[Author's Note: This piece of social horror (and therefore, of social commentary) is the original and uncut version as originally published in HAUNTS Quarterly magazine, Winter 1990. It includes the random 1500 words requested deleted by the publisher due to space considerations, and not editorial license. By the way, the section that was cut, was the scene at Peter's home.

Although this story has been previously published, as mentioned on my home page, it is also a work in progress. I am currently in the process of writing this story into novel form, which will make it greatly expanded, and flesh it out into a much larger storyline. I resisted the urge to expand and correct this version, as I believe that I have progressed as a writer since it was finalized prior to publishing. There are a few errors that were possibly induced at the printers, though it was sent in electro nic form on a 5.25 floppy disk. Certain words were spent a great deal of time on, getting their capitalization correct and completely out of the norm, due to the intention of the character's "voice" in the story. Needless to say, this is (may be) no longer the case.

It is also my intent, when time permits, to hypertext this piece out, and allow specific locations in the story to the capability of going into the thought and formation of the story. Thus allowing the reader to delve into the Author's creative thought pr ocesses. This idea was conceived in order to show the ability of hypertext and the creative processes of a writer; a valuable exercise for new authors, as well as interested readers.]

{Please forgive any obvious errors in the following text. This was salvaged from an archived file and formatted from Wordstar to ascii text, to MS-Word for Windows, then back down to text, finally into HTML. You will also find another Author's Note at the end of:}

I turned on the IntelSet reflexively, not that I was unaware of the program for which all the world was waiting. Rather, there came up from the depths of my inner being, a desire not to watch again, that which I had already experienced.

So often have I heard mention of it, that it seems like only a moment ago. If only it could be passed along now, far beyond the ages. Far beyond the age of man. Yet, what would that accomplish?

The screen presented a beautiful commercial, perfectly timed and switched to present the beginning of the evening's incorporeal translations. There were no longer incorrect switchings and interrupts of the like which had plagued television for the whole of its history. The new interfaces with computer banks: government, private, commercial, business and industry, were perfectly regulated and controlled; not by the thousands of Technicians in the Television Industry, the change-a-week Division Heads, vario us commissions and such, but rather by one man, one brain, one indomitable soul. My, "friend," my late son Jerry's "best" friend, Peter Masters.

Yes, there was remorse. Resentment at being used and tricked into winning my Nobel prize for the advancement of science, television, and the human race. Irritation at being made one of the most powerful men on the face of this earth. Reticence at having been made the second most important man in the solar system, merely for a questionable association to a once close friend. And I, his only trusted confidant.

But, he had lied to me. He lied. To me.

Just his brain. He had said that, just his brain.

And he had lied to me. I should have known. Then.

So he received my help, but only out of love, only because what happened was supposed to have been an accident. Something unforeseeable.

Irreversible. Something accidental.

Damn him!

I looked at the screen. More intricate switching and juxtapositions than were ever conceived of before he took over. He could reference nearly any data bank in the world, or off world for that matter. That first season, they had given him a tv talk-show. Of course, he wasn't really there with his guests, they sat in an empty set. But to the millions of viewers, he was there. They had sat and talked in the most real, technologically sophisticated sets ever conceived by any television network or speculative fiction writer ever born of this earth. More sophisticated than just a projected, computer-generated image. Truly he was there, though in a sense, he was not.

Then he had been given a contract for a tv-series, and finally they had simply turned over every station and terminal to him. Amazing! Not right away, to be sure, but in the end, it was of course inevitable. Finally he had gotten his Godhead-ship, limited to these United Sates. But, what was that. Eventually, he would be instituted as the world's communications infrastructure; in essence, become its Conscience. Meanwhile, he merely checked on everything, referenced and cross-referenced and carefully mon itored whatever went on the air. Before, at the time of, and during broadcast, Cablecast or Lightcast. He rapidly became trusted and quite indispensable. He had told me that he only used the computing power of the first two phalanges of his crystallized little finger. He had seriously conjectured that running the whole world would take most of his left hand.

This now, was the program of how he became the Controller. And tomorrow I would be a celebrity all over, though I did not wish to go through it all again. But, he had convinced me. He had been so convincing, as he had always been. The children would benefit from it in the long run, he had said. And how could I argue with that? They needed heroes, and he could hardly be that to them. But he was. Didn't he know that?

