Early in The Reason

Zombies can't lunge hungrily at somebody flying over. A shuttle goes to the city nearest the roadblocks. Once there no one will rent me a verti, fleeing citizens have got them all, I'll have to wave warrant displays to hitch rides from the military.

While riding gravity downward in the shuttle, suit got me a breakdown of the outbreak. It started like most historical cinema recordings of zombie outbreaks with vid crews of a zombie ENT production using the swamps as a filming location. Somehow zombie extras got zombiefied to run amok on the set. Blame when this occurs is usually put on casting which must have shoved a real zombie into the horde of actors by accident. The first to die was actors. The crew continued to record until too late. If you watch carefully you can see what has become known as Zombie Number One grab biting at a womyn zombie who is seen in another scene biting other zombies. The last time this happened a century or so ago was shown at Cannes to good reviews. Unfortunately the lessons learned in ancient cinema prove useless in this plot.

Much more current amateur video of our snapping zombies feasting on the neighbors brains show these zombies are of Type 3 on the Romero scale. The oldest known form of zombie is the Type 1 horde: a drugged person is buried as dead then dug up and revived. Continuous administration of drugs spiked with rare puffer fish venom keeps the zombie a zombie. Useful mainly as a docile servant. Maintenance drug costs are high. Illegal by most governments. Called a Type 1 zombie as drug costs typically limit horde size to one individual. Type 1 zombies do not crave brains but when sent to the market to pick up fried chicken and cola might have a nibble and a sip.

Type 2 zombie horde requires of the infected an induced persistent dissociative fugue that centers on a craving for brain. First recorded in very early cinema. Typically caused by meteorite impact carrying space fungus or plant. No incidents recorded last several hundred years. Type 2 zombies move very slow, respond negatively to fire, easily wiped out with methods at hand by survivors. Contained to localized geographic area, not pandemic. Horde size can range from several hundred to less then ten thousand.

Type 3 horde zombies satisfy the apocalyptic pandemic code red criteria. Not geographically localized. Often made up of recently dead who've been infected by bites upon the living uninfected. Wounded victims who escape being eaten appear to die then become zombies after a dormant period dependent upon dramatic stress. Horde sizes range from many thousands to millions. Typically type 3 zombies are the product of a twisted science gone evil. May be fast moving, may carry weapons, may be communicative depending on the warped science involved. Controlled by quarantine extermination programs or rehabilitation with zombie chows.

Type 4 horde zombies crave brains, are not localized, are recently or previously long dead, in fact can be very decomposed corpses that crawl out of their graves. Untraceable supernatural causes. Recorded also in cinema though outbreaks not seen since late first Hollywood period. Animal zombies may occur.

We live in a fortunate era. Who hasn't battled zombies in some game milieu? They are a convenient opponent in being dead already does not raise many moral or nationalistic objections. Hundreds of years of practice has made humanity ready with tried and true simulated zombie combat experience. Big drawback is there is no re-spawn in real life. You cannot reload a checkpoint in real life to give it another try. Though the military types long for this ability.

The nearest to the outbreaks city space port was in a state of panic. Only three people got off the shuttle, after having a look around two of those got right back on. The sea of people destined anywhere else pressed against me as I fought the tide. The quarantine zone is being extended toward us and everybody except me wants out now. I waved down a military officer whose armband flashed PIO in cool blue letters. He acknowledged my floating flashing ID with a pained: “OK so...?” Warrant slap! POW! Or more realistically 'DING' as it reached his coms. “Oh...” he read... ”OK so?”

“Take me to your leader. Which way to the front? Can I get a ride from somebody to headquarters?” He made a call.

They were a team of combat forensic anthropologists sent to investigate the thousands of missing people. They meant to document the struggles of the locals to survive. The Katska they rode in on had huge G5s' painted on all sides. There was barely room for me among the crates of questionnaires and lami pamphlets. I was asked if I'd seen the biologic survey team that went in ahead of them to “test for poisonous atmospheres, rogue virus's, deadly bacteria's, nerve gas's, eccetera...” Eccetera like there is much more.

I answered: “nope.”

Our driver had: “They went in with the tanks. So they should be OK.” though his face showed he was not certain. Had he seen active zombies? Refugees? “Oh yes. Everyone in the zone is dead or a zombie.” Mass graves? Pyres? Killed zombies? Trails of dead? “Oh you'll get all that.” And then he kicked us all out at the local quarantine headquarters.

…...

…...

This Command Post is split into cubicles by utility: armory, ammo, coms, snack room, TOC and TACs, supply, meds, trans, duty, CQ, each labeled with handy lami signs. I proceed from the armory to the less post apocalyptic decor of the snack cubicle. The place was full of break time soldiers whose background murmur of conversations rose then fell into dead silence. There was a minor chorus of chairs squealing as snacking soldiers and cops got out of the way of a Librarian entering with his entourage. He made his way right at me like a reaper missile. I gulp suits marstini sippy tube into 'mixing/standby mode'. I gotta upgrade to a higher capacity suit bar.

“You the Dvorak kid?” He's old. The oldest Librarian First Class I'd ever seen. Not short or tall with the face like a sculpture of an ancient politician. They tend to be young, eager, flexible, naive. I nod obediently. “I don't work for you.” He snarls. That settles that, he won't be bossed around by me. “My commitment is to the three S.R.s we got now. You're just along for the ride. The brass is going to send a squad in with you mostly so we can confirm for history how you die.” So I'm going in? With a squad? Of course I'm recording all this and upping it to the office for my report so eventually everyone can see me die anyway.

To live to get this old a Combat Librarian must be good and lucky. Somehow I feel I want to stay close to him like his magical luck perimeter could cover me too. I don't want any separation from his view that could cast doubt about my zombiefication. A guy could slip from view, get scratched to infection, then reappear a moment later a ticking brain eating time bomb in the midst of dinner. Any doubt just shoot. Historically proximity to a Librarian in combat is usually a very safe place. Too bad when I'll have to split off for the labs I want to see. He'll be too busy looking for those other two Senior Researchers and their Librarians, that were overrun two days ago, to worry about where I went.

I am dismissed by the back of this receding Librarian without my having said a word or learned his name. No hearty intro handshake or 'good luck' from him since I am already dead in his prehistory. 'Librarian First Class Otto Grey' Thanks suit. He's famous, I've heard of him. He's declared war on suspected zombies before. He's declared about thirty wars, big and small, mostly justifiable, but none for quite awhile, at least an info-war ago in fact. A good heroic Librarian might only get one or two in a whole career. Retired, suit says, brought back by the Public Library Board after they lost three Librarians to this outbreak.

