Total Recall

by Piers Anthony

  It was definitely going beyond the game stage. “Aw, Lori, don’t be like that!” he protested, wriggling within her scissors, nudging her where it didn’t show. “You’re the girl of my dreams!”

  Lori abruptly stopped struggling. She looked up at him moonily. “You mean it?” Her scissors relaxed.

  “Of course.” And now it was true. Their wrestling had completed what her comforting had started, and now he wanted her very much.

  As well she knew. She was, after all, in contact with that region. She entwined him with her long athletic legs, this time not squeezing but embracing, and pulled him in to her. They kissed.

  “You are so full of bull . . .” she breathed.

  He laughed. “Well, you know what a bull does with a cow!”

  “Cow!” she exclaimed with mock indignation. “You ever see a cow do this?” She sat up, bestriding him, riding his groin, and hauled off her nightgown. She had the world’s finest body, and knew it. “Or this?” She bounced, her breasts following their own courses while her thighs did special things to his midsection. “Or this?” She abruptly dropped her upper torso onto him and kissed him savagely. Her tresses slid down around his face and neck, silken smooth, tickling him delightfully.

  “No,” he had to admit. “The cows I know just stand there and wait for it.”

  She lifted her head, her eyes glinting with dangerous humor. “And just how many cows do you know?”

  “Only one.” He felt her body tense warningly. “And she’s only a dream.”

  Lori relaxed. She liked that analogy. He had called the dream-girl a cow, instead of the real one. She resumed her activity. It was certainly true that she didn’t just wait for it; she came more than halfway to get it. It was an attitude he liked very well. He put his hands on her buttocks, and felt them tensing alternately, teasing him, daring him to get more than his hands into action.

  He rolled her over. She screamed as if being ravished, pausing only long enough to deep-kiss him as he proceeded to the culmination. She did a belly dance, but her abdomen didn’t move; it was all internal. Her tongue flicked into his mouth, coordinating with the hidden dance. Oh, yes, she was no cow—but he did feel like a bull, at the moment.

  Even so, the picture of the woman of his dreams remained in his mind, and he wished she could be the one with him at this moment. He closed his eyes and tried to pretend that it was the Mars woman he was embracing. He wondered what the hell was wrong with him.

  CHAPTER 3

  Dream

  It ended in due course, as all things did. Lori got up and headed for the shower; daintiness was always vital to her, and he had mussed her hair and smeared her lips and done a few other things in the course of having a spectacular time. Lori was Woman-Plus! How had an ordinary Joe like him managed to capture such a creature?

  Quaid relaxed, then took his turn after Lori stepped from the shower, her body glistening. His own body felt good, as it always did after an outing with her, but his mind remained disturbed. That dream had been too real! He just couldn’t throw it off, however foolish it was.

  He emerged, dried, and got dressed in his work clothes, his musing continuing. He was no Hi-Q professor or big-bucks executive, he was just a construction worker. He was very good at that, but it hardly made him a prize catch. Yet Lori had married him, her ardor unabated in all the years they had been together. There was no mystery about her appeal for him; she appealed to any man who ever lived. But what was his appeal for her? Oh, he had muscles, and she did like that, but she surely could have found and landed a man who had muscles and money or power. Why had she settled for half a loaf? And why was he, the luckiest of men, dreaming of a fantasy woman instead? That seemed perverse at best, and crazy at worst.

  It was not the first time the question had occured to him. They came from such different worlds. He was a Construction Engineer, Site Preparation Specialist: longhand for the class of low-level laborers who broke up old artifacts to make way for new ones. In fact, he was a jackhammer jock, just like his dad. It was all he had ever wanted to be and he was proud to follow in his father’s footsteps. He was good at it, too, a veritable artist with his machine, working twice as fast as anyone else, but it hardly made him a prize catch for someone like Lori. Oh, he had muscles, and she did like that, but he was no Hi-Q professor or big-bucks executive, he was just a construction worker.

