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on a day like any other in a war with no end in sight, a soldier must relay a message to a contact across Mare Nubium containing intelligence of critical importance to the war effort. the telephonic ground lines key to the coordination of local battlefronts cannot carry a message overseas, as the infrastructure does not extend to the far shore. owing to interference from frequent low-altitude gamma sprite discharges among the clouds above the sea, lineless telephonic projection is frequently impossible, and as a result most messages cannot be relayed until the weather is clear. in matters of import as immediate as these, an alternative method--little known among the soldiers--is employed: a sympathetic signal projector, or SSP.
it’s a term the soldier feels like she has heard before. the name of a machine. she doesn’t know why it isn’t used often. she doesn’t know what it is or how to use it. she only knows that she has been told she will have to use one, and where to find one.
the location is a shack half a mile into the woods off the main road between Mesoa and Tropos, shot through with bullet holes that let the pounding rain in. she has been sitting here, wet and cold, for half an hour. there is nothing here. she has been told to wait--that it will be brought to her. she does not understand how she will be able to operate the machine in these conditions.
a knock at the door.
“when are you coming home?”
a query.
“when the music’s over.”
a password.
the door opens. a man, hairless from head to toe, wearing only a heavy black rain cloak, slouches in the frame. hunched over, he seems in his posture to be at war with his body, never quite comfortable with the way he is standing.
“ssssorry i was late. we should get sssstarted without delay.”
“where’s the machine?”
he grins, and shrugs off the cloak.
“i ammmm the machine. you will have to learnnnn to use me quickly.”
his torso is a frenzied mosaic of surgical scars and tattooed words, all leading to the centerpiece on display--a single great scar on his crotch where genitals would otherwise be. this man was once a prisoner of the enemy.
“it’ssss okay if you damage me a little. we can ffffix it. we just have to wwwwork fast.”
he pauses, waiting for some kind of response. when she provides none, he turns from her and continues, speaking over his shoulder as he digs through his cloak pockets.
“i’m pretty ssssimple to use. touch the elektro-mmmmagnetic needles to the letterssss and hold them ffffor a second or so.”
the letters he speaks of are tattooed on his back, on a square of flesh of a color conspicuously lighter than the rest of him. one of each letter of the Stratian alphabet, plus miscellaneous punctuation and diacritics, each symbol neatly contained in its own cell of a grid. at its edges, where the transplanted meat meets his original skin, the seam of flesh is a sickly yellow.
he turns. from the cloak he has retrieved two long and thick needles with slightly blunted tips like those used for knitting, sharp enough to hurt but perhaps not to harm without intending to, with insulated black rubber handles. a wire extends from each handle, connecting to a thin black box in the cloak pocket. a battery. she takes them, speechless at what she is witnessing.
“we don’t have the luxury of time to wwwwaste.”
“sorry, just...this is a lot to take in.”
he smiles again, wider. a grin which seems to delight in her discomfort. with his face closer and clearer in view, corrective orthodontic wire is visible on his crooked teeth.
“yessss, i am quite an oddity. wwwwe can talk about it later.”
“right.”
a needle in each hand. the letters before her. the surface of the SSP rises and falls with shallow breaths, impatiently awaiting her input. still, she hesitates. he coughs. hesitation cannot last; she must act.
gingerly, she touches a needle to a letter. O.
“i apprrrreciate your concern for my comfort, but you shhhhould use a little more force. it makes the ssssignal clearer.”
grimacing, she proceeds to the next, pressing the needle harder into the key for the letter P.
“ah! ahhhhehehe.”
not entirely the reaction she was expecting. giggling, he buries his face in his hands, seeming quite amused with her clumsy typing. she enters a third character. E.
“a bit b-better. but still sssslow!”
“do you always share this much critique with your operator, machine?”
“oh, uuuusually. i--EEP!”
a fourth. R. she is faster, and jabs harder. the more forceful she is, the more he laughs to himself. A.
“operattttion? operative, mmmmaybe? heeheeh-EE!”
T. he was right the first time. the word is operation. I.
it was imperceptible to her at first, but after this many letters she can detect it. the needles emit a low elektro-harmonic hum, which shifts to a quiet high-pitched whine when they come in contact with the keys. O.
the needles are not the only thing whining. little noises escape the machine, gasps and prolonged squeaks each time the current is completed. it seems to respond well to force. N.
“therrrre’s a key for an empty sssspace at the bottom right.”
“yes, I see it. thank you.”
keying in a space, she takes a deep breath. all that was one word. she’s nowhere near finished.
“am I holding the keys too long? you’re right, we don’t have time to waste.”
“perhapssss a bit. you’ll figure it out as you go. i’ve beennnn told i give useful physical feedback. eheheeee.”
an I. he’s right. there is the tiniest shudder, a slight jerk in his posture, that indicates when the transmission is complete. it takes a little bit less than a second. N.
“just sssso you know--ah!”
another space.
“p-prrrressing a little harder sometimessss completes the transmission faster.”
“sometimes?”
C. she digs the needle in, and he jolts in response nearly immediately.
“when the m-machinery is feeling cooperrrrative, yes.”
R. she has been too focused on the letters to give mind to anything but the key-grid, but she chances a glimpse at him, to see how he’s handling it. she can hardly see his face, only the smallest edge of his profile, but it’s enough. he grins ear to ear, his face flushed. he’s enjoying this. I.
