All the World's a Stage

"Well done, Sir, I knew you'd figure it right out. Now, of course, Sir, do keep this safe until you're ready." She handed him a single chrome key with a short, simple bit and a heart-shaped bow.

"You want me to hold onto this?" Don't lose it, don't lose it, don't lose it.

Lauren turned to face him and slid back into her normal voice. "I told you," she said. "I want to see what you think of what Ed wanted. Not how he went about getting it. But the private desires that drove him. And since he would definitely have been the one holding transformed-Charmaine's key," she pressed the key into his hands. "Apples to apples comparison." She stepped back, struck a pose, and actually twirled in place, with a dramatic fling of her golden hair, so he could see both the front and the back of her in the skintight red latex. When she spoke again, she was back in her Stepford-Charmaine voice. "So tell me, Sir, what you think of my transformation!"

Toby's voice failed him. The red latex clung to Lauren's every toned, feminine curve. With the suit now sealed tightly around her torso, whatever support was in the breast cups held Lauren's curvaceous mounds up as if gravity was at best a polite suggestion at that particular point in spacetime. The light shimmered and danced on the suit and made it look like she had been poured into her current form, from a bottle of blood, fire, chaos, and emotion. As she twirled, the padlocks also twinkled as the light caught them, and he thought briefly of the key in his hand. She would need him to let her out of this. He would do it whenever she asked, of course, but nevertheless, she would have to ask.

"I'm thinking, actually," Toby said, slowly, hoping he wasn't dancing too delicately close to lines he shouldn't cross, "I'd like to see the rest of it before I answer. You did mention there was more."

Her eyes took on a new look, then, one that he wasn't sure he'd seen yet this evening, almost in equipoise between Lauren Vandermeer and Stepford-Charmaine. "Oh, yes, Sir. One more thing, they add so much to the effect of this wonderful suit you got me. Though do forgive me, Sir, I'm still only practicing with them. Just a little more each day."

He backed up, worried that if he turned or blinked, she would be back in the outfit that she wore when she arrived at his doorstep however long ago that was now. He sat down on his armchair. For once, though, he didn't immediately reach for his book. He simply held the key in his hands, and met Lauren's eyes. "My imagination is going into overdrive trying to guess what you mean, yet somehow I'm sure it'll still be a surprise."

"A surprise, to be sure, but a welcome one, I hope." She sat down on the chaise and reached for the duffel. Toby chuckled. I understood that reference.

The things she brought forth from the duffel were not as dramatic as the buildup had led him to expect. It was a set of ballet toe pads with gel inserts, which she quickly slipped onto her feet. "Are those ...?" he ventured cautiously.

"Just a bit of extra protection to help me wear the real things. I told you when I first got here that I was going to have to wear higher heels than those four-inch ones I had on, right? Well, this is them."

His eyes widened until he felt the muscles of his face strain. What she now brought from the duffel was a glossy black pair of knee-length boots with the highest heels he had ever seen, higher than he had ever even known to exist. The heel had to be seven inches high. And the foot of the shoe would hold the wearer's foot en pointe, which explained the ballet toe pads.

"Are—are you supposed to actually walk in those? Can you walk in those?"

"Oh, Sir, I know I do have so much more to learn, but please let me show you how far I've come. I've already worked so very hard."

This is going to put those tennis-star gym-rat muscles to the test. "I really just don't want you to fall and hurt yourself." Though I can't imagine that you won't hurt yourself just by wearing those things.

"I'll be careful, Sir. I know you want me healthy. For whatever we do together."

"I want us both healthy for whatever we do together! I'm just more concerned about you at the moment."

She grinned at him. "I do so like being touched by your ... concern."

"Well, good."

"In that case, you can help me put them on, Sir. Then you can be sure they're good and stable."

"I, uh, what can I do?"

She pointed her foot and slid her leg into the first boot, then extended it and rested it along the end of the chaise. "Lace it up, Sir. Take your time, I'm not going anywhere. It's fine if you need to tighten multiple times. Take all the slack out. Make sure my ankle can't roll."

