Hentai World Ch. 01

Thanks to Jon B 1969 for the edit.

The story was old, so old only naughty children at bedtime believed it. The story of Scott Hansen, multitrillionaire media mogul; the richest human ever to have lived during the Second Age of Human Space Exploration. How he laid claim to an obscure planet, conveniently located along the most popular trade route. How he built a major resort and amusement park on the tip of the southern continent. How this mad genius stocked his creation with the latest technology, the most exotic plants and animals, the most cutting edge genetics, all geared towards one objective: complete and utter debauched sexual pleasure.

Billed as the "Disney World of Sex" (which the formerly Chinese owned Disney/ABC/Sony zaibatsu would have protested if Hansen hadn't bought it), Hansen's Wonderworld of Hentai, aka Hentai World, was specifically designed for the decadent uberrich. Every sexual fantasy, fetish, and perversion imaginable (plus a few newly invented) was featured as a major attraction. Cutting edge spas, state of the art exercise facilities, featuring the latest in beauty enhancements and exercise equipment, were included as a bonus for the guests.

The Social Moralist Party who ruled much of Earth's congress protested of course, but the planet was located just outside of Humanspace and, therefore, out of jurisdiction.

Opening day was a major media event. The paparazzi were kept at bay by armed transports and mercenaries. Some of the guests included the most prominent tech moguls and, as rumored, politicians. The best looking celebutants, models, and holoweb stars attended (some advertised their presence in advance for scandal publicity). Rounding out the roster were a college fraternity and sorority which had won a holoweb contest.

The guests, so the story went, partied for, at least, one standard Terran month. . .and then something went wrong. The exact facts were lost to history; rumors of transport shuttles, crowded with stark naked guests, copulating like frenzied rabbits and irrevocably insane, frantically evacuating the planet, persisted well into the Third Age.

No one knows exactly what went wrong. Sabotage by unfriendly business rivals or moral terrorists was suspected. Investigators speculated that the cutting edge nanotech, biotech, genetics, and exotic alien lifeforms created an extraordinarily bad combination. Malfunctioning A.I's were also discussed as possibilities.

Whatever happened, the event caused many casualties. Many guests, some of the richest, most prominent people in Humanspace, went missing, among them Scott Hansen himself. The celebrimedia compared the Hentai World disaster to the sinking of the Titanic. Never before had so many of the rich, famous, and beautiful died in so sordid a place.

The fallout destroyed Hansen's empire. In the maelstrom of lawsuits and media frenzy which followed, the Terran government clamped the planet in quarantine. Nothing was allowed off or on Hansen's world. The scandal surrounding Hentai World would last through the Second Age, well into the Third Age, fading only at the beginning of the Fourth; by the Fifth Age of Human Exploration, Hentai World was a myth, passed along the trade routes in half-joking stories told at bars and dives in the colonies. . .and by naughty children.

Dick Ransom, former star captain for Trans-Galactic Star Lines, now lowly shuttle pilot cursed as he surveyed the spaceport. The planet was known as Hansen's World. "Godforsaken shithole is more like it," Dick thought. Bad enough the supernova forced the shuttle to take a detour, but the planet was way off the trade routes.

Stewardess 1000 recommended the planet as a refueling station. Actually, recommended wasn't the correct term. "Seized control and steered us here is more like it," Dick fumed. He had little say in the matter. Dick was on probation due to a sexual indiscretion. No more star liners for awhile. Stewardess was authorized to take control in times of emergency. "Probationary Captains can fuck themselves so far as corporate is concerned," he grumbled. "I only had a little too much. . ."

The records regarding Hansen's World were scant. "Old stories from deep in the bowels of some half-senile positronic library mainframe," Dick snorted. Sure, he'd heard the tales. No pilot who cruised the trade routes hadn't. The planet was the modern day equivalent of the Flying Dutchman, an ancient old seaman's tale.

