Finally, she reached one of the connection tubes that linked the biolab to the nanolab.
Sarah sprinted right, hit the wall, then leaped off it and slammed into the window that faced the jungle. Her shoulder struck it and the armored glass shattered apart, letting her skid through the grass and dirt until she landed at the base of one of the heavy turrets. The roaring sound that had filled her ears for the past few minutes faded – slowly.
She watched the rocket climb.
Climb.
Gone.
Sarah sat up, panting softly. She touched where she had been shot. It was already healed. But fuck she was hungry. Sarah smacked her lips...and felt oddly at peace. DynaCore was gone. She was definitely fired. Stranded on an alien planet, in an alien body.
And yet?
She felt…
Good.
Real good. Sarah stood, her stomach growling. And then she did a little dance as she realized why she felt this intense sense of relief, of peace. She lifted her arms over her head as she leaped from foot to foot. “I don’t...owe...anyone...any money!” She sang, wriggling her hips from side to side. “No more debt! Woo! Dance! Yeah!”
Sarah kept dancing for an embarrassingly long time
Eventually, she noticed. Stopped. And sheepishly headed inside.
***
The emergency evacuation of the NovaDyne survey ship had blasted incredibly hot rocket exhaust through a worryingly large chunk of the research complex. The whole place had been designed to try and shunt that exhaust away from important parts of the building – but the design had been created for NovaDyne’s normal exploration targets. Those were exoplanets that usually had so little atmosphere that you only needed a tiny bit of clearance to ensure that the rocket exhaust wouldn’t cook things. Vacuum, after all, was a very effective insulator. Because designing a new building would have taken valuable time away from the new line of consumer products, they had just used the old design on Trappist-1a.
This meant that, as Sarah walked her way through the rapidly abandoned complex, she kept finding corridors and roofs that had been kissed by super heated atmosphere. Some of them had held up well. For example, the security bunker that had been positioned very close to the actual ship was nearly intact, with only minor scorching along the interior walls. Not that Sarah could actually get inside the bunker – it was locked up tight.
Other places had survived less well. One of those ‘less well’ places included the bunk rooms and the common room. The maker that she had been kicking just twenty four hours ago was so much bubbling silvery glop in the middle of a room that looked like it had been turned to wax, then set on fire. Sarah put her hands on her hips as she surveyed the damage, making a tiny ‘tick’ noise with her tongue. She was honestly not entirely sure what to do right now.
“You’re debt free,” she said, quietly. “You can survive on this planet indefinitely.” She frowned.
That was just it. She was debt free. She didn’t have a paycheck to look forward to, or expenses to tally up. She didn’t need to juggle a budget or a deadline. She just... was . It was a deeply unsettling experience, now that the initial jubilation had worn off. So, Sarah clapped her hands. The sound was shockingly loud in the empty room. She actually started and looked around, as if expecting to see fellow co-workers glaring at her for disturbing their quiet. Instead, she only saw a few insects buzzing around the large hole that the rocket had burned into the ceiling, perching and roosting.
“R-Right!” Sarah said, placing her hands back together again. “Step one, find some food. You’re hungry. Put food into the mouth hole. That’s how you don’t die of starvation.” She nodded. “...right, you...you know that already, Sarah, you have a doctorate in exobiology.” She put her hand over her face. “Shut up, Sarah. Just. Just shut up.”
She found two candy bars that someone had fabricated and left in their desk in the cubical farm. Someone had stashed a fabbed apple – one of the PureFood brands, hidden underneath a set of pillows that someone had left on their desk for when they needed to nap there. She also found other bits and detritus that her coworkers had left behind. She found three roses in a plastic sheath with a tiny card that played the sappy love song from Bolide. It was signed to Yelena, one of the techs in the biosynth section. She hadn’t known Yelana, and she didn’t recognize the handwriting, but hearing the song played in a cheap printed speaker made Sarah’s eyes suddenly brim with tears as she remembered the touching final scenes of the movie, where Jack slowly froze to death in the malfunctioning space suit while his lover, Rose, had clung to him.
Before she knew it, Sarah was curled up on a pleather sofa in the executive lounge, slowly eating a candy bar while crying her eyes out about a movie she hadn’t even liked that much.
Except it wasn’t the movie, or the doomed love affair between two fictional spacers.
It was everything .
She wasn’t being examined, prodded, poked, pushed, attacked, flashbanged, shot, stabbed, or rolled into acid pits. She had time to really absorb what had happened to her and it was forcing out tears by the buckets. Tears and snot and blubbering whimpers and lots of shaking. But as the tears faded, something else started to fill her up: Anger. She wasn’t even entirely sure who she was mad at or why. Was she furious at Chief Barakas, who had treated her like an alien test subject and shot Dr. Bowers in the head without even asking what or who he was? Was she furious at the Eye and its mysterious and terrifying goals? Was she mad at NovaDyne for cutting the costs on security droids so she had been herded into an alien’s biomorphic restructuring pit? Was she mad at herself for choosing to work in exoplanetary research rather than trying to get one of the coveted Earth based jobs? Was she mad at the universe, for making the world like this instead of like something nicer and better and kinder?
