Postscript
- Sequel to MKII -
[Readers are advised that this story is rated for adult themes and mild coarse language.]
The first time he dreamt of Veronika, he supposed it was guilt.
I mean, he said to himself as he lay hot and sticky in his bed, I do feel bad about it.
And, he thought, when he closed his eyes and the vision of Veronika returned, stamped voluptuously in red neon across the surface of his retinas, it's not like she wasn't hot.
And I mean, he mused a few moments later, after he unsuccessfully attempted to chase her naugahyde nakedness from the cinema screen behind his eyelids, it wasn't like it was a bad dream.
More, he considered, like a disturbing dream.
Because, Alan rolled onto his stomach and pulled a pillow over his head as Thunderbird Five initiated her morning cycle and began to wake up around him, I guess, it isn't normal to fantasise about a mannequin.
Alan took the clipboard from where he had wedged it beneath his decidedly damp armpit and studied it closely. He preferred to use the scheduling software Brains had loaded onto Thunderbird Five's main terminal, but John liked the clipboard, and Alan wanted John to be happy.
That really was what he wanted.
Really.
It was.
He chewed pensively at the inside of his lip, returned the clipboard to his armpit and fixed his gaze upon the airlock hatch, tapped his foot like a machine gun against the metal deck.
John's doing this on purpose.
Thirty seconds passed.
And then thirty seconds more.
Despite the eddies of carefully regulated air that circulated in small puffs throughout the station, sweat began to form like tiny salt pearls across Alan's upper lip. He wiped at them absent-mindedly with his sleeve, shifted his weight from his left foot to his right.
This is ridiculous.
The airlock cycled green and there was a hiss of escaping air as the door slid aside with a pneumatic whoosh to reveal his older brother, little red travel bag loose in one hand, and a cool expression artfully arranged on his face.
The smug bastard.
'Alan.'
'John.'
Alan proffered the clipboard and looked up apprehensively. John had seen some sun during the month – his cheeks had tanned a pale shade of gold, and…was that a freckle?
Guilt.
If you had a deep enough glass, you could sink it like a stone.
'In this family,' Virgil said, after half a bottle of their father's finest scotch had disappeared down his throat and the other half had spilled across the wetbar (oops), 'silence is never golden.'
He had paused then for effect – or perhaps he had been stifling an ungentlemanly belch – and stared at Alan meaningfully.
'In this family,' Virgil continued, passing his glass back and forth before Alan's eyes as though he were trying to mesmerise a chicken with a pretty shiny thing, 'silence is deadly.' He did belch then, and dropped his head towards the wetbar in shame.
This important insight into the machinations of the Tracy family had been imparted after Virgil and Scott had returned from Port Vila one hot afternoon, the icebox in the cargo hold of Tracy 2 full of lobster and beer, and a case of ripe mangoes tucked in besides. After screeching the two-seater to blistering halt on the tarmac, Scott had leapt furiously from the cockpit and headed for the villa, Virgil sliding silently and somewhat ignominiously from the co-pilot's seat a few minutes later.
Alan never did find out exactly what had happened in Port Vila, but eavesdropping outside the games room three hours later he'd overheard Virgil harping loudly that if she was that loose with her favours then Scott had been better off without her anyway. Which of course had turned to drunken blubbering not long after that because what else was he supposed to doooo? She was practically naked!
Not that any of this had any bearing on the situation at hand, which was that John had been cold-shouldering Alan for a couple of months now, and Alan had been morosely reflecting on the nature of his older brothers to clam up whenever they were angry. In a household of well-developed male adults (and testosterone wasn't in short supply either), that was probably a good thing.
Alan had once had a friend, Robbie Boston (Redsox for short), and Robbie had two angry older brothers, and the funny thing about Robbie's house was that there were always holes in the walls. With childish naïveté Alan had once admired the symmetry of those holes, and using an ordinary household ruler from his school bag had calculated from the size, the shape, and the angle of impact, that at least one of those holes had to have been caused by an average-sized human head.
Alan always called Robbie's older brothers 'sir,' after that.
'There's a satellite shadow over Argentina you'll need to rectify.' John thrust his trusty Perspex™ clipboard into Alan's hands. 'And the organic waste disposal is malfunctioning.' He bent to pick up his bag. 'Don't blame me. Rations were running low and I haven't had much fibre lately.'
