For Lilian and the Indigos - Above Top Secret

Chapter 1
I finally crested that soft-gray world of half-sleep, stretching my every sinew under the
luxury of silk satin. With eyes parted slightly, I looked around my terrace-garden room,
breathing in the scent of lilacs and orchids and rich loam, listening to the song of the larks
that made the zen-jungle of my house their home.
I had had the choice of whatever I wanted, of course, in devising my perfect house. I
could have chosen anything – from a rustic cabin on Earth’s surface up to a palace on the
Moon or Mars. My choice had been this aerie which floated above the solid land of the
planet’s crust, with view of whatever beauty I chose to visit.
Built as a circle, the roof domed over the space in a crescent shape, leaving the center as a
terrace to the outside world. Under the roofed portion, there were no walls, except at the
perimeter, defining my studio, Lee’s study and photo developing lab, and guest rooms.
Under the main part, partitions stood, confining my bedroom, my bathroom, the kitchen,
and dining room, with the living room open on the side facing the terrace. All the rooms
were partitioned within my manicured garden-jungle, which had paved pathways running
throughout, and sculptures in an Egyptian motif tucked here and there.
The windows and the terrace around the edge of my house were confined by an energy
field, unseen but detectable to the touch. The field extended, completing invisibly the
dome above.
I pushed away the sheet and sat, breathing deeply in satisfaction. Though I could have
chosen to be cleansed, dressed and groomed by my robot valet, one of my many ’botties,
there was something almost decadent in reaching for my robe and strolling to my
cleansing fall – the waterfall and pool which holds hot water – to bathe myself. Stroking
the cloth, so filled with sudsy sweetness, over my arms, legs and torso, I washed away
what sweat and grime there was. I reveled in the application of cleansing cream, suited
precisely for the skin I was born to, rubbing it, scrubbing it, into my face.
Floating in the pool, I rinsed myself, and then poured a generous amount of shampoo into
my palm. The waist-length damp locks sudsed up as I applied the foamy liquid, and a
sweet patchouli scent joined the earth-blossom richness of the surrounding flowers. I
moved under the fall, which steamed as it fell, and rinsed the lion’s mane I call my hair.
Stepping forth from my bath, I grasped the ultra-plush towel which sat ready on a shelf
nearby, and smoothed it over my damp skin.
Rather than use the insta-dryer, which would, I knew, dry and brush (and even coif
should I request it) my hair, I picked up the abalone brush I had found in that queer little
ancients shop in Belize – I had seen it and asked if the owner would part with it. He had
smiled and suggested a small painting by the Infamous Isadore Illumente (my humble
self) would be perfect payment. I offered him his choice of the paintings I had done and
were still mine to give, calling forth my holoport – my “holographic portfolio,” for any