Was she mad at herself for being weak and pathetic – for turning into a sobbing wreck because of a cheap Valentines Day card and a half remembered movie?
Sarah decided…
Yes.
So, she decided to trash the executive lounge.
One second, she was curled up, crying and shivering.
The next, she was wiping her hands off her face and saw the decorations around her. There was the large holographic photograph of the company founder, Daniel Tavaner Koch Butane the 3 rd . He was still looking down at her, smiling that little smile of his, still wearing his fine three piece suit. And there was the secretary desk that was set before the door that led into where the administrator had worked to run the research base – the chair had been knocked over, but the little motivational plaque that the secretary had set up was still there: Nine Tenths of Promotion is Motion.
That had been what had done it.
Yeah. Motion. Specifically, the up and down motion of fellating Craid’s pencil dick .
She had worked for NovaDyne for years , and she’d gotten how many promotions? Oh! Right! Zero. Fucking nothing because she was a sline and a woman and mysteriously this also happened to map directly onto who wasn’t able to get ahead. People like her and Larry would stay as entry level bullshit artists while Craid and his buddies like fucking Gibson and Yale would get to head the laboratory. Motion! Fucking motion ! Sarah sprang to her feet, walked to the desk, and grabbed onto it. Her claws dug into the faux-wood with sounds not unlike gunshots and she lifted it up and over her head with a bellow. Her arms strained and her muscles trembled, but the desk still went up. She hurled it at the doorway leading into Craid’s office.
The desk struck the metal door with an unmusical clongggg and the door burst inwards with a spray of sparks and a squeal of whining machinery. Several bits of gearing that were supposed to recess the door into the wall twitched and flailed in the air as Sarah stepped through the doorway and into Craid’s office properly. There was his desk, fabricated to look like it was made out of solid mahogany. There was the door leading to his private rooms. And there was a fucking liquor cabinet, made of lacquered wood and baroque flourishes. Sarah too
k hold of one of the spiky corners and then looked around to make sure no one was watching – kicked herself for being an idiot – and tipped it forward. The glass front shattered and the bottles broke apart on the ground, spilling expensive scotch and whiskey and whatever the fuck else that that smug prick had stocked in it.
“Ohh no!” Sarah put her hands to her cheeks. “What an accident !”
That had felt good. She walked over to the desk and punched it. Her knuckles slammed into the middle and a large, black crack spread through the wood. Splinters flecked against her cheeks and then fell back down to the surface of the desk. Her knuckles throbbed pleasantly. Sarah grinned, then punched again. This time, her fist plunged into the drawer underneath the desk and she found herself looking into a collection of brick-a-back. Including...a keyecard. She fished it out and saw that it was the newest model, with a small gene-lock and the smiling face of Craid on the front. He had left behind his keycard!
Sarah flapped the card between her fingers, slapping it against her palm. She walked over to the door leading to his private quarters and tried slotting it in. The card made a quiet bloory noise and the door chimed. “Gene-lock not identified,” it said.
Sarah glared at her thumb, then pressed her thumb down against the lock again. She closed her eyes and tried to focus on Craid. She thought of everything she knew about him – his smell, his snide smirks, his arrogant little walk. As the memories tumbled through her head, she felt as if she knew more and more. She could taste his blood type. She could feel the subtle differences in genetic strands, as if she was raiding the G, A, T, C of his genes like it was braille. She opened her eyes and then gently slotted the keycard into the slot.
The door chimed. “Welcome home, MinTech Yuleacitar Craid!”
Sarah grinned, her fangs glinting. “Ohh oh ho ho ho!” She stepped into the room and saw the huge silk bed - way beyond the price range of a MinTech, but definitely affordable to someone whose parents owned a sizable chunk of Ceres. Then she saw the silvery rectangle of a personal maker and nearly wet herself with excitement. She sprinted over and knelt down beside the maker, slotting in the keycard. The keycard chimed and the maker started to display the holographic menu once it had failed to connect to any local HUD. The holomenu showed that the maker was formatted for food and basic products, had about fifty kilos of generic matter, plenty of energy...and Craid’s bank account.
He had nearly ten thousand UC.
Just in his checking account.
Sarah crooned, then started to type furiously. “Lets see, Administrator Craid, I believe that you owe me three prime ribs...” She purred. “Medium rare, with mash potatoes, maybe a salad.” She grinned. “Oh! And a double stacked fudge combo cake!” She thumbed down the order. The maker chimed, then a small advertisement popped up – two simultaneously slender and buxom anime girls in incredibly scantily designed chef outfits appeared. They sang a little jingle, while words flashed up: For the low low price of 200 UC, your meal can be made Fat Free Superfood!
“I don’t exactly need to watch my figure,” Sarah murmured, looking down at her resculpted figure. “But on the other hand, fuck you.” She thumbed down the accept button. The maker asked if she wanted to tip the design team who had built the meal. The suggested tip was 15% of the meal’s cost. Sarah didn’t know about the pay scale for food designers, but considering how fast new food models were shipped out through the extranet, she had a feeling that it was low. Scut work, basically. Rather than flipping burgers, it was coding makers to flip burgers, with new models of burgers needing to come out every week to retain market share.
