Touched by a Cyber-Angel Pt. 04

"The 2061 edition was bad enough, but after that, they completely lost control of the process, and the more recent editions are so riddled with bull shit, they're basically useless. Like Goliath MacDreadnaught of New South Wales, who claimed to have three penises, each of which was the largest in the southern hemisphere, and who boasted that he'd satisfied more women than either chocolate or Pino Grigio."

"All right," Howie conceded, "That explains why your knowledge base doesn't tell you what we're doing out here. But you've been on Ganymede for what? Four weeks? And you haven't asked until now. Don't you have a curiosity function? I thought androids were supposed to be aggressive learners."

"Oh, Sweetie!" she grinned. "I am curious - about the important stuff, like whether a guy likes having his earlobe massaged by my lips, the size and shape of his equipment and what shades of eye shadow look hottest with red hair and green eyes. But why should I care what your silly company does?"

Howie laughed. "You must care a little or you wouldn't have asked."

"Polite conversation," she laughed back at him. "Just making small talk."

"Well, you probably should know," Howie replied. "It would seem a little strange if the subject came up with someone else and you had no idea. So here's the deal. We're terraforming Mars."

"O…K," she answered cautiously, "But unless they've moved Mars since 2061, it's somewhere between 500 million and a billion kilometers away, depending on where it is in its orbit. Wouldn't it be easier to work on it from a little closer?"

"No," he explained, "because what they need on Mars is what we've got here - water. Ganymede is covered with several miles of frozen water. We're basically digging it up and bombarding Mars with it.

"First, we break off huge chunks of ice and attach rockets, then boost them off the surface and point them toward Mars. The sun's gravity does the rest. The big booster rockets drop off after only a short distance and return to Ganymede. But little steering rockets stay on and aim these gigantic ice cubes for the polar regions of Mars, which are covered with a thick blanket of frozen carbon dioxide.

"The steering rockets separate and go into orbit around Mars for later pick-up and reuse. The water ice crashes into the carbon dioxide ice. Both of them vaporize and, over many years, build up an atmosphere which traps the sun's heat and starts a greenhouse effect.

"When it gets warm enough, we'll introduce genetically modified bacteria and algae, which combine carbon-containing minerals in the soil with the water and give off more carbon dioxide to accelerate the process. And when there's enough carbon dioxide, we'll introduce more genetically modified critters to eat the oxides in the soil and excrete oxygen. Then people will be able to live there. It will never be as warm as Earth, but it will be tolerable."

"Why not ship the water from some place closer, like Earth?" she asked.

"Because then you'd have to fight the Sun's gravity," he said, " which takes a lot more fuel than getting out of Jupiter's gravity well. And that's why we're here, rather than on Europa, which also has ice. We're further from Jupiter and so it takes less fuel to get to the point where the Sun's gravity is stronger than Jupiter's."

"Ok," Lucinda allowed, "But to get to the bottom line, exactly how long will it be before there will be big, strong, horny men wandering around Mars?"

"We think the whole process will take about 100 years," Howie answered.

"And how long have you been at it?" she asked.

"Boosted our first ice cube 16 years ago," he replied.

"So, in 84 years," she calculated, "you will be 110, and I will probably be in the market for a new stud. Maybe I'll give Mars a try."

Early the next afternoon, Lucinda embarked on her scheme for Howie's surprise. Her neural circuits hummed and chirped excitedly as she put on her highest spike heels and one of her sexiest dresses - a gauzy lavender chiffon, with short, puffy, off-the-shoulder sleeves and a plunging scoop neckline.

The dress was far from Lucinda's shortest. Its deeply pleated skirt came down almost to her knees. But one of the good things about Ganymede's slight gravity was that the lightweight skirt tended to swing and float when Lucinda walked, teasing any men who were watching, which was usually every one of them within eyesight at the time, with glimpses of her shapely thighs and lacy panties, glimpses which were just long enough to demand attention, but too short to be completely satisfying. It made her chiffon even more hypnotic than many of her shorter dresses and usually resulted in a small parade of drooling males following her through the colony.

Examining herself in the mirror, she completed her look by darkening her hair to chestnut from its usual auburn and choosing a slightly less glossy pink for her lips and a subtler shade of eye shadow. She wanted a slightly classier allure than her usual gaudy sluttiness. She added a tasteful, single-strand, pearl choker, some chandelier earrings and a few simple bracelets, and then took the moving walkway to Howie's office building to introduce herself to Mr. Napoleon Hardnutz.

