“Get me one fifty cc’s of sugar, stat.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The ensign carefully attaches the glucose bag to the subject’s IV. The team then sets its timer for a year-long recovery period. For the next two weeks, they watch movies and play a game similar to ping-pong in the ship’s lounge. They take turns monitoring the subject—maintaining its hydration and sugar levels throughout hundreds of perceived crying jags and pastry binges. The ship meanders from outpost to outpost, its robot fingers carefully collecting the distilled panty crotches sent into space by billions of hard-working minions all over the Earth.
Stephanie blows her nose and throws the wadded tissue toward the small pile of empty cupcake wrappers. She changes the channel again.
“Oh, Brad . . . take me, you hot, sensitive pirate!”
Nothing but more soft-core porn. Have the cable channels finally managed to broaden the definition of prime time?
This time, Stephanie doesn’t turn off the television. The actors seem to get better looking every night. She’s riveted to the screen.
Later, in bed, her hands are riveted to her sides as the trashy movie replays in fast motion in her mind. Finally, guilt- and sweat-ridden, she lets the hands furiously touch her body under the sheets until she’s completely exhausted and able to sleep.
“Gimme the swab, Crych! Let me try it!”
“Hold on, hold on . . .” Ensign Crych pulls the swab away, but Flsyk snatches it out of his claw, then rubs his feeler along the tip.
“Oh, my copulating Goddess! This is excellent. This is the mother-copulating. . .”
“Ensign Flsyk. Please.” The captain, as always, has appeared without warning.
“Sorry, boss.” Flsyk surrenders the swab.
“Mm. This is excellent. Ensign Crych, awaken Dr. Xotcd from stasis. It’s time to begin.”
Once the program designer and xenopsychologist Dr. Xotcd is awake and able to watch his subject’s real, live reactions to stimuli, results come in much more quickly. The doctor doesn’t run out of volunteers to test them by running their tongues slowly and deliriously over the swabs. His teammates give each other high-fives. (Actually, they’re high ones or high thousands, depending on whether you count the one limb or the thousands of sensitive hairs across its tip.) They congratulate themselves on how wealthy they’re going to be. This subject’s juices are that good—like poppy nectar or cricket-people glands, but without the messy side effects or the jail time. Dr. Xotcd reads his data and rasps his antennae, but the others ignore him.
“Accelerate the programs, Dr. Xotcd.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Stephanie pulls at the halter neck of the black dress. Even though she must have lost tons of weight—she had to have, in order to fit into Elena’s dress—she feels uncomfortable here, tonight. Like it’s all some sort of joke. Like, any minute from now, everyone’s going to put down their martinis to point at her and laugh.
“There you are. God, you look hot tonight.”
Stephanie flinches away from the hand brushing her bare shoulder. She turns and sees him—Brad Rockley, the handsomest, trendiest man in the room.
Why is he talking to her?
“What’s wrong, Stephanie? Show me your beautiful eyes and tell me what I can do to make you smile.”
She tries to laugh lightly, but it comes out more like a gagging sound.
“What—did Elena get you to do this?”
“Get me to do what? Darling, please . . . just let me kiss you once . . .”
Stephanie gasps and stumbles back, down the stairs, away from him. He reaches for her blindly, his eyes closed in an imitation of passion. That bitch Elena. Stephanie knew she shouldn’t have trusted her. And she knew she looked fat in this dress!
Arms crossed over her exposed flesh, Stephanie runs to the street to hail a cab.
Dr. Xotcd’s antennae rub together softly, creating a rasping sound.
“This is what I was afraid of. All along, the subject has shown a slightly irregular response . . . irrational levels of guilt- or fear-induced enzymes . . . This is something I’ve come across in my studies, but I’ll need time to research . . .”
The captain’s antennae flicker impatiently.
“Will these enzymes affect the results? I want to have something to show the CEQ when we dock next week.”
