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o The Bookshelf Directories offer a very wide variety of stories. o
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Black Ice (MF, drugs, sci-fi)
By NE (Catzwaller BBS c 1991)
***
"Black:[n., adj.]: 1) a color, ... 27) slang, secret, esp. with
respect to the military...
Ice:[n., v.]: ... 16) slang, security code in a computer program..."
WEBSTER'S 2015 Ed.
I. AGL
M. October 10. I've arrived. Six years of school and mind-numbing nights
in the lab finally pay off. I'm now part of AGL. AGL, Mega Corporation,
leading bio-company in the North American Confederation and rumored
owner of the largest block of senators of all the multinationals. My
chance at fortune and fame, a glorious career in the fast-growing field
of applied genetics.
Hooray!
I resolved to start this journal today. Should be interesting reading
after my first Nobel (ha ha). Tomorrow I find a bar.
T. October 11. Didn't find the bar yet. Took too long looking over my
work area. Pretty much as expected. Top notch, real state-of-the-art.
There's even a new Fuller-Pinch sequencer/assembler: an advantage of
working for a company that does so much military work.
W. October 12. Military paranoia is rampant. From the recruiting
information, I expected to see the mark of their twisted thinking in the
defense groups. I didn't expect its iron grip everywhere. There are
cameras in the johns for Christ sakes! Curiously, the only places not
under security's ever-watchful eye are the labs. Don't want to spoil the
creative flow, I suppose. Damned silly if you ask me. Outside of the
defense groups, the German Bloc doesn't give a damn about what we do.
Still haven't found that bar. I've tried seven pubs and holes-in-the-
wall between the lab and conap. I didn't think there was that many fake
ferns in the world! No doubt about it, yuppies were one of God's bad
jokes.
Th. October 13. Met my lab mates. What a pair. Carole's is a big gray
bear, maybe 50, big, broad weight-lifter's body just beginning to run to
fat.
Outgoing, easily liked, the life of the party but with a sober, business
side. A good researcher according to his dossier, nothing flashy just
quietly competent. Flint couldn't be more different. 32, short, about 30
pounds overweight, his face seemingly frozen into an expression of
amused surprise. Where Carole's is gregarious, Flint's quiet, his energy
and attention directed inward. Nice enough otherwise. Just, well,
insular. Top notch lab-man though. His earlier work is shot through with
pure genius.
P.S.: Carole's says he's knows just the bar I'm looking for.
F. October 14. Finally got to work. Our work's plant genetics, trying to
tweak soybeans into drawing their water out of the air. Food for a
starved world, and all that. Long way to go before we bear fruit,
though.
Th. October 20. Busy past few days. Carole's delivered. He started by
showing me the city's seamier side. That's o.k. "meet the winner's in
the dives" and all that. Got to hand it to him too. The places we
checked out are hotter than a Bunsen. And the women! God! Early in the
evening I thought it was my imagination. But as the night went on it
became clear I'd died and gone to heaven. Every other woman was a
knockout. I kid you not; every second one was the stuff of dreams. They
came in all shapes and sizes, but they were universally gorgeous. And as
eager for a good time. More often than not they knew Carole's and showed
it with unabashed affection.
We ended up at one woman's house. Celia on Carole's lap and her roommate
on mine. The girls were night and day: Celia a tall, frosty blond, built
like the proverbial brick house; the lady with me, Bev, small, with
unblemished honeyed brown skin, face distinctly Anglo, but tits and ass
undeniably African. And her kisses: like honey. O.K., o.k. I know it was
only pheromones. Of course, we ended up in the sack. Bev was
unbelievable. She was insatiable and incredibly responsive, but gentle
and, well, fun. Like a kid playing 'show me.' I lost myself in her,
waking with the sun up only to start all over again. I get hard just
thinking about it.
Carole's and I ultimately had to leave for work, of course. Staggering
to the car, half-supporting each other. Dragging myself around most of
the day, watching Carole's work unflaggingly. Damn the man. He must be
made of iron.
