He was ready. Where was she?
Then he heard the clanking and whirring of the lift, louder as the cast-iron water-driven car approached the newsroom floor. As most of the gaslamps had been extinguished for the night, Bass had to strain to see across the newsroom floor.
Yes!
Shelley Mary looked as if she had primped herself for him. Bass saw that she had replaced her usual plain working outfit with something more suited to a special occasion: a tight black sleeveless bustier, pearls at the throat, and some kind of full skirt, the ensemble set off by long grey satin gloves. The skirt, although it reached to the floor, had a transparent, gauzy panel at thigh level. It showed off Shelley Mary’s lean thighs to perfection.
Bass felt faint, swallowed hard, and his cock almost burst through the thick Stratton tweed fabric of his trousers. Shelley Mary’s eyes swept him up and down, and she struck a coquettish pose:
“Why Mr. Bass, I do believe that for once you’re pleased to see me.”
Carly Matsudaira hurried along the last few yards of corridor that led to her third floor flat, a small but comfortable two-bedder in a block in one of The Smoke’s dormitory suburbs. She was looking forward to spending the evening at home. First she’d take a shower, then she’d make herself a simple supper, maybe mull over the late edition of The News that she’d brought home with her. Finally she’d get ready for the evening’s main event, the arrival of her lover, the delicately featured Gerard Manley Upsdell; for, contrary to received opinion, Carly was fiercely heterosexual. She was handsome and, belying her masaki wrestler strength, well-proportioned. Unfortunately, her size and heft did intimidate most men. She was consoled by the fact that the ones who did like her, really liked her. Something to do with the ease with which she could flip them into exotic positions? Or the steam-press force that she could bring to bear with her pelvic walls?
Gerard was one who really, really liked her. Slim, slightly built, he was a saxodion player with Antonio Duma and the Javelins, one of The Smoke’s leading kwaylenco bands. Playing at a wedding, he had watched fascinated as Carly pulverised the dance floor in front of him, eyes flashing, becoming more and more frenzied as the kwaylenco reached its heel-and-toe-slamming climax, actually splintering one of the floorboards when the last chord of the song reverberated through the room. He introduced himself in the interval, and they sealed the deal almost immediately, she leaning back against one of the kitchen bins at the back of the venue, grasping his thighs and holding him on to her as if he were no heavier than a Pekinoodle lap dog.
Arriving at her front door, Carly fished in her bag for her keys. And fished again, delving down into the jumble of cosmetics, small change, pens and pencils that she customarily carried with her. Nothing.
Shit!
Carly smacked her brow with the flat of her hand. Ignacio had wanted to get into the stationery cupboard at The News, and she hadn’t detached the relevant key from her ring, simply given him the entire set. She remembered now, he’d brought the keys back to her and left them on her desk. Carly did a quick calculation. If she hurried, she could get a hackney back to work, pick up the keys and still be home in time for Gerard. Might have to skip the shower, but he wouldn’t mind. Might like it.
“Ah yes, well, the thing is,” Rupert Gilchrist Bass was blustering. The combination of VitaBeena and Viper Agua was doing astonishing things to his metabolism, blood rushing around his body at hyperspeed and pooling in his genital area. His mind was racing out of control, throwing up questions he simply didn’t want to answer. Why had Shelley Mary appeared in his office so seductively attired? Was she on her way to meet one of the many good-looking young men who no doubt were lining up to escort her? Or was this just how she dressed when off duty? Or had she actually guessed that he was about to offer her some advantage, and was preparing to offer him something in return?
Concentrate. Stick to the plan. Be suave. An experienced older man.
But a racing mind is an independent animal and Bass was suddenly uncomfortably conscious of his over-excitement. He tiptoed carefully round his desk, and lowered himself into his studded leather chair. To his surprise, Shelley Mary swished across the room and half-sat, half-leaned on his desk, bringing one leg up so that, through the transparent panel, he had a clear view of her thigh.
“The thing is,” Bass’s throat constricted. He cleared it. “I think it's time you moved up. Got into news. You’ve done enough of this social stuff.” Shelley Mary leaned towards him. Although her bustier was high cut, up to her throat, it was as tight as a coat of paint, rippling as she drew a deep, sonorous breath.
