Choices

The pavement had broken his fall, and his body into countless pieces. What little blood remained in him, seeped out onto that smooth polished black metal surface. With the last of the light entering his brain, he saw the honeycomb of light blue titanium-ceramic alloy holding the steel-ceramic substrate together. When she held him for the last time, with those Ultrachrome arms, he knew she loved him; even though she was mad at him.

He knew that no cops would stop her, no guards judges or juries. They wouldn’t even care, they wouldn’t come down here from their clean blockclave streets. He had been fighting, with her that day over what seemed like a little thing. He knew the savings were going to be used for the procedure for him; implantation of an artificial womb to carry their child for the nine months before birth. He had agreed to the procedure, she had nothing left except the cells in her head, not enough blood to feed the baby as it grew.

Before she replaced her abdomen and internal organs she had saved her eggs, kept them in some cryostore at great expense in case the day may come. She had paid for his dna mapping and original dna reversal culture injections, so that he had perfect human dna again like she did. After that day, he had withered shrinking in size from the freak he was, to the man he was just before the fall. But he was forty percent human flesh. The last of that flesh, was being examined now, by men and women wearing orange filthy overalls with a big black DV logo on the back front.

It was a little thing, but to him he just wanted to try it, he had never had it before and neither had she. It was such a rare thing, and ancient pleasure from halcyon days. He had simulated it before, warm hot liquid bitter taste, sweet if added, creamy texture. But it had always been a disappointment the simulated and even the 1% versions were not the same. It was on his list, it was his right as a human, and they could just save up again for the procedure, time was something they had plenty of.

He remembered feeling excited when the blab kid mumbled the words of where they were selling it, he ran all the way up, up and up across gantries, through ducts, up an elevator, onto a maglev, on a scooter. The trip had cost him twenty credits, he could buy ten synths for that. But he wanted the real thing, the hot joy.  The place was a plaza, from end to end black blue uniformed men an women their mirror shades reflecting the faces of the dirty people waving credit chips or wads of script at them, they would only take Toy Toy script or credit that was the deal. One cup per person, no sharing no take away. 

He waved his chip over the reader four-thousand credits flashed in a microsecond on the screen and he was admitted through the armed group. He sat on a plastic seat, small slightly un-comfortable tempor foam cradling his big butt. The woman approached him, she was small about five feet high, she had a tray with pink and orange strip lighting around the rim, in the center of the tray a ceramic cup, with sun flowers painted on it, being cradled by the saucer, hot steam but not too hot heaved itself off the liquid; he went all out got Capo-Chino Real-Italian, hot frothy milk with a dusting of chocolate one sugar and two shots. He felt alive that day, the real thing; hitting his brain.In the past he had all manner of synth experience but this was real. Grown in green houses on Tharsis by the Starelk Corporation. Milk grown in green houses too in real cows, by Brazilian Hugo's Steak House and Beef.

Not even genetically modified cows; cows they made them from DNA found in the Smithsonian. Pure, real, grown with soil of substrate cultivated from Columbia or Peru. Real, in a world where he could have anything but simple real pleasure. The hot liquid languished on his tongue the fats breaking down being tasted by his enhanced senses. The bitter taste had different components, light acid tastes, some sort of dirt like taste, and something else he didn’t recognized he would find out a word for it later. 

There were different grades of the bitter and acid, different effects of the milk. Real was not homogenic, real was mixed compounds. He could never get this taste from a simulated experience or even drink it from a 1% coffee machine the product Starelk normally sold. Real is real and fake is fake, and he knew he could tell the difference.

After thirty minutes he had finished, the waitress came over. You want some more? Yes he said, she swiped his card, three-thousand long black coming right up. He tasted that all the full flavor no sugar no milk, tasted the subtle acid and bitter. Thirty minutes later she was back, You want some more? I shouldn’t but I will Grande Latte one sugar. four-thousand-five-hundred. Big coffee big glass; hot liquid, different taste different milk, caramel from the sugar, real sugar imported from Australia on ships that are guarded by ninjas. All too short, that half hour was over. You want some more? She was like a pusher but this wasn’t any synthcoke this was real-coffee hot and wholesome grown on Mars at great expense. I got no money left. She handed him a card, Starelk loves its customers, we are the mother to all lovers of coffee. Enjoy this gift, one-thousand cups of 1%, free of charge please carry card at all time in case you feel the NEED for coffee.

When he told her, he was sure her red shiny eyes were growing nano machine produced tear ducts for her, but no tears, just a scream HOW COULD YOU, How could you do that. He mumbled i can be father later. Those strong arms lifted him up over the railing like his one hundred and fifty kilograms of bulk was nothing; he said he loved her and they could save up again, it may take one year or ten depending on the jobs. He was thrown three meters away from the balcony and tumble sixty meters to the pavement. Shattering his metal and silocone and plastic components like shards of glass.