When she arrived, the reed-slender, impeccably dressed, middle-aged receptionist looked at her skeptically. "Mr. Ricardo's wife?" she asked. Lucinda decided she was quite handsome for a woman of her age. "He never said anything about being married. And here in HR, we're supposed to know about such things. You have to be noted in his personnel file, approved by colony management and endorsed on his insurance. Why hasn't he told us?"

Her large, highly-polished desk was nearly bare, except for a communication terminal and a shiny brass plaque which read "Letitia Saltwater, Executive Reception".

"Well, it just happened," Lucinda answered breezily with a smile. "Plus it's a secret. No one knows yet."

She paused a moment, thinking better of her deception. Her smile faded. "Actually, that's not true," she admitted with a blush. "Wishful thinking. Somewhere, deep down, I feel like if I say it often enough, it will be true. But we're not married yet. We're going to be. We're engaged. He's my fiancé."

"Ahhh," said the receptionist knowingly. She grinned with as much sincerity as a graying hyena casually stalking its helpless prey. "One of those make-believe, top-secret, on-again-off-again-not-yet-hopefully-some-day-soon kind of marriages. A long time ago, they used to call that 'living in sin'. What do they call it now?"

Lucinda looked at her coolly. "Heaven on a nine and three quarter inch stick," she said evenly.

"It doesn't say anything about that in his personnel file." the receptionist noted, scanning her terminal. It was her turn to blush. She arched one eyebrow, verging on impressed, but still skeptical. "Nine and three quarter inches, you say?"

"Exactly," Lucinda answered, arching both eyebrows, which had the effect widening her eyes as if in wonder.

"Why, that's about…," Saltwater paused for mental calculations.

"24.77 centimeters," Lucinda offered.

"Exactly?" Saltwater asked.

"Approximately," Lucinda said.

"Phew, that's a lot of centimeters," Saltwater admitted. "Enough centimeters to raise my estimation of Howard Ricardo significantly."

"Exactly!" Lucinda smirked. She had, of course, somewhat exaggerated Howie's actual generous endowment, but it had clearly had exactly the intended effect.

"So, now that I better understand the precise nature of your relationship," the receptionist smirked back, "may I inquire as to when was, or is, or might be, the happy day on which you were, or maybe are going to be, married?"

"Soon, real soon," Lucinda replied with the faintest of scowls. "As soon as my dear Howie gets a little raise."

"Bon chance, sweetheart, bon big, fat freakin' chance," the receptionist muttered under her breath. Then, somewhat officiously, "I'll tell the Director you are here to see him."

She spoke softly and at some length into a communications device. Lucinda couldn't hear what she said, but the woman kept glancing up at her, leering and punctuating her remarks with soft snorts and snickers.

Eventually, she stood up, announced, "Mr. Hardnutz will see you now," and strutted across the room to open the door to his office and hold it for Lucinda. Watching her walk, Lucinda decided she must have been very attractive indeed at one time.

The HR Director's office was huge by Ganymede standards, and richly decorated by any measure. He sat behind a large, neat, glass-topped desk. The only things on it were a few framed holo-pics, an ornate gold desk lamp, a fancy pen, a holo-vid work station and a single sheet of paper. The walls were lined with expensive-looking art, shelves full of antique books and a great many framed awards and certificates. Two large windows looked out over the street below. A plush leather arm chair was placed in front of and facing the desk.

"Mr. Hardnutz," the receptionist cooed, "this is Lucinda Soon-to-Be-Ricardo-Maybe."

Lucinda swept into the room and sashayed toward the chair. The skirt of her gossamer dress danced and hovered exactly as she had planned, showing off her gorgeous legs. "May I sit?" she purred.

"Of course, my dear," Hardnutz answered warmly.

From behind her, Lucinda heard the receptionist snort one last time, then close the door with slightly more force that was actually required.

Lucinda sat, making a provocative show of crossing her legs. Her hem slid up to reveal the entire length of her silky thigh. She put her hands in her lap and threw her shoulders back to thrust her breasts forward.

Hardnutz took a deep breath, rippling the expensive silk of his imported suit. "Well, Mrs. Ricar… Or, is it…?" he hesitated.