Suit has the newest rules of engagement: 'shoot all zombies dead on sight'. The order of battle, with me included, is posted. It's a combined task force sweep to clear some zombie free chunks of real estate. They will try to clear and hold approximately eight square kilometers. The intel estimate is nine to nine hundred zombies per square kilometer, a range that makes me cringe at its absurdity, part of this area has already absorbed thousands of well armed troops. We, my squad of witnesses go in last, which worries me; in all my cinema/game zombie experience last in line is first to die. Naturally Otto the Librarian with his close support shock assault combat brigade goes in first to stir them up as last in line, us, tries to catch up.

My plan, since I can't ride in Otto's pocket is to skirt their main route, avoid zombie contact. Shooting is a known way to attract more zombies. By not shooting ones not within arms length and moving fast and waiting till they home in on Otto's brigade shooting we should be able to reach the labs OK. I know Otto's column will be shooting because we won't be there following last to be grabbed first. It should be loud enough to attract zombies from kilometers away, especially once air support starts bombing. Only ones we should see are the deaf ones.

…...

…...

Whatever caused this zombiefication is very new. Someone has found a way to animate dead meat into murderous machine. The long quest for a fleshy suitably sexy non threatening domestic bot has struggled with the meaty parts. Plastic no matter how squishy or well warmed is not the same. Growing blank people and trying to program them has had not much success either: lawyers. Building mechanical yet fleshy people bots is safe from lawyers as an individual product item can't qualify as sentient life, or sue anybody. So some well meaning mad genetic scientist in the interest of power and greed has sniped and shuffled bits of DNA, cooked up flesh in vats, till something they did crossed over. Some new type of life has taken over the victims basic biology of life. The chemistry of life mechanisms encoded in the zombies genes must have been scrambled by some bio labs gene tinkering.

The span of the existence of life on Tera is geologic. Life has outlasted continents. It is meta geologic since life has so transformed the planet. The very first choices of chemistry creating sustainable reactions is at the root of all life. All life as we know it shares the same basic mechanisms at the cellular level, shares the transfer of knowledge in the genetic recipes. All life shares these basic functions that make life. Tiny strands of coded knowledge control even the largest of beings. So to understand big you have to go small, molecular small, atomic small. Lots of things affect the very small world in very large ways, thus, at this moment: brain craving zombies. It's usually too late for the very small when zombies are pounding at the door. They were probably searching for a genetic obesity cure and the menu preference mode got stuck on human brains. According to the Holy Hollywood archives not the first time obesity treatments have led to zombies.

This outbreak had to have started years ago quietly in actions rooted in one of the bio labs around here. These bio corporations like industrial areas surrounded by swamp, or in far deserts, there are a few under the sea, many on the moon and in orbit, like they half expect something dangerous could very well escape. It has happened. It's like a resigned inevitability. The NA Army thinks they have the zero infection location plotted to a lab run by one of the corporations they buy their secret poisons, deadly bugs and stuff from. They can save a lot of money here by grabbing up all they can get that they would have had to pay for otherwise. No one alive from the corporation left around to work up a bill. If that corp caused the outbreak they are done as a business entity. They'll never get insurance again. They are sure to be sued by millions of people and businesses. The Army can kill zombies that hunt the living; few armies have stopped lawyers that hunt money. First came the zombies then came the Army here comes the lawyers.

The second Senior Researcher intrigued by these zombies quickly secured the support of a Librarian backed by the military structure that imposed the quarantine zone. They went in late last week, only three days ago with a Battalion of heavy infantry on hundreds of assault vehicles under a cloud of air and space fire support; no ones had contact for days. An armed force of over a thousand evaporated into the hundred proof mildly radioactive shiny metallic fog, accompanied by two Senior Researchers with a Librarian included. Heat signatures recorded from space record an intense battle that lasted less then an hour, then six hours of chaotic coms interspersed by horrific vid scenes from pockets of survivors while the Governments struggled with raising a relief force to rescue them. Earlier, before anyone thought apocalypse another Researcher with a Librarian First Class and a trainee First Class Librarian Combat Document Clerk went no coms on the second day of the outbreak before the quarantine was established, they had gone looking for the movie crews. It became obvious to anyone being asked to provide troops as the quarantine zone expanded that there could now be up to several hundred thousand zombies in there.

Putting these kinds of labs and bio-flesh factories near swamps that happen to be next to large cities does not enhance their isolation. Swamps and zombies go together in every horde type, add a city, that's what we've got here. There must be... it can only mean... yes no... thousands, no... maybe ten thousand zombie lawyers! Who do you sue?! From here safely surrounded by guns its hard to believe some people can have survived in there; could be thousands of isolated pockets of survivors. It's what we are counting on. Hopefully someone is still alive in that lab that can explain why they needed so many hundreds of millions of liters of alcohol. My personal crusade, an angle missed by the missing three Senior Researchers who got here early on the zombie thing, only me is after the alcohol.

Where did all the alcohol go? It's a volume that dwarfs the local structures seen from space. What did they do with it? No empty wet fuel rockets landed anywhere near to fill up before blasting off. Pouring it into the swamp would have been noticed downstream, but the present alcohol clouds might be a hint of this. Did they pump it into the ground like the ancient fractors? Perhaps the pipes are broken somewhere, somehow, or they just left the booze spigot running.

“Why we going there?” The soldiers don't like the idea of leaving the column. I explain the 'last in line rule'. They are still reluctant. I tell them we are going there to seize data relating to alcohol shipments. I could see the change come over them, the word 'seize' excited them and the 'shipments of alcohol' gave them hope for the future.

“We break away low and quiet. No contact shooting. Shove the zombies out of the way. We keep moving fast to these big doors on this building.”

These guys assigned to me are not an ugly bunch. Well one of them is. Marines? “It's a swamp.” “Space Marines?” “Water Marines.” OK swamp tactics to the water Marines. They didn't seem to want to talk about the distinction anymore. One of the better looking ones was their boss they called: 'Gunny',which I assumed meant he would be good with guns. A good looking one of those that Gunny yelled at constantly was 'Boats”, who must have large feet; hard to tell with the anti-zombie booties on. The one of them that was most not ugly was the Marine they called 'Pig', which I thought was unfair because she seemed gorgeous when she peeked out of her blast hood from behind her Gatling blaster, her nickname must be about how she eats. The last and least in rank, also by far in my opinion the ugliest was the Marine they called 'Cherry', which is actually his name: Myron Cherry. Cherry was also harnessed into a Gatling blaster. These guys intend to mow down any kind of unarmed 'run at you' type enemy. I am comforted by that concentration of firepower only as long as it is pointed away from me. Gunny's “We keep you in the middle.” tactical sketch has them both behind me however. At least half their guns are pointed away from me.