The children are our future, are they not?

His ever changing commercials, god they were beautiful, were creative, intelligent and to the point. He had put the American tv advertising industry out of business in one fell swoop, and now other countries were also seeking him out for his counsel. His timing was always perfect and stunningly instantaneous. One trademark of his genius was that he had found something to do with all the advertising Execs that he had put out of business. His invention, the IntelSet, was weekly changing and growing in soph istication.

I watched the beginning of the show. The holographic titles were typically gorgeous and mind stimulating. More exact terminology would, I believe, be brain boggling. He had once said that he tripped certain synapses to get the desired effects. Frighteningly accurate control.

"Well, here we go." I said this aloud, disdainfully to myself. I wanted to be alone for this show. It would be only "nearly" perfect, since it was from his pre-transformed brain/mind. Just then the phone bleeped. I answered merely needing to say "hello" f or the line to be admitted clearance. It was Peter. I never quite got over that. How he could call me, yet not be at the other end of the line. Not quite completely anyway.

"George?"

"Yes, Peter?"

"Hi. I, just wanted to be sure you got to see the show. It's really in your honor, you know. I mean we both know I would never be here if it weren't for you."

"Thank you, Peter. I know you mean it well." He paused and there was a stagnant period of silence between us. Finally, he said with a low, tight mouthed ache, to hear me acquiesce delight of the forthcoming show.

"Are you all right?"

"Oh, yes. I'm fine." I murmured, albeit convincingly. Thank you. I'm just tired, I think. Running a project as large as mine is now, is tiring."

"Why don't you move into a mansion? Get servants, and such."

"Oh, I do like doing things for myself, you know."

"Sure. Well, look. It's time. Got to go. Let me know what you think about the show."

"Don't worry. It will be perfect. As always. Good night, Peter."

"Good night, George. All my love and respect. And thank you, again. I really love my position. Take care." I terminated the connection, which consisted of merely saying, "Phone off."

It was becoming obvious to me how he was taking on that placating tone of voice that is stock in trade for certain PsychoComp services. Of course, they're available to talk to 24 hours a day.

The show began with that slick feel that a major motion picture always has when done about some grand human event or other. Apprehensively, I sat back and soon began to find myself watching it as an eager observer, an entranced f/x satiated movie-child. Such was the skill and power that Peter had over the medium.

Two men were sitting at a table in a French type cafe, one drinking a cafe au lait' and the other, an espresso. They were Peter, the old Peter, and myself, George. The actors were us, drawn out of Peter's memories, and displayed for all the world to reco rd in the history archives. I occasionally wondered what would happen if he were to have a slip of the mind and remember sometime hidden in his memory. When he and my son had gone to an expensive whorehouse as a fraternity pledge. And this for all the world to see on the IntelSet. I smiled, and tried to concentrate. Tomorrow there would be questions. God, I hated reporters now.

The computer generated, actor-specters were talking and approaching some intimate emotional crisis. One which I could remember all too well. What follows is exactly what was disseminated from the IntelSet and absorbed into the is-tube viewer. Such is the power and the skill of the device and Peter's abilities. Subtleties such as one could only before achieve through the art of writing can be transmitted via the IntelSet. It had been suggested to call the IntelSet the MindBook machine, and surely it is cal led that in many trades.

As the story unfolded on the screen, Peter was speaking.

Confused, George looked warily at Peter. This was the man who, at the age of seventeen, had conquered the question of simultaneous spin reversal of subatomic particles. A problem that had stumped physicists for decades. And physics was not his only forte. At twenty, he had devised a method to displace molecules, thereby allowing transportation via light. Transporter beams were now used locally outside the earth's atmosphere, and gravitational wells. Peter was now working out a way so that they could be made smaller and used within the atmosphere. There were problems about subverting fields and atmospheric contaminants that gave forth unusual life forms from the usual ones when reconstitution occurred. Evidently, the government continued research into t hese areas. Peter had found it quite amusing, but somewhat below his interest to continue longer than to create a few unique life forms that he maintained as pets until he tired of them.

Finally, he gave them to special a zoo now he also created at the Smithsonian institute. People still weren't beaming around the skies yet.

