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Homo sapiens domesticus: Services
A properly-trained human is capable of a number of useful functions. For example, most have been taught to retrieve items upon command. By far, however, the most popular use of humans is in specialty detailing, where their function commands a high price. Every city now has at least one detailing center which keeps a contingent of organics to provide this service; rates typically range between several hundred and several thousand credits, at the time of this report. Please remember to book at least four joors for a human detailing. Neither driving nor heavy lifting immediately afterwards are advised.
--
Like all the other men in this box, Raoul attempted to remove the thing in him exactly once.
He could get his fingers between the base of the plug and his skin easily enough, but when he tried to pull... pinche puta. The fuckin’ thing *moved,* spreading itself until he ached all up through his belly, opening itself so wide he’d need surgery to get it out, so wide he could feel it when he touched his stomach. He could do nothing but try to lay still while it slowly deflated, or whatever, while the awful cramping and fullness faded.
A few hours later though, just as the feel of it had finally gotten bearable, it started moving on its own, like it was pushing deeper, as impossible as that seemed. The thing was fucking him, Raoul realized eventually -- at a glacially slow pace, each thrust taking an hour or so, a little deeper each time. It withdrew a bit each time the cramping got really bad, leaving him shivering and exhausted.
The walls were too high to climb, even without that stretching pain, the burning at his ankle that just got worse when he touched it, or the fiery tingling that lanced his back. Within three or four hours, almost twenty of Raoul’s mates had been added to the box, men he’d gotten to known pretty well over the last few months, now lying curled around their own agonies. And then a heavy metal lid scraped over the open top, leaving them all in darkness.
“What... what the hell is this thing?” whimpered one of the men beside Raoul, at a lull in his own cycle. Some of the recruits lying near him could do nothing more than pant and grit their teeth.
“Alien babies, it’s gotta be -- oh God,” one of the recruits gasped as the thing crammed in him clicked, the base of it opening up a fraction of an inch to stretch his hole even wider. He sobbed as the part inside him began to lengthen once more. The feel of having something so deep was bad enough, but his own muscles clamped and clenched around it, shivering as they tried to just get the thing *out.*
“Don’t fucking say that, cabron,” Raoul snapped. “Th-think about it. They’re machines. They get built, not --ah! Not born.” Raoul knew nothing of the sort, of course. But if the other volunteers thought they had eggs or whatever inside, there’d be no way to keep them calm. If someone started thrashing or screaming....
Raoul couldn’t keep the whimper from his own throat, though, as the thing in his ass clicked, and spread him even more. He couldn’t even curl up around his pain when the plug fucked him most deeply, so far up inside that bending at the waist just made it worse. He tried to hold his bladder for a time, and then at a lull in his cycle, finally rolled trembling onto his knees and pissed down into the padded grill of the flooring, right where everyone else could hear. There was no place else to go.
Compared to the pain each time the plug lengthened inside, the jolting of being moved was a distant distraction. The big metal crate rocked, tipped a little, then was lifted up and carried. Then the crate settled back down. This happened several more times, over those next few indeterminable hours of blackness. Sometimes the crate was moved a little, scraping across metal, and twice it shuddered, like something had been placed on top.
Thirst made his tongue feel thick. Then hunger began to gnaw at him. Time passed -- maybe a day, maybe more. Finally, an odd rippling wave seemed to pass through all of them, like electricity. And then it felt as if they were being held down, flattered by g-forces, the walls and floor of the crate shivering and quaking. Men cried out in fear. Eventually the acceleration eased, and with it went gravity, leaving them nearly weightless and disoriented in the darkness.
And all the while, the machines fucked them.
---
“So apparently...” said Swindle, as he pried open the larger shipping container to fit a drinking apparatus to the top. One of the humans within promptly attempted to push off against the floor and float out -- it screamed as the repeller field stretched over the top of the crate delivered a corrective shock and propelled the creature back down. “...apparently they’re more ‘food’ oriented than we knew. All the receiving warehouses have this new training regimen. The humans grow to associate fuel with delivering service -- takes less than an orn.” Which was good, because the demand for these little creatures was unreal.
