+J.M.J.+

Author's Note:

It's been a while since I updated this one, so I wrote another chapter, this time asking a major question, "What does a lover-Mecha do if he's approached by a minor posing as an adult?"

Disclaimer:

See Chapter I

Chapter VIII: Carnal Knowledge Uproar

Late winter in Rouge City. The crowds have died down a little bit. They're either skiing in the Rockies or they're vacationing in the rebuilt Caribbean Islands (a major land engineering work in progress following the beginning of the big melt that started in earnest about seventy years ago). Not to say that the debauchery going on around my ivory tower ever really stops, but the lulls give our fine friend a chance to rest up a bit, not that he needs to rest, but even Mechas need downtimes, for self-repair or just to regroup. I've let him use my place as a nook, which means he often stops in at slightly outlandish hours, but I'm often up late getting copy finished.

But around the middle of March, there's a slight flux of tourists: mostly college students on spring break nipping into town on a surreptitious jaunt, looking for a quick bang with the older models, or, as if too often the case, to lose their virginity…or to simply out what it's like. I've heard stories about other more rebellious kids come just to flout their parents' anti-Mecha sentiments. I've heard these neo-Luddites or "Frankenstein's complex" sufferers complain that the worst thing about people having sex with lover-Mechas is that it carries no moral consequences, things like the threat of disease or pregnancy, which keep people from having their way with Orgas. But I've found that it actually carries its own set of consequences, things far more damaging than disease, for most of which we now have inoculation.

Case in point the night one guy, an otherwise highly experienced newspaper reporter, had a literally shocking night with a Swedish model at Tails. Supposedly, she had a serious electrical malfunction, a short circuit I think, and the guy got electrocuted, ending up with second-degree burns in a highly sensitive area of his anatomy, and it was debatable whether he would ever be able to engage in that kind of activity ever again with anyone. He was just thankful to be alive.

But, moral considerations aside for a moment, it might be better for a person to engage in that activity with a Mecha than with, say, a person with a mental disabilities, or someone who's comatose, or a child.

Not too many kids live in Rouge City and the few that do live on the Lower Deck. You'd imagine that these kids would be messing with Mecha as soon as they could walk, but it's really the exact opposite. Surprisingly, according to Father Nick Crawford, the pastor of Our Lady of the Immaculate Heart Chapel, he's seen several young men who grew up in Rouge City go on to become good priests. It seems the native kids get so sick of sex that by the time they're old enough to really enjoy it, they freely choose a celibate life, either out of a good form of rebellion, or in reparation for the excesses they've witnessed.

No, the misguided kids who come up here for THAT brand of delight are always out-of-towners who sneak in.

Just after things started to die down after the reporter's shocking night, something else happened to get people talking.

One night, I was emailing a batch of work to my editor, when I heard a knock at my door. It sounded like Joe's quick, precise rap-rap-rap, three knocks closely spaced, but I sensed something especially urgent-sounding in it. I got up and answered it.

Joe stepped in, very quickly. "Pardon my not asking your permission to enter, but I must find shelter," he said. "There is an unwanted party pursuing me."

I closed the door to allow him better cover. "Who is it?" I asked I know he couldn't render his services to a drugged or drunk woman and I doubted he would pay attention to a minor.

"It is a girl much to young to enjoy the pleasure of my company."

"Golly, even the schoolgirls get hot for you," I teased, but this did not bring the smile back to his now blankly concerned face.

Someone knocked on the door. I pushed him behind the door so he'd be hidden when it opened. I peered out through the peephole to see who it could be, but I saw no one. I lifted the latch and opened the door to look out.

A girl about twelve or thirteen stood outside, clad in a tee shirt and capris; I couldn't help noticing she had the skinniest legs possible. As small as she was, they barely seemed capable of holding her up.

"Did you see a guy, a tall nice-lookin' guy with black hair?" she asked in a pipsqueak voice. "His name's Joe and he's a Mecha."

"Yeah, I saw him, but you don't see him now," I said, trying to sound thoroughly annoyed, hoping that would scare her off.