Alan stared dismally at the clipboard and its neatly inscribed checklist. There it was. Item two. Organic waste disposal.
Great. Thanks. Nothing I like more than clearing frozen turds from the disposal unit.
'…module seven,' John was still talking, 'might need to be rerouted, that's on page three…'
'Page three?' Alan looked up at his brother. 'Three pages?'
'Four, actually.' John's cool blue eyes met Alan's, his face betraying nothing. 'Been a busy month.'
The second time Alan dreamt of Veronika, well, that was definitely guilt.
Like all dreams, there was no sensation of time. No motion, no movement, no before, no after. Alan just…was. And so was she…
She knelt between his thighs, slim tapered hands resting light upon his knees, long dark hair falling soft across her shoulders and skimming artfully along the surfaces of her dark, pert nipples.
Alan inhaled, long and shuddering, his body stirring as the odour of latex and machine oil wafted invitingly into his nostrils, his pelvis aching as it filled with hot, rushing blood.
Veronika blinked, a child's blink, innocent and new, her liquid eyes rising languidly to meet his own. She smiled coyly, a Mona Lisa in moulded plastic, her lips lush and moist and inviting.
Alan let go his breath, groaning, mouth dry as Veronika brought her face closer to his groin. He trembled. He quivered. He squirmed. His skin fairly crawled with the anticipation of Veronika's mouth closing over him.
'Ohhh,' he groaned as her lips made contact with his flesh.
'Ohhhhhh,' he groaned as her tongue slithered snake-like across his skin.
'Ohhhhhhhhh,' he groaned as his fingers pushed into her hair and pressed her face down hard against him.
'OH!' he shrieked as she crumbled beneath his hands, a cascade of cogs and processors splintering like ice across his lap.
Alan passed the clipboard to John as Scott squeezed along the access shaft with a carton in his arms. Scott was pretending to ignore them, but Alan could practically see his ears waggling beneath the dark curls.
John studied the clipboard silently. There were only five items on it – Alan had worked like a dog this last month, completed all the updates and upgrades, had even performed an unscheduled EVA to pick off the fragments of Veronika that had adhered to Thunderbird Five's hull. He'd shoved them into the non-organic disposal unit, and…well…
John grunted. 'What's this?' The stylus hovered over item four.
'Er,' said Alan helpfully.
'How the hell did you manage to break the non-organic disposal unit?'
Brains could never have been described as a fast mover.
Although… there was that one time, in Monaco, when Kenny had hurled a spark plug at him for designing a car that didn't need spark plugs.
'Are you yanking my chain?' Kenny had said, after Brains had lifted the hood and shown him his new prototype. 'What's the point of an engine without spark plugs?'
Brains had blinked at Kenny uncomprehendingly, hoisted his jeans a bit higher and launched into an explanation about ignition system inefficiencies, higher power densities and decreased spark hazard liabilities, all the while looking at Kenny as though he couldn't quite believe that Kenny, a mechanic, was actually even asking the question.
Kenny, for his part, had groped a greasy fist across the workbench for the nearest object to hand – a spark plug as it turned out – and thrown it bodily at Brains as he espoused the laurels of his new design. Brains had skittered out of the way of the projectile with nary a blink, and with a straight-faced alacrity that had left Alan speechless.
But, except for just that one time, no, Alan would never have considered Brains as fast on his feet.
Which is what made his sudden dive across the drafting table so damned unexpected.
Alan froze in the doorway as the last of Brains' pencils, knocked from the table by his awkward slide across it, spun noisily along the tiled laboratory floor and clattered against the wall.
'Uh,' said Alan, eyebrows inching slowly together in confusion.
'Uh,' said Brains, spreadeagled face-down across the table.
'This a bad time?' Stupid question really, but his grandmother had taught Alan to always be polite.
'No...n-not really.' Apparently Brains had received even more training than Alan in the rules of etiquette.
'Because,' Alan took a step backwards, 'I can come back later.' He stared at the scientist. 'If it's okay.'
'I'm...' With a tiny grunt Brains worked an arm free to bring a finger to the bridge of his nose and pushed his glasses higher on his face. 'I'm just…a bit...a bit b-busy, right now.'