Really, they were the ultimate household appliance. If the humans were correct and a giant sky human had created them, Swindle had to admire its cleverness -- humans wore out in half a vorn at most. But in that half vorn, a mech would become deeply accustomed to all the services a human could provide. Thus their owners would not only be required to purchase new humans... but strongly motivated to do so. It was planned obsolescence of the very best sort.
Towerlings, of course, were notoriously fickle. There was always the risk that they might find something else to fancy. The breeding program to which the best of the females were sent -- coupled with the genetic code nanites already extracted from the best of these males -- would hopefully provide ever-higher grades and better product lines, to keep the credits flowing. Within the next decivorn, the first of the improved breeds would come onto the market. Swindle looked forward to it. “Bludgeon gave me the training procedure on datafile, says we get an extra hundred credit per head, if they’re broken in, first.”
“A hundred credits? To save themselves three cycles of extra training?” a voice boomed around them. Blast Off rarely spoke, but when he did, every mech inside him listened.
“Three cycles in which shipments from other Towers could enter the market, possibly drive prices down a thousand,” Swindle corrected, sliding the lid of the larger box back on, and turned to the smaller crate. Now that they finally were spaceborne -- fragging Vosians had set them back a full earth-cycle -- he could water the humans without worry that they would soil their cages with too much vomit. “Not that it matters much to us, but the best of these things are going for fifty grand -- sometimes more.”
“Fifty?” Vortex blurted, optics wide as he watched the squirming batch of humans. That was almost as much as his cut per quarter-vorn of this contract. And this was a damned good gig. Maybe if he took just a few, and no one noticed....
“Don’t even think about it. I already did. No way to safely cross Tower Iacon at this time. Besides, they'll be watching even closer with a smaller than average shipment -- fragging Vosians,” Swindle said, finishing up with the water attachment. A nozzle suspended from the cube of water would dispense a little of the fluid when a human sucked on it. Then he plucked one of the humans from the cube, the repellant field allowing his hand and the creature to pass. This one had distinctively attractive skin, in a warm, earthen tone, and its fur was quite black. Definitely one of the most valuable of high grades. According to the file, this one had higher than average aggressive tendencies, too, which would make it a speciality item if it would still perform services.
He turned the creature over to examine its port. “Pudrete en el inferno, mech!” hissed the human, thrashing, kicking at him as he captured both legs and spread them between his fingers. The small transformative device inserted there was performing well, had already clicked open to the thickness of a mech’s smallest hardline jack. The ring of the human’s port was reddened, a little damaged.
“So how does this training thing work?” Vortex asked, interested.
“Let me see your tertiary interface -- yeah, first, you gotta fold down these spines. That’s the whole reason we haveta stretch the humans out first. Something like that will break them. Also, you’re not going to be able to get the whole thing inside, so don’t even risk it. Keep your hardline halfway in its sheath -- don’t let it spool out at all.”
“Wait,” said Vortex. “Seriously? Put it inside? Like the Towerlings do?” His faceplates twisted a little.
“Yeah. You do it for them the first few times, and give them the smallest cube of fuel afterwards. The ones who get used to the penetration, and who perform the other types of maintenance as they’ve been taught, they get the normal cubes. The ones who keep fighting and don’t figure it out, you put someplace separate, tell them they’ll get fuel when they behave. Very simple, really. They should be good and hungry now - they haven't fueled in two earth-cycles.”
“Right, but.” Vortex grimaced. “Inside?”
Swindle chirred a laugh, and ignoring the creature's screams and curses, removed the human’s plug with the gripping tools of one finger -- the device folded itself down for easy removal. “Don't tell me *you* are getting like Brawl. Just think about the extra five credits you’ll be getting -- for each one of these.”
“Woah, I am so not training all these humans for five a port,” protested Vortex. “I see three of us here. That’s thirty a piece, plus a little for Onslaught or whatever palms we gotta lubricate. Right?”
Swindle arched a brow ridge. “We’ve got a hundred humans -- if this works with all of ‘em, you seriously think you’re gonna earn three thousand credits in half an orn? Let’s call it fifteen, and I’ll see what I can do about keeping this deal running. Same for you, Blast Off.”
"If a single drop of their fluid gets on me, I will not hesitate to vent both of you, and all of the cargo," Blast Off warned. He might not be as squeamish as Brawl, but he had principles. "And twenty five for me, for even allowing you to try it en route in my hold."