“crrrrisanti? an operation innnn crisanti?”
“yes. tomorrow.”
“quite an urgent mmmmmessage, then--oh! ohoho. oh mmmmy.”
she reasons to herself that he should know where to expect the pain if he knows the word, and that he should be prepared to handle it, as she keys in an S, an A, an N, and a T in rapid succession. she is confident enough now in her operation to use both needles, quickening her pace.
“you’re a fassst learner.”
“thank you. you’re an efficient machine.”
her praise triggers a small laughing fit, a bout of pleasured noises that end in a squeal as she completes the word with an I.
“w-wait. oh dearrrr. one momennnnt.”
leaning forward, taking the keys away from her, he begins coughing. it is wet and unpleasant to hear. scrambling for the rain cloak, he retrieves a bottle, and in a moment when the coughing abates, takes a sip from it. it seems to calm his breathing.
“it is a ssssad thing, but such machines require constant mmmmaintenance. the transplant issss not so easily accepted by the body. it leaves one quite ssssick. quickly, rrrresume.”
C. he shivers as her typing resumes. O. the laughter, the shuddering, the blushing returns. M. his breathing is shallow and quick--matching her own, she realizes. P. the levity drains from him quickly.
“commmmpromised?”
R.
“...yes. our troop movements are known by the enemy. if they proceed as planned they’ll be slaughtered.”
O.
“yyyyour message will save many lives, then.”
M.
“our message.”
his smile returns. he delights in praise and quite enjoys feeling included. I.
he’s right about her. she picks things up quickly, and has already surmised roughly how much force she can use without causing harm while still maximizing the efficiency of transmission. S.
her speed is almost unwelcome, though. he seems to relish in the pain. E.
she cannot see it on herself, but she can feel the heat on her face. she wears the same flushed complexion as the machine. D. then, a full stop, and a space.
“last word. brace yourself.”
W. it seems as though some air has been let out of his cheerily deranged demeanor.
“alrrrready?”
I. he’s sad. he likes working with her.
“i was told brevity is the highest priority in SSP messaging.”
T. she likes it too.
“of coursssse.”
H. she cannot help herself. she presses a little harder, holds a little longer, than she needs to.
“oh, g-goodnnnness.”
D. is she panting? she’s sweating, at least.
“only a few more.”
R. she wonders if she could have found a longer word to use than “withdraw.” it wasn’t something she’d considered before laying her hands on the machine, seeing how it responds to pain, taking in its delirious pleasure at being used.
A.
“lasssst one...”
W. last one.
“well.”
she lets out a long sigh. mission complete. she, too, feels deflated. he resumes coughing. it sounds bad.
“are you alright?”
smiling joylessly, a grimace of acceptance, he shrugs.
“i’m n-never rrrreally ‘alright.’ chronic illnnnness is the price we pay for instant commmmunication.”
he takes another sip from his bottle.
“they called us sssslave radios. the sonnonissssts. they built this mmmmachine.”
Sonnonists--adherents of a genocidal ideology espoused by the fascist philosopher Sonnonim, which spread like wildfire across the six allied nations of the southern Nubium shore in the years preceding open conflict with the north. this is the name of the enemy.
“the skin ffffrom my back was exchanged with another prrrrisoner. my sympathetic signal rrrreceiver. he feels mmmmy pain and uses it to relay the mmmmessages my operators transmit. hopefully he will find an operator ssssoon, and i c-can hear back ffffrom him tomorrow.”
the way he speaks the word “my” when referring to his counterpart implies a relationship more complex than one would find between two typical pieces of equipment in the war effort. he thinks fondly of the person these messages are sent to.
“you were liberated from bondage and still let yourself be used like this?”
another of his twisted smiles. likely, he’s been asked questions like this many times before. he anticipates them, eager to share with a sympathetic operator who and what this machine really is.
“we liberated oursssselves. and i ennnnjoy being used. esssspecially if i can contribute to a worthy cause. it brrrrings me indescribable pleasure to relay a mmmmessage that might help beat back the tide of the sonnonnnnists.”
she’s not sure what to say about that. she’s not sure “indescribable pleasure” is how she would describe what her contribution to the war effort makes her feel. satisfaction, maybe? at the very least, it feels good to have been trusted with such important work and to have executed it well.
she enjoyed using the machine.
“is there anything I can do for you?”
his eyes light up. he loves when people ask this. they can’t help themselves--when a decent person sees somebody sick and selfless, the desire to provide aid is a natural impulse most humans cannot act in defiance of.
“w-welllll...”
returning to the cloak, he fishes an envelope of waxed paper out of the pocket and hands it to her.
“thissss is. well. it’s...a lllletter. to mmmmy receiver. i would b-be very gratefffful if you could send it for me. i can’t do it mmmmyself.”
he appears terribly embarrassed as she takes it. he cannot even look her in the eye. when she opens it and scans the contents, the reason is clear. this is a love letter. romance, eros, yearning, filth. her eyes widen and her face flushes further. looking back at him, he has surrendered himself to gravity, laying in a ball on the floor with his hands over his face to hide himself. but his teeth are still visible. she still sees that sickly grin, the gleaming metal in his mouth betraying the joy he takes in being seen like this.
he enjoys being used. he enjoys being embarrassed. and he seems to love being in pain.
“I can do that, if you’ll do something for me as well.”
she enjoys this too. she has a very good idea. something she suspects will be great fun for this strange machine.
