Her senses were returning fast.
Accelerating. It
was
dark and damp, and smelled of old engine oil,
mould, and fungus; her nostrils twitched as the man’s tongue continued to
probe. Then he withdrew his tongue, and she could sense him gazing down at her.
So far, she’d identified eight men in the room - but there could be more.
So be it.
Amba gave a sigh, and opened her
eyes.
The man’s mouth dropped open like
a drawbridge with the chains cut, eyes going wide for a moment as Amber did two
things. First, her vagina clamped his fingers so tight they broke with audible
cracks,
like the snapping of dry timber. Second, her right hand came up and two of her
fingers invaded
his
flesh without permission. Straight through his
eyeballs, popping them with soft squishes.
The man screamed, and Amba
brought one foot back and kicked him across the room, where he crashed into the
wall, both popped eyes dangling on his cheeks like deflated balloons. His
companions turned, following his trajectory, and stood there, stunned, mouths
open, staring at his face and wobbling eyes.
Amba swung her legs from the
trolley and stood smoothly, watching as the men slowly returned their gazes to
her naked form. One grinned, an old provax with grey eyes and gold capped
teeth. “Hey, we’re sure going to have a party now, guys,” he said, gesturing
slightly with his head.
“You bet,” smiled Amba. She
stepped forward and punched him in the throat, swayed back from a wild whirring
counter-punch and stamped right, breaking a man’s knee backwards. Her elbow
shot up, breaking his jaw and lifting him from the ground, and then they were
on her. She punched a third man in the belly, fingers extending to push through
his flesh, hook his bowel, and pull it out in a blue-grey stream through the
hole. She dodged more blows, moving like a dancer, grabbed a fourth man by the
hair, kicked a fifth in the face, her toes slamming his nose and pushing a
knife of cartilage up into his brain. She kicked off from his falling body,
twisting around, snapping the neck of the man whose hair she was still holding.
An iron bar slammed at her, and she took the blow on her arm, twisting,
allowing the bar to slide across her skin as she dropped to one knee, punched
the attacker in the groin like a pile-driver, and took the bar. It whacked
left, then right, cracking two skulls, and the final man standing went into a
fast-forward reverse, hands up as she strode towards him. “No,” he said, “no!”
The iron bar slammed down, breaking his fingers and driving straight down
between his eyes, leaving his skull in a V-shape with brains oozing out around
the rusted iron. He dropped without further sound.
Awww, Amba!
complained Zi.
“What?” she hissed, as she
located the FRIEND.
You left none for me.
Later, Zi. That was too easy.
Trust me, it’ll get harder. You’ll get your turn.
I wanted some fun NOW...
Later,
soothed Amba.
Amba found her clothes and
dressed, slotting the FRIEND slowly into her chest. Feeling fully whole with Zi
inside her, she checked the bodies of her would-be abusers, finding the one
whom she’d left alive, with military precision and a torturer’s finesse.
He was sat, back to the wall,
popped eyeballs on his cheeks, whimpering, half-in and half-out of
consciousness. She moved to him, seated herself cross-legged before him, and he
jerked as if stung, coming out of his well of self-pity and stretching out his
hands towards her.
“No, don’t kill me,” he said.
“Janko. We have some talking to
do.”
“It was them! They made me do it!
I’m sorry, I’m sorry!“
“Shut up and listen, and I might
let you live.”
Janko clamped his teeth shut.
Fear gnawed him like rats in his belly. He was blind now; likely he would never
see again. And this strange, deadly woman - who had been wheeled down to them
as a cadaver - had shown she was far from dead. In fact... his brow furrowed.
No. It couldn’t be. They’d introduced them, at the end of the war; at the end
of the Helix War. A sneaky fucking human manoeuvre. Androids. Androids with the
ability to play dead - an infiltration device.
“You can help me,” said Amba,
voice soft now, almost caring. “I am looking for somebody. You will tell me
everything you know.”
“You’re one of them, aren’t you?”
“One of what?”
“The androids. They can play
dead. I’ve seen it.”
Amba considered this, then
reached forward, took one of his eyeballs, and ripped it free with a squelch.
Janko screamed and keeled sideways, cradling his face, sobbing, spit and snot
drooling from mouth and nose.
Amba waited for a couple of
minutes, then again reached forward and helped Janko to sit up. “You’re
obviously ex-military,” she said. “Good. That saves us some time. I’ll explain
it to you. I’m not just an android; I’m an Anarchy Model. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” whispered Janko through
his snot and drool. Amba placed a finger delicately against her lips, leaving a
tiny trace of blood. “I’m looking for Dr Jmes Kooky, Professor of Ride
Enjoyment at Theme Planet Central University. Now. I want to know everything
you know.”
~ * ~
Dr Jmes Kooky,
Professor
of Ride Enjoyment at Theme Planet Central University, sat in his office staring
at the six students before him with unadulterated distaste, loathing and
despair. The fact that it was actually the students who, through their student
fees, paid his salary, seemed of little consequence to Jmes. From his elitist,
experienced and some would say narcissistic point of view, Jmes had fashioned a
world view in which he was the
core,
he was the
centre,
he was in
fact the most important organic entity to ever walk the planets of the Four
Galaxies. Everybody else was just gravy. In Jmes’s world, Jmes ruled. And in
Jmes’s office, students were some kind of primordial slime sent to him to
simply facilitate one function - annoyance. After all, what other service did a
student provide? They were lazy, useless, pointless specimens who stayed in bed
all day, drank and shagged and did their utmost to do very little. It was rare
Jmes came across a student who was actually worthy of his attention, and indeed
these “worthy” specimens tended to be brunette, voluptuous, and with a “thing”
for older gentlemen.