“Twenty-five!” Swindle gaped, clutching at his spark. “This is open robbery! You two will extinguish me! Twenty, but we’re only paid for the trained ones, and they all have to get there safely.”
Vortex thought about that a little. “Fine,” he finally sighed, even as Blast Off rumbled his agreement. “Comm me the training procedure file.” He took the squirming, shouting human from Swindle’s grasp, and examined it carefully. Its little port gaped, too stretched to close immediately, though it tried. The slick gel, produced copiously by the training plug, made the opening glisten. Scanning more closely, he could measure the progress of nanites that infused the gel, working to help the port heal and increase the strength and elasticity of the skin.
There was little enough room inside Blast Off’s crowded cargo hold to sit, but Vortex managed, with a bit of his own wriggling. “Attend me,” he said aloud, switching to the organic’s language, even as he pinned the creature face-down across his thigh, aft upraised. Figuring out which hand to use and how to place it took some work, but finally Vortex settled on using his right palm. The tertiary interface device at his right wrist felt strange like this, only half-extended from its socket, its surface smoothed down and blunt-tipped. He set it at the angle instructed by the file, so that it canted up towards his palm and the human held there. Supposedly, he’d just have to rock his hand forward in order to reach the proper depth of insertion. “Listen well, insect. You will follow my instructions without hesitation. You will remain compliant when penetrated with my hardline, unless I have ordered you to struggle. Full cooperation will be rewarded with nourishment. Any noncompliance will be punished with starvation."
The creature, predictably, ignored him, continuing to kick and curse as he pushed the tip of his connector against the cleft of its ass, feeling with the sensitive metal for the little hole there.
*Heat* was his first impression, feverish, warmer by far than the creature’s soft hide. Vortex had been with a tower-trained courtesan once who’d done something similar, just heated his plating everywhere it touched Vortex’s, threading a wonderful tingling sensation into deep-core beds of sensory cillia, an unexpected delight.
This was all the more intense for affecting just the very tip of his hardline, rather than many places across his chassis. With a final check of the insertion angle, Vortex pressed his hand forward.
That incredible heat just blossomed open, spread for him with a slickness like nothing he’d ever felt before -- strange, but far from unpleasant. As the human threw itself into violent protest, its tensors stimulated every sensor and protometal pressure bed in the tip of the hardline jack -- squeezing, stroking, every bit as pleasurable as an expensive courtesan. Vortex’s faceplates split in a grin as he finished forcing half of his hardline inside. It was difficult to keep himself from ejecting the rest of the cable jack into the human’s port, to feel it all encompassed by this jerking heat.
Aah. So *this* was what the Towerlings saw in the creatures. It was very different... but really not bad. What would it be like, he wondered, to splay the connector's barbs inside, feel that stroking sheath all around those sensitive prongs? Would it tear? Would the rest of the creature’s internal parts be this magnificently hot, this slick? Would it make the creature really scream for him?
Too bad the humans were far too valuable for such play. Perhaps, if he got one of his own, he’d try it. No matter what Swindle said, he wasn't squeamish like Brawl. Then again, speaking of Brawl, perhaps some fun could be had with the defective humans before they were turned to dust.
“Better than I expected,” Vortex noted over the human’s cries, pinning it down a little harder with his fingertips as it shook and leaked saltwater from its optics. “How long is it supposed to stay like this?”
Swindle, already sorting through the box of humans to choose one for himself, ground his gears in aggravation. “If you’d read the entire file of instructions -- argh, nevermind. Just pass a neural datapacket over the hardline.”
“Fragger,” Vortex returned, but did as he was told, pushing a packet of electric sensory information through his half-impaled hardline. The human stiffened, just like they all did, and cried out in a high thin voice. The creature’s strange little electromagnetic field burst into life around it, flaring and pulsing, a crackling and chaotic cloak of madly discordant color, so different from the deeply colored swaths of a mech’s field.
Vortex didn’t even have an instant to brace himself. His simple little sensory datapacket came back upon him like a boomerang, a flash flood all out of proportion to the piddling little packet he’d issued. The pulse bore his own sequences -- he couldn’t have raised firewalls against this even if he’d wanted to. The deluge lifted him up, slammed him down, every fibre of his neural net aflame. It was like being stroked along every strut, like that Tower courtesan who’d spent a joor dipping his glossa into one of Vortex’s sensory cillia beds, like crossing a thousand lines of protometal, all condensed into one incendiary moment. Vortex’s joints locked, his capacitors sparked as they struggled to handle the extra load. It was all so alive... and so very, very good.
