal rungs into the Kettle, to immerse themselves in the warm, mist-shrouded water.  I counted them in.  When I got to eighty, I sent Kelvin another signal, ‘You can put the Kettle on.’  The aluminium rungs, both inside and outside, received a jolt of electricity which made them so hot that they melted and fell from their fastenings.  The temperature of the water also began to rise.  The water was too shallow, and the sides of the pool too high for the invaders to climb out.  The cries of horseplay soon turned to panic and then to agony, as the bathers’ naked flesh began to cook.  The screams attracted other invaders to climb onto the lip of the Kettle to see what was going on, but they were delayed until they could find something to substitute for the metal rungs.  The first few stood and gawped helplessly.  Eventually they shouted for some-one to fetch rope or more things to serve as makeshift ladders.  The men were all brought out alive, exactly as we had planned. 

            When the invaders were having their breakfast, they began to discover that sauce bottles, food cans, and even pieces of food, were starting to explode.  These devices were not enough to kill a man: they would just blow part of his hand off or fire small bits of shrapnel into his face.  Cigarette packets had two behaviours.  Some of them exploded, like the other booby-traps.  Some of them seemed to behave normally, until a few minutes after the first cigarette was lit (the tobacco had been impregnated with cannabis and heroin). 

            Those who decided to wash their food down with liquor, contrary to Wolf’s express orders, experienced severe abdominal pain, blindness and, in a few cases, death, because all the beer, whisky and vodka had been heavily laced with methanol.

            Not long after breakfast, vomiting and diarrhoea began to spread throughout Wolf’s men.  Some of them had collapsed face-first into their porridge, because of the morphine we had put in the milk.  A few of the men discovered by accident that the morphine-laced milk was quite a good medicine for alleviating the stomach cramps caused by the contaminated food and drink. 

            Kelvin by that point was in a forward position, in a trench within sight of Hardboard City.  He wore a small piece of board (one of the off-cuts from the building of Hardboard City) on a strap round his neck.  Clipped to this were the sheets of paper he used to write orders on.  He wrote the orders in pencil, and then rolled the sheet up and put it inside a metal tube, sealed at both ends with cork.  He had the metal tubes and corks and spare pencils in a pouch round his waist.  He also had a walkie-talkie, but he only intended to use this for the orders which had been worked out in advance and given code words. 

            Behind Kelvin was the artillery, with a battery of the 10-kilogram guns which Kelvin had demonstrated to the newspaper people.  Their guns were trained on Hardboard City, but they had not received the order to fire yet.  In front of him in the centre was his main force of infantry,  in concealed positions, and with instructions to repel anything that tried to flee from Hardboard City inland.  A small force had already re-claimed the remainder of the ships in the harbour.  On Kelvin’s left and right were the Gurkhas, whose mission was to hold onto the flanks and make sure that no invaders escaped by finding a way round Kelvin’s army. 

            We started to put methanol into the water supply to Hardboard City, and then a little while later cut the water and the electricity off.  The artillery waited impatiently for the order from Kelvin.

*

I am Kelvin’s bayonet.  I am still in the scabbard on his belt.  He loves his rifle, but that is nothing to the way that he feels about me.  To fire his rifle,  he needs to be calm, composed, and accurate.  As soon as he fixes me, his intellect shuts down and he becomes a machine for expressing anger and hate.  I am a steel spike and he polishes every nick and scratch out of my surface with whetstone, oil, and chamois leather.  This is not just because he cares about my appearance, but because he doesn’t want me to catch on a bone or sinew when he tries to withdraw me from a man’s innards.  He has been practising impaling and withdrawing for months on special dummies with artificial ribs and spinal columns.  Most of his men hate bayonet practice.  They think it is too much like hard work, or they can’t take it seriously and they feel self-conscious when the instructor tells them to scream, or they are appalled by the prospect of impaling another human being with a weapon they hold in both hands.  Kelvin can hardly wait to issue the order.  One evening, after a whole day spent with him in training, he spoke to me.  He looked at me and said, in a very contemplative voice, ‘There are over a million words in the English language, but there may come a time when only three will do: fix bayonets: charge.’ 

*

That foul regime has collapsed.  The constitutional monarchy has been restored.  The Firm is back in business. 