“offff course. annnnything within my capabilities.”
she smiles. it is quite unlike his smile. she is playfully baring her teeth to him, displaying her intent to inflict some amount of discomfort.
“read it to me. out loud.”
he blinks. this is not something that has been asked of him before.
“i--but, it. welllll. it’ssss quite, ah.”
“go on.”
“i will confesssss that some of the contents of the letter are...shhhhameful.”
she laughs to herself, just barely, quietly enough not to be heard. “shameful” is one word to use.
“I can see that. that’s why I’d like to hear them coming from your mouth. I want you to speak your shame to me.”
he looks uneasy. unsure if he can do this. he requires encouragement of a potent sort. she will have to do her best to persuade him.
“I have never known anything about a relationship like the one you must have with this man--this other machine, I mean. but I can’t imagine it to be anything other than deeply personal and meaningful in a way I would like to understand. I want to hear these words from you so I can know what they mean to you.”
that did the trick. he appears moved. with a shaking hand, he accepts the letter, looking uneasily at its contents. this will be difficult for him. difficult, but hopefully rewarding. gratifying, if he’s lucky. he pulls himself back up, sitting upright.
she sits behind him with the needles ready. this will take a long time.
“to...”
she enters the two letters smoothly and quickly. the military missive was good practice in operating the machine; here, she will attempt to prove her expertise in handling it.
“t-to he who i carry on my back, who shhhhares my burdens, who knowssss me like no other can...”
his laughter has been replaced by various gasps, sighs, and quiet groans. there are too many words for her to savor each letter as she might like to. as before, efficiency is the highest priority. this first line takes about a minute to transmit.
“i think of you dailllly. the time we havvvve spent apart brings an ache to my heart and body worsssse than any pain we suffered when imprisoned.”
almost too many words for her to savor it. she permits herself one simple pleasure in her otherwise businesslike operation of the machine. where his voice lingers, slurring consonants into extended syllabic expressions, she matches him, holding the needle especially long and digging it in especially deep. this acknowledgement of his voice, her desire to transmit what he says as he says it, provokes the strongest reactions from him. his words waver around her touch, moaning at the pain she inflicts.
“i ffffear when this war is over it will not adequately soothe my painssss simply to see your face.”
he hesitates. he has time to; it takes her much longer to transcribe his feelings than it does for him to express them.
“there is only one p-part of me that doessss not carry the sting of your abssssence.”
another pause. as she allows herself to worry less about the pain she inflicts, her work continues to improve in speed. pressing the needle in hard, it takes hardly half a second before she feels that slight jolt from his body indicating the transmission is complete. privately, she hopes that she is the best operator he has ever worked with. she badly wants to be good for him. he is a beautiful machine.
“only the fffflesh of my back, the piece of you i cherish, is at peacccce.”
she wonders about his receiver. what kind of man he must be. a hero, she surmises. one half of a single heroic machine that fought its way out of a situation that must have seemed hopeless.
“i have beennnn told that as long as i carry you, i will continue to be ssssick. i am grateful to be useful to these humanssss, but they do not understand. masters of medicine know nothing of a mmmmachine.”
she braces herself. this is the part that made her want to hear him speak. where his feelings spill out in earnest.
“i am ssssick with grief! sick with lonelllliness! every inch of me that lackssss your touch burns with rust and dissssease!”
he tries not to shout his words, but he cannot stop himself. these thoughts were not written to be spoken calmly.
“i c-cannot bear the thought of the life which they prrrromise awaits me. the artificial flesh they swear will cure me is a ffffalse salvation. i will be broken, innnnoperable, without you!”
she will be his calm. let him cry his agony; she will bear the burden of efficient communication. she will quiet her emotions, her desire and sympathy, and stab each painful word into him.
“whennnn i at last see you again i wonder what i will do. i cannot knowwww. i fear i will sssscare you. our time apart as chhhhanged me into something unlike the man you knew.”
“you don’t scare me, machine.”
“...if that’s any reassurance.”
he does not respond. he is absorbed in the letter.
“i desire more of your fffflesh. i wish everrrry part of me could be part of y-you. the surface of my being is nnnnot enough. i need you within mmmme.”
efficient communication. she will not let her thoughts delay her hands. she wishes to serve him, to convey his feelings. let her own feelings, her burning curiosity, stay quiet.
here, he breaks from his script, his carefully planned words. a small deviation. an acknowledgement of her role.
“i wonnnnder if this operator understands. she seems like nnnno other i have worked with. perhaps she knnnnows my need. i nnnneed you to enter me with fingers and tongue as badly as i need mmmmy gears, my ccccircuitry, my engine, to be yours, and f-for yours to be mmmmine.”
he isn’t making it easy for her to focus on doing her job. she does not want to be responsible for any delay in the expression of his feelings. she must make herself a machine in service of this sick and suffering man. it is easier for her to be a machine behind the scope of a rifle, or with a sabre in her hand, or behind the wheel of an armored vehicle. she has been a machine every time she has had to kill. it came to her naturally. to be a machine in matters of love is far more challenging.
without realizing it, she has stopped. he does not push her. he knows this is not easy. he is enjoying her struggle as much as he is enjoying his own embarrassment.
“sorry, I’m ready. keep going.”
he is grateful for her dedication to service.
