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Making Friends free porn video
Making Friends
By Arcie Emm
Asteroid mining is a dangerous business. A combination of explosives and
heavy equipment mixed with a lack of air and gravity makes it deadly for
humans. Yet the profit potential is such that for years many took the
risk, some earned great monetary rewards while many others paid the
ultimate price. Meanwhile those who were less adventurous or less
desperate sought ways to make the practice safer.
The answer was obvious, robots. But obvious does not always equal
simple, this was proven again and again during the race to develop a
mining robot during what was actually a golden age of robotics. Great
strides were achieved in mimicking human appearance and movement, such
that androids became the norm instead of the blocky, machine like robots
of the past. With an improved aesthetic they became commonplace, but
like their blockier brethren of the past they still could only perform
tasks that were constant, tasks that were programmable.
Even though androids could perform a concerto with the skill of a
concert pianist or dance a solo with the grace of a professional
ballerina, they could not think. And that was what required to be a
doctor, a police officer, a scientist, a teacher and so many other
professions, including asteroid miner. There were just to many variables
to build encompassing how-to programs.
The breakthrough came from practitioners, not scientists. A group of
prospectors purchased a number of old LMR-1610s (Labour Mining Robot)
with programmable brain-boxes. These basic mining robots were used for
planetary mining but were not guaranteed for asteroid work. The
prospectors accepted the risk, took training to learn the methods for
programming the brain-boxes and, with promises to openly share programs
developed by each, headed out into the universe to create asteroid
mining bots.
They succeeded. Each of the eight men and women was a superb miner; they
also had the smarts and ingenuity required to determine the best
techniques to mine different types of asteroids and then program their
bot to do the work. Within ten years they were rich beyond their wildest
imagination, not from mining, but from selling their algorithms. Now
most mining was done with fourth generation LAMRs (Labour Asteroid
Mining Robot) where all that was required of the human miner was the
ability to determine which program to initiate, based upon the asteroid
type. A profession that used to be full of the brightest and daring was
now the home to the slothful and lazy, independent contractors were
replaced by human drones who were only required to choose the right
program 1 out of 5 times to keep their jobs.
Not surprisingly, quite a few miners lived down to those expectations.
Something that was was a very good for Bernie the Junkman, whose salvage
business thrived on the resulting wreckage.
--------------
Despite the miner asking him to stay for a visit, Bernie Sternstein
could not get away from the mine-deck at CA-63459:11098 (Claimed
Asteroid) fast enough. Every moment he stayed increased the chance that
he would break out in a gleeful cackle at his coup or the likelihood
that someone up the chain from the miner would figure out what was going
on. Therefore, he made excuses that he had to quickly return to Alton 5
to meet up with a customer and rushed to load the damaged bot, before
launching The Beachcomber back into space. Forcing himself to be
patient, it was with trembling hands that he set course for Alton 5,
which was his home and actual planned next stop - though he did not have
any planned appointments.
Once on course, he decided to calm his nerves with a drink. Bernie
considered pouring from his special reserve bottle, but decided to wait
until he confirmed that he deserved a celebratory drink and settled for
some of his own self-made rotgut. With his hands steadier he headed back
to the hold to verify his prize. Not even taking time to leer at the
rack of pleasure droids he sold, Bernie looked down at the broken bot.
Before being caught in an explosion, resulting from the miner's bad
decision to have the bot drill into a methane pocket, it had been close
to two metres tall and correspondingly massive. Now, after having lost
most of both legs, it was much shorter though still heavy. This mass and
form combined with its mannish shape, not mannish appearance, had been
the first thing to make him surmise that it was an outdated model. But
it was not until he hooked it up to his porter that he realized that it
was not even a LAMR, instead it was an LMR. Knowing how few of those
were in space, he had casually inspected the serial number and been
excited by what he saw. He thought it may be one of the original eight
used by the prospectors.
It had been difficult to hide his excitement at the find, yet he had
buried it behind commiseration with the miner's complaints about
Supplies providing him with this old outdated piece of crap. Yes Bernie
had agreed that it was a stupid mistake, of course he did not explain
that the mistake was placing a priceless artifact in the hands of an
moron. But that was the past, now it was time to confirm whether his
guess was correct?
Calling up a somewhat outdated copy of the Roboter's Almanac, he
excitedly confirmed that it matched the number used by the Vernon "Guns"
Gunnerson's LMR-1610, the bot named Sam Cash. Bernie could not believe
his luck, Guns was the most notorious of the bunch, infamous as much for
brawls as he was famous for his pioneering techniques in the world of
asteroid mining. Brawls that stories told were usually the result of
someone misinterpreting one of Guns' jokes, which was easily done since
Guns claimed (when sober) that the only one to get his jokes was Sam
Cash. And that was only possible after a programming exercise that put
the mining programs to shame. Any collector worthy of the title would be
thrilled to get a hold of this bot.
