The Bonobo Experiments 11

THE BONOBO EXPERIMENTS - 11, Rev.

All rights reserved. Other than downloading one copy for strictly personal enjoyment, no part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, except for reviews, without the written permission of the author. However based on real events and places, "The Bonobo Experiments" is strictly fictional. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Further, as in real life, sexual themes unfold gradually. Comments on the story are appreciated and may be addressed to the author at carl_mason@verizon.net

If you would like to read additional stories by this author, please turn to the "Authors/Prolific Authors" link at the beginning of the Nifty Archive.

This story contains descriptions of sexual contact between males, both adults and teenagers. As such, it is homoerotic fiction designed for the personal enjoyment of legal, hopefully mature, adults. If you are not of legal age to read such material, if those in power and/or those whom you trust treat it as illegal, or if it would create unresolvable moral dilemmas in your life, please leave. Finally, remember that maturity generally demands safe sex.

CHAPTER 11

(Revisiting Chapter 10)

Jiri went down on his knees before the wizened figure, momentarily resting his head on his bony knees. Slowly removing his clothing, piece by piece, he again danced in his accustomed spot before the Master. As in the past, colored strobes - chiefly red, but also blue, yellow, and green - swirled over his magnificent body. He whirled and undulated in ways that even today convinced the old man's body that it was young again. Dropping to his stomach for the last time before the great man, he finally reached out for both his hands, kissed them, and murmured something inaudible. Rising, he gracefully resumed his clothing, turned and silently left the house. There were tears in the eyes of both men.

(Concluding Our Story: A Grim Accounting)

As the redheaded lad neared the address in an older part of town, his pace flagged. What in God's name was he doing? Did he really want to spend the rest of his life in Russia as a captive...or, worse, as a research animal? He came close enough to the correct building to read the small sign to the right of the door..."The Tsvetnoi Institute". With a toss of his head, his eyes nearly blinded by sweat that was pouring down his entire body, he then kept right on going until he was able to find a taxi that would take him back to the Naval Air Base.

Jiri found his love working at a table in the Graf's lounge. Quietly sitting down at the table across from him, he suddenly reached the limit of his physical and psychological strength. As his upper body slumped down on the table, he reached out to Randy with trembling fingers. The Lieutenant Commander didn't say a word. Rather, he simply gathered his papers, helped the redhead to rise, and guided him towards his cabin. Only one member of the crew observed them.

The whole story poured out as they sat on the edge of Randy's bed, the American lovingly holding the trembling, sobbing Siberian lad. With his Vladivostok contact's help, Jiri had been firmly on the trail of the look-alike rumors, but fear had overcome him and he had run from his own past...and what it might portend for the future. He wept that he was a coward and, hence, unworthy of Randy's love. "It's not too late, you know," Randy murmured. "Everything that I am is yours. If you feel you must come to grips with this terror because it would affect our lives together, my strength is yours. You don't need my courage, for you are already the bravest lad I have ever known. "You don't despise me?" the youngster asked, his lips trembling, his tear-stained face raised to his lover. "Never... never..." the American answered softly.

At that point there was a firm knock on the cabin door. The Lieutenant Commander rose from the bed and admitted the Graf's Captain. "I am sorry to report that we have searched everywhere for Sergei that we could possibly search," he said. "Unfortunately, he is nowhere to be found." Without saying another word, he handed a tray that contained a bottle of Schnapps and several glasses to Randy and sat down beside the Siberian youth. Resting his hand on Jiri's thigh, he said, "You will admit, my Marine lieutenant, that I have not interfered in your personal affairs. You are not a child and I will not treat you as one. Nevertheless, a lifetime of command experience tells me that some serious business has engulfed you both...and that affects my airship! I want an explanation, and I shall have it now. You may rest assured that I shall treat it as highly confidential." In a shaky voice, the redhead asked if he might have a glass of the Schnapps. Without speaking, Captain Büchner poured three small glasses of the clear, volatile liquid and passed them around. "And now...now!" he grunted. The redhead managed to provide a relatively succinct account of what had transpired. When he fell silent, the Captain asked, "And now, lad, what have you decided to do?" Jiri turned towards him, murmuring, "Thank you for your concern, sir. I've got to face the questions in my mind...in my life...and return to the Institute. Is it at all possible that the Korvettenkapitän might accompany me?" "Good!" Büchner snapped explosively. "I was going to suggest that myself. Further, you should realize that every one of your shipmates on the Graf stands with you!" With that, he rose, growled, "Don't get Shanghaied!" and left the compartment. "Whew..." whispered Jiri as Randy shook his head in agreement.

