The Elders (Mind Dimensions #4)(30)
To stop her temptingly swaying hips from distracting me, I focus on my awe at the image of books being written so fast. Then, not for the first time, I feel a strong pang of guilt. Mira, Thomas, and my moms are still in those vans, unconscious, and being taken to the Temple against their will. I shouldn’t find room in my heart for wonderment, and I definitely shouldn’t be checking out another woman’s ass.
Realizing I’ve been silent too long, I ask, “So the paintings are done the same way? You draw them and then a painter is Guided to recreate them?”
“When we bother doing so, yes. Though sometimes it takes a couple of painters, and sadly, sometimes the results are not the same as the original.” She waves for me to follow her and briskly walks out.
“I find the idea of works of art that exist only fleetingly in the Mind Dimension sad.” I quicken my pace to stay within earshot of her.
“If you became our Ambassador, you’d get to be in on our Sessions from time to time. That means you’d get to enjoy some of these creations for decades before they disappear.” Her smile makes sexual promises. “Sometimes you appreciate something more when you know it will be gone shortly after its creation. For years, I created sand paintings inspired by Tibetan monks. Not a single one appeared outside the Mind Dimension.”
“A shame,” I say as we practically run through the next room—the one with the manual typing machines.
“Despite what Frederick and some of the others hope, life itself is like art. We exist and our minds develop, becoming beautiful patterns over time—the ultimate works of art in a way. After life is over, they are gone. The ultimate shame.” She waits for me next to the door that leads back into the corridor.
“That’s pretty depressing.” In a bout of chivalry, I open and hold the door for her. “What is this hope of Frederick’s you mentioned? It sounds intriguing.”
“Despite the extreme longevity we, the Elders, get to enjoy, Frederick is afraid of dying one day.” As she walks through, she brushes her manicured fingers over my hand.
I don’t know why, but my whole body gets covered in gooseflesh at the light touch of her nails. Unwilling to show her my discomfort, I continue talking evenly. “That’s reasonable. Who wants to die? If there was a way not to, I’d take it in a heartbeat.”
“Then you’re going to be one of them.” She waits for me to exit and walks down the corridor at a slightly slower pace. “The ones I call the dreamers.”
“The dreamers?” I try not to get distracted by what looks like a painting by Rembrandt on the corridor wall.
“Yes. They believe that immortality can be achieved in our lifespan, or at least biological longevity that goes beyond the current hundred-if-you’re-lucky years.” She stops next to a large door.
“This is something my friend Bert likes to talk about,” I say, nodding. “And from what I understand, it could happen. There’s a bunch of biotech research that—”
“Please don’t go on. I do hate those boring details. You risk sounding like Frederick and the others.” Victoria places her hand on a door handle. “I think that the search for biological immortality is as foolish as the one for the immortality of the mind, be that with uploading human minds to computers or something more exotic. Having an end to life gives context and meaning to it.”
“I won’t argue with you,” I say, “except to ask that if you feel this way, why do you join the Elders in living a hundred years in a day?”
“Ah, that. Would you like to see my latest project?” She twists the door handle. “It might answer your question. It’s the result of the better part of a century of painstaking research.”
“Sure, I’d love to.”
With a flourish, she swings the door open and steps inside, the movement as seductive as her walk.
I follow her in and stop, my breath catching. My eyes drift from one corner of the room to the other. Fear for my life is completely gone, replaced with another emotion, one just as primordial.
When I can speak, I say, “What the—”
“I quite proudly call this Victoria Sutra.” She sweeps her hand out in an arc.
I do my best not to blush. Grown men don’t blush, or do they? This room is not something I’d expect to find in a museum, unless it was the museum of sex. The ‘art pieces’ are a mixed bag. There are statues—some of the Elders, some of the people who are holding me at gunpoint outside the Mind Dimension, and some of strangers. The sculptor has captured them in varying, mid-coitus positions. Almost all of them feature Victoria in some tantalizing way. I have to peel my curious eyes from one particularly interesting piece that features a naked, masculine-looking woman, doing something with Victoria that reminds me of a cross between wrestling and sixty-nine.
There are also paintings following the same motif. Some are abstract, and some are so realistic they could’ve come from the pages of Penthouse.
“I assume that bookshelf is filled with erotica?” I ask with a chuckle that comes out sounding more nervous than I meant it to be.
“Of course,” she says, giving me a sly smile. “Let me show you some of my more special creations.”
Before I can reply, she walks over to a large dresser and picks up a flute. It seems innocuous enough, especially given that it’s not penis-shaped, which would’ve fit the feel of this room better. It’s just a simple instrument made of polished red wood, no pun intended.