George rubbed his temple and looked back at the genius facing him. No, Peter was no man to take lightly. Had he claimed to have built a nuclear bomb, then he had done so. A simple and matter of fact. Actually, he and Jerry had actually done so when they were 13 years old. They then had ransomed enough money from Mary and George, and Peter's now deceased parents to go to Disney station. They had bought the device from the boys, but they had lacked the plutonium and at the time, all had thought it to be rather cute. Besides, the vacation was timed well and all had a wonderful time. It had been George's first time outside the earth's gravitational field.

If Peter had said he had raised the dead, then George would have locked his doors securely at night in fear of the unDead. But not of Peter, his intelligence was fearful, but not his social graces.

"All right, then. So how many animals did you go through before you got it -- correct. Correct enough to, experiment with higher forms of life."

Peter smiled approvingly at George. He hadn't been wrong to trust his appraisal of surgeon's intuition. Peter slid the heavy leather bound book from George's side of the table to his. He opened the thick book on the cafe table, setting his cappuccino off to the side for now.

"Well, according to my records, 42." He put his hands on the book and slowly shifted his gaze back to the somber gentleman opposite him. The stare was being returned in kind.

"42? Why, that's remarkable, Peter, remarkable. Only, 42?" George was not prepared for this. Usually he was on guard for Peter's exhibitions of genius. But this, Peter wasn't even trained as a surgeon, nor a doctor of any kind for that matter.

He shook his head and smiled. A healthy dose of his espresso helped to clear his main Thoughtways again. He set the cup back upon its saucer.

"What now, Peter. What is it you called me here for?"

Now it was Peter's turn to be amazed. He looked down at his book, closed it for now, and patted it as if it were a many crystal ornament, holding the key for eternity's demise. Peter brought his powerful hazel eyes up to meet the surgeon's spectacle bejeweled, powder blue ones.

"You, George. It is you I need. I want you to implant one of my devices into -- into my brain."

"No! This cannot be. This is foolishness. Peter! My friend!"

"Please, George. Please, listen to me. You will do this. You must. You have to. George. You owe me. I saved Jerry's life and now you have the chance to save mine. And you will do this thing I ask of you. You will do it because you respect my intelligenc e, my work, what my life has stood for and, because, I know, because -- you love me. Perhaps for wont of the love of your only offspring."

George could feel a rising tide of fear caressing his larynx. He tried to speak but the chords in his aging throat refused him the solace of pain hiding words. He knew that something terrible, was beginning to happen. To be sure, Peter would never ask suc h a thing in jest, nor unless it was absolutely necessary.

Tears welled up in his eyes. A shudder began to overtake his strong, but weary body. He placed his hand upon Peter's and looked directly into the man's eyes; social decorum temporarily leaving his usual manner of aloofness. A few amused eyes settled on their joined hands and turned away, hoping not to be caught observing such strong emotions in so public a place. George could feel the feelings creeping up in his friend's face. He projected the powerful thought of curiosity upon his companion.

"I will tell you why, but first I must have your answer. Will you perform the operation -- or not? "

"Unquestionably, Peter. But now, tell me. What is this predicament you find yourself in?"

"If you're caught, performing the operation, surely they will lock you away for a madman. What I am asking of you is a dangerous thing, for you, as for me. But, it either that, or my life is forfeit. I will explain, then I will allow you to choose again, whether or not, to help me." His grip tightened on his friend's hand. "Thank you for your respect. And your love."

"If I allowed you to perish without trying to arrest your plight, surely, Mary would kill me anyway." Both attempted to make light of this grave situation. George felt greatly uneasy, considering that he didn't even know why he felt so. He bid his patie nce to hold out a little longer. Obviously, this was harder on Peter than on he.

"George. I, am beginning to crystallize."

At first, George did not understand. The statement meant nothing to him. But, then he allowed the final gestalt to attack and rend his logic and his rationale. His faith in his friend's intelligence and lack of humor at such a moment, supported the statem ent in force a thousand-fold and the image of Peter actually crystallizing right there in the chair opposite him brought the reality and terror of Peter's plight to the forefront of his once unshakable belief in life. A belief founded in the solid reality of this "normal" life he had always thought that he was destined to lead.

"No, my friend, not my whole body, surely." This almost did make Peter smile, but only a slight side grin caressed his stone cut features.

"But, my brain -- George, my brain, surely is."

Now George had a solid fear to concentrate on. A thousand questions shot through him, but only one was allowed to surface.