  And Lori? Lori was the pampered daughter of an advertising executive. He recalled the day they met, eight years ago. He had been hard at work on the site of an old, glass and steel highrise which was being demolished to make way for a new, plasplex business center. The site was in the financial district, an area Quaid didn’t usually see much of, and he had enjoyed the passing parade of nattily attired men and woman, late model hovercars, and cleaning droids that kept every surface sparkling. It was an interesting change from his own dingy, decaying working-class neighborhood.

  Then he had seen Lori. She had been standing across the street, gazing at him. Even at that distance, he had seen the glint of approval in her eyes as they lingered on his sweat-slicked torso. He had become accustomed to getting the once-over from pretty ladies in expensive dresses, but Lori’s look was bolder, and she followed through on it by crossing the street to say hello.

  To his unending amazement, they were married three months later. He had insisted that they live on his income for the first few years, but Lori had gradually convinced him to accept her money as his own and they finally left his humble rooms for a spacious, modern conapt in one of the fancier tower blocks. Lori felt right at home, but he was having trouble making the transition. He had taken a lot of kidding about it at work, and he still felt out of place, a working stiff in the midst of society types.

  Still, he had no right to complain. The conapt was a marvel. He lay back in bed and gazed at the holoscreen in the ceiling, remembering the erotic holovids he and Lori had made, and how it added that little something extra to have them running while they made love. And he enjoyed the pure, sensual pleasure of giving himself over to the immersion room at the end of a long day, letting its lifters and waterjets turn him and pummel the fatigue from his muscles while the steam rose around him, then relaxing while the airjets blew him dry. The social side of his new life might be giving him trouble, but he found himself getting really used to its physical luxuries.

  But above all, he had Lori, her ardor unabated in all the years they had been together. He thought back to the morning’s love-making, and a sudden memory of his dream intruded on his thoughts, shattering his contentment. He shook his head, disturbed.

  That dream had been too real! He just couldn’t throw it off, however foolish it was. And it was incredibly foolish. Why was he, the luckiest of men, dreaming of a fantasy woman when he had Lori? That seemed perverse at best, and crazy at worst.

  Lori emerged from the bathroom, her body glistening, and again Quaid wondered what this sleek, elegant rich girl saw in him. With a shrug, he jumped out of bed to take his turn in the bathroom. No time for immersion this morning; a quick shower would have to do. He finished, dried, and got dressed in his work clothes.

  He entered the kitchen of their conapt. The lights were already on, programmed to suit his work schedule during the week. He dumped fruit in the juicer and let it whir while he filled the blender with nuts, wheat germ, protein packs, leftover veggies, and a half dozen raw eggs. He added the juice, tapped the blender’s controls, and watched it transform the mess into a power shake to end all power shakes. He smiled wryly as he watched. Well, he thought, if Lori loves me for my body, I’ll do my best to keep it in shape. He promised himself that he’d do his best to shake off the effects of that damned dream, too.

  Lori had showered before him, but was later completing her dressing. His outfit was simple: yesterday’s trousers, new shirt for today, boots. Hers might look simple, but it was always a work of art that took time to shape just right. She cared about appearances much more than he did. The mere brushing of her hair too
k longer than the whole of his preparation.

  The news was playing across the room, but he didn’t give it much attention. He drank his breakfast and let his gaze stray out the window to the hovercars and traffic runnels and all the little energetic people hurrying to work. In a little while he would be among them. As always. His life would be dull indeed if it were not for Lori—and the truth was, it was pretty dull anyway. He knew himself for what he was: a muscular nothing, with a better life than he deserved, yet not properly grateful for it.