“Well . . . not to an extent that . . . They might affect the chemical composition, but probably not so that it’s noticeable to the palate. But they could create within the subject a . . .”
“Change the scenario. Give me results.”
“But . . . Yes, ma’am.”
Stephanie pulls at the black leather collar around her neck. Brad, clad in a silk kimono, walks into the room with a riding crop in his hand.
“Hello again, Stephanie.”
Stephanie doesn’t answer. Her eyes are wide, her arms and legs bound.
“You know what I’m going to do to you, don’t you?”
Still no answer. Brad kneels down so that his mouth is level with her ear. He whispers into it.
“You want me to do this to you, don’t you?”
Stephanie emits a quiet sob that could mean yes or no. Brad’s lips touch her ear as he whispers again.
“Let me put it this way: I’m going to do this to you whether you want it or not. But you do want it, don’t you? Say it.”
She lets out a slightly louder sob and nods her head.
Back at the home office, Dr. Xotcd shakes his head at the monitors. This particular program is distasteful to him. However, he’s been charged to produce results, and the subject’s thoughts—conscious and sub—have shown that this is the quickest way to do it. And, besides, he must remember to keep his personal feelings out of his projects. The captain’s note on his last review flickers through his mind. “Hindered by tendency to anthropomorphize his subjects.”
The subject’s body flushes and flinches under the electrodes. Her essence flows into the collectors at an unprecedented rate. Xotcd’s antennae rasp as he goes to his console to absorb the most recently translated Earth media: web sites, movies, romance novels. He’ll stay up all night writing code for bonds and restraints, submission and surrender. He only has two months to set the permanent program before it’s time to fly back to Earth for the next project.
The salty wind lashes at Stephanie’s hair and the frayed edges of her bodice. The worn, wooden plank hits her in the small of the back as she backs away from the pirate captain. He and his mates leer at her hungrily.
“Aye, lass, there’s the plank at your back. Are you going to walk it, or stop your struggling and play nice with us?”
Her tears are whipped away toward the sea.
“But . . . but . . . Do you even want to play with me?” she says. “I’m not very pretty. My thighs . . . they’re so fat.”
The pirate captain laughs a wicked laugh. “Missy, my men here have been at sea for a long time. You’re as good looking as anything they can remember.”
Stephanie looks at him from under her lashes, still uncertain.
“I get second turn with the wench, after Captain Brad!” the First Mate yells. A fight breaks out among some of the others as the captain rips away what’s left of Stephanie’s corset with his bare hands.
“Hurry up, Flsyk. I don’t want to be late.” Ensign Crych paces near the door of the anteroom.
“Just a second . . . how’s my tie look?”
“What do you care? You’re not gonna get anywhere near the queen.”
“That’s what you think. After I do get my chance with her, she’s gonna remember my scent. I might even get a promotion out of it,” Ensign Flsyk says to his teammate and to his own reflection. “Dream on, beetlesucker. If you want a promotion so bad, why don’t you try servicing the captain?”
“Are you kidding me? I tried it two months ago. She nearly broke my thorax!”
“Whoa. Yeah, I heard that about her . . .” The hairs on Crych’s limbs ripple.
“Hey, Dr. Xot, what about you?” Flsyk yells into the lab. “You going to the Queen Fest?”
The doctor looks up from the print-out he’s been reading at the subject’s table. Is it Queen’s Festival Week already?
“Aw, he can’t hear you, Flsyk. He’s busy with his queen.”
“His queen . . . Yeah! Good one, Crych!”
The ensigns clack their mandibles loudly as they leave the anteroom. Dr. Xotcd goes back to his work.
Stephanie steps into the bath. The slave girl sprinkles the water with jasmine oil, the sheik’s favorite. He’s requested that his newest harem girl, the exotically fair and plump Stephanie, be ready within the hour.
“Stephanie?” the slave girl whispers.
“What is it, Xora?”
“Are you . . . are you happy here?”
Stephanie considers the question for a moment.