“war is crrrruel. for cogs like ussss, the coming dawn, impending vvvvictory or defeat, is out of sight. each mornnnning i think to myself: could this all be over tomorrrrrow? will this be the day i relay the final mmmmessage, calling f-for our reunion?”
it has been four years since the initial formal declaration of war. it has felt like a lifetime. the soldier has lost every friend she had before it started--too distant or too dead for her to reach. the new people she meets in her chosen path of life slide off her like water off the backs of the ducks and gulls she has watched for years at her station on the shore. she cannot hold them like she did those she loved before. she has had to learn to let go of the personal, to devote herself to the cause.
can she let go of this one?
she has stopped again. he does not mind. he knows this is not easy work.
“sorry.”
“you don’t have to apologizzzze.”
he breathes deep. waits for her to complete the message. then continues.
“there is one doctorrrr who understands. a man whose handssss have felt the inside of a machine. he has prrrromised to help. he has warned that it will be dangeroussss.”
she has a great deal more respect for the war doctors she has met than any doctor who has inflicted his institutional power upon her in the pre-war society of her home country. those who have tended to patients on the battlefield seem incapable of the inhumanity many practice in the field of medicine. the death is too close for them to distance themselves from it. she has seen war doctors fight with every breath for every waking hour of a day to save people ready to give up on themselves. she has seen them deliver painless release to those beyond saving, who have begged for an end to their misery. she has seen them break protocol to provide medication to those ailing who know their own needs better than any doctor could. she hopes enough of these people survive the war to staff the hospitals when it’s over.
he is the one who has paused this time. it is a difficult thing to say.
“take your time, if you need it.”
he seems to receive the opposite message. he returns to his urgency.
“hhhhe w-will do it! it could kill us, but he has givvvven his word. when the fighting is over we wwwwill return to one another. we will repeat ourrrr exchange! we will deepen the connnnnection!”
this doctor he speaks of is hardly unique. she has heard many outlandish promises made in the hospital tents. many soldiers know no normal life awaits them when they are finished fighting. many doctors honor their agreement to deliver drugs for recreational use to those who can no longer live on the battlefield, to provide relief from the stress and the pain. less common are private arrangements for euthanasia for those who fear they cannot survive the ex-military life. she has yet to hear of any such arrangement being followed through on, but she does not doubt they would do it.
“once more i wwwwill r-receive the flesh of your back. i wonder how m-much of the sssskin i gave you has been replaced with your essence. i will not b-be taking my ownnnn skin back. what i have given is yourssss. if you would acccccept it, i will g-give it again. i will t--*kff*--take it again!”
he coughs again. he does not stop. his whole body shakes, wracked with infection. she wonders how long it has been since the sickness started. how many days he has lived his life in a state of perpetually poor health.
her wondering does not still her hands. she completes the message quickly, then takes the bottle that sits at his side. scooting forward, pressing herself against his back, she holds the bottle to his lips from behind. patiently, she waits for a moment when his coughing abates. in that moment she leans him back, pouring the medicine into his mouth and down his throat.
“do you need a break?”
grateful, but anxious, he leans back against her. the room feels suffocatingly hot in spite of the rain and the cold.
“only a mmmmoment.”
she sets the bottle down. leaning back, creating just enough space between her and the keyboard to slip the needles in, she punches in a word: STANDBY.
then, she closes the space between them. he seems comfortable leaning against her. her body is much cooler than his. in a motion executed without premeditation or active thought, she brings her arms around his waist, holding him to her. he voices no objection.
“it is an unffffortunate condition. its severity tends to be exxxxacerbated when i become. ah--heh. exccccited.”
his laugh is awkward and pained. he allows his head to lean back, resting on her shoulder. she can smell the sweat on him, see it glistening on his forehead in the periphery of her vision.
“n-not that there is mmmmuch i can do about such a feeling. not annnnymore. one of the thingssss the war took from me.”
peering over his shoulder, she cannot help herself, stealing a glance between his legs. nothing there, as before.
“those ssssonnonists and their belief that violent sterilizationnnn is key to extermination of their enemies...”
she winces. such stories are known well among the soldiers. word travels fast. the latest rumblings among the rank and file have many believing a sterilizing particulate weapon is currently considered the highest development priority of the well-funded weapons research departments of the Southern Semestric Allied Nations.
“and who exactly do they think their enemies are?”
“h-heh. you undersssstand, i think.”
“us today. perhaps the world tomorrow. anyone whose countenance deviates too greatly from the face of the Nationhead, I imagine.”
“quite t-trrrrue.”
he is undoubtedly aware of her staring. her short glance has lingered longer than intended. she wishes she had the self-control to be more considerate of his suffering, but she cannot take her eyes off his pubic region and the large vertical scar it bears. be a machine, she thinks. he does not need her curiosity, only her service.
her mouth betrays her.
“I’ve known some soldiers who lost limbs. they all swore to me they could still feel them aching, months or years after the fact. the more spiritually minded war doctors call it an ‘echo pain.’ the essential shape of the body’s past resonating at the point of connection to what was lost.”
his smile has returned. this is not a line of questioning a sympathetic operator has voiced or even alluded to before. likely, they all thought of themselves as too considerate to ask. but he has wanted to be asked. very, very badly.
“do you...”
she cannot complete this line of inquiry. she doesn’t know what she’s thinking. does she believe that in crafting her words to form all of the context surrounding her curiosity, she can avoid committing social transgression simply by leaving an empty space in the shape of a question?