She had no idea if the tip would even get to the team. She was on an abandoned laboratory in a different solar system.
So, she decided to be restrained and only put down a sixty five hundred credit gratuity.
While the maker burbled and whirred, the nanites working on constructing the delicious red steak out of raw matter, Sarah flung herself onto the silken bed and writhed around in pleasure. It was so soft. So smooth. She closed her eyes. “Man, is this what being rich is like?” she murmured, kicking out her legs. As she laid there, the bed started to warm and shift its structure ever so slightly – adding a bit of extra support there and a bit less there. Sarah giggled, then blinked as she realized that she was now laid out with her hips lifted up and her shoulders depressed back. Her legs were being subtly lifted and spread, as if she was laying down for a medical examination. Meanwhile, cheesy synth was beginning to play from hidden speakers.
She sat up. “Bed, what are you doing?” she asked.
A small desk slipped from the side – it contained several bottles of what looked like rubbing lotion.
“...oh god...” She put her hand over her face. “The bed thinks I’m here to fuck Craid.”
She suddenly wanted to throw up.
Then the wall to the left of the bed opened and a buxom, pink haired girl with a pair of antennas sticking out of her head like an ancient TV set stepped out from a small recess she had been stored in. Her breasts were full and round and far, far, far far too perky. Like, if there was an uncanny valley for breasts, this woman was right in the midst of it. She had a bubble butt, a waspish waist, and dainty feet that were clad in neon pink hight heels. A tiny thatch of pubic hair – also pink – was nestled above her sex, and as she stepped from the doorway, the music became slightly quieter. She put her hand on her hip, cocked it, grinned, and said: “Hey there tiger. Ready to ride me like a Harley and pump your love spunk deep into my hot, robo cunt?”
Sarah remained sprawled on the bed.
“Okay,” she said. “ Now I want to throw up.”
The sex-robot looked at Sarah. The silent tableaux lasted for what felt like an eternity of awkward staring…
And was broken when two people in spacesuits ran into the room and began to spray Sarah with fire retardant foam while also beating her about the head with a golf club.
Chapter Six: Sarah Makes Some Friends
The sex-robot let out a tiny giggle. “There’s always room for...” She paused, doing a quick headcount of the figures in the room. “Two...more!”
The space suited figure with the golf club kept whacking at the area where it clearly thought Sarah’s head was. Sarah, whose arms were above her head, spluttered and coughed as more fire retardant foam splashed her face from the other space suited figure – who had emptied one canister and, with the smooth skill of someone who had practiced the move a lot, picked up a second and kept spraying her.
“Kill it! Kill it!” The voice from the foam sprayer was female.
“I’m trying , Tasha!” The other space suited figure also sounded female.
Sarah spat out some foam and grunted as she felt the golf club whack her forearm. The metal bent around her and the clubber stumbled backwards, the club yanked from their awkward suited fingers. “Ah! It got my club!” she shouted to Tasha.
“Ahhhhhh!” Tasha screamed, throwing the foam sprayer at Sarah, who had managed to sit up. The sprayer stuck her head and bounced off. Sarah barely felt. But then again, she’d been shot recently and had walked it off, so she wasn’t exactly shocked. She still slapped her hand over her face and let out a groan, more out of reflex than anything else. The two suited figures started to run, sprinting for the doorway.
“I told you we should have gotten the guns!” The clubber said.
“Shut-oof!” Tasha said at the same moment both women came to the doorway out of the room and jammed into it as if they were actors on a slapstick holo. Their shoulders pressed together and they flailed, then collapsed to the ground. The sex robot sauntered over to them, then bent herself forward in such a way that showed off her ass at the same time.
“Should I restrain them, tiger?” she asked, looking at Sarah. “They appear to be intruders.”
Sarah put her hands on her face. She slooowly wiped the foam off her, then flicked it away. She looked over at the maker and saw that it had opened at some point during all the rucku
s. Her meal was now coated in about three inches of pink, cold fire retardant. Sarah let out a long, suffering sigh, then stood up. She put her hands on her hips. “Okay,” she said as the two suited figures started to scramble to their feet. One backed against the wall. The other backed out the door, then hurried back forward to stand beside their associate protectively. “I’m going to remain very calm-”
Sarah’s foot slipped on a pile of foam. Her arms flailed and she yelped as her foot skidded across the floor, throwing her into a wild splits. She tried to get her feet under her and only ended up getting her other foot slippery too. She skidded forward and slammed into the sex robot, sending them both sprawling to the floor. The sex robot felt like a pair of sand stuffed pillows – her artificial breasts, which molded themselves to Sarah’s face. The sex robot let out a coquettish giggle.
“Tiger!” she crooned.
Sarah forced herself back and up, spitting and coughing. “For crying out loud, I’m-”
A golf club jounced off the back of her head.
Sarah smashed, face first, back into the sex robots titties. The sex robot frowned. “My BDSM subroutines are detecting that we have moved beyond safe limits,” she said, her voice growing warning. “Do you need medical assistance?”
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