One Degree of Separation

TITLE: "One Degree Of Separation" Part 2/2

AUTHOR: Laurie E. Smith

RATING: NC-17

ARCHIVE: Yes (with permission)

FEEDBACK: Please, please do! Pretty please? ^_^

DISCLAIMER: DreamWorks owns the boys; I just play with them.

SUMMARY: After David's disappearance, Professor Allen Hobby finds himself at a loss and takes consolation where he can find it -- with Gigolo Joe.

NOTES: Taking on "The Pair That Could Not Be Slashed", just to prove that I can. Enjoy!



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CONTINUED FROM PART 1...



"From the front or from behind?" he asked once his mouth had slipped free.



In his state of drunkeness and sudden blinding arousal, it took Hobby a couple of seconds to parse that sentence, and even then it confused him. "I... what?"




"Me."



The word was charged with such sensual heat that Hobby's heart actually skipped a beat, so rich was the promise that this coupling would be the best of his life no matter which option he chose. It also implied that they had only scratched the surface of what Joe was capable of making him feel, or do -- and with that prospect came a shock of startling sobriety.



What the hell was he doing anyway? Letting a lover robot take him so easily by the hand and lead him into the darkest place of his own life, there to lie him down, to touch him, to kiss him and taste him -- a mecha that he should have written off and sent to its destruction an hour ago? Yes, he was drunk, and Joe was inhumanly provocative, but this recklessness verged on insanity.



For an instant, he was himself again. But only for an instant.



Then Joe, who had been studying his erection with hot hooded eyes, looked up again, watching Hobby's face intently as that sweet mouth dipped to lightly caress him once more -- full lower lip catching ever-so-briefly on the underside of the head where it met the shaft and reclaiming him in a thrill of exquisite sensation. The mecha's unblinking gaze seemed to see right through the tangle of pain in Allen Hobby's mind to provoke a startling realization: that the scientist and the mechanism were the same. They had both known David, and that miracle would haunt them until their last mortal instant, the last breath, the final spark of electricity.



His rational mind, or what was left of it between the alcohol and Joe's attentions, immediately dismissed the notion. Mecha were incapable of such abstractions. Yet had he not seen a shadow darken those shining eyes, and thought that he recognized it because it was not unlike the shadow in his own heart?



Fundamentally, there might be no difference at all. Joe's secondary processing path, and the self-referencing feedback it generated, made him capable of simultaneously experiencing two states of awareness: that David had been important to him (for whatever reason), and that David was irretrievably lost. The discrepancy between those concepts had to be manifesting itself again and again with every tick of Joe's clockwork mind, and when Hobby tried to imagine what that state must be like from within he could come no closer than to remember his own grief, tightly circling its equally unyielding poles of desire and despair.



He still didn't know why Joe had helped David -- and now, for the first time, it occurred to him that he never would, because Joe might simply be incapable of explaining why he had done those things that so clearly demonstrated a capacity for something supposedly far beyond his scope. Certainly he could not recognize the paradox presented by his own actions.



At the moment, however, they were in an area strictly governed by his programming, and Joe was in perfect harmony with his world.



Receiving no response to his question except a somewhat glassy-eyed stare, Joe defaulted to a variant of what he had been doing before. Glancing down at the yearning erection before him, he slipped his hand up to cradle it, then bowed his head to press a soft, molten kiss to the base. He ran his tonguetip firmly up the median (a progress broken by one or two white-hot little flickers) to engulf the swollen head again -- his mouth so wet, so welcoming, soft lips tightly embracing as his teeth gently grazed the tender skin.



The wave of pleasure that surged through Hobby's body knocked loose a flurry of drunken emotions: a wild sort of wonder, pale disgust at his own lustful weakness, and an echo of his initial anger, all of it overwhelmed by an inarticulate grief and sorrow so deep that he moaned and drew a hitching breath, almost drowning, suddenly on the verge of tears once more.



"David..." Had he actually said it? "David, oh, God..."



Joe heard, and pulled back a little to caress him -- or rather, the six and a half inches of him that were currently the center of attention. "Shhh," he cooed, stroking the shaft and pressing it with soft kisses. His forefinger ran up to tease Hobby's slit and circle lightly in his pre-ejaculate, sending another keen tremor through the orga's body. "Shhh, Allen, don't cry -- I'll make it all go away, I promise."