  The video newsman continued his spiel. “On the war front, Northern Bloc satellites incinerated a shipyard in Bombay, starting a fire that swept throughout the city. Civilian casualties are estimated to exceed ten thousand. The Chairman defended the attack, calling space-based weapons the only effective defense against the Southern Bloc’s numerical superiority.” There was a brief pause as the camera passed across the carnage. The video news had a real taste for that sort of thing. Quaid didn’t bother to look. He imagined the people beyond the window as part of that scene, gassed and dying, struggling to rise and get to their jobs, but falling and clogging the foot runnels. The hovercars veering out of control as the gas caught their drivers, crashing to the lower levels in flames. No, not in flames; today flying craft had safeguards, and, unlike the groundcars, were guaranteed nonexplosive. But they might make pretty wreckages anyway. This city as the site of a war raid: it had its devious appeal.

  “Astronomers say they are at a loss to account for six novas,” the newsman continued with an indulgent smile. Everyone knew what characters scientists were! “It seems that these stars do not fit the pattern of the type. Some stars go nova, and some go supernova, and the mechanisms for these effects are fairly well understood. But in recent years more detailed analysis has revealed that six of the novas simply should not have happened—according to the astronomers.” He smiled again. “Well, back to the drawing board, boys!”

  Yeah, every time the facts didn’t fit theory, they just drew up a new theory. Eventually they’d come up with a theory that stuck. Stars didn’t go nova for no reason.

  “And more violence last night on Mars, where . . .”

  Quaid perked up and turned to the video. It was a multi-screen television, the best they could afford, which meant color but no three-dee. It constituted an entire wall of the cooking-living-dining area of their conapt, and made the tiny apartment seem larger than it was. The screen was divided into many segments, simultaneously displaying several kinds of text and programming: weather, stock market, security monitors for their front door and lobby, a “baby-sitter” program for any children who might be bothersome, a continuous erotica nook for dirty old men, a shopping bulletin for busy housewives, and an old videotape channel. Quaid ignored the others without effort; it wasn’t just that their sounds were turned down, but that he had the reflex practiced from childhood that enabled every citizen to tune out nine-tenths of what was going on, without effort. Any of the sections could be “zoomed” to take over the full screen, or any significant portion of it, but this normally wasn’t worth the bother; the human eye and mind were the most versatile zoomers. Besides, sometimes different members of a family wanted to watch different segments, and this allowed them to do so without quarreling.

  The news footage of the Martian Mine episode occupied the large center portion of the screen. The newscaster narrated in a mini-screen of his own. “. . . an explosion ruptured the geodesic dome over the Pyramid Mine, halting the extraction of turbinium ore, key resource of the Northern Bloc’s particle beam weapons program.”

  Soldiers in breathing masks roughly handled the miners. It was obvious that the military authority was almost eager for someone to make its day by offering some token resistance. Quaid discovered that his fingers were twitching, as if handling and firing a rifle. That was odd, because he couldn’t remember when he had last handled any firearm, if ever.

  “The Mars Liberation Front has taken credit for the blast,” the newscaster continued, “and demanded the planet’s full independence from, quote, ‘Northern tyranny.’ It claims to be ready to set off further—”

  Suddenly the main screen jumped to an environmental window, a broadcast from a supposedly virgin forest that now occupied all the screens on the multi-vision video. It was a beautiful scene, but hardly what he wanted at the moment.

  “No wonder you have nightmares,” Lori said, stepping in front, holding the remote control. She was dressed in a smart street suit, ready to go out shopping. “You’re always watching the news.”

  Quaid sat down at the table as Lori began buttering bread for her own breakfast.

  “Lori, I’ve been thinking,” he said. “Let’s really do it.”

  “Again? I thought this morning’s effort would hold you for at least half an hour!”

  “No,” he said, impatient with this game.

  She realized that he was serious. “Do what?”

  “Move to Mars,” he said, fearing her reaction.

  Lori took a deep breath, exasperated. “Doug, please don’t spoil a perfectly wonderful morning.”

  “Just think about it,” he said. If he could only convince her . . .

  “How many times do we have to go through this?” she demanded impatiently. “I don’t want to live on Mars. It’s dry, it’s ugly, it’s boring.”

  Quaid looked at a deer sipping at a brook, on the environmental window. “They just doubled the bonus for new colonists.”