Toby's mouth was dry. He didn't even bother trying to form words. Instead, he simply bent to the task at hand. His bewilderment at the whole situation meant that he did indeed have to restart once and then go back to re-tighten laces he already thought he had tightened several times in the early going. However, as with closing the hook-and-eye closures of the waist cincher earlier, this quickly turned into a repetitive, single-focus task. Lauren's legs and the impossible footwear he was lacing onto them occupied enough of his mind that a lot of the other stray strands of thoughts were able to be pushed onto the back burner.

What would it take to have nanites, or even less-nano-scale wearable electronics in this, to make it clear when it was secure enough? Or to go the other way, to warn if the ankle was in danger?

What would it take to augment someone's legs, with nanotechnology or otherwise, to make something like this actually wearable for more than a scene on a stage play?

Would it be better to use our nanotech research resources to solve that problem or to cure cancer?

Once he got going and warmed to his task, it went much more smoothly, and soon enough, he was finished and confident that Lauren's ankle was as safe as it could be made in this absurd fashion contraption, and Lauren was sliding her other leg into the other gleaming black boot with its seven-inch heel. Now that he had the routine down a little better, lacing up the second one firmly went more smoothly and quickly.

There was also a single black strap across the top of each boot, a couple of inches below the knee. Each fed into a clasp with a pin with a loop at the end, and Lauren now handed two more padlocks to Toby.

"You know what to do, Sir," she said.

"For real? I mean, actually, never mind. I'm not doubting that you're for real." He buckled the straps and then threaded the padlocks through the clasps, closing them with two more clicks. He did like the sound of them clicking into place. It was a concrete endpoint. Job done. Mission accomplished. "Should I guess that you have another key for me?"

"So wise, Sir," she grinned and handed him another tiny key, similar to the one she had already given him. This one was also threaded onto a tiny alumninum keyring, and he took the opportunity to thread the first key onto that keyring now, too.

He stood up, taking in the sight of her now reclining idly on the one-armed chaise in her skintight red bodysuit and impossibly high heels. She was laying on her side, her head resting in one hand, her right leg draped lazily forward and knee bent, her left leg, under that, stretched along the chaise towards the end. The boots had the same liquid sheen as the suit, making it look even more like she had been poured into a mold and left to solidify in this stunning shape, with her gravity-defying breasts and impossibly long legs. And both boots and suit were locked on her, and she had given him the keys.

He continued to just stand there, gazing up and down her body. This was a jarringly different look for her, who had tended towards modest cuts in muted browns for almost all of the time he had known her. He was used to having her here like an Old World university librarian, the feminine version of how he himself often dressed. His own dark brown twill slacks, solid button-down shirt, and loafers suddenly seemed rather plain.

Lauren just met his eyes, shifted slightly, and said nothing. He was glad of that. He was processing a lot as it was.

This isn't really her. This is her character. But this is still the real her playing that character. Most real people couldn't play this character. Though of course that's how she got the role. But this is still above and beyond even for the character. This wasn't in the book.

If I were Charmaine's husband, is this how I'd design her android replacement? Or post-brainwashing or post-cyborg-transformation personality? How the heck would I know? I can't get into the minds of other people like she can. I wouldn't want her brainwashed into a vapid, domesticated doormat even looking like this.

I'd just want her as brilliant as she already is, looking like this. There was a dangerous thought again. Or looking however she wants! He corrected himself. But I definitely wouldn't mind if this was how she wanted to look. Sometimes. Often. Ugh! Get it together, Tobias Chapman, she's Lauren!

Well, brainwashed-Charmaine might need to walk in those on stage by herself, but Lauren-practicing-to-be-Charmaine can cheat a little in my library. "Can I help you stand?" he asked, slipping the keyring into a pocket of his slacks and holding out both hands.

"I'd like that, Sir," she replied, and sat up off her one and reached up with both hands to take his.

