Drone
15
The captain of The Flags of Centauri Independence put a weary hand to his face. He was tired, not the kind of tired that came from physical exertion, but the kind of burned-out, worn-out, soul-draining fatigue that came from handling a thousand little details and knowing there were still another thousand details left to go. He sat behind his desk and just vegetated for a long moment, wishing that the day was done and he could go home. After a moment he laughed. I am home, he thought, hand reaching out behind him to gently tap the bulkhead wall. For the next nine and a half years anyway.
All things concerned, he considered himself a lucky man. During the Occupation, he had served in the Free Centauri Army, now recently renamed and officially the Centauri Space Force, and had survived not one, not two, but three space battles in which the ship he was serving on had been blown apart around him. Some of his new crew had given him a hard time about that dubious record, half-seriously, questioning whether or not they were safe with him as commander-in-ship. In truth, both he and they knew it was a testament to his spacing skills, and, again, to just plain luck on his part. Now, he was captain of one of the first interstellar ships to be sent out again by an independent Centauri government, a very prestigious position even though it meant that at a minimum he would not seen Beta Prime again for twenty long years. He tapped his ship’s wall again, for luck and reassurance. He now knew almost every square centimeter of this huge hunk of plastioids, metal, and ceramic of a starship. He had better, considering how long he was going to be on it. The trip to the Flowerworld took nine years and six months in a light envelope one way, taking into account stopovers for course correction, maintenance, and so on. While it was true he would be in suspended animation for three-quarters of the journey, sharing the burden of command with his three subcaptains, it was still going to be a long time between planets. And then there was the mission itself, and the voyage home afterwards. He sighed. For all intents and purposes, he and his crew would be leaving their worlds forever. When he first received this commission, he had thought that would be the hardest part, but he was mistaken. It was the little things instead in preparation, the endless petty bureaucratic details of supplies, personnel, and logistics that was the exhausting part. The captain rubbed his head. His eyes hurt from scanning a chemipanel all day. His brain hurt from having to think about everything and plan. At times like this, he almost wished he could chuck the whole thing and retire to a villa on Serondra, maybe, or Panara, or the Silver Isles.
His door chimed. “Come,” he said deliberately briskly, taking a deep breath and resolving to set back to work without further complaint. It was one thing to lament to himself. It was quite another to let his crew see him so needlessly maudlin. The hatch slid open. One of his pursers came in, drifting slightly due to the low spin gravity.
“Captain,” the officer said. They exchanged pleasantries, talked briefly about ship’s business, and then the man said finally what he had come to the captain’s office to say. “There’s a fellow I think you should see. He’s down in the deck seventeen hold with a new cargo.”
The captain had handpicked his crew. He knew they wouldn’t waste his time, especially in these last frenetic days before leaving the Beta system. He asked what the cargo was, and the purser said it would be better if he saw for himself, so the captain shrugged and proceeded down. Five minutes later he was standing in front of a man-sized storage capsule and scrutinizing its contents as the “fellow,” a rough-seeming gentleman, explained how it was a present to one of the rulers of Epsilon Indi.
“Who’s she from?” the captain asked, whistling appreciatively.
“I don’t know,” the gentleman said. “I don’t much care, either. I was just paid to deliver it.”
“It,” reposing at an angle in the cylindrical capsule she had been stored in, was a deactivated pleasure drone. The busty automaton looked for all the worlds like a life-size pink doll.
The captain examined the naked form with a sense of rising heat and slight shame.
He had never seen a pleasure drone in person before, so to speak. Their ownership was still a matter of legal controversy in the restored Sovereignty. For the most part only the very rich or the very noble ever saw them, let alone got their hands on one. This used to be a person, the captain thought, and was disturbed at his own politically incorrect lack of concern. The reason, he considered, was that this bright pink, hugely endowed creature reclining before him was so obviously a sex toy. As he gazed upon the anonymous figure’s thick and voluptuous lips, ideal for cradling a man’s cock; the rounded hips and long, flawless legs, just made for wrapping around a man’s body; the hairless and impeccably sculpted pussy mound, so bare, so inviting, so fleshy that the captain longed to touch it, to put his lips to it, it was hard to not picture himself mounting this walking vibrator of a former human being, this fuckdoll created by Solarian technology.
Shit, I used to fight the fucking Solarians, the captain thought, and tried to ignore his erection.
“Well, she’s all yours, captain,” the Betan gentleman said. He turned to leave.