“ahahaheheheeee. sometimessss.”
his reaction is not quite what she had expected. it disabuses her of the notion that expressing her curiosity is inconsiderate. she might be starting to truly understand him. he likes to be looked at. one of the few pleasures available that is truly gratifying to him is to be seen. he lives in hiding, his body a piece of equipment too critical to risk living a public life. he gains nothing from “considerate,” from social niceties and concern for his fragile feelings. he is a survivor of war. a survivor of imprisonment. he wants that to be seen.
“‘sometimes.’”
“w-when i am parrrrticularly stimulated.”
“what about right now?”
more laughter. more coughing. weakly, he takes her wrist in his hand. she allows him to guide it downward. placing her hand where a phallus once was.
“rrrright now...i think that this is--i think this was wwwwhat being hard felt like. ahhhh. only jusssst barely, i feel it.”
she lacks a suitable response. verbally, at least. the fingers of her right hand have something more direct to say, as she gently traces them along the seam of the scar. his shivering continues. his body is burning with fever in her arms.
her own experience with arousal is far less ambiguous than his. there is no point trying to hide or deny it. he can surely feel her standing at attention, pressing between his buttocks and into his back.
“we should finish your letter. we’re keeping him waiting.”
she wants to serve him well. what she is doing feels profane. disrespectful. exploitative. the letter and the feelings it contains are of far greater importance than her own lust.
“he will undersssstand. overworking a machine wearssss the parts down. even a machine needs rrrrest.”
“is that what we’re doing? resting?”
this time, it’s her laughing. chuckling to herself at how stupid she’s being.
“would you preffffer it to be s-something else? heeheehe--*hck*.”
smoothly, she switches her right hand for her left, still stroking gently at the toughened flesh of the scar as her right reaches once more for the bottle. he shakes his head, stifling his coughs.
“t-too mmmmuch medicine can do as much harm as disease.”
it could, in its own way, be a form of service, she reasons with herself; to bend him over and enter him, to show him the ways a machine can experience ecstacy without the need of a man’s sexual externalities. the Sonnonists may have sterilized him, but they could not hope to desexualize him. he is still a being of pleasure at his core.
she catches herself. without thinking, without making the decision to, her light, timid stroking has escalated to firmly rubbing at the smooth, hairless space between his legs. she cannot help it.
“if you want somethingggg. you will have to ssssay it.”
in the crimson chasing away her usual complexion she is delivered a lesson in how difficult the thing she has asked of him is--to give voice to one’s desires. the words choke her, catching in her throat.
“cannnn’t s-speak?”
she tries. whatever the pained noise is that comes out of her, it isn’t speech.
“have you fffforgotten yourself? where you are, who i am? his fffflesh--MY flesh--bears the words you n-need.”
it is her turn to giggle and smile, to hide her face, burying it in the crook of his neck. what a strange machine.
once again parting, only barely, only just, creating the minimum of space needed for her hand, she types, with fingers in place of needles, the broadest idea of her desires.
I WANT YOU.
“heehee. exceptionally nnnnonspecific, i think.”
she laughs again. how difficult it is, to perform like this. to take those desires and make a show of them. his fortitude in reading his letter to her is something she envies.
YOUR FLESH.
“mmmmy flesh? you are welcome to annnnything you can take.”
rubbing at the scar, she imagines an opening there, an entrance to his internal components which she could work her fingers into, to explore his inner workings. she imagines taking his old and worn parts out, to be replaced with her own. that thought is the vehicle for her realization--she is jealous. she has no deep connections, nobody she loves strongly or who feels strongly about her. she doesn’t even have friends anymore. she badly wants what this machine has with its receiver. she desires both the depth of their connection and the suffering it costs them. she wants his skin. she wants his organs. she wants his sickness. she wants to have what he has, and she wants him to have what she has.
a thought enters her mind which startles her. it is insane. she can’t tell him something like that.
“p-please. i will ffffeel alone if you don’t s-say something.”
her desires are too much to convey through type. the time it takes would drive her mad. she can only whisper it, barely croaking out what she is thinking.
“I don’t want to let go of you.”
“you don’t h-h-havvvve to. we have time.”
it’s not enough. he doesn’t understand.
“it will kill me if this is the last time we speak.”
she’s stalling. wasting time trying to find the courage to say what she is really thinking.
“i can’t mmmmove in the open very much. sympathetic ssssignal projectors are t-too valuable to the war effort. but i cannnn p-promise to find you after it all, if you give me your nnnname.”
she wants that. so, so badly. it isn’t what she has in mind, though.
“elena hopkense.”
“i think you are a sssspecial persion, elena. i don’t wwwwant to let go of you, either.”
“...thank you.”
she waits. takes a breath.
“I have more to say, but it can wait. let’s finish your letter.”
“mmmm. i’ve rested ennnnough.”
she hopes against hope that separating their bodies will quiet the heat of her erection and the insanity of the thoughts swirling in her head. she cannot possibly ask what she wants of him. she cannot possibly offer what she wants to give him. focus on the task. be a machine. serve him.
the needles are in her hand. she awaits his dictation.
