7 comments/ 17024 views/ 14 favorites Hardship Troopers By: flavortang ©2011 Drake Collins All Rights Reserved. CHAPTER ONE Cam Zyzerbachus, born 23 years ago on a planet called Arceus Echelon, had a fairly ordinary childhood. His parents opted for a natural, non-engineered birth. Most people in his parents' financial bracket could afford to genetically manufacture their kids, from their future height and hair color to artistic or physical proficiencies. Cam's parents figured they'd do things the old fashioned way and let nature decide these things. Typically, genefactured (genetically manufactured) kids stuck out like sore thumbs. There's something to be said about parents who have dark skin, hair and eyes pushing a baby in a stroller that has purple hair, blue eyes and alabaster skin. For many of these people, babies were accessories, stylish fashion statements. It was the hip new application of biotech that people could use to show what control they had over the power of creation. Having a kid wasn't enough of a gift, no. They needed a Mr. Potato Head Jr.. Cam grew up in a middle-class family, his father was a retired sailor and his mother was a homemaker. He lived a sheltered, easy life. There was always plenty of food on the table and a firm, steady roof over his head. When he was little, he assumed everyone had it this way. Naïve. He learned later on in life that most didn't have it that good. Most didn't have access to the modern luxuries his family had. His father urged him early in life on a path to join the Royal Navy, which one could do as early as sixteen. He knew deep down, though, that that was never in the cards for him. Inside, he wanted to see how the other half lived. He held a bit of self-contempt for the cushioned life he'd enjoyed and wanted to impose a more challenging life on himself. Thankfully, he was always a good kid and never gave his parents problems so he never had to endure military school or anything like that. He recalled with great clarity the night he made the decision, though. He was in the backyard of his childhood home. It was night time and the firmament of stars was just a blanket of glinting glimmers in the darkness. He was lying on his back just staring up at them wondering what all was out there. He knew that, with the money, he could find out. He'd seen the brochures in the travel agencies. He wanted to see it all with his own eyes because, if life was about anything, it was about experiences. Some of his father's Navy buddies who had connections off-world got him a spot with an interplanetary peacekeeping outfit. They'd go planet-jumping doing sentienistic charity work; helping deliver food to needy alien colonists, donating medicines, building schools as well as diplomatic bridges for human-alien relations. They were provided daily meals, a small living quarters on a star freighter and an even smaller monthly paycheck. Thankfully, it wasn't about the pay. It was about seeing different places, having new experiences and meeting a diverse range of sentient life, none of which was human. He was allowed to learn just how small a part he was of the intergalactic community in which I lived. He remembered a little tarian boy he'd met on Hydrian Leptos, the tarian homeworld. The tarians were a lithe, cat-like race. Surprisingly timid, considering they were equipped with retractable claws capable of scalping a human in a single blow, they were a humble, peaceful people. Cam remembered giving this tarian boy a little trinket he'd carved out of wood and painted. In receiving it, the boy gave the most adorable smile in return. His family immediately accepted Cam as an honorary member of "the tribe". Cam realized that beauty can come in the most unfamiliar, unexpected forms. Over time, Cam had fun and learned more about alien cultures than he'd ever imagined he would. After broadening his cultural horizons for several years he decided to return home to Arceus and build himself a future. However, he didn't want to make it easy for himself, either. He tapped his father's old Navy buddies for another favor; a job. They pulled some strings and made it happen. I wasn't picky or choosy. I just wanted something that would pay and give me something to do a little closer to home. They knew people who ran an off-world orbital station. It'd be an office job in a mostly automated working environment, a position he gratefully accepted. Now, an Arcean year later, he was a packing clerk for a mining conglomerate called Amalgamated Metals. For the most part, he resided on Samaran 17. It was a bulky, run-down orbital station; a monolith of human and xolothian engineering constructed on the tarian moon of Phaedros Six. It was an oblong, jagged, ugly-looking hunk of oranium that was encased in cold plasma deflection shield technology and powered by dark matter-transmutation engines. It was also home. "Sammy", as the natives called it, was about three miles long, a mile thick and was populated by nearly a hundred-thousand humans, tarians, saracians, thorans and kylaxians. The bulk of the population, though, were humanoid synthetics; walking, talking service automatons. The station operated on a six-revolution week cycle and each day was simple: 'First Day', 'Second Day', and so on. Sammy orbited Arceus at a distance of about three hundred and fifty miles in the toposphere. Samaran 17 was a colony outpost/docking hub for mining starships from as far as a half a light-year out. There were mining colony outposts scattered throughout the galaxy but Samaran 17 was the biggest, as well as one of the oldest. Most of the miners lived, worked and died on the same colony ships they were born on. They would never venture out, never dare to try. Some couldn't afford it. Some preferred to have their feet on solid, steady ground rather than being bound by artificial gravity to the inner hull of a starship for months or years at a time while being propelled at near-light speed. These hard laborers were basically owned by the companies they worked for. Not Cam. He volunteered. He went there on his own accord. He had no regrets. The company he worked for, Amalgamated Metals, owned almost the entire quadrant; a system that consisted of fourteen worlds, eight of which were populated by a diverse range of alien intelligences, all of which had mining colonies on them. They built the colony cities, the hospitals, engineered the core drillers and the construction droids. They even had a sub-division that dealt in military hardware. The military sub-division, Scythe, specialized in cloning, biological warfare, advanced weaponry and unmanned scanning drones that were deployed to uncharted planets to look for the minerals that kept Amalgamated Metals' profits constantly in the black. Better than just "in the black". Last quarter alone they pocketed what would've been a cool forty billion on Earth, in good ol' Amerasian bluebacks, or 65 billion uni-creds. A few solar revolutions after humans made the first connection with non-human intelligence, one of the first things that was established was trade. Some say that math is the universal language. Maybe for physicists and scientists, but what allows for survival between two comparably intelligent lifeforms is trade. The free market. Some human handed a volarian a Diet Coke in exchange for some khorus seeds and that was that. The exchange rate in the Trellian system was volatile and you couldn't tell from one week to the next exactly what your credits were worth. Luckily, the universal credit system made it easy for any alien whose species was recognized by the CODW(Consortium of Developed Worlds) to bring in any of their homeworld's currency and have it be worth something. Between regional territory conflicts and the politics that accompanied them, it was amazing that anyone could remain civilized enough to make a profit. Thankfully, the private military operatives (PMOs) that were genetically manufactured, incubated, trained and armored up by Scythe made it easier for Amalgamated Metals to ply their trade. Scythe would usually send these clones as envoys to negotiate with off-world real estate agents. Easy to negotiate when you've got a cadre of mindless, jack-booted, trigger-happy automatons that are jacked up on muscle-enhancers and equipped with the best armor and