It seemed anticlimactic, even ignominious, to be taking the train back to Paris for the last trip of the Young Guns round-the-world transmat tour. Here we were, the twenty brightest young physicists out there, the co-inventors of the fucking transmat itself, reduced to winding through the Alps from Milan by rail.
It didn’t help that our genius codehead Andy had pretty much proved the thing wasn’t working. Everyone was mad at him, even though it wasn’t his fault he’d fallen through into Italy from Morocco so altered that our president, Yves, quickly shut down the whole show and canceled our last three conference events, giving a vague excuse of ‘illness’ to the press. No one was really talking to Andy, because everything was screwed up and because he was—well, he was not the same bundle of fun who (according to rumor) had only two weeks before successfully propositioned three starry-eyed Russian grad students with the line, “Your continent or mine?” We’d teased him relentlessly about this, especially me—mostly out of jealousy, I think. He’d just laughed.
But that Andy was gone, seemingly. Once he’d regained consciousness he’d stayed away from us, probably had exchanged only two or three words with anyone. I wasn’t even sure how he’d gotten on the train, but I knew he had—I’d glimpsed the his unmistakable silhouette heading for the back of the train a little while after we’d gotten on. And the tour was gone, and the trasmat itself had gone. That first night in Milan Yves and Avnish and a couple others had sat silently in Yves’s room and disassembled the machine, destroying each piece in a molecular disintegrator that Avnish had built for another project months before. It was over. Now all the guys were still hanging out, like the advanced postdocs we all were, laughing and joking and gossiping about every damn thing except the project we’d devoted three years of our lives to, and our brother who’d accidentally brought it to a sudden, struck-by-lightning end.
I was thinking about all this as I stood on line at the cafÃ© car, and when it came my turn I ordered three colas. “Three, sir?” the counter guy said, eyeing me briefly. I nodded and paid, and he gave me three cold red cans tucked into a molded cardboard tray.
It was late, past two a.m. local time. The stars were out but the moon was new and we were far from any cities, and with most of the overhead lights off to allow for sleep, the train was lit mainly by a steady, wan starlight. The train was sparsely populated, and most of the travelers—weary businessmen in suits, ties askew, and loudly dressed teenage party girls tired from their Italian romp—were dozing or reading or staring out into the blackness. Our lot were mostly in the middle car, except for Andy, who’d gone to ground, as much as you could in a rolling transcontinental automotive.
I found him toward the back of the last car, very alone. The surrounding seats, in fact the whole car apart from a sleeping couple in the first two seats, were empty. Andy himself was wide awake. He looked surprisingly tranquil: his two handsome heads were staring out the window, the one further from the window resting lightly, cheek-to-lightly-bristled-cheek, against the other one, but he seemed relaxed and at rest. When he looked up at me standing over him, though, I caught a definite glint of melancholy in his crystal-green eyes.
I smiled and wordlessly indicated the sodas, and he twin-grinned. “Can I sit with you a moment?” I said softly.
“There’s not much room,” he said, but he unlocked the tray in front of him and took the cardboard carrier from me, and I slid in behind his broadened shoulders. Andy had been muscular before, with a nice V-shape to his torso that had often distracted me—I’d particularly envied the natural diagonals of his lats—and the accident had slightly magnified his proportions. He overflowed his seat and onto me, and I was able to enjoy his warm, thick shoulder against mine and his long, heavily muscled arm against my torso, the forearm draped across my thigh. I sighed, and it must have been catching, because he sighed too, and that made us both smile.
I looked at him, really looked at him, for the first time since the accident. He was wearing a very large loose black silk button-up shirt, unbuttoned of course; it was loose enough that his thick upper arms didn’t quite fill the sleeve. I’d always thought it looked hot on him, and now, I realized, it looked even hotter. The collar wrapped around the back of his two necks and each side of the open shirt hung down, across his shoulders and his left and right pecs, exposing his new, central pec in the gap. The shirt would not reach across to button across the chest anymore, though he could probably have buttoned up the bottom buttons across his trim, taut waist if he’d wanted. In the starlight the pale skin of his pecs contrasted starkly with the black of his shirt and the shadow zone of his abs. His other arm rested in his lap. His worn jeans seemed to strain at the zipper, as if he were smuggling something bulky.
The zipper on my loose chinos was starting to strain too. I sighed again. “Andy, I wasn’t sure I was going to tell you this, but Jean-Paul and I started looking into the accident.”