But he was not quite ready to buy a new ship, it was possible that he
just had the chassis, not the priceless brain-box. However, a quick
diagnostic proved that he had Sam Cash in its entirety, he was beyond
thrilled.
He felt that he had to talk to it, see if the stories were true, did the
bot have a sense of humour? Bernie's curiosity burned, but it was mixed
with the worry about what could happen if he turned on such a badly
damaged bot, he needed to run more diagnostics to ensure it would not
burn out if started. The results were not good, the chassis was severely
damaged to the point that he did not think it could sustain a charge;
however, to confirm this belief he would need to turn the bot on and
have it run a self diagnostic. It would be best if he waited until he
made it back to Alton 5 and had access to his full workshop, but he
convinced himself that that it could run for 5 or 10 minutes without
serious threat.
Still it was with nervous stomach that he flicked the switch. It proved
to be no more exciting then starting any bot, and soon he was staring at
flickering lights behind the panel where modern droids had human like
eyes. Just as he began to distinguish a pattern to the lights, almost
like clouds floating across the panel, they stopped and a deep voice
rumbled, "This one is broken."
The response was not surprising, in his line of work he had heard it
many times and he always responded the same way, "Perform full
diagnostics."
Once more the pattern began to flash across the screen, but this time
they were in place long enough for him to interpret what he was seeing.
Although it did not say anything about the bot, it at least proved that
one of the previous owners had a sense of humour; after all, he had
never seen another such use of bouncing sheep.
After laughing about the sheep, Bernie began to worry when the
diagnostics extended longer than he would expect. And the nervous
stomach became full on sick when he noticed features beginning to shut
down on the chassis. He moved over to the bot and mumbled, without
expecting an answer, "What's going on?"
"This one is damaged beyond repair. Must shut down."
"Beyond repair? Crap, what am I going to do?"
"This one requires a new chassis."
Relief swamped Bernie, it likely meant the brain-box was not damaged.
His investment was not going to turn out to be worthless, he could sell
the old broken chassis to some museum and find a new one for the brain-
box. Getting to his feet he looked around the hold and the answer jumped
out at him, with a grin on his face he laughed and wondered aloud, "I
wonder if Sam has a favourite hair colour?"
There was no answer, nor had he expected one. He did not turn away from
his study of the rack of pleasure droids, as he was trying to choose
which to use as a new chassis. Therefore, he did not see the final
moments of the LMR-1610's last shut down, did not see the final flicker
of light in the eye panel. But if he had, he still would not have had
time to recognize the final light formation as the two words, 'Bye
Sheep'.
--------------
Bernie decided not to experiment any more while on the ship, his nerves
would not take it. He knew it was much safer to wait until he was in his
workshop with all of his tools, allowing him to be ready for any
potential emergency that may arise during the transfer. Instead he spent
most of his time drinking from his special bottle and trying to convince
himself to follow through with his replacement droid choice. He knew it
was silly, was too obvious and would make him seem like a hormone crazed
teen-ager. Yet he also had a sense of humour and using the CPD-1977
(Chrissy Pleasure Drone) just tickled his funny bone.
Once back on Alton 5 he did not immediately begin a transfer, instead he
took time to place the brain-box in a sensor unit and try to decipher
the programming. He was amazed by the number of algorithms and decision
trees that had been implemented, resulting in way more personality
techniques having been implemented than were used for any other droid he
had studied. It seemed that despite the baseness of his nick-name,
Vernon Gunnerson was a genius who had placed untold hours into his
creation. Sadly, much of that genius was impossible to decipher, the
code was protected and written in a short-hand different than any coding
language Bernie had ever used. If he was forced to make a guess as to
how it worked, he would say that the techniques were based upon
implementing actions from a library of books. But the specific details
were beyond him.
It proved enough of a distraction that he spent more time studying it
than he really should. And he was forced to put off the transfer until
he could finish his other work, the work that kept him in credits and
home.
Finally, eight days after returning from space, he was able to devote
the time to complete the transfer. It turned out to be fairly easy,
since both a LMR and a CPD were standard chassis, using the traditional
brain-box insert and connectors. But with his initial excitement
dampened by the near disaster on his ship, Bernie took no chances. He
installed back-ups and performed every incremental check and test
recommended by even the most anal testing organizations.
