The rest of the body was as she might expect, though overly muscled for her tastes. She did little more than glance at the penis; somehow that didn’t seem to matter so much. She spent more time studying the hair on the chest, the tiny nipples, and the ridges that had appeared on the hands and feet. The image mimicked her every movement.
“Why all the brawn?” she asked Marion. “If you’re trying to sell me on this, you’ve taken the wrong approach.”
Marion punched some more buttons. “I didn’t choose this image,” he explained. “The computer takes what it sees, and extrapolates. You’re more muscular than the average woman. You probably exercise. This is what a comparable amount of training would have produced with male hormones to fix nitrogen in the muscles. But we’re not bound by that.”
The image lost about eight kilos of mass, mostly in the shoulders and thighs. Cleo felt a little more comfortable, but still missed the smoothness she was accustomed to seeing in her mirror.
She turned from the display and went back to her chair. Marion sat across from her and folded his hands on the desk.
“Basically, what we do is produce a cloned body from one of your own cells. Through a process called Y-Recombinant Viral Substitution we remove one of your X chromosomes and replace it with a Y.
“The clone is forced to maturity in the usual way, which takes about six months. After that, it’s just a simple non-rejection-hazard brain transplant. You walk in as a woman, and leave an hour later as a man. Easy as that.”
Cleo said nothing, wondering again what she was doing here.
“From there we can modify the body. We can make you taller or shorter, rearrange your face, virtually anything you like.” He raised his eyebrows, then smiled ruefully and spread his hands.
“All right, Ms. King,” he said. “I’m not trying to pressure you. You’ll need to think about it. In the meantime, there’s a process that would cost you very little, and might be just the thing to let you test the waters. Am I right in thinking your husband opposes this?”
She nodded, and he looked sympathetic.
“Not uncommon, not uncommon at all,” he assured her. “It brings out castration fears in men who didn’t even suspect they had them. Of course, we do nothing of the sort. His male body would be kept in a tank, ready for him to move back into whenever he wanted to.”
Cleo shifted in her chair. “What was this process you were talking about?”
“Just a bit of minor surgery. It can be done in ten minutes, and corrected in the same time before you even leave the office if you find you don’t care for it. It’s a good way to get husbands thinking about changing; sort of a signal you can send him. You’ve heard of the androgynous look. It’s in all the fashion tapes. Many women, especially if they have large breasts like you do, find it an interesting change.”
“You say it’s cheap? And reversible?”
“All our processes are reversible. Changing the size or shape of breasts is our most common body operation.”
Cleo sat on the examining table while the attendant gave her a quick physical.
“I don’t know if Marion realized you’re nursing,” the woman said. “Are you sure this is what you want?”
How the hell should I know? Cleo thought. She wished the feeling of confusion and uncertainty would pass.
“Just do it.”
Jules hated it.
He didn’t yell or slam doors or storm out of the house; that had never been his style. He voiced his objections coldly and quietly at the dinner table, after saying practically nothing since she walked in the door.
“I just would like to know why you thought you should do this without even talking to me about it. I don’t demand that you ask me, just discuss it with me.”
Cleo felt miserable, but was determined not to let it show. She held Feather in her arm, the bottle in her other hand, and ignored the food cooling on her plate. She was hungry but at least she was not eating for two.
“Jules, I’d ask you before I rearrange the furniture. We both own this apartment. I’d ask you before I put Lilli or Paul in another school. We share the responsibility for their upbringing. But I don’t ask you when I put on lipstick or cut my hair. It’s my body.”
“I like it, Mom,” Lilli said. “You look like me.”
Cleo smiled at her, reached over and tousled her hair.
“What do you like?” Paul asked, around a mouthful of food.
“See?” said Cleo. “It’s not that important.”
“I don’t see how you can say that. And I said you didn’t have to ask me. I just would... you should have... I should have known.”
“It was an impulse, Jules.”
“An impulse. An impulse.” For the first time, he raised his voice, and Cleo knew how upset he really was. Lilli and Paul fell silent, and even Feather squirmed.
But Cleo liked it. Oh, not forever and ever: as an interesting change. It gave her a feeling of freedom to be that much in control of her body, to be able to decide how large she wished her breasts to be. Did it have anything to do with changing? She really didn’t think so. She didn’t feel the least bit like a man.
And what was a breast, anyway? It was anything from a nipple sitting flush with the rib cage to a mammoth hunk of fat and milk gland. Cleo realized Jules was suffering from the more-is-better syndrome, thinking of Cleo’s action as the removal of her breasts, as if they had to be large to exist at all. What she had actually done was reduce their size.
