Salvage

Expansion Edit 4/15 ...

1.

It was already starting to fade, the way these things do. She should have been pleased; she thought that was what she'd wanted. During the failed Fugue Secession, Captain Dyon Kruger had made herself something of a celebrity as a privateer, most notably when her battered little ship Testament recaptured a planetary-pacifier from the secessionists called the Scourer—four times bigger than hers, it had been dealing out a great deal of hurt to the Vigilance assembly. Yet that particular triumph, though crucial to the war effort, was only part of what eventually attracted so much widespread attention to her. It had far more to do with her aristocratic heritage—she was of one the founding families of Avonlea—and her striking looks. Dyon was young, blonde and possessed the flawless classical beauty of all her kin. Of course that was chiefly the result of gengineering, and of the great Kruger wealth that had paid for it. Less fortunate people shouldn't let such things overawe them, yet they did. Such foolishness remains a weakness of the human species. You'd think we would erase it from us, now that the nology has been mastered to do so. But we don't.

Now that the secessionists had been wiped out, Captain Kruger and her crew had to take up less glamorous salvage work. The whole system was littered with far-flung wrecks. It had turned out to be a very brief war; it had also been an exceptionally costly one. Worst recorded in five generations. Over a thousand vessels of substantial size were presently listed as destroyed or missing—which only meant that their destruction hadn't yet been officially confirmed. It would take several cycles to clean up all this mess. Good money in the business, provided you could put up with the tedious and often depressing aspects of it.

Then Kruger lost three of her crew to a nasty as-yet nameless virus. Nobody had died, thankfully, but they needed hospitalized and replaced. Their recovery would be long and slow and painful. They were her best people too, her principal cutdown team, and good friends of hers. She was only able to get two new men and she wasn't at all happy with either of them. Shavi and Rojjo. They claimed to be brothers though they didn't look much alike. They were unreliable, and that was putting it too mildly. Didn't take their work seriously, and she was fairly certain they'd brought drugs with them on to her ship. She hadn't caught them using. Nonetheless the signs were painfully obvious. They always laughed too much, and tended to walk funny. She didn't test them. She should have, obviously, but she knew they'd fail and then she'd be obligated to confine the lowlifes until she could hand them over to Vigilance. That would leave her hopelessly shorthanded again. Nobody better was available unless she left Fugue altogether, which she couldn't do without violating her salvage contract. That virus had got all over the fucking system, any place you might want to dock. Possibly it was a leftover bio-weapon some other idiot salvager had released accidentally, or else a last bit of pointless maliciousness from the defeated secessionists.

Just over halfway through their tour, they happened upon something surprising. A wreck that wasn't like the others. A wreck that wasn't wrecked at all.

2.

It was a luxury yacht, about the same size as the Testament, only far prettier. Too pretty, perhaps.

Drifting on minimum power, yet not completely shut down. No life readings, no transmissions, yet no visible damage. The name was Good Time Girl. It was listed as stolen, from a cycle before the secession broke out. If that was true, why was it floating out here after all this time, untouched? Made no sense. Thieves would have chopshopped it, and they wouldn't have waited to do that, not one day. At the very least, they would have repainted the exterior.

Captain Kruger went aboard herself with the two new guys. Because she didn't trust them on their own, and the rest of her small crew (just three others, the pilot and the backup and a medic) weren't really meant to leave the ship on these kinds of missions, or most other kinds. They were "shippies", not "downouters"—this wasn't their kind of work. She wasn't meant to leave the ship herself, obviously, as the captain. No choice. She at least knew all the standard procedures and protocols for what salvagers liked to call a "smooth swift sackrun" (playing off the word "ransack"), and she had plenty of hands-on nitty-gritty experience from earlier times.

Soon as they were through the midlevel hatch, she sent the pair aft to secure the engines and try to power them up, while she headed forward to the helm. Halfway there, she found out the truth about what had happened to this ship. It all made sense, in an instant, when she met two Outrages in the corridor.

They were a particular type of sexbot that was recently declared illegal, after too many people tampered with their safeguards. They tended to run amuck.