“what the doctor has prrrromised me is a compromise. i know v-very well that my truest yearning is an immmmpossibility. i wish that we as sssseperate beings could be dismantled, reassembled into a s-single flawless mmmmachine. the s-singularity of this body hassss little value to me. i want to f-f-f--”
he falters. his body holds still. some sort of episode, taking him away from the present moment. she worries, but the dissociative pause is welcome. she needs time to transcribe this many words.
when she has finished, she places a few light slaps on his cheek. just enough to break him from his daze. he shakes his head, wipes a hand on his mouth. she couldn’t see it, but he must have been drooling.
“i want to ffffeel the completeness, the wholeness, of b-being together with you. we cannot be mmmmade one, but i will give everythhhhing of myself that you are willing to accept.”
another pause. he chances a peek over his shoulder at her, trying to see what she is thinking about this. she’s smiling. she seems quite pleased to be audience to his embarrassment. she knows what comes next. with a nod, she prompts him to finish this.
“and w-when we are together, and at peace, and nnnnever have to think about war again, and we have eaten our ffffill of happiness from the table of our victory, and are c-content with the lives wwwwe have lived,”
he swallows. dry throat. when her transcription catches up to his words, she reaches into her uniform’s heavy coat, producing a canteen of water from which he drinks thankfully. she leans against him as he refreshes himself, feeling the heat of his permanent fever, pressing an ear to his back to listen to the strained churning of his gears. he’s stalling, just as she was.
“come on. I want to hear you say it.”
he can feel her mouth against the skin of his back, twisting, pulling into a delightfully wicked smile. she doesn’t have to see him smiling too. she can feel it from his breathing. she can picture the shiny metal in his mouth clearly from her position of vantage behind him.
“i wwwwant you to fuck me to p-pieces. i want your love to brrrreak me. i want you to rrrrender me unrecognizable. i want you to alter t-this machine so commmmpletely it no longer serves the same function. i want the ssssignals i transmit to forever be sssscrambled by the violence of your p-passion.”
he is shuddering from the touch of the needles, barely able to keep from collapsing under the strain of the elektro-harmonic current. his whole body is slick with sweat from the effort. projecting a signal to such a distant shore must be incredibly taxing. no wonder SSPs are used so infrequently.
she’s very amused, thinking about it. the vital intelligence that was so urgent to communicate seems now like such a small thing. five words that might save thousands of lives. hundreds of words that might save one love.
“i want you to t-t-take thissss essential p-piece of equipment and turn it into something uselesssss.”
when she reaches that final letter, she holds it, long and deep. pressing the needle harder than any before this, eliciting a pleasured wail from the machine. she has been wondering how much force it would take to draw blood with the humming needles’ blunt points. apparently, quite a lot more than she is willing to risk. when at last she pulls away, breaking the elektro-circuit and ending the transmission, he collapses to the floor.
she follows him, slowly lowering herself down beside him, curling her body into the shape of his and again closing that distance between the two. he’s burning up.
“that was very good. I enjoyed it a lot. thank you.”
“ahahhhha. isn’t this b-backwardssss? i thought i wwwwould be t-thanking you. you did exccccellently. nobody has mmmmade it feel like that before.”
her arms are around him again. the praise is blissful. she served him well.
could she say it now? what she was thinking? the insanity that is true to her heart?
“listen.”
he waits patiently. she’s announced her intent to speak. is it too late for “never mind?” too late to hide herself from him? too late to hide from herself?
“I w-wanted to ask if i could have...”
again her hand plunges, flitting across the hardened scars on his chest, diving between his legs to feel at that divine wound. he squirms under her touch, whimpering as she pinches the scar between her fingers. god, she wants it.
“this.”
there is no expectant smile or laugh. he could never have prepared himself for this request. he’s not sure he even grasps what she means.
“t-that? you wwwwant it?”
her breath against his neck is hot. hotter still is her cock pressing into his back. she had been too focused to realize it, but the hardness hadn’t calmed in the slightest as she finished her work. his lower body cannot hold still, small wiggles and movements pressing against it, stimulating it.
“I’ll trade. mine for yours. that doctor could do it.”
the arm she hasn’t busied with molesting his null features rests below his head, cushioning it. she brings her fingertips to his neck, to feel his pulse. it is quickening as he begins to understand what she is offering.
“i c-couldn’t. it’s far too likely ffffor something like that to go wrong. i couldn’t bear for you to have rrrregrets. to be hurt b-because of mmmme.”
his words speak apprehension, but his body communicates anticipation. his movements have grown more purposeful with his excitement. grinding his ass against her like he’s terrified of her going soft.
“but you’d risk that for your receiver?”
“it’s d-diffffferent. he and i are already connnnnected.”
“that connection is what I want.”
she is being stupid. demanding. horny. she doesn’t care anymore. she’s said it already; there’s no longer any reason to hold back. she pulls her hand away from his nethers, earning a pleading whine from him which seems to voice a counterargument to his apprehension. clumsily, hurriedly, she undoes her belt, pulls down her trousers. she will show him.
“part your legs.”
the machine complies. if he’s expecting her to penetrate him, he might be disappointed. surprised, at least. that isn’t her intent.
she has rarely been given occasion to admit it, but her size is something she takes a great deal of satisfaction from. she has been with many men and a few women. all have been stunned into silence on first witnessing just how long and thick it is when fully erect. her more petite bedmates have amused themselves comparing it to their forearms, seeing how their wrists are hardly bigger than its thickest point. they have their fun together and she never speaks to them again; this is how it’s always gone since she enlisted.
she is really quite proud of her massive hog. she will miss it. not too much that she wouldn’t part with it, though.
it is long enough to slip between his legs. to protrude from just below the site of his scar. he can see now, what he could have, what she could give him.
