Eleven
- 3 years ago
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Eleven free porn video
Chapter 1
"My dad is not a very nice person," I explain to my therapist. "Maybe
it's because he never expected to have a child after number ten. Maybe
because he was 59 when I was born. Maybe because he's an asshole."
My therapist signals that I should go on, "When I was born my oldest
brother had just been married, my youngest," Here I gesture with my
fingers on my glass. "Well the one closest to me, was starting High
School. He didn't have time for me."
My therapist refills my glass, and I tip it to her when I take another
drink. I lean in close, "Everyone at the company--dad's company, Sector &
Sector, all my siblings, they all have jobs. Dad likes saying he's 89%
legal, well that 89% is all them. I'm the extra bit. He calls me
Eleven." I stand up and put my jacket on. The bar is empty, and the
bartender is staring at me. She's leaning up against the back wall with
all four of her arms crossed. It's imposing.
I throw her some money, really don't know how much, and pick up the
bottle. "I'm taking the bottle home with me," I tell her.
The bartender rolls her eyes at the guy who just spent the night
whispering to a bottle of Therapist (90 proof), and waves me out the
door.
The streets here are horrible. Concrete instead of ferrocrete or
permacrete. Stained with ash from the mags of the cars. They're being
rained on.
The rain is horrible. Sweet and nauseating, never enough to get you wet,
only damp and sticky.
The planet is horrible. Class M, but it's not Earth and I'm reminded
every time it rains, or fogs, or whatever. No snow. Haven't seen snow
since I left Earth.
I stagger down the street and I begin to realize that I am far too drunk
to make it back to, wherever I'm going. My house, probably. Well, a
house.
There's a front stoop with a little light above it. I can see the rain
through the drops, making volume light. The steps look more comfortable
then walking down the sidewalk, so I lounge on them, bottle in hand. "He
calls me up," I tell the bottle. "Lots of money every time, then I go do
things. Like real things. Usually not killing anyone." I take a deep
draw from the bottle. "Actually never that. Never killed anyone.
Directly."
My head lolls back against the brick building, the clay is green,
because the entire planet is weird. "Arson though, a couple of times.
Once the fire killed a pregnant lady. Told dad I wouldn't do it again.
He didn't like that. I think I did though, even after I said I
wouldn't."
I don't even notice I'm drinking now. Just like breathing.
"You look like lonely," a streetwalker propositions me.
I do my best to focus on her under the haze of the streetlight and the
alcohol that's filling up my vision. Green skin, pretty color, long dark
hair, two legs. "She" is dressed like any hooker. Leather with strategic
holes in it, things packed too tight and popping out. Nice things.
"Female?" It sounds rude to check, it's not. Not with A-males and
bemales, and zetamales, and all the other parts, walking around. I hope
they all find love, but there's only so many ways our genitalia can fit
together. I'm incompatible with most. Some people try anyway, I'm not
one of them.
The street walker pulls her skirt up and I can see that she's not got
anything but her pussy underneath. That and some very arousing garters.
I'm beginning to realize that what I've been feeling all this time is
loneliness. Then I remember that I am actually very unhappy, and this
hooker isn't going to change that. Sex probably wouldn't hurt anything,
I think.
I give a nod, and hand the hooker my bottle of Therapist. There's a good
four fingers left but she knocks it back like it's Coca-cola and she's a
movie star selling the audience a refreshing beverage. I was actually
just trying to get her to help me up, and when I put out my hand again
she tosses the bottle into the gutter and hauls me to my feet. She's
strong, which doesn't surprise me. She smells nice, which does.
"Were're headed, slim?" she asks, once I've got my feet under me. I look
around the street, for landmarks. There's a street sign, but they put
those everywhere. It could mean anything. I look around under the sticky
rain, in the light of the smallest green moon. "Your place?"
"I don't think so."
"A hotel?"
"Nothing around here does hourly."
"That's okay." I try to put my arm around her shoulder and nearly
succeed. "I think I'm going to be lonely the whole night."
My handset vibrates on the table. I have the ear piece set to silent,
I'm the only one who can hear it when it wakes me up.
That does not go well. The light from the window is knives in my brain.
It is physically painful to keep my eyes open. The clock on the table
blinks 12:00 because even in the fucking future we can't make a working
hotel clock. The hooker is tangled up in the covers still asleep. But I
know I have to answer because it's my father calling.