“What is it you do Boats? I mean he's the boss, and they got Gatling blasters?” Demo, coms, meds, what? He just grinned at me. Gunny answered in his cigar choked growl:

“His job is to kill you...” pause “if you get bit. He's gonna watch you the whole way. His job is to survive to bring back a record out from under the mist and report exactly how you died with vid, audio, DNA portions, telemetry, witness statements, pieces of you, eccetera.”

“My mission is to make sure you're dead. I'll be right behind you every step.” While the 'last guy rule' here gave me some comfort, Gunny's tactical positions put Boats right in front of me! I decided not to bring it up.

 

Any form of Government is inherently stupid. A Government is not an intelligent thing. Look at history. Some are smarter then others but every smart one still makes stupid mistakes. The stupidity of a government, of course, depends on the stupidity of the people that work for it. This 'idiots in power to stupidity' ratio churns through all humyn events. We are living in the grip of the stupidity ratio even now. Oh sure, in our futuristic era people of Government take all the best smart drugs, the latest lami-to-your-head enhancements, buy the most intelligent pants, suffer the fad-est brain diets to better govern the other idiots, it makes no difference to the ratio.

Since the triple economy money is no longer a problem, yet Governments still find many ways to express their stupidity. In architecture for example, like the structure I stand in the shadow of. What is the source of the human fascination with living in huge tall cubes stacked vertically? The residents of this idiotic monstrosity don't live here because they are fascinated with elevator travel, they live here because they are the 'not poor' who have no choice. Cash your credits unwisely and you could live here in the stacks. It's not their stupidity that got them here it's the Governmental stupidity that thought the best place to put them is in tall cubed stacks.

“The zombots are loose on levels eighty five to ninety seven. We got them contained. Levels seventy five to one oh seven are quarantined zone. Floors seventy to seventy four and one oh eight to one eighteen are staging and support zones. We've cut holes between floors for better access.” Hard to make eye contact with this cop. He had a shifty look. I mean he kept shifting seven centimeters left then ten centimeters right like he was holo projecting his own image in some kind of doppelganger blink mode. He seemed to be somewhere in the middle of where he wasn't. Makes him hard to aim at I guess, though I don't think it would fool a pile of zombies; zombots, I don't know...

The other cops threw skeptical glances at Space. He looks all business in his new neon yellow anti-shark shuttle suit with the latest canine ETACs that could stun us all senseless instantly if things get iffy. Their worry: I think it's that he's still such a tiny puppy.

“The elevators only go twenty floors at a time.” Stupid. “You have to get off and board another for the next twenty floors.” So stupid. “Windows are out on the two floors where fires are burning. That section of sprinkler system was never hooked up properly.” Stupid, stupid!

“No one we know of has been eaten for the last two hours. We think they've gone dormant. It could be residual 'end of shift/recharge' mode programming. But we don't know for sure but we are going in anyway.” And how is that not stupid? I mean the way he said it: two 'but'-s in a row!

Monsieur Coiola here...” introduced by glove-less handshakes to all within reach; more stupid bacteria trading, “represents the city office that designed this row of the development”. He doesn't look stupid. He has a plan:

“I'm sure we can get in and go anywhere through the ventilation duct-works.” So often in ancient cinema this proves stupid.

To the NA army uniform wearer at my side: “You're sure she's in there?” I give the wall a nod.

“Oh yes. She was broadcasting telemetry with comments until two hours ago. We know right where she was then.”

“What? Are you no longer in contact?”

“Well, her batteries must have gone dead. Soon as she can recharge we're certain she will have coms up.”

Recharge...sure...stupid.

Traci is in this gigantic cube grid people box somewhere trying to stomp out a new kind of zombie nest; this time 'zombots'. Half biologic maid bots have been infected somehow to hijack their diet to crave human brains. Is it in their programming? Was it a virus? Digital or biological? Inevitable is what it is. Stack thousands of people like this and eventually there will be zombies. Only difference this time is the zombies are half robot.

Her coms were pinging two hours ago when she called me in orbit. It was shaky holo. My audio wasn't getting through to her, lagged out or lost. She said to get here quick. So we did.

This is not the first outbreak in the mega complex's. Domestic tech has gone rogue from time to time. The modern ambi-aide personal servants are more then half made of genetically engineered bio hardware to make them more market-ably humyn-like. Read the warranty. Accepting terms of use might exclude mutinous murderous tendencies in limited liability appliances. Strict quarantine followed by a thorough violent quanti-magnetic memory cleansing usually cuts down any vacancy period.

If it is a virus in the bio parts, that is just the thing to attract Traci.

We skip the six or seven elevators to fly up the seventy three floors in a bearcat right up to an assault platform attached to the building side at some blasted windows. The local police are well organized for action at urban altitude. Just in the wrecked living room we enter they have enough firepower to wipe out the whole city. Which is good. They might have to. A bot zombie breakout here could quickly spread across Tera. Everybody, even in cube towers has at least six of those slave machines; easy financing.

Faulty brain craving killer cleaning bots are one thing but when they can reproduce!... well, even the protos couldn't do that! One brain meal and your maidbot is creating thirty little copies of herself; small zombots that need a brain meal and corpse eating to assemble big enough to reproduce. Several thousand people were trapped on those quarantined floors, by now there could be many tens of thousands of big and small zombots waiting to burst upon the city.

“Madame Smule represents the manufacturer of many of the products malfunctioning in this area.” He waves over a sharp shuttle suited bright eyed womyn with some kind of staff on several active feeds. That's dedicated response to be here in person. Shows how much is at stake. No lawyers for the destroyed apartment dwellers lurking around yet.

“My clients built seventy three percent of the service devices applicable to the alleged malfunction. The rest are from several other sources that are defunct. The remainder home built with off the shelf parts”. Her top tech on holo takes over with a smiling goatee face:

“We think it's a worm in the brain package.”

“Like a malicious program that spreads itself?”

“No like a real worm. Vir tortille ….A wiggly one. Very tiny.”

Madame Smule nods in agreement. “Yes a swamp worm. A brain craving swamp worm.” By her smile I'm sure it is not a warranty issue.