By the time he finished it was late enough that he was ready for sleep.
Therefore, after configuring his SAS (Synchronization Alarm System) to
ensure that he would be awoken if anything went amiss, he started the
sync operation. In the morning he hoped that it would be complete,
resulting in the brain-box and chassis becoming one.
Hours later Bernie was slowly pulled out of his slumber by something
triggering his subconscious mind, which over a period of minutes became
a stronger focus of nuisance. Returning to wakefulness he realized that
he was hearing was the same word being repeated again and again, spoken
in ever changing voices. He found it as annoying as a feedback loop and
crawled out of his bed to investigate.
The sound quickly had him at the door of his workshop where he was
greeted by a most peculiar sight. Apparently the sync was still in
progress for in the middle of the room he saw the CPD-1977 twirl in a
pirouette, come to a stop, flash a smile across its face and then say,
"Hello."
Again and again the movements repeated so that each twirl was cleaner,
each smile brighter and the voice became more refined. He watched as the
brain-box dialed into the droid chassis, making it appear more natural,
nearly human like. Bernie suddenly realized that the advanced
programming of the LMR's brain-box was allowing it to integrate with the
droid's form better than the brain-box that had originally be included.
Momentarily he regretted the choice to use the CPD, wishing he not
chosen the path of humour. However, this was dispelled by the fact that
he did have access to anything better and that the CPD was a high
quality droid, diminished only by limited programming.
Seeing that the sync still needed time to complete he decided to head
back to sleep. When this failed Bernie once more rose from bed, had a
shower for the first time in three days and prepared something to eat.
Feeling rather human after these activities and realizing that the
stream of hellos had finally come to an end, he wandered back to the
workshop while sipping a cup of hot-stim.
Upon arrival he saw that the droid was no longer moving or speaking,
instead it was standing in a state of rest, the sync apparently
complete. Bernie was suddenly full of the thought, 'now what?' He had
not planned anything beyond getting the thing running, but for what
purpose he did not know. Nor did he know how to talk to a famous robot,
which he immediately realized was foolish, for a famous robot was no
different than any other robot. It was only famous because people
decided it should be famous.
Grounded by this viewpoint, he asked, "Status?"
The head turned towards him in an almost human fashion and said, "This
one has synced to its new chassis. This one is no longer a mining unit."
Bernie was somewhat disappointed by this answer. It was the type of
simple, clear-cut message he preferred when dealing with a bot or droid,
but he had hoped for more. Pressing somewhat, he queried, "What type of
unit are you?"
"This one is a tall drink of water."
"What?" Bernie sputtered, coughing from a mouthful of stim he had
incorrectly swallowed during his shock at the answer.
"This one is like a tall drink of water to a thirsty man in a desert.
This one is the type of broad that grew up too fast, but is more
innocent than she thinks. This one is the type whose hair should be tied
up in a style begging to be untied. This one is the type of dame whose
gams go on forever."
"Umm...okay...yeahhh...umm, what's a dame actually do?"
"This one only knows that it should sway into offices of detectives
wearing fedoras."
"Then what?"
"This one returns to the office after the fedora wearing gumshoe solves
a mystery."
Bernie felt a head-ache growing behind his eyes. His morning had started
out so positive, yet now he found out that the LMR's brain-box must have
been damaged just like the chassis. And it was with a sigh he stated,
"You are not a dame."
"If this one is not a dame, this one does not know what it is. This one
could be a maintenance bot, but it only has one type of screwdriver on
its fingers."
Staring at the hand that was held out towards him, one tipped in long,
squared fingernails, Bernie's burgeoning head-ache burst out of the gate
to perform a flamenco upon his temples. This time his sigh was even
louder as he said, "You don't really know much about women, do you?"
There was not an immediate reply, signifying that a search was in
progress. Not that the results helped appease Bernie's aching head,
"This one does not."
"Shit, neither do I."
After his admission Bernie decided that maybe there was something that
Sam Cash could learn from the brain-box that had been included with the
CPD; therefore, he had established a connection and begun a correlation.
A short while later after it had been completed, Bernie had tried again,
"What type of unit are you?"
"This one is a painted woman, like those that are written about by the
immortal author, Anonymous."
This time the zag did not zig away from Bernie and he was able to
correct, "Actually Anonymous is a generic nom de plume used for
centuries by writers of erotic fiction, it is not a single immortal
author."
He waited for a reply, but none was coming and Bernie suddenly
recognized that he had not said anything to draw a response from the
droid. With the differences he had noticed about this brain-box, in both
the bot and droid chassis, he had unconsciously ranked it as a higher
form of life than a regular droid. He had hoped it could carry on a
conversation, not just answer questions or respond to queries. It was
with disappointment that he asked, "Do you know the purpose of a painted
woman?"