Same shit must have happened on this yacht. Rich idiots let the things get out of hand and had to flee, stranding them inside. Too scandalous to tell the authorities. So they report the ship stolen and forget about it. If somebody finds it, cleans it out, and returns it, then great. They say thanks and pay a reward with plausible deniability—"Oh dear, you say when you retrieved it, there were Outrages aboard? How bizarre! How dreadful! The thieves must have tried to turn our poor ol' ship into a brothel! Those dirty-minded buggers." And if not, if they never get their ship back, they don't mind. They shrug off the loss. Easy enough. Anybody that can afford a spaceyacht like this can afford to replace it at will.

The robots charged her, roaring. She pulled her blaster and hosed them with plasma. It slowed them down but didn't destroy them. They were built big and hefty.

One had the head of a lion and the body of a scorpion, except the top of its tail was a giant penis in place of the stinger. The second one was a minotaur with four arms and two cocks, one right above the other.

They'd be laughable if they weren't so disgusting. How could people get turned on by this kind of shit? It was baffling. Hundreds of different types had circulated, before the crackdown. The designs that didn't manage to look frightening just turned out damn silly instead. The very first one she'd seen, many cycles back at a party while she was still in university on Avonlea, it had been a vast jumble of clawed arms sticking out all over a vaguely horse-like body, resembling the fruit-picking robots they used in their orchards—it would be like trying to have sex with farm equipment! Hardly her notion of erotic. She hadn't stuck around.

Yet the wretched things became quite a craze for quite a while, and the weirdest models were usually the most favored. Much of that, no doubt, was the result of cunning and aggressive marketing from their manufacturers, so the purchase of Outrages had become a mark of distinction and sophistication, while anthropomorphic fuckbots, no matter how beautiful and lifelike, were supposedly only for the unimaginative, the old-fashioned, and the timid. The bourgeois.

The fad hadn't lasted long. Thank God. But it had never died out entirely either. Couldn't be healthy for the species. Normal fuckbots were a different story; she'd indulged with a few of those herself, upon occasion. Perfectly harmless adult toys, in her view. A comfort for lonely moments. Only how do you start a family, or maintain one, if instead, trying to be daring and artistic or whatever, you've taught yourself to get turned on by whacky metal monsters or farm machinery? Maybe it was puritanical of her to feel that way—she just couldn't imagine people like that succeeding in marriage or parenting down the line. Demented decadence.

And now two particularly aggressive examples of that demented decadence were trying to get their hands (or pinchers) on her, unless she destroyed them first.

If she'd brought a bigger, more powerful gun, she would have been all right. All she had was her little handgun and it didn't quite cut the mustard. It took out the lion-headed scorpion, and then its battery failed on her. Her stomach wrenched as she watched the bright disruptor beam dim down and then peter out, leaving nothing but a useless wisp of steam from the crystal tip of the weapon's overheated emitter. A rather dreadful and emasculating sight. Silly perhaps for her to think of that particular word, only there's no proper female equivalent, or not one that readily occurred to her. To feel oneself robbed of strength and potency and pride, all at once. That was what she felt when her gun died. Her balls had just been chopped off.

All she could do after that was run, which wasn't easy in her cumbersome semi-armored spacesuit, with its chunky boots and airpack. Pointless. She tried to lunge through a door on the left, hoping to barricade herself in the room. Didn't make it, not even close. The minotaur caught her in seconds.

She screamed for help—actually she'd been screaming since the Outrages appeared. Shavi and Rojjo should have got up here already. They'd had plenty of time. She wasn't particularly surprised that they hadn't showed yet. Useless retarded assholes, the pair of them. Did they have their comms switched off, while they dicked around with the engines in the ass of the yacht?

First thing the robot did was twist her helmet off and hurl it over its shoulder. With four arms to work with, the minotaur was able to hold her hands over her head and stretch her up on her tiptoes while it tore off her entire spacesuit with its extra pair of hands. She was just lucky the yacht's life support was still functioning, like the internal grav. A little chilly in the corridor. Otherwise the air was fine, both the quality and the pressure level.

The beast wasn't content with removing the spacesuit. Well, of course it wasn't. It went to work stripping off her uniform beneath, and her underwear beneath that. "Don't you do that! Don't you dare!" It dared, though. And it was thorough about it. Crazy monster even took a second to flick the elastic headband from her hair, and to peel off her socks. It chuckled, while it did, and snorted steam out its nostrils. Her toes clenched defensively and she couldn't stop herself whimpering—the socks had been her last remaining pathetic scrap of clothing, her nudity didn't truly hit home until they got taken, and besides, her feet were very ticklish.