(The Tsvetnoi Institute)

In answer to their knock, the door of the Tsvetnoi Institute was opened by a strange, gnome-like little man who, while Russian, appeared to have stepped directly out of a book written by so many late 19th Century British authors...the archetypal "clerk". When the American asked if they might speak with the Director, the man bobbed his head and officiously replied that the Director was away on business. He was not expected to return for two more days. At that moment, he seemed to have gotten a good look at Jiri in the rather dim light of the foyer. Breaking into a wide, if greasy, smile, he grasped the redhead's upper arm, saying to his companion, "Ah, who is more fortunate? You...or we?" Jiri was just about to tear his arm away when Randy laid a warning arm on a heavy shoulder. "Why are both of us...'fortunate', sir?" he asked. Identifying himself as the "Assistant" Director, the little man smirked and replied, "Well, sir, our redhead is dying, and everyone knows that they can be trained to be the world's greatest clowns! You, on the other hand, come here with a possible replacement at the very moment that a generous price might be available. Despite their earlier reply, the Director has personally gone to Yekaterinburg to see if a replacement might be available. The idiots at the hospital sent us an infant, but we would have to wait too many years to recoup our investment."

"Clown? Replacement?" Jiri snorted. "Sir," the American interrupted, "please tell me more." "I am surprised, sir, that you in the West do not know about the Russian circus. Since the reign of Catherine the Great, the circus has played an important role in the rich cultural traditions of our people. The circus is regarded as an art form every bit as important as the ballet or opera, a showcase for highly skilled and creative artists. You have reached the Russian Far East office of one of the finest circuses of them all!" "Ah, thank you, Assistant Director," Randy replied, fingering his wallet which the Russian picked up immediately. "Before making a decision, perhaps you would show us your redhead who has fallen ill." The man hesitated for just a moment, for he was essentially a low-level clerk who had more to do with pouring slave chow into a bowl than with financial or personnel matters. Eventually, he bobbed his head servilely and led them into a room filled with cages. Jiri immediately spotted his double who had been jammed into a cage that was far too small for anyone of his...or Jiri's...physique. He crouched in his own excrement, glassy-eyed, the sweat pouring down his body. One part of his skull bulged slightly from within; the right eye socket seemed to have moved somewhat lower on his face. Although there was a sign on the cage advising onlookers to keep their distance from a dangerous specimen, Jiri reached in and stroked his bright red hair. Tears trickled down both their faces. The "dangerous specimen" mumbled a garbled word in Russian, but it was unintelligible and he uttered nothing more.

"Why do you have him caged," Randy asked, doing everything he could to retain his emotions...and his stomach. "Well, sir, he's an animal," the Assistant Director replied. "Where else would he be kept?" These clones are usually sold for medical research as well as for mining and other heavy labor. They don't last long. Occasionally, the staff at the hospital accidentally get it right and something of considerably higher quality is produced. Thinking of how great a coup it would be if he were able to secure a replacement as well built and, clearly, as healthy as the American's slave, he offered to buy him for a figure that would ensure a handsome profit...for him. "There's the infant, too," he added. "We have no use for it - and it doesn't look quite right in any case. Perhaps, you'd be interested in a bargain price on both specimens?" "Perhaps..." Randy murmured... "Perhaps. You may know of the powerful animal protection lobby in the States. Would it be possible - for an appropriate fee, of course - to place the adult specimen in an institution where it can live out its last weeks without infecting your other stock?" Mentioning a high price in Euros, he added, "Could he be out of here tonight?" Seeing the man's nod of agreement, he continued. "And now, "might we see the infant?"

