A Tickle in Time, Chpt. 7 (omnes>f)

[Agent 498]

A Tickle in Time, Chapter VII

WARNING: IF YOU'RE UNDER 18, READING THIS STORY WILL MELT YOUR EYEBALLS,
SHORT-CIRCUIT EVERY SYNAPSE IN YOUR OPTIC NERVES, PUREE THE PART OF YOUR
BRAIN THAT HANDLES VISUAL DATA, AND CRASH YOUR NEWSREADER. OR MAYBE IT
WON'T. BUT DO YOU WANNA TAKE THE RISK?

SAN FRANCISCO, 38 N, 122 W, 203 AR

"What the hell?" Jessica stared at the CPS's glowing readout. Even
dazed from the rough trip through time, she knew San Francisco, and this
wasn't it. And what did "203 AR" mean? Could Central have glitched?
At least she was in her own body again. Her ordinary, reassuring,
maybe a bit chunky but not bad, and most importantly *non-ticklish* body.
Only ... she was wearing a short skirt and open-sided top and slippers
that
definitely weren't part of her regular wardrobe. She was standing on a
grassy strip, bordered on either side by buildings. The other people
passing by were dressed similarly, males and females.
The city's buildings looked not much different than those of 1996,
though smaller and cleaner. Traffic on the -- well, "street" wasn't a good
word, but it'd have to do -- consisted of horses and carts, small cars
with
big balloon tires, the occasional ponderous bus. The vehicles' engines
were
quiet, and they gave off no noticeable exhaust. Most people walked,
without hurrying or crowding, and many others lounged in the sun or under
the trees that dotted the sides of the road. Could this be the future? It
was supposed to be impossible to do that ... and if this was the future,
what was her body doing here? It didn't seem any older than it had been
when she left.
"Central?" she thought tentatively. No answer from the computer.
She'd have to get to a library or a museum, get her bearings, and then
decide what course to take. "Great plan. Now, if I was a library, where
would I be?"
Glancing up and down the street, Jess spotted a pair of cops down at
the corner. Well, their uniforms were gray instead of blue, and they wore
what looked like small spraycans instead of guns or nightsticks, but the
way they stood and the way others detoured around them practically
screamed
"cop." Making her way down to them, Jess asked, "Excuse me, officers, can
you tell me which way the public library is?"
"Of course, citoyenne," said the one with brown hair. He, and Jess,
was speaking a strange sort of French-accented English. "May I check your
certification?"
Confused, Jess fumbled with her skirt, discovering a small pocket in
back that yielded up a plastic card with her photo on front and a magnetic
strip on the back. The officer took it and inserted it into a device he
took from his belt. His eyebrows rose.
"Uh ... is there a problem?" she asked, then jumped as the officer
with black hair took firm hold of her shoulders from behind at a nod from
his partner.
"Citoyenne Allard," Brown Hair said, "there is a warrant recorded in
your name. It says here that you were convicted of petty larceny and
battery but somehow evaded serving your sentence."
"Th -- that's nonsense," Jess sputtered as the officer unholstered
his spraycan.
"The penalty," he informed her, shaking the can, "is one week's
service as a public convenience, with an additional three days for failure
to comply with sentencing." With two quick strokes of the can, he sprayed
a bright red T on the front of her blouse.
"What the hell -- !" Jess twisted in the cop's grip.
"Would you like another day for resisting arrest?" Black Hair
growled
as his partner carefully printed a six-digit number across the belly of
Jess's shirt. She seethed, but held still as the process was repeated with
her back, and Brown Hair traced a third T on her forehead with a
paint-dipped finger.
Brown Hair knelt, took hold of her ankle. "Now then, citoyenne, for
the duration of your sentence, your certification and your shoes will be
confiscated." He pulled off one shoe while Jess was absorbing that.
"Wha -- what kind of 'public convenience' am I supposed to be?"
"A tickle recipient, of course." Brown Hair's fingers brushed across
her sole as he collected her other shoe. Normally, Jess's feet were about
as sensitive as balsa wood, but the touch made her jump and forced an
involuntary giggle from her. Brown Hair smiled as he stood again, clamping
a metal band around her wrist. "Your movements will be tracked. Without
your certification, citoyenne, you will of course be unable to enter your
home or make purchases. You may receive food and a bed at any police
station, but you will not be allowed to enter one until after dusk. You
are
required to remain in public and move about, offering no resistance to
anyone who chooses to utilize you. Each violation will add at least one
hour to your sentence. At the end of your ten days, you may report to any
police station to have your blouse cleaned and collect a new certification
and footwear. Good luck, citoyenne -- and remember, you are performing a
public service."
Jess stood, numbed, as they moved away. Future, hell. This had to be
an alternate timeline, as insane as the idea sounded. The language, the
technology, the culture, the fact that her body was suddenly ticklish ...
This had to be where the 'jumper came from. No wonder he was so hyped on
tickling, if his whole society was like this ...
Abruptly she was aware of the looks she was getting from passersby,
the smiles and nudges and winks being exchanged. It wouldn't be long
before
someone decided to "utilize" her. "It's Jessica season," she muttered to
herself in a Bugs Bunny voice. She had to figure out some way to get out
of
here, get somewhere less crowded. Fast.