Swamp worms huh... eighty floors up a Paris FN EU apartment stack. This makes it less stupid how?

The torn up apartments with gear scattered everywhere, the bored quarantine troops slouching everywhere, the loungi-cliners crammed against everything else, the darkened dusty shadowed spaces makes me pensive about brain worms. A Police medic techie has a solution:

“We've got a special helmet we are testing that makes it very difficult for the worms to reach the brain. It could give the wearer extra time for rescue.” It looked ridiculous. The anti-brain worm helmet was little more then a clear plastic bag tugged over the head secured around the neck with an elastic band. Frustrated worm infested zombots could watch the wearer suffocate.

“But... don't the worms attack the servi-bots and turn them into violent brain eaters?” I'm not the only one this occurs to.

“Well we're not sure. No one has survived an encounter long enough to check and report. The worms might try for us thinking we are bots also.”

“Better to wear the helmet then risk a brain worm.” This prudent person tries one on.

“But how do you breathe in that plastic bag?” If I'm gonna put one on my head there are things I got to know.

“Helmet use time limits are an issue. We are working to extend the service interval.” Which must be about three minutes. Prudent person starts a topple. Stupidity factor showing strong.

I am for gearing up. Space too. Our shuttle suit shark proof visor-ed hoods ought to detour casual brain worm exposure. Space's stun should knock out any kind of worm in range including intestinal.

I am now introduced to the leader of our group insertion. He seems a likely hero type, but... when someone yells 'BRAIN WORMS!' which way will he run?

 

It was early in the era of orbi-culture. Industrial farming in orbit included chicken satellites hosting millions of zero-G cluckers. That's where it started: chickens. Turned out chickens raised in zero-G did better if they weren't exactly alive. Actually almost completely biologically dead was the best chicken to grow. The dead chicken being already dead did not have to be protected from the diseases which usually attack only living chickens. Dead chicken did not have to be free range, which posed problems in space. Never alive chicken does not have to be treated as sentient beings and assured meaningful lives. This saves lots of money.

The market of the time, early orbi-culture, still required chicken to look chicken-like. The food industry process engineers worked hard at making the best solution cultured egg-less vat brooded space chicken meat. After awhile, the techies that ran the bots that cleaned the vats noticed lots of boneless chicken stuck to the insides of the vats. They had a culture that grew edible chicken cells on anything.

This changed tertiary farming forever. Oh, people still farm and ranch and practice animal husbandry, just no longer industrially, no longer using vast swaths of land. Hobby meat for gourmets is still big business. Dinner lives a full life before signing the waiver for the butcher. Today the really big meat is in space.

In orbit of our moon Luna.

Sheep-sats, cow-sats, chicken-sats, pig-sats, sats full of vats full of any kind-of meats anybody not a vegan or a cannibal would really want to eat. Though there are rumors...

Custom Cultures Limited Laboratory satellite factory is a huge series of jacketed tanks strapped together behind a solar collector array in an antennae forest. This place brews the soupy living milk of cells all the dead meat needs to grow. Our spacecraft mob zipping into it's orbit looked like insects buzzing a gigantic spiny corpse. The French EU Frigate a warlike hummingbird to all the mosquitoes of space of Bearcats and cubs and Katska's and handi-cabs full of lawyers.

Our assault fleet is outnumbered by the space tankers, freighters, lined up in spirals of waiting to load or unload. Vans very like the one Kermit flew to Luniplas Crater Seven line a parking ledge. The great thing about the pilot-less remote controlled Bearcub is I sit up front in the pilot seat, with the big front window to look out of. Room for me and Space, Traci and Bette, and the Librarian. How come my blue one didn't have four seats up front like this? I ask the launch tank of marstini at my hand.

The person in the shock sack laid out... well, anywhere, set the Bearcub down in the row of delivery vans on the ledge of a long oblong structure. Airlock intact we disembark in 'blast em!” mode. It is a pleasant stroll through typical space business decor to the typical space factory 'control center'. Control of this operations podule secured by already re-promoted Captain No Chaos Here who somehow beat us to control.

Here too the staff are zombies. Only two, captured with the locking hatch's by corporate security from remote. No survivors to stun.

The Custom Cultures securities have great vid of Dr Kermit stealing the van. He loaded the zombie bomb bottle into it from the handi-cab he arrived here in. He brought it in the cab from somewhere... ? How did he zombiefy these two hapless employees? Why did they let him in the podual?

Traci: “Food delivery. Zombie bomb bottle identical to the Luniplas device. Vid being analyzed.” Troops carrying with poles a bubbled bottle squeezed past us toward the door.

Librarian: “The delivery van has been sighted. Parked at a 'Stucky's Rest Satellite' halfway to Balance Station.”

Me: “Is he inside having breakfast? They make a great waffle.”

Bette: “We are dropping a bubble bag over the whole orbital. Let god sort them all out!”

Me: “'God'?”

Traci: “Our new testing protocol: G.O.D. 'good or dead'.”

The Smiling Nose by glitchy holo: “Gegenspieler was there just after the office opened for the morning brought coffee and pastries and a zombie bomb. The Seattle police are after him.” He stands no chance against their doughnut fueled persistence.

Seattle Police Deputy Chief Sorenson: “We've got him! He rents three floors of University Marina tower. The site is surrounded.” Vid shows hundreds of police in bubble suits crouched for action behind all available cover.

Me: “Lets go!” But I'm no longer in charge of my transportation. This Bearcub with the up front seating is on Traci's signature.

Traci: “Lets go!”

Me: “hey suit whats up with all the sub-titles?”

Suit: “Boop”.

George McGeorge, Ginsberg and Cohen Space Taylor's by audio only: static “Today is upgrade Tuesday.” unintelligible “Your suit is having” static “bandwidth restrictions.” Is that a dig at my waist line?. ”Perhaps if you hung it up somewhere with good ping speed.”

 The Reason ???

These zombie outbreaks are beginning to look like the result of several different motivators each using the others. I don't think voters was the primary objective. Lots of shady business can be wrung from 'secret'. So far the only thing left out of all the evil is a cult.

Is a person a semi-autonomous dust collection system? Is the ability to map a house full of furniture sentience? Is asking your intelligent doorknob to let you in and you killing it with a hammer when it refuses, murder? How many embedded humyn brain cells does it take to make a domestic maintenance product that can vote or sit on a jury? Valid questions anytime for battling liability lawyers. Now add zombies.