“Why, Xora? Are you thinking of escaping?”
Xora considers this question in her turn, then nods.
“Well . . . I hope you make it, because I can see how you’d probably hate being here. I’ll help you if I can. But . . . I don’t think I can leave with you. See . . . I don’t have anywhere to go, really. Plus, I don’t know . . . Call me an idiot if you want, but I don’t really mind this life. I mean, it’s not so bad. It could be worse. Sometimes I think the sheik actually kind of cares about me. You know?”
Dr. Xotcd remembers the humanoid farm he received as a hatchday gift from his parents one summer. He enjoyed putting little bits of sugar into the tunnels and watching the tiny brown and beige mammals overcoming barriers to find the food and carry it to their homes. Working within this single human subject’s mind is like that, but much more enthralling. This isn’t as real as a humanoid farm, because the barriers are all abstractions. And, yet, at the same time, it’s much more real than a colony of tiny animals could ever be.
This is what he’s thinking when his teammates troop into the lab.
“Bonus check, Dr. Xotcd. Congratulations,” says the captain as she hands him an envelope.
Ensigns Crych and Flsyk are already tearing theirs open.
“Yes. Goddess, YES!” says Flsyk upon seeing the amount.
“Hey, look . . . there’s a memo on the next project,” says Crych. “Scouts just got back from Earth. Our team is assigned to go pick up ten subjects. Whoa. That’s a lot. Wonder what they’re for? Not for Project Special Blend? I thought they were getting ready to synthesize this subject’s juices?” He waves a feeler in the direction of the human who’s been a permanent fixture in the lab since they got back from the last trip.
Flsyk scans his memo.
“Hey, maybe . . . maybe it’s for that new sports thing I heard about . . .”
“I have no such memo in my envelope,” Dr. Xotcd says to their captain. “Mine was accidentally omitted.”
“Actually, Doctor, that was no accident,” she says. “Your services won’t be necessary on this project. Dr. Thrstyk will accompany the team, instead.”
Thrstyk? That old-colony braggart? Dr. Xotcd waits until his haphazard emotions subside before speaking.
“What will my assignment be in the meantime?”
“Maintain the current course. I will meet with you before our departure, in two weeks, for a final briefing.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Xotcd keeps his antennae curved neutrally. He doesn’t want the captain to suspect that he’d relish this opportunity to delve further into his studies with the human.
“Baby, I love the way your eyes shine when I whip you,” Stephanie’s latest master says, dropping the whip and grasping her hair in his hands.
“Oh, Raul! I knew you felt the same way I did! Can we get out of the dungeon tonight? Just snuggle on the couch and watch TV? I’m so glad you love me like I love you. I’ve felt this way so many times, but it’s never been real before . . . never like this. I’m going to make you so happy. We’ll be happy together. . .”
Raul lets go of her hair. He takes a step back and fiddles with his executioner’s mask for a moment.
“Uh . . . What? Hold on. Uh . . . hold on, slave. I’ll be right back.”
Raul looks around the dungeon for a moment, then, suddenly, drops his whip and bolts up the stairs.
Stephanie stares at him. Her ropes hold her firmly in place, keeping her from reacting physically to the shock.
“What?” she whispers. “What did I do?”
Dr. Xotcd examines the monitors, then keys in a slight modulation to his code.
Passed on to a new master, Stephanie’s bitter but not yet totally pessimistic. Martin strides into the room, a cat-o-nine tails in his fist.
“On your knees, slut. Bow your head when your master speaks!”
“Yes, Master.”
“That’s right.”
After holding her head down for what feels like the appropriate amount of time, Stephanie lifts it again and says the words she’s been rehearsing in her mind all afternoon.
“Master Martin, I just want you to know that I have every intention of doing my part in this relationship. I know that you’re going to treat me badly. But, also, I know why you’re going to do it. You’ve never had a slave that really appreciated and supported your needs as a dom. I know that you’re just like me . . . you just want to be loved, and no one you’ve ever known has loved you the way you deserve. Until now. I’m willing to love you, Master Martin. And I’m going to accept your mistreatment, because I know it’s just your way of showing that you want to love me, too.”