"How? How, Peter? How?"

"My experiments. They were with crystalline compounds. Crystal conductors rather than silicone. A very specialized type of crystal though. It won't kill me. Not if we react in time. What I need is an amplifier. The structure requires more than average brain electricity. My brain will work faster, and hold more data, more perfectly than any human being ever before. Think of it George! I'll have a shot at being the perfect human being."

Horror now surged along George's nerve endings. A psychotic tremor rummaged through his theories of what Peter had been trying to tell him. Surely, this sounds like delusions of grandeur. Still, Peter sounded lucid enough. The effect this was all taking o n him started to show, and he began to conceive of his friend's dilemma in terms of psychology rather than neurology.

He drew his hand away unintentionally. Peter allowed all this to sink into the moment and concentrated on their surroundings and what was left of his latte'. George, fearful and withdrawn for the moment, drank nervously upon his espresso, wishing it was doused heavily with cognac, or perhaps just some Cutty Sark on the rocks.

The scene changed into one of a montage of operation and recovery. George doing research and Peter gaining insights. Then they are separated, and finally reunited, with George coming up to Peter's doorstep to visit after a period of absence.

The format of the program's discourse changed and Peter expertly guided the IntelSet audience into a view inside George's mind.

Now I am back. There had been no notes for me upon my arrival at home, nor at the clinic. I am greatly curious about Peter's condition. Although the operation was a success, and Peter's brain, as much to our hopes, although it had crystallized, had not killed him. His reactions after the surgery were indeed, quicker and more accurate than was previously the case, but, how does one tell if a genius has been made to be more ingenious?

As I lifted my gloved hand to knock on his door, I was besieged with the urge to leave, to abandon this frightening attempt at controlling nature. Genetic restructuring had never been an area in which I wished haphazardly to delve. Although his records and attainments to date were impressive, if not mostly unpublished and unlicensed. I only prayed that no harm will come to him.

Perhaps no one will believe any of this, but I saw the rotation of his gray matter with my eyes during the surgery. There was indeed crystallization processes occurring within his cerebellum, and by all standards of belief, he should have died within the day, or very surely within the week. But rather, his device worked, saved his life and increased his physical awareness and responses. If only he would have remained within the safety of the clinic until I had returned. But, he was a stubborn one. Much like I was when I was his age.

[There was a return at this time to the original format of the program that Peter was projecting from his "nest"]

George was prepared for almost anything when the door opened, but not for this. Peter's eyes had distended to where the surface of his cornea was nearly smooth with the structure of his brow and his usual high cheekbones. The hazel in Peter's eyes was less pronounced than before and indeed had changed to a deep blue. He had a look of utter pleasure upon his distorted, once strikingly handsome face. George grasped for the doorframe and held himself from falling, his knees had suddenly gone vague and hol low beneath him. His chest tightened and a chill shot down his spine. He broke into a cool sweat. Peter grabbed for his arm and helped him inside the door. George accepted the assistance gratefully, but could not shake off the look of shock that his feat ures projected so clearly.

Peter tried to help George into the hallway, but by then George had gotten control of his balance and was holding Peter by the shoulders, to get a better look. Peter turned his head this way and that, proudly smiling and showing off what he obviously tho ught was a splendid new face job. He fluttered his eyes at George in the fashion of an inexperienced model. The face was not unhandsome, but it simply was not Peter anymore. Nor was it any human George had ever seen.

"Peter..." George stared sharply at Peter, his disdain now quite prominent.

"Well..." Peter said through a smile of extreme pride, "what do you think, George?" George began to speak, couldn't, began again, and finally gave up.

"Is it me? Or maybe, someone else?" He laughed. "Come on in, George, come, come on." They entered the living room and George sat on the love seat, where he always did when he visited. Peter took his place on the couch, near all the remote controls and his most recent mess of journals and periodicals.

"My god, Peter." He paused, his voice became heavy with constraint and worry. "Are you all right?"

"Never better, old boy. Never better. Can I get you anything?"

"Scotch. On the rocks." George continued to stare.

"George. It's only 10 a.m. don't you have things to do back at the clinic?"

"Not now. I haven't even notified them that I'm back yet. God, Peter."

"Not another word. I'll get you some nice tea. How was Europe?"

"Since when do you drink tea?"

