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Archive-name: Fantasy/syndaine.txt

Archive-author: Nikolai Kingsley

Archive-title: Syndaine

           Syndaine is a Virtual Reality system, one that

           allows hundreds of people to interact in a

           wholly ficticious, computer-generated fantasy

           where anything is possible, even instances that

           have the appearance of sorcery.  there are,

           however, rules.  and it isn't free.

  Once, she had taken a strong disliking to the way that the Sysop

of Syndaine had required her to pay for her time on the Simulation

system;  gradually, she had come to enjoy it and even to look

forward to it.  She had been paying the usual way - with Work-Hour

Credits from her bank account - until Tasche-Schinereyf (the Sysop)

had made his unusual offer.

  She had been pottering around the office for half an hour,

convincing herself that none of the multitude of mundane tasks

sitting in the in-tray were so pressing that they couldn't wait

until tomorrow.  The last of them rationalised away, she set her

terminal to answer her mail and she left for the Simulation Bay.

  She moved past the ranked couches, each with a still figure lying

on it, connected to the Syndaine computer by a ninety-pin terminal

cable attached to a socket behind the ear; found an empty couch and

logged in.

  The muted air-conditioned hush of the Simulation Bay was replaced

by the babble of dozens of alien languages, the hum of information

commerce as hundreds of simulated people traded information which,

in Syndaine, had physical reality.  She had arrived in the middle of

the market at Nimyf-a-Tel, surrounded by simulated book-stalls,

food-retailers, prostitutes, mercenaries and hawkers of more dubious

wares.  She made her way through the press of the crowd (it was

*_always_* crowded on here; if there weren't enough real people in

Simulation to support the illusion, the operating system generated

some more), making her way to the taxi ranks on Second Avenue.

  Not for the first or last time, she wished that the Sysop would

standardise on taxis; as she gazed down Second Avenue, she had

difficulty telling which of the bizarre forms were transport and

which were details of the environment, like park benches or trees.

She tentatively approached something like a two-metre-wide jelly-

fish, and was about to prod it and enquire about fares when she

spotted a Pegasus, dropping off a Bythian, two ranks up.  She

hurried over before the winged horse could fly off, raising her

hand.  It saw her, ducked its head and kneeled down, allowing her to

climb on its back.  she settled down, grasping the bony shoulder-

blades from which depended the three-metre-span wings, pure white,

oversized dove's feathers spreading out as it stretched.  She had

read somewhere, once, that to be able to fly a Pegasus would need

wings so large that they would drape over it like a tent and would

require a pure sugar diet to supply the required energy; in

Simulation, such rules of proportion were waived, as the effect was

considered worthwhile.

  `Take me to the top of the world.' she whispered.  The Pegasus

ducked its head again, its long, silky mane drifting about its head

like a cloud of smoke; it then slowly spread its wings, bent its

hind legs, crouching for takeoff; with one mighty thrust and a

perfectly-timed leap, they were airborne, the wings beating with

greater speed than she had thought possible for an animal of that

size.  She wove her fingers into the Pegasus's mane nervously; from

this altitude, it was possible to gain an idea of the general

topology of Syndaine; an attitude which she found somewhat

disturbing, as the shape simply defied explanation.  It was

something like a toroid, if one discounted the spire in the middle,

which joined the toroid-shape somewhere below the surface of a

circular, annular river.  A similar spire depended from the

`ceiling' of the simulation (which was, today, lost amidst fluffy

grey-white clouds), leaving a gap of about five metres between

stalactite and stalagmite.  This was her destination.

  By the time they had arrived, she was panic-stricken, her arms

tight around the Pegasus's neck, eyes squeezed shut.  He had to

stamp one of his forehooves a couple of times before she realised

that they had landed, and that it was safe to dismount.  Shaking,

she slid from his back, almost too preoccupied with controlling her

fear to remember to pay for the journey.  She recovered slightly,

managing a nervous laugh.

  `I'm sorry... I usually travel up here in a covered vehicle.' She

held the credit-button implanted in her wrist against a similar

contact mounted on the Pegasus's shoulder, and credits were

electronically exchanged.  The Pegasus lowered its long-lashed

eyelids, snorted, took a couple of steps run-up and flew off.  She

turned to face the round platform that was mounted on the apex of


  It was formed into a slight bowl, a shallow depression about half

a meter in depth, twenty metres across.  In the center were two

statues, standing less than half a metre apart; smooth, almost

featureless, powerfully-muscled males, over two metres tall, each

with a broad pair of wings outspread, the wing-tips touching the

floor three metres behind them.  They appeared to be carved from

bright red ceramic; as she watched, they rippled, like glass

containers filled with swirling liquids, and within moments, they

had reformed into sharp-edged blue crystal, like methane-ice.  She

approached them, stripping off her sari, regarding the razor-sharp

edges, imagining that touching them would be like kissing a bowl

full of broken glass.  She put her head back and stared up at the

flat tip of the spire suspended above her.  A huge eye, brilliant

green with myriad points of light drifting through the deep

blackness of the pupil, stared impassively down at her.  She watched

it for almost a minute before being able to detect the slight

pulsating change in the pupil's diameter which indicated that it was

alive and staring back at her.  She grinned at it.

  The statues hadn't changed; she folded her arms and waited.