Nervously, she approached a man at the edge of the street who was
hitching a horse to a cart. "Um ... excuse me. Could you give me a lift
to
the public library?"
The man looked around at her and broke into a grin, taking her hands
in his. "Now, honey, you know it's against the law to transport
criminals." He placed her hands on the edge of the cart. "But why don't
you
hold on here a moment while I have a look at what's under your arms?"
For a moment, Jess was ready to kick him where it would do the most
good and run. But that would only increase her sentence -- and since she
didn't know how long she'd be here, it might not be a good idea to start
piling up violations. So she closed her eyes and tensed as the carter's
fingertips slid down the underside of her arms, into her armpits. Her eyes
flew wide open and she jerked up onto her toes, clamping down on the cart
side as if it was keeping her afloat in a stormy sea. Her body wasn't
having anything to do with a policy of silent endurance: she couldn't keep
from twisting and writhing as the carter circled around and around the
edge
of each soft hollow, dipping into the center, and her helpless laughter
was
embarrassingly loud. It was somehow worse than the earlier times she'd
been tickled, in Tenochtitlan and Vienna, because this was _her own_ body
(well, alternate-world Jess's body), the body that had always resisted
tickles in the past, but was now betraying her with a vengeance. The
carter slid both hands down her bare sides to latch onto her ribs, fingers
wriggling. Jess's pelvis whipped through a full 360-degree grind as a
fresh
scream of laughter was squeezed out of her. "Enough! Enough --
hahahahahahahaha!"
"I'm the one who says 'enough,' honey," the carter said, still
tickling her mercilessly. "But I guess I oughtn't tire you out so early in
the day." He let go, and Jess sagged against the cart side, trying to
catch her breath. "Thanks, and good luck," he said, turning back to his
horse, who had watched the whole scene placidly.
That was the start of one of the longest and least pleasant days
Jess
could ever remember spending. The only bright spot was that the grassy
streets were kinder to her bare feet than pavement would have been. At
first she wandered randomly, and it seemed she couldn't go a block without
running into someone -- or several someones -- who wanted to tickle her.
"Hey, you!" "Hey, T-girl!" "You, c'mere!" Rude as the calls could be, Jess
quickly learned to prefer them to the sudden grabs from behind, which
were
mercifully few. The first time she was grabbed, she pulled loose, spun,
and
instinctively fell into a martial arts stance -- only to remember too late
what she should be doing. That particular "utilizer," a handsome man in
sharply pressed dark gray clothes, tickled her ribs, belly, and thighs
with
inhuman persistence until her legs gave way and she collapsed to the
grass;
even then he knelt down beside her and continued working away nonstop,
paying no attention to the pleas she shrieked. It was only when her face
was dark red from laughter and she was gasping for breath that he finally
stopped. And then, while Jess was still lying slumped in a faintly
giggling
heap, he took out a cell-phone, put a call in to the police, and reported
"convenience #549849" for a violation. Jess would cheerfully have killed
him then, but she didn't have the strength.
Most people were at least marginally polite, though -- obviously, it
didn't pay to abuse the conveniences, since what went around might well
come around. And some were actually nice, like the fruit stand owner who
gave her an apple after she let him squeeze her behind the knees (she was
ticklish there too, she discovered to her dismay and the fruiterer's
delight). But nice or otherwise, they were also all deeply interested in
having fun with her body.
Some, like the creep in gray, tried to overwhelm her with a fast,
furious attack, wanting to see her down and screaming for mercy as quickly
as possible. Jess actually came to prefer these, because, while
exhausting, they were at least done quickly.
Others worked for precision, trying to find the magic spot that would
give them maximum reaction for least effort, a process she found
nerve-racking because you never knew _when_ they were going to find that
spot. Passing a bus line, Jess was called over by a short, balding fellow
with glasses, who sat on her outstretched shins and let the next two buses
go by as he carefully mapped the soles of her feet with soft, gliding
strokes. Occasionally he'd ask, "How was that?" but Jess never answered
--
damned if she was going to help him. But then he started to exploit the
data he'd gathered, and within five minutes Jess was howling like a
demented hyena and struggling mightily to pull her legs out from under
him.
When he finally relented and hopped off, the rest of the line applauded
him. Jess slunk off quickly before he decided to start giving lessons.
Sometimes she saw other conveniences on the street as well. There
was
the man who'd been cornered against a storefront by a group of three
well-dressed women; two pinned him to the wall, holding his arms out,
while
the third raked her nails over his armpits, making him wriggle, stamp his
feet, and toss his head wildly. There was the middle-aged woman stretched
out on her stomach and squealing, "No! No! Don't!" as a small white dog
led by a young lady licked her toes. Although Jess and the other
conveniences occasionally exchanged looks of sympathy, they stayed apart.
There was no point in tempting THEM with the idea of a doubleheader.
Around noon, Jess was picked up -- literally -- by a band of five