"Please, call me 'Lucinda'," she answered sweetly.

"Yes, of course. Thank you," he said, licking his suddenly dry lips. "Now, Lucinda, what can I do for you?"

"It's about Howie," she began.

"I must tell, you," interrupted Hardnutz, growing a little agitated, "not to put too fine a point on it, that Howard Ricardo is the bane of my existence. He's my nemesis. If I could find a way to rescind his birth, I'd do it in a heartbeat. But, since that seems highly unlikely," he continued through clenched teeth, his eyes narrowing, "I plan to settle for getting him fired and shipped to some other planet, some other solar system if possible, where he will be subjected to the harshest and most unpleasant conditions imaginable for the remainder of his hopefully short, and certainly miserable, little life."

While he spoke, Lucinda surreptitiously examined the office in more detail. A chart on the wall in a fancy frame caught her eye. A glance told her that it showed work absences and tardiness decreasing as frequency of disciplinary actions increased. Small lettering in one corner indicated that the statistics had been compiled by Napoleon Hardnutz. And she concluded from the quality of the framing that he was particularly proud of it.

"Now, with that background, Lucinda," Hardnutz concluded, his body relaxing noticeably and his polite smile returning, "What can I do for you today?"

Lucinda stood, placed her hands on her hips and pouted, "You have him all wrong, Mr. Hardnutz. He admires you terribly. He told me so himself."

She stepped up to the desk, braced her hands on its glass and leaned over to continue in a whisper and give the older man a view down the front of her dress, revealing her perfect breasts.

"But he needs a little raise or we can't get married," she said quietly, her voice like satin.

Hardnutz's eyes widened. He didn't notice the small trickle of saliva drooling over his lower lip and down his chin.

"And he's going to go crazy in that little, tiny office," she sighed, shuddering her shoulders gently, as if in revulsion, to make her firm breasts sway slowly in a stately but seductive dance. "I can't let that happen now, can I?"

Napoleon Hardnutz gulped, trying to clear his throat, but having no idea what he would say if he had been still capable of speech.

"He would do anything for you," she went on in a low, husky voice, as she glided languorously around the desk.

He pushed his chair back a little. It wasn't clear if he wanted to give her room or was trying to get away.

"And I would do anything for him," she cooed.

"Anything," she repeated quietly.

As she put a smooth-skinned arm around his bony shoulders in obvious preparation for taking a seat on his lap, he raised his arms, as if to push her away, then stopped indecisively. She ignored his dilemma, sat daintily and crossed her legs again, her diaphanous skirt sliding up even further this time. She began to stoke his wizened cheek with her free hand and could feel his already-stiff cock pressing against the side of her soft thigh.

Lucinda put her face next to his and breathed in his ear, "If my Howie's unhappy, I'm unhappy. And you don't want me to be unhappy, do you?" she asked, as she pressed the side of her breast against his chest and gently slid her thigh against his aching, turgid erection. The contact accelerated her own growing excitement.

He moaned pathetically and began to reach for her left breast, then hesitated. She nibbled on his earlobe and rubbed her thigh against his cock more vigorously. His breathing quickened and he moaned softly several more times in rapid succession. He squeezed his eyes shut. His back stiffened and he grabbed the arms of the chair firmly, as if to keep his hands under control.

"It's okay, Sweetie. You can touch me there. I like it when men touch me, and that's one of my favorite places to be touched…. Please," she whispered, continuing to massage his stiff prick with the side of her leg. Her rigid little nipples visibly tent-poled the thin fabric of her dress

Suddenly, his defenses crumbled. He threw one arm forcefully around her shoulder, holding her firmly and grabbed her breast roughly with the other hand.

Lucinda pulled her head back from his ear and attacked his mouth with her own. Her tongue pushed between his lips and danced with his.

If she could have, Lucinda probably would have pulled down her lacy panties and fucked Hardnutz until he begged to give Howie a raise, a promotion, a bigger office and the keys to the DuPimp corporate shuttle rocket, or until she wore his cock down to a nub, whichever happened first. But, although the protocols which required her to always tell the truth to humans had been seriously compromised by overrides designed to protect the secrecy of the Beta testing, she was still strictly bound by the First Ancillary Law of Companionship, which explicitly prohibited her from having sexual relations with anyone other than Howie without his permission.

