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<td align="LEFT" width="1" rowspan="3" valign="BOTTOM"><font face="Georgia" size="2" color="#CCCCCC">..</font></td>
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<td align="LEFT"><b><font face="Georgia">Synergy</font></b></td>
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<td align="RIGHT"><b><font face="Georgia"><a href="bios_a2l.shtml#Drennan">Marie Drennan</a> </font></b></td>
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<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">All human males dream of making love with a Synerge. Some -- mostly
those who have never been off the planet Earth but who have heard
things about these rare and erotic creatures, most of them female,
all of them promises of exquisite sexual pleasure -- think mainly
in crude terms of <i>hot chicks</i> and b<i>low your mind and make you come so hard your eyes will pop</i>. Other men, having been to the Colonies and perhaps met someone
who knew someone who had connected with a Synerge, might begin
to understand there’s more to it. And a very few, very lucky men
might, in their lifetimes, lay eyes on an actual Synerge, and
feel their breath escape and their blood thump as her consciousness
absorbs his urge and returns it to him in a pulse of physical
lust. Afterward, when she has left his line of sight and the buzz
of her has begun to dissipate in his mind, he will crave her;
but if the connection didn’t happen in the first instant of eye
contact, it never will, and chances are he will never encounter
another Synerge in his life, no matter where in the galaxy he
travels. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">It takes the average Synerge one hundred and twenty hours of stimulation
to reach orgasm -- a daunting prospect to most humans. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">But what most don’t understand is that stimulating a Synerge is
not like stimulating an ordinary human. Synerges respond to the
feelings and sensations of those around them. They receive impressions,
specifically sensual and sexual ones, from the thoughts of others.
And since they are almost all breathtakingly, beautifully made,
their existence is one of soft, constant waves of psychic stroking,
which they return to their admirers, leaving them dark-eyed and
weak-kneed, wanting more. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">Synerges feel, in a real and bodily sense, what people are thinking
about doing to them: they feel hands on skin, devouring mouths,
the weight and friction of animal coupling. They feel partly in
images and sometimes in words, if a particularly cerebral human
is present; but their primary experience is that of actual sensation
-- physically experiencing the desires of those who connect with
them. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">Imagine, then, what a real kiss would feel like to a Synerge.
The flood of sensations would be too much to bear: her own added
to the force of his, projected into her mind and drenching her
consciousness with the molecules and electric zings of sexual
arousal. Because to her brain and nervous system, the lust that
comes from outside of her is just as real as her own, as is the
response of her body; the rush of serotonin, the feeling of electricity
on the skin, the delicious swelling of lips and breasts and clitoris?all
real. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">Fortunately for these creatures of desire, such connections happen
only rarely. Most of the time, their receptivity is maintained
at a low drone. A warm, gently bubbling bath of pleasant sense
input. Thus, they are protected from being overwhelmed by the
chaos of strangers’ minds, their hot and constant brooding, their
libidinous blurts and shouts. The normal state of mind for a Synerge:
smiling, soothed, gently turned on. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">But when a connection happens . . . </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">* * * </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">Reynes has been in the presence of a Synerge. Not a real connection,
only a zap. It happened on Dix-Cinq Colony, in a posh nightclub
called Bacchus, which he would never have been allowed into if
he hadn’t been doing some termination work for the owner. After
the job was done, Reynes was rewarded to an evening’s entertainment
in the Bacchus inner sanctum. She was a dancer. He first noticed
her because she was tall and beautiful and wearing not a lot --
much as he would notice any woman of that description. But when
she half-turned, not looking directly into his eyes but smiling
and touching her throat as if she had heard each one of his primeval
dirty thoughts, he knew she was no human. His own arousal came
back at him, magnified and nuanced with a different, feminine
lust, and hit him like a sonic boom. He still doesn’t know how
long he stood there, his nervous system jumping with sexual energy,
his erection only a part of the total-body, total-mind tidal wave
of sensual pleasure flooding his circuitry. He couldn’t speak
or move, nor did he want to. He only had one want: more. More
of this. More of her. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">And then she was gone. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">Because Synerges exist naturally in a state of heightened sensory
perception, they tend to seek out environments where the senses
are treated kindly: soothing sounds, warm temperatures, gentle
light. They also gravitate toward places where people gather for
pleasure, to see and hear and touch one another, to connect; in
such places, the Synerge can relax and flow with the stream of
sensations, sigh contentedly in the soft aura of desire enveloping
her. Bacchus is such a place. Small, unpublicized, and expensive,
cherished by <i>bon vivants</i> and hedonists, it admits only patrons who have been told of its
location by regular members, who themselves are in danger of excommunication
should they choose their guests unwisely. Humans and aliens from
the farthest reaches of space travel here, some making journeys
of weeks or months, to be entertained by the club’s legendary
musicians and dancers, to partake of the rare culinary delicacies
always on offer, and to revel in the thrumming, fluidly orgiastic
atmosphere. All who enter here appreciate the privilege and protect
the sanctuary -- not least because Bacchus is home to a Synerge.