He didn’t answer for a moment. “When?” he asked. He sounded a little upset. Now I regretted barreling right into the topic of the accident instead of making small talk, asking how he was and so on; but it was too late now. Absently he began opening two of the sodas.
“Yesterday. While the others were at the pool and you were—up in your room. No one else knows.” I took a deep breath. “And we found something.”
“Found something?” There was a loud-sounding pop in the stillness as the first can opened. I was starting to notice that he was talking to me with the nearest head, which lent a sense of intimacy of our conversation—it’s hard to explain, but it made me feel more comfortable than if he’d shared the talking between both heads; though the other head, I saw as we talked was making pretty much the same facing expressions. I wondered yet again whether he still had only one consciousness—I was pretty sure he did.
I swallowed. “We found tampering.”
The nearest head turned toward me. “What?” His startlingly handsome face was very close. For a second all I saw was red full lips I’d yearned to kiss for the three years I’d known him. It suddenly occurred to me that he had two sets of those lips now. Two mouths—I made myself look down, but my eyes drifted to the right, away from my bod and onto his.
“We looked at the logs for the last transmat and there were some entries that looked off,” I said. “Unusual amounts of energy being converted to mass. So I checked the code.” Fortunately, I’d been the keeper of the data store CDs, and Yves hadn’t destroyed them with the machine. I had all the logs and all the code on disc in my bags.
I felt Andy look away. “And you found—alterations.” The second soda popped open.
“Yeah.” I cleared my throat. “So someone—”
“It was me.”
“What?!” It was my turn to snap my head up.
“I altered the code.” He sounded resigned. His head was resting against his other head again.
There was a long silence. Suddenly I wanted to not be having this conversation.
“Why?” I said finally, very quietly. “What were—what were you trying to do?”
Andy shrugged, which had the side benefit of rubbing his arm and shoulder against my chest. “Not this, anyway. That’s the thing, I was just dicking around with everyone,” he said. Then he glanced down at my crotch and added, “So to speak.”
I opened my mouth and closed it. He looked at me with both heads and gave me a sly, guilty smile and nodded.
“Ah,” I said. He turned back to his former position, looking out the window. There was nothing more that needed to be said about that.
In the course of the tour we underwent transmat eight times before it was all called off. After the third or fourth one I noticed something was happening to me. That night I looked in the mirror in my little room in the Edinburgh bed and breakfast we’d been booked realized that I’d gotten a little more buff. Nothing major, nothing you’d really notice, especially with the gradual progression over the course of three months—we were going to a new location every three weeks or so. And there was a natural explanation: Yves had made a point of getting most of us to counteract the effects of junket food by getting us free workouts at local gyms all through the tour. I figured I was just responding to the gym sessions really well.
There was nothing gradual about what was happening in my boxers, though. Every transmat was adding like an inch soft to my cock. Think about that. By the time we got to Milan it was eight inches longer, soft! It was literally getting out of hand. And thicker each time too. Only my recently acquired ability to perform effortless autofellatio had reconciled me to this change, but it was tough to hide. I was almost relieved we hadn’t made that final jump, even though my buffness had proceeded far enough to get me work as a fitness model if physics didn’t work out—and that had actually seemed like a possibility those first few moments after Andy had stepped through, or rather fallen through, unconscious, both sets of eyes open and staring. With the cynical part of my brain I remember thinking to myself, in that heart-pounding moment when we all ran to him, about whether I knew any photographers, because my life as a physicist was fucking over.
“Wait,” I said suddenly. “Does that mean the others have—?” I though back to the guys I’d left in the middle car. Everyone seemed happy and fresh, and maybe everyone looked pretty good compared to when we left, but I’d been chalking that up to the gym sessions and me getting progressively hornier. I’d been keeping clear of them outside the seminars, even using my workout coupons only in the very early mornings, because I was not sure what they’d think about my incredible growing cock.
Andy double-grinned again, though without looking at me. “No,” he said. “That was special just for you.” He lifted both sodas and drank while I blushed and wondered what he meant. “The other guys I just tried to—you know, fix up a little. You know, subtle shit. Cory’s nose is a little straighter. I found a way to fix Jean-Paul’s torn ligament, that was tough. Jeff’s eyes are a little brighter. That kind of thing. Cleaned out viruses, I figured out a neat little routine that reverses rhinoviruses into these, like, virus policemen. So it was all just little improvements.” I silently registered the inappropriateness of this adjective in my case. “That was the original plan for myself too, more or less, but I fucked up somehow, duplicated the code or something. I’m not sure what happened. But all the silly body morph stuff was just, like a side joke to what I was really trying to do.”