'I see.' Alan looked at the waistband of Brains' underwear as it peeked out over the top of his brown corduroys.
'Yes,' said Brains as his artwork slowly crumpled beneath his chest. 'Uh... top se…secret…'
'Sure.' Alan's eyes angled towards the blueprints that Brains was trying to shield with his body. 'I'll be going then.'
Brains slid another handful of drawings beneath him. 'Thank you, ah, Alan.'
'No problem.'
'Thank you.'
'Okay then.'
'O…Okay.'
'Okay.'
'…..'
'Bye.'
The dreams were always the same.
(They always started the same, anyhow.)
Veronika knelt between his thighs, slim hands resting light upon his knees, long dark hair falling soft across her shoulders and skimming artfully along the surfaces of her pert nipples.
Alan inhaled, long and shuddering, the odour of latex and machine oil wafting invitingly into his nostrils, his pelvis aching as it filled with hot, rushing blood.
Veronika blinked, her green eyes rising languidly to meet his own. She smiled coyly, her lips lush and moist and inviting.
Alan let go his breath, groaning as Veronika brought her face closer to his groin. He trembled. He quivered. He squirmed. His skin fairly crawled with the anticipation of Veronika's mouth closing over him.
'Ohhh,' he groaned as her lips made contact with his body.
'Ohhhhh,' he groaned as her tongue slithered snake-like across his skin.
'Oh-oh-oh,' he squirmed as a set of sharp teeth clamped tightly over his manhood.
'OHHHH!' he wailed as a pair of sharp incisors pierced the delicate surface of his flesh.
'OH MY GOD!' he shrieked as Veronika sat back on her haunches, bared her blood-stained teeth and spat in Tin-Tin's voice: 'How do you like that, you cheating son-of-a- !'
Guilt.
It boiled in your brain and fizzed and popped across your extremities.
'I'm sorry, Tin-Tin.'
'Oh Alan, it happens to everybody.'
I'm 23-years old. It doesn't happen to 23-year olds. Alan rolled free of her embrace, wiped a hand across his lips. Pulled the sheet up to cover his, you know.
There was stillness in the darkened room, and then Tin-Tin rolled atop him, slid her breasts across his chest. 'Oh, Alan,' she giggled, as if she were talking to a pouting five-year old.
He closed his eyes. Shit.
She pressed her lips against his and wriggled impatiently, kicking the sheet out from between them.
'Alan…' she breathed between his teeth.
Shit.
'Tin-Tin, stop!'
He slid out from under her and tumbled from the bed, staggered backwards across the floor.
'Alan!'
Alan grabbed a paperback from the bureau as the door swished open, positioned it strategically across his deflated manhood and took off like a rocket down the darkened passageway.
That was it then. She'd never forgive him for this one. He flopped dejectedly onto his bed and threw an arm melodramatically across his face.
He could never tell her.
Never tell her what had gone through his mind the moment he'd been… the moment when… when they were about to… oh crap…
He sighed and covered his traitorous member with a pillow. But it was no use. Even under five inches of goose-feathers, it was still letting him down.
In political parlance, the Cold War had deteriorated beyond operational levels and warheads were being armed.
'Did you bring the microprocessor?' John greeted Alan as he emerged from the airlock.
Alan tried valiantly to hold back a scowl as he froze midway through the hatch. He failed, of course, the ballooning extension of his lower lip imparting an unmistakeable irritation to his response. 'What do you take me for?'
John thrust his clipboard towards Alan's chest. 'Just make sure you don't damage this one.'
'I didn't damage the last one!' Alan dropped his bag as the clipboard smacked into him.
'But you did damage the disposal unit.'
'Yes, I…'
John arched a contemptuous eyebrow. 'I found out what was jamming it.'
'But I…'
'Not impressed, Al. Not impressed.'
'Shit.'
Alan jerked abruptly backwards as module seven erupted in a shower of sparks, slapping absentmindedly at his uniform as the replacement microprocessor slid clattering to the floor.
Around him Thunderbird Five's communications centre exploded with noise, the television competing loudly with the constant stream of voices routed illegally from communications satellites and piped like Muzak into the humidified air. So far the television was winning the contest, although Alan kept the remote handy on the off chance his father should call.