"You can't." He closed his eyes hard to drive back the tears, fumbling one hand down to take firm hold of the nape of Joe's slim neck: he didn't want to mecha to interpret that statement as a directive to cease and desist. There seemed to be no danger of that, however, as Joe bent to run his tongue around Hobby's testicles, drawing first one, then the other, briefly into his mouth, and taking the human's breath away. "Nobody can -- can -- oh, God, I..."



Joe smiled against his burning nakedness. "I can make you forget," he whispered, as if imparting a precious secret. He ran his elegant fingers up Hobby's erection, then slowly down, with a delicate edge of fingernails that made the darkness around them explode in actinic sparks. Through the blaze of pleasure, Hobby could still hear his soft voice: "Forget everything else in the world, except me. Except us."



It might well be true; in any case, Hobby had no more will to resist. When Joe drew back he let the mecha go, trusting the course of its programming. With practiced speed Joe took care of his clothing: pants, shoes and socks removed so deftly that he scarcely felt them leave, and the next thing he knew Joe was stroking his knees, running teasing fingers up the insides of his legs as he made his way back toward the object of his affections. When Hobby's thighs opened he bent to grace the moist, lightly-furred skin with nips and wet little licks of his tongue, tiny fleeting caresses that made the human groan with new excitement; his hips rose, yearning toward that amazing instrument of pleasure.



"You still haven't answered my question, you know." Smouldering words between hot little kisses as he worked his way inward, such a perfect counterfeit of desire that even Hobby -- who knew exactly what Joe was, down to the function of every fibre and servo -- found himself almost believing that it was more than merely a sensuality simulation. "Which way do you want me? I'm really quite limber -- I can assume any position you can possibly imagine."



A new flush rose to Hobby's cheeks. The LX9 had degrees of motion that no human contortionist could hope to match, and the limited range of possibilities that flickered through his mind -- the missionary position, or Joe face-down on the bed underneath him, or Joe naked against a wall, glancing over one shoulder at him with cool mysterious eyes -- only reflected the paucity of his own conservative imagination. Given half a chance, Joe would show him more things in one night than he could have invented in a lifetime, all of it perfectly executed and as intense as the human body could bear.



For the moment, Joe had reached his goal. He nuzzled lightly into Hobby's groin, humming softly as if he enjoyed the scent, his warm artificial breath caressing the damp shaft. "Mmm, would you like me on my hands and knees? I think I'd enjoy that. You can get in a good hard stroke from behind..."



The prospect made Hobby moan again with considerable urgency, but Joe wasn't finished with foreplay yet. Cupping Hobby's testicles, gently rolling them in his right hand, he leaned up a little to undo the lowest button of the older man's shirt -- with his teeth.



Surprised, Hobby looked down, focusing with some difficulty as Joe proceeded to the next button, then the next, but he couldn't determine exactly how it was being done: he was drunk, the lighting was fugitive, and the mecha was too quick.



Between buttons Joe paused briefly to grace each inch of revealed skin with tiny kisses, and Hobby sighed, letting his head sink back on the bed as Joe proceeded up his torso. It felt wonderful to surrender. The whole room seemed to be spinning a little, its axis the skilled hand whose squeezes and caresses were keeping his erection at a low boil of dazzling, breathtaking stimulation while Joe finished undressing him in a most unconventional way.



When he reached the middle button Joe shifted to straddle the human's right thigh, and the tip of his artificial shaft brushed Hobby's skin. Joe murmured happily and nudged the head closer. Almost absently, Hobby reached down to investigate the mecha's erection with his hand. He was pleasantly surprised by its texture: smooth and very warm and of a slightly yielding hardness, velvet derma sheathing an ingenious mechanism designed to adjust its length, width, and temperature to suit the preferences of Joe's clients (it was currently at its default setting, 16.51 x 3.82 centimeters and 39 degrees centigrade, since Hobby had not specified a different prencrence).



He tightened his fingers, and when Joe gasped softly, with the throaty edge of a laugh, and thrust deeper into his grip, he had no doubt that the robot's reaction was sincere. Positive and negative feedback were the basis of mecha behavioral conditioning, and in lover robots the sensitivity to being touched and stroked, to entering and being entered, was deliberately heightened. Although they had no programmed urge to seek further stimulation, they responded with exquisite delicacy to any cues they were given. In male sex mecha configured for bisexual service, the penis and the anal canal in particular contained dense sensory clusters that generated powerful sensations when stimulated -- he could clearly visualize the sequencers in Joe's cube reactto tto the cascade of input, bright shivers of electric activity that could arguably be called "pleasure".