Tried to make lunch conversation with Flint Tuesday. He was tightlipped
as usual. That's o.k. I did find one thing out. I saw his log entries by
accident. Flint was in the lab most of the weekend and every night
since, working on something listed as a hobby.
St. October 22. Date with Bev last night. Ended up in the sack again. My
god, she's fantastic! Over morning coffee, I finally got her talking
about herself. Two years ago she was a lab assistant in one of the
defense groups.
But the military shit finally got to her. One day after calculating that
the lethal rate on her latest baby was 97% she was discovered in the
midst of a burning lab, crying uncontrollably, a lighted torch in one
hand. Very bad.
AGL was furious, of course. And what with the military throwing its ham-
handed weight around, she thought it was goodbye for sure. But, when
they sifted the ashes the next day, AGL found that every record on Bev's
latest project, papers, tapes and disks, had gone up in smoke with the
lab.
That raised problems: the project was clearly illegal under the '99
treaties. So, AGL and the military decided discretion was the better
part of valor. The project had never existed, the fire never occurred
and their remained nothing to punish Bev for. Obviously, however, an
early retirement was in order.
Bev is amazing. I think the whole thing stinks, but she insists on being
forgiving about it. She's actually grateful to AGL! Said it gave her the
money and time to work on herself, something she'd wanted for a long
time but just hadn't seemed able to find the time for. She even credits
AGL for her looks, insists against all evidence that she was an
unattractive, mouse of a woman before her 'retirement.'
Only after she left work and began working out, did her body
miraculously reshape itself into one she'd always dreamed of having. It
seems a harmless enough delusion, pretty hard to credit though it is.
Women like her are just not made over night. Still, she does have a near
fanatic respect for AGL, far beyond what her meager pension seems to
warrant. Oh well, at least she seems genuinely interested in my work.
M. October 24. What a weekend. Bev and I went out with Carole's and a
new girl, Marge. Marge was much like Celia, blonde-red hair and peaches
and cream complexion instead of Celia's frosty ice-queen looks, but the
rest was more or less the same. Close enough to be sisters. And every
bit as much a bombshell. I used to feel that beauty like that was just a
Hollywood creation, but since coming here I've discovered a whole new
world.
Anyway, Bev and I ended up back at her place. Celia was apparently out
for the weekend. Bev said she wouldn't mind though. Well things went as
you'd expect. Saturday night was a groove, and Sunday even better. I
love this town.
T. October 25. Work, work, work (are you there john warfin?). Cramer,
the section head, pulled a surprise inspection. The shit. Good thing
Flint seems to have spent another weekend in the lab. Everything was
spotless.
Cramer seemed disappointed. I don't know why, but I sensed hostility
rolling off him like sweat. Tried to thank Flint, but he just played
tightlipped again. I'm getting tired of that.
W. October 26. I've decided Flint is a mystery I must crack. He blew up
at me today when I accidentally accessed one of his files. He wiped the
screen before I could see much, but I did get a glimpse of some cell
structures.
What is someone working in plants doing with human cell structures in
his data?
T. October 2. Flint didn't show up today. About noon someone came in and
removed all his stuff. No explanations or comments. All, that is, except
his codebook. That just happened to fall in that crack behind the
printer no one ever notices. After the goons left, I did a full dump
onto floppy.
Almost 3 gig! Looks like everything Flint did since he came here. I'll
stash it and check it out when I get back home.
M. October 6. Bad juju. They spotted the codebook's absence. I don't
know what I've got, but it must be important. Security swarmed through
the place like locusts. Found the book, of course, just where I replaced
it. I'll have to take a look at the disks as soon as possible.
T. October 9. Someone around here clearly has a case of the screaming
paranoids. Christ, armed guards at every corner! What have I gotten
into?
F. October10. The goons are still playing soldier at every corner. Now I
know how the Russians felt when the Fourth Reich came marching in. How
does any one think in the military labs?