  “Of course! No idiot’ll go near the place! A revolution could break out any minute!” She fussed with her breakfast, not eating it. She was really upset.

  Quaid was upset too. He wished she would consider his dream, instead of disparaging it. She was matchless in bed, but on this subject she was a loss. He controlled his anger, picked up the remote control she had set on the table, and turned the news back on.

  He was in luck; the Mars item was still running. “With one mine already closed,” the newscaster continued, “Mars Administrator Vilos Cohaagen vowed that troops would be used, if necessary, to keep production at full capacity.” The scene shifted to show a press conference in progress. Quaid recognized the features of the Mars Colony Administrator. Cohaagen was big, almost as big as Quaid himself. He’d have to be, for that job, Quaid thought. Appointed by the Northern Bloc to look after the mining operations on Mars, the Colony Administrator was like a military governor from the imperialist past. He wielded almost absolute power, and his ability to command was evident as he fielded questions from reporters.

  “Mr. Cohaagen!” a reporter demanded. “Will you negotiate with their leader, Mr. Kuato? He seems to be gathering quite a following among—”

  “Nonsense!” Cohaagen said, interrupting him. “Has anybody ever seen this Kuato person? Can anybody show me a photograph? Hunh?” He waited, but for once the reporters were silent. “I don’t think there is any Mr. Kuato!” His face hardened. “Let me make this clear, gentlemen; Mars was colonized by the Northern Bloc at enormous expense. The entire war effort depends on our turbinium mines. We do not intend to give it away just because a handful of lazy mutants think they own the planet.”

  Suddenly the windows were back on Environmental. Lori had taken the control and switched again. “He’s right about that,” she said. “Except that lunatics are crazed by the moon, not Mars. Everything about Mars is crazy!”

  Irritated, Quaid tried to grab the control, but she jumped behind the table, laughing.

  “Lori, come on!” he snapped. “This is important.”

  She paused, then pursed her lips. “Kiss!”

  Ordinarily he liked her games, which usually involved close contact with her luscious body, and he didn’t want to alienate her. He accepted her terms, got up, moved forward, and put his arms around her.

  She nestled nicely. “Sweetheart—” She paused for a threatened kiss. “I know it’s hard being in a new town. But let’s at least give it a chance.” Another pause. “Okay?”

  Quaid forced a sm
ile. His last raise had enabled them to move twenty floors up the tower block, which meant moving up the social scale as well. Lori loved it, but Quaid had to admit that, with his working class background, he was having a bit of trouble adjusting to the “new town.” At the moment, though, he was annoyed with Lori for distracting him yet again. He really was interested in the news from Mars.

  She finally kissed him. She was facing away from the video wall. His hands found hers, behind her back, holding the remote control. While he continued to kiss her, he switched back to the news, and watched it over her shoulder.

  Cohaagen was speaking. “As you might have noticed, we weren’t blessed with an atmosphere here on Mars. Not one that’s worth anything. We have to make our air. And somebody’s got to pay for it.”

  Lori finally disengaged from the kiss, which had extended beyond her intent. “You’re gonna be late.” Perhaps she was afraid that he really would get worked up for another sexual bout, after she had so carefully put herself together. Her concern was not wholly unjustified.

  Quaid released her slowly, as if reluctantly giving up the notion of further interplay between them. His real purpose was to hear whatever remained of the broadcast.

  “Right,” the reporter was saying. “But your prices are extravagant. After a miner deducts the cost of air from his salary, nothing is—”

  “It’s a free planet,” Cohaagen said firmly. “If you don’t want my air, don’t breathe it!”

  “Mr. Cohaagen,” another called out. “Any comment, sir, on the rumor you closed the Pyramid Mine because you found alien artifacts inside?” Cohaagen rolled his eyes in exasperation.

  “Bob,” he said, “I wish we could find some nice alien artifacts. Our tourist industry could use a boost.” The reporters chuckled on cue. “But the fact is, it’s just another piece of terrorist propaganda, put out to undermine trust in the legally appointed government of Mars.” The news switched back to Earth.