Why would anyone want to destabilize entire regions with zombie outbreaks? Why spend a decade building, involve hundreds of contractors, employ thousands of people, pour in billions of monets? That old investigators rule applies here: 'follow the money':

Last Bank of the Apocalypse or as it is best known L.B.A. or also Lambda Bravo Associates LLC is a religious organization as a churchy financial institution. There are lots of 'for profit' religions. Some are even banks. The for profit status makes them cut off from most government support and the subsequent scrutiny. As long as they can dodge the taxes they are left to prosper. Trading in apocalyptic futures keeps many financial institutions busy. Last Bank of the Apocalypse is founded by 'prophecy' with the intent to wring every profit possible to the very last moment of the universe, which they are betting could be any minute now. The zombie horde breeders used LBA exclusively for all monetary transactions. Many of the authorized disperser-s and receivers were also officers of either the main cathedral bank or of the many local bank branch churches.

Today is actually this banks/churches last day in the universe. It has been seized by several governments afflicted by zombies. A doom cloud of jurisdictions has descended from orbits. A veritable plague of hungry lawyers and sharp eyed accountants. Three Librarians have aimed their brigades of uniformed combat financial forensic assault documenters' directly at their ecumenism.

“The futures market is rough on apocalyptic pseudo realities. It's a big investment to survive an upturn. It takes even ever more of other peoples money to spark a bullish apocalyptic event horizon.” Combat Forensic Economic Liaison is very convincing in her unrelenting gorgeousness.

“So they are a cult of ruthless bankers bent on a profitable total 'end of the world' domination.” Not the first in history. Researchers and Librarians know historically these types eat each other through their innate treachery making them ultimately unsuccessful though sadly sometimes millions of innocent people die. Trotting out armies of zombies is a new twist.

The cathedral bank seems a rational sort of business place. Mostly room after room of softly humming faux computer stuff. My lovely liaison should be glad she's a holo image. They wouldn't let me enter without a thoroughly painful credit check. I arrived early before seizure during the brief 'open' hour for walk-in old fashioned prayer/interest before the bearcats dropped snarling the traffic for blocks at all flight levels. Helen got a great parking spot on the corner. My space tanker business with Uncle Klaus has paid off here. I'm sure they know there will be lots of scrap to sell off after any profitable apocalypse. Got to clear the ruble before building a suitable religious utopia.

My favorite chamber of the edifice was through the double doors labeled 'The Gates of Hell' where certain bank customers could cower before flames and sign the loan lami with blood samples.

We were not here to sign. Space was here to pee, which his suit aimed at the base of the fake flames holo. I was here to slap the warrants and the subpoenas on the whoever was whoever from teller to bishop. My Librarians Legion espace hits every branch not already in hell. Though there is no worse hell for any bank then to be scrutinized by the French.

Of course we find there is no living humyn person here in the cathedral. The door behind the gates of hell leads only into the alley.

     

Another chunk of THE REASON

The double presidency was a genius stroke of appropriate political stupidity. In those regions that favored a two party democracy the system elects a winner and leaves a loser. In some, NA in particular, to appease the hurt feelings of the loser the Second Presidency was created, along with a Second Vice President supported by a minor Second Executive just like the First Presidents; which keeps thousands of the losers second place supporters, who otherwise would be endlessly complaining in opposition, busy doing useless government stuff of their own. Second Presidency while considered more worthless a position then First Vice Presidency has never been refused.

So... I was now locked in a grim silent struggle eyeball to visor thingy with the personal assistant to the Deputy Assistant Under-Secretary of the NA Second Vice President. I will not relent. No way am I talking to that loser! She begs.

“Mister Dvorak please, please! She must see you immediately in private.”

Private! There is no private in our future of cameras and microphones everywhere! My suits got thirty microphones scattered from ass to elbows, cameras got me vid all around. Promises of privacy are recorded frequently. This must be some kind of set up. An hour ago I was just another drunk on a bar stool at the Rocket Lounge, now I've got a national loser trying to trap me into political relevancy.

Turning her off would be easy if she was a holo call, I'd hang up. I've tried to hang up on live people, best way is with a door. My mistake for getting cornered like this. Space and I were barely out the Rocket lounge door stumbling our way to a handy Hilbert when I was ambushed by this PADAUSNASVP. And then she did something I did not expect: slapped the warrant and subpoena on me!

It's a summons: “You can come with the easy way or the hard way.”

“You can't make me go anywherrrr...” The tranq dart to the neck proved they could. Things turned from begging to kidnap pretty quickly there.

My brain cells spark my mind back to consciousness two, three cells at a time. My body follows only as far as the straps will allow. Safety straps, the kind they use on Bearcat passenger seats.

“You passed the biologic testing.” Said a face in the fog. “Can't meet a Second VP if you're infected. The DNA says you are who your suit says you are.” It was becoming clear. By the glow on the windows not shaded I know we are dropping into atmosphere. The face became more distinct, the hand beneath waving what looked like brains at a very groggy Space.

“You bastards!” Don't they know he'll eat anything!

The Bastard that sent them to get us ruled a closet of an office from a clear plastic desk. I could see all the junk in the drawers! It was indeed actually a closet. The Personal Assistant to The Deputy Assistant Under-Secretary to the Second Vice President had to hand coats to people from the hanger pole that traversed the room.

“Excuse me” “um... sorry, blue one, thank yuuu.”

“I should get tips!” She thought that was funny.

“It's the budget. No money for closet space.” She seemed resigned to it. Space gave a yip when he heard his name. “Once again I apologize Mister Dvorak. The darting was an unfortunate misunderstanding. The zombie protocols you see, our hands are tied.” I raised my hands to her.

She had to reach around Space to release the shackles.

“This is really an opportunity for your report. Access to the highest echelon of the Second Presidency. You must tell the story of...” I untied the gag myself with my now free hands.

“The puffy one there please. With the flashing graphics. That's right... thanks.” I slid the jam lami they had stuck on my suit into his pocket.

Personal Assistant didn't act like she noticed suit power up even while I blocked her face with displays and a holo call to Helen to come get me and Moody to see what I can do legally to this abductor.

“Paul.”

“Dvorak?”

“Helen pick me up I'm in a coat closet somewhere in Washington DC NA. Triangulate me suit.” “Sure.”

“Moody! What are the laws against kidnapping a Senior Researcher?!” I gave her a steely stare. She said nothing but looked pleased.

“There are no laws specifically. I mean local ones apply. There are no specific Solsys laws protecting Researchers. We lose a lot of researchers because the Library won't show favoritism. If you don't have a Librarian with you you are on your own.” And he hung up! That is the longest speech I had ever heard him make.

