A Tickle in Time - Chapter 2 (f>f)

[Agent 498]

Subj: A Tickle in Time, Chapter II (f>f)
From: cs...@panix.com

A TICKLE IN TIME, Chapter II

THIS STORY CONTAINS SCENES THAT MAY BE INAPPROPRIATE FOR CHILDREN AND ARE
DEFINITELY INAPPROPRIATE FOR MEMBERS OF CONGRESS. IF YOU'RE UNDER 18,
PLEASE DON'T READ THIS. IF YOU'RE A CONGRESSMAN, HOW ABOUT GETTING REAL ON
CAMPAIGN FINANCE REFORM ALREADY?

Abruptly, the megaflow fell away, and Jessica found herself embodied
once more. Bright lights dazzled her, and she squinted, taking a step back
and raising a hand to shade her eyes.
"Don't do that," a female voice hissed from nearby. Jess looked away
from the lights and, blinking the last bits of glare from her eyes, saw a
small, sleek, dark-haired woman in her mid-thirties, dressed in what
looked
like a military uniform, though of no military Jess was familiar with: all
black, with white trim and silver insignia. The black uniform only set
off
the paleness of her skin more sharply. In contrast to the severity of the
rest of the uniform, she also wore black velvet gloves. "If you do that on
camera, you'll look stupid."
"Sorry," Jess muttered, looking around. Now she could see that she
and the other woman were on a large soundstage. Three bulky, very
old-fashioned cameras on wheeled dollies were spaced evenly along the
front
of the stage, a cameraman beside each one, and off to the left a small
orchestra was tuning up. Behind the cameras were several rows of
bleacher-type seats, crowded with spectators in old-fashioned suits and
dresses. Curtains hung along the back wall, a huge American flag displayed
over them. Weird ... the flag only had twenty stars. When was this
supposed to be?
As if in answer to her thought, the chronal positioning system
activated, printing glowing words visible only to her across her line of
vision:

NEW YORK CITY, 41 N, 73 W, 1954 AD

Twenty stars in 1954? Well, at least it was obvious what was wrong
here.
"Look, dear," the other woman said, "I'm sure you're very excited,
but
remember this is _our_ show. Most of America -- and a lot of the world
--
will be watching, and if you slip up, you could damage our country's
prestige beyond repair. Just follow instructions and don't get fancy, all
right?"
"Yes, ma'am," Jess said, wondering if she should salute. Probably not
-- she was wearing a dark blue party dress, not a uniform. Her body seemed
young, a bit plump maybe.
"Get ready then -- we go on in five minutes. Go on -- you stand over
there." She gestured Jess to a spot on the far side of the stage, then
took up a stance near center stage.
The audience rose and applauded as a tall, silver-haired,
distinguished-looking man strode up to a microphone to one side of the
stage. Red lights glowed on the cameras as they were switched on, focusing
on him. Monitors above the stage flickered to life, showing the scene in
black and white.
"Thank you. Thank you very much," he said as the applause died. Then,
turning to the cameras, he continued in a rich, anchorman's voice: "Good
evening. I'm John Simons, welcoming you to tonight's edition of the Froth
Victory Show. Sponsored by Froth, the soap that leaves you with skin soft
and pure as ocean foam. We've got not one, not two, but three very special
treats for you tonight -- so don't touch that dial.
"First," the announcer went on as the cameras swiveled around toward
the uniformed woman, "we have with us tonight Captain Megan Lowry of the
First Coup Division of the United States Army. She's one of the top
ladies
in her field -- a decorated veteran of the Second World War -- so let's
give her a hand." The audience complied as Captain Lowry stood with
military stiffness and Jess wondered what a "coup division" was.
"Second," the announcer said, "assisting Captain Lowry will be June
Byron of Marinette, Wisconsin, winner of Froth Soap's 'Why Communism Is
Bad' essay contest." The monitors showed a short, somewhat chubby,
sandy-haired girl in a dress, looking blank. Then Jess noticed that
Captain
Lowry was glaring at her, and realized that the person on the monitor was
her. She managed a weak smile and a hasty flutter of her fingers as the
audience's applause petered out.
The orchestra struck up "The Star-Spangled Banner," and from behind
the curtains marched two grim-faced Marines in full dress uniforms, rifles
at the ready and sabers hanging at their sides. Behind them, stagehands
wheeled a bulky structure onto the stage. Jess's eyes widened.
It was a large wooden frame on wheels. Suspended in its midst, her
wrists and ankles lashed to it, was a tall, slender woman. She was wearing
only an old-fashioned bikini that would seem ridiculously modest on a '90s
beach, but still exposed quite a bit of pearly pink skin. Her golden hair
was piled on her head, and her lips were pressed into a grim line as she
stared straight ahead. The audience broke into boos and catcalls, among
which Jess could hear a few people shout "Kitchy-kitchy-coo!" and "Tickle,
tickle, tickle!" What the hell was going on here? she wondered. And what
the hell had happened to make this possible ... but the announcer was
speaking again.
"And the third treat is Miss Anna Shatalin. Isn't she a beauty, even
if she's a Red? _Literally_ red, by the time this evening is over." The
audience laughed. "And she's no ordinary Russian -- she's the secretary
of
Mr. Arkady Rastev, the Soviet Minister of Finance. Just getting her here
is
a triumph for the Army's Abductions Division, and once Captain Lowry and
June have formally counted coup on her, it'll be a great victory for Uncle
Sam. It'll make that little stunt Ivan pulled with Senator Collington's
wife and daughter look sick." Wild cheers from the audience. "So, June --
why don't you start? All of America is with you." The orchestra launched
into what sounded like "The Flight of the Bumblebee."
Jess approached the frame with Captain Lowry, thoughts whirling in
her
head. What sort of demented mind ... was she really going to have to ...
yes, the audience had started chanting "Kitchy-kitchy-coo!" again. It was
obvious what they expected.
"Hurry up," the captain hissed. Jess looked up at the nearly nude
Soviet, who was still staring at nothing and holding herself stiff as a
board. When in Rome ... Awkwardly, she reached up to run her fingertips
around one of Anna's armpits. The Communist screwed up her eyes, lips
thinning even further.
"Start with the _ribs_," Captain Lowry snapped. "Don't you remember
the briefing? She's not very sensitive under the arms. Watch me." She
fastened both hands onto one side of Anna's ribcage and began wriggling
them rhythmically. Anna let loose a tiny yelp and shifted -- or tried to
--
in the frame. Jess copied the captain's movements on the other side of the
ribs, and Anna's head tipped back in silent agony, the rest of her body
rigid as a marble statue as she tried to keep from squirming.
"Going to tough it out, huh?" the captain said. "Okay, kid -- count
of
three, I move to the waist and you take over both ribs. One -- two --
three!" She jumped behind the frame and seized Anna's tiny waist, thumbs
working in and out, while Jess moved to the front, digging and probing
both
sets of ribs simultaneously. Anna bucked and twisted like a wild horse,
her
lips peeling back from her teeth. Jess could feel how the woman's
bottled-up frantic laughter shook her body, and for a moment felt sorry
for
her. But there was a weird thrill in it too, getting such a huge reaction
out of a gentle little touch in just the right spot. Remembering her
treatment at the hands of the Aztecs, Jess released the ribs to rake the
fingernails of both hands around Anna's taut belly, circling the rim of
the
navel. Anna's eyes opened wide and she let loose with a high-pitched
scream
of laughter. The audience yelled along with her, and Captain Lowry gave a
quick nod of approval.
Jess let her fingers spider-walk upward along the belly and over the
soft skin of the ribs, wondering if there was some point to this. Were
they
supposed to be getting the Soviet to give up whatever state secrets she
knew? Or was the goal simply to publicly humiliate a member of the other
side? Anna certainly seemed to be fighting hard to maintain some semblance