Fragging Primus in the Pit. “W-what the frag was *that*?” the rotary gasped, vocalizer glitching, tasting his own charge like a crackle in his mouth. Static electricity popped and hissed between his plating segments, tiny arc-flickers, lighting him from within.
Swindle smirked. “You think the Towerlings shell out the credits for their waxing skills alone?”
“What? No. But....” of course the Towerlings did all kinds of deviant things -- did this deviant thing -- with the creatures. Vortex certainly wasn’t a mech who minded deviance, indeed, other mecha thought him quite the connoisseur of aberration. But never had a fetish entailed a reward like *this*. It usually took far more preparation, more stimulation, to summon such sensations. Preparation, like the way he’d sharpened each of his knives before he met the Tower courtesan... stimulation, like what he’d done to the mech who’d so expertly serviced him. The contract he'd taken had never specified how the courtesan was to extinguish, after all.
Vortex looked up, grinning, even as he withdrew his still-tingling hardline jack from the little creature’s port, making it squeal and kick. He pushed its transforming plug back into place, and then reached to add the creature to the empty crate reserved for the humans that didn’t promptly obey. “Hey, hand me one of the other ones,” he said.
This whole ‘training’ thing wasn’t gonna be so bad, after all.
----
The auction was an unqualified disaster. A small, independent detailing shop like the one Tracks ran hadn’t stood a chance. Not against the larger chains of high-end shops, intent on preserving their monopoly.
Tracks needed one of *them*, one of the humans. The previous orn, if possible! Everything depended upon it. He was in danger of losing some of his longest-standing clients -- the devastatingly beautiful artist had even mentioned visiting a larger shop. But after calling in every favor owed to him, every loan he'd given, Tracks still couldn't outbid the big shops, rust them all, the fraggers.
Tracks would have to find a different way to obtain one. And the extra work he'd taken on in Kalis Tower might just provide him with a way -- the ancient mech he’d been engaged to work on was so old he’d taken the title of ‘Kalis’ more than a thousand megavorn ago, so long that no one seemed to recall what his original designation had even been. The ancient could hardly move, his core had gone so solid. He had three of the humans, of the very highest grade, all to himself! Yet he spent so much time in recharge that he hardly ever even used them.
If there was one thing Tracks knew how to do, it was how to keep his most ancient clients happy. He was not above offering a highly charged socket, deft hands, and an oh-so-responsive field to the solid mass of ancient mech. Not if it meant he could eventually finagle the rusted cog into giving him one of the humans as a gift.
Then he would have not just any human, but a Tower-quality one. Even the most discriminating client wouldn’t be able to walk away from that.
The winding journey from the base of Tower Kalis to its peak, where the rooms of the symbolically reigning Kalis-mech sprawled high above the city smog, took fully a quarter of a joor every time. If he’d been entitled to use the Tower’s vast, sculpted hallways, it would have been a quicker trip. But a recently licensed at-home detailer, no matter how highly skilled, was still just a servant. And servants traveled by narrow, twisting passages, threading through the unused places of the Tower.
And now, those hallways were in an uproar. Mecha clustered thickly, speaking in hushed tones or with well-guarded comms. It would be just Tracks’ luck if the rusted cog had finally gone to the Well, and a more active mech had inherited his humans. But on the other hand... if the ancient had suffered some glitch, perhaps he’d be more willing to give one or more of his humans away. Out of gratitude, to a mech who could ease his discomfort. Yes, it was a long shot -- but stranger things had happened.
The double hatchway to the Ancient’s quarters was thronged with mecha. The air was thick with vocalizations and comm-chatter alike.
“Heard it attacked Kalis Himself...” and “ungrateful creatures....”
Tracks pushed forward. “I’m an authorized mechanic, let me through!” he called, and mecha parted, making way before him. Never mind that he was an authorised *surfaceparts* mechanic. It wasn’t like anybody was taking his credentials down, now were they?
The hatch whisked open -- onto madness.