“Wait,” the captain said quickly, and the man turned around. “What am I supposed to do with her?”
The man snickered. “Well, I would think that would be obvious, captain.”
The expression the captain gave him was eloquent. The guy sobered up quickly.
“You’re the ship’s captain. You’re in charge of the mission. The agreement I have specifies that this pleasure drone goes to a ruler of the Flowerworld, but it doesn’t specify which ruler.”
The captain nodded, understanding. There would always be a nine-year data lag between Beta Prime and Epsilon Indi, due to their distance. In nine years a lot could change. People could die; people could rise to office; hell, even entire governments could fall. His mission wasn’t exactly without its risks. By the time The Flags of Centauri Independence got there, the Solarians could once more be in charge! The man went on. “Since you’re the captain, you get to decide who this doll goes to once you get there.” He shrugged. “It’s all stipulated in the contract. Have fun, and good luck, sir.”
He left with the purser, leaving the captain alone with his new charge.
“Good God,” he said to himself, shaking his head. “This is all I need.” Here was another headache added to his already innumerable list. A pleasure drone! He had to decide which politician would receive this controversial, anonymous gift. He could already imagine the problems making that choice would cause. There was also the matter of his own reputation to think about. Pleasure drones were legal only as a result of political pressure from the Beta Assembly. They weren’t exactly considered respectable by “decent, upstanding” people, including, but hardly least, the Sovereign Peter himself!
This can wait until we’re underway, he decided. I’ll have a long time to think about what to do.
He reached out a hand to darken the capsule’s transparent cover, then found himself hesitating. A pleasure drone, he thought again. He was, for the next several years, anyway, in possession of his very own pleasure drone. Despite the risks to his status, that was a temptation that did not often come in one man’s life. The things a pleasure drone could do for a man—to a man!—were the stuff of legend in the Three Systems. He removed the attached control wand from the capsule and used it to unseal the tilted container. My very own pleasure drone. He pointed the wand at the automaton and turned it on.
The blank golden eyes popped open. The huge chest raised up and down in an approximation of breathing, showing off a naked splendor. With a lithe grace, the life-size doll climbed out of the capsule and stood before the captain, whose own natural breath had picked up its pace considerably. She’s taller than I expected, he thought. Pleasure drones were a standard 1.6 meters, but it was one thing to have read that and another to have the exquisite beauty of that voluptuous figure standing beside him.
The drone’s enormous breasts rose and fell before his eyes, well within reach of his hands, or his mouth.
I am not a bad man, the captain thought. I fought against this. I fought against the cursed Solarians. It’s just . . it’s just . . . . He reached over and squeezed the drone’s massive tits, causing the sexual automaton to arch her back and gasp soundlessly in what was obviously intense satisfaction and pleasure. Encouraged by this response, the captain squeezed even harder. He pinched the drone’s nipples between his thumbs and forefingers. Once again he was rewarded with all the indications of extreme ecstasy on the part of the plastioid sex slave. The pleasure drone began artificially panting.
She was in need. And, suddenly, so was he.
Intellectually, the captain knew pleasure drones were victims, but seeing one before him, feeling one before him, it was all too clear that their purpose was to be fucked and used. They needed to be fucked and used. They were incomplete without it. She deserves to be enjoyed, the captain thought, and he used the control wand to scroll through her control menu. And I . . I am a very lucky man.
The nameless, rightless pleasure drone went to her hands and knees. She felt her use-Master’s hands and tongue on her soft body, felt his penis entering her pussy from behind. Unthinking protocols flashed through her chemiprocessor circuits. [Orders Received]. [Mode 15: Coitus: Reception From Behind]. [Coitus In Progress]. [Coitus In Progress]. Her hips rotated. She squeezed her drone cunt around the dick inside her and automatically processed how much more pressure she could deliver for her user’s maximum pleasure. She made the modification to her routine.
Everything was as it should be. She was pleasuring her use-Master.
[Coitus In Progress] she processed. She was pleasuring her use-Master, and that was all that she was doing. She was not thinking. She was not rebelling. She was not judging.
All that she was doing was fucking and feeling, as the good pleasure drone that she was. She was pleasuring. [Coitus In Progress]. Unearthly pleasure filled her sensors. It was the ecstasy of Service, the ecstasy of Being and not thinking. It was the ecstasy of being a pleasure drone.
She was a pleasure drone.
She was entirely a pleasure drone. Nothing but a pleasure drone.
And that was enough.