MGF(014): the Paul Cezanne Ch. 01

She struggled under the weight, trying to find some leverage with which to heave the form off of her, but she could find none. Unable to see, and now unable to breathe, Synne's vision whitened as she slowly crossed into unconsciousness.

With a gasp she woke, sitting upright in her bed. The thin, standard issue pillow was damp with sweat, and her sheets were rustled and torn from the sides of the mattress. "Why did you have to leave me with these memories?"

Father.

******************

Patterson, Gorbachev and Coral waited at the feet of the Cezanne, sitting at a folding table, playing cards. Gorbachev dealt the cards for blackjack, much to Patterson's chagrin. "Blackjack again? Don't you know any other games?"

Gorbachev smiled. "In Balkan Colony, game knows you!"

Coral laughed. "Jeez, Gorbachev, that joke's older than beam sabers. What, was that back in the old CCCP days? You know, 20th century, when it was all communist?"

"What makes you think Balkan Colony is any less communist, Coral," Patterson asked, signaling a hit, which Gorbachev dealt him. "Stay."

"It's under Yumer's control for one."

"I didn't know that."

Synne walked towards the group, happy to see that they were getting along. When she had formed the group three weeks ago, they had been cold and businesslike. Good thing they can work as a team and as friends, she thought. "Good morning, team," she said, approaching the table. The team greeted her likewise, and as Synne pulled up a chair to join them, the game resumed.

Coral thought for a moment. "Stay," she said hesitantly, looking uneasily at the 16 she already had. Gorbachev flipped his other card over, and revealed the total of 19. "Patterson's got 20, so you win, and Coral, you lose."

"You should have hit that last hand, Coral," Synne said. "You would have won."

"But it's a 16, Captain. They're tough to call."

Synne smiled. "Corporal, show her what the next card was."

Gorbachev flipped over the top card of the deck. A five. Coral looked at it astonished. "How did you know, Captain," she asked.

"Blackjack's all about mathematics. Probabilities and odds. Unfortunately, the house usually has the better odds. At least if you play a real game anyway."

Patterson smirked. "Wait, just how do you know so much about gambling, Ms. Eighteen Years Old?"

"It's not a gamble, it's a calculated risk."

With that, the team packed up the cards, folded the table, and got to work with the after-action maintenance for the Cezanne. The rear torso armor plate needed replacement, and the 80 cal MG needed a fresh supply of ammunition. "Is your current tracer round ratio alright, Captain, or would you like to go for a 3:1 instead," Coral asked as she worked a crank to uncoil the remaining rounds within the magazine.

"I didn't have any accuracy problems yesterday, so let's stay with the 5:1 ratio. Also, let's see about getting a cleaner dissolving belt. The one here's left some residue in the chamber." Synne called to Patterson, "Patterson, can you get me the requisition forms for that?"

"Yes, Captain," he replied, leaving Gorbachev to heft the new armor plate into position. Even with the pulley system, it was tough work. "After the armor's secured," Patterson continued as he walked past the Captain, "let's get you in the cockpit, and we can get the sync tests out of the way."

"Oh, great," Synne sighed. Sync tests were so boring. "Gorbachev, I'm going to prepare for the sync test. Make sure everything's ready when I get back."

"Yes ma'am."

Coral watched as her captain walked out of the hangar. She turned to Gorbachev. "Why doesn't the Captain like sync tests?"

"Have you seen what it entails?"

"No, remember, this is my first time working on an LA team like this."

Gorbachev secured the last of the bolts holding the armor plate, and jumped down. He joined Coral in sliding the 80 cal rounds into the bandolier as he explained the tests. "Well, sync tests measure compatibility between pilots and their Lebensarmierung. But, in order to do that, the pilot has to remove all external stimuli which might affect the test results."

"How do we get rid of the stimuli?"

"Five decontamination showers get rid of all loose particles, and we use a blindfold and earplugs to remove sensory stimuli. On top of that, the captain will have to disrobe so there's no interference from the clothing."

Coral gave a quizzical look. "That doesn't make sense. I get the blindfold, earplugs and showers, but if she's connected to Cezanne by the midbrain probes, why get naked?"

Gorbachev laughed. "You forget that our chain of command is made up of dirty old men. Dirty old men with...hobbies."

"But...aren't most LA pilots men?"

"Probably, but like I said. Chain of command's pretty fucked up. Look at Major Luco."

