The Count of Monte CristoChapter 58 M Noirtier de Villefort
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The space station was humming as Ginger R342 docked her luxury hyper-yacht. Some readers may object that a station cannot hum, much less carry a tune. To this one can only reply that the main cyberbrain, which was humming, controlled the internal speakercoms. The effect was thus the same.
Syntellect cyberbrains rarely hum unless commanded, so one deciding to attempt "I Ain't Got Nobody" was downright peculiar. This should have warned Ginger that something was wrong, rather than merely annoying her. Unfortunately for Ginger (but not for the lecherous reader), she gave it no thought, but simply ordered the cyberbrain to shut up.
This station, named Shangri-la, was located in a particularly expensive region of space, not too far from Rigel and some distance off the regular shipping lanes. Built like a palace, it was just the place for a wealthy young woman to get away from things for a while. Ginger, being from one of the best clone families, was very rich. As to what she was getting away from - well, it would be untrue to call Linda B876 a "thing."
It had been one of those conversations that happen at parties when two people fail to avoid meeting and have to talk until one of them finds an excuse to stop. Neither Ginger nor Linda particularly liked each other - rumors suggest that a young gallant from one of the H families was involved - but it wouldn't have done to obviously snub each other.
At this point, some of the more impatient readers are doubtless wondering when the wild sex starts. For them, I offer the following in hopes of keeping their interest up - Ginger R342 was (and still is) petite, strawberry-blonde, with green eyes and a pair of breasts that are a wonder of either nature or science, depending on how you view human cloning. Her legs might have been turned on some amorous god's lathe. In short, she's a looker.
And she'll be getting spanked later on in the story.
A largely forgettable conversation had led to Ginger's declaration that she could "take people or leave them." Linda challenged this statement. The end result was that Ginger would be spending a month alone in her self-contained vacation home. Any use of the hyperwave to communicate with the rest of the galaxy, much less actual visitors, and Ginger would lose the bet.
So Ginger began her month of solitude by peeling off her Vac-suit to reveal a two-piece space bikini (silver, tastefully trimmed in violet). The station lacked for nothing, of course - there was a zero-G pool, an enormous library of sense-o-tapes, a kitchen run by the best robochef credits could buy and enough bedrooms to accommodate a full company of the Space Patrol's finest (but that's another story).
Ginger had no worries that she'd be able to withstand the month. This was partially from confidence in her own willpower, but also because the station boasted an android growth tank.
The tank is an extremely complicated miracle of science that is occasionally used for the good of mankind. It stands about eight feet tall, is filled with a clear, thick liquid and can turn out an android in about two days. The desired traits are entered into the control computer and the necessary magic begins. Androids, which can be made in completely outrageous forms or practically indistinguishable from humans, begin as a metal skeleton with a few wires and fiddly bits attached. The organic material is carefully grown around this to meet the specifications. Roughly a day into the process, tiny robot arms attach wires to the android's head and the programming begins. When fully formed and released from the tank, the android has been tailor-made for its purpose.
Not surprisingly, most of them are created as sex toys.
It was Ginger's plan to grow someone or three who would help her pass the time. With a good system, the resulting android can be smart enough to carry on a conversation as well as the average man-on-the-street. With a really good system it can even be worth listening to. In this case, Ginger had decided that the first android should possess more athletic talents.
Ginger made her way to Station Control while the robostewards were unloading her luggage. It was possible to enter the necessary information in the tank room, but the control room was more comfortable. A brief check of the main control board showed that everything was in order. The cyberbrain remained silent, except for a series of friendly beeps.
Sinking back into the comfort of the command chair, Ginger sipped her Orgasmian Martini - guaranteed to leave no underwear dry if enough of them are drunk - and began to enter her specifications. Her choice was male, tall, dark, handsome - and to be programmed with a large chunk of the databank's information on sex, including role-playing.
Indicator lights came on in the tank room as the cyberbrain prepared a new skeleton. The upgrades it had added meshed perfectly with the standard systems. They would be a wonderful surprise for Ginger. It was important to make her happy.
The cyberbrain was talking quietly to itself, having decided that the order to "shut up" only applied to areas within earshot of Ginger.
"My name is Elmer J. Fudd, millionaire," it said, trying a new solution to a problem that had been vexing it. "I own a mansion and a yacht." Somehow that wasn't quite correct, but sooner or later it would get the right name.
It should be noted that Syntellect cyberbrains are quite reliable and rarely malfunction seriously. Several courts have agreed that this is true. While only the size of bar of soap, these units are unsurpassed in computing power, reasoning ability and data storage. In this case it is likely that a passing ion storm had left it feeling a little disoriented. Not necessarily stoned, but beautiful.
Suffice to say that two days passed. Ginger amused herself in various ways, but most readers would skip over a detailed account of her activities. Not for them the artistic heights of her three-dimensional painting, the joys of Rigellian opera or even the humble vegetation of classic romances on sense-o-tape. Only a pert, extremely feminine bottom wiggling under a vigorous spanking will satisfy them.
Onwards!
After two days the cyberbrain (which was now allowed to speak, so long as it refrained from further musical endeavors) announced that the android was ready. Ginger set a time - an hour after dinner - and ordered one of the bedrooms prepared for the evening's games.
Skipping lightly over an excellent dinner of roast psuedo-duck, we move to Ginger's bedroom just before the appointed hour. The scenario she had picked was one of her favorites. As an Arcturan noblewoman, she would be served and serviced by her new slave. The costume, a flimsy turquoise thing, had already been laid out. Golden sandals and an assortment of jewelry, including an ornate choker necklace, completed her costume.
Light of heart and bouncing of bosom, Ginger made her way through the corridors. The room she had chosen was decorated in a lavish, almost barbaric style. A bejeweled throne dominated the room, which was painted in bright colors and hung with silks. Furs and cushions were scattered about for guests to take their ease. Several large incense burners, covered in erotic reliefs, added the final touch, filling the air with an exotic, musky scent.
The doors swung open and Ginger entered to find the new android already present. For some reason, he was seated on her throne and not wearing the expected loincoth. He wore instead a red kilt, golden sandals and a wide belt. His curly black hair was held close to the scalp by an circlet set with a single red gem.
"What," asked Ginger in reasonable tone, given the circumstances, "is going on here?"
The figure on the throne leaned forward. "A fine specimen," he said with a slight leer. "I would have you dance."
Ginger began to tap one delicate foot on the marble floor. "Brain, this is not what I asked for. You've got the roles switched. Correct this immediately! And you!" she pointed at the android. "Can the Arcturan slavemaster bit."
A hidden speakercom activated. "I'm sorry, Ginger. This scenario seems to be within the requested parameters."
The android threw back his head and laughed. "You have fire, my proud beauty - but still you'll dance for my pleasure."
"Oh, please - that has got to be the lamest dialog ever. And Brain - I don't care if you're sorry, this is wrong! Hit the reset on Floyd the droid and get it right next time."
"There may be an error in one of my systems. It will just take a moment to check."
"I'm coming up to Control - and I'm not happy!" Ginger turned and began to leave.
"You'll come when I say, and not before," said the android.
There was a sudden 'click' in Ginger's head and she froze. Her lovely form refused to answer her commands. "What the Spiff?"
"I think you'll prove more obedient now, my little plaything," came the android's voice. "Display yourself to me."
Ginger turned and found herself marching towards the throne. The android's hands were now encased in metallic gloves dotted with blinking lights. He moved these in front of himself to activate the holographic controls they generated.
Emely
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