Her tight denim cutoffs rode high on her legs, their creamy tone a mouth-watering contrast against the black leather boots.
She hated the stares; despised the appreciative comments. She could have any one of these so-called men - even the married ones. Especially the married ones. She had given her word, though, and it was sacred. Her body was her husband’s, no matter what temptations beckoned. It was for him alone that she dressed this way.
She breezed through the front door, pausing hopefully. Dale barely looked up from the TV, his eyes blankly reflecting the flickering images that held him.
". . . That's why we use prime-grade clones," explained Morton. "Expensive, but only they can provide the exacting similarity needed for the Parallel Organic Processors to work."
I was quite impressed with the machine: vast rows of pallid humans stretched into the distance, imprisoned within their interface units. This was the Governing Computer - responsible for ruling and directing the planet’s societies. Opposition to the breeding of its living components was largely non-existent by this point.
Morton frowned, and peered closely at one pod. The gauge labelled 'conscience' was flickering above zero.
“Can’t be having that,” he tutted. “Screw the whole bugger up."
Stevens, Harrington and I nervously activated the counter-CPE modules strapped to our bodies. They buzzed softly, and I could see a faint shimmering around my two companions. Humanity’s greatest experiment was about to begin.
We stepped through the Portal together. Although we would go back in time by a century, it would be a short first trip. Our devices would prevent the Chronology Protection Effect from harming us - at least, in theory.
A peculiar flicker as we returned had me briefly worried, but Stevens indicated that he was fine. We had both made it back. The experiment was a success!
The Iveagh Gardens lay almost empty under the dreamy blue skies. The summer's late warmth had drawn the crowds a little further north to St. Stephen's Green; the incessant cries of its gulls were quite audible in the clear air.
He stood beside the shadowed mausoleum ("how appropriate," he thought), still trembling. Curiously, there didn't seem to be a way in - nowhere did the high stone walls yield. He pulled the jacket’s sleeves down further when he noticed, even in the shade, the blood spots on his cuffs.
This time it took only a short while for tranquility to descend.
“I couldn’t understand your mother . . . because her mouth was full!”
Mandrake’s obscene taunts were having their desired effect. The tavern’s gaslight globes dimly illuminated a horde of furious faces. Pilkington chuckled, though the movement was lost in his huge frame. He knew, unlike the crowd, that his associate’s cane concealed a vicious rapier.
Harry was, of course, nowhere to be seen - which meant she was close, and ready.
It was time. Pilkington activated his Tesla pistol; the room's growing discord obscured its angry hum. A small smile.
This might not turn out to be such a bad job after all.