Its twin robococks were illuminated with red coils pulsing under their synthetic skin, and they vibrated, growling.

Deeply mortifying experience, to be stripped like this by a towering nightmarish monster, powerless to escape or fight back. She was supposed to be a mighty war hero, best of the best, for God's sake! Now she was helpless and bare ass naked! Overcome by a mindless mechanical plaything—not a real monster but only a kind of puppet, a ridiculous malfunctioning household appliance. It wanted to fuck her! If she couldn't get away—and she couldn't—the robot was going to start nailing the hell out of her any second! All she could do, besides curse, was wriggle around and kick at it. And all those movements seemed to do was excite it further, even when her exposed toes connected with its balls (all four of them), as well as perhaps unwittingly assisting it in the speedy removal of her clothing. Twisting and kicking herself out of her own shredded layers.

"Shit! Shit! Let go of me! Let go! You can't treat me like this! God damn you!"

She knew it wouldn't kill her, though. It probably wouldn't injure her either. Not on purpose. It was a sexbot, you had to remember, it was made for sex. It just wanted to have sex with her, not eat her or mutilate her. And when it fucked her—this was the key thing—it wouldn't be doing that to get itself off, like a regular male beast—it would be trying its damnedest to get her off, again and again. That was its sole purpose, the primary objective of its entire existence. Ghastly as it looked, it was designed to give physical pleasure. This was meant to be an entertaining adult toy, not a weapon or a torture device, despite its appearance to the contrary. When the things went wild after their safeguards got shut off, they still wouldn't hurt you—that was never the problem. The problem was just they wouldn't stop fucking you. They worked too well, with too much single-minded dedication. You couldn't get away from them, not on your own. People had supposedly lost their minds, or come close to it. At least those were the stories you heard. A sort of dirty joke evolving into a legend. Exaggerated bullshit, most likely. A myth for perverts to speak of in hushed tones.

It made you wonder, of course. How could it not? Anybody would react the same exact way—you wanted to find out what the thing could do. You wanted to find out if it lived up to its programmer's aspirations, and the crazy legends that had spread. She hadn't got any decent sex in her life in far too long—not since the outbreak of the stupid war, in fact. No good opportunities had presented themselves. Not to say this qualified, all things being equal ... Yet when life gives you lemons ...

In space, and in war, and in everything else, there is no survival trait more vital than adaptability.

There was an e-scape she'd been fiddling through occasionally in her office during dead hours—you get a lot of dead hours on space missions, what with space being so fucking big and completely empty and boring, for the most part. It was a sword-and-sorcery thing, where she'd play a cute warrior-witch in a spooky forest fighting bunches of muscular sweaty tattooed barbarians with really big swords and really tiny loincloths. And she'd screwed up the settings accidentally; like a lot of e-scapes, maybe most of the silly things nowadays, you could put into a pornographic mode, if you felt like. She'd done that without realizing somehow. Clicked on the wrong button on the starter menu or something. So afterward if she let the barbarians beat her, rather than die and reset, her character would get tied up and stripped naked and gangbanged. It was pretty atrocious, and she would have been offended by it except the way it was done was so cartoonish and silly and over-the-top, it cracked her up instead. And then the more she watched those stupid scenes, the more they started to get to her. Started to turn her on, what with no other outlets handy in her life. Not a whole lot, not seriously—but some. She'd never gone as far as fingering herself under her desk while she played the e-scape, but there were times she got tempted to. The barbarians would fuck the little witch warrior into a stupor if you let the scenes play long enough, until the character's big blue eyes would cross and her tongue would hang out. And instead of screaming and moaning, she'd just giggle out of control, endlessly.

Stupid as it was, it made you wanna get fucked like that. As crazy and dirty as can be. Just once in a girl's life, at least. Just to know what it was like.

The Outrage robots were designed to make that exact idea a reality.