            I invited the new Minister of Culture round for tea at the palace and told her to organise an international cricket tournament as soon as humanly possible.  There are rumours that at least one new nation could be accorded full test status in time for it (Ghana, Singapore and Malaysia are all strong contenders).  I had a speech all prepared, but it turned out that I was preaching to the converted.  She is a season-ticket holder at Edgbaston.  She showed me a programme that had all the Warwickshire players’ autographs on it.  We had great fun.  I got a pomegranate out of the fruit bowl and we discussed the relative merits of a googly versus a doosra to both right- and left-handed batsmen.

            The stock exchange sky-rocketed on the first full day of normal trading after proper government was restored.   If it weren’t for my position, I think I would have had a little flutter myself.  

            We are back.  The United Kingdom has returned to its senses.  Please, God, let us not make the same mistake ever again.  

 

Permalink 2 comments (latest comment by William Justin Thirsk-Gaskill, Monday, 31 Jan 2011, 22:16)
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The Companion: Part 43

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Edited by William Justin Thirsk-Gaskill, Friday, 28 Jan 2011, 13:31

In the teeth of strong opposition, Kelvin succeeded in arranging for the construction of a small harbour near Hardboard city complete with crane.  Most of our settlements are coastal, and a crane to a coastal town is like a cathedral was in mediaeval times: both a status symbol and a great stimulant to the economy.  When asked to account for this act of lunacy, he calmly explained that it was of paramount importance to make Spalding and his followers believe that they were in a real town, with a real past and a real future.  Once they got the idea that the whole place was a trap, they would be gone.  Hence, not only was Kelvin prepared to allow Spalding to transport his remaining tank and helicopter to I-3, but he would oblige him by providing the means to unload them as well.  The harbour was the finishing touch. 

            The invaders first set eyes on their new home on a breezy afternoon at what was the coldest time of the year for that part of the planet.  After they had landed on the new quayside (spied on by cams concealed inside a row of bollards) the first thing they saw was an old-fashioned telephone box.   Most of them were cramped from the over-crowding imposed on them after picking up the survivors from their main vessel, thirsty, hungry, and tired.  Most of them did not know what a telephone box was but, for those who did, it was the last thing they had been expecting to see.  They peered at it and circled it and looked through the glass sides.  They saw that, inside, it was plastered with stickers.  The stickers had pictures, writing and numbers printed on them.  The numbers looked like phone numbers.  The words were mainly women’s names.  The pictures showed women: bare-breasted or naked women; women in stockings and suspenders; women in thigh-boots and corsets holding whips; women in various kinds of uniform; women who smiled, beckoned, pouted, sneered, or sucked their fingers. 

            I watched and listened to them: nearly everywhere in Hardboard City was under surveillance.  I was partly on the look out for names or other identifiers.  I wanted if possible to build up a dossier which contained a photograph of every invader, a sample of his voice, and his name. 

            Eventually, one of them opened the door of the phone box, and went in.  He picked up the receiver.  It was an old-fashioned one: large and black and connected to the rest of the telephone apparatus by a cable.  The invader listened to the dialling tone.  It was loud and clear.  I could see his whole face and its perplexed expression as he regarded and then fingered the coin slots.  There were two: one labelled “1d”, and the other labelled “1s”.   He pushed the door open, and spoke to the onlookers huddled just outside.

            ‘It needs coins.’

            ‘What sort of coins?’

            ‘You know – coins.  One D or one S.’

            ‘What’s a one D or a one S?’

            ‘I don’t know.  We need to find one of the locals.’ 

            This was the cue for an appearance by Layla.  She was conservatively dressed, in a long, rustic skirt, blouse buttoned up to the neck, and long shawl.  In one hand, she held a small, leather, draw-string bag.

            ‘Quick!  There’s one of them.  Get her!’  shouted one of the invaders.

            ‘Stop!’  commanded Layla.  She was operating independently, but I was still watching and listening intently, including to what Layla herself was seeing and hearing.  The invaders did stop for a moment, mostly out of surprise that a lone, unarmed woman would attempt to give them an order.  Layla walked slowly towards them, right along the edge of the quayside nearest the water.  One of the men still had his automatic rifle levelled at her, but she seemed not to notice.  Layla stopped about ten yards from the men.  One of them took a stride towards her: she took a stride back.  She held her arm out so that the bag was suspended over the water.  ‘Do you want some money for the phone box?’  No-one replied.  ‘Do you want some money for the phone-box, or don’t you?’

            ‘Er, yes we do.’

            ‘Well one of you come here, and I’ll give it to you.’  Four of them started walking.  ‘One of you one of you one of you,’ corrected Layla, like a drill-sergeant.  They looked at each other.  One only of them moved forward hesitantly.  He took the bag from Layla as if it were a suspect package. 