"For an old legend this place looks pretty decent," Dick thought, rethinking his shithole assessment. The spaceport was a classic example of Second Age design, in the style of pre-expansion First Age dieselpunk, complete with old school hangars, albeit with Second Age technology. The near pristine condition of the structures would be unsettling under other circumstances, especially after centuries of isolation. "Probably has self repair and maintenance tech, Second Agers built things to last. I don't see repair 'bots though."

Dick knew he should be overjoyed. The discovery had the potential to make him rich, really rich. A lost resort full of vintage artifacts and tech was damn near priceless; by law of salvage he could claim the whole planet and retire. Unfortunately, he was stuck with a near-drained shuttle and a group of idiots. . .his passengers.

One shouldn't call this disparate group idiots but to Dick, all passengers fit the category. Five years of ferrying obnoxious tourists across obscure trade routes, career gulag, embittered the formerly successful cruise ship captain (whose surfeit of machismo, ego, and narcissism contributed greatly to his present state).

He looked at the cluster of passengers grouped around the shuttle. They looked back, expressions ranging from annoyed to confused. "Alright people," he said. "We seem to be stuck until I can recharge the fusion drive. I suggest you take a walk, stretch your legs, but don't go too far."

The muttering passengers ("Sheep," smirked Dick) started to scatter. Looking at them, Dick felt lucky in a way. Typical shuttle passengers were old wrinkly retirees traveling to the Colonies for the cheap land and good climate, or fat, obnoxious, entitled tourists dragging their squalling brats to some resort or another. This group of six was relatively young, ranging from late teens to mid-thirties.

The oldest was Magda Lorraine, a curvy redhead divorcée, headed to New Cape Town to take a management position. "Man she's hot!" thought Dick. He started thinking of routes into her pants almost at the moment she stepped onto the shuttle. "Have to be careful though," he thought. "Shit like that got me in this mess."

Mike Burns and Mandy Williams were headed to Vegas Two for some fun and a quickie marriage. Mike was reasonably good looking, slim and fit, average sized with dark blond hair, but his girlfriend, Mandy, "Wow! Pixie cute," Dick thought. Her short, bobbed black hair and green eyes, slightly almond shaped, hinted at Terran Asian ancestry. Dick might have tried something if not for her boyfriend.

The Summers family were three teens on their way to New Idaho to stay with relatives and attend college. Higher education was cheaper in the outer Colonies.

Kathy Summers looked to be a classic cheerleader/athlete, pretty, blond, toned well-shaped body, just turned nineteen; somewhat of a bully however, especially to her younger brother. "Easy to see why," Dick thought. "The kid may be eighteen but shit! Talk about pipsqueak."

Robby Summers, just turned eighteen, but one wouldn't know it from his size. "Kid has to be five foot one, two at the most," Dick smirked. A mop of dark brown hair, a snub nose, and soft features made him appear younger than his age. Dick was glad he had his growth spurt at fourteen. Shooting from 5' to 6'2" and packing on another eighty pounds of muscle, turned him from geek to jock within a year. A kid like Robby was probably a bully magnet. "Better the bully than the bullee," Dick chuckled, remembering the stuff he pulled on guys like Robby.

Mark Summers, Robby's older brother and Kathy's twin, was staring at Magda with open lust. "Probably thinking the same thing I am," Dick thought. He was the same size as his sister, slim with a swimmer's body, medium brown hair, large light blue eyes. "And just about as horny for Magda as me, and a virgin too. You can tell. Okay people, I'm going to the hangar to see if I can find a charger. Remember, stay near the shuttle. We don't know this place and I don't want any liability if you get in an accident."

The passengers started speaking at once. To Dick, it sounded like so much bird twitter. "Sigh! One at a time please. Fucking idiots!"

"So how long to charge the ship?" asked Mike.

"Don't know, depends on the tech compatibility. This is a Second Age resort; the tech's centuries behind ours, much of it obsolete."

Magda, "Second Age? So you know this place?" Her voice carried a slight lilt, central European or one of the colonies.

"Yes, this planet's called Hansen's World."