"Well, if you see him again, could you send him down to my room? We're in Room number 104."

"I can't do that. How old are you?"

She looked at me indignantly. "I can't tell you that, you're a stranger."

"Well, if you're not old enough to tell me your age, you're not old enough to be messing with Joe," I said.

"I'm old enough to bleed," she said, indignant.

"That's no reason to do that. You got a lot of growing up to do first," I said. I was so tempted to add, 'Now run along and go home, go play with your Supertoys," but I didn't want to talk down to her.

"You're hiding him, that's what," she said, irritated, her hands on her skinny little hips.

"None of your business if I am," I said. "Now, I'm going to call hotel security—"

She turned up her snub nose. "Then I'll just go myself," she snipped and flounced away.

I closed the door and put my back to it, shaking my head and smiling to myself. It was so awful it was funny.

Joe sashayed out of his nook and stood before me, the blank concern in his face vanishing. "You find her attentions toward me amusing."

"It's so awful you may as well laugh," I said, chuckling. He joined me, but I doubt he saw the humor. Teena stood a whole head and three quarters shorter than Joe, so even if she was of age, she'd be chewing his chest the whole time.

"But you protected me from her," he said, leaning one hand against the door, above my shoulder, his chest just inches from mine, his pager swinging and just brushing me. "Such concern deserves a reward," this with his face tilted slightly to mine, as if offering his mouth to be kissed.

"Nah, chasing her away is reward enough for me: I'm easy to please," I said, patting his shoulder. He looked a little puzzled, but his face soon resumed its usual seductive smolder. "One bit of advice though: just ignore her if she should go after you again."

"That is simple enough advice to give: but will her reaction be so simple?" he said.

"Handle that when it happens," I said, opening the door for him and sending him on his way.

I was tempted to ask Hahn, the manager of the Graceley where the girl in Room 104 had come from and if she was with someone, but I didn't want to look like I was stalking her. But I kept an eye on her comings and goings. As I writer, I've mastered the fine art of eavesdropping without being obvious and unobtrusively listening to people's conversations. Granted, in this town I've overheard things I wish I hadn't, but my craft depends on this skill.

The girl had all her meals by room service: I never once saw her in the hotel dining room. She rarely went in or out. Of course I didn't get a peek at the hotel register, so I didn't get her name. I started referring to her mentally as Teena or Lolita the Second, depending on my mood.

When I went for my breakfast one morning during this time, I met up with Vautrin, as I often do. "I got a theoretical question," I said to him.

"Uh oh, what's this about now?" he asked between sips of his black coffee.

"Okay, say a twelve year old girl was hitting on a male lover-Mecha. How would that Mecha handle it?"

"They aren't allowed to do nothing with girls that young. I mean, yeah, sixteen year olds who have their parents' consent, but that young, unh-uh. No can do."

"All right, what about a twelve year old who disguises herself? Would that fool him?"

Vautrin shook his head. "Nope, they can tell a girl's age, either by smell or by observing her behavior. Twelve year old 's gonna act a little inept, unless they've been exposed to some reeeeeaaallly sick stuff. And even then, the Mecha would smell her and realize she's not producing the same kinds of androgens as a full grown woman, even if she has a womanly figure and all."

"'Man made us better at what we do than was ever humanly possible is more than mere advertising flack," I said.

"Yup," he said, with a doubly knowing grin. "Now does this have to do with the girl that's been bugging Joe?"

"Yeah," I said. "You know about it?"

"He's mentioned it to me," Vautrin said. "Is she with someone?"

"I haven't found out, but I have this funny feeling that she's here alone."

"Ugh, and this city ain't exactly PG-13, y' know."

The second epiphany occurred when I went online and spotted a missing kids ad. I scanned the pictures, just in case I might recognize one face.

And sure enough, I spotted a picture of Teena, or rather Kira Unger, a thirteen year old who had vanished from her parents' house in Buck County, East Pennsylvania a week before.

I hit the print button on my scriber and brought the printout down to Hahn's office.

"Is this the girl in Room 104?" I asked, sticking the print under his nose.