No more was said at the table, but Cleo knew it was for the children’s sake. As soon as they got into bed, she could feel the tension again.
“I can’t understand why you did it now. What about Feather?”
“What about her?”
“Well, do you expect me to nurse her?”
Cleo finally got angry. “Damn it, that’s exactly what I expect you to do. Don’t tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about. You think it’s all fun and games, having to carry a child around all day because she needs the milk in your breasts?”
“You never complained before.”
“I...” She stopped. He was right, of course. It amazed even Cleo that this had all come up so suddenly, but here it was, and she had to deal with it. They had to deal with it.
“That’s because it isn’t an awful thing. It’s great to nourish another human being at your breast. I loved every minute of it with Lilli. Sometimes it was a headache, having her there all the time, but it was worth it. The same with Paul.” She sighed. “The same with Feather, too, most of the time. You hardly think about it.”
“Then why the revolt now? With no warning?”
“It’s not a revolt, honey. Do you see it as that? I just... I’d like you to try it. Take Feather for a few months. Take her to work like I do. Then you’d... you’d see a little of what I go through.” She rolled on her side and playfully punched his arm, trying to lighten it in some way. “You might even like it. It feels real good.”
He snorted. “I’d feel silly.”
She jumped from the bed and paced toward the living room, then turned, more angry than ever. “Silly? Nursing is silly? Breasts are silly? Then why the hell do you wonder why I did what I did?”
“Being a man is what makes it silly,” he retorted. “It doesn’t look right. I almost laugh every time I see a man with breasts. The hormones mess up your system, I heard, and—”
“That’s not true! Not anymore. You can lactate—”
“—and besides, it’s my body, as you pointed out. I’ll do with it what pleases me.”
She sat on the edge of the bed with her back to him. He reached out and stroked her, but she moved away.
“All right,” she said. “I was just suggesting it. I thought you might like to try it. I’m not going to nurse her. She goes on the bottle from now on.”
“If that’s the way it has to be.”
“It is. I want you to start taking Feather to work with you. Since she’s going to be a bottle baby, i
t hardly matters which of us cares for her. I think you owe it to me, since I carried the burden alone with Lilli and Paul.”
“All right.”
She got into bed and pulled the covers up around her, her back to him. She didn’t want him to see how close she was to tears.
But the feeling passed. The tension drained from her, and she felt good. She thought she had won a victory, and it was worth the cost. Jules would not stay angry at her.
She fell asleep easily, but woke up several times during the night as Jules tossed and turned.
He did adjust to it. It was impossible for him to say so all at once, but after a week without lovemaking he admitted grudgingly that she looked good. He began to touch her in the mornings and when they kissed after getting home from work. Jules had always admired her slim muscularity, her athlete’s arms and legs. The slim chest looked so natural on her, it fit the rest of her so well that he began to wonder what all the fuss had been about.
One night while they were clearing the dinner dishes, Jules touched her nipples for the first time in a week. He asked her if it felt any different.
“There is very little feeling anywhere but the nipples,” she pointed out, “no matter how big a woman is. You know that.”
“Yeah, I guess I do.”
She knew they would make love that night and determined it would be on her terms.
She spent a long time in the bathroom, letting him get settled with his book, then came out and took it away. She got on top of him and pressed close, kissing and tickling his nipples with her fingers.
She was aggressive and insistent. At first he seemed reluctant, but soon he was responding as she pressed her lips hard against his, forcing his head back into the pillow.
“I love you,” he said, and raised his head to kiss her nose. “Are you ready?”
“I’m ready.” He put his arms around her and held her close, then rolled over and hovered above her.
“Jules. Jules. Stop it.” She squirmed onto her side, her legs held firmly together.
“What’s wrong?”
“I want to be on top tonight.”
“Oh. All right.” He turned over again and reclined passively as she repositioned herself. Her heart was pounding. There had been no reason to think he would object—they had made love in any and all positions, but basically the exotic ones were a change of pace from the “natural” one with her on her back. Tonight she had wanted to feel in control.
“Open your legs, darling,” she said, with a smile. He did, but didn’t return the smile. She raised herself on her hands and knees and prepared for the tricky insertion.
“Cleo.”
“What is it? This will take a little effort, but I think I can make it worth your while, so if you’d just—”
“Cleo, what the hell is the purpose of this?”
