Redemption Protocol (Contact) by Mike Freeman Page B

effect was rather startling. She grinned from ear to ear under her cap.
    “You just look, don't you? When you like something, you just look rrright at it.”
    The skirt had some kind of gold braid thing around her waist.
    “I just...”
    “Yes?”
    He laughed. He actually had to look away to stop from staring. It was ridiculous. She bounced up and down, twisting her lithe body from side to side.
    “You ready for this?”
    “Wild horses wouldn't stop me.”
    “Great. Enjoy!”
    She slipped out and reappeared a moment later, projected on the wall of his sim in near perfect fidelity. She simulated the entire walk to her baseline, waving to the crowd as her disc moved invisibly beneath her. Psychological warfare, Havoc thought, hypnotized.
    He hefted his racket in his hand. He'd loaded a tennis configuration, so hopefully he'd give her a match – after all, he didn't want to disappoint the audience. The crowd cheered in anticipation as Weaver prepared to serve.
    “You ready?” she shouted.
    No, he thought.
    “Yes!”
    She leaped in the air. He'd intended to watch the ball, but as Weaver reached the apogee of her jump her little white skirt floated up around her hips. The ball hurtled past him. She landed; her skirt, landed. He breathed again.
    “Oooh,” said the crowd.
    “Fifteen, love,” the Umpire said.
    “Were you ready?” she shouted.
    “No.”
    “Oh.”
    She bounced from side to side.
    “Are you ready now?”
    “Yes.”
    She jumped and let out a little yelp as she struck the ball. He relaxed into the config. He stepped right and returned the ball down the sideline, way to her left. If you hit a great shot, even though the skill to line it up was coordinated using your augmentation, it still felt terrific. Great shot, he thought. Got to be fifteen-all.
    Weaver came off her line like a cheetah exploding after prey. Her legs thrust almost horizontal as her arms bent at right angles, torquing her body for more speed. He was surprised to see the ball hurtle past him. The crowd went berserk.
    “Thirty, love,” the Umpire said.
    “Good shot,” she shouted.
    “Thanks,” he shouted back, bemused.
    He recalibrated to match her acceleration. She really had come off the line like a cheetah; actually, he reviewed, faster than a cheetah. She'd knock out a hundred meters in less than four seconds. He wouldn't go over that, but he didn't think she'd appreciate him being under either.
    “You ready?” she shouted.
    He waved his hand to say yes.
    Game on.
    Weaver’s play was graceful and ruthless. He could match her acceleration but he couldn't match her tennis. He was fit, willing and able. She slapped his butt until it shone.
    Every time Weaver jumped, spun or reached for a shot her miniskirt flew up around her hips. 'Baggy shorts, baggy shorts' Havoc repeated to himself. When Weaver changed direction the feeble sliver of material at the front of her skirt parted to reveal another three inch slash of thigh. Balls flew in all directions. His free testosterone index climbed steadily into the red zone.
    He could feel himself regressing back through geological time. He might as well be wearing a bearskin and wielding a flint spear, pointing at a woolly mammoth track and rubbing his stomach. All higher order thinking was gone as man's ultimate evolutionary purpose beat through his psyche like sixteen Taiko drummers on full tilt.
    Set point came all too quickly. He made a good return. Weaver sprinted across the court, ferocious and focused, beads of fine sweat exploding away from her as she pirouetted through the air, reaching at the limit of her extension and crying out as she made yet another shot. The crowd erupted and she waved at them. He laughed at her control of the crowd to punctuate the highlights of the match. He was completely helpless and loving it, an unusual feeling; flickers of joy sparking through a blocked grate.
    After she crushed him in the first two sets, she walked round to his sim for a break. She