Stephanie bows her head again. Master Martin is speechless for quite a while. Then:
“What the hell are you talking about, you crazy bitch? What the . . . Get the hell out of my dungeon!”
“What? But . . . I thought . . .” says Stephanie.
“I said get out!”
The tears well in her eyes again as she stumbles away.
Stricter masters don’t work. More exotic scenes and sex don’t work. Dr. Xotcd even tries writing the code so that the men actually do “love” the subject. But those scenarios don’t result in the secretions that pay for his research.
He shuffles his notes nervously. He’s not looking forward to his meeting with the captain. Although she’s never warm by any means, her cold distance is infinitely preferable to her actual displeasure. It’s unfortunate that the project couldn’t continue optimally until she departed for the new assignment.
The captain enters the conference room, her antennae click, click, clicking.
“What happened to that last batch, Dr. Xotcd? I thought the enzyme issues had been resolved.”
“Yes, ma’am, they were, but new issues have arisen. The subject is no longer achieving maximum levels of pleasure with the submissive scenarios. Her emotional responses have modulated out of the range of the programs, and her dissatisfaction apparently taints the results.”
“This is very annoying.”
“Ma’am . . . if you would permit me, I have a suggestion.”
“What is it?”
“My research has indicated that the subject’s reactions to date are most likely the result of traumatic incidents during her developmental phase. We have the technology to go back and erase the trauma from the subject’s memory. If I could have a few months to identify and realign—“
“Look, Xotcd, we don’t have time for this.” The captain’s feelers rasp against each other once, twice. “The subject is dissatisfied by the submissive role, you say?”
“That is correct, ma’am.”
Several facets of the captain’s eyes gleam.
“Then I’d say it’s time for a switch.”
Stephanie tugs at the chain attached to the young man’s collar. He scurries on his knees across the carpet to the kitchen to bring her a drink. Stephanie puts her feet up and lets her riding crop rest on her knees. Now this is the life.
“Madam . . . the new slave is ready. She’s waiting for you in the dungeon.”
She opens the dungeon door. A plump, young blonde kneels on the stone floor, all done up in black vinyl.
“Mistress Stephanie, please accept me as your slave. I’ve been a bad, bad girl!”
The lab technicians report that the levels of tasty acids and pheromones in the latest batch are through the roof. The company has recovered its Special Blend, with a higher market value than ever. Dr. Xotcd is relieved. And then . . .
Stephanie falls in love with the blonde slave and lets her run away.
Xotcd tries slaves of different types, desperate to keep the project on track. Smaller, darker males do well for a while, until the subject’s frustratingly inevitable sympathy for her subjects kicks in and the scenarios are derailed. Older, paler male slaves have the interesting effect of inciting anger. The subject unleashes hitherto unseen violence against them, kicking and shouting. But she doesn’t climax from this. She does, however, release perspiration that turns out to be quite effective as a stain remover. The formula is synthesized and sold for a tidy profit.
Although the company’s chemists persist, they remain unable to synthesize the subject’s sexual fluids. The exact make-up is indefinable, available only from the subject herself, under increasingly specialized circumstances. Dr. Xotcd is under pressure. Pressure to perform.
His brief attempt at turning the subject back into a slave is quickly aborted when it unleashes her most violent reaction. Researchers, designers, programmers, and xenobiologists gather for grave meetings. Profits can’t drop. The CEQ won’t have it.
New human subjects with similar chemical builds have been taken from Earth, but the methods don’t work on them at all. For some reason, these subjects resist the alternate reality mental programming. They reject it entirely, and the company is forced to restore them to stasis lest their mentalities collapse.
To the Last Man I Slept with and All the Jerks Just Like Him Page 13