THE ARGUS PROJECT
12: A Night In Copenhagen
This lowland coastal city had, miraculously, managed to preserve some of its old architecture when the Greenhouse Floods struck in the 21st Century. The big amusement park Tivoli, with its quaint old houses and creaking mechanical rides, still existed - though a newer section had been added to the park, with more current amusement technology.
All other soldiers and pilots had been evacuated from the area, apart from agents in uniform, keeping the area under surveillance - this Argus was told of in advance, so that he would not waste time mingling with the agents. The Fleet gave him a large credit and instructed him to wear his uniform and overcoat at all times, always claim to be a lookalike, and not cause bad publicity. Apart from that, he had carte blanche to do as he pleased. They dropped him off a truck and he was on his own. Argus looked away from the small group of uniformed agents in the street, and walked off...
***
Something had changed about Earth, Argus thought. Or his eyes had...
The streets and buildings seemed not so smooth as they used to. Cracks and dust were in every corner. The faces of people seemed older, fatter. The smells were different too - even if his sense of smell wasn't improved, he noticed that he himself didn't smell as much as... all other people. And the sounds... much sharper, edgier, the constant talking flowing through his head like a torrent of voices.
As Argus strolled through the narrow alley, a pygmy-chimp in a wheelchair rolled up next to him, and tugged at his sleeve.
"Got some spare PP for a poor ex-gladiator?" the chimp's voice-box asked in an almost human tone.
Argus looked down at the poor creature's dark, pleading round eyes. It was a male, its face permanently battle-scarred. He pressed his thumb against the chimp's smart-card and transferred a few thousand points to his account. "Thank you very much," the voice-box said formally - and the chimp actually grinned with joy. "Hey," the ape added, and its smile died, "You... smell... plastic. Sorry."
Argus patted the chimp's hairy, thin shoulder and walked on. His uniform itched. "Frictionless," the Fleet people had called it, but he had to restrain himself to avoid scratching his back and shoulders.
The first excuse he got to take it off, Argus promised himself, he'd never put the damned nuisance back on. Around the corner, from a slummy dance-house, came some music that made him curious. The cheap sheet-diode sign above the entrance read:
WEAR CLOTHES AND WE LET YOU IN
Walking into the brightly lit joint, Argus found it was old folks' night - the place was crammed with men and women who couldn't afford rejuvenation treatments, and were letting their bodies waste away. He hadn't seen that many wrinkled faces and sagging bosoms since the charity boxing-match in a retirement home for people past 150... six years ago.
"Please hang up your coat, sir," said the aging lady in the wardrobe, a laconic fast-talker. "Dress code, you know. 18th-century 'retro' night. Please pick a costume. Hey, pick a skirt if you like."
"Heh... none of those costumes are large enough for me. Just came from an Argus theme party. Is it okay if I keep my costume on?"
He opened his shirt to reveal the naked, ink-black cyborg body. The wrinkled wardrobe lady gave him an appreciative long look, and nodded at him to enter.
"Tell the deejay I'm just dressed up," he added to be sure, and blew the old lady a kiss. "Thanks."
Cautiously, having left his clothes in the wardrobe, he made his way into the bar, trying to look casual among the crowds of elderly customers. One couple saw him, laughed and asked to have their picture taken with him. He hesitated, but their enthusiasm was contagious. He put his arms around their shoulders, and the couple's PA robot, an old-fashioned floating ball, shot a few pictures. They thanked Argus, and praised his convincing Argus costume.
"Click war bonds!" Argus said, mimicking his own PR tour, and left the couple - hearing them argue.
"You must have set the focus again. I told you a thousand times, Ray, honey: don't fiddle with the focus!"
"I didn't touch the farking focus! Farking cam's broken or something. See? It's all static."
This is too weird by half, Argus thought. What am I doing here, all naked among these dirt-poor, dressed-up prunefaces? Don't even know how to dance a "minute", minuet, whatever...
A loud voice over the speaker system interrupted Argus's thoughts: the DJ, from his overhead booth, had noticed his presence.
"I have a message to the man in the Argus costume: Sir, this is 18th-century theme night. But since you and the lady in the bodysuit make such a nice match, we'll make an exception, just for the two of you. Ladies and gentlemen, leave some space on the dance-floor for tonight's young couple!"
A spotlight on the dance-floor answered Argus's unspoken question. The orderly minuet-dancing crowd parted like a zipper, and he saw her - dancing alone in the crowd. Almost in an instant, he knew it had to be her. He switched to infrared vision, and knew.
Venix. The name that matched his search.
Her shape, appearance and movements were exquisitely sensual.