S. October 11. Got to beg forgiveness from Bev. Stood her up. I must be
crazy, but hell, talk about Chinese puzzles. For starters, the ice is
definitely olive drab. Took me all day and four systems crashes to punch
through. Didn't even make it all the way through. This is definitely
weird, nothing about plants rates military ice.
S. October 12. Eureka! All is revealed. The ice makes sense. Even the
human genome data fit. It's a viral modification program. Self-
replicating, tough and wicked. It eats anything. Including viralphages.
Especially viralphages. A normal AMA approved dose of AnaV would kick
the thing into overdrive, boost efficiency 50 or maybe 60 per cent. That
makes no sense.
At that rate, the five-day cycle would require the calories from 60 or
more pounds of tissue. Haven't figured out the end product; need more
memory than my home deck has.
II. Secrets Revealed.
Date unknown. I think it's been six days since I was seized by Zoon's
goons. I'm not sure, but it feels right. I'm writing this on a left over
microwave-dinner carton. Don't know how, or if, I'll ever get it out of
here. Sorry to say, I'm beginning to think the same about myself.
The goons worked me over but good. Not much of me doesn't ache or bleed
right now. And all over Flint's disks. Damn him to hell. I didn't see
enough to put two and two together, but Zoon refuses to believe that.
Flint broke into a very black-hole project. They want to know how much
he found out, who his contacts are and where he is now. They were very
insistent on that, three teeth insistent. At least they only loosened
them. What has Mrs. Goodnaugh's boy gotten himself into?
Day 2. That'll do as good as anything for a date. Something very weird
is going on. Last night, two goons came down and took me to some kind of
lab.
I was prodded, tested and ultimately given a shot. All the time Zoon was
looking down from an observation platform, laughing. Afterwards, he
confronted me, smiling and laughing the entire time. "Since you wouldn't
cooperate," he said, "the least we could do was show you what you are
protecting. Give you a taste of the medicine." He thought that last bit
was hilarious. I do not like that laugh.
Day 3. My fears seem confirmed. I'm running a fever. I'm sore and
swollen.
I think Zoon made good on his threat and I'll have my chance to see
Flint's virus at work. Unfortunately, I think I'll be too close to the
action to appreciate it with proper clinical detachment.
Day 5, I think. Any way, there are two uneaten meals on the floor. The
fever got completely out of control, I fainted and have been sleeping. I
don't know how long. I'm puffy and swollen all over. Yet, I could almost
believe I'm also shrinking. My clothes are real baggy. How is that
possible? It's not.
Day 8: Fainted again. Three meals on the floor this time. Whatever is
happening its definitely weird-city. Clothes don't fit at all. Pants are
huge everywhere but in the hips; shirt's baggy as hell except in the
chest where I simply refuse to believe what I seem to be seeing.
Day 9 Fever's slacking off. I slept a little last night (night?) but
nothing like the zombie state of the last few days. I guess I'm going to
have to start believing what I see on my chest. My shirt won't stay
closed; all the damn buttons got ripped off somehow. All it does now is
hang to either side of my breasts. Yeah, that's right. Breasts. Capital
B, little r,e,a,s,t,s. As in tits, boobs, dugs. Small, but definitely
there, right down to the big pink nipples.
This isn't be happening! Is it? But then my appendix scar can't have
disappeared either, could it?
Day 9. It's been five or six hours, I think. I'm ashamed. I gave in. I
told myself I wouldn't, but I did. I mean, they look just like the real
thing. Hell, they are the real thing! It was so easy to pretend they
were someone else's. Easy 'till I realized that I was really into have
them played with. Not playing with them. Having them played with. I just
realized the difference a moment ago and it scares shit out of me.
Day 10. The titty-fairie visited me last night. They're huge! Yesterday
I could hold one in my hand, today I can't even close my fingers around
it!