Coral knew all too well how lecherous Major Luco was. Several occasions sat in Coral's memory, which she was not allowed to speak of, lest she be discharged or worse. "I wonder how Captain Altaria handles it all. Being a female LA pilot, I mean..."

"For her," Gorbachev said, "I think piloting the Cezanne is the ONLY thing that helps her handle it all."

******************

Sync tests. Can't live with them, can't pilot without them. Synne stepped out of her fourth shower and into the hot jets of sterile air dryers. "One more to go," she thought. Everything was fine for her. Even lying inside the Cezanne for three hours was fine. Early in her life, her grandfather, a prolific hypnotist back in the late 21st century, had taught her how to put herself into a trance. He called it self-hypnosis; she called it a life-saver on the two hour bus ride to her high-school in the colony outskirts.

Synne entered the final shower, and let the jets of water do their magic. The deluge, while neither cold nor warm, felt relaxing. It smelled slightly of bleach, and made Synne feel a little light-headed. "Need to focus," she told herself, shaking her head free of the heady grip.

"Please refrain from excess movement while in the decontamination cycle," a voice said through the intercom. Synne looked up to the corner of the room, where a lonely security camera's lens spun and adjusted.

"That red light had better mean it's NOT turned on, Major," Synne said, remaining still.

In the monitor room, Major Luco rested his hand on the chair-back of his subordinate, looking intently at Synne. Her body seemed to shine with the decontaminant, as though she had showered with baby oil. Damn, he thought, how had she known he was watching?

The man working the controls looked to Major Luco, whose grip had tightened on the chair when the Captain had spoken. "Didn't see you there, Major. We're all done with the decontamination," he said, flipping a switch. The monitor showed the spray of liquid shut off, and the Captain stepping out of the camera's view.

"Very well, continue the sync tests as usual," Major Luco said gruffly, turning and leaving the small dark room. "Oh, and Sergeant," he said, poking his head back through the doorway. "Make sure I receive a copy of her sync test results. I'd like to see whether our Ace has improved or not."

"I'll make it so, sir," the man said with a salute. Major Luco stormed down the hallway, trying to figure out whether or not Synne's comment was a lucky guess. Could she have known somehow? "No," he reasoned to himself, "she's good with her LA, but she's not psychic."

******************

Synne opened the door to the hangar and walked the distance to the Cezanne. Drafty in here, she thought. With a uniform, it wasn't too noticeable, but naked, wet, it was cold as hell. She could feel her nipples starting to harden against her will.

"Just what I wanted the team to see," she sighed as she neared Cezanne.

Gorbachev looked up from the belt of ammunition, and nudged Coral. "This is my favorite part of this job," he snickered.

Coral looked up from the ammunition. There, about fifty feet away was Captain Altaria, walking toward them, nude and glistening with...water? No, it was different. Must be the decontaminant, she thought. "C-Captain, hello," she managed to say, tearing her eyes away from her body to look her in the face.

Synne greeted the team, and stepped on the lift to enter the Cezanne. Why was Coral looking at her like that? The look reminded her of the way Major Luco eyed her. No, this was different. Her eyes were wider, darker. It wasn't a look like that pervert gave her. Synne entered the Cezanne, reminded how easy it was after the showers. The decontaminant made her skin slippery, and she was able to get situated in about half the time. She prepared herself for the midbrain probes, which slid in with a jet of air.

A mechanism came towards her face, a strip of sterile smelling cloth between its two mechanical arms. It was stretched over her eyes, an adhesive securing it to her brow and cheeks. From the sides, soft foam plugs were inserted into her ears. It tickled, and Synne squirmed about until the plugs were fully secured.

A low hum came from the ear plugs, but was quickly lost as the effect of noise rejection began. Unable to even hear herself talk, Synne closed her eyes (not that it made a difference) and let her index finger drop like on a light switch, dropping herself into a hypnotic relaxation as the tests began.

"Her readout is smooth," Gorbachev remarked, letting the paper feed from the printer flow through his hands. "Which is good, her last test looked like Michael J. Fox trying to draw a straight line."

Coral looked to Gorbachev. "Another one of your 20th century celebrities?"

"Yeah, but it's mostly a Parkinson's joke. Regardless, I think she must be getting better acquainted with Cezanne. Hopefully being in there's becoming fun for her."