Whether because of his help or because she had practiced in them for a while now after landing the role, she was steadier in the impossible heels than he expected. And she was now taller than him, which was another interesting, perception-altering moment for him. Even in her four-inch heels, he had still had an inch on her. Now she had two on him. The effect of the heels on her posture was even more dramatic than the effect on her height, though, with her center of gravity higher and more forward. And despite her physical fitness, the red second skin stretched tight over her form made it clear that her leg and pelvic muscles, and even her core, were hard at work maintaining her balance.

"How far do you need to walk in these for your part?" he asked.

She refocused her eyes. He liked them better that way anyway. "It's two quarter-trips across the stage, on and then off. About twenty feet each way. But of course I need to make it look good, and it's not just two straight walks, I do a couple of things along the way."

"You're going to make it look good," he confirmed.

She smiled. "How do you know? You haven't even seen me take a step in them yet."

"I just know because I know you."

"Well, let's just say that just being me doesn't give me a magical ability to walk in these things. I've been practicing with them a little bit every day. The first day, I got four steps and looked like a crippled duck."

"How long has it been now?"

"Just under two months."

"How far can you go now?"

"I can actually make the sixty feet, but only barely and I lose that disconcertingly-perfect Stepford elegance near the end."

"I'm going to remember that phrase 'disconcertingly perfect.' I like that."

"Oh yeah? Think you can use that one?"

It would be an apt description of this evening, he thought. "I'm sure I can," he said. "So you don't need my help walking in them?"

"Not so far," she said with a smile. "But if you want to help me practice, I can use you as my Ed for my final scene if you want. This is my final scene in the play."

"Um, sure, what do I do?"

"So for my final scene, stage left is going to be set up as the Wimperis parlor in their house. Ed is just sitting there, in an armchair a bit like yours—yours is better, honestly—and I come in, all brainwashed, submissive, and enticing, get him up, and we leave together. That's it. No words, it's all visual."

"I can manage that," he said. He finally let go of her hands, slowly, and backed away, still wondering if she would fall without his support. It turned out that she was fully capable of standing on her own two feet even when her feet were locked into shoes that made standing on one's own two feet quite a challenge. He backed up and settled down into the armchair. It was easier to see all of Lauren at once from eight feet away, and he found himself doing exactly that.

"So we're still working on exactly the interaction between Charmaine and Ed when I reach him," she continued. "But the audience will be watching from the side, so it has to be something that's show-offy in profile. So what I'd like to try here is a flaunty bend-over at the waist, and at that point, you probably will need to catch me. Or I'll just fall on you, that could be fun, too."

"I'll catch you," he promised.

"And I'd like to kiss you."

Toby's IQ dropped by fifteen points on the spot into the high one-seventies, and he considered the possibility that he was at risk of hypovolemic shock because of the amount of blood that drained into a single part of his body. "Happy to help," he choked out.

"So I'm thinking it's about ten feet from me to you," she continued.

"Eight," he fought off his body's attempt to strangle himself enough to choke the word out. But he was very good at eyeballing distances.

"Mm. I believe you. So then how far is it from you back to the door?"

"Thirteen," he answered immediately. Please give me at least one more normal-person question.

"So here's the plan, then. I come over, give the audience a show and entice you to get up and follow me, and then we walk out the door together. Down the center hall and to the kitchen. How far would that be?"

"Another twenty-two to the kitchen door. Then wherever."

"That basically gets us there. Of course I want to be able to do more than the minimum so that I'm confident at what I actually need to do for the prat, but I'll be up for a break at that point. Good to go?"

He took a breath. His neural and cardiovascular activity were returning to normal. Well, no they weren't, but their direction of change was back in the direction of normal rather than further into emergency territory. "Ready when you are."

"Then just act natural."

Act natural? OK. Act natural. He picked up his book again and opened it.

He let half his gaze drift down into the familiar realms of reading and science, but he kept the other half trained on Lauren as she began to move. She had her disconcertingly perfect Stepford smile on again, and her eyes were once again that disconcertingly happy but empty. Her steps were surprisingly smooth in those heels, again with each heel and toe landing in a straight line. She reached the armchair without faltering. Then she crossed her legs, still standing upright, and slowly bent forward at the waist. The half of his gaze that was watching her move was mesmerized by the visible strength of her core muscles.