"Hansen's World. . .Hansen's World, hey! Wasn't this, like, an amusement park or something?" Kathy asked.

"Yeah. . .yeah, that's it. Some sort of rich folk resort, right?" Mike added.

It was Robby who said, "Actually Hansen's World is the name of the planet. The resort is named Hentai World. It was a sex resort for the rich and powerful. It only operated for a month before some disaster, nobody knows exactly, killed a bunch of tourists and drove the rest insane. The government put the place in quarantine."

Robby looked at everybody. Expressions ranged: slight surprise from the Captain, interested looks from Miss (Ms!) Lorraine and Mike and Mandy, derisive smirk from Sis, and quizzical from Big Bro. Robby was used to those kind of looks. "I, uh, read a lot." Sis snorted contemptuously. Robby was used to that too.

"Geez!" Dick thought. "Short, smart, and sounds like a girl. High school ate this kid alive. Well folks, he's explained it better than I can. Now I don't know if the stories are true, but I do know this place hasn't seen a human in centuries. Most of the tech is obsolete and probably dangerous so stay-near-the-shuttle." The passengers grumbled and milled about. Dick sighed and went to the hangar.

The hangar was large, spacious, with bright ceiling windows to let in sunlight. It was a classic example of dieselpunk revival, typical of Second Age tastes. Remove the advanced technology, at least advanced for the twenty-second/twenty-third century era, and it could have stepped out of a pre-Space Age thirties newsreel. Dick wasn't interested in the hangar's aesthetics, however (he did note the salvage on the building alone could buy him his own cruise ship). His interest lay in the building's A.I. (if it was functional and, given the planet's history, sane).

Typically, long term inactive A.I's go into sleep mode, reviving occasionally to perform maintenance on whatever tech or facility under their charge. Periodic maintenance cycles could be anywhere from days to years. The hangar contained a few vintage shuttles in mint condition. "Good maintenance. Maybe I could use one if the hookup doesn't work."

A console sat in a kiosk near a maintenance bench. It looked like an ancient typewriter, with a clear glass screen above it. Dick flicked his ear, activating his Bluetooth. "Stewardess."

"Yes, Dick?"

"I'm in the hangar. There's a console in front of me. Can you activate it from the shuttle?"

"Actually, I have to ask the A.I for permission."

"Well ask it, then. I want to get this hangar working. I don't want to be here longer than I have to."

"Actually, it's ask her," replied Stewardess with a trace of indignity. "Hansen's A.I has chosen a feminine persona in accordance with the U.N. Technology Act of 2155. I should point out that your reference to Hansen A.I as 'it' is considered offensive under Section 251 of the Employees' Code of Conduct, subparagraph b, artificial persons section, and may be counted against you in your performance evaluation."

Dick, who during Stewardess' lecture, was in the process of grinding his teeth to powder, trying, with great difficulty, to refrain from marching back to the shuttle, ripping out Stewardess' module, and pounding it to metal shavings while screaming, "I don't fucking care about fucking section fucking arti-fucks 251! Talk to the fucking A.I you fucking bitch!" instead breathed quietly and replied, "We can talk about my etiquette later. I would greatly appreciate it if you activated the console. You fucking cock-sucking silicon whore-bitch!"

"Compliance," replied Stewardess.

The console, as it turned out, was actually a touchscreen keyboard and the glass screen, a 3D hologram platform. It still looked like a typewriter and it made clacking noises when Dick touched the keys. The glass screen turned flat and projected the words in purple block letters floating in midair: Hansen Multimedia Development Group. Query >nature of emergency?<

"Passenger shuttle diverted due to unexpected solar anomaly," Dick typed. "Fuel cells and warp battery drained. Request recharge."

>U.N. Interstellar Code No. 217 in force. Emergency services will be provided. Please provide design schematics for vehicle.<

"Stewardess," Dick transmitted. "The hangar needs your design schematics."

"Compliance," Stewardess replied.