About a minute later, thousands of shades of blue swirled within

them, as if disappearing down a plug-hole, to be replaced by a

smooth, milky green jade.  She approached the nearest statue, traced

the outline of its hip; it was as smooth and frictionless as wet

glass; faintly resilient, like the semi-rigid plastic that drink

bottles were made from; cooler than the temperate surrounding air.

She positioned herself between them, glanced up at the eye above,and

winked.  It winked back, momentarily being obscured by glossy black


  She reached out to the statue in front of her, put her hands

around the back of its neck, drew it closer.  It flexed, bending at

the waist; she pressed her lips against the smooth, featureless jade

curve of its face, kissed it; reached down to caress the staff which

emerged smoothly from the juncture of its thighs, like a piston-

shaft emerging from an engine.  She squeezed the base, and it

deformed slightly, the tip bulging out like a balloon; it retained

that shape momentarily, slowly resuming the original test-tube-like

form, continuing to grow until it protruded almost forty centimetres

into the air.  Her breathing grew deeper as she ran one hand over

the curves of the rippling muscles presented before her, the other

sliding down her belly to slip three fingers in between the flushed

lips of her sex.   The statue moved, holding its hands out to her;

she stood on the tips of her toes, resting her hands on its

shoulders as it grasped her hips, lifting her up, holding her poised

over the end of its shaft.  She arched her back, angling herself to

present a shallower profile, and it delicately pressed the

fist-sized head to her swollen lips, allowing her to spread

her legs slightly and wriggle down over the end, slowly taking it

into her.  She gasped as it entered; the shaft had developed a

series of ridges along the top which rubbed against her in a

breathtaking fashion.  The milky-green colours swirled, were

suddenly shot through with streaks of crimson, as if an artery had

burst within.  She felt a surge of warmth as it was remade in what

looked like red-hot molten glass, fortunately at a bearable

temperature; still, decidedly hot, as it pressed itself forward into

her again.  She clutched at its shoulders, trying to get a firm grip

on the slick substance; obligingly, two finger-wide slots formed,

which she grasped gratefully, allowing her to apply better leverage.

The second statue, behind her, had leaned forward and grasped her

waist, placing its crudely-detailed hands just above the other

statue's.  She felt the slippery end of its erection pressing

between her buttocks; she wiggled her hips, conscious of the pulsing

shaft that impaled her from the front, and the second statue slowly

pressed its slick length into her rear.  As the two statues began to

thrust rhythmically and yet slightly out of synchronisation, she

couldn't help but think of a mechanical model she'd once seen, a

brass and steel contraption, powered by steam, all wheels, pulleys

and pistons... she couldn't remember what it was for, but it had an

unbalanced, irregular motion very much like the one that her body

was exhibiting at the moment.  She closed her eyes, gently rocking

back and forth on the twin pillars, occasionally gritting her teeth

as their movements aligned themselves to induce peaks of sensual

pleasure.  She threw her head back, opened her eyes and looked up;

the eye was watching her intently.

  `I... hope you're... capturing this... Tasche,' she gasped between

thrusts.  She looked down, saw the glowing red face in front of her

darken to the colour of dried blood, then further until she was

pressed between two brawny angels carved from black ice.  They moved

closer, pressing her body between their broad chests and washboard-

ribbed bellies, their wings slowly curving around to touch the tips

together.  Taking a firm hold of the hand-grips, she began to thrust

forward and back, the hands of the angel-statue in front sliding

down to hold her thighs, her breasts flattened against its smooth

chest.  She felt a gathering warmth in the pit of her stomach,

fluids dripping from her crotch, her nipples rubbing rhythmically

against the statue; the shaft that was smoothly sliding in and out

of her rear changed shape slightly, developing shallow corrugations

that deepened with each thrust, until it was being forced in and

dragged out again with halting, almost painful deliberation.  The

ridges that ran along the top of the column thrust between her

swollen lips deepened also, each one flicking against her clitoris

as they passed.  Her breathing grew even more halting as she felt

herself mount the edge of orgasm; the statues blithely and

unconcernedly thrust on, leaving her to try and regulate her motion

as much as she could and steer towards her goal.

  She reached climax, shaking in the statues' grip, eyes squeezed

shut, mouth opened in an involuntary, silent scream; the statues

simultaneously shoved themselves in as far as possible, her wet

muscles squeezing the shafts in sharp spasms, gradually slowing

until the last contraction came, held her in momentary ecstasy, and

passed.  She collapsed into the statues' arms, breathing like a

marathon runner who'd just surpassed all of her previous best

efforts.  The statues chose this moment to change again, their

surfaces swirling through half-a-dozen colours, settling on a

mottled wet-concrete grey; at the same time, acquiring the abrasive

texture of low-grade sandpaper.  Her eyes widened with the sensation

of having two giant nail-files thrust into her; nipples scraping

against the chest of the statue which she was slumped against.  Not

daring to move, she waited, still breathing deeply, and a minute

later the statues changed again, taking on a jungle-green colour and

the tactile properties of wet rubber.  She levered herself off the

ribbed protrusion that had been plunged, to the hilt, into her ass;

pushed away from the knobbed prominence before her, accompanied by

the squeaking sounds of wet flesh against rubber.  She addressed the

ocular apparition overhead sternly;

  `I think... that little episode would cover two months' access.


  Tasche-Schinereyf didn't argue.

August 1991

nikolai `whar's mah thesauraus' kingsley


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