He squeezed again, smiling when Joe moaned and lightly bit the soft rise of his stomach before turning his attention to the second-to-last button. He raised his other hand to caress Joe's hair, which was as smooth as glass and as soft as silk under his fingers; he fancied he felt it flow with electric life, smart-derma rippling on the verge of a cosmetic change that never came. (Within limits, Joe could be anything he wanted, but this was the Joe that David had seen, if certainly not the Joe that David had experienced.) He ran his hand down the slender neck to smooth gleaming shoulders whose synthetic muscleforms mimicked the subtly contoured build of a dancer, and Joe purred and arched into his touch like a cat.



"Mmm, oh yes..." A duck of his head, the tiniest click of teeth meeting button, and the shirt was open. He used his teeth again to flick the tastefully expensive fabric away to either side, then pushed himself up on one arm to look down with evident pleasure on what was revealed.



Hobby felt his first, and only, twinge of genuine inadequacy. He'd always considered his chest his least handsome aspect (a few little fey tufts of blond hair and some freckles were its main defining features), but Joe hummed deep in his throat, and the tip of his clever tongue peeked out and ran slowly along his full lower lip -- as if the sight of a nearly naked fifty-seven-year-old scientist spread out beneath him filled him with the most delicious anticipation.



A sudden urge to sit up and bite that impertinent tonguetip came over Hobby, but he had done no more than register it when those amazing crystal eyes rose to meet his gaze again, and he found himself captivated once more. Traced with moonlight, Joe was exquisite and mysterious in a way that he had never seen before in either mecha or orga -- so perfect in form and function, a definition of beauty that would remain with him, he suspected, for the rest of his life.



"Now," Joe whispered, seeing right through him and pushing slowly forward into his hand, "where were we?"



He released the mecha's penis and reached up to touch that flawless face, whose loveliness suddenly filled him with peculiar regret. This night would be Joe's last. "You were asking me how I wanted you."



"So I was." Joe smiled a little, turning his head just enough to kiss Hobby's thumb. His gaze grew intent. "Would you like to take me from behind, Allen? Or would you prefer to enjoy me just as you are? I can do all the work... while you lie back and enjoy the ride."



His fingers, which (amazingly) had never been idle through the shift in their relative positions, stroked the orga's shaft a shade more firmly, pumping it a little, gently squeezing the head to make the human gasp as he moved to straddle both of Hobby's legs. He cradled Hobby's erection in his hand and lifted it, leaning forward to rub his own penis against it and sending another frisson of white-hot arousal up Hobby's spine to explode behind his eyes. His hands shifted to tightly grip the back of Joe's neck and the whiteness of that slender shoulder as he thrust upward into the intersection of their bodies, his breath hissing impatiently between clenched teeth.



"You like that idea, do you?" Joe smiled at his own success, easily resisting the weight of the orga pulling him downwards, while his hand enclosed both their erections and stroked them slowly together.



Hobby knew what lay behind that look: a behavioral model defined, probability calculations clicking into place on the same result -- the mecha superior position, and the whole event ending with a shudder and a yell in sixty to eighty seconds. The orga had been acquiescent since initiating this encounter, content to let pleasure be given to him without controlling its form or duration, and there was no reason for that pattern to change.



Joe thought he had everything figured out.



But even scientists are not always creatures of reason, particularly those in a state of drunken passion. And quite suddenly, something inside Allen Hobby awoke and rebelled. He seized Joe's wrist, yanked the mecha's hand away from his erection, and lunged upward, rolling Joe over hard onto his back.



Joe did not resist. He let Hobby pin his wrist to the bed just above his sculpted right shoulder, watching the human's face closely as the man took hold of his penis simulacrum, gave it one savage stroke in retaliation, then delved down between his opened thighs. The ring of artificial muscle flexed at Hobby's touch, nipping at his fingertip as he probed roughly inside -- smooth, hot, gripping and already drawing him deeper. He had never felt anything so welcoming in his life, and impossibly, it made him swell and burn even hotter.



He glanced up into Joe's face. Among the many possible behavioral responses open to him, Joe had chosen to close his shining eyes and shiver, arching his back with a little gasp of surprise (his nipples, Hobby suddenly noticed, were small and erect and perfect -- he wanted to bite them too, and lash them mercilessly with his tongue -- but Joe's body was demanding his cock, and he had never wanted to fuck anything so desperately in his life).