Actually it's my father's secretary. She is...depressingly polite. This
is hilarious to me, knowing that my father is incapable of giving orders
without a slew of profanity. I assumed that was how everyone's father
talked for the longest time. Until I went to school, and called my
teacher "a sweet fucking cunt". My language cleaned up shortly after
that. My father's never did.
So Susan gives my father's orders in a cheerful California accent, and
only stumbles a few times as she censors his notes. Running guns, that's
easy enough. Sector & Sector have a hefty arms division. I've done this
before.
"Oh, and...Eleven?" Susan doesn't use my name anymore. I don't know if
it's because she feels sorry for me. Or because she's afraid of my
father.
No, I know she's afraid. But I have to answer her question. "Yeah?"
"You're...you're gonna have to get a new body."
I give a little chuckle. I have no idea what she's talking about.
"The planet...where you are going...the pressure is 5 atmospheres. You
need a Gen-B. I'm sending you to a local doctor, everything is being set
up for you."
She hangs up, and I can see the details on my screen.
Thats it. No question about what I want to do. Maybe I don't want a new
body. Maybe I like my body the way it is.
Nope. Eleven is going to get his Gen-B and there's nothing he can do
about it.
I wake up the hooker and contract her for the rest of the morning. At
least the money I make is going back into the system. I'm a job creator.
Any schoolchild can tell you, there are about 100,000 habitable planets
in our galaxy. And any slightly older schoolchild can tell you that
"habitable" is a very variable term. There's a ten to twenty percent
difference in just about everything that can impact an organism's
survival. Ten to twenty percent difference in heat tolerance, breathing
requirements, atmospheric pressure, and light and audio perception. When
it comes to what's poisonous and what isn't, the deviation is more like
90%. Humans have one of the best tolerances to potassium, and one of the
worst to arsenic. We're special like that.
So the species segregate. Oxys hang out with oxys. 20 - 20khz range all
hang out together. See red to violet? Best make some friends at least
read your signs.
But people aren't about to let an opportunity to trade go by simply
because we can't handle a three percent difference in nitrogen in the
air. About a hundred years ago human scientists started working on the
first Generation-B bodies.
There's no other way around it. You want to survive the whole universe,
you have to build a body that can do it.
The process is simple enough. It starts with butterflies. Well any
insect with a staged life. Anything that goes into a cocoon. You'd think
that when a caterpillar becomes a butterfly and spins it's little
chrysalis, it transforms the way you put on clothes. One day it works on
legs, the next wings, until it's a butterfly inside. Then it pops out
like a new insect.
But that's not how it works. The caterpillar goes into its cocoon and
turns into caterpillar soup. Just a body of liquid that used to be a
body. The brain and some of the nervous system just sit suspended. And
the butterfly grows out of that. The body forms around, and augments,
the nervous system. Old brain stem. New everything else.
And now that's going to happen to me.
I have dinner in a noodle cart in the best part of the worst part of the
city. I think it suits me. Susan is there to hand over the details. It's
probably not a big enough deal for her to wear a disguise down her, but
it would be devastating if she were recognized with me. She's dressed
like a punk, cargo pants and piercings. She's got an awesome tattoo on
her left shoulder and has died her hair pink. She's only the bagman on
the big jobs. Usually dad sends a street urchin. They don't ask
questions when you pay them in drugs.
But they can't answer questions either. Susan hands me a folder and
orders noodles and meat dish no.1. I'm not sure why the proprietor
bothered to number his only menu option.
I open the folder and start scanning the contents. It's a six month
trip, pretty easy. I'm running silent for the last week as I near the
planet. Going in the long way.
The weapons are going to Chinochkan. That's the English spelling of
their name. Once I get the Gen-B I'll actually be able to pronounce it
correctly.
"Chinochkan is in the midst of a civil war," Susan tells me. "Maybe a
gender war is a better description. Chocons have three genders. The
females are fed up with being treated like second class citizens.
They're demanding equal rights."
Intergalactic terminology kids: the child bearing gender is normally
called the female, and in gendered language all the female pronouns are
applied. In the case of races where both genders can carry a child, the
female is used until she bears the child. Then she gets to be a man.
It's like Ms and Mrs
"The females are normally kept in their own private continent," Susan
slurps noodles and wrinkles her nose. She adds a huge heap of soy sauce
and tries again. It's clear she'd much rather have a nice salad, but she
keeps up appearances. "They're purchased by male couples who want a
child, and the money goes to pay for the rest of the woman's life."
"Sounds cushy," I say with a mouth full of noodles. I think the meat is
some kind of amphibian. It's good.
Susan rolls her eyes. "They have no rights, can't hold vote or hold
office, and can't attend school. Of course, because they are the only
means of procreation they're holding the next generation hostage."