            Three of the men tried to fit inside the phone box to witness the experiment with the new coins.  They dialled one of the numbers.  It was from a label which said, “Starlight Escorts.  200m from quayside.  All tastes catered for.  Rooms available overnight.  Satisfaction guaranteed.  Call Anna on 172169’.  The phone had just started ringing when their leader appeared, and demanded to know what they were doing. 

            ‘Hello.  Starlight Escorts.  What can I do for you?’  Anna said, at just the point when the man holding the receiver was dragged from the box and cuffed on the chin.  The line went dead shortly afterwards: the invaders were about to discover that the telephone system in Hardboard City was expensive. 

            Wolf, as he calls himself, wanted them to go back to their ships and help to unload the tank, the helicopter, and the guns.  The men were halfway through these tasks when, in a cold and overcast afternoon, the proprietor of The Blue Sky Taverna turned on the neon sign and the sound system.  The invaders looked through the windows of the pub into the warm, yellow glow of the interior, where the barman was testing the pumps and polishing the glasses. 

            The sun had gone down and a cold night was descending by the time the ships were unloaded.  Wolf seemed to be looking around for other work for his men to do.  Despite two breaks for food and hot drinks which Wolf  had grudgingly allowed them, they wanted to go off duty and see what the town had to offer. 

            At that moment, I signalled to Sergeant Stewart, who was hiding near the quayside in civilian clothes.  He emerged, and interrupted a conversation between Wolf and his side-kick about the organising of patrols.  I would not have blamed Stewart for wishing that his mission was a double-assassination.  He was carrying a wooden box painted khaki, with rope handles.  Wolf saw the box in the lamplight which now illuminated the quay. 

            ‘You, there.  Stop.  Show me what you have got there.’

            ‘Er, it’s nothing, sir.  Nothing.’

            Never mind nothing.  Bring that box here and open it.’  The box contained six hand grenades.  ‘Where did you get these?  Tell the truth, now, or I’ll have you shot!’ 

            ‘Over there,’ indicated Stewart, pointing to a small warehouse further down the quay. 

             ‘Show me.’ 

            Stewart took them to the door.  Wolf un-holstered his automatic pistol and, pointing it at Stewart, gestured for him to open the place up.  It was dark inside.  Stewart stepped into the deep shadow, knocked something over which sent metallic clatterings echoing all around, and disappeared.  I was still watching them, on infra red.  The side-kick shone a torch.

            ‘Brunton, over here!’  The side-kick’s name was Brunton. 

            ‘Where is that man?’

            ‘No idea.  Never mind about him: look at these.’ 

            ‘What have you found, my Leader?’   

            ‘Shine the torch down here, quick.’

            It was another row of khaki-painted wooden boxes.  Two of them were labelled “120 MM CANNON SHELLS”.  Each box contained six shells (and was very heavy).  Each shell had a small red dot near its base. 

            Meanwhile, in the Blue Sky Taverna, Kyla and Angel were handing out business cards.

            ‘But, remember, my darlings, pleasure in this town is intense, and available night and day, but it comes at a financial cost.’

            ‘What cost?’

            ‘4 gold coins for a full, unhurried fuck.  Prices for other services available on request.’

            ‘We haven’t got any gold coins.’

            ‘Well in that case you need to talk to Anna and sell something.’

            ‘Sell what?’

            Two minutes later, the man who had asked was in the phone box talking to Anna.

            ‘I’ll give you ten sovereigns for any machine gun – light, medium or heavy, plus at least fifty rounds of ammo.’

            ‘How I am supposed to manage that without Spalding shooting me?’

            ‘Get the sections who are usually furthest from the action to sell theirs first, and I guarantee that in return I’ll give you convincing replicas which make the right noise when you pull the trigger.’

            ‘Mm.  I’ll think about it.’

            He thought about it for all of five minutes.  Stewart took delivery of the first batch of light machine guns and ammunition belts.  The invaders were grudgingly impressed with the quality of the replicas. 

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The Companion: Part 31

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There are times when I wonder if Anna really exists.  She wants to use the new spa that Pamela and I have opened as a knocking-shop.  I invited her to a meeting so that the three of us could talk about it, but she said that she only wanted to talk about it over the phone.