“Which was what?” I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.
“Nothing bad,” he said, reading my mind. He drank from both sodas again, then set them down and returned his hands to where they were before—which meant his left forearm was resting on my right leg again. This time, though, his hand was palm down, resting entirely on my newly muscular thigh. Fortunately, or unfortunately, that morning I’d hung my cock in my left pants leg—otherwise he would have been caressing the head of what was on its way to becoming a major boner.
I was having trouble concentrating on what he was saying, but his words gradually grabbed my attention. “All right, no one knows this. You have to keep it dead secret,” he said. “Pete, I found a routine that slows aging down. That was the main reason I started fucking with the code.”
“Slows down aging?” I repeated stupidly.
“Yeah,” he said, getting a little excited. His fingers were rubbing my thigh. “It reprograms DNA using—well, you’re not a biochem. The point is,” and he brought his lips close enough to my ear for me to feel his warm breath, “you’ll be 28 for about eight and a half more years.”
“Shit!” I thought about the implications of this and said, “Shit!” again. It didn’t occur to me to think he was lying or mistaken. I’d worked with Andy for years and I knew he meant what he said and said what he meant. That’s why I was just blown away by that he’d said. I just stared into nothing for a few minutes while he watched me calmly. “That means—” I began hoarsely after a while, then stopped and tried again. “Are you saying that that means I’ll live to be, what, like 500 fucking years old?”
Andy’s grins got broader. “It’s not exactly linear, but yeah. But that’s just Revelation A. Revelation B is even more startling. Listen to this—all you need to do is transmat every ten years to refresh the process and you’ll live to like, I dunno, four or five thousand.”
“Get the fuck out.”
“’Strue,” he said. “In theory, anyway.” He leaned back in his seat a little and didn’t say anything for a while. We were both wondering about his future ability to test that theory. Eventually he spoke again. “I didn’t do anything else to the others like what happened to you, man. That was—well, it was a joke if you want to look at it that way. And if you didn’t like it, I was going to sneak you through the transmat and fix it for you, and we’d have a big laugh about it.”
For that moment I was unable to think about my cock—I was still processing what Andy had said—so I shrugged, rubbing my shoulder against his in a way that was so pleasant I wanted to communicate exclusively through shrugs. “It’s all right,” I said. I was still stuck on 9 years of being 28. I wouldn’t be 30 until I was 46! How fucked up is that?
“Can I see?” he asked suddenly, and I realized he was still pondering what he’d done to me, or for me. “I haven’t gotten a chance to see the results of my handiwork.”
I needed to free it soon anyway. But my right hand was tucked between my right leg and his left. So I just nodded down toward it, after a quick glance to make sure we were still alone.
He had a very serious expression on both his beautiful faces. He reached over with both hands and undid the zipper on my shorts with some difficulty, while I became distracted watched his honeydew-sized pecs bunch together. My cock was starting to swell rapidly now and would soon be trapped. “Hurry,” I whispered.
He got the zipper and the snap undone and pulled out my hardening cock, and it unfolded and burst out into the air like a spring snake from a joke can of peanut brittle. In seconds it was painfully huuuuge and hard. It was inches away from my mouth, but he beat me to it.
To my amazement he leaned across me and applied his two hot mouths to opposite sides of my shaft! It was like he was kissing himself around my cock. Never in my life had I felt anything like this. He brought his right hand around and gently pressed the back of my head, pushing my mouth onto my cock, and I was now in the midst of a mind-blowing three-mouth blow job. I could only take this for a few minutes—his tongues were doing amazing things to my monster cock. My pulse was racing, and my cock got even stiffer and thicker, and suddenly I was cumming, and he brought his heads up and kissed me while I came, all three of our mouths licking the too-sensitive head as I came on our faces, and then I was done cumming and we were just kissing, three wet mouths together, for a very long time.
Finally settled back in our seats, infinitely relaxed, our bodies overlapping comfortably, my semisoft cock lolling across his forearm. My hand was in his lap with both of his, and I moved to unzip him, but he stopped me and held my hand. “I don’t think you’re ready for that yet,” he said, grinning mischievously.
We lay back for a while. “We should talk some more about all this,” I said. “Later.”
“Okay,” he said, and looked down at me with a sudden grin. “Your continent or mine?”
I laughed out loud for the first time in weeks, and then we kissed again, and no more words were spoken for the rest of the long night.
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