“saints of ffffucking storms, that’s big.”
she chuckles at his idiomatic exclamation, especially the expletive.
“it’s yours. you can touch it, if you want.”
his breath catches. hesitantly, he reaches toward it. just his fingertips, so slowly, as if touching it is a dangerous thing to do. she hides a smile. their heartbeats are pounding in time with one another. she’s quite certain he can feel it too, on his back and his smooth thighs, from her heart and at the site of her intercrural intrusion. he tentatively, timidly, touches the tip. it twitches in response.
“hhhholy shit.”
he gasps. his breathing is slow and labored. this much excitement might be too much for his body to take.
“i cannnn--oh s-saints, this can’t be rrrreal.”
she hears sniffling. choked sobs. he brings his hand around it. his touch is more delicate than she could have imagined it would be. like the youngest and sweetest of her former lovers.
“i ffffeel it so c-clearly. how is this happening, it--”
she hadn’t exactly planned for this, but it wasn’t a possiblity outside her awareness. she’d heard of soldiers fitted with prosthetics who swore they had feeling in their artificial limbs. she has known men who would prefer in intimate moments, when the only comfort to be offered is one person’s hand in another, to be squeezed, caressed, stroked, only on the hand they lost.
in positioning herself so perfectly, bringing herself as close to him as bodies permit, she has made herself his prosthetic.
she chuckles to herself. it must be difficult to cry and masturbate at the same time. he seems to be managing though. his touch is softer than she would use on herself. it’s very pleasant.
“it feels sssso good, it’s been years, i havennnn’t felt--fuck, ffffuck.”
he pulls his hand back, gripping his wrist. his thin arms are far too weak to bring himself to completion.
“it hurtssss. the flesh f-fails the mmmmachine.”
“I could do it for you.”
“i c-couldn’t assssk that. you’ve done too m-much ffffor me already.”
“surely you’re joking. you--look at you! look at how much you give for others. the life you’re living. nothing I give could be too much. you--please. I told you my name. tell me yours.”
he tries to clear his throat. the coughing is choked.
“a name can be ammmmputated like any other p-part of a persssson. the sonnonist doctors prrrroved that to me. i am unit 14 of the ssssympathetic signal projector s-system. nothing mmmmore or l-less.”
she grits her teeth. she can work with that. it makes her angry to know what they’ve done to him, but she can work with it.
“SP-14, then. please. let me touch you.”
his consent is something too preciously given to be easily voiced. all he can do to communicate it is relax himself. take deep breaths. nod.
it’s a strange feeling. when he was touching it, that’s what it felt like--part of her being touched by another. as she reaches around him, gripping herself where she protrudes, she hardly feels it herself. it’s not hers anymore. she’s given this part of her to him; her pleasure belongs to him. he mewls like a hurt animal at her touch.
she tries to be a little more gentle than she would be handling herself at the start. she wouldn’t want to cause any undue discomfort, nor would she want to aggravate his delicate constitution.
“you c-can’t beginnnn to imagine how good--ffffuck, elena, you’re so good--”
he’s sobbing again. she’s learned a lot about herself tonight. most recently, that sex is hotter for her when she can make someone cry. she probably can’t go back to the casual emotionless flings she would throw herself into before this.
“you don’t knowwww--i was, i’d never, nnnnever once with another, before they took it from me, i thought...i rrrreally thought i would never--ahhhh, fuck,”
it’s a first of a sort for her too. she’s never once had a chance to handle another person as well-equipped as she is. her hands are large--typically, she cannot service another the way she would herself. the size disparity usually forces her to alter her technique to something clumsier to accommodate a smaller partner. he isn’t like them. his is so much bigger, so perfectly sized to fit her hand, with a shape so familiar, she can easily use everything she’s learned in her innumerable private nights of desperate onanism to bring him the relief she has so often needed.
his stamina impresses too, in spite of his poor health. she has a chance to really enjoy this. others never seem to last as long as she can. far too many times she’s had to get herself off after outlasting the limits of another’s lust.
“you’re incredible, SP-14. I want you to have this.”
her mind wanders, as the mind occasionally does in the sagging middle chapters of a handjob. she thinks of the years he has spent without feeling something like this. she imagines his frustration on the nights where he can faintly feel what he is missing. crying to himself, with a stormy sea between him and one of the only other people in the world who can truly understand.
it fills her with passion. passionate anger at the people who did this to him. passionate lust, a driven desire to give him something he has never had before. passionate fear, at what she has told him she is willing to do for him. she is afraid, but the fear makes it better. it pushes her not to be lax, not to waver. as she strokes his shaft in smooth, gliding motions, she imagines the years that could await her, years spent without feeling this pleasure. what an insane thing to say to someone. she wants so badly to give this to him.
“i c-couldn’t taaaake it from you, this, thissss feels so fucking good elena i don’t want this to sssstop,”
then it dawns on her. how perfect it could be.
“you couldn’t take it from me? look how easy it was for me to give. all I had to do was put it where it belongs. couldn’t you do the same, once it’s yours?”
he is beginning to realize too. still...what an insane thing to say to someone. such commitment to a stranger who was nothing more than a useful piece of comms equipment to her before she met him. but what else does she have to commit herself to? only the war. wars end.