</font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">Meza moves sinuously through the main lounge, where the murmur
of arousal and longing is tinged with the alert excitement of
people just entering, just beginning what they know is going to
be a memorable and deeply gratifying evening (and night, and morning,
and maybe more) at the Club. Not everyone there knows she is the
Synerge, though most have probably heard about her; even so, her
appearance alone is enough to draw appreciative stares from males
and females alike. Her skin is a shimmering olive tone, sumptuous
and smooth, plump as a baby’s, turning mystifyingly, mesmerizingly,
from fair to dark-flushed according to her surroundings and her
mood. Tonight she is pale as a moon, the curves of her body accentuated
by the sheath of web-like netting that covers her, barely, from
hip to ankles, and the even finer mesh bodice that clings to her
arms, back and breasts. Her delicate feet are bare except for
a few glittering rings and the dark blue pigment of polish. Taller
than many of the men in the room, she nevertheless moves seemingly
without disturbing the air, a shadow, a whisper. Her sensitive
fingers lightly touch as she winds her way among the tables and
couches: a hand, a shoulder, a face. In her wake, she leaves a
trail of patrons who know they have been fortunate enough to receive
the tingling touch of a Synerge; they gaze at her as she lingers
or close their eyes to savor the sensations humming across their
skin. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">And Meza savors them as well. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">In addition to the atmospheric appeal the Club has for Meza’s
kind, clubs and resorts and even trading ports have another advantage:
a constant influx of new people. Because Synerges experience true
connections only occasionally, and there is no way to predict
who it might be, it is in their interest to encounter as many
new people as possible, to increase their chances of experiencing
the full cycle of arousal, stimulation, and climax. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">Meza takes much longer than most. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">This is not because she is less sensitive than some of her kind;
in fact, she is more so. Sensitive to such a degree that, for
her, prolonged eye contact with a lover can become almost painfully
stimulating, as his passion becomes hers. She suffers. She breathes
in tiny sips, trembling. His need combines with her own and registers
shadowy images of his intentions, flickering like cave-paintings
in her mind, and her body responds. She has nearly fainted on
occasion, high on the opiate rush of her own neurotransmitters.
There is nothing like this, nothing like it in the world, and
so she longs for it and yet almost hopes against it happening.
</font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">And it’s happening right now. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">She recognizes him: a tawny jungle cat of a man, a hunter by profession
and by nature. A year ago it was. Word had spread that an assassin
was in the Club; he’d been personally approved by the owners ,
so no one was frightened, and everyone was curious. One of Meza’s
dancer friends pointed him out, but just as Meza started to turn,
she felt it: like molten light clinging to her back, her skin,
the quickening pulse and hardening of nipples, gooseflesh, sharp
breath. She didn’t dare make eye contact. Keeping a safe distance,
she stole quick glimpses of the man, sipping at the sensations
filling her?simply by being in his proximity. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">“Uh oh, Meza, he seems to have caught on to you.” The other dancers
grinned and elbowed their Synerge friend, knowing exactly what
was happening. They, too, could see the man’s face darken, his
lips parting for the sudden, harsh intake of breath. “He’s a fine
one, too,” they purred. “Aren’t you going to go get him?” </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">She hadn’t. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">She’d thought of him often since that night, his prowling gait,
his sleek, dangerous form. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">And here he is again, only this time Meza feels as if the frisson
they shared a year ago hadn’t ended, had bubbled and brewed beneath
the surface, biding its time. She knows this can happen to Synerges:
the seed of a connection planted, germinating and growing even
in the absence of a lover. And that’s what he is to her now, though
she wants to reject the notion. Her lover. Neither of them knew
it, but their foreplay has been going on for a year. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">Meza watches him emerge from the guarded door that opens upon
the owners’ private meeting rooms. His brown eyes spark at the
pretty dancers hurrying to welcome him back. Grinning like the
proverbial cat who ate the canary, he lets them fawn and fuss
over him with just a touch, a rogue instant, of boyish embarrassment.