******************

This sucks, Synne thought as she lay still and relaxed in the cockpit. She figured thoughts like that would probably negatively affect the scores, but these tests didn't matter to her. It's a Lebensarmierung, ain't it? If it works, I can pilot it, she thought.

"These tests are so pointless," she said, the silence so thick she could only tell she was speaking by the vibrations in her sternum.

"You should take them seriously," a voice said. It resonated through her whole body, and a strong pressure overwhelmed her.

"What the...who are you? Why...I can't move!"

"This is by design. If you were allowed to move, there's a chance you might fail the test."

She listened to the voice. It sounded familiar, like the voice of a long-lost friend, or a lover returned from a journey of many years. "Cezanne?"

"Yes, it's me. I knew it wouldn't take you long. You were always such a clever girl."

"What do you want with me," Synne asked, still unable to move.

The voice laughed. "I want you and I to grow closer. Come with me, won't you?"

Synne felt the controls at her hands change shape. They took the form of hands, which she took in her own. Suddenly she felt as though her body was being dragged behind a jet aircraft, the wind whipping mercilessly into her face. Unable to move, she could not shield her eyes and ears from the fierce wind, the loud roar, the...gentle breeze and the warm sun?

Something changed, Synne thought. The wind was gone, and the loud roar replaced by the pleasant chirping of birds. Birds? "How do I know what birds are," Synne asked herself. "I've never heard them before, but I know what they are, and what they're called. Birds."

"I think you'll find there are many things which you've tricked yourself into not knowing," the familiar voice said again. Synne opened her eyes, finding that she could see. Almost at once, she had to shield her eyes from the bright sunlight.

"Wait, sunlight? The sun?" Delighted to finally see it, Synne unblocked her eyes, only to shield them again from the intense brightness.

"Take it easy, girl," Cezanne said. "You shouldn't look into the sun; even those of us who've seen it before don't."

Synne felt a pair of strong arms take her in, and hold her close. She opened her eyes, and looked into the face of Cezanne. His long, unkempt brown hair was kept in motion by the breeze, and his tanned complexion told the tale of many a day spent outside working in the sun. He wore black pants, a whit shirt, and a black frock coat which caught the wind. His brown eyes were darkened with what Synne could have easily mistaken for love.

All at once, Synne was hit with a consuming sense of fondness for the man who held her. "Why do I feel this way," Synne asked, squeezing her thighs together, attempting to quell the warm tingle between them.

"This emotion, which you call arousal, is the way we connect. Even on the battlefield. Think hard, every battle's given you this same feeling, hasn't it?"

She thought back. Sure enough, she couldn't recall a combat situation which wasn't followed by a hasty retreat to her quarters and a half-hour alone. "You're right," she admitted.

"Go on, then. Tell me what it is you do to sate this feeling," Cezanne goaded, running his hand on her side. "Connect us by this feeling."

"Yesterday, after I...we...took down the Van Eyck, I felt so good and didn't know why," Synne began. "As I walked towards the barracks though, it got stronger, and I started getting wet. I kept walking, and it got worse. It was like this fire down there--"

"You don't need to be modest. Say what you mean, use the words you want," Cezanne said.

"I can't, it's embarrassing," Synne pleaded, squirming in vain against the feelings growing within her.

"You're naked in my arms, but you have qualms about your language," Cezanne laughed. Synne looked down, and realized she was still naked. "After all, you're still in the cockpit."

"Like this fire in my...in my pussy...that I couldn't put out. So when I got to my room, I took my clothes off and jumped into bed. I tried rubbing it, but it wasn't doing any good, so I stuck my fingers inside. But it was like the more I tried, the more it grew. I stood up and tried rubbing myself on the corner of my mattress."

"And did that work," Cezanne asked, oddly calm, considering the steamy tale Synne was telling.

"Yeah, but it seemed like it took forever," Synne answered shyly.

"See, that wasn't so hard," Cezanne remarked. "I can feel you getting closer to me already."

"Will this really help me pilot better," Synne asked, fighting the strong desire to finger herself.

"You and I both know it will, just look. You're struggling not to masturbate now." Cezanne leaned close to her, and whispered in her ear. "Just imagine how bad you'll want it once the test's over with. You'll jump the first thing that moves!"

"Is all this really necessary," Synne asked defensively.

Cezanne got serious fast. "It is, if you want what you say you do. What is it that you want from me, Synne Altaria?"