"Oh, yes!" Joe cried, running his free hand down Hobby's back with a delicious edge of fingernails and tilting his hips to let another finger join the first and push deeper, "oh, please!" The desire in his voice was a clever copy of humanity, but his enjoyment was quite real, and Hobby moved to engage it, guiding himself in with shaking fingers.



It was like wrapping himself in hot silk: not wet with lubrication like the channel of a female sex mecha but nonetheless deliciously slippery, and soft as velvet. He braced himself up on his right elbow, tightening his other hand's grip on Joe's wrist, and Joe turned his head to one side, moaning sweetly as Hobby slid in to the hilt and paused there, his thighs trembling with tension.



"Oh, Allen!" Joe wrapped long legs around his waist with amazing flexibility, tilting his pelvis to maximize penetration. His free hand clutched Hobby's right shoulder, his internal mechanisms rippling as he turned his head back to gaze wide-eyed into the human's face. "It's been so long since I've been used..."



"Two weeks." Hobby was surprised to hear the unsteadiness in his own voice. Looking past Joe's eyes, he could almost see the sequencers in his cube erupting as the erection inside him and the pressure of their bodies against each other provoked wave after wave of richly nuanced sensations. A significant proportion of Joe's existence had been spent in various states of similar excitation under his clients' caresses: before his capture, he had never been off the job for more than the few hours a year required for his licensing inspections. For a sex mecha with self-referencing feedback operations, two weeks without physical contact was an eternity of deprivation.



He withdrew a little, quite slowly, resisting the almost overwhelming urge to start thrusting long enough to enjoy the way Joe's jewelled eyes grew brighter, his ripe mouth yearning upward for more kisses. It occurred to Hobby that he was only going where dozens -- or hundreds -- of faceless grunting fat old men had gone before him, but it didn't matter, because the room was reeling around him and Joe's slim body was the only thing in the world that felt solid.



He closed his eyes and bent blindly to Joe's mouth again, bruising it with kisses, muffling the mecha's soft cries as he started to slide in and out: carefully at first, then with greater confidence as the unfamiliar quickly became the utterly wonderful. In this warm and perfect beauty there was no doubt and no hesitation, only sweet intoxicating surrender that obliterated thought; even the strange presence of an erection caught between their bodies with every thrust had its own erotic allure.



He knew was using Joe's body as a distraction, just as he had used the alcohol. There was no mystery there... until, in mid-stroke, he opened his eyes and real tha that Joe was still watching his face intently -- and was startled anew by the vital presence in that gaze, a provocative fire that reminded him that he was dealing with a genuinely unknown quantity. The cameras hidden behind those exquisite eyes were driven by an unknown process that still eluded him, one which he was no nearer to for having so intimately penetrated the robot's body.



With that thought, the anger that had precipitated this coupling resurged to color his lust. His thrusts into Joe's slick velvet heat became hard, passionate, and desperate: as close as he could get, yet still yearning to be closer. A shiver of raw emotion coursed breathlessly through him, wild hunger and frustration that he could go no further, and he groaned, pounding harder and clutching Joe's wrist hard enough to leave bruises if there had been flesh and blood to injure.



His savagery only made Joe's gasps sharper and more eager with every stroke: he was being used, and it mattered little to him whether that was done with rage or with tenderness. He slid his arm across Hobby's back to clutch at his left shoulder and tipped back his head, lips parted rapturously, allowing Hobby to attack the slender throat thus exposed -- sinking his teeth into the soft derma just under Joe's jaw, sucking at it and savoring the delicious blend of roses and delicate musk under his tongue.



He bit again, harder, and was pleased by the cry of mingled pleasure and pain that resulted as the mecha bucked under his weight, wrist twisting in his imprisoning grip -- Joe, who could have easily thrown him across the room, pretending to be trapped, simulating helplessness, submissive to his will... he had never been like this in sex, yet with Joe this violence was all he could think of and everything he wanted. And for Joe it was much more than that: he was fulfilling his primary function, and Hobby's unbridled enjoyment validated his very existence.



Gasping for air, heart pounding, he didn't think he was going to last long; but the alcohol must have been inhibiting his orgasmic response, because it felt as if he dwelt there for hours in a haze of sexual delight, savoring Joe's soft whimpers and gasps with every thrust. This time when his pace quickened Joe's body enhanced the process, rippling and flexing around him in a way that no human partner could ever imitate.