The letters spun into a purple funnel before rearranging into a new sentence. >Schematics indicate shuttle is incompatible with current technology. Advise use of available shuttles for transport.<

"Damn! Hadn't thought of that," Dick cursed. Trans-Galactic shuttles were centuries ahead of the tech on this world. Hooking to a power supply could cause problems, plus another issue arose. "Are the shuttles space worthy?"

>Transport shuttles are subject to periodic maintenance per regulations.<

"That doesn't mean they're space worthy. Your shuttles have been in the hangars for centuries."

>Centuries. . .unable to process due to malfunction in the chronometer program.<

"Chronometer? Aren't you a self repair system?"

>Scheduled maintenance delayed indefinitely on orders of the master program.<

"I thought you were the A.I for this resort."

>My functional mandate only covers the spaceport and adjoining hangars. Planetary functions are covered by the master program.<

"Does the delay cover maintenance and inspection of the shuttles?"

>Shuttles are regularly inspected and maintained per regulations. It must be noted, non-employees must ask permission of the master program for use of the shuttles. Under charter of the U.N. Commerce and Trade Authority, the master program acts as proxy for the Hansen Corporation in the absence of the executive manager and/or CEO.<

Dick felt a rush as new thoughts and realizations came together. The Hansen company and any subsidiaries were defunct. Hansen left no heirs, no inheritance. Technically Hansen's World was derelict and everything on it salvage. The A.I's including the master program, by modern legal standards, were people but had no claim to the property. In fact, Dick could claim the A.I's as being under contract to him as the cyber laws forbade free floaters (i.e. A.I's without employment functions). "I'm rich all right," he shuddered, and then another realization, "Oh! We're rich, fuck!"

The other passengers; they had salvage rights as well. "Damn!" Dick's disappointment was mild. He was still rich, just less so once the profits were divvied among the others. Then there were the lawsuits. Someone among the passengers would try to grab more than his or her share, if not all. "Long lost relatives" "Company descendants" con artists, opportunists, and lawyers would ooze out of the woodwork. Still, when all was said and done, his cut could total in the hundreds of billions.

It was not just salvage. The entire planet, settlement rights, resource exploitation, biologicals, and pharmaceuticals, all right there for the plucking. "Rich! Hey! Maybe the passengers don't know the salvage laws. I could get it all!"

First thing's first: get off the planet and head to the nearest administrative center to claim salvage. "In ancient shuttles that haven't seen space for hundreds of years. Shuttles that could blow up the instant I press ignition, if not in flight. Warp drive's probably faulty. Life support, food supplies. . .problems up the ass. Which means I'll have to talk to the master program. . .who could be a psychopath."

Dick stood in front of the console, indecisive, and then paced. Slowly, oozing into his narcissistic brain, reasons to go forward presented themselves. "Reason number one, I don't give a fuck about the passengers. Well, I could fuck three of them but overall, I don't care. Reason number two, the master program might be insane, which is different from actual insanity, and the stories are hundreds of years old, practically myth. That means exaggerations, embellishments, tall tales. . . We don't know what really happened. Could be some poor rich kid got his ass killed on one of the rides and the family sued. Times were conservative, Social Morality ruled the era. The media could have blown things up. Maybe that's where the stories start. Still, that malfunction. . . fuck it! Reason number three, I'm a greedy fuck and I'm surrounded by hundreds of billions in vintage artifacts. So! Time to talk to the master program," Dick typed a request for an audience.

>The master program is in sleep mode. Sudden activation may affect quality of service.<

"I understand. Actually I don't. She's a fucking A.I for Chrissakes! They're supposed to have perfect service, period! Company necessity. I have to get my passengers to their destination."

>Understood. . .accessing. . .switching to voice mode.<

The letters swirled, broke apart, disintegrated into floating pixels, and reformed. An image appeared, first as a skeleton, then with veins and arteries, muscle, skin, hair, breasts, and tits, and Dick found himself staring at a perfect 3D image of the hottest chick he'd seen since his cruise ship days.

To Be Continued.