The door opened and I expected to hand over another weather garment. Instead a womyn in formal military uniform adorned with gold ropes held the door open, pressed a lami that played a rousing fanfare: “The Second Vice President of The United States of America.” Who entered in two long strides accompanied with a gesture to close the door.

“Mister Senior Researcher Paul Dvorak and Space.” The Personal Assistant to the Deputy Under-Secretary to the Second Vic President gestured an introduction of me and my doggy who growled aggressive postures behind my legs.

“Mister Dvorak.” I am acknowledged. “When will you be meeting with the First President?” Meeting?

“Immediately after this meeting.” Answered the desk.

“Good. Good.” She had a Second President kind of giggle. A bastards 'gotcha you bastard' kind of back of the throat giggle. “We can't wait to hear what she says about the votes.”

Votes? What votes?

“Yes. Not using the nuke on Charleston left the situation obvious.”

Obvious?

“Three hundred thousand zombie voters! Like no one would notice!”

Zombie voters!?

“They had trouble making up names. Finally gave up and just registered batch numbers!”

“Now the Presidency is in jeopardy. Those three hundred K won the election! Canned minus domestic product units are not sentient enough or genetically enough to be voters in that district!” “Any district!” ”They all had shared birth dates!”

My neck was feeling the looking from one to the other. Fortunately to turn my head to follow their delight my mouth passes suits marstini sippy tube. I know now what they want.

Another person squeezes in under the hanging coats who has the shifty eyed hangry look of the Government Lawyer. “It's all set!” He announces “The subpoenas and warrants will be valid!”

Warrants? Subpoenas?

“Where's the Librarian?”

The Second Prez knows: “Orbit.”

I understand why I’ve been drugged and brought here: they want my Librarian! Don't they know he's French! And has no assault troops! Voter fraud is for some other Researcher! Some NA one that would care! I mean... hey, I've got their First President anyway in my evolving report: her original constituency was Charleston SCNA; the name Gerschlicter appears on her donor rolls often; they certainly would have needed some political help to pull off all that kilometers of tunneling and building underground secret canned minus bioflesh servibot factories. First Prez used the power to make things secret like they will my unwritten report. The NA prez knew where all the alcohol went and what it was used for and pretended to be concerned in public while in secret trying to break the sentience laws to get votes.

But why zombies? Did the protos all vote when they were decanted into the barracks levels before being zombied through the chow? And were the Zurich proto zombies voters too? And the Ciudad Mexico horde?

Helen appears in my ears: “Gotcha Paul!”

“But where the hell am I?” I blurt out loud to their political confusion. Suit gets geo coordinates. I tell the Second Vice President: “I'm not researching voter fraud zombies...” I paused for a long marstini slurp... “I'm researching alcohol ships!” by the look on their faces it must have sounded a lot like “alcohool shhiittz!” They gave quick looks to each other. In a blink I was alone with the plastic desk the hanging scarfs and parkas.

Suit had a route out flashing. It was a long walk. Two armed guys in bubble suits followed at a distance.

Helen swooped down apparently allowed inside the missile defenses.

“Where to Paul?” She asked as I settled into the plush command chair which she had explained is the safest being in the back by the fission coils. Space fit onto Helen’s lap.

“Lets just park here for awhile. Let them wonder what I'm doing.” I commanded.

“We're cleared to exit the exclusion air space.”

“Not yet!” I shout holler the twelve meters through the Bjorn from the command chair to the cockpit. “Just a minute.” I make a holo call to Librarian First Class Jean Cluny. He is unavailable; I am offered to leave a holo message or any of many more media. I hang up.

“They want us to use this traffic window.”

“Um? One mo... tell them we are delayed,” “I bet they figured that out already.”

Fortunately my command chair contains its own bar equipment! I get a real launch Tank of Marstini... it's misty froth inspires retrospective pause. Aren’t the NA water Marines the personal combat force play toys of the NA Executive? Has she been onto me from the start? Wasn't their mission: 'to make sure I'm dead'...!?

“They say they need this landing spot for some one else.”

The knocking at the window pulled my reverie away from the paranoia. The gold rope uniform is there making 'answer the phone' gestures. Suit says I have a holocall pending from a priority override government phone account.

On the seat across the toilets access aisle from me condenses most of the image of who I assume to be the First President of the United States NA. Suit through the priority coms protocols says the government says the caller is who the phone company says she is...

“Mister Dvorak.”

“Hello... ah em... mam? Sir?”

“I understand you are a Senior Researcher.” Could this be more awkward? “Have you learned anything disturbing?” And it got more awkward. What a weird question! She seemed sincere, which must be her political superpower. How to answer this rather straightforward query:

“Yes. It's all very disturbing. Proto pork zombies that vote is disturbing. Secret tunnels full of zombies aimed at cities is disturbing. That I was drugged and abducted into a closet disturbed me!”

“Won't you come back in and we can talk this over personally? I want you to fully understand the lies and distortions.”

She seemed in earnest enough so I told her the truth: “I want all the lies and distortions I can get! I would expect nothing less from you.”

Did she misunderstand me? She held this smile halfway between a grimace and the pursed lips of someone who had eaten something very sour, a kinda constipated Mona Lisa smile.

Suit tells me they, the local NA government, has declared my unwritten report 'Top Secret' and are demanding my shiny blue spacecraft back.

“Let's get outta here fast!” Is my command decision squeaked in falsetto at Helen. Holocall terminated before the makers of top secrecy can terminate me. Helen is quick with the thrust for a slot up to a low orbit before any missiles can lock on.

I get a glimpse of the bucolic turmoil that is the Ciudad Diverso Washington NA. We lift a swoop over the pastoral gardens scattered amid the grand architectures across the wrought iron security barrier fencing with it's tastefully landscaped missile emplacements. Beyond the comfortably weaponized border, the other, the public side of the fence, crowd the tourists the protesters the flitting aircraft large and tiny flanked menacingly by the riot police shooting tear gas bombs at the opposing politics. The zombie voter scandal has apparently leaked like Space on fence post!

While I was happy they didn't shoot us down part of me thinks it was only because they didn't want to damage my bootleg Bearcub. Do they know it is still fully armed? Would they have let us park where they did if they knew?

We Researchers are taught the best way to avoid being sucked into any political vortex is to run perpendicular to the murderous mob. Straight up into space is as perpendicular as you can get from Terra.