“Oh, Mr. Bass, you can’t know how long I’ve waited for this moment.”
“You have?” He knew she was ambitious but this degree of throaty enthusiasm surprised him. He felt confused, started to perspire. He dabbed at his forehead with a grubby handkerchief.
“Oh yes! I’ve dreamed of it. Ever since I’ve been at The News, I’ve wanted to be a reporter and now my dream is coming true.” Shelley Mary leaned even closer across the desk. “What is it you want me to do?” Bass uttered a strangled croak.
“I want you to... I want you to... I want you take my...” Shelley Mary tilted her head in anticipation, raised one eyebrow. Bass’s mouth opened... closed... and then suddenly, convulsively, he pushed himself back, the chair’s castors scraping against the scuffed parquet floor.
He leapt to his feet.
“I want to fuck you!” he screamed. “I want to slam you over my desk and fuck your brains out! Do you understand? If you want the news job, that’s what you’ve got to do!”
Shelley Mary leant back, slowly slid off the desk, put a hand to her throat in a delicate, fluttering motion that was more provocative than a thousand burlesque moves. She moved around the desk towards Bass.
“Of course you do. And I want to fuck you too. I’ve always wanted to, from the moment I first saw you.” Despite his propensity for self-delusion, Bass was nonplussed.
“Really? You didn’t say that when I tried it on last time.” Shelley Mary moved closer, the bombazine of her skirt rustling against the desk. “Ah, but that was because I didn’t dare. I didn’t feel worthy. I was just an apprentice, starting out. How could I have hoped to provide a worthy partner for the legendary editor Rupert Gilchrist Bass?” Shelley Mary dropped into Rupert’s vacated chair, crossed her legs so that the transparent panel provided an even more delicious view. “And besides, you weren’t going to promote me then. You weren’t my... how can I put it? My benefactor. My mentor. The man about to give me the kind of assignment I’ve always wanted.”
“Yes... exactly... benefactor... mentor... assignment,” Bass muttered, grimacing with the pain of his erection. Could pent-up blood pressure actually burst a penis?
“And what is the assignment, exactly?” said Shelley Mary.
“Ah, yes, well, the assignment. Very important. Got to get it done. Assignment. Yes.” Shelley softly but firmly interrupted him: “But Rupert, what is it?”
“An erection!” Had he said that? “I mean – explosion! An explosion! Yes. The Senate! Dynamistas. Anarcho-nihilist terrorists. A bomb. A big bomb.”
“I see. Well, in that case I’d better get down there.” She saw his confusion. “The scene of the crime and all that?”
“No!” he gasped. “Hasn’t happened yet. Going to happen. Tomorrow. Or maybe tonight. Or maybe tomorrow!”
“How intriguing. The news before it happens. You really are a legend, aren’t you, Mr. Bass?”
“Contacts,” said Bass hoarsely. “Connections. Got my contacts. Sources!”
Another wave of Viper Agua surged through him and Bass was galvanized, as if he had stuck his finger into an electricandle fitting. His eyes bulging, his hands clawing vaguely at the air, his tentpole extending in front of him, he advanced on Shelley Mary.
“Now! On the desk! Got to have it! Right now!” He gabbled incoherently as he ripped at his trouser front. The buttons ricocheted like Ximan bulle
ts. His member sprang out, a horrific pink parody of Mr. Punch desperate to bludgeon Judy.
If Shelley Mary’s flattering responses had not been enough to warn him, Bass might have wondered why she was so unflustered, seeming to regard the advancing phallus as if it were nothing more threatening than a butter-lathered asparagus stalk.
“Sources. Of course. But…” she added seductively, smoothly rising from the chair and moving sideways, “… perhaps first we should have a little foreplay?”
“Foreplay?” It might have been a foreign language. “What the fuck is foreplay?”
“Just leave everything to me.”
“But I must…”
“Relax, Rupert.” Relax? He felt as if he were about to implode in some kind of cataclysmic sexual meltdown. But now Shelley Mary was guiding him to the desk, deftly turning him round, sitting him down, and he was too befuddled to resist.
