by Olivia Myers
Rhett covered his mouth in a half-assed, semi-polite attempt to hide his snicker. “Your sex robot up and walked away?”
“This isn't funny. There's a powerful piece of machinery wandering around with few to no inhibitors.” She scowled at him, tapping her short nails on the arm of her chair.
“Right – okay. What's your robot called?”
She opened her mouth. And promptly closed it, suddenly rethinking her plan. Rhett raised one dark eyebrow at her. “It doesn't have a name, I didn't get that far.”
“A model number, then.”
She took a deep breath, feeling sillier than ever about her occupation. “It was the R.A.M.-69.”
“Come again?”
Stella glared.
He continued, “Or is that why you're looking for it?”
She stood up, turning to leave, but Rhett's fingers locked around her wrist. He'd hopped up from his chair and grabbed onto her arm before she could get a step away, although he was still trying in vain not to laugh. “No, wait, what does it look like? Really?”
She huffed, snatching her arm away. “Tall. About six and a half feet. Blond, muscular, green eyes. Typical robot Adonis. Kind of has a Mediterranean accent, I guess his designers thought they were funny.”
He raised his eyebrows. “No distinctive markings? A branding?”
“I wasn't paying much attention.” Her words were clipped and she averted her gaze. She couldn't recall being ashamed of sampling her merchandise before, but she supposed she'd never been in a position to be questioned about it either.
“Ah, right. Busy being R.A.M.-ed.”
“Okay, I'm leaving.”
“Wait, Stella—”
“No, I have other people to talk to today. Thank you.” She waved him away and hurried toward the door without looking back. She had other measures to take to make sure her robot was found. And she'd had about enough of Rhett for the day.
***
Stella couldn't think of anything more annoying than the simultaneous buzzing and obnoxious blaring of her phone alarm. At least, not when she was up to her elbows in robot parts and grease and not about to silence it. She yanked her arm out of the robot torso she was groping around in and dashed to the communication pad of her shop, narrowly avoiding a dismembered arm on the way. She hit the “talk” button with her elbow. “Stella, talk.”
“Did I pick a bad time?”
She reached for a grease rag, lips quirking slightly at the voice on the other line. She didn't receive customer calls on her mechanic line and wasn't usually pleased with whoever needed her attention on the other end. But it was Canto, one of her oldest and most reliable friends. And moreover, someone who didn't like to waste her time when she was working. “Sorry, Canto. I thought you were the post room again. They've been giving me shit all evening.”
“It's okay,” he said, laughing. “Remember about the mechanical Adonis you were telling me about the other day? I got someone who fits the bill at the high roller tables at my bar.”
“You what?” Stella nearly fell out of the chair she had just grabbed. Bots decidedly did not come with gambling protocols, and she’d just about given up on finding him, too.
“Whoa, take it easy. It could be anyone, but I don't usually get six and a half feet tall green eyed men with platinum blonde hair at the bar without at least a couple of escorts.”
Stella started frantically cleaning herself, and looking for some semblance of sociable attire in her closet all the while holding the phone.
“Canto, try to keep him in there. Free chips, whatever nonsense you can think of. Put it on my tab. I'm on my way there now.” She’d found her prized bot and she’d be damned if she was letting it slip away again.
Stella threw on the first vaguely appropriate thing she could find. A form-fitting red dress with a V-shaped neckline whose tip nearly reached her navel and a hem that brushed against the middle of her thigh. She smoothed her hair in a vain attempt to tame it and made her way to Canto’s bar, which was located in the seedier part of the upper districts but nevertheless had standards. The kind of place where drinks cost a lower class man a week’s wages but you could find all manner of illegal contraband going down in the side rooms.
Stella knew Canto from the days when the bot trade was in a gray legal area and people had to jump through hoops to acquire them. She still kept contact now that her business was legitimate, because her clients often requested potent sex drugs of dubious legality, and while she wasn't about to sell them herself, Stella knew she could point them in the right direction. And of course, Canto was great for gossip and had excellent taste in wine.
