If I hadn't had the counterfeit specs for my modified, hardened CAT, when we were passed through to the customs desk, we would've been straight back on the suborbital and down to the surface. Or worse.
I noticed the I-toy wearers immediately--Gurney was oblivious. The woman in the immaculately pressed skirt with the Neuron at customs slid to one side of her desk and I saw the slightly bulging pantylines that indicated she'd played--more likely been forced to play--with an I-toy.
Maybe her good humor tipped me off instead.
"Thank you!" She said, smiling at Gurney and I, running her hands over her desk smoothly, her fingernails perfect, passing back our counterfeit official Datasocket, everything about her perfect.
"Everything is in order. Please proceed to sterilization. Enjoy your stay in the PleasureZone." I could tell Gurney wanted to Stim her--but she'd probably Stim him first. I imagined pulling her string and hearing her say, "Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me." Over and over like the wretched doll she now was.
In an hour, by just paying close attention, I had made a rough calculation that more than one in two women running BlissTech orbital operations--the shuttles, the concessions, the gates, the maintenance, everything--were wearing the I-toy. Not only were they glowing with an inner blissful light, but they also were well-mannered and drop-dead gorgeous. Augmented breasts, slim, trim, muscular figures.
I told Gurney as we floated down the zero-gee tunnel to the guest quarters.
"That many?" I could see his internal calculations--almost hear his dismay at losing so many third-party Stim fucks to somebody else.
"What about the men?" He asked, a little shaken and trying to hide it.
"I'll bet as many or more of them. It's harder to tell--but I'll bet the buff shuttle operator we met was wearing an I-toy."
"How long do you think we have?" He asked.
"Probably until these dissolve," I said, running my fingers over the SecondSkin face template that smoothed my facial features, "the counterfeiting is good and your buddy's SecondSkin work is top-notch."
Gurney smiled, his new sharp jaw lowering to show perfect teeth, saying, "I told you."
"You did," I replied. "Let's stick together," I said, holding his hand as we floated downward to the guest quarters, "I don't want to pull down your pants for a check every time we're separated. . . . Master."
I smiled, knowing he'd get an erection from that--and without the Stim.
The room we were in had a wonderful view of the surface--a view that would improve as we arced through high orbit. It would've been fantastic if we could have seen the ground--the pollution was so bad I didn't know how we breathed at all down there.
"Two-thirds gravity," Gurney said, springing on the foam bedding.
"Yeah," I said, looking at the PleasureZone brochure scrolling on the Player's stage. Five clubs--the SinEma caught my eye, wraparound visuals from within a spherical stage. Six unique types of CAT entertainment in private and small group sessions--read orgy with strangers. Private dancers. Private massage. Private Stimming. SimBooths for the "ultimate aural oral experience." The CATdrug lounge--with your choice of simulated heroin, opium, cocaine, ecstasy, LSD, mescaline, and fleshburn integration. And more.
PleasureZone was a cesspool of decadence--nothing special, really, like all the others--and perfect place to introduce the I-toy.
Using Connectivity while Gurney stared out the window at the grey and blue surface, I discovered that access to the highest ring on the outpost--the subsidiary that Gurney had identified--was connected by a zero-gee lift and a service conduit one grid over and two rings up.
It was a long ride to the top--and it might be our last if we didn't get on the next suborbital, blast down to the surface, and stick our heads in some really heavy sand.
But we'd be found, eventually--our asses sticking up above the desert, exposed.
It was the way of these things--and I was almost broke.