On this bright, sunny day, with
beams of sunlight cutting through dust motes and the distant lazy sounds of the
Theme Planet rides rumbling on the horizon to the accompaniment of thousands -
nay,
millions
- of delighted screams, Jmes focused on his little group
and said, “Take out your EPads,” whilst absently rubbing at the grey bristles
of his beard.
The six students complied, and
Jmes caught one young brunette, a new student to the campus, eyeing him shyly
from behind her EPad, tongue licking her dry lips, big baby-blue eyes shifting
coquettishly from his rotund physique and back to her work. Jmes appraised her,
and with a deft flick of his eyes, checked for her name on his list. Karenta.
That was a sweet name. Jmes flicked his eyes back to her, and she was looking
at him again, EPen poised. She had masses of curled hair and fabulous breasts.
Fabulous
breasts.
Forcing his mind back to the
present, he said, “Okay, today we’re going to be looking at ride design
ergonomics. As you know, Monolith Ride Systems design every single ride on
Theme Planet, and of course their paramount design concern is that of safety.
Safety of passengers, safety of ride controllers, and indeed - where alien
organisms are used as part of a ride system - safety of the ride organism
itself.”
His eyes swept his class. The
punk with the pink Mohican was dozing into his EPad. The fat girl on the left
was picking her nose with the end of her EPen. The spotty teen on the right was
fumbling with his cock through his pants, no doubt either: a) rearranging his
tackle after an impromptu and unasked-for erection due to the benefit of the nearby
Karenta’s mostly visible bosom (it was a naively sexy plastic see-through
dress), or b) rearranging his tackle due to a cheap shot at covert masturbation
due to the benefit of the nearby Karenta’s mostly visible bosom. Dr Jmes made a
clicking sound of annoyance.
“Is everything okay, Jmes?” asked
Karenta, blinking at him with those big baby-blues.
Jmes flapped his mouth a little,
so surprised was he at being addressed thus. After all, he was a doctor with a
PhD in Ride Enjoyment, and indeed, an appointed Professor specialising in
research into the fields of Ride Enjoyment. One addressed him as “Doctor.” Or “Professor.”
Or even “Sir” or “God” would suffice. Jmes was not used to such a slack
ignorance with his mode of address, and during various avenues of study had in
fact chastised many a student of all age groups on the topic. The fact that
this had led to a group of students within his own cohort naming themselves “Dr
Narcissist’s Lonely Hearts Club Band”
did
nothing to deter him, trouble
him, or force him to desist in his course. Even when one boy called him “Old
Permanent Doctor Cunt” - to his face - there was barely a tremble in his lip,
although the drugged-up little bastard’s subsequent savage beating never made
the student newspaper,
Anarchy News -
“For The True Anarchist! (Whilst
Not Disturbing Your Studies.)”
“Erm,” said Jmes, unable to stop
himself before his anally retentive affliction kicked in,
“actually,
you
must address me as Doctor, Professor, or simply Sir. Although I prefer
Professor. Because I didn’t achieve this position without considerable effort,
you know, young lady.”
Karenta gave a small laugh,
politely, behind her hand, and said with a confidence he would never have given
her credit for, “Oh, come now, Jmes, we really shouldn’t stand on such
formality here, in such a small group, should we? I thought when I enrolled
last week we’d be like one big happy smiling family.”
Jmes spluttered, and felt a red
flush riot through his cheeks. When he’d first spotted her, she hadn’t seemed
dazzlingly beautiful, not what Jmes would called a student “stunner” who all
the Professors would seek to be the first to take to the little den at the back
of the university campus - fondly known as “Shag Corner” - but now her
confidence did something to Jmes. It brought out a blossoming in her character,
an attractiveness that had been hitherto hidden behind shaded layers. Jmes didn’t
want to be so crass as to use the analogy of an onion, but that was what
Karenta was when it came to her beauty. Her attractiveness was built up in
layers, and Professor Jmes Kooky looked very much forward to peeling back her
layers. Beginning with her clothes.
The tutorial continued, and Jmes
outlined various functions of Ride Enjoyment - both physical and psychological,
and how as a ride designer - or “TP Engineer,” to give the guys and gals on the
shop floor their complete professional titles - was so much more than simply
building units on a production line. The Engineers were a class of their own on
Theme Planet, with their own guild and hierarchy and police and prison systems.
Whereas some cultures worshipped precious metals, or sex (he threw a glance at
Karenta when he said the word, and was thrilled to see her staring straight at
him), the whole provax culture - and indeed, Theme Planet’s religion -was based
around the perfection of the
ride.
Enjoyment, excitement, pleasure,
these were things that provax lusted after, and had indeed been the social
building blocks which led to the creation of the Theme Planet in the first
place.
“I’m confused,” said Karenta, at
one point.
“About?”
“ On Earth, the humans say the
provax have no emotions. They call them
fish,
because to humans the
provax seem to display very little love or hate, fear or loathing. If that was
the case, if they were so emotionless, why would they seek enjoyment,
excitement and pleasure?”
“This is a commonly-held
misconception,” said Jmes, resting his chin on his steepled fingers and trying
his very hardest to project an air of cultured sophistication and
sexy-older-man magnetism. “Provax do not have a
lack
of emotions, it’s
just their emotions work in a different way, and to many layman humans, seem
diluted. Provax do feel emotions like humans, and in moments of very great
stress or love, appear very human indeed. However, they react differently to
humans - they are, after all, an
alien species.
Yes, many look
physically similar, and share the same style of internal organs - were hammered
into life on very similar worlds, evolved in very similar fashions
(notwithstanding the echoes and theories surrounding molecular and evolutionary
seeding from some ancient and yet-undiscovered alien culture) but provax and
humans are very, very different. At a base level. Genetically, and physically.”