Programmed for Peril

glowed. The bugs in her old house and PC-Pros’ offices were all patched into the board, too. Each was identified with glowing LED letters. He could touch a tiny plate to bring up any of them to his earphones, to speaker. He could tape both sound and video. He had to admit the arrangements were seductively elaborate. One of Carson’s greatest talents was for too much of a good thing. He was a master of excess. “Nothing succeeds like a lot of excess.” Rewrite Wilde.
    Champ chewed the inside of his cheeks, tasted the brassy drop of blood. He heaved meaty thighs, demonstrating further to himself the extent of his anxiety. Queen of My Heart would reconsider, wouldn’t she? How could she not, once she realized she was again the object of Carson’s particular attentions?
    He had spent the better part of ten days here before the board, listening to her voice whenever possible. Previously he had heard it only on the ten Scheherazade tapes, savored its timbre tensed by arousal and pain. Now in more humdrum circumstances he gleaned from its lighter tone a suppler, happier personality. Today’s vulnerability and delicacy leavened yesterday’s wickedness that had sparked his arousal—and rage. Oh, no, he hadn’t forgotten the crimes she had committed against Carson or the ultimate goal of her total resurrection. It would come to pass, because parson willed it. Steps would be taken, each more daring than its predecessor. At what point the escalation would thieve its purpose he couldn’t guess. Yet for the first time Champ realized he would prefer not to have to pierce the flesh or break the bones of Queen of My Heart.
    Carson had phoned him a new set of instructions only hours ago. He had outlined the nature of the devices with which Queen of My Heart would be guided a bit further toward her resurrection. Carson the conceptualizer, Champ the actualizer. Oh, grand team! Oh, worthy goal!
    He flew toward the workbench and busied himself. He didn’t stop until he had to rush out to an electronic supply house. This week’s rental car was an ambiguous shade and model. The Blandmobile. Next week’s would be the same. Spare no expense. Carson sent a great deal of money. Who would not invest big time to perpetually share his life with Queen of My Heart and sweetest Melody? Champ’s frenzy of assembly lasted until midnight, his watch told him. It alone kept time. Resurrection Headquarters had been made windowless with plywood panels. He cared nothing for the sun’s daily careening or seasons’ sweep. They were incidentals in his life of service to Carson and pursuit of onanistic pleasures.
    Tugged by the twin tendrils of sleep and desire, he shucked off his sandals, worn jeans, and underwear. He normally liked sleeping in his Daffy Duck T-shirt, but tonight’s pursuit of pleasure meant it would have to go. He slipped into the living area, devoted primarily to bed, TVs, and VCRs. Food? He had a hot plate. Franchisen abounded. Into the VCR connected to the huge projection TV, mainstay of yuppie lounges and sports bars, he slipped the eighth of his ten precious tapes. Earlier he had patched the camera controller through to a hand-held unit. The unblinking eye into Queen of My Heart’s bedroom was his to command. He stretched out on his Mattress Warehouse marvel and beheld the owner of Carson’s heart.
    She slept in nothing more enticing than robin’s-egg blue cotton pajamas, head and shoulders out of the covers, skin softened by the weak light of a distant bedlamp. Afraid of the dark, sweet? He panned in till her face, unmoving but for the slow pulsings of her nostrils, filled the screen. He started Tape Eight. On the big screen he saw the same face five years in the past. Its layer of flesh was more meager then, its eyes more wary. Carson’s persistent attentions had taught her that threats could be conceived even in the warmest nest of love. The Ups and mouth that—Carson had shown her—could be the most adroit tools of love hadn’t changed, nor had the dark sheen of hair. Today she wore it cut, fashioned in the style of the businesswoman. On that long-ago day it had been disposed of in a braid that snaked across her shoulder into the tempting valley between her large breasts, flattened as she lay on her back. Their nipples, colored by Melody’s conception and suckling, were convoluted like pressed brown prunes.
    Carson was speaking to her. The back of his red head faced the camera. His voice was low, set in