Then his mind connected whatever circuit that was supposed to remind him to catch her, and he suddenly dropped his book to reach up to catch her.

The first thing he caught was her breasts, one in each hand, as though they had been descending directly into his hands the entire time with the precision of guided bombs. Her latex second skin was liquid-smooth in his hands, though he could also feel the extra thick part on the bottom of her breasts, the part that would be supporting them when she stood upright. And his first skin turned the same color as her second one.

"Sorry!" he squeaked, quickly shifting his hands to her shoulders.

"Mm-hmm. For what, Sir?" she asked.

"I, uh ..."

"Shh," she flipped her hair to one side and leaned forward. "Rule number one of the stage. The show must go on."

He took a breath, focusing on her words to the point that he lost track of the fact that she was continuing to lean forward. "Righmmmm!" he said as her lips found his.

He knew actors and actresses had to be able to act out the widest range of possible emotions with conviction and enthusiasm. But he was still insanely, darkly jealous of whatever actor was going to play Ed if he was going to get to do this with Lauren for however many nights this production would run. Even if Ed was one of the bad guys, and it was all an act, and the real Lauren was even better than the latex-sculpted, brainwashed Charmaine. Because, at least in his utterly inexperienced opinion, the real Lauren was putting some impressive acting prowess into that kiss.

"Come, Sir," she said, taking either side of the collar of his shirt and drawing him to his feet. He kept his hands on her shoulders until she was upright.

Then she turned, a convincing ballerina twirl, again maintaining her balance surprisingly effectively. His eyes fell on the locks on the flap on the back of her suit, still catching the lamplight hypnotically as they swayed with her stilted but rolling movements. She stepped ahead of him, one hand back to hold his.

Chapter 6: Interlude

She pulled the library door open, and he followed her out to the broad center hallway of the Chapmans' expansive Back Bay townhome. The staircase to the second level took up the left side of the hall. The right side was the passage back to the kitchen and other first floor rooms to the rear of the place, and she brought him along there.

"Oh, that question you asked earlier," Toby said as they walked.

"Sir?"

"The one about whether I could empathize with Ed. Just about his fashion sense, nothing else. After further research, the experimental evidence is yeah. I can see why he got into seeing Charmaine like this. Definitely not how I would go about getting Charmaine like this if I could do what he could do. Or, well, not Charmaine. But whoever."

"Oh?"

They had reached the kitchen now, which had been recently remodeled and expanded and now boasted an impressive granite island. Lauren's footsteps were beginning to falter a little now, and rather than circle the island to the breakfast nook in a bay at the back wall of the house, she stopped and hoisted herself onto the island. Her feet dangled and swayed two feet off the floor.

"I mean," he said, "these men had the ability to make humanoid robots that were convincing enough to fool people, even their own children. Yeah, they acted all artificial, but they were also able to do a whole range of domestic chores, and to drive, and to do a whole range of other things that we can't even get single-function robots with no form factor limitations to do in 2024. And with almost no maintenance unless they were damaged. And the book was written and set in 1972. So if I and my evil suburban husband partners had AI technology that was fifty-plus years ahead of time, like stuff the rest of the world wouldn't be able to figure out by 2080, I wouldn't risk becoming part of a multiple homicide conspiracy. First, I'd actually go into business with that tech and make billions of dollars. Then I'd try to find someone who already liked wearing stuff like that, had a real brain of her own, and wouldn't mind being set up for life with a billionaire tech startup founder. Not that women like that are common, but I'd bet they exist somewhere."

"Oh, I'd bet that they do," she said. "Somewhere."

"So then I'd have an even better life than those guys, even though they 'win' in the end, at least in the book, because they're constantly at risk of one traitor with either a conscience or a chip on his shoulder bringing the whole thing down—like what happened in the 2004 movie—or having their kids figure it out, and then having to either double down and kill off their own kids and replace them with robots, too, or somehow get the kids to keep quiet about it."