Synaptic Overload
by Brandy Dewinter and Tigger
(Copyright 1999)
Chapter 5 - Volumetric Efficiency
After half a dozen convictions for drunken driving, drivers find
insurance companies quite unreasonable about providing coverage. Habitual
drunks therefore often end up without a car. Lending a car to a friend
with that record is hardly a generous act; it's often a deadly one. The
man driving the borrowed pickup had predictably gotten drunk though it
was early on a Saturday afternoon. That act of false generosity cost the
owner of the pickup his vehicle. It cost the drunk his life.
No one ever knew why he ended up in the wrong lane, facing oncoming
traffic. The driver of the first car threatened by the runaway truck
tried to stop and to swerve at the same time, an unfortunate combination
that ended up rolling her small car. Perhaps the drunk noticed something,
though much too late, for the pickup swerved as well, running off the road
and hitting a main power pole. Predictably, a television news team was on
the scene almost as quickly as the emergency crews, though in this case
the most significant news item occurred during the interval before they
arrived.
"This is Dan Parks, reporting live for 6-Shooter News at the scene of
a major traffic accident. With me is Becky Lewis, the driver of one of
the cars that was involved. Becky, tell us what happened."
"I was just driving along, and this truck came across into my lane.
I tried to stop, but my car ended up rolling over. I don't really know
what happened next, but my car ended up under the truck, with electrical
lines wrapped around it, and I guess around the truck, too."
"And then what happened?" Parks prodded.
"Well, I don't know exactly. I saw a fireman, but he told me not
to get out of the car. He said something about the car protecting me
from being electrocuted. I tried to tell him that I could smell gas, and
I think he knew that, but he still told me not to move."
Parks turned to the camera himself for a moment, "Captain Simpson, of
the Greater Metro Fire Department, has already told us that the high-power
cables carried enough voltage to electrocute anyone touching the car and
the ground at the same time. They were attempting to disconnect the
cables, but the strain had caused a partial short at the closest power
pole and linemen were unable to approach the connections."
Turning back to Becky Lewis, he said, "Tell us how you were rescued."
Becky said, "I'm not sure of all of what happened. All I know is
that the crackling from the lines stopped. I could feel the car shift
just a little, like maybe they finally got the cables untied. Then the
roof to my car just disappeared."
"Disappeared?" Parks asked. "Do you mean they cut it away?"
"No, I didn't hear any saws or anything, and it was all at once. I
wasn't looking at the roof. I was trying to get rid of the rest of the
windshield. It had been broken in the crash and I thought I could make
a big enough hole to get out. All of the sudden, there was a light by my
head and when I looked, there was this big hole in the roof. A woman
in a costume was reaching in to help me out."
"How did she get you out?"
"Well, actually, she didn't really get me out, except to help steady
me. First she asked if I was hurt, and when I told her no she offered me
her hand. I used it to pull myself through the opening."
"Have you ever seen this woman before, even on the news or
something?"
"No, never," Becky said.
"Tell us about this woman," Parks said, then before she could speak
he looked away and touched the earpiece he wore, listening intently.
Speaking directly to the camera, he said, "I have just been informed
that we have a videotape of the costumed rescuer, obtained from a
bystander with a camcorder. For your first look at this apparently new
superhero, we return to anchor Elizabeth Hawley at the 6-Shooter News
desk."
The anchorwoman in the studio took up the narrative, "Thank you, Dan.
The video you are about to see is exclusive to 6-Shooter News. For those
who may not have as clear a picture as we see here, I will attempt to
explain what is shown."
"The tape begins after the wrecked vehicles have stopped moving.
You can see that the car is pinned by the pickup truck, and that the
power lines are wrapped around both vehicles. Here, the camera points
up to where the cables are stretched taut from the next, still-standing
pole. The electric arcs are visible even in the daylight. In the
distance you can see linemen trying to disconnect the cables at a pole
with undamaged connections."