“i wwwwould! elena, i would, anything you need, i c-can be your mmmmachine, your prosthetic, i--i could be p-part of you!”
his judgment may, potentially, be impaired by how close he’s getting. he hasn’t experienced release in years, and it’s hardly something he was familiar with even then.
“you will be. and I will be part of you. you’ll let me have this?”
his tears continue, his crying nearly a shriek. only now, she spares a thought to the world outside this shack. his voice might carry. this is friendly territory, far from the nearest road, but she has been trained to consider the danger. fuck the danger, though. the machine needs her. it needs her hands, her expertise, her tenderness, it needs her steady hand stroking its cock.
“mmmmy receiver--i couldn’t do it wwwwithout talking to him, he--oh, ffffuck, please--”
she’s prepared for that, of course. the possibility of rejection from a third party. if it came to that she would accept it. she has no intention of destroying that beautifully damaged connection the two must have. but she wants this so badly. she pumps faster.
“one more message, then. after we’ve finished.”
we. she speaks it and it feels good. the collective being of her and her machine. a machine she could be a part of. isn’t that what she is already? one piece of a machine, grand in scale and grim in purpose, a terrible machine which was assembled under the threat of war? tonight she has been shown the kind of machine she wants to be. a sympathetic communicative machine.
“i’m so, i’m sssso fucking c-close, i can’t think, i c-can’t!”
he can’t finish the thought. it’s lost in a choked squeal, a suppressed cough, blood from his mouth, his chest shuddering as she brings him to climax. his body jerks violently, his thighs clamping down hard, warm fluid discharged in short bursts into her waiting hand. she feels calm. satisfied. she served him well. she doesn’t mind that she didn’t cum--it was enough for her to make him feel good.
he seems too spent to move, or to speak. if not unconscious, too drained for the moment to move his weary bones, his time-worn mechanisms. he rolls over, falling facedown, as she pulls herself out from between his legs.
she considers the pearly white liquid still in her hand. ordinarily, after jerking herself off, she would simply wash it clean, wipe her hands, and move on. with a partner, she likes to swallow it. she enjoys knowing another person’s taste. like a cat licking its paws clean, she laps up the small puddle of his cum. mostly salty, a little bitter, a little sweet. it’s delicious.
she checks to make sure he’s still breathing. it would kill her if she had fucked something so precious to death. he’s fine. just worn out.
while he recuperates she considers what to tell his receiver. of most immediate concern: an apology. again taking up the needles, she does as she has learned. she takes her time, types gently. there’s no rush now, nor is there any entertaining response from her machine. no need to wake him while he rests.
FUCKED YOUR BOYFRIEND. SORRY. SHOULD HAVE ASKED.
as she breaks transmission on the final full stop, she drops her head into her hands. what a crass, stupid way to convey what she’s feeling. and she’s hardly figured out how to convey any of the rest of what she needs to say.
best not to agonize over it. just start typing.
HE’S VERY SPECIAL. YOU MUST BE TOO. MADE HIM AN OFFER.
how to say it? she imagines the receiver, confused, possibly hurt, hearing this after being transmitted so much of SP-14’s desperate love. she yearns for him, too. she wants to know him. to love him like she has loved this machine, if he would accept it. she feels an ache of loneliness in her back. perhaps she is receiving a signal, from someone, somewhere in the world. a message, or a sign. just say it.
WANT TO GIVE HIM PART OF ME. AFTER THE WAR. HE DESERVES IT.
surely there’s something else she could say. anything at all that approaches the poetics of the projector’s passions. anything that could make this stranger understand what she is feeling, and how strongly she is feeling it. she wants so badly to be heard, to be understood.
THE TWO OF YOU WORKING TOGETHER MAKE A BEAUTIFUL MACHINE. WANT TO FIGHT FOR YOUR HAPPINESS. WANT TO MAKE THIS ALL WORTH IT. SEE HIM WITH YOU. HE SHOULD BE HAPPY. YOU TOO.
the work is harder with the letters blurred by tears. after tonight it will be back to life as she lived it before meeting him. she can hardly bear the thought.
THIS WAR WILL END SOON.
her stomach is a pit. she doesn’t believe the words, but they’re what she has to tell herself. she’s told it to herself over and over, for years. many times it has seemed like it could be true. it has been four years since the initial formal declaration of war. she cannot take much more of this. she also cannot give up, cannot stop fighting. she already let go of everything else she had. now, the only thing she has left to cherish will have to wait until some peaceful day in the future.
WE WILL MEET WHEN IT’S OVER.
she needs it to be true. she has nothing else. she doesn’t even know if this stranger is alive, if the machine at the other end of the line is operational.
YOU ARE LOVED. YOU WILL SEE HIM SOMEDAY. LIFE GOES ON. STAY ALIVE.
hours later, she rouses from sleep on the floor of the shack. her coat has been draped over her, protecting her from the rain; it is still raining. likely, it will not stop for days. the storm clouds that blow over the mainland from Mare Nubium are unrelenting.
she is alone.
embarrassment stirs her from her post-waking stupor as she realizes she never pulled her pants back up. reaching down to re-dress herself, while adjusting the length of her penis to fit into her undergarments, she makes a discovery.
she cannot feel it. “numb” is the wrong word. when she touches it, it’s as though that part of her body doesn’t exist. or perhaps more accurately: it no longer belongs to her.
she smiles. a small gesture for herself, for him, for his receiver.
life goes on. stay alive.