Getting captured by one, and getting stripped nude by it, and knowing what it wanted ... Well, freaked out as she was, it still couldn't help but turn Dyon on. She felt the stirring inside her. Not to say she was happy about it. Still, it was there. It occurred. The kindling of desire, and curiosity. Just a tiny bit. A faint scorching flicker, and then the itchy tightening in her belly, and in her crotch, and in her throat ...

She felt her pussy moisten and squirm and seep.

Dear God, she thought, what am I going to do? What if it ... and what if I ... Oh God! If I surrender ... If it makes me ... Oh help! The shame of it! My reputation! My career!

Only part of her felt this way—a very small part, at the back of her mind. On the surface, she gave no sign. Hid her fears, and showed not the slightest inclination to give in. The look on her face was an expression of murderous blazing fury. "You piece of shit! I'm going to have my men smash you into tiny pieces, and then we're going to melt all those tiny pieces into slag. And then I'm going to have the slag ejected into the void! Do you hear me! I'm going to erase your existence from the cosmos!"

The robot didn't respond to any of these remarks. Could it even hear or understand her? Wouldn't it have to, to determine it was doing a good job on her? How else could it tell? Well, there were other physiological signs ... more trustworthy indicators than verbal signals, if it had the means to detect them. Probably its body was filled with sophisticated sensors, beaming straight through her skin. A ghastly thought.

It proceeded to penetrate her with both its cocks at once. Entering her pussy and ass at the exact same time. Yet it was not rough about this. It took its time, lining her up carefully and easing its appendages in with meticulous precision and patience. The robococks' internal vibrations assisted in stimulating lubrication from her body. They also each emitted copious lubricant themselves. More than enough.

"Uhhn! Uhhuuhh! Stop it! Stop this at once! Listen to me! This is your last warning! Don't you understand? If you don't release me this moment, I swear I'll—I'll—Ohh! Oh shit! Ohhoohhoohh! Ohhuuhh! Will you listen? Will you just listen? You can't do this! Not to me! You mustn't do this to me! Stop pushing! Stop pushing! Wait a second! Wait! Dammit! Just wait!"

It did not. It held her suspended in the air at a steep slant, her pointed toes no longer reaching the deck. She couldn't get away. No escape, no defense. It had turned her around, so her back was to him, and her bottom. One set of arms still held hers outstretched over her head, the huge hands like manacles clamped on her wrists, its other hands gripped her at the hips. He kept her legs separated with his thighs braced between them, thick and immovable as tree trunks rooted to the deck. Its mighty cocks, once they were implanted, could probably have supported her at that startling airborne angle all by themselves, if it let go of her. Not that it did.

The twin cocks didn't hurt much, not even the one invading her butt. At least not like she expected. Not that they pushed in perfectly easy either. A whole lot of stretching and pressure and heat—painful, but not exactly real pain, not the normal horrible kind. Instead it was the nice kind, that sort of tingly tickling "good burn" you build up inside your muscles when you're working out, that energizes you and encourages you to push for more.

And of course there's the other way you get that tingling good burn besides working out—especially in your pussy, or up within your ass. You get it from letting a well-endowed man shove his penis in those places, if/when he's got your parts aroused and lubed enough to accommodate the intrusion. Which was exactly what was happening. Then again, that's just a particular specific form of workout, isn't it? A false distinction, pretty much.

This was awful, though, feeling that "good burn". That realization or recognition—it was the moment she knew she was doomed. The fact this didn't feel horrible made it more horrible, overall. Her body was yielding. Her mind would follow.

This was when she succumbed to despair. The look on her face changed, and the tone of her outcries. Furious protests, threats and curses were replaced, now its twin cocks were tunneling slowly but resolutely upward inside her, by pleading and whimpers, groans and gasps. "Oh God. Oh dear God. God no. No! Please! You monster! Youuhhhooh!" Yet soon, both her passages had expanded to accept and entirely engulf the full lengths of cocks, with no tearing or bloodshed, no great agony. Except of course the emotional agonies of weakness, surrender, captivity and humiliation. "Please! Let me go! Let me go! Ahhuuhh! Ahhuuhhaahhuuhh!" It began to pump her up and down on the cocks. It got down to the steady business of fucking her brains out. "Don't do this to me! You can't do this! You can't!" It could, though, it damn well could, and it would, and in fact it already was. "Nooohhoohh! Nooohhuuhhooohh!"