She stopped dead and let her head sag between her shoulders.
“What’s the matter? Are you feeling silly with your feet in the air?”
“Maybe. Is that what you wanted?”
“Jules, humiliating you was the farthest thing from my mind.”
“Then what was on your mind? It’s not like we’ve never done it this way before. It’s—”
“Only when you chose to do so. It’s always your decision.”
“It’s not degrading to be on the bottom.”
“Then why were you feeling silly?”
He didn’t answer, and she wearily lifted herself away from him, sitting on her knees at his feet. She waited, but he didn’t seem to want to talk about it.
“I’ve never complained about the position,” she ventured. “I don’t have any complaints about it. It works pretty well.” Still he said nothing. “All right. I wanted to see what it looked like from up there. I was tired of looking at the ceiling. I was curious.”
“And that’s why I felt silly. I never minded you being on top before, have I? But before... well, it’s never been in the context of the last couple of weeks. I know what’s on your mind.”
“And you feel threatened by it. By the fact that I’m curious about changing, that I want to know what it’s like to take charge. You know I can’t—and wouldn’t if I could—force a change on you.”
“But your curiosity is wrecking our marriage.”
She felt like crying again, but didn’t let it show except for a trembling of the lower lip. She didn’t want him to try and soothe her; that was all too likely to work, and she would find herself on her back with her legs in the air. She looked down at the bed and nodded slowly, then got up. She went to the mirror and took the brush, began running it through her hair.
“What are you doing now? Can’t we talk about this?”
“I don’t feel much like talking right now.” She leaned forward and examined her face as she brushed, then dabbed at the corners of her eyes with a tissue. “I’m going out. I’m still curious.”
He said nothing as she started for the door.
“I may be a little late.”
The place was called Oophyte. The capital “O” had a plus sign hanging from it, and an arrow in the upper right side. The sign was built so that the symbols revolved; one moment the plus was inside and the arrow out, the next moment the reverse.
Cleo moved in a pleasant haze across the crowded dance floor, pausing now and then to draw on her dopestick. The air in the room was thick with lavender smoke, illuminated by flashing blue lights. She danced when the mood took her. The music was so loud that she didn’t have to think about it; the noise gripped her bones, animated her arms and legs. She glided through a forest of naked skin, feeling the occasional roughness of a paper suit and, rarely, expensive cotton clothing. It was like moving underwater, like wading through molasses.
She saw him across the floor, and began moving in his direction. He took no notice of her for some time, though she danced right in front of him. Few of the dancers had partners in more than the transitory sense. Some were celebrating life, others were displaying themselves, but all were looking for partners, so eventually he realized she had been there an unusual length of time. He was easily as stoned as she was.
She told him what she wanted.
“Sure. Where do you want to go? Your place?”
She took him down the hall in back and touched her credit bracelet to the lock on one of the doors. The room was simple, but clean.
He looked a lot like her phantom twin in the mirror, she noted with one part of her mind. It was probably why she had chosen him. She embraced him and lowered him gently to the bed.
“Do you want to exchange names?” he asked. The grin on his face kept getting sillier as she toyed with him.
“I don’t care. Mostly I think I want to use you.”
“Use away. My name’s Saffron.”
“I’m Cleopatra. Would you get on your back, please?”
He did, and they did. It was hot in the little room, but neither of them minded it. It was healthy exertion, the physical sensations were great, and when Cleo was through she had learned nothing. She collapsed on top of him. He did not seem surprised when tears began falling on his shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” she said, sitting up and getting ready to leave.
“Don’t go,” he said, putting his hand on her shoulder. “Now that you’ve got that out of your system, maybe we can make love.”
She didn’t want to smile, but she had to, then she was crying harder, putting her face to his chest and feeling the warmth of his arms around her and the hair tickling her nose. She realized what she was doing, and tried to pull away.
“For God’s sake, don’t be ashamed that you need someone to cry on.”
“It’s weak. I... I just didn’t want to be weak.”
“We’re all weak.”
She gave up struggling and nestled there until the tears stopped. She sniffed, wiped her nose, and faced him.
“What’s it like? Can you tell me?” She was about to explain what she meant, but he seemed to understand.
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“It’s like... nothing special.”
“You were born female, weren’t you? I mean, I thought I might be able to tell.”
“It’s no longer important how I was born. I’ve been both. It’s still me, on the inside. You understand?”
“I’m not sure I do.”
Universe 9 - [Anthology] Page 20