"The camera has just switched to a shot of a flying woman, wearing a
cape. She's pointing her hand at the sparking cables on the standing
pole. They have just fallen to the ground, sliced through somehow. Now
she's landing. She seems to have something in her hand. It looks like a
giant snowflake, though instead of being white, it is glowing with an
internal light. There are spiky extensions sticking out from the central
glow, except these are not the six symmetric points of a giant snowflake,
they are more jagged. Chaotic."
"There, she has thrown the, um, ball at the roof of the car. It
seems to be dissolving. No, it's more like it's disintegrating, turning
to dust. Now the costumed rescuer is reaching into the car and you can
see her helping the driver to escape. The driver of the car is clear,
and now the caped woman is flying off as quickly as she came. It doesn't
appear that she talked with anyone except Ms. Lewis."
Beside the anchorwoman's head, a still frame from the video appeared
on the monitor, showing a full-length image of the unknown rescuer. "This
costume is not associated with any known super-powered individual. As you
can see, she has a white torso and black tights, with red boots, gloves
and mask. She is blonde, with very long hair, and wears a long blue cape.
There seems to be some sort of insignia on her wide belt, but it's not
quite clear enough to make out. She also wears a large red jewel around
her neck, though at this time it is not clear if the jewel has any
significance to her powers."
Hawley now spoke directly into the camera, announcing, "This station,
on behalf of our parent network, WNN, reminds our viewers of the standing
offer for information leading to the true identity of established
superheroes. I'm sure that this new rescuer will soon be on the list of
those to whom the reward applies. Stay tuned for a word from our
sponsors. When we come back, we'll have more on this new masked marvel."
Janice reached forward to turn down the sound on the TV and looked
at that same masked marvel, standing quietly at her side. She said,
"Well, that's pretty impressive, for a first time out."
"I couldn't just let her die. I thought the gas was going to catch a
spark from that arcing power line at any time" the costumed woman said.
"Oh, I agree with you," Janice reassured her. "I'm glad you could
help."
"Thanks," said her companion. "Me, too."
After a pause, the colorfully-garbed rescuer said, "I guess I should
get undressed now."
Carefully ignoring the reluctance in the masked woman's tone, Janice
agreed and reached to help her with her cape. The woman removed her own
mask, to show an attractive face with nose just a bit too long for classic
beauty. It was, of course, Thorson, though a very feminine-looking
version.
"How did the new corset work?" Angie said, entering the room. They
were in the Hardesty's apartment behind the Inner Truth salon and Angie
had just finished with another client. Even now, Thorson had never seen
any of the other clients since they were ushered quickly into a
consultation room or office whenever they arrived in order to maintain
mutual privacy. By now Thorson was as likely to be invited into the
proprietor's private quarters as any of the salon's business areas,
anyway.
"It worked very well," Thorson confirmed as he sat to remove the
high-heeled boots. "It didn't slip at all, not that it could have as
tight as you guys make me wear it, and yet it didn't pinch."
"That's why everyone who is serious should get a custom corset,"
Angie declared, then she laughed, "though not everyone gets one with
those whatchamacallit filaments, and kevlar."
"The kevlar idea was a good one," Thorson said. "I'm glad you
thought of it."
"Well, there's entirely too good a chance that someone you'll meet
will be only too willing to shoot at you."
Thorson nodded, too out of breath for speech from trying to bend in
that same corset while removing the boots.
"Here, let me help you," Janice offered. In short order Thorson
was out of the rest of his clothes, or at least, his costume. He still
wore the undergarments that forced his form into feminine curves.
"Any problems?" she asked professionally, thinking of the costume
she had done so much to design.
"Well, the hair is pretty long. That wig gets heavy, and it drags
in the wind when I fly."
Janice laughed and said, "Tough. It looks fabulous on you, and now
that you're famous, you're committed."
"You're famous?" Angie asked. "I thought you were just going to
try out flying in the corset."
"I was," Thorson said. "But I saw an accident and I had to help."
"Oh, great! How'd it go?"