 Another chunk of  THE REASON

There are few dark corridors on the perpetually well lit huge orbital gigantic spinning pool ring floating in gravity that is Balance Station. Except deep in the structure are dimly illuminated plumbing access tunnels. Typically trashy often drippy. Balance stations poor/not-poor live here. Occasionally a hapless space traveler person gets stuck up here in orbit; Get too drunk, miss your flight, lose all your pay gambling, spend it all on strippers, maybe your marriage partner cashes you out and runs off with their exercise trainer leaving you credit-less ... you too could end up down here among the pipes velcroed into a No-G sack drugged into a thousand channel ENTprog stupor waiting for enough credits to accrue to buy a ticket down to Terra.

I sort of feel quite at home.

“He's not home.” stated plainly the womyn rinsing some grey fabric or garment in the wall trough below a dripping drain valve.

A No-G is a kind of resealable rectangular oversuit with rudimentary booty ended legs but no arms, a close-able hood full of vid screen surface as coms cone pop-ups are no good in a No-G, you can holo call but can't receive full holo and unless you use old fashioned full image skins only can send a face. While zipped in a person can survive any foul ship atmosphere. The No-G can be stuffed with more then a week of snacks and beverages. No-Gs are sometimes called the 'no god suit' because in the event of a full decompression blow out despite all it's systems no god can save you. The thing here is a No-G is easy to see as empty if empty and this No-G at my feet was not empty. There is someone in there. Someone fat and short. Space short. A shortened kind of short that marks a long fractional-g spacer like bow legs marks a cowboy. It's his bag; it says so in the message prompt. The status lami graph display is so dim and dirty I don't want to touch it, and... oof... Space has peed on it now!

“Come on Boosh wake up!” I gave the bag a tender nudge with my foot.

“He's not home I tell ya!” She growled between cigar puffs, the smoke swirling around the underwear? she's wringing enthusiastically.

“Who's in there then?”

“It's so long since it's got washed out it's stuck in his shape!”

Eww... I rub my shuttle slipper toe on the wall under a pipe.

One of the 'Stu's' at Stu's told me this guy could get me a oolala 3000. It's gotta be a oolala. The progmind of a pristine oolala has root code of the french smorm. Since the french zombots this model has been banned from orbit. No one wants zombots running, crawling, flying slime-ing amok on their space craft. But this is a dark economy of the banned within the bowls of the Balance Station. Boosh is a lot broker of contraband in the subculture of those stranded here.

Oolalas' are sought after not so much for their cleaning skills as their shapely well bio-flesh hung chassis. 'They' say duty interference overrides make the model very receptive to sexual bookie bookie.

I ask myself: Why must a maid bot be sexy? Why must there be anatomical correctness? I answer myself: Yes sexy is a must! I mean, they could make an ugly neuter model but who would buy one? And what good is sexy if there are no genitals! It's about the numbers! The bot designers know when they add realistic genitals they will sell many more units. There are niche cleaning bot makers that do ugly or 'ethnic' or plain robot looking robots that sport no sexy bio-flesh. Most of my family machines are of the ugly utilitarian type models. Like every boi though I dreamed of a genital bearing sexy maid bot of my very own even though I didn't exactly know what that looked like. Naturally my research requires I make a careful exhaustive study of oolala 3000 genital area... remaining a professional of course. There are recovery clinics for heartbroken owners of faulty oolalas'. They can also mix a mean marstini I’ve been told.

“When's he get back?”

Her dilapidated shuttle suit emanated a blue beam of light from the vicinity of her left breast that focused a glowing blue circle on the gray fabric as she turned it. The surface sparked and fizzed as trillions of gazillions of bacteria died. Visor closed I sipped suit marstini while the out-suit air gauges spiked towards 'filter overload'.

She turned her bare snag toothed grin over her left shoulder to tell me: “He won't come back to the G till he's good and drunk. Check the slot.”

Slot? Slut? Suit says it's the 'systems liquids overflow tunnel'. Ok then... the sewer.

You would think this future we live in, floating around as we do in futuristic space crafts that fluidic waste management would be engineered in elaborately complicated futuristic technologies, but it is still handled in very primitive ways somewhat much like the cumulative sewers of a satellitic ancient Paris France WE. Even space plumbers are secretive, guild guarding their ancient knowledge steeped in the affects of gravity or suction on semi-liquids. The SLOT is the huge curved large intestine tube at that part of the spinning toroid where the centrifugal gravitational forces makes all the crap run one way towards the giant sphincter-ed airlock where tankers await to take all the crap to the orbital farm sats.

It wasn't far though surprisingly 'up' the doughnut from here. Suit mapped a route to a red door marked '86' by a glowing wavering lami. Threatening my stupidity with various consequences. There could be serious danger beyond this door. I was considering giving up, taking the clipper down to New Vegas NA where you can pick from dozens of oolalas that though they have been reprogrammed away from cleaning could still have enuf root prog to make it a fun search. I take a step back as this red 86 magni-hatch door opens and out of my imaginary danger pours a group of children like they were on a school trip herded by a uniform clad elderly womyn backed by several EDU-aide bots.

The other side of the red door revealed a crowded swap meet, flea market, boot sale, Mercado bizarre, buy-it-fest, vend-a-thon, contraband outlet mart, discount-a-rama, fenced boodle blackest of markets that disappeared into the huge curved tunnel in both directions. I can't help but think that one too many flushes in a departures deck restroom and this could all get washed away.

Space loves it here. So many smells, so may places to mark his passing where no one would shout about it. I got to say he's not much help shopping for an oolala with all his tugging the tether.

There is other animals here besides the humyns: monkey's and bunnies and rats stolen from science, monkey's and bunnies and rats destined to be cooked for snacks; by the howls yaps and barks it's proved Space is not the only smuggled cur, or he's the only not for dinner. He perks up to seek them out but there are free range cats in our path which prove a distraction.

I have always wondered where the blanket vendors get all that chewing gum. Now I know. This is the hub of dark commerce that feeds the folks that line the walls of the departures decks hawking anything that could stack monets. Tremendous amounts of cargo originally destined for elsewhere is yours right here for some quick haggling.

Two dogs, one big one small run up to Space and he seems friendly enough. After the posturing and butt sniffing with them I loose the tether so he can frolic properly for awhile. His new friends IDs tell suit they are: 'Jane' and 'John Doe Dog', who are both stray criminals wanted by the police as stowaway quarantine scoffers. “Run free little Space!” His suit is tracked by my suit. It's not his shark suit but it has ETACs which I have override locked disabled. Anything could happen running in a pack of criminal canines with all the hibachi barbecuing going on, so best to leave the little missiles and group stun out of the fun. He does have fun sparking off a good stun. Gets us banned tho...