I'm curious. "Why do they need the weapons?"
"What you're shipping is concealable ordinance."
I flip the page and look at some very interesting diagrams.
"The resistance is trying to get the women who are still brought to
impregnation a way to defend themselves."
I shrug, close the folder, and dump the last of my noodle broth on the
street. I like drinking the broth, but here it's seen as bad luck.
"There's a reason you are going, Eleven," Susan says as she dumps her
noodles. She puts her bowl back on the counter and turns to me as she
starts to leave. "They find human women irresistible."
Yeah, lucky me.
I don't like this doctor either. He's full blood human, maybe that's
why. He takes my panels and gives me a physical. Yes, a full physical.
I'm told prostate cancer runs in my family, then wish I hadn't been told
that.
Then it's time for a brain scan. This actually takes the better part of
two days. I'm put, naked, inside several machines. They figure out all
my brain patterns. The inside of my skull and my spine are mapped down
to the tinniest detail.
I'll miss my sleeves. I've been working for years to cover my arms in
tattoos, and now they'll all go away. Sloughed by my dissolving body.
Whatever. Half the fun is getting them done anyway. And there are some
that I'd like to remove in any case.
They show me the body I'm going to grow. Same face. I wish there was
something they could do about that. But there's a reason everyone can't
look like a movie star. Stupid ethical reasons, but reasons all the
same.
I'll have bigger eyes. They'll see into the IR and UV spectrum. Not a
lot, but enough to pick up some weird shit. Right now the human eye can
distinguish a color difference down to 1 nanometer. I'll get down to .1
nanometers. Ten times the colors. Picking out new curtains will be a
snap.
Different ears. Ones that can hear louder, and higher frequencies. Ones
that won't cop out when the going gets over 120 decibels.
Stronger muscles; denser packed, building mass five times as fast.
Excess fat is for fat people, not Gen-Bs.
They comb over my genes, turns out I have a strong chance of getting
skin cancer. That's gone. So is that prostate cancer. Gen-B don't get
polyps, so there's no colonoscopies in my imminent future.
I ask if I can get better hung. Everyone laughs at that. You don't have
the money they say. Hilarious.
The shipment has to go out in another day. When it comes to running guns
you have to move quick before a cease-fire is declared. I'll change on
the plane.
The doctor goes over the use of the tank. It's exactly what I expected.
A giant glass womb, wires and electrodes included. I know where to place
each one and there will be a nurse bot to help me.
I have them ship the tank to my bay. The loader bots will know how to
hook it up, the whole thing is modular. It's set up for USB-Macro 22.
I wish there was something nice I could say about the ship, and the
truth is, I've flown worse. It's a freighter, Big Bertha, carrying
200,000 metric tons. I'm carrying all of that in "humanitarian aid." On
paper that's all I've got. It's a mission of mercy, Jack.
I take my tour, one of the hanger boys shows me around. The cargo is
almost all loaded. He's not in the loop. He shows me the bay where my
pod will go. Sleeping quarters, a rec/mess hall, the head and the cock
pit.
"She's a quad drive," the hanger guy says, pointing to the throttle.
"Dual lift propigator."
"It's fine, I can fly it," I tell him.
He gives me a thumbs up and heads out. I pull the checklist off the wall
and go over it in my head. It's got the flight plan too. Big Bertha is
off the planet in three hours.
I watch the hanger bots load the last of the cargo, and close the bay.
Takeoff is easy. There's some tricks to flying a dual propagator, but I
know them all. We're cruising out of orbit just under half an hour. Out
of the solar system in another three. It's only a matter of pointing us
in the right direction and hitting the throttle.
I slip electrodes over my head and kiss my tattoos goodbye and then
relax into the tank. I close my eyes for a nine week nap.
Being born sucks. The tube opens and spills a whole bunch of amniotic
fluid into a sluice. My naked body comes with it. It does not go down
the sluice.
The light is too bright, my pupils have never had to constrict before.
Apparently the first time that happens it's fairly painful. Who knew.
I'm exhausted. It takes me over an hour just to get the strength to
wiggle my fingers. After a couple of hours of laying there I finally
muster the energy to sit up. There's a mirror in the bunks and I want to
look at my new body and shower all this gunk off.
I leave sticky foot prints on the steel floor, the scuttles will take
care of that. Everything hurts.
My knees hurt.
My fingers hurt.
My breasts hurt.
I get to the mirror to see a young woman looking back at me.
Shit.
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