"Pretty well. The sensors in the neck jewel; GPS, power level, that
sort of thing, worked fine. The audio reports through the earrings were
clear enough. But I do have one problem," he said pensively, then looked
up with a wry grin, "beside the wig and the heels and not breathing in the
corset . . . "
Not waiting for the obvious question to continue, he said, "I ran out
of fuel, or almost anyway. I found out that I can fly faster if I project
a bit of heat ahead of me to thin the air, and also if I run a bit of
current through my magnetic filaments. Oh, and cutting those cables, from
the distance that I needed to be, took more than I expected, too."
"Cables?" Angie asked.
"Later," Janice stilled her.
Thorson continued explaining his problem, "I can't generate and
consume power at the same time, so I need to store some. A couple of
the compartments on this belt are storage, and the rest are the
electrolysis mechanism and the fuel cell itself. I'm full up unless I
let the belt get pretty bulky.""
"What sort of fuel?" asked Janice.
"Mostly liquid hydrogen. I have a small oxygen tank that I use
to supercharge the fuel cell if I need to, but mostly I just use
atmospheric oxygen."
"I see," said Janice, a light of humor coming on behind her eyes.
She looked at Angie with a big grin on her face. Angie looked confused
for a moment, and then a smirky grin broke over her own features.
She started to giggle. "I think we can help you with that," she
promised.
"Now, Angie," Janice said, but there was a note of humor in her
voice. "You know I told him to keep that proportional."
"Oh, it will be, um, well balanced," she said, then started
snickering again.
Thorson didn't get it. They gave him no immediate relief, just
grinning at him.
Finally, Janice dropped a hint, "Just how, um, big do you want your
storage containers to be?"
The words themselves were reasonably innocuous, but the sly wink she
sent along with the statement finally let Thorson in on the modification
to his costume that she had in mind. The blush that appeared on his face,
visible even through the makeup that he still wore, showed that he had
finally gotten the message.
Still, the idea was a good one, so he nodded and said in an airy,
feminine voice, "Don't get any silly ideas. I have my reputation to
maintain, you know. I think I have a quite adequate shape right now,
don't you?"
Angie broke out in a giggle all the more pointed since her own
pixie shape was not particularly well-endowed. Pretty soon they were
all laughing, but it was clear that the problem of fuel storage would
be easy to solve.
They decided Thorson might as well leave the costume with them,
since they were going to be working on the breast forms anyway. They
could also wash and set his wig, and clean everything. He might have
the appearance of an attractive and classy lady, but he still got as
sweaty as a man. As he was picking up his belt to put it away, Angie
noticed the insignia.
"What's that supposed to be?" she asked. The mark was a simple
arrow, divided into two sections by a pair of lines cutting across the
middle.
"Oh, that's a broken arrow," Thorson explained. "Entropy has
often been called, 'time's arrow', and a lot of what I do is control
entropy."
"Say, that might be a catchy name," Janice suggested. "Call
yourself, 'Entropy'."
"Hmm, I hadn't thought of that," Thorson mused. Then he nodded
and said, "But it fits. I'll use it."
Then he looked at the two of them. "You know, either of you could
claim a million dollars by telling WNN who I am."
"We know," Janice answered.
She didn't say anything more. What might have been a threat about a
future action was in fact a promise based on past discretion. After a
moment, Thorson smiled at them, nodding in recognition of the message.
"So," Angie asked. "Are you going home as Jonny, or as, what?
Janie, I suppose."
"Oh, I would never go out in public like this," Thorson laughed.
"Well, of course not," Janice said, picking up on Angie's lead.
"You'd need something nice to wear. I have just the thing."
"No, thanks, I don't want to," Thorson said sharply.
"Do you think it's wrong?" asked Janice.
"Uh, no, not really, well, maybe. It's wrong for me," he declared.
"How do you know?" Angie asked.
Thorson was beginning to see a tag-team plan in their comments, but
if he couldn't trust them to have his best interests at heart, at least
as they saw it, he was already in lots of trouble. He decided to stop
the playing around and just cut to the chase.
"Why do you want me to go out dressed as a woman?"
"Because we think that you will be more successful in your masquerade
if you do," Janice answered with equal directness.
