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
Syndaine.
  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
lids.
  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.
Easily.'
  Tasche-Schinereyf didn't argue.

August 1991
nikolai `whar's mah thesauraus' kingsley

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