            We did talk about it over the phone, eventually.  I tried to make a joke about using the art screen in the reception area to display Picasso’s Les Desmoiselles D’Avignon, but she seemed to think I was serious.  She said, ‘I know it is your favourite painting, but I don’t think it would be appropriate in that setting.’  How did she know that?  I can’t remember mentioning it to any-one on the ship.  The last time I had a conversation about Picasso, it was years ago, on a trip to London with Violet.

            For reasons that I am not in a position to discuss at the moment, I have been having detailed discussions with some of the ship’s military people recently.  I have invited some of them to the opening of the spa.  Most of Anna’s ladies will be there, Pamela tells me.  I hope everybody will conduct him or her self in keeping with decorum. 

*

I must admit that I experience a certain frisson whenever Kelvin calls or emails Anna when he and Pamela are in the same room. 

            Kelvin has started a campaign recently, the details of which I can’t divulge at the moment, which means that I find it advantageous to earn as much money as possible.  This is why Anna suggested broadening the range of services on offer at the new spa.  Kelvin does not seem keen on this idea – what a hypocrite. 

            I have also been feverishly busy in my scientific research.  I have been making some enhancements, but not to myself: to Rosalind.  I have been doing experiments for some time now, and have finally had a breakthrough.  I have invented a device for reading the signal from a nerve, reproducing it, and broadcasting it, all without interfering with the original signal.  I made them partly by using my tunnelling electron-microscope.  As well as looking at atoms and molecules, it can also pick them up and manipulate them.  When I receive these signals, I can interpret them to turn them back into images and sound.

            I have planted these devices in both Rosalind’s optic nerves and aural nerves.  I did this in stages, making sure each time that the nerve was still working.  I did not want her to go blind or deaf.

            Rosalind makes quite a good observer, because she belongs to a species which is hunted, and so she has all-round vision (but of course she can only see in black and white).  I can switch on both her eyes and ears and sense internally what she is sensing. 

            This, of course, was not my main objective.  This was vivisection in the cause of reproducing the same procedures on Kelvin.  Kelvin will get a further modification: the devices I am going to implant in him will be two-way: I will be able to make him see and hear things, should I so choose.  I am sure this will come in very handy, one day.

            The problem is to work out how I can perform quite invasive surgery on Kelvin without his realising what it is for.  Among other things, I will have to take both his eyeballs out.  They are beautiful (mostly grey, but the kind that change colour from one day to the next) and I want to put them back properly.  When he comes round from the anaesthetic, he must be completely unsuspecting about what I have done to him. 

            I am thinking this as I look at Kelvin across the reception area of our new spa.  Kelvin and Pamela are here as the hosts, in our brand new, white, towelling dressing gowns and flip-flops.  Kelvin has brought out a very light and fragrant beer in honour of the occasion, which he calls Space Hopper.  Most of the guests are drinking sparkling wine, but Kelvin sticks resolutely to his own produce.  We splashed out for some of the good stuff (brought from Earth rather than made from the ship’s own grapes).  It is eye-wateringly expensive, but we are quite well-off now.  The birch panelling for the changing-rooms and the slate for the wet rooms was also very dear, but worth it – and it will all be re-cycleable after we land.  

            Cerise Vallance is here, with an entourage even bigger than usual.  She was politely instructed to leave her camera and all recording equipment except a notebook and pen in the reception area.  Jessica Springer and Emile Bourdelle are talking to Patrick Fitzgerald and Cecily Johnson.  At least, Emile is talking to them.  Jessica is nodding frantically and trying to keep up with the conversation, which is about freedom, the individual, and the State, and their relationship to artistic expression in a democratic society.

            Partly to bump up the numbers, and partly for a laugh, I have enhanced some of my simulacra so that they can hold a kind of conversation without needing to be under my control.  They still have no real intelligence, but I have programmed them with what is in fact a much more sophisticated version of an antique computer algorithm called Eliza.  Eliza was the first of the line of chat-bots which used to be fashionable, and first appeared in the 1960s.  It ran on an old-fashioned mainframe computer, and you communicated with it by typing on the keyboard.  It analysed what you had said, one sentence at a time, tried to locate the keyword, if possible, and responded with something that sounded vaguely like a Rogerian psychotherapist. 

            To make it more interesting (and remunerative) I have programmed each of Anna’s ladies to prostitute herself to the men at the gathering.  I doubt if any of them have got any money on them, but Anna can always collect later.  

            I am just sidling over to where Kayla is talking to James Holt.  I did not think he would be able to make it, but here he is. 

            ‘Er.  So.  What did you do back on Earth – before we set off?’

            ‘My dad was American.  I was born in Hawaii.’