Thorson paused for a moment, but he realized that part of the reason
he had left the scene of the accident so abruptly was that he didn't feel
ready to meet someone face to face while dressed as a woman. It made him
uncomfortable and he couldn't imagine anyone ever enjoying it, except that
the living example of Janice said there was a lot about this that he didn't
understand. The logical extension of that recognition led to the
realization that there might indeed be things he had yet to learn.
The two owners of the transformation salon had waited patiently while
he thought through the problem. However, even before he announced his
agreement with their plan, they could see the argument play itself out in
his expression. When he looked up, Angie was already moving toward the
main shop.
"You get the dress, Janice, and I'll pick out a good wig. Blonde, of
course, since Janie's coloring is just too perfectly Nordic for words, but
not quite as long as the superbabe wig, don't you think?"
She was gone before either Janice or Thorson could answer.
"Doesn't it matter what *I* think?" he complained.
"Not usually," Janice said with a wry grin. "Just remember, I'm
the one that has to live with it all the time."
Thorson laughed, but Janice could see a little hint of wistfulness
lurking in his eyes. She wondered just what sort of life the scientist
had, when he wasn't learning the tricks of their trade.
*******************
Synapse, self-styled "Queen of Hawaii and All the Surrounding Waters"
held court in a wicker chair on a breeze-caressed verandah. She was
indeed surrounded by water, though not those she claimed to own. Instead,
her palace was a seaside lodge in the Caribbean, rented with the recovered
"taxes" she had taken from federal banks.
She still wore her skin-tight costume, despite the warm temperatures
of the island haven. Her dark clothing and hair stood out in sharp
contrast to the light color of the high-backed chair. It had the
appearance of a throne, an effect deliberately selected.
"Maui, how fare our finances?" she asked imperiously.
A slender girl in a brief wisp of fabric, supported just high enough
either by magic or glue for a minimum bit of modesty, swayed to her feet
so that she could dip in a deliberately provocative curtsy.
"We have sufficient funds for this stage in your plan, Your Majesty.
The last two bank recoveries were more productive than expected and we are
therefore ahead of schedule."
Synapse received this information with a regal nod of her head, then
turned to a thick-set man with iron-gray hair and a gaudily-decorated
purple uniform.
"Oahu report to us on the state of our defenses."
The older man lifted himself to his feet from his uncomfortable
position on the ground and came to a rigid attention. His eyes were
fixed at a point beyond the horizon over Synapse's head when he made
his report.
"The armored car we stole along with its contents in the Jacksonville
robbery has arrived at the dock in Charlotte Amalie. I have arranged for
it to be transported here by no later than tomorrow night. The RPGs have
already been delivered. However, I must report that the supplier of small
arms has reneged on his agreement to provide sub-machine guns and
ammunition. In accordance with your directions, I have not approached
local suppliers in order to maintain security. However, I should be able
to obtain an alternate source of supply when we return to the mainland."
"We are not pleased to hear of things not completed on schedule,"
Synapse said.
"No, Your Majesty. I am not pleased to be required to report them."
"Is it not one of the foundational precepts of military power that
discipline must be maintained? And another that excuses are no substitute
for success?" she asked, the tones in her voice as silky and smooth as the
hair that lifted gently in the breeze.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
The tip of a delicate tongue peeked out from between Synapse's full
lips, and her eyes took on a heavy, half-lidded smolder. Almost idly, her
right hand raised and an elegant nail pointed at her military leader. For
a moment there was no response. Then, he gave a sort of half-voiced moan,
bending forward as though under an irresistible compulsion. Beads of
sweat shown on his forehead as he forced himself back to an erect stance.
As he did so, his pants pulled a bit tighter to reveal that his stance
was not the only erect part of him.
"When you report tomorrow, we will see if you have learned our
lesson," Synapse said. "You may sit, if you want."
"Thank you, Majesty, but I believe I will stand."
She ignored his comment, turning to the third of her courtiers. This
was a young man, but a large one. Even in his kneeling stance he towered
above the seated Maui. Yet his posture was not one of dominance. Nor,
aside from being on his knees, one of submission. A glance at his eyes
revealed an emptiness that showed either attitude would require more
awareness than the man had to display. She didn't even speak to him, just
gesturing again with a casual flicker from her ruby nails.