I am tempted to buy Boosh a fresh No-G as a service to public health but that is too personal. It was noticed in early Spaceflight eras that people can get quite attached to their suits, like a baby with a blankie, just washing without permission somebodies cherished safe place garment has ignited murderous space madness. “I didn't say that out loud did I?” No screams so I guess I did not.

Jane and John Doe Dog join our research pack. Space reinforced finds Boosh right away pushing a dead battery cart full of domestic bot parts.

“Hey dog! What the hell!” Space marked him like he had the husk of a No-G. The picture on my sleeve matched the angry face that frowned at my doggy though older by years from the entry boarding image of the fresh faced eager young Boosh clutching a tidy flight pack wearing a new bright crisp hot utility suit. I had the fat thing wrong, he was very thin, turn sideways he's gone kinda thinness. Face pale under the sunken eyed very dirtiness. Short stature proves me half right. “You Stu's friend Doorcrack? Dorkrack? Dvork?” Is he trying to read it from in between five ENT show streams?

“Paul. You can call me Paul.”

'Bink' off goes the pop screens. I'm ID'd for a custy. He reached out a very dirty hand sticking through a tattered cuff. I looked, I saw, I shook the filthy paw.

'Paul, you want the oolala 3000?… right... I can tell... I can always spot a oolala man...” he looked me up and down with a cheeky leer. It seemed to him this assessment of me was worthy another hearty handshake.

Space sniffed and sneezed and rubbed his snout across the floor. He made a sound that could have been a cough. The oli data his suit sent to my suit read 'unhealthy'. The smell repelled the Does who trotted away.

“Look. It's for research. I need an unwashed proged 3000 for comparative study.”

'You call it whatever you want.” He winked.

I intend to...

I'll call her 'Mandy'...

'Mobile Automated Nitra Domestic Yorbit' after the Korean industrial chaebol that built her.

She's delivered to my tiny cubicle room at the Balance Hilbert Hotel departures stack.

This was maybe not such a good place to unpack a huge crate. Space and I were quite trapped on the bed until I could push the empty boxing out the door when the pizza arrived. Fortunately this oolala is very flexible while deactivated.

There was a helpful vid manual lami tab adhered to the center of her forehead hidden beneath the sharply cut bangs style hair-do. Meanwhile suit hacked her operating system.

Not much there. Empty memory in an unopened boxed 'new' old vintage model. I could tell by the wrapper she's certainly never been turned on. System still on default general duty maid profile. Original owner paid for her to be shipped as baggage to space then abandoned her on Balance when a big fee got added on. Unclaimed baggage auctions are what keep guys like Boosh in business.

There she stood waiting in her black and white mini smock above the glitter go-go boots. Dressed nothing like the durable duty tutu of the Yvette that carried Space away from the zombots. I was lucky she had not been available for sale till my budget came through; but... best to keep Moody out of this so I paid with my Tanker Ships money through Uncle Klaus's office by my employee: Ms 'Don't Stare At Her Legs Paul'. Smooth as a direct solar trash barge trajectory. Everyone would have understood the cost of a Vegas sex bot. I didn't haggle with Boosh. I suppose I probably paid too much. A pristine maid bot is always valuable for it's lack of the 'eeww' factor. And this oolala 3000 is a collector piece in her unmodified virginity. Mandy is now my research exhibit number one.

The product start up interface is very basic. Of the various voice choices several could be considered sexy in most languages.

What else could I do? I turned her on.

After suit shared ingredients she made a great marstini in the launch tank I had stole from Stu's. As I sipped the misty nectar I watched her clean the room. The disinfectant tank is dry so she spritzed only air. She had no maid equipment so used an imaginary '?' rag to wipe at everything.

First research test: she does not resist being unwrapped from smock nor does this slow down the effort to clean. It must be her innate maid bot superior germ detection over the lackadaisical Hillbert room sani spray nozzles. It must look pretty dirty in here under hard UV. Course Space makes his little messes everywhere. Oh and the thousands of drunken travelers from thirty cultures shedding whole civilizations of bacteria... eww. I give her a pillow case for a rag and fill the tiny sink with water. She catches on quick scrubbing away at the glowing microbes with a disturbingly blank look on that gorgeous face.

It took all of fifteen minutes for me to fall completely in love. I didn't even get to the genitals!

On the way there I paused her sanitizing squarely in front of me to attempt to peel the little projector lami from her beautiful forehead. She went all cross-eyed looking up at my clumsy tugging. Permi-manicured fingers pushed my hand away so the lami could be lifted effortlessly for those fingers with a feint champagne cork pop, which I think had to have been mostly electronic sound effect, to pop it like a snack into her lovely perfectly shaped mouth past those excellent bright white artificial teeth with a delightful gulp. Yes... here is where it got weird.

There it is in the systems graphic: these bots have a tiny carbon furnace for burning up hazardous cleaning chemical waste thus cutting down on charge times. That could come in handy, giving her horrible things eat so she could cross charge a dimming suit. Disposing soiled sani-liners to make me marstini's is a feature I guess I could use.

The oolala's initial popularity lay in the artistry of the engineers that had sculpted her scantlings. The oolala/Yvette series held appeal with all sexes and age groups. Gorgeous: to make Dad willing to pay for her; always ready to cheerfully clean up children's messes; non threatening, guileless, innocence enough to keep Mom from pushing her off the balcony.

While her shape is very accurate the chassis under the bio-flesh is rather angular, mechanical, too obviously created by technology not biology. Sharp edged plasti skeli-structure is the apliantologist mechani-sex fancier's biggest complaint. That's the challenge: to build a marketable sex bot as close to humyn as possible. New models from numerous manufacturers attempt this constantly. Sex bots are one thing but a maid bot only has to be so sexy. It's a fine line between household appliance and jealous lover.

While this body I love is very interesting it's the triple cored mind I'm supposed to be interested in, I tell myself.

“We'll be at your door in two hours.”

Traci wants to infect my artificial fiance with the viral brain worm fungus and watch what happens. The gen-sci's want her to go mother-bot like the Yvette in Paris. They have promised to give her back to me if they don't have to destroy her with nukes. Maybe they can cure her before all the furniture goes smorm.

These two weeks we spent together in the hotel room has bonded me to her like an active warranty. Space has never been so well groomed.