He retrieved the processor and hunkered distractedly over the errant circuit board, one eye on 'Survivor–Mars' (good luck with those rock snakes, fellas), the other on what he was doing with the soldering iron. One last blob of solder and he was done. He disconnected the iron and flopped back onto his seat, stretching his neck until it cracked.
Initiating yet another diagnostic, Alan turned to stare at six space-suited game show contestants arguing over which Martian cave to live in for the next two months. He snorted, then groaned inwardly as the diagnostic panel beside him chimed another failure. Goddammit. He bent down and banged his forehead against the panel. Bang.
Bang, bang.
'Careful of the hardware there, Al. John's already hot on your ass.'
Alan straightened in his chair and slid his eyes towards the activated uplink, the sight of the monitor filled with his brother's bare bronzed chest for some reason annoying the crap out of him. Alan let his irritation roll unhindered across his face. "What, you couldn't be bothered dressing?'
Gordon (who had seen that expression a million times before and certainly wasn't going to let it slow him down now) inhaled deeply, flexed his pecs and ran his palms across the flat planes of his chest. 'You've clearly forgotten People magazine's 100 Most Beautiful edition of November two thousand and – '
Alan's head dropped to the panel (bang) as Gordon launched into a well-practiced colloquy on the social benefits of sun, sea and regular exercise. Not to mention – Gordon flung an arm over his head like a ballet dancer to display an immaculate armpit – how the ladies of the twenty-first century liked their men smooooth.
Unfortunately for Tracy Island's water recycling protocols, once Gordon had started depilating he'd never actually stopped, his complete hairlessness, and the paltry smattering of blond that Alan and John sported on their bodies, leaving Virgil and Scott as the alpha-male gorillas in the family. The good-natured mockery that greeted the elder brothers' hairy pins whenever they stripped down to their Bermudas was met with a practised disdain worthy of the British royal family. Virgil would stretch his muscular hirsuteness leisurely across the pool chair, study his fingernails and opine loudly that, sadly, all their father's testosterone had been spent on the two eldest, leaving nothing for the rest of them.
This was no doubt due, would venture Scott as he picked at the lint in his navel, to the centrifugal forces of launch acting upon their father's testicles and separating the good sperm from the bad, much like cream floating to the surface of a milk bottle. The good sperm rising to the top, of course.
Not to mention, Virgil would authoritatively declare, the cumulative effect of cosmic rays upon their father's sperm viability. Which accounted, Scott would continue, for the sorry state of their younger brothers, all hairless and pale and deformed as they were.
Unfortunately, were the owner of said cosmically-irradiated testicles also sitting poolside, this kind of conversation would result in the newspaper snapping down and a strident 'BOYS!' cutting across the tiled landscape, violent enough to loosen a coconut or two from the trees on the terrace below, the loud thunk of nut hitting leaf mould echoing forlornly across the suddenly silent island.
Alan felt a bit like a lonely coconut amongst the leaf mould as he rested his cheek against the cool metal of module seven, the incessant droning of Gordon's voice lulling him into an unpleasant state of reflection wherein visions of John's recriminating face alternated with visions of Veronika wearing Tin-Tin's Easter lingerie. He signed inwardly, wondering if Brains could recommend a competent behavioural therapist or, at the very least, prescribe him some Prozac™. Prozac would be good, he thought, it would really take the edge off. Or how about that Valium™ his grandmother used to take when he was a kid. Do they still make Valium? he wondered dreamily as the heat from his cheek leeched into the metal beneath his face. How about hypnosis? Kyrano was big on hypnosis. Something to do with his brother. I'll have to ask about that. Maybe Kyrano's brother is a hypnotherapist. Maybe I can make an appointment when I get back landside, he snuffled to himself as Gordon's voice droned on around him. Oh yeah. Gordon. What was he raving about? Something about… what…
'What was that?' Alan lifted his head and turned to look at his brother on the monitor. 'Back up back up back up.'
'I said,' Gordon scratched at his neck, 'that Tin-Tin was clearing out her room.'
'Clearing out how?'
'You know. Throwing out crap.'
Alan's voice shifted an octave. 'None of my crap, I hope.'
'You tell me. She gave me this.' Gordon rose from his chair to model a hibiscus-print sarong knotted expertly around his waist. 'And you'll never guess what else.'