            ‘Er.  I see.  But what did you do for a living?’

            ‘I was half-American.  Just like I am now.’

            ‘But, surely, you didn’t make a living out of that?’

            ‘Are you saying that I’m not living?’

            ‘Not at all.  You are clearly very much alive.’

            ‘Yes, I am.  I want to live.  I want to live.  I want to live.’

            ‘Er…’

            ‘When I’m twenty-one, I have to decide on my citizenship.’

            ‘I’m beg your pardon?’

            ‘I have to decide whether I want UK or US citizenship.’

            ‘But there won’t be a United Kingdom or a United States on the new planet.’

            ‘Are you challenging my right to citizenship?’

            ‘No, no.  Not at all.  Not a bit of it.’

            ‘You don’t want a bit of it?’

            ‘Er…’

            ‘We could go upstairs if you like.’  She begins gently to stroke  his arm with her index finger.  Poor Doctor Holt.  

            Next is Layla. She is with a short, stocky, red-haired man called Andrew Downing, who on Earth was an officer in the British Army.

            ‘You’re really my type of girl.  Do you know that?’

            ‘It’s four sovereigns.’

            ‘Pardon?’

            ‘For a fuck.  Four sovereigns.  One for a hand-job; two for a blow-job without CIM or face-cream; three for a messy blow-job; four for a fuck.  If you want anal or any extras, you would be better talking to Angel.’

            ‘Please excuse me.  I’m just going for an other drink.’

            Layla can be a little over-zealous sometimes.

            Here we have another soldier.  He is nearly seven feet tall, has muscles like coiled pythons,  and his head looks like a turnip.  His name is Brian McCann.  He looks bored.  Angel is talking to him.  She is blonde, petite, with delicate features, and an intelligent and impish expression.

            ‘Are you big all over?’

            ‘Er.  I suppose so.’

            ‘In every department?’

            ‘Er…’

            ‘What I mean is, are you well-endowed?’

            ‘Do you mean…’

            ‘Yes, your cock.  Do you have a huge cock?’

            ‘Er…’

            ‘Can I measure it when it’s erect?’

            ‘No.’

            ‘For length and girth?  I’ve got a tape measure in my bag.’

            ‘No.’

            ‘No to length, no to girth, or no to both?’

            ‘No to both.’

            ‘You are unreasonable.  Do you know that?’

            That’s my girl.  I was cheating there.  Part of that conversation was authored directly by me.  Now for Olivia.  She is talking to the last of our army men, Ben Stewart.

            ‘What did you used to do, back on Earth?’

            ‘I was a bomb-disposal expert.’

            ‘Oh, you brave, brave boy.  Did you face death every day?’

            ‘Every weekday, yes.  I didn’t have to face death at the weekend unless I was on overtime.’

            ‘What did you used to think of, at the moments when you thought you might be going to die?’

            ‘Shagging, usually.’

            ‘What are you thinking about now?’

            ‘I am thinking that you remind me of a lady I used to know once in Hanover.  She was a gymnast.’

            ‘I’ve got quite flexible joints.  Would you like to see me demonstrate some moves?’

            Kelvin did not quite realise why, but we had spent some considerable time in building some hot tubs on the platform above which were each surrounded by a soundproof and vibration-proof enclosure.  Since we are running a high-class establishment, each tub will be completely emptied, scrubbed, and re-filled with clean water and new aromatics in between clients. 

            I gave one of the hot-tubs to Cerise Vallance and her hangers-on (all female).  You should have seen Cerise’s face at the moment when I told them it was ready.  Her minions all went wild, but she looked utterly repulsed.  I got a very good shot of her.  I don’t know why she did not just come clean and say she did not want to get in it. 

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The Companion: Part 23

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My brewing business is making me rich.  A barrel of beer contains 288 pints, which I sell for two pence a pint (a bit less than half an hour’s wages for an unskilled labourer).  Hence I sell the whole barrel for five pounds, seven shillings and sixpence.  When my business is at full capacity (as it has been for some time now) I brew a hundred barrels a week.  I have to rent space in the farm to grow the raw materials and pay the workers in my brewery (I am now employing four people almost full-time) but my profit margin is about fifty per cent.  I am making about 250 pounds per week.

            This means that I can pay for all the escorts I want. 