Moving into still another room, the Russian gestured towards a small crate that was resting on the floor. Though close to collapse, Jiri went over to it, knelt, and parted some pieces of ragged cloth. Randy heard a faint squeal followed by a sharp cry from Jiri, who slumped forward as if all the bones had suddenly left his body. "Water, sir! Bring some water!" the American cried. As the little man left the room, Jiri whispered hoarsely, "Love, we must leave with the infant. We must!" "How much money do you have with you?" Randy inquired. "Get the envelope out of my inner coat pocket," the redhead directed weakly. Inside the envelope, the American officer found a second, sealed envelope that contained 20,000 Euros - or, if you prefer, slightly more than 28,000 U.S. dollars.

When the Assistant Director returned, they settled on a price of thirty-two thousand Euros for the infant and care for the dying redhead. Naturally, that also included the ownership papers for his "slave". The Russian was nearly out of mind with joy! What a coup he had pulled off! Finally, the Director would have to recognize his efforts. He might even be ordered back to Moscow! 'Ah, civilization would be wonderful,' he thought.

"All of this talk has made me exceedingly horny," Randy exclaimed with a leer. Frankly, I must use my slave this evening. He has had too easy a life lately! I presently have 20,000 Euros with me." Pressing the bills into the Russian's palm, he asked, "Would you hold this until ten o'clock tomorrow morning when I shall provide the remainder? Also, I should like to take my slave and the infant with me." "Oh, I am so very sorry, sir, but business is business," the little Russian sputtered. "I fear that my authority doesn't extend that far." "Ah, sir, then I am the one who is sorry" stated Randy in his best "colonial" tone of voice. As an official of the greatest Russian circus, I had assumed that you had that authority...and more. Nevertheless, my slave owes me, and I am determined to take it out of his body." (The redhead's face said nothing, but Randy had always been able to read his eyes. He would pay for those remarks!) "Here," he said, holding out his hand, "return my cash, and I shall see you in the morning." Need it be added that the little "Assistant Director" wasn't about to endanger his chance for glory! The Lieutenant Commander and his "slave" who carried the small wooden crate walked out of the Institute within minutes.

(Schiff Hoch!)

It began to look as if they were in serious trouble when a band of toughs armed with clubs and chains walked towards them in the darkened street. Suddenly, however, they had to jump back a little as a long black Mercedes pulled up alongside. For some inane reason, the redhead noticed that the door carried the inscription, "The Consulate General of Germany - Vladivostok". Suddenly, the door opened and hands pulled them inside the limo. "Go!" snapped Captain Büchner to the driver.

An inspection was ordered at the Base's main gate, but a quick visual check inside the car and the trunk was evidently sufficient. At least, they were allowed to continue on to the Graf with no more than a motorcycle escort. The arrived to find that the dirigible was all checked out and ready for her departure. The two men carrying a box were ordered to return the ordinance to Fregattenkapitän [Commander] Müller. As they departed with the assault rifles and pistols, Jiri caught the Captain's eye and saluted stiffly. When his salute was returned, he continued on to his cabin, the wooden crate secure in his arms. Only minutes seemed to pass before the warning chimes followed by the Captain's cry of "Schiff hoch!" sounded throughout the airship.