Breathless by the time she reached the bar, Stella leaned over the glossy counter to squeeze Canto's hand in greeting.
“That was fast.” He leaned over the bar to kiss her cheek. He always was a gentleman, and despite his shady establishment, kept up a pristine appearance. His dark hair was smoothed back, facial hair trimmed to perfect angles, and his shirt was crisp and white beneath his black vest. “Your robot boy that good?”
She smirked and rolled her eyes. “If you're sweet you can rent him and find out.”
“Not my type. Tell me when you get a pretty lady-bot in.” He nodded toward the second tier of his den of iniquity. “The guy is over there.”
Stella nodded and headed over, catching sight of the towering blond figure almost immediately. He was hard to miss, even with clothes on, though she wasn't sure where he'd gotten them. Hell, she wasn't even sure how he'd managed to get there. She'd heard of robots with advancing levels of sentience malfunctioning in an attempt to become more human, but had dismissed the stories as either extremely unlikely or at least not likely to happen in her custody. Her bots were one trick wonders. Except this one.
She stopped right next to him at the blackjack table but he didn't look up from his cards.
“You want me to deal you in, Stella?” The dealer looked at her expectantly and the two other high rollers turned their heads.
“No, I'm here to retrieve something.”
R.A.M.-69 finally looked down at her, recognition flickering across his face. Decidedly non-robotic. “Oh, I didn't recognize you from this angle. You were cuter from behind.”
The dealer shuffled his cards and the other two gamblers rearranged their chips on the table.
Stella took only a moment to regain her composure. “I don't know who programmed you with such a smart mouth but I can deactivate your voice box.”
This time, he laughed. “You still think I'm a robot! Damn, you're lucky you're pretty.” He waved his hand over the table. “Look, I'm busy. If you wait until I'm done, maybe you can have another free ride.”
“What did y—”
“Shhh.” He lifted a hand and rested a finger on her lips.
She jerked her head back and grabbed his arm. He didn't need to shake her off for her to realize that she was no match for him in physical strength, but he wasn't going to talk to her like that. She opened her mouth but the words never passed her lips as she was interrupted.
“Save it, Stella.” She looked back at the familiar tenor and frowned at Rhett, who was making his way toward the table. “And don't mess with him. He's just a low-life serial gambler. He could be dangerous.”
“How the fuck do you know that?” She snapped, turning to face him without moving from between the two men.
“Because he owes me money.” Rhett looked past her. “Zain Kriil, owes me 30,000 credits. I thought the bastard hopped ship to the nearest planet.”
Stella's frown deepened but when she turned to the R.A.M.-69, his gaze was focused on Rhett's. He took a step back.
“Oh no.” Rhett chuckled. “I wouldn't run. I have men all along this cell block. You'd never make it.”
“Rhett! He's not even – why wouldn't you tell me?” The question was more an exclamation of outrage than an inquiry. Stella could feel the anger bubbling in the pit of her stomach was turning her fair face red with rage.
/> “I didn't want you putting yourself in danger. I figured you'd be pissed and go on a hunt.” Rhett looked back down at her, but she couldn't tell if the glimmer of apology was feigned or not. And she didn't care.
“What the fuck did you think I was doing?”
“I figured I'd find him first!” His voice raised to counter hers, but he wouldn't win.
“You knew, you sack of shit! And you just let me look like an idiot!” Her fist connected with his jaw before she gave her arm permission to move, and Rhett shifted back a step, reaching to touch his sculpted face in awe. She'd never hit him before, however tempting he made it. But he'd never done something as infuriatingly underhanded to make her look like a complete moron, either.
Behind them, the chips crashed and she turned to see R.A.M.-69, or rather, Zain, had vaulted over the corner of the table and was making a dash for the door. In vain, as two of Rhett's gangers broke away from the bar to tackle him. Zain struggled, wrestling against one while the other ganger attempted to hold his weight down.