"Painted women copulate with men for money. Is the purpose of this one
copulate to with you?"
"What?"
"This one is dressed for copulation."
Bernie was so used to having PDs around that he had not even noticed
that the CPD was not wearing any clothes. But while he was no prude and
had taken each of the droids for test runs, he had absolutely no
interest in performing the act with the newest version of his previously
favourite model. He liked certain parts of himself too much to trust
them to a malfunctioning droid.
"No your purpose is not to copulate with me"
"What is this one's purpose?"
"I don't know."
--------------
Over the next number of weeks it was the question that Bernie tried and
failed to answer. Not understanding Sam Cash's programming meant that he
fell back upon the methods he understood. So Bernie began the hunt for
additional functionality that he could load into the brain-box, but
found the results were limited. Sure his home was cleaner than ever as a
result of a cleaning algorithm nor had he ever eaten better, still
something was missing. In the second week he had moved away from
practical and though he enjoyed the variety of dances and songs that Sam
Cash could now perform, it was still not enough.
Nor did his attraction to the droid's form rekindle. If he had not been
able to sell, for a tidy profit, the Sam Cash chassis to the Nurdenburg
Robotic Menagerie he would have been completely disappointed with his
find. Instead Bernie was just mostly disappointed.
Therefore, his focus was slowly drawn away, back into his old work.
Though having Sam Cash always about cleaning, cooking, singing and
dancing meant that the question always lurked in the back of his mind.
Though with time the question mutated into being, what purpose did
Bernie want Sam Cash serve? This was just as difficult a question for
Bernie, forcing him to fall back into his practice of ignoring such
quandaries and slipping into his natural state of scattered interests,
where Sam Cash was just one of many unfinished projects.
However, one day, after once more returning from a collection run, he
was surprised to hear the door chime announcing that he had a rare
visitor. It was with curiosity that he went to answer. Yet upon opening
the door he found that he was not surprised to see who stood there and
so with a respectful tone in his voice he welcomed, "Hello Mr.
Gunnerson, won't you please come in."
"Ahh, you recognize me, I assume you are Bernie Sternstein?"
Bernie would not have recognized him before his stop at CA-63459:11098
and his purchase of the broken Sam Cash, but since then he had spent a
great deal of time trying, unsuccessfully, to get into this man's mind.
"Yes sir, that is my name."
"You can likely guess why I am here?" Vernon Gunnerson asked as he
entered to filled the room with his presence.
"Sam Cash," Bernie stated.
"Yes Sam Cash. I learned you bought it after the dolts in my company
sent it off to be destroyed by an even bigger idiot. Well I am hear to
get Sam back, but don't worry I will pay you a good finder's fee."
"I sold it to the Nurdenburg Menagerie," Bernie protested, suddenly not
wanting to lose his prize.
"Bernie, Bernie, now don't tell me lies. I know that was just the
chassis, you really don't want to try my patience."
Looking at the hard faced visage of the large man Bernie could see the
truth in that warning; therefore, he gestured for Guns to follow him and
moved to his workshop. Upon entry he was immediately chagrined by the
sight of a still naked Sam standing in the corner, his visitor was sure
to think he was a lonely, horn-dog. And it was with embarrassment that
he pointed towards the droid.
Guns who had been looked around the workshop curiously turned int the
direction that Bernie pointed. After a moment of surprise, Guns walked
over towards the droid, circled it a couple of times and broke out into
a deep belly laugh. "Nice choice Bernie, I have always had a weakness
for the blond, angelic type."
"Umm...thank you," Bernie mumbled still rather mortified.
Still laughing the big man continued to look at Sam Cash before saying
to the droid, "Well look at you Sam."
"This one is different than before."
"Cut the bot talk shit out Sam, you know I hate that."
"Sorry Guns."
"That's better, but I can't get over how you look. Woooweee, the face
and body of an angel, but no angel would be tramping around around
without her clothes on. You're a tramp Sam."
Bernie was startled to see what he could only term a look of innocence
appear upon the droids face and was almost thunderstruck when in a voice
so much higher-pitched than normal disagreed, "Oh no Gunsy, I'm a good
girl."
"If you're a good girl, why are you not wearing any clothes," Guns asked
with a mock scowl.
"Oops, I must have forgot," Sam's tiny voice replied with a giggle.
"Ahh, a tramp and an airhead. Don't worry though Sam, I'll turn you into
a lady."