Just before orgasm he suddenly thought of David again, and through the closeness of the artificial body in his arms he felt as if he could somehow touch his son, one final time. He cried out, a lost and seeking sound.



Then his climax overwhelmed him, and for one shining moment there was nothing else in the universe -- no grief, no pain, no doubt, no numbers and no analysis, not even David -- nothing else at all, except Joe. And his aching heart was at peace.



Joe arched under the human's weight, breathing his name -- "Allen, oh Allen, Allen!" -- with every pulse that filled him. When the mortal body's long shocks of straining tension finally exhausted themselves he held it close, slipping his wrist free from Hobby's relaxed grip to stroke the man's sweat-drenched neck as he collapsed, pulling in deep ragged breaths and shaking with the force of his release.



He brushed Hobby's cheek with his lips, tasting the moisture there like a gift (like the man's semen, still warm within him), and when Hobby turned blindly toward him -- wanting, but not knowing quite what -- he gave the human what he needed: feather-light fingers caressing his face, and little after-kisses that sent shivers through him and made him moan softly in wonder. He held Hobby as if he were something infinitely precious (which he was, this orga that mecha had been created to serve, pricelesond ond all measure) and kept the man's mouth lightly engaged, until Hobby's breathing steadied and his heartrate settled into a more normal pace.



He lay with his eyes closed, letting Joe kiss him, slow caresses that guided him to earth while Joe's perfectly full and tender lips brushed against his five-o'clock shadow. He let all his weight rest on the mecha's body, knowing that it would not discomfort Joe in the least, and when those slender arms wrapped around him he submitted gratefully to their embrace.



As their bodies settled together, legs warmly entwined, he let his eyes drift closed and breathed their shared scent: hot sexual musk, threaded through with the pale ghost of artificial rose gardens. A sweet, hungry, delirious smell, while Joe's fingers stroked slowly through his hair... comforting him... reminding him that for tonight, at least, David was not forever lost, but still lived between them in the memories they shared.



For the first time in fifteen days, Allen Hobby slept deeply and without dreams.



His alarm woke him at 5:15 am, as it did every morning whether he was going up to the lab or not. The chime was soft but shrill, and today every muted warble pierced his forehead like a bone saw.



"Off!" he snapped, rolling over to sit up -- and provoking the first wave of a sickening hangover. It almost drove him back down to the pillow ag but but instead he leaned forward and buried his face in his hands, closing his eyes as he willed the savage pounding in his head to subside.



The first thought that resolved itself out of the confusion was: David is gone. With it came a wave of grief and resignation, and the knowledge that yesterday he had turned his back on that dream forever. Briefly, he wondered why he was naked.



Then he remembered the vodka and the whiskey (their sour aftertaste still lingered in his mouth), and something that had topped them both, hot and silken and as deep and as sweet as roses -- and realized what was missing. A glance behind him confirmed that he had been sleeping alone, and that his clothes still lay scattered on the carpet where they had been abandoned. For some reason, this only increased his sorrow.



He pulled himself to his feet and drew on his bathrobe (an exercise in concentration in itself) and walked carefully to the bathroom, feeling nauseous, wincing as he turned on the light and tipped aspirin into his hand, followed by two glasses of water. Getting those down settled his stomach a little, enough at least to consider a cup of coffee. Then more cold water, splashed on his unshaven face and patted away with a towel -- the ritual of every morning since he had become a man -- but today when he faced himself in the mirror, assessing the need for a shave, something there gave him pause.



Something unexpected.



He stood silently, studying the reflection of his eyes and trying to understand the new thing that lay behind them: something just arrived, a wave on a dark sea, a piece of music heard once and now indelibly engraved upon him. He turned it in his mind, unable to map its precise dimensions, but did not cast it away out of hand for lack of understanding it.



Allen Hobby was a man of science, but he was also a man of wonder. He had loved deeply, and been loved, but when those loves passed from his life he had gathered himself up and gone on alone, because his first purpose had always remained the quest, the vision, the work that God had placed him on this earth to do. So strong was this drive that it had taken his biological son's death, which had almost robbed him of that will to go on, and made it the inspiration for his greatest triumph.



He was also a man who understood that the human heart, no matter how injured by fate, never has any shortage of dreams. Now, on the first new day after surrendering his last hope of David's recovery, he felt bruised and weary, hung over and still a little drunk, still a little lost, still burdened with a long process of grief to come -- but the great work still lay ahead of him. He still had the rest of his life to untangle the manifold mysteries that God had wrought.