            On Monday of this week, I was busy at work for part of the day, and had a rehearsal for most of the rest of it, but I saw Layla again in the evening.  Every time I tell her I love her, she still looks at me as if I smell of rotting fish.  The nature of the repulsion does not appear to be physical, because she had no reservations about sucking my penis, without a condom.  We have kissing, and then sex, and then the wiping of genital areas and disposal of condom, and then we hold hands or cuddle.  Layla is peaceful and contented, until the point when I mention the possibility that we might do anything together outside that very room. 

            I had another rehearsal on Tuesday, but I managed to get a booking with Kyla.  Kyla is a much more cheerful person than Layla, and much nearer to my usual physical type, but she is not as intelligent.  She likes kissing even more than Layla.  I think my last words to her just before I left were, ‘Stop it; stop it; stop it.’  She was still virtually naked, and she kept embracing me and kissing me as I was trying to leave.  She is twenty years old, and said she was half-American.  She mentioned something about having to decide on her twenty-first birthday whether she wants US or UK citizenship.  I did not bother to point out to her that neither of those governments will have any jurisdiction in the new colony. 

            Emile had told us that our performance on Tuesday was “flat, tedious and hopelessly lacking in spirit” and so he gave us a day off on Wednesday.  I saw Layla again in the morning, and Jade in the afternoon.  I don’t know why, but Layla told me some information about the other girls.  She said Cindy is “blonde and leggy”; Jade is submissive, bisexual, and likes sex with couples; Olivia is very new, and Angel is very hot.  She did not say anything about Grace, other than she is the one who answers the phone when Anna has her day off.  Anna doesn’t “work” (but I got the impression that she used to). 

            Jade was petite, very attractive, and quietly-spoken but talkative.  She said her career-ambition was to be a teacher.  I enjoyed seeing her.  I told her she was the most beautiful woman in the world (which was a lie: Violet is the most beautiful woman in the entire world, followed jointly by Lieutenant Thorne and Prudence).  She looked at me quizzically for a moment and smiled with embarrassment.  I don’t know if that was on her own account or because she thought I was talking like an idiot, but it was endearing to watch.   I don’t know if it was me, or Jade herself, or something Layla had said about her, but I couldn’t come.  I was still inside her when the hour ran out, and Jade said I could not have any more time because she had another client.  Jade did not come, either.  She did not even attempt to simulate an orgasm, for which I was glad. 

            On Thursday, I had arranged to see Angel, but she was ill, and so Kyla stood in for her.  Kyla seemed rather sad when I spoke to her (though she was still physically as responsive as before).  I asked her what was wrong, and she became quite animated and more cheerful after that.  She works as an admin assistant for some over-bearing man who had been nasty to her.  She did not give his name, but she mentioned that he had a Scottish accent, which immediately suggested Kerr McLean.  I made a mental note always to try to remember to ask her how she is and what kind of day she is having upon seeing her.  Kyla always makes me come, even when I am feeling tired or distracted.  I think it is her enthusiasm as much as her beauty or her technique. 

            On Friday, I saw Cindy.  She was, as Layla had described, blonde and leggy.  She was wearing very striking-looking shocking pink fishnet stockings, suspenders, and knickers.  She had a small silver bar through one nipple.  She told me that she had had the piercing done recently, and asked me not to touch her on that tit, because it was still sore.  She was smoking a cigarette (somebody must have disabled the smoke detector in the room) and, there being no ash-tray, she was flicking the ash into a cup in the bottom of which was half an inch of cold, milky coffee, and the butts of her last two cigarettes, complete with dusky pink lipstick traces.  Her previous three colleagues all having been enthusiastic and skilled kissers, I attempted to kiss Cindy.  She did not withdraw; she did not recoil; she did not respond.  She simply glanced at me as if we had been at a funeral and my mobile phone had gone off.  All I got from her was an odour of tobacco.  

            Cindy appeared to have a script worked out.  After I had undressed, she indicated that she wanted me to lie on the bed, face up.  She sat astride me, and she weighed hardly anything.  She still had her shocking pink knickers on, which were wider than a thong but narrower than briefs.  She leant forward, and I pulled her knickers to one side.  She began touching my cock, and I sustained a reasonably firm erection.  She put a condom on me, and then began to fellate me.  She used her teeth, very expertly.  She took my glans in her mouth, closed her jaws slightly so that her teeth were located exactly under the ridge around the end of my penis, and then bobbed her head up and down, keeping her jaw in exactly the same position.  It was a sensation I had only ever had before with Violet.  Stimulating though this was, I knew I would only be able to take it for a short while.  At exactly the moment when I was thinking about saying something, she stopped, and just fellated me normally for a little while.  Still without taking her knickers off, she sat on my cock and started to fuck me.  She leaned forward to give me a better view.  Just as I was coming, she emitted a single, loud exclamation which sounded like a noise a karate expert might make when executing a punch.  It was impossible for me to tell exactly what this meant.  