The ship had just cleared Golden Horn Bay when a knock sounded on the redhead's door. "Enter!" he called out smartly. Randy's head popped inside just as he exclaimed, "Just seeing how you're doin...Damn, Red! What's that smell?" "You caught me working over on the bed, love. Take a look," came the reply. As Randy came up behind him and cried out, "Aw shit, Red! What is it?" the Siberian lad spat out a rather tart rejoinder. "I assume you know what 'shit' is," Jiri drawled - "and, yes, you're smelling it. As regards what 'it' is, look carefully and describe what you see." The Lieutenant Commander paused before beginning: "Well, I guess it's a baby...probably human though it sure looks a little strange in places. The ears look a little wrong, and the nose isn't quite right. It's - oops, he's - male, but, love, I've never seen a baby whose body was covered with a thin coat of red hair! I mean...he's not furred like an Orangutan...or anything like that; it's more like a red haze. Nevertheless, he's sure got more fur than any human I've ever seen...even a few really hot redheads! As a matter of fact," he added only half joking, "he looks...a little like you!" He ducked as Jiri took a play-swing at him. (At least, he thought it was in play!)

Jiri finally put him out of his misery by taking over the description. "Commander Patterson, sir, I'd like you to meet my son, Georgi (George; pronounced Gay-ORG-ee) - and, I hope, our son. I hope you won't be mad at me for giving him the middle name of someone really special!" Randolph George Patterson didn't know whether to laugh in sheer delight and hug his buddy or to take another, and definitely not a play, swing at him! He finally settled on "Wow..." as the best response he could come up with at the moment. "As far as I know," his buddy continued, "he's the first 'Humanzee' ever. I'll have to admit that I think his mother was the cutest bonobo I ever laid my eyes on. To paraphrase a late 20th Century song from a movie called Cabaret, "If you could see her though my eyes, she wouldn't look ape-like at all!"

Productive people, these Russian scientists, yes? Artificial insemination...clones... hybrids... Give them a little time and they'll produce Stalin's divisions of marching ape-men soldiers! In quick order, Captain Büchner learned that he had become Georgi's Godfather, and the remaining crew of the Graf had become honorary cousins! (For years, Georgi received birthday gifts from all over the world!)

(Going Home)

As they approached Tokyo, Captain Bücher spoke privately with Randy Patterson the next day, saying, "Lieutenant Commander, I have a possibility for you. Earlier I spoke with Admiral Hendron, your Chief of Naval Intelligence. He agreed with me - and, parenthetically, our Chief of Intelligence - that it might not be the safest thing for you to attempt to fly home from Tokyo on an American-flag carrier in the immediate future. We did stir up a little ruckus in Vladivostok. It's entirely possible that some groups among, say, the North Koreans might try to curry favor with their handlers by doing that which the handlers are currently unable to do. Given the world spotlight on us, we're a bit safer. Further, if you are going to give us the kind of report needed by our two agencies, you really need a little longer time to prepare and polish it. I have been authorized by my Government - with the approval of Admiral Hendron - to offer you and your men passage back to NAS Lakehurst on the Graf. If you will remember the route of the first Graf's "Round-the-World-Flight" of 1929, it's right on our way...and only a few days away. When you've spoken with your partner, please let me know as soon as possible. And, yes, we can pick up any needed baby supplies when we stop in Tokyo. We might even provide the three of you with one of our First Class staterooms unused on this flight. Your redhead might also like to know that there's a German male nurse at the Air Station who has a good deal of experience with the newborn. Wonderful reputation... Inasmuch as he's due for his three month furlough back home, it might be possible for him to join us. Randy couldn't completely conceal a grin as he saluted and then hurried to the cabin of a certain redhead.

THE END

Postscript: The American decision against becoming more deeply involved in the "Siberian Crisis" surprised no one. Married by Captain Ernst Büchner over the Pacific, the two young men and the first of their three sons returned to the United States to live exceptionally long and productive lives. In their time it was said that the intensity of their love was equaled only by their unyielding opposition to those who would condition the child to support their goals. Rather, their responsibility was to work with the child to define and pursue his or her own goals.