Meza catches herself smiling, thinking <i>Mine</i>, closing her eyes and breathing into the rising charge taking
over her body. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">Reynes spots her and nearly drops his drink. Never, never does
this happen, not in anyone’s lifetime, not even in the boldest
liars’ lies?no one happens upon a Synerge twice. He’d wondered
if she would still be here, but legend had it that if you encountered
a Synerge once and no connection was made, she’d make sure you
didn’t see her again, no matter how many times you managed to
get in her general vicinity. But that’s her, her alabaster skin
beginning to flush in duskier tones, her body lightly held in
the most delicate mesh. The sinuous length of her legs, the mesmerizing
glimmer of star sapphires in her hair and at her wrists and toes,
the shape of her breasts, her waist, her heartbreaking ass, <i>Oh, God, her ass, her unbelievable </i>-- </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">And then the unthinkable, the unbearable happens, and she’s on
a small stage in the middle of the room and he’s watching her,
his mouth dry and his crotch heavy and beginning to throb with
the most damnable ache. And for just one instant she looks at
him, blowing his mind into an infinite scattering of particles,
each screaming to touch her, to fuck her, the hunter in him beyond
roused, nearly beyond reason. But she isn’t ready. She closes
her eyes and he sees what she feels, sees her sink down into the
rush, into the music and the arms of the other dancers. They form
a living cradle for her, supporting and comforting her while her
body, supple and receptive, arches and sways in the gathering
storm. She is a fragile vessel of elemental force, already straining
to contain the surge of power, wracked. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">Reynes is frantic -- and frozen, tensed and ready to spring at
her, eyes locked on the prey, alert to every microscopic change
in her skin, her movement. He is rocked in the shock-waves of
sensation torturing his cock and infusing his limbs, his stomach,
his brain. Hard is not the word. Pain is not the word. Every slight
motion, every fractional shift of her hips or rise in her dark-tipped
breasts jolts his already overheating system. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">Synerge. He knows what it must be doing to her. She is practically
in full swoon, caressed and held by the writhing bodies of the
dancers. It can’t go on. He can’t go on. His hands shake, he will
sink his teeth into the smooth curves of flesh, he will mount
and growl and pound --</font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">Her eyes are open, dreamy, but looking unmistakably in the direction
of the private door. Reynes sees his quarry borne through the
crowd, enveloped in a loving entourage of sleek bodies, disappearing
from his view. Instantly he is in motion. He knows where he belongs.
He doesn’t know or care how he gets there: he only knows urge,
need, the apex of this hunt. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">Crowd, door, hallway; dancers smiling and inviting him, urging
him on, bright excitement in their eyes. With hands and whispers
they usher him into the room where Meza waits, her back turned
to him, glancing over her shoulder just as she did that night
a year ago when together they burned without contact, without
relief. His eyes seize upon the skin revealed between the two
diaphanous pieces of her clothing, at the dip in her waist, the
flare of her hips, and he has to lock down every nerve and muscle
to hold himself back. He approaches, palpably stimulates the
field of tension engulfing them, finds himself unsteady on his
feet. He is behind her, his hands poised, his mouth only a breath
away from her smooth neck and the jeweled galaxy of her hair.
</font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">“Is it now?” His voice is a stroke and a thrust. Meza opens
her mouth to reply, but she feels him, she is in him, the universe
shifts and his hands are on her, hungry, hunting; the shock of
the physical touch nearly doubles her over; is it her moan or
his? Her moan is his. His urgent growl, crashing against her
psyche, hers. Her immolating breaths, aching nipples, his. Hands
on skin, jolt, gasp, crest, soft cries of protest, what is unwithstandable,
what looms beyond control, two, two. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">The ridges of ribs, the giving flesh of swelled breasts, tipped
with embers hot from inside out. The body under the hands all
over and one shout, silent and dredged from the ancient places,
a brain-stemblor, geologic. She looks heat at him. Fusion, and
they are combined. </font></p>
<p><i><font face="Georgia" size="2">Death</font></i><font face="Georgia" size="2">, she feels it ride in her bloodstream, <i>death</i>, the knowledge of hearts beating and not beating, death is a
skill, the hands know the body, know its rhythms and reactions,
he knows, he is its practitioner, its craftsman. She is in him.
What the body wants, what the body must have, he knows. She knows.
And the surge is in him, the surge now, in them. Hard tonguing,
against throat and navel and clit, and a shout in two silent echoes.
Clawing and scrabbling at cushions, pushing away, a cat’s arched
back; a heave to face-to-face, weight on elbows, a rough grind
harsh spasm clenched teeth. Biting, licking, biting, sinking
in, animal holds. Hand pushes down to grasp erection through
fabric, fumbles and flings belt, buckle, clothes. A horrible,
horrible groan, horrible, the grasp, the squeeze, annihilates
the world, and then the cock throbs, once, twice, and wakens to
the full length of its skin and nerves, so many, so much to feel.
Friction, pressure, a line of fire beneath a single finger, drawn
from foundation to quavering tip. Pressed skin following and
springing back. Friction, a rubbing of the head; fluid, <i>aah</i> easy now, hotter. More. Craving deep within, muscle walls sweat,
blood pushes the door open, open. Thudding pressure, ache like
a cramp, <i>need, need</i>, mouth and teeth and tongue crush and devour. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">And the first push past gripping slips, blunt press against muscles
that writhe and contract, intelligent, the length of the first
stroke, each new point of contact, klaxon alarms of sensation.
<i>Stop</i>, she begs, <i>their kind is primitive and can stand too much</i>. The pleasure is shocking, every movement an emergency. But
he has her with him, she is not separate, it takes him and takes
her and, fed, it takes them again. More. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">Out, sleek singing rub the wrong way, make it fast, <i>but oh</i>, hurry, in! In! Harder, farther, farthest -- bump, crush into
the far point, the final wall, a bruised instant and then out,
<i>faster</i>, all the long way a flare of information on the skin, shaking
the core. Meltdown is imminent. Five, four, three, two, infernal
two, two alchemical, two exponential. Two. And push, and solar-furnace
screams, uncontested in the void, the void before and after one.</font></td>
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