The "bodysuit", that revealed her every shapely form, he recognized as identical to his artificial skin - and it was matt white. A thick black stripe ran from her neck, down between her legs, and continued up her spine. The white "bodysuit" covered all of her, up to and including her neck; only her head and hands were completely lifelike and human.
From her head flowed very long light-red hair, that seemed to float as it moved about her face - he couldn't understand how it was done, but the hair framed her cheekbones in the most enchanting way. The finely shaped feet, also seemingly clad in white, though thinner than his, were so strong that she supported herself almost completely on her toes, like a ballet dancer with toes of steel.
Like him, or so he perceived, her body contained no flesh and blood; yet her movements were so natural, the turning of her hips and limbs so graceful, she struck him as more human than he was. In a moment, their eyes met across the room - she stopped dancing and froze still, one arm enveloping her torso, the other curved above her head.
Her light-blue eyes widened in surprise, and her oval face made such a vulnerable expression, that his first thought was he should rush forth and cradle her in his arms.
His next impulse was to walk up to her, and offer her his hand; so he did.
"May I have this dance?" he asked, feeling like an awkward youngster again.
"You... you're..." she said, her voice throaty and light, and she gestured to touch him, as if to make sure he was the "real" Argus.
"Yeah, yeah. Come on, let's dance."
Argus grasped Venix' free hand, feeling its warmth, and locked eyes with her. Her mouth remained half-opened for a moment; then she smiled, and reached for his other hand. The wardrobe lady, standing in the DJ's booth, urged the DJ to play something faster.
"I only play oldies tonight," he objected petulantly, crossing his arms. "No blimdub, no Venusian trance. That's my final word."
"At least play late 20th century, floor polish! Something quaint with a beat."
She pointed out a song on the DJ's screen index, and he nodded. "All right, happy people," the DJ announced in his smarmiest tone. "We're making a brief jump from the pre-Revolution Era, two centuries ahead, to when our great-great-grandfathers grooved to the likes of this - in 1990, the historic year when the First Cold War ended!"
Suddenly, a high-pitched, rich female voice shouted through the room, a command to action: "EVERY-BODY DANCE NOW!"
The aged men and women, in their plush 18th-century costumes, needed only that command to get into the music. Venix took a step away from Argus, and struck a challenging pose with one hand on her hip. Argus thanked his superhuman speed for the precious microseconds he needed, to grasp the rhythm of the song.
They started dancing rapidly, and to their mutual, joyful amazement, they both found the right pace on their first attempt. In his previous existence as flesh, Gus Thorsen was able to dance in the boxing ring but not so well outside it. He watched his feet carefully, so as not to flatten Venix' toes. He needed not worry, though, for Venix was just as careful - she had seen his public appearances, and knew what those feet could do.
The cyborg couple moved nearer each other, teasingly, until their bodies almost touched, and Argus let Venix take the initiative at first. She retreated a bit, and performed a potpourri of popular dance steps in one minute: swing, polka, twist, flamenco, break-dance, blimdub, Venusian trance.
Argus was enchanted by her swiftness and grace, and forgot his insecurity. He offered her his hand, she took it with a smile and a firm hold, but he dared not close his grip around it, not yet.
Beginning with some standard steps, then speeding up slightly, he showed that he could lead her in a closer stance without breaking anything. Step by step, he grew less stiff, nudged closer still...
The music continued, just as intense, the beat no less commanding, and the couple got bolder. Like some super-strong ballet dancer, Argus lifted Venix by her hips on straight arms, and spun around, so that her red hair fanned out. She giggled uncontrollably. Then, when she tapped on his hands to make him put her down, he obeyed - and she surprised him yet again. Venix made a series of back-flips across the open dance-floor, ended with a snappy pirouette, took a springy leap up in the air and flew back into his arms in a somersault.
He caught her in his outstretched arms, and juggled her a few times around his waistline - all the while she stretched out, stiff-backed, and let herself be a cog against his hard torso. Soft on the surface, her muscles were just as responsive and steel-hard as his beneath the cushioning skin and tissue that mimicked female flesh. Argus lifted her up in the air again, tossed her up a few meters - Venix shrieked - and caught her perfectly as she fell down. They froze in a still embrace, as the other guests applauded and whistled. One disgruntled elderly man did not.
"Farking typical! They put up that kinda show, and not one of my cams work! Fark it!"
"Oh, do shut up, Ray, honey."
THE ARGUS PROJECT INTERNET EDITION (c)A.R.Yngve 1999, 2000, 2004. All rights reserved. May not be copied without permission.
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