Kalis himself reclined on his berth of golden splendor, his own body gleaming brighter than even the precious metals that surrounded him. He was a work of art, glorious, detailed and engraved down to the micron. He held one elegant hand uplifted, and a medic, in the bold red and white of his frameclass, bent over it in minute examination.
Kalis’ baleful blue glare was directed at one of his humans, presently clutched in a courtesan’s grasp. The creature was just howling, banging on the mech like a mad thing. The mecha in the room had already recalibrated their audials to a narrower, higher frequency to silence the din, and Tracks quickly followed suit.
Every optic was on the Ancient, and Tracks entered warily, letting the hatch whisper shut behind him. He circled, trying to catch a glimpse of what had happened. The other two humans were still secure in their cage. One of them lay curled on the floor of the cage, covered by a haphazard pile of metalmesh, eerily still given how active the little creatures typically were. The other knelt down beside it, trying to ease a palmful of water into the second one’s buccal unit.
The ancient growled something to the medic, who stiffened. “That is not a service you may command of me, my Lord,” he said, with firm respect. “I am not authorized to perform that surgery upon organics.”
For a moment, the Towerlord’s ire transferred to the medic, Kalis’ heavy frame stiffening. Despite himself, Tracks had to admire the plucky medic--it wasn’t every mech who had the backstruts to say ‘no’ to a mech as powerful as Kalis. The medic held firm against Kalis’ displeasure, meeting that azure stare with peaceful implacability … and the Towerlord shifted his anger back to its original target.
“Stellardust. I want that thing punished. Take it to an authorized mech and have it cropped, then place it in isolation.” Those blue optics narrowed; Kalis was obviously not inclined to forgive the human that had hurt him. “If it can be made docile, sell it. If not--”
Tracks couldn’t suppress the leap of excitement and fear in his spark. Here was his chance-- he’d take any human at this point, bad-tempered or not. He just had to find the right leverage.
Killing a human for injuring a mech, even one as prominent as this, was not legal under the Prime’s law. But Kalis’ word in his city was law, and the human would be dead long before the Prime sought to enforce his edict, if he ever did. No, pointing out that Kalis was not allowed to order the human killed wouldn’t gain him anything, and might very well cost him the Towerlord’s goodwill. But could he convince Stellar to sell the creature to him, perhaps? Organics were fragile, however--if it died in the interim, Tracks would still be without a human.
Then the medic, Primus bless him, gave Tracks the opening he needed.
“My Lord--it may be that the organic has suffered a code-glitch, or been infected by a virus,” the medic said deferentially. “It is my understanding that such things can be contagious. If it is kept within the Tower, the rest of your humans may be at risk.” That pronouncement, Tracks noticed, had the nearest mecha’s fields flaring with alarm, rapid-fire comm chatter humming through the air. It was obvious that the Towerlings did not want to incur their Lord’s displeasure--and equally obvious that they did not want to risk their own pets becoming infected.
Tracks stepped forward, bowing his helm respectfully. “My Lord, if I may suggest; I have experience in the care of such creatures. If you will it, I can immediately put the creature into isolation in my shop, safely away from the Tower.” Once the creature was out of sight, he was sure Kalis would purge the memory of this event within a few orn. The fate of one small organic too far beneath the ancient’s notice to be worth keeping. At that point, Tracks could contact the tower supplies master, or the majordomo, and offer to take the obviously ‘defective’ organic off the Tower’s hands … for a suitably reduced price, of course.
Kalis turned his attention to Tracks, considering. The mechanic made sure nothing was reflected in his field other than respect, humble awe and a desire to help, firmly squashing his excitement and trepidation down under multiple layers of emotional subroutines. Then the Towerlord gave a short, sharp nod.
“Your advice is noted, medic. Stellardust--isolate the creature immediately. The mechanic will remove it from the Tower and observe it for signs of illness. Mechanic--” that piercing blue gaze fell on Tracks once more, “--you shall report immediately any further erratic behavior or other symptoms the creature might evidence.”