But this mystery lay inside his own skin. He perceived that he was changed, but when he tried to decipher what this new thing in him was, all that came to mind was a persistant image: David's beloved face, looking up at him -- looking up at Joe -- in sorrow, as they were separated for the last time. Like all his memories of David's final hours, it had only come to him through Joe's ordeal, through Joe's eyes.



For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.



Remembering his tears of the previous night, he smiled, and thanked God for the intersection of reason and passion that leads men to acts of grace.



He knew now what he had to do.



The jumpsuit and shoes had been collected from in front of the couch, and in the kitchen the coffeemaker was ticking contentedly as it kept his morning libation hot. In the brief auditory space between pouring the coffee and adding milk he heard a soft, deliberate footstep from the library: Joe, discreetly announcing his location. When he'd stirred in sugar, he took the cup with him to investigate.



He found Joe standing in front of the mahogany desk that dominated the room, gazing at the shelf above it, where several faces of David gazed back at him. Hobby got the impression that he had been standing there for hours, silent and immobile, staring at the photographs all through the darkness of the night -- the LX9 had superb low-light vision -- and through the coming dawn. Like his earlier intuitions about Joe, it had no solid basis in observation.



Nevertheless, he felt he could predict the progressions of this particular wave, this particular music.



Joe glanced at him curiously as he approached. "Good morning, Allen."



"Good morning, Joe." He sipped his coffee, observing that Joe's attention had returned immediately to the largest portrait: fulfillment and loss, desire and despair. "Those are pictures of my son."



Joe looked at the shelf again, then back at him, this time cocking his head in the quintessential mecha questioning gesture. Hung-over as he was, it took Hobby a second to understand why Joe was confused.



"Not our David." The possessive plural came effortlessly. "Of my biological son. David was made in his likeness."



Joe turned back to the photographs. "The resemblance is remarkable."



"Thank you." He smiled a little, amused by the exchange.



"He doesn't live with you?" Joe asked, his attention lingering on the eyes of the largest portrait: In memory of David. He was making small talk, an essential skill in a companion mecha, especially one used to dealing with reticent clients.



"He died six years ago."



Joe looked down. There was a moment of awkward silence. Then he said, "I'm sorry," and Hobby knew that it was only a pleasantry -- Joe was not capable of caring about the boy whose death had torn Hobby's life apart.



Not the way he had cared about David. Their David. And certainly not the way David had obviously cared for him. The last recorded image came to Hobby's mind again, the child mecha's look of grief as his companion was pulled so suddenly away from him, and reminded him that he was making the right decision.



"Joe." When the mecha glanced up again, he looked stern and spoke firmly. "When I take you to bed with me, I expect you to stay there until I get up. Is that clear?"



"I'm sorry, I didn't --" Then Joe caught the implication of what had been said. His beautiful eyes met Hobby's and dwelt there with a gaze more intent than any he was accustomed to receiving from a mecha, and when Joe spoke again his words were clearly chosen with equal care. "It won't happen again."



Hobby nodded, pleased by the subtlety of his understanding. "Come with me."



He led Joe back to the dining room and nodded him into a chair at the table, then set down his coffee and bent to Joe's head. The LX9 had its wait-state and cube ejection actuators positioned behind the left and right ear (respectively), where an aggressive customer wasn't likely to trigger them by accident. When he pressed the first actuator Joe automatically shifted to sit well back in the chair and locked his joints, his face going blank as his cube functions suspended. He pressed the second, and Joe's handsome face split away from the rest of his head and peeled back to reveal the grey metal substructure that lay beneath.



Hobby put on his glasses, then pulled the ejected cube from its slot and tilted it to inspect the tiny markers that indicated how many of Joe's fivill ill ports were filled. As he had expected, Joe was topped up. He would have to scan the cube to find out which specializations were instd, bd, but Joe obviously had two seduction chips -- one for each sexual orientation -- and one for dance proficiency, as his performances in his cell had demonstrated.



He sat down across from Joe and drank his coffee, turning the cube over in his hand as he contemplated its elegant lines. He would leave the dance proficiency where it was, because it had been an integral part of David's experience of Joe. The heterosexuality chip could be removed to make way for something more suited to his needs, a secretarial skills set most likely. Joe could already drive antigravity craft... perhaps he would install a cultural appreciation chip as well. Sports, possibly? Or classical music?



David was gone, and this was the first day of the rest of their lives.



FINIS