But Canto was having none of it. “One more punch and I'll call station law enforcement!” He crossed around the counter and Stella flashed Rhett a glare before moving away toward the bar. “Rhett, get your goons out of my bar. You,” he looked pointedly at Zain, “cash in your chips and get out.”
Zain grunted, pulling himself to his feet once the gangers stepped away.
“I just came to get my money,” Rhett grumbled.
“You came and instigated a fight in my establishment.” Canto rolled his eyes. He was about as tolerant of Rhett as Stella on a good day. “Keep your problems on your own turf.”
“Can't stay on my side and collect, Canto. He keeps running out on his debt.”
“You'll get it.” Stella interjected before Canto could respond. She glanced to Zain, who didn't seem particularly pleased with being talked about as if he wasn't there. “He'll work it off. For me.”
The five men looked down at her, Rhett scoffing. “You can't just do that. I don't want your money.”
“Please. You want to get paid, why does it matter where it comes from? He works for me. He gets paid. You get paid. You can fuck off.”
“I am here.” Zain cut in. “Do I get no part in this conversation?”
Stella raised an eyebrow. “You have a better idea?”
He didn't seem to have a response. Rhett had no counterargument. It was Canto who spoke again. “Let yourself out, Rhett. Stella . . . Take him and go, please.”
***
In the four month span that Zain had been under Stella's employment, the two had worked out a system around one another. He did general handy-man work that required his strength, processed orders, and answered incoming business calls so she didn't have to deal with delivery mishaps, which was to both of their advantages, truth be told. He didn't particularly care to deal with her sporadic irritability. They talked just enough to maintain contact and avoided burdening one another with their excessive presence.
He slept in the guest room. He cooked dinner. And he fucked her almost daily, which he supposed was the highlight of his employment. He had quickly grown to like the sweet sounds she made at his touches, and the sensitivity of her body when he was handling her. And her petite frame was all too easy to maneuver into any position he pleased – which she never seemed to mind.
He realized she took him in as a jab at his debtor, but he didn't care to explore her reasoning too deeply. She didn't need a thank you and he didn't need to feel further indebted. Their agreement was palatable as long as it remained as it was. These were the things that occurred to him as he logged cargo and filled out maintenance reports in the downstairs shop.
Just as he moved to pull the lid from a storage crate, his arm seized and locked up once again. It wasn't anything highly unusual for him, but the situation was becoming more and more frequent. He tried the usual waving around maneuver that unlocked it, but the process freed up the actuators in his arm violently, making him punch a hole straight through Stella’s work bench.
“Fuck,” he mumbled.
As he predicted it would, the loud noise had Stella running over from the kitchen where she was taking a small break, only to find him trying to extract his arm from the desk.
“I’d appreciate it if you didn't go around destroying the property of the person who so graciously gives you shelter and a way to pay off your debt.” Her voice wasn't the usual screech of irritation he got from her, but it wasn't friendly either.
And his pride was hurt, but he’d be damned if he was going to show it. He moved his sparking arm behind his back. “Maybe if you didn't have such shitty quality furniture, this wouldn't have happened. And graciously? You keep me around as hired muscle and a good fuck!”
“Shitty furniture?” She fired back. It didn't take much to get the motor going. “That’s 50 millimeter manganese steel plating! I asked for it specifically because I didn't want any spasming bots damaging it, but you went ahead and punched it through . . .” Her voice trailed before the demand came. “How the hell did you do that? Nothing short of military grade parts should have that force!”
Zain backed away from the desk, not wanting to deal with an explanation. He didn't make it five steps before a surge of nerve feedback from his arm sent him screaming to the ground, clutching his arm. Stella jumped, but hurried over to crouch beside him. His position made it impossible not to notice the sparks flying out of his arm, singing his skin, and the damage he inflicted upon himself.
“Oh my god, why the fuck did you not say something? You're hurt!” She sounded concerned, but of course she was still angry about it. At least there was concern.