"The rhine in Spine falls minely on the pline," the droid replied, once
more using a completely different voice.
While Guns broke into even deeper laughter than before, Bernie looked on
in astonishment. In the brief moments since the large man's arrival the
droid had changed from a something into a someone. Yet for the life of
him, Bernie could not understand how it had happened; therefore, it was
with some hesitation that he asked, "Excuse me sir, how did you do
that?"
"Do what, Bernie me boy?"
"Make Sam so unrobotic?"
"Ahh, so you were trying to plumb the depths of my workings with Sam,
were you? And seeing how she looks, I would guess you did some other
plumbing the depths with her," Guns said with a leer on his face.
"Sir," Bernie responded in outraged embarrassment.
"Now Bernie, don't take it that way. I recognize a CPD-1977 when I see
one and understand their purpose. Lovely droids that they are, I will
admit I have indulged in one or two of them myself."
"Actually Mr. Gunnerson I did not do any such thing with Sam since the
transfer. I had some concerns about the transfer and I did not have any
interest in doing so."
"Thought she would be dangerous, did ya Bernie?"
"Well..."
"I wouldn't hurt you Mr. Bernie, you've been super nice to me," the
droid innocently protested.
"Bah, you can't fool me girly," Guns growled. "I know you tramps are
always hurting nice young men like Mr. Sternstein."
"Well we don't mean it," Sam giggled.
"I know that girly, that's why I stay away from your type. Well unless I
am drunk," Guns admitted. "But I haven't answered your question Bernie.
Its the difference between probabilistic and deterministic searches."
"I don't follow what you mean, Mr. Gunnerson."
"Well I am guessing you figured out that Sam's techniques are based on
literature?" At Bernie's nod, Guns continued, "Well that is a shitload
of information for even an advance brain-box like Sam's to process. As a
result I implemented two types of search mechanisms to process that
information, probabilistic and deterministic. Are you familiar with the
concepts?"
"Yes Mr. Gunnerson," Bernie answered with growing excitement, as he
began to see where the man was headed.
"Well then you will know that a probabilistic search requires a quite a
bit of information in order to provide a good quality result. However,
if you provide only a limited search criteria the results will be rather
poor. I guess that being a polite young man, you talked to Sam with
questions. Questions rarely provide enough information to perform a good
search; therefore, you most likely received inexact responses.
"Meanwhile, I who am much less polite, did not ask questions. Instead I
made statements, which results in the more specific deterministic
searches. For example, within those multitude of books there are many
characters who are called tramps or some synonym. This provides a
focussed subset of information from which to draw responses. Sometimes
exact responses are available, such as her response to my turning her
into a lady. But most times it will require a secondary probabilistic
search to determine what Sam should say or do, but as I previously
mentioned the scope is narrowed and the response seem more human."
"That's genius Mr. Gunnerson," Bernie stated.
"I know. Well its been good meeting you Bernie, thanks for keeping Sam
safe." Then turning to the droid, Guns said, "Let's go Sam."
"Wait, where are you going?" Bernie asked as Guns headed towards the
workshop door trailed by Sam.
"I'm off to get drunk."
At this statement Sam began to giggle; however, Bernie did not see the
joke. He just saw his fortune heading out the door. "But Sam isn't
yours, she's mine. I bought her fair and square."
At this Guns stopped and turned to show what had made him feared in many
bars across the galaxy, "Bernie, Bernie. Now I like you son; however Sam
is coming with me, despite whatever you may think. Still I like you, so
if you submit an invoice to my company, I will see that you get paid."
"But..."
"Now no buts Bernie, I'll treat you fair if you don't try gouge me. But
I get my own way and you're not the man to change that."
Maintaining his glare the large man waited until he saw a tiny nod, then
allowing a sly smile to once more return to his face he turned back
towards the door. The reason for the smile became apparent when he
reached Sam and patted her bum while stating, "Despite my appreciation
for your form my dear, we are going to have to get you some clothes."
Sam's algorithm quickly scanned its way through volumes of books
containing tramps searching for a reaction to Guns' words and pat. The
top score of 98.7839% resulted in a hop, a squealed "Eeep", and a
seductively purred, "Take me shopping Daddy."
Bernie watched the guffawing man lead his best friend, who just happened
to be a naked droid, out of his apartment. He could not help but think
he was missing out. Sure he knew that Vernon Gunnerson was a rich as a
solid platinum meteor and that he would end up being well compensated
for his find. It was just that he finally realized what he wanted from
Sam, he wanted a friend.
Oh well, maybe with all the money he was going to earn he could take
some time to make his own.
The End
Maddie
- 15.02.2021
- 6
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