office workers on their lunch hour -- three men, two women. They carried
her to a nearby park, spread out their bag lunches, and spread-eagled her
in the midst of them. The guys tickled her constantly in an obvious
effort
to impress the women, who giggled along with Jess and allowed themselves
to
be coaxed into joining the fun. One, a petite blonde who was obviously a
lineal descendant of the Marquis de Sade, traced a pigeon feather up and
down the length of her body with agonizing slowness, circling an armpit,
down the side, over the hip, along the thigh and calf, across the sole,
and
back and forth between the toes until Jess screamed for mercy, at which
point the feather would jump to the other foot and begin an equally slow
and devastating trip back up.
After the lunch, the workers left her lying there (one of the guys
quietly asked her for her phone number, and she gave him a look that, in a
better world, would have instantly reduced him to a fine red mist). She
stared up at the clouds, utterly exhausted, knowing that she had to do
something soon. She couldn't take another nine days of this. It was
astonishing how many people there were eager to tickle her, a thoroughly
average-looking woman. (This punishment must be real hell for the
good-looking and/or famous, she reflected. And ten days ... jeez. What
do
they do to murderers? Is this world's Charles Manson wandering around Los
Angeles half-naked for the rest of his life? Eww, what a thought.)
A head loomed into her vision, cutting off her sun. Jess sighed,
raised her arms -- and then froze, staring up. "Martin?"
Martin Galloway looked down at her, concerned. He was wearing some
sort of dark red uniform. And he was in his own body -- not jumping.
"Jess! I thought I recognized you. What are you doing as a convenience?"
"Long story."
"Can't Central fix it? It doesn't look good for one of the Time
Police
to be a convenience." He tapped the insignia on his uniform.
Jess stared. "Time Police"? This had to be this world's Martin, not
hers. And apparently Central worked publicly in this stream. Gears
started
turning in her mind. "Well, I was just on my way to talk to it, but I got
kind of sidetracked."
"I should say." Martin grinned. "Are you really as ticklish under
the
toes as you looked when that blonde -- "
"Don't even think about it," Jess said.
"Hey -- what kind of talk is that for a convenience?" he said.
Jess sighed loudly, raised a foot. "Knock yourself out."
"Yuck, grass stains," Martin said, taking the proffered foot
nonetheless.
"Well, what do you -- " Jess broke off as his fingers began to wind
teasingly among her toes. She held her leg ramrod straight, controlling
her
breathing. It was somehow important not to crack up in front of Martin,
even an alternate Martin. "N-not bad," she managed.
"I've been thinking about this for a while. Making plans, y'know?"
Unexpectedly, his fingernails scrabbled down the sole, making her buck and
squeal, tired as she was. "Gotcha!" he said, skating his forefinger back
up
her arch.
"You -- heeheeheeheehee -- cheated," Jess got out between giggles. "I
wahahahahahahaha! -- wasn't ready!"
"Let's try it again, then," Martin said, and immediately repeated the
scrabble, with the same result. "Best three out of four? Four out of
five?
Five out of six?" His nails were working wildly over Jess's sole, and she
was rolling back and forth on the grass, shrieking with laughter, her free
foot pounding the ground, all dignity forgotten.
"Stop! Stop! I give up!" she yelled.
"Aw. I don't wanna win." But he stopped the scratching, switching to
a lighter but still intensely distracting caressing touch that made Jess
giggle every time it crossed a sensitive spot. "Want to try for a tie?"
he asked, reaching for her other foot.
"God, no!" Jess scooted the foot back as far as it would go, trying
to
fold it under her.
"Spoilsport." He dropped her foot, let her get her breath back.
"Okay,
Jess -- you really ought to talk to Central. No matter how cute your
laugh
is, we're too busy now to spare an officer for convenience service."
"I've already tried to raise Central by thought," she said.
Martin frowned. "You know Central's busy preparing to be loaded into
the other stream's Central. It doesn't have the resources for telepathy
right now. You'll have to go to the Center itself."
Jess managed to conceal her shock at the news. Her own Central might
be taken over! She might be stuck in this demented stream for the rest of
her life! And her own stream would be turned into another tickler's
heaven! "Um ... refresh my memory. Where' s the Center again?"
Martin gave her a strange look. "Is that a joke? Geary Street, of
course. What, you think it moved?"
"It's just been a long day and all." No lie. Jess gestured wearily.
"Yeah, I can imagine. Or rather, I can't, which is a good thing.
Get
yourself back in uniform -- and maybe when this is over, you'll let me
have
a chance with that other foot."
"And they build snow-devils in Hell."
"Guess I'll have to seize my chance now, then." Martin faked a
grab,
laughed when she flinched, and walked off with a wave. Jess lay quietly
for a moment, wondering why he hadn't recognized her as a bodyjumper.
Maybe because this was, at least technically, _her_ body? Who knew? And
who cared? She had work to do -- if she didn't act soon, it would all be
over for her Earth. Filled with new determination, Jess rose, brushing
herself off -- and groaned silently as she spotted two
just-out-of-high-school boys heading for her with identical smirks. Of
course, first she had to make the long trek to Geary Street ... through
the
heart of the tickle-mad city.

NEXT: Grand Central, or A Tale of Two Streams.