“Let’s just get these trousers off.”
“Trousers off, yes!” At last an idea that he understood. Bass feverishly wriggled his buttocks from side to side as he shrugged himself out of the woolly Stratton tweed.
“Now, close your eyes,” whispered Shelley Mary in a voice so husky with promise that no red-blooded man could have resisted her entreaty. Rupert closed his eyes. It was going to happen! Thank you, Dufus! Silently, Shelley Mary opened the central drawer of the desk, just below Bass’s crotch. Then, gently, she took his aching testicles in one exquisitely gloved hand, allowed them to drop over the top edge of the desk. She stood back.
“Are you ready now, Rupert?” Bass could barely speak. His nose twitched. His entire body shook with unrequited lust. “I’m ready, I’m ready!” he cried.
Shelley Mary slammed the desk drawer on his balls.
Below in the street passers-by looked up as they heard a high-pitched banshee wail, but they soon moved on. Strange sounds were often heard in the streets of The Smoke, and it didn’t pay to be too curious.
A few minutes later, Carly Matsudaira hurried past the desk of Spalding MacAtamney, The News building’s ancient concierge. He had heard the scream, but knew that a blind eye and a deaf ear were more conducive to job security that an inquisitive nose.
“Evening, Miss Matsudaira. Working late?”
“No. Forgot my keys. Left them on my desk.” She raised her eyebrows in a mock ‘silly me’ expression. Spalding grinned indulgently.
“No problem, go ahead. I haven’t locked up yet.”
She took the lift, and a few moments later was pushing open the doors of The News Of The Smoke’s office. It was shadowy, but not too dark, the glow of streetlamps coming in through the big sash windows providing sufficient light. In any event, as a longtime News veteran, she knew the layout of the office by heart, so she didn’t bother to turn on the lights – although, if she had done, she might have more easily seen the ravaged, pain-racked figure of Rupert Gilchrist Bass as he shuffled towards her. In his left hand he cupped his balls, red, purple, blue and massively swollen. In the other he held his penis, which had seemingly been unaffected by the drawer-slam. If anything, it was larger and more engorged.
Carly heard a sudden sound – somewhere between a croak, a growl and a whimper. Keys in hand, she whirled round. Bass was almost on her, his face ashen, his cock waving around only a ricro away. Shocked, reacting instinctively, Carly slashed at it with her keys. Bass uttered an agonised grunt, and bent over double. Carly, quick to adapt to the situation, outraged at the assault by her boss, grabbed him by the hair. Bass grunted again. The muscles on her big arms rippling, Carly swung him round as if she were hurling a porky discus, finally letting go so that he careened across the office, wailing as he went, crashing against the cast-iron side of the reduplo – a recent innovation that copied documents and pictures – collapsing to the ground.
The crash landing brought Bass back to some kind of reality. As Carly stomped towards him, he curled into the foetal position and started to whimper:
“No, no, Carly. I didn’t mean anything. I’m not myself. I’m ill. I’m on medication.” Any one of the explanations might have assuaged Carly but then he added: “I can explain!” And that claim, stretching back to the dawn of sexual misbehaviour, simply raised Carly’s blood pressure to Full Combat level.
She grabbed the editor by his collar, pulled him into a sitting position and thrust her face inches from his.
“The explanation is – you’re a disgusting old pervert,” she said.
“Yes, but I’m sick.”
“Sick barely covers it. You’re a horrible dirty old man, and you’re going to get the kind of treatment that all dirty old men deserve.” Somewhere deep in his addled brain, Bass took this to mean that Carly was going to initiate some kind of sexual action. He looked up at her hopefully:
“Really?”
“Absofuckinglutely.”
So saying, she heaved him up by his shirt, pulled open the lid of the reduplo and slammed him down on it stomach first, so that his monstrous, curved erection was pressed flat against the copying plate. He started to scream, but his wailing was brought to a sharp, premature halt when Carly administered an open-handed slap to his head that burst an eardrum and knocked out two fillings.
The reduplo spewed out a copy. Then another. Then another.