What was a little less clear to her, however, was exactly what it meant to have "sexual relations". Lucinda was pretty sure that flirting with Howie's boss wasn't having sexual relations. And she figured that sitting on his lap and rubbing against his stiff cock wasn't having sexual relations either. She briefly wondered whether giving him a blow job would be "sexual relations". The 2061 Solikipedia said that there was president of the former United States of America in the late 20^th century who clamed that getting sucked off wasn't having sexual relations, but she assumed that it was just another inaccurate entry in the Solikipedia. Besides, she was pretty sure what Howie would say about it.

In the end, she concluded that her programming did not prohibit lap dancing, which was, according to the Solikipedia, merely an erotic form of entertainment. Besides, it wasn't much different from what she was already doing. So she took his face in her hands, stood, turned, straddled his lap, and kissed him again, deeply and forcefully.

Slowly, she lowered her hips until her soaking wet panties made contact with the large, hard lump behind his zipper. Delicately, she slid forward, rubbing her rock-hard clit against his steel-stiff boner.

He grabbed her ass cheeks and pulled her down hard against him. His legs stiffened. His head swung gently from side to side, his hips gyrated slowly and his eyes closed in approaching ecstasy. He snarled softly in simultaneous pleasure, frustration and shame.

Lucinda's circuits were buzzing and singing, building toward the overload which precipitated her own version of orgasmic bliss. But she didn't want either of them to cum yet, not until she extracted the promise of a raise and promotion for Howie.

She planned to break crotch contact briefly and ask for his commitment. However, before she could do it, Hardnutz' eyes suddenly flew open, his hands clutched at his chest and he grunted repeatedly in what seemed to be acute pain. He stared at her in apparent shock and then his head abruptly lolled to one side and remained motionless, his mouth agape, his tongue hanging out and his eyes still open, but non-reactive.

Beneath her, she could feel his hard penis throb powerfully as it pumped his pants full of pints of steaming cum.

She jumped up immediately, still somewhat distracted and befuddled by her sexual fervor. Hardnutz' body convulsed slightly with each pulse of his unfelt orgasm. But when his climax faded, all bodily motion stopped. She could find no heartbeat, no breathing.

OhmyGod, she thought. I've given him a heart attack. I've killed him. And I've broken one of the inviolate Three Laws of Robotics. But in her confusion, she couldn't remember which one, exactly. A robot must protect its… no… Thou shalt not… no, that's not it either… A robot is trustworthy, loyal, helpful… no, no, no… brave, clean and reverent… Arrrghhh.

Not knowing what else to do, she called Howie on her mobile phone. "Oh God, Howie," she rasped in a loud whisper, "I've killed poor Mr. Hardnutz. His pants are full of cum and I wasn't having sexual relations with him. I really wasn't. Now Isaac Asimov is coming after me and you're never going to get a promotion. Ms. Saltwater is right outside and we were just dancing, well sort of lap dancing, kind of, and…"

Howie interrupted and, with a few quick questions, figured out where she was and, more or less, what she was doing there.

"I don't think he's dead. It's just…" he began.

"Trust me, he's dead," Lucinda broke in hysterically. "He's not moving. No pulse, no breathing. Nothing."

"Shut up, calm down and listen," Howie answered, his voice carrying an authority that Lucinda had not heard before. "Is there a lock on the door? Lock it right away. Mess your dress up, maybe rip the bodice a little."

"But it's my lavender chiffon," she whined.

"Just do it," Howie barked. Wait 30 seconds or so, then scream and shout something like, 'No, please no. Don't do it. Take your hands off me. Let me go.' Stuff like that. Then stop yelling and wait. Don't open the door until you hear me outside in the reception area."

Howie ran for the elevator, took it up three stories to the top floor, the fifteenth, where the executive suites were and sprinted for Hardnutz' office. Outside the door, he stopped, caught his breath, then casually opened the door and walked into the reception area.

"Is Mr. Har…," he began, then stopped when he saw Letitia Saltwater banging on the door to Hardnutz' inner office.

"What's going on in there? Let me in." she shouted frantically.

"What is going on?" Howie asked with evident concern.

"Oh, Howie, I'm so glad you're here," she blurted. "Your slu.., er fiancée is locked in there. She screamed and was yelling like she was being attacked."

Howie rushed to the door and yelled, "Open up, Lulu. It's me, Howie." He grabbed the handle and shook the door.