The medic looked briefly alarmed, surreptitiously glancing at Tracks, as though unsure of the detailer’s motivations. Would the medic object? Insist on 'caring' for the creature himself? But the medic recovered gracefully, returning his attention to his patient. He finished his work, affixing an almost invisible nanomesh weave over the tiny injury, then stepped back. “The damage should be repaired within the orn, my Lord,” he said, folding tools away. There was the tiniest flicker of the medic’s visored optics towards the cage, where the other two remaining humans still huddled; if Tracks hadn’t been watching the mech so closely, he never would have seen it. “I might also recommend that your majordomo seek out the services of a xenomedical specialist, Lord Kalis, to check over your remaining stock. At the very least, he should be able to identify if any others have been infected, and so prevent any future glitches.”
Kalis gave the matter due consideration. “See it done,” he nodded at one of the many mecha crowding the room. The he gestured. “Mechanic, I shall not require your services this orn. Take that creature out of my sight; you are all dismissed.”
Stellardust pressed an object into Track’s numb hands -- an empty energon cube, the human beating its fists against the walls inside, as if it could somehow get back to the others by force. A human. He’d done it, finally! Nevermind that he wasn’t to be paid for making the trip here, as his services hadn’t been needed -- this was like a gift from Primus. Tracks bowed low, and backed out into the hallway, even the most high-brow, arrogant Towerlings avoiding him like he carried the Cybonic plague.
Tracks walked in a daze, one thread calculating the kind of profits he’d make, a secondary scanning through what he actually knew of maintaining humans -- oh, he’d put them away before for clients, and he supposed that counted as ‘care’, but actually keeping one alive was likely to be another matter entirely. Primus, the artist would be just so thrilled....
A firm hand closed around his elbow and dragged him around a corner. “Unhand me, you gli--” Tracks started, clasping the human close in its cube... and his vocalizer stuttered to a halt. His accoster was the plucky medic. Who was pinging him with a private comm frequency.
Tracks debated answering. But then again... he might require some help with the human. And a fully-framed medic clearly outranked a mechanic-class servant. He reluctantly opened up the comm, wishing he and his new acquisition were already safely ensconced in his shop, before anyone changed their mind.
//What are your intentions with the human?// The medic's glyphs were blunt and unembellished.
//To do exactly what I promised - care for it and observe it for any signs of further infection,// Tracks responded tersely.
//Kalis... damaged the other human. The ancient is not always aware... of how fragile they are. With the damage I scanned, there is very little chance the injured one will survive, though a xenomedic might be able to ease the suffering. The medic paused. Tracks knew he was treading on dangerous ground. Servants, even ones as highly placed and respected as medics, did not criticize tower lords. //From what I have observed, the humans form very close bonds to one another. The one in your care should not be held responsible for what he... it did in grief and anger.//
Tracks suppressed a surge of annoyance. Why was the medic telling him this? Of course he was not going to harm the human. He needed it! //I have no intention of causing any damage to this human,// Tracks responded with the proper amount of prized Tower servant haughtiness. He might not run a large shop, but he did have some very highly regarded and powerful mecha among his private clientele.
//Of course,// the medic responded neutrally. //Please, have this file. You may find it helpful. And do not hesitate to comm me if you need any assistance -- I have other appointments now, but I know where your shop is. I will come by early next orn to... inspect the human for infection. In the service of Lord Kalis, of course.// The medic unsubspaced a small data crystal.
//Of course,// Tracks said. Fragging nosey medic! But what else could he say? //You have my gratitude,// he responded with formal respect, taking the crystal. Anything to get him away from Kalis Tower and back to his shop! He was about to turn and leave when a question occurred to him. //What exactly did the creature do to Kalis, anyhow?//
For a moment, he could have sworn he felt a brief wash of humor in the medic's carefully guarded field, though there was nothing betrayed on the his masked and visored faceplates. //You might wish to have all of your detailing picks carefully stowed away if you or your clients have your hardlines unspooled. There isn't any armor on a connection jack, and the humans are stronger than they look.// Then without waiting for a response, the medic turned and went on his way.
Tracks felt his entire frame shudder at the thought, his armor clamping down tight. Primus. He looked down at the tiny creature, no taller from helm to pede than his forearm was long, who stared right back up at him with baleful optics. "Me cago en tu puta madre!" it spat.
Tracks cycled his optics at the strange creature. Somehow he would tame it. How hard could it be? He certainly did not hear about the larger shops having trouble with their organics.
The creature... couldn’t be that bad.
Could it?