Bass was too defeated to move and, besides, the warm copying plate was oddly comforting.
oOo
13
CERVAL WATCHED HIS GIANT FRIEND STOOP, his one remaining hand reaching for the barbell at his feet. Watched as the big, thick fingers curled around the rod between the weighted ends. Watched as Thorsten gritted his teeth and brought up his forearm. Cerval knew that the bulging jaw muscles weren’t caused by the barbell’s weight but by the agony which drilled through the giant’s head each time he moved. Eighty per cent of the bone in his skull had been replaced by Donald Nathan’s alien alloy, and Cerval was beginning to think that the surgery had been far too ambitious. What was the point of having a bulletproof head, a skull harder than a blacksmith’s anvil, if it was subject to such severe headaches and neural paroxysms?
Sweat streamed from Thorsten’s face, ran down his arm, drenched his clothes, as he pumped the barbell in a complex series of movements that he had devised for his own recovery. The howl of pain had long been internalised, escaping occasionally as guttural grunts, but Cerval knew that the agony remained.
“I feel like my head’s in a vice, Cervie,” Thorsten had explained. “Like my skull’s too small for my brain.” Cerval was certain that wasn’t the physical fact, but wondered whether human bone was somehow more forgiving, more pliant, than the alloy that had replaced it. Perhaps Thor’s brain, a soft tissue after all, was somehow pressured by the unrelenting material containing it. There was nothing he could do to adjust the hand-built skull, no turning back. Somehow, they had to find a solution to the torment.
When Thorsten had woken from the surgery, howling, a screech more animal than human, Cerval knew he had made a mistake; that he had destroyed his friend’s life. He berated himself for having fallen into the same hubristic trap that had tempted his ancestor to create life. His rescue of Thor felt more like life-creation than life-saving. Had he inherited the Frankenstein compulsion, a genetic imperative to create life? Why had he believed that he could transform his terribly wounded friend into a superhuman creature? Why had he not simply given up their dream of an incorruptible force to cleanse The Smoke, made the best repairs he could, and persuaded Thor to accept a life of ease and quiet on the estate? Here, surrounded by friends who would help and support him, he could live in peace and comfort.
Cerval knew exactly why.
The Incorruptibles were his idea. The mission was his driving force. But neither would survive without his fearless friend and sidekick. He needed Thor.
Cerval’s inherent guilt was a constant in his life, but this self-flagellation for causing his oldest friend so much pain was thankfully short-lived. He should have had more faith in his own surgical skills,
and understood that in any radical procedure the period of recuperation would be unpredictable. More than that, he should have known that Thorsten was more or less superhuman. He would prevail.
oOo
14
“DUFUS!” JERRY MASON SWORE TO SHELLEY MARY. “If I have to take one more fucking picture of this place, I think I’ll switch to driving a jitney.” Jerry was one of the most talented and versatile silvographers in The Smoke and had a long-term contract with The News. As soon as she’d assured herself that Rupert Bass’s story of a dynamista bombing was real, Shelley Mary contacted him, hoping that she would be able to persuade him to accompany her to the scene of the imminent crime. He hadn’t really believed her story but he had always had an eye for a beautiful woman and Shelley Mary was more than beautiful. In his appreciation of women, Jerry wasn’t a run-of-the-mill-lecher. He simply liked their company, and the liking resulted in wonderful pictures, from darkly enigmatic to powerfully sensual. If mutual attraction lead to anything more, that was wonderful, too, the operative word for Jerry being ‘mutual.’ He had shrugged and replied to her request: “Why not?”
Now they were standing in the secure grounds of The Smoke’s Senate, a drab array of buildings which had been designed and constructed in a more modest age. There had been a moment when the politicos demanded a grander palace, surroundings that matched their self-regard. Plans were drawn up, but then The Smoke’s economy hit a wall, and grandiose architecture became less of a priority. More years passed and the old Senate buildings took on a historic significance. They somehow retained the aura and mystique of fairer and more honest times, and the Commission and its allies now quite successfully used that aura, the echo of an idealized past, to refract the citizens’ anger at their venality.
The Incorruptibles (Book One, Frankenstein Vigilante): Frankenstein Vigilante: The Steampunk Series (Frankenstein Vigilante. The Steampunk Series.) Page 10