"Oh. My habits have taken a turn for the better. Don't worry, I feel fine. I'll be back in a minute." Jack exited the door at the other side of the room, turning down the hall where George knew the kitchen to be. He continued to sit there, stunned, tr ying to collect his thoughts.

George looked around, noticing for the first time, the disarray. Peter was always so neat, he thought. Shaking his head he absently picked up a few magazines to peruse for the moment until Peter got back. He wondered what Journals Research he was now loc ked into. The title of the first magazine threw him a little. The second more. And the third, the fourth and the rest, sent him straight to Algiers.

Considering the Journals that Peter usually read, these were a Who's Who of completely useless rags. There were television journals, advertising journals, trades for the entertainment industry; all quite obverse from the usual diet Peter entertained of scientific American's, E.E.E.G. Journals, le Scientifique Francais, or some such papers and hard core scientific journals from around the world. Some translated and some not. Peter spoke fluently, five different languages, and had a smattering of some ancient languages as well.

George's jaw dropped sharply open. He glanced up at the five, still active, tv screens.

Screen #1: some science show on pre-cosmic foam.
#2: the international news.
#3: (a cold chill came over him) a children's show.
#4: some sensationalist, good looking, Mexican-American flashing pictures of what appeared to be crime scenes.
#5: Mr. Smith's Village, another children's show.

Then, as if on cue, Peter shouted from the kitchen for George to turn up Mr. Smith's.

"He's supposed to have a special surprise for us kids in the village today." This was said cheerfully and with a weight of importance that he usually affected only with the discovery of a new trace element, or the advent of some new isotope; allowing per haps for a smaller battery to be used with a superminiaturized computer, and instituted where it would never have been thought to be used before. George clicked up the sound on Mr. Smith's and sat back, weak, shaken, and completely flaberghasted.

"George-- George--"

George finally came around. Peter had put his hand on George's knee, then shook it vigorously. The tea was handed to him. The sound of jittery china sliced through the room's warm air. George silently sipped upon his beverage and came close to dropping it when he finally looked at Peter to say something. He had forgotten Peter's appearance, and now what he was going to say. He leaned over and spoke to Peter sincerely.

"Peter--" Again his voice dropped in tone. "Are you all right?"

"Never felt better in my life."

"Did I do, this. To you?"

"No George, and yes. It was my choice. Afraid I tricked you. I told you I was polluted, and crystallizing, but, well, I waited till before the operation to take the Reconstitutor. Otherwise, I'd have been dead long before I initially got to talk with you."

"But, you told me you found away to slow the process down, to form the circuits properly."

"I lied."

"You, Bastard!" George stood up, accidentally spilling some of his hot tea on his pants leg. He swore quietly and reseated himself, mildly embarrassed.

"Yes." Smiling. "But, look at me."

"Yes!" George's voice affected a high pitched squeal until he heard himself, so that after, "look! At you!" He resolved to control himself to the fullest, during this unsettling interlocution.

"Unique, no? So, I look different. I can take in more information than ever before. More and faster than any human being that has ever lived. Why, I'm going stir crazy just trying to put up with the slow rate of intake I have to deal with. I have perfec t recall. Thrice the parallel processing power, and everything is increasing. My brain will never die and it can be interfaced to a computer after dissolution of my corporeal being. I only need one more operation, to add the interface, for the computer li nk, and --"

"No!" George stood up again, remembering this time to set down his tea first. "I will not be party to the insanity that you seem so adherent to. What the hell do you think this is, a damned game? This is your life you're screwing around with."

"Yes! That's right. It's my life!" Peter screamed this with such force that George found himself sitting down, his knees shaking beneath him.

"My God, Peter. What have we done? You can't go out like that, people will be terrorized."

"Have faith, George. You mustn't be so misanthropic. People are more accepting than the horror movies make them out to be. Besides, I have been about." Fear crossed George's face.

All right then, with a pair of sunglasses. I was quite unnoticeable."

"Peter. I want you to come to the clinic and have some tests done."

"Ha! No, thank you." He paused to drink some of his tea.

"Well, perhaps. But all in my own good time. I'm having the time of my life." Peter waved his arm around at the room about them.

"God. Mr. Smith, Peter? Since when do you avoid the Scientifics to such a degree? I am afraid that you are not the man I knew before."