And the rest of my body has changed just as dramatically. Can this tiny
high waist really be mine? These smooth, round, full hips? This jutting,
gorgeous ass. I have become sleek and voluptuous, a lyrical collection
of curves.
Okay, I know what's happening now. I've gone crazy. Completely looped.
I'm lying on a gurney somewhere and Zoon's goons are working me over and
messing with my head. I wish I believed that. And, I wish I knew why the
noises in my gut bother me so much.
Day 10, 3 hours later. Be careful what you wish... I found out what the
gurgling is all about. I had to take a pee. Bellied up to bar and
whipped it out. Or tried to. IT isn't there any more. Not even a stub.
Just some ugly red swelling a little further down.
I really amaze myself. I mean, before this shit started I'm sure I'd
have said I'd be stomping and screaming long before this. But I just
can't seem to get worked up. Something's happening to me, but I can't
seem to get upset about it. It seems well, natural, somehow, and I have
this overall feeling of peace and contentment. Like coming home after a
long trip.
Day 11. My vaginas nearly complete. Yeah that's right. It doesn't even
bother me anymore. In fact, I think its kind of cute. I think I'm going
to die.
Day 12. Someone brought a bath, mirror and clean clothes while I was
asleep.
I sat there for a while just staring at them. Finally, I got up and
checked them out -- a bra for Christ sakes! I threw them in the corner
and just sat down and cried 'till tears wouldn't come anymore. That in
itself is as insane as everything else in this charade. I don't cry,
haven't since I was 12. Yet when I started crying, I couldn't stop.
Day 12, 3 hours later. Okay, I finally gave in. The thought of all that
clean water just a little bit away was too much. I stripped quickly, my
back to the mirror, resolutely avoiding looking at myself, refusing to
acknowledge this thing of curves and bumps is me.
The water was as good as it looked. I just sat there for a while,
soaking in the warmth, feeling myself melt. After a while I felt, oh I
can't say how I felt. I mean there I was, alone for 10 days, with not
even a thought of sex.
Suddenly, a feeling like a huge bubble welled up inside me and exploded,
leaving me tingling all over. I was instantly, uncontrollably horny.
And, right there was all the bush and tit I could ever want. Just reach
for it.
So I did.
Definitely different. Good, real good, like peaking on good acid. It
doesn't even bother me anymore that those were my tits I was playing
with or my legs my fingers kept diving in and out between. I have no
idea how many times I came. After the first, I just couldn't stop. It
was like a dam burst in my head.
Suddenly everything was perfect and all I could think of was the
delicious feelings bubbling up from near my tummy. Afterwards, I just
lay there, idling caressing my nipples, my stomach, the top of my
crotch. Slower and slower. Just drifting in the slowly cooling water.
After I dried myself off, I collected the clothes, laid them out and
just stared at them. Finally I was simply too cold. I put them on. Once
started, I figured, what the hell, might as well do the whole number.
The hose were sheer silk and heaven on my legs. A lacy, virginal white
garter belt, a gossamer cloud that set the gold of my skin and my
orange-red pubic hair off to perfection, held them up. Then the bra, as
lacy and fine as the belt, the rub of its crisp silk against my nipples
setting them tingling again. When I finally got over that, I slipped
into the black lace dress, noting it was barely long enough to cover my
crotch and so low cut my nipples kept trying to pop out. I searched for
panties but there were none to be found. I didn't even notice how little
that oversight bothered me.
Then I slipped on the white apron and stepped into the shinny black,
open toed, high heel shoes.
I turned to inspect myself in the mirror: a gorgeous young woman in a
too small French maid's uniform greeted my eyes. I gasped and was
momentarily mesmerized by the resulting giggling of my breasts.
"Why" I said aloud, (I'd never before had the habit of talking to
myself, but I did now it seemed), "I'm gorgeous." My voice was a rich,
throatily low soprano, with just the sexiest hint of a breathy lisp.
"Oh, my."