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.