"Screw off, and listen up old fella'. There's more to life than that narrow minded view. While you were gone, I've designed a new type of television. It will put these stupid things right on the junk pile. I have been having great visions of late. I am ta king my potion regularly now, toned down of course. Wait till you see what I have in mind."

"Please, not now. I don't think I could take anymore tonight. I will call on you tomorrow, and we can spend the day together."

George made his exit quickly and stood on the porch confused for a moment after the door closed. He shook his head and headed off to his car. Peter smiled from the hallway, side door window and dropped the curtain back into place delicately.

This was the most striking and dramatic of the program. Peter did indeed look spectacular now. The most magnificent human, correction, ultra-human being on the planet. There were a collection of shots by a camera, rotating around the stand where Peter now forever stood upon his raised dais. Connected and linked to the computers and receivers and receptors of the USA and beyond, even to the stars, as they had recently linked him up to great antenna aimed at the solar system and beyond. His body appeared on-screen as a 6"1', solid crystalline, humanoid form.

He was beyond being able to move, and his brain and body substance were now as one. We had turned him into a single lightspeed fast, atomic powered, brain and controller. His body was naked and connections were glued to him, giving him a Medusa-like appearance, since most of the interfaces extended from his head.

Light passed through him and gave him a blue sheen and a violet hued aura.

The room he was in was void of humans, and light switching could be observed as the only movement. His eyes had remained a deep blue and stared vacantly, yet knowingly out into what obviously he thought to be a necessary evil. It appeared to the viewer that he was watching forever the universe, through a window near the ceiling. When in fact, there were no windows in his nest, security being higher here than anywhere else on the earth. But the rest was quite accurate.

There followed one final montage, this one obviously aimed at the children in the audience. Children's shows and such rapidly crossed the screen, in three dimensional, not the old-fashioned two. Children especially required the three dimensional format. Not all programs were as such, since some things simply do not translate well into x, y and z coordinates. The show ended with projections of where Peter planned to go in the near and the far future. The program ended with the usual commercials and preview s of future delicacies for consumption by the public mind. Its end was as beautiful as its beginning. Peter was showing he was a true artist who had finally come unto his medium.

So far, everything has gone like clockwork. The world's governments keep giving him more to do, and alluding to the giving of more, and more responsibilities, as he shows he can handle it. There seems no limit to the numbers of things he can control all a t once. But, I keep watching. If just one item slips out of place, just one system shows decay, then I am sure of it, the whole structure he has built up around him will collapse, and the entire world with him. Next week, all hospitals are to be linked u p to him. He already has all the communications, airlines, transportation agencies, schools, etc.

But the thought of him slipping, terrifies me. And all the world watches America, to see what will be the outcome of the new way. Some of them must see the fault, but they are silent. Perhaps they fear he has already become too powerful.

I did have a plan, though. And when, if ever, I noticed him beginning to decay, mentally not physically, for I am convinced that he is solid for at least a millennium, then, I will pull the plug, so to speak. Yes, the world will crash, for if the U.S. falls, so to will the others have pain and suffering. But we will pick ourselves up again. And all the better for the wear. And we will have learned a great lesson. Better that than living under the dictatorship of -- God knows what he could become. Consider it if for only a moment, for longer will surely drive one mad with fear. For Hitler was only, just an ordinary man.

As the show ended, the phone queried me again. I questioned it and a voice on the other end proved me right in thinking that it was again Peter.

"Yes, Peter. What is it?"

"Well, how did you like the show, George?"

"As always, it was excellent. Don't you get tired of being so damned perfect?"

"You sound a bit irritated."

"Sorry, it's been a long three years. Interview after interview. And Mary, gone from my side forever. If I had known that I would become so famous, I would have let you die."

"Ohh, pishaw."

"Yeah. Pishaw. So what's up, Peter."

"Well. I don't know how to ask this of you."

"Never stopped you before. What is it?"

"George, I think you know."

"Oh. That. Still horney? Look. I told you. She's not interested."

"She will be. She hasn't long to live. I offer her immortality, love, power, and --" changing his voice in that playful boyish way he had, "-- the greatest sex she could ever imagine."

"She isn't interested, Peter. Let it lay. Some people want to die when they get old. Perhaps, well, she may very well be one of them."

"Look. I won't argue with you over this George. I want her. That's final."