"I can't tell you the name she's registered under," he said, dodging.

I looked him in the eye, over the tops of my glasses. "We've got a minor here, all by herself, as far as I can tell. So unless you don't mind having a scandal on your hands, I suggest you contact the police."

"I'll have to look into it," he said.

I had two epiphanies that afternoon. First, I saw Teena—or Kira—coming up the stairs, carrying a box from a lingerie shop on the Lower Deck. But more importantly, she was sporting a hair-do and a makeup job that she'd clearly had done to make herself look like she was in her twenties. It looked so convincing that I barely recognized her at first, but then she got closer and I realized this was not a midget.

I suspected Teena—or Kira—was going to make her move that night, so I sat in the lobby, reading a newspaper and watching for Joe.

At length, he came along, making a beeline for Room 104, a rose in gold foil behind his back. I got up and went after him, touching him on the arm. He paused and turned on his heel.

"Where are you going?" I demanded.

"Someone in Room 104, one Korlie Unger, has called for me by name," he said, holding up his pager for me to see.

"That's not her," I said. "It's that little girl who's been after you."

He eyed me a little puzzled. "Have you been spying upon her?"

"I couldn't help it," I said. "When you live here, you start to notice who's just passing through and who lives here." He had turned to continue on his way, but I kept in step with him. "I'm warning you, Joe: there's going to be bad trouble."

We'd reached the door by now. He only gave me a mischievous smile, as if twitting me for being jealous. "If there is any trouble, it will doubtless be only good trouble." He knocked on the door, and peered into the eyehole. "Ms. Unger, it's Joe."

The door opened wide enough to admit him. He stepped through. The door clicked shut behind him.

I heard a startled exclamation behind the door and something thump against it, then a lot of loud rustling around.

"Ms. Unger, I can't [unintelligible]. You're much too young," Joe said, sounding confused.

"I'm old enough to bleed; why can't I have you?" Teena—or Kira—replied, petulant.

"You are much too young to enjoy it," Joe said. "You would land us both in bad trouble."

"Just lemme see what you got there." More rustlings, some unintelligible yelps, then a loud gasp and the door flew open.

Joe bolted out into the hallway, refastening the front of his trousers (for the record, I inadvertently got a glimpse of what all the yelling is about, but that's all I'm gonna say about THAT) as he ran for the front door. Kira—or Teena—ran after him, clad in some kind of black lace confection meant to make her look more mature. It had clearly been made for a much more busty girl even if the front was designed to enhance her bust, which it didn't since she hardly had anything to enhance.

I hit a security call button in the wall. Next thing I knew, Hahn and two guys in rent-a-cop uniforms come charging in. Kira had somehow caught up with Joe and was trying to unfasten his fly as quickly as he was fastening it. The guards managed to separate the both of them.

The hallway quickly filled with people: guests, hotel workers, even a few other lover-Mechas. One of the guards questioned me as to why I hadn't intervened sooner; I explained that I had tried to intervene—at both ends—but no one had heeded me.

Of course Kira/Teena played the Potiphar's wife card. She'd yelled rape when the rent-a-cops showed up, but that clearly wasn't the case. Everyone had seen her trying to undo Joe's buttons when he wasn't even trying to touch her.

Kira's parents came looking for her that day; I'd later hear that they'd gotten doubly suspicious when they got some strange charges on their credit card. I didn't get the satisfaction of seeing them give her a well-deserved tongue-lashing, and I could only imagine the excuses she'd come up with to get out of that one. And it turned out that she hadn't come from the kind of broken home you'd expect: she actually came from a fairly decent family. And there was an added dimension: her father worked as a designer for the company that had made Joe.

The newspapers bristled with op-ed pieces on the incident for a week. One writer said the city needed better guidelines on how to keep out underage individuals. Others stated that there should be no restrictions on minors…whatsoever.

I didn't see Joe for a few days, so I wondered if his owner had confined him to the house...or worse that they'd sold or scrapped him. But then, about a week after the incident, I spotted him on Main Plaza, accompanying a woman almost three times his age (by appearances).

More to come, someday…