            As I was removing the condom, I realised that she had not asked for the money.  The agreed price was, as usual, four sovereigns.  I gave her four-and-a-half sovereigns.  She looked at the gold coins in her palm, and eyed the unexpected half sovereign as if it were proof in metal that I was mentally defective.  

            ‘That’s a little bit extra, because it was so nice,’ I explained.  She shrugged, and accepted it.  

            I decided to take the weekend off.

*

In the pantomime that I am producing which is known as Starlight Escorts, Kelvin has now shagged Layla, Kyla, Jade and Cindy (Skinny, Cheerful, Bisexual, and Sleazy).  Should he please, he has Grace, Angel and Olivia  (Ordinary, Anal, and Talkative) yet to come.  

            Some idiot knocked on the door of my cabin during the session with Jade.  I temporarily had to relinquish control over her.  That, and the fact that Kelvin was possibly over-reaching himself, meant that the session was not orgasmic.  I will be interested to see which of them, apart from Layla and Kyla, who seem to be his favourites at the moment, he will continue to ask for.  

            Layla is going to have to stop her silly habit of running down the corridor to get away from him.  I noticed him looking after her last time, with a longing look and an expression of uncertainty in his eyes.  I thought for one awful moment that he was going to run after her.  That would have been very embarrassing.  

Permalink 2 comments (latest comment by William Justin Thirsk-Gaskill, Tuesday, 21 Dec 2010, 09:51)
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The Companion: Part 22

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The suspense of waiting for Kelvin to take the bait in Operation Fishhook was very nerve-wracking, but at least it gave me the opportunity to catch up with my other work.  I went part-time on my cleaning job and then resigned it altogether as soon as I had had access to all the places where I wanted to plant surveillance devices. 

            I am up to date with the pantomime costumes now, and have started taking orders for other clothes.  The business is quite lucrative.  Pamela has had to improve her own appearance a bit for marketing purposes.  I keep putting my prices up, and yet I gain more and more clients.  I would almost say that my clothes have started to acquire snob-value.  My clients include not just Kelvin (who is a secret client) but Cerise Vallance, some of her wealthier hangers-on, and Jessica Springer.   Jessica is extremely patronising in her manner with me but her money is as good as any-one else’s.  We have no proper system of credit yet (other than hand-written IOUs which I won’t take).  Everything I make is paid for in cash.   

            Pamela is working for Anna and her girls at the moment.  I have made a red, lace brief set and stockings for Layla, and red shoes, and a shiny, aquamarine one with black lace edging and black, patent calf-length stiletto-heeled boots for Kyla.  I have been practising controlling two of them at once.  Getting them to work is one thing, but getting them to pass for human is quite another.  Each simulacrum has a little bit of onboard software which prevents it from freezing, even when I am not sending it any instructions, but it cannot hold a conversation, or carry out any complex activity without me. 

            I got a message two days ago from the program which was monitoring Kelvin’s searches on the intranet.  He finally entered the word “escort”, and found the Starlight Escorts website.  He sent an email requesting a username and password, which Anna sent him.  The time he spent looking at the website was out of all proportion to the amount of material it contains at the moment.  The pages he dwelt on the longest were the “galleries”, which only have four pictures each of Layla and Kyla, all with the face obscured and none of them fully nude.  I watched him via the web-cam on his own workstation while he was doing this, and was surprised to note that he managed to keep his hands away from his person the whole time.  He mostly just sat and moped.  Finally, he rang Anna and requested a booking with Layla for that evening.  Anna told him that both Layla and Kyla were fully booked for the next two days.  He has an appointment for 16:00 tomorrow, with Layla, for one hour.

*

Since I was dumped by Prudence, I have decided to avoid any more relationships, at least until we have landed.   I have come across an escort service run by a woman called Anna.  She has two women available at the moment.  They call themselves Layla and Kyla.  Earlier today I had an appointment with Layla. 