'What…?' Alan's voice cracked across its upper range.
Gordon leaned close to the monitor and narrowed his eyes conspiratorially. 'She gave John a pair of panties.'
John dropped his bag to study the clipboard closely.
'So Al,' he said, in that imperious manner of his, 'any problems with the disposal units this rotation?'
'No.' (Although Alan had been sorely tempted.)
'What's this?' John tapped the stylus to the board.
Alan rose on his toes to peer over the clipboard. 'What?'
'Item nine.'
'Uh, item nine.' Alan's eyes worked their way down the list. 'Yeah, there's still an issue with module seven. I tried fixing it, but…'
'Show me.'
Alan's eyes riveted of their own accord onto John's ass as he bent over the unit. There was no visible panty-line – but then Alan knew there wouldn't be. John was a boxer man.
Guilt was a bitch.
It sucked the certainty out of you. Made you paranoid and delusional.
'Move fast old man,' Alan grunted as he plopped onto the end of the couch, Scott's ankles whipping gratifyingly off the cushions and out from under his descending ass.
Across the room Virgil banged enthusiastically at the baby grand, segueing seamlessly from John Philip Souza and into Dangerous Game as Scott straightened in his seat.
'So… Al.'
Here it comes.
'What's up?' Scott shook a leg to untangle his trouser cuff. "First John and Brains,' he turned to exchange a look with Virgil, 'and now Tin-Tin.'
Alan scowled at his brother. 'How do you know about Tin-Tin?'
'Because,' Scott leaned towards him conspiratorially, 'she's been sniffing around Virgil in the pod bay.'
'Again,' called out Virgil as he transitioned to a rendition of the Can-Can that was positively licentious.
Alan turned to scowl at Virgil, who in turn smiled beatifically back at him.
Bastard smokes like a chimney, has a shot glass permanently glued to his fist, not to mention a debilitating weakness for pastry, but I'll bet HE doesn't suffer from circulation problems.
As if to illustrate the point, Virgil clunked the keyboard closed and drained the glass of scotch that had been resting on the piano. 'Salut!' He raised the empty glass and headed for the balcony. Alan watched through narrowed eyes as Virgil flipped a cigarette into his mouth and lolled languidly against the railing, a smoke ring rising lazily into the air above his head.
Bastard.
Veronika knelt between his thighs, hands resting light upon his knees, long dark hair falling soft across her shoulders and skimming artfully along the surfaces of her dark nipples.
Alan inhaled, the odour of latex and machine oil wafting invitingly into his nostrils, his pelvis filling with hot, rushing blood.
Veronika blinked, her eyes rising languidly to meet his own. She smiled, her lips lush and moist and inviting.
Alan let go his breath, groaning as Veronika brought her face closer to his groin.
He trembled.
He quivered.
He squirmed.
His skin fairly crawled with the anticipation of Veronika's mouth closing over him.
And then, when she was millimetres, mere millimetres, away from engulfing him within the dark cavern of her mouth, a shadow fell upon them.
His brother John, a purple pimp's hat angled rakishly atop his blond head.
'So Al,' John boomed cheerfully as he ran a hand possessively through Veronika's real human hair. 'How's my girl been treating you?'
Guilt.
It responded very well to Amex.
'Alan.'
Alan smiled tentatively at his brother across the paper-strewn floor.
'Alan,' John said again, his fingertips resting reverently on the solid gold stopper of the Frapin Cuvée decanter that had emerged from a hand-carved oak case. He inhaled deeply and looked meaningfully at his youngest brother. 'I don't know what to say.'
There was a moment, an indefinable instant of reconnection as John's blue eyes locked onto his own. Alan felt his heart swelling, the blood rushing to his head and giddying him.
Yup. It was definitely a moment.
That was, of course, until Virgil busted his fat head in and broke it.
'Jeezus Al.' Virgil trampled noisily across the strewn Christmas paper in his haste to fasten eyes on what promised to be some very expensive cognac. 'Is that an 1888 Cuvée?'
'Jeezus is right,' said Scott, sidling up in the Aloha shirt their grandmother had given him. He looked at John jealously. 'What did you do to deserve that?'
John slid the Cuvée back into its case.
'Well, Al?' Scott rounded on Alan. "What did he do?'