Synne considered his question. She saw what was left of her family, shrouded in doubt, loneliness, poverty; she saw her friends, Patterson, Gorbachev, Coral. "I want...I want to make the world a place where the people I love are safe."

"That's an honorable goal," Cezanne said, running his hand through his hair in thought. "But also a difficult one. Are you prepared for everything that goes along with it?"

"I am," she affirmed. "As long as I've got you, I can do anything."

"And you do have me," Cezanne said with a warm smile. "Never think that you're alone in this world. Remember that you've got me. Here, take this for me," he said, digging into his coat pocket.

He held Synne's chin, and pressed his palm against her chest, above her breasts. Synne felt a warmth and calm accompany his gentle pressure. "Use this when you have no options left, when you can't do it alone. Just speak the words, and I'll be there," he whispered in her ear. "You can do it now," he added.

Synne felt her arms freed from his control, and at once they dove between her legs, frantically clawing at her channel. Her animalistic moans betrayed the throes of wet, slippery pleasure she dug from her pussy. Each drag of a nail and push of a finger brought whines and whimpers of purest ecstasy.

In her mind, Synne pondered an unrelated question as the dreamscape began to shimmer in the pleasure. "Cezanne, am I your first...your first pilot, I mean," she thought. She heard his answer reverberate through her head as the shimmering view faded to black.

"I think, Synne Altaria, that you have been my pilot for far longer than either of us can remember."

******************

"Captain, can you hear me," Coral asked again, tears still staining her face. "If you can hear me, say something!"

"How did I get here," Synne asked, looking up at the bright lights of the hangar ceiling. She tried to lift herself up, but found that her arms would not move. "I can't move them," she said. "Is he still controlling me?"

"I think the sedatives are making her hallucinate," Coral told the masked medic standing on the other side of the gurney. "Captain, don't try to move your arms, okay?"

Synne looked down to her arms, and was disgusted: her arms were bandaged, bent at odd angles, and put in splints and casts. "What the hell happened to me," Synne asked groggily. "Did I fall out of the cockpit?"

Coral reached over to a table and grabbed a clipboard, holding it so Synne could read it. It appeared to be a report, filed by Coral herself only two hours ago. It read:

Reporter:Pvt. Leina Coral

Time of Report:1304; 12 Dec. U.C. 2205

Reason for Report:Injury

At 1200 today, Captain Synne Altaria began synchronization tests with her Lebensarmierung unit, "the Cezanne". Tests proceeded nominally until 1237, at which point a slight tremor was seen in her output graph. This was followed by consecutively greater tremors every 2 or 3 seconds, until 1242 when the graph could no longer read the magnitude of the tremors. Internal cockpit cameras showed a pleasant expression on the face of the pilot, quite contrary to the obvious pain which should have accompanied the tremors on the graph.

At 1244 we inserted (at great risk to clean test results) a fiber optic camera through a ventilation slit in the cockpit. Once inserted, we were able to attribute the tremors to repeated and increasingly violent strains of the pilot's arms. It appeared that the pilot was attempting to force her arms free of the restraints, though the face showed no indication of the accompanying strain or pain. At 1246, we cut power to the Cezanne in hopes of releasing the restraints, freeing the pilot. The cockpit did not respond to the power cut; kept the pilot restrained, did not eject the midbrain probes.

1250: Repeated attempts to rouse the still oblivious Captain Altaria prove ineffective, and her attempts at moving her arms have grown stronger. Face still bears a pleased expression. Eyelids are fluttering, suggesting a dreamlike state on the pilot's part. At 1252, the pilot succeeded in freeing her arms of the restraints. Pilot Altaria dislocated and broke her arms in three places before managing to bypass the restraints. No signs of pain. Fiber optic camera shows pilot's arms traveled to groin.

1258: Arms have stopped moving, have not moved from pilot's groin. Midbrain probes have been ejected from pilot's skull. Request has been made to forcibly extract the pilot, and has been accepted. 1300: crew cuts through rear of Cezanne and extracts pilot.

Medic has reported the following injuries: Left arm has been dislocated at the shoulder, inverted at the elbow. Right arm has similar shoulder dislocation as well as two clean breaks along both upper and lower arm. Medic also wishes to report significant abrasions and bruising to the pilot's genitalia due to activities of the pilot's hands.

Report Verified by:Maj. Gihrel Luco

Time of Verification:1327; 12 Dec. U.C. 2205