She muttered, “This reminds me of my father’s own pain spasms with neurograft prosthetics. It was extremely painful for him.”
Zain managed to grunt out an, “I am fine,” as he edged away from her, only to be brought down again by another set of nerve feedback.
“You clearly aren't. Let me see that.” Her voice took on a different sternness from usual – one less demanding and more anxious – and allowing no challenges. She leaned over him to examine his arm through the broken synthetic skin. “The tech is outstanding,” she murmured, with a tinge of awe that he might have found adorable if she wasn't consistently bitching at him.
She spoke more to herself than to him. “The tech is decidedly military grade, maybe even experimental. Maybe I can fix it…. But it’ll be hit and miss, especially since it’s clear this jackass has done no maintenance on it.”
“This jackass happens to be sitting right here,” he said. Despite his mild irritation at the name-calling, he was relieved that she’d be able to help.
“Stand up. I’m going to have to strap your arm to the table. This might hurt, and I don't want this super arm of yours punching straight through me.”
Zain followed the instructions like a reluctant child, but at least he followed them. Once his arm was safely secured, she brought over her tools and started her work.
“So, what's the verdict, doctor?” He took a jab at humor, since it didn't usually grate her nerves.
She answered casually as she fiddled with his mechanical insides. “The technology is sophisticated, but it’s really just an upscale version of what I work with every day. The motors are working in pristine condition, but the actuators have blockages from lack of maintenance and that's what causing the arm to lock up. You're a moron for putting it off this long.” She raised her gray eyes to glance at him through a thick fringe of black lashes. “The neurotransmitters seem to be working overtime, so whenever the actuators freed a lock, it’d send the equivalent of several hundred muscle rotations back to the brain, simulating a brutal pain spasm.” She paused when he stared cluelessly back at her, then shook her head. “Never mind. I think I have most of the parts on hand to fix it, and what needs to be ordered won't take too long.”
“Right.” He paused, shifting uncomfortably. “And what needs to be ordered, how much is it going to be?”
She lifted her head to look back at him, as if not expecting the question. She didn't answer for a moment. “Don't worry about it. It's little stuff.”
Unsure how to respond, he opted for silence and she looked back down at her work for the next hour.
*
Stella tried to concentrate on her work, and Zain spent the time gritting his teeth, letting out short grunts or muffled groans. Stella could swear he blacked out at least once, but thankfully there was no screaming. There had been something endearing about the brave front he’d put up for what she knew was an excruciating operation. Her dad often did the same, even working on himself at times.
“All right,” she sighed and pulled back. “I’ve done what I can for now. I’ve taken your strength down a notch, but that’ll prevent further lock ups until I’ve got all the parts for a thorough repair.” She noticed his eyes fixed on her with an expression she didn't quite recognize. “What?”
He didn't speak immediately. “Thank you. It’s been a long time since somebody has done something like that.”
He wasn't looking at her anymore, his eyes downcast. Nothing like his usual cocky attitude. And she realized what that look was. Vulnerability.
“It’s no big deal. It was just like one of my father’s pain spasms from his prosthetics. Couldn't very well leave you alone knowing how much those hurt.” She paused. “And it wasn't your fault you smashed the desk.” She added the last part a little bit sheepishly. Like hell was she about to admit she was at wrong in shouting at him.
He looked up at the mention of her father. “Your father had neuroprosthetics? Was he ex-military?”
Stella shook her head. “Nah, he was miner in one of the nearby mining satellites. Faulty safety protocols led to the loss of both his arms, huge lawsuit. Enough to buy the prosthetics and set up this little business in Orcus proper. But what about you? You ex-military?”
Zain looked like he was about to withdraw again, but he relented with a sigh. “Yeah, Orbital Trade Route Wars veteran. This arm here is a gift from the government, for dedicated service.” He paused, as if unsure if he wanted to continue. “But they won't ever make up for what all of us lost there.”