Well, I thought, that was abrupt. How testy can you get. I'm not sure I understand this. He has no hormones. But he sounds like a teenager going through puberty. Well, he'll cool off in a few days. Although IntelSet programming may be a bit rough till he does. This made me laugh. I thought about that. There have been more sex oriented shows lately. But then again, sex crimes have gone down, too. Hmmm -- what the Hell.

Let me clarify the situation to these memoirs. Two weeks ago, Peter sent me a portfolio through my computer terminal and asked if I would get him a subject to go through what he has already gone through. He wants a wife, evidently. A sixty-five year old w oman, who was a beauty contest winner, I won't say who because you would know who she is, and her family does deserve some privacy. Peter said her maturity would suit him and he wouldn't notice it anyway because once linked together, they would be any age they wished. Anyway, I read the data. At 27 she received her doctorate in astrophysics, if you can believe that. Peter picked a good choice for a wife. She is now terminally ill. Six months to live and in living at a private hospital in great pain. So, what the hell, I asked her.

To make a long story short, she cried and screamed at me and threw me out of her room. She made so much noise, the Nurse threw me off the floor. Being a Doctor of some prestige, I didn't wish my identity known considering they hadn't already noticed who I was. Damned if I wasn't shocked. So I left. Disposed of her packet and gave it up after telling Peter about her refusal. So what does he say? Get me her corpse. OK. So I check into it. But she already has a legal injunction to be cremated at death. I g ive up. But Peter doesn't, obviously. I thought about this over a tall scotch and went to bed early.

Two weeks later, I noticed the woman had died of a stroke. Not what she was to die of, but a quick death nonetheless. Frustration and pain simply took their toll, I suppose. The article said she was cremated immediately and her remains spilled in the air over the Atlantic ocean. Nice touch. That was that. There would be plenty of women for Peter. Why if he only would ask, there would be thousands of volunteers. Of course, ones that would volunteer, may be just the ones who would not be proper for the pos ition. Or maybe not. Anyway, out of all the women in the world he had to choose from, he had chosen her. In a way, I felt grief for him. The stupid bastard. Serves him right.

A month passed after the show before I saw Peter again. It was at the nest. He had men working there I had never seen before. They wore earphones and acted somewhat like automatons. When I questioned the computer terminal about it, it said they were new style Techs, trained especially for the new equipment. Later I discovered they were secret service technicians. I didn't think it important to ask what the new equipment was until I actually entered the nest, where I discovered that there was a new addition. To my horror, I saw that it was the woman who had s upposedly been cremated. Her body was now crystallized and mounted, just as Peter's body was. There was a separate dais for her and now a third dais off to the side making a perfect triangle out of the three. "Who would that be for?" I wondered, half afraid to consider it. I examined them further while, most likely, Peter examined me. A few connections went straight from Peter to her, apparently connected via several of their main lymph nodes.

Then it came to me. If Peter were concerned about security, he just might route connections through the lymph nodes for a more secure com-line. The fluid tissue lymph, so called because of the number of living cells the fluid contains, permeates cell tis sues achieving a most intimate relationship throughout the human body. Yes, he might choose this route for a secure connection. Pulses would travel well through the lymph channels, actually, considering crystallization. And, he would know more about that than I.

Right, then! Nothing strange about that, is there? Peter caught a dead woman against her wishes, links up to her in secret, and utilizes the corpse of an unwilling subject. Then something odd, did occur to me. I glanced up at, what was her name? Jennifer?

And, I thought about the men I met upon arriving. Hmmm, security? I looked over at Peter, a chilling thought stabbing at me about the security types in the outer lab. I glanced up at Peter, and did a double take. For a brief instant, impossible as it see ms, I thought I saw Peter smiling. I shook my head to clear my thoughts. If I should have to pull the plug on him, I would have to be elsewhere than here. Perhaps --

It was then that the Overvoice spoke to me. That too was Peter's design, a way he can communicate within the nest without anyone monitoring what he said. He used the skull of the person he was talking to as a receiver, and they heard his synthesized voice inside their head. A little too godlike for my taste, to tell you a truth. Not to mention only a bit startling whenever it happened.

"Peter, what is this? What is she doing here?"