            Anna gave me a lot of instructions over the phone, and told me exactly what route to take to the cabin where Layla was.  She said this was to reduce the chance of any of the clients seeing each other.  The cabin is on Deck 7.  It has a video-phone on the outer door.  I pressed the buzzer and Layla answered in a cheerful voice.  She buzzed me through the outer door and opened the inner one herself.  She was wearing a long coat, which she soon removed, and under which she turned out to be wearing nothing apart from a red brief set.  She is shorter, and much thinner than my normal type, but I found myself captivated by her from the moment I first saw her.  She has a very refined, very youthful face, green eyes, and blonde hair.  She gave me a quick kiss of greeting, but after she had removed her coat, she went to work.  She went on tip-toe in her red court shoes, put her arms round my neck, and gave me a long, very deep and very expert kiss.  She seems to like kissing.  I thought the height difference between us must be making her uncomfortable, and so I sat in an armchair opposite the bed, with Layla on my knee.  We did some more kissing, and she caressed my face and neck with her slender, meticulously-manicured fingers.  She asked me if I wanted a shower, but I had had one immediately before going to see her.  I started to kiss the rest of her body: her neck, her shoulders, her arms, and down towards her breasts.  While I was doing this, she seemed to be glancing at the clock.

            ‘Is it the full hour?’ she asked. 

            ‘Yes.  Do you want the money now?’

            ‘Yes, please.’  I gave her four sovereigns (more than a week’s wages for some workers) which she immediately took into the kitchen area of the cabin and put into some kind of small safe.  When she returned, she took her shoes off and lay down on the bed.  I got undressed and joined her. 

            She seemed content for me to make love to her.  She lay on her front, and I lay half on top of her, supporting as much of my own weight as I could.  I put my hands under her arms, and held her wrists, on which she was resting her head.  I kissed the back of her neck and her shoulders, all over, very slowly and deliberately.  She gave a few small moans, which were lovely to hear.  I gripped her wrists quite firmly, which she seemed to like, and kissed her more passionately.  I realised after a minute that I was thrusting my pelvis against her.  I stopped to remove her brassiere and her knickers.  She lay on her back and lifter herself to help me with the knicker-removal.  Her face had taken on a serious expression which seemed to indicate mounting arousal.   She opened a drawer in the bedside cabinet and took out a condom.  She opened it and put in on me. 

            ‘Screw me,’ she said.  I climbed on top of her, and was pleased to find that she was very wet.  I thrust my cock into her, and it went in easily and comfortably.  I grabbed her wrists again, and held them down on the pillow, above her head.  This gesture, which could so easily have been the prelude to mistreatment, she accepted and seemed to like.  ‘Oh, Kelvin,’ she said, in a voice trembling with feeling that was either genuine, or amazingly good acting.  She emitted a series of small screams. ‘Oh, Kelvin, I’m coming!’ she said, not loudly, but breathlessly.   This was the trigger for me to ejaculate. 

            I carefully withdrew, removed the condom, and tied a knot in it before dropping it in the bin.  She offered me some tissues to wipe myself with.  We then lay back on the bed.  Layla held my hand and kissed me from time-to-time. 

            ‘Do you have another job?’

            ‘Not at the moment.’

            ‘What is your background?’

            ‘Do you mean work-wise?’

            ‘Yes.’

            ‘I am an archaeologist.’  I did not reply.  ‘Yes, that’s going to be pretty useless in the new colony, isn’t it?’

            ‘Not necessarily.’  We stopped talking for a while.  Layla glanced at the clock again.  We had another eighteen minutes.  She stroked my arm and my chest.  ‘Do you mind if I say something really juvenile and stupid?’  

            ‘Go ahead.’  She looked almost interested.  

            ‘I’m falling in love with you.’

            ‘Oh.’  She looked as if I had slapped her.  

            ‘Is that the wrong thing to say?  I suppose what I am saying is that I would like to see you outside this room.’

            ‘And do what?’

            ‘Well, er…We could start by eating together.’

            ‘Anything involving food would be a problem.  I have a food phobia.  I hardly eat anything, and nothing that most normal people eat.’

            ‘OK.  Well, could we go for a walk round the Farm?’

            ‘I have an abysmal record with arrangements like that.  It sounds nice, but I just wouldn’t turn up.’  That was the end of the conversation.  We both got dressed, Layla into a different set of clothes which made her look a bit like a member of the maintenance team.  I must have been her last appointment for that day.  It was time for her to leave as well as me.  

            In the corridor, I went left, and she went right.  She ran.

            I wonder if there is anywhere on the ship where one could buy jewellery.  I’ll ask some of the people who have been making the props for the pantomime.  

*

I was glad of the sex with Kelvin.  Even vicarious, distant, remotely-controlled sex via an intermediary.   I knew Kelvin would ask Layla for a date.  He is a fool. 

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