For a moment, he didn't move either. Then a wave of pure pleasure
showed in the empty windows of his eyes. When it had passed, he shot to
his feet, shouting, "Yes, Your Majesty! Thank you, Your Majesty."
"Big Island, we think we will walk around our island residence today.
Prepare the cart. Oahu, you will assist."
"Yes, Your Majesty," they answered in chorus. In moments, the big
man was pulling what looked like an ornate rickshaw, decorated in gold and
purple. Synapse stepped directly from the verandah to the cart, never
risking the loss of dignity possible if she tried to walk in her stiletto
heels in the loose sand.
She poked a sharp toe in his taut backside and he began to move.
"Oahu, Maui, accompany us," she commanded, then poked her mount again to
get him to move onto the firmer wet sand at the waterline.
"Have we heard yet from the United States government, about our
demand that they return our rightful lands to us?" she asked Maui.
"No, Your Majesty. Three messengers sent to retrieve mail from
the P.O. Box you have identified in notes left at our robberies have
been apprehended by the authorities. As all they knew to do was post
a note on an open electronic bulletin board, there is little risk of
compromise. Yet, it would seem the authorities are not yet ready
to accede to your demands."
"What did you call our expeditions?" Synapse asked, the silky tone
back in her voice.
Maui answered, curiosity at the question in her voice, "Recoveries,
Majesty, of the taxes illegally taken from your lands."
Synapse asked the uniformed man with them, "Oahu, is that what you
heard?"
"No, Your Majesty," he answered.
"Nor did we," Synapse confirmed. "We distinctly heard our finance
minister call them robberies."
"No, Majesty. I couldn't have," the girl said in fear.
"And now you contradict us," Synapse said with a sigh. The slender
girl looked like she was considering running away, but the futility of
that on the small, isolated island was all too apparent. She gave a
deep, heartfelt sigh of her own, then bowed her head to her queen.
"I am sorry, Your Majesty," she said humbly.
"We believe you," Synapse said. "But, as General Oahu is already
demonstrating, we believe in discipline as well. However, unlike him,
you have not failed to produce, only forgotten for a moment our purpose.
Accordingly, you will not be held in a state of unsatisfied arousal for
any extended length of time."
"Oh, thank you, Your Majesty," Maui said in surprise.
"No," Synapse continued, the silkiness of her tones more pronounced
than ever. "You will find yourself quite satisfied. Quite satisfied
indeed."
The look of horror on the girl's face was quickly supplanted by a
surprising flush of pleasure. Surprising, considering the horror that
had preceded it. Her arousal showed through the thin material of her
wrap, followed by an unmistakably confirming scent. In seconds, she
slumped to the sand, quivering in an ecstasy beyond words. The quakes
shaking her body gradually damped out, and she struggled to regain the
breath that had not been able to find its way into her laboring lungs.
"Majesty, please. No more." Maui begged.
Synapse looked away in disdain. She prodded her mount into motion
even as shudders again began to shake Maui's slender shoulders. The eyes
of the man known as Big Island were too vacant to show any more concern
than the queen, but those of General Oahu bulged with an intensity that
boded poorly for his blood pressure. Unmet need pounded in a visible
pulse at his forehead as he watched the beautiful young girl writhe in the
sand. His own arousal continued to display itself, straining further
until another tight grunt forced itself past his clenched teeth.
"Come, General. We will allow her to relax when we have finished
our tour of the island," Synapse commanded. Then she looked back at
him, "Unless you prefer confusion to arousal."
"No, Your Majesty," he said quickly, stepping back to his place by
her side. The other effect which Synapse could impose was of special
distress to the orderly military mind which was a source of such pride
to General Oahu.
"We must plan a new move, a bold stroke that will force the United
States to acknowledge us," Synapse was saying as they continued down the
beach. Maui, left lying in the sand, arched her back in helpless
paroxysms of pleasure, humping she knew not what, responding beyond any
ability of her body to understand.
(
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