"George. Don't be so dense. I told you. She was the only one. No other would do. I waited until her spirit was gone, and revived her experiences, stimulated and amplified her and she is as good as new. But without the annoying tendency to desire death."

"You had no right!"

"Oh. Don't be so stuffy. We've had a wonderful time together."

"No. You don't understand. She is a corpse. Her spirit is gone. She isn't an individual anymore. She is only a reflection of who you are. You're dabbling in necrophilia and narcissistic hedonism."

Fear took me then, for the breakdown I had feared for so long was now upon us. The half of what ran half of our world, the children of our world, was a dead being. He was deluding himself. Was there not something biblical about this? The dead rising to r ule, or something? Surely, she must reserve some portion of herself for herself. What kind of revenge could she unleash against him and therefore against the world at large?

I knew I wanted out of the nest, immediately. I had to stop this insanity before it was too late. Peter was already gone. It is the same story as always. Absolute power corrupts absolutely. I must be gone from this foul place. Surely, only the truly ignor ant could now not see the dire straits the world was in. I was the only hope for generations to come.

Surely I had been wrong. Nothing I could do about it now anyway. Peter has the master level priority program. I am more of a subroutine compared to him. Besides, the world hasn't collapsed as I thought it would. There has been minor outbreaks of cannibalism and such, but the police have pretty much put that down now. The grave robbing situation is a bit of a problem, considering the disease factor and such, but enforced cremation seems to be curbing that circumstance.

Sex is finally open and not hidden anymore. Most children have had sex together by the time they are six or seven now. Of course, incest was a problem for several years, considering the infant fatalities and deformities, but birth control as usual, see mingly was the solution, as it usually is to problems of sexual freedom.

Murder is unheard of now. Of course, this is because it has been decriminalized. My fear of abusing the rights of a dead person has quite vanished. I don't see any longer where this has affected the general populace. Peter and I use Jennifer, among other delicacies, for storing thoughts that we wish to keep hidden; and through her, only we have access to them. Oh, perhaps a minor leak here or there from Peter's or my private activities have surfaced in some township or other, but these are small communities, and not of much concern when dealing on a wider, more global level, as surely we will soon be doing. Although Canada, our closest neighbor, seems strongly to be avoiding relations with America. Now, I cannot understand why this would be.

CrystalSex with Jennifer truly is not that bad, and she isn't even vaguely aware of our mutual usage of her. She was quite a woman, at once, and better the experiences to draw upon for our recusant pleasures. And as a corpse, she is whatever we wish her to be. Inhuman, you say; but she is dead, and knows nothing of the degradations to which we have put her psyche. We have explored every act with her that a woman can possibly perform, and then some.

With us you see, imagination truly -- is reality.

[Author's Ending Notes:

First of all, please realize just how cool this really is, that the author of a piece of fiction, can actually reach out and touch the reader in this way, all because of the format and mode of cyberspace itself.

This piece of fiction was written with the intent to draw attention to certain social ills in our modern societies. The AUTHOR has been critically attacked in the past, on several fronts related to this piece of fiction, and it should be mentioned that ho rror is in itself a form of social commentary who's purpose is to showcase, in graphic detail (be it gore, morale terpitude, fear, intense emotional disgust/anxiety, etc.), possible futures and definite present situations.

If you were affected at all by this tale, if you have felt repugnance, horror, or that scratchy, crawly feeling I got beneath my skin when first viewing at a theater, Clive Barker's HellRaiser, then I, as the author, have done my job well; and you have ob viously been shown things that you don't ordinarily think about, in a format that allowed you to view it in a freedom of definition, and in an Alternate State of Consciousness.

Consider, if you will, what kind of monster a Stephen King, or a Clive Barker would be, if they were so affected, that their speculative fiction, according to the characters and scenarios that they have spun for us over the years, were actually showcasing their inner selves, rather than showcasing to us their fabulous storytelling abilities. These are, after all, only stories.

If the Author has any "Voice" at all in this piece, if the Reader wishes to ascribe any "Character" or "Voice" in this piece as being that of the Author's wants, desires or beliefs, it would most likely be the "Voice" inside the Reader; who shrinks in hor ror at the situations, turns away from the suggested mores, morals, and ethical scenarios contained within this tale of social horror.

If you have read, thought, and spoke out, or complained, about this piece, then I have served the Reader well.

And I thank you...]
GFH - 12/20/1995