'Nothing!' Alan could feel his Christmas spirit puddling disappointedly around his ankles. He should have expected this. Really. Living with a houseful of lushes and all.
Scott's lips crinkled in disbelief, but he retired to the couch nonetheless.
'I'm sure,' Jeff picked his way through the paper-field to eye the Cuvée box speculatively, 'that John is deserving of the gift, boys. And if we're all very lucky, he might even spare us a drop.' His eyebrows waggled hopefully in John's face.
'Sorry Al,' said John, oblivious to his father's pantomiming forehead. 'Your gift isn't ready yet.'
'That's okay.' Alan really hadn't expected anything. Not after… well. (You know.)
'No, really.' John caressed the Cuvée box with the flat of his hand, his voice suddenly thick with emotion. 'I made you something.'
'You made me something?' Tickled by the warm glow of brotherly love, the cockles of Alan's heart quivered, trembled, split their battered shells and exposed themselves to the light.
'And Brains,' John continued as Brains looked up from his USB massage ball (trust Tin-Tin to be so thoughtful) like the proverbial deer caught in headlights, 'is putting the finishing touches on it.'
'Ah.' Brains blinked behind his glasses. 'That's, that's right.'
'And it will be ready tonight.' John smiled like a fairy-floss angel, all rosy pink cheeks and pale spun gold.
'That's right, John.' Brains pressed the massage ball experimentally against his forehead.
'Tonight.' John nodded at Alan. 'We promise.'
Guilt.
It sloughed from his body along with the suds from his coconut soap.
Alan turned beneath the stream of warm running water, lathered, presented his armpits to the cleansing spray, smiled into the torrent and let it run between his teeth.
'Alan?'
Alan froze beneath the shower nozzle, clutched his bar of soap tightly.
'Alan?' The voice came closer. 'We've finished your Christmas present.'
'John?' Alan didn't want to seem ungrateful, but couldn't John at least have waited until he was out of the shower? 'Is that you?'
'And Brains,' John chirped cheerfully as he hovered by the bathroom door. 'We'll just leave it here, okay, by the door?'
'Uh…' said Alan, blind behind the shower screen. 'Sure.'
There was a confused shuffling and a sudden clunk as John whispered 'careful!', and then, loudly, 'It's just here, okay? You'll see it when you get out.'
'Um…' said Alan. 'Thanks.'
There was the sound of footsteps receding across the bedroom, and the faint click of a door sliding shut. Cupping his modesty in one hand, Alan slid the clouded shower screen aside and popped his wet head through the opening.
'Oh my GOD!' he shrieked, all modesty forgotten as the soap in his free hand thunked heavily onto the tiled recess and ricocheted towards the drain.
For there she stood, poised in the doorway, her green and shining eyes fixed intently upon him.
Veronika.
Resurrected. Reformed.
Rebranded.
Like Aphrodite arisen from the foam she was perfectly astounding, rebirthed, miraculous, exactly as he remembered her. His eyes glazed, followed the gleaming stretch of synth-skin that moulded over her fabulously formed torso, glued themselves to the mouth-watering naugahyde expanse of her flesh, swept unhindered towards the high and quivering peaks of her breasts and down into the dark recess of her taut groin.
'Ohh,' Alan breathed, his terror evaporating with the steam from the shower.
Veronika stepped forward, awkward, stiff, parted the clouded air on smooth tight thighs, teetered uncertainly as Alan's discarded underwear crumpled underfoot, brought her brown and gleaming body closer to his own.
'Ohhhh.' The water turned to ice upon his back as something hot stirred in the space between his loins.
She tottered closer, closer, condensation collecting on the cool surface of her skin, the faint odour of rubber tickling his nose, the perfect pink pout upturning by slow degrees to meet the trembling contours of his mouth.
'Ohhhhhhhh…..' Alan licked his lips and pushed his conscience aside, surrendered himself to depravity.
In the two seconds before the lights went out, Alan had time to see three things –
'MK III' stencilled crudely across Veronika's forehead; the grey steel blade of Kyrano's two-hundred-dollar fillet knife poised in Veronika's suddenly upraised hand; and the pink latex lips, so close to his own, rictoring slowly back into a lifeless smile.
Oh.
Alan screamed then.
Like a little girl.