of control, but it was an already-lost battle. Giggles leaked from her
tight-pressed lips almost constantly, and every new touch made her flinch
and quiver, no matter how hard she tried to stay rigid.
"Okay," the captain said, too quietly for the broadcast microphones
to
pick up, as she came back around front. "Enough work up here. You take the
left foot, I'll take the right. Remember -- don't forget the toes. Go!"
Jess and Captain Lowry dropped to their knees as one. Anna's feet
were
rather small for such a tall woman, but smooth-skinned and beautifully
formed. The captain ran her fingertips lightly over the top of Anna's
foot,
barely grazing the skin, teasing her with the anticipation. Jess did the
same. The Soviet squinched her toes and clenched her feet as far as they
would go, her calf muscles hardening. Her flushed face was screwed up with
determination. The captain grinned and said, in Russian, "Tense up all you
can, dear -- it won't help."
She reached back and curled her fingers against the tightly curved
sole, her velvet-gloved fingers scratching delicately with a rippling
motion. Anna's taut leg vibrated like a high-tension wire in a hurricane,
her breathing came hard and fast, and the red flush spread another two
inches down her neck and across her chest -- but she endured.
Then Jess began running her nails over the bottom of the other foot,
probing at the hills and valleys formed by the wrinkled skin -- and the
dam
burst. Anna's body shook wildly and she bounced up and down in her
restraints as repressed laughter came bursting out of her in a flood.
"Aaaaaaaahhh -- _Nyet! Nyet!_ -- Hahahahahahahaha! _Prosze!_"
Captain Lowry grabbed hold of Anna's toes with her free hand and
pulled, stretching the foot out to its full length while her other hand
continued its unbroken, torturing rhythm on the sole. Anna screamed
louder,
if such a thing was possible. Jess bent the toes of the other foot back so
she could swipe a finger along their underside, and the foot twisted
futilely in her hand as Anna tried to pull loose. "Heeheeheehee!
_Ah, Bozhemoi! Nyet!_"
"We've got her going now," the captain said after Anna had shrieked
herself nearly breathless. "Let me take over down here -- you get her in
the ribs again."
Jess rose while the captain worked velvet fingers in between both
sets
of toes, triggering a new round of wild Slavic howls. Anna's carefully
arranged hair had come undone at a dozen points, the golden strands
plastered to her face and neck by sweat. She was crimson from the roots of
her hair to the top of the bikini, and tears leaked from the corners of
her
crinkled-up eyes. Again, Jess felt a moment's pity for her, but she had a
role to play. Gently, she rested her fingertips on Anna's heaving ribs.
"_Nyet!_" Anna screamed again, trying to throw herself backward out
of
the frame.
"_Da_," Jess said firmly, and dug in.
If Anna said anything further, it was at a pitch that only a dog could
hear. In a frenzy, she hurled her body from one side of the frame to the
other, displaying a flexibility that an exotic dancer would have envied,
but she couldn't move far enough to evade Jess's steady, merciless
rib-tickling. Glancing down, Jess could see the captain working away with
equal relentlessness, giving each foot a thorough tickling before shifting
to the other for the same treatment. The audience and the orchestra had
fallen silent, and Anna's hysterical mirth was the only sound in the
studio.
After a few minutes that must have seemed eternal to the unfortunate
Russian, the orchestra began a triumphal march, and the captain rose. "All
right, we've done our part," she told Jess, who stepped back. Anna slumped
in the frame like a suddenly de-stringed marionette, her golden hair
coming
loose from what remained of her 'do and waterfalling the length of her
body
as her head lolled forward.
"You saw it here," the announcer declared. "Proof positive that, no
matter how the Russians might try, they're no match for us where it
counts!
Let's have a hand for the ladies." Jess and the captain bowed to the
audience's applause, and then the captain led Jess back through the
curtains and into a corridor.
"What's going to happen to her?" Jess asked as they walked, trailed
by
a gaggle of production assistants and stagehands.
The captain looked at her strangely. "She'll be put back on a plane
to
the Soviet Union, of course." She stopped at a door and pushed it open,
and
Jess followed her into a large dressing room. "Some folks think we
interrogate or even torture them, but we've got to play fair so the
Soviets
do the same." She sat down at a mirror and began wiping off her stage
makeup. Jess, suddenly exhausted after the bizarre scene -- and feeling
slightly astonished at her own uncharacteristic behavior -- slumped onto a
couch.
"Captain Lowry? Miss Byron?" One of the p.a.'s had lingered in the
doorway. He set a bottle of champagne and two glasses on a table. "With
the
producers' compliments. Your cars will be here soon. Excellent show!" He
left, closing the door.
The captain stared into the mirror, then grinned. "Well, it felt
good
to get my hands on a _real_ Russian for a change." Jess sat up,
remembering
her mission. She still had only vague ideas about how the changes she'd
seen had come about. The captain rose and crossed to the champagne. "I
love serving my country like this, but these days.... It seems like all
you have to do is whisper the word 'communist,' and the next day someone
is
getting tickled senseless in the town square." She handed Jess one glass
of
champagne and took a sip of hers. "It's like during the war, when FDR
ordered mass ticklings of all Americans of Japanese descent. It doesn't
send the right message to our enemies."
Jess drank. "Um ... well ... it's ... kind of traditional ... isn't
it?" If it had started with the Aztecs ...
"Yes, but in the past, we were more careful about who we picked to
count coup on. With good reason -- working over the wrong person just
makes
us look silly. And it's a lot more expensive and involved these days. You
can't just step over into the Soviet Union and grab a target."
The term "counting coup" sounded vaguely familiar to Jess, but her
head was fuzzy with exhaustion. She yawned widely, took another sip of
champagne. "Yeah, so
how ... " Her eyelids slid shut. The last thing she saw was Captain Lowry
sagging to the floor with an astonished expression on her face.

The first thing Jess became aware of was cold air. Especially
because
she wasn't wearing anything but her -- or June Byron's -- underwear. She
tried to hug herself for warmth, but her arms wouldn't move.
Then she opened her eyes and saw an immense red-brick wall. Rising
above it was a sprawling, elaborate structure, topped with brightly
colored, onion-shaped domes. It was an all too familiar sight. Gathered
in
the space between the wall and the platform she was on was a huge crowd of
people. They grinned up at her, pointing and talking to one another in
Russian. A television camera in the crowd was angled up at her.
Jess looked at her arms and saw that her wrists were lashed to a
T-cross of telephone-pole-thick logs. Her ankles were bound to each other
and to the pole. Her heels rested on foot-high blocks of wood, leaving
arch
and toes exposed.
And then she became aware of what she was hearing from behind her: a
voice so
high-pitched and frantic that it took a moment for Jess to recognize it as
Captain Megan Lowry's.
"Stohahahahahahopp! No more, pleheheheheheheeze! I can't --
aaaaaaahahahahaha -- NO! Not under the arms again! I'm too -- " Jess's
cross rocked slightly as something slammed into it from behind.
"HAAHAAHAAHAAHAAAAAAA!"
"The other one's woken up!" shouted several Russians in the crowd.
As
Captain Lowry's shrieking continued unabated, a figure stepped around from
behind Jess to stand before her. Again, it took a moment for recognition
to
sink in: Anna Shatalin, clothed now and resplendent in a white fur coat,
matching hat, and white leather boots. Her dark red fingernails gleamed
as
she held up clawed hands.
"Hello, young lady," she said in Russian. "The shoe is off the other
foot, as I believe you Americans say." She grinned and wiggled her
fingers.
"Be bold and make a good showing for your country, now."
"Oh shit, not --" And in the middle of the thought, the megaflow
swept Jess away again, Red Square and the vengeful Soviet crowd dissolving
like a cheap special effect.
"Too fucking close, Central." Jess felt a stab of pity for June Byron,
restored to her body just in time to experience a bit of poetic injustice.
But she was in no mood to endure a second round of tickle-torture so
soon.
And at least June would now have a _real_ reason to hate the Russians ...
"Next destination?" Central broke into her thoughts.
Jess had finally remembered where she'd heard of "counting coup" before
-- it was a custom of some Plains Indian tribes. But as far as she knew,
it didn't involve tickling, and what was it doing in the middle of the
Cold
War? Might as well find out.
"How did 'counting coup' pass from the Indians to the Europeans?" she
thought. "Send me when I can find out." No sooner had she articulated the
thought when the megaflow's currents gripped her once more, bearing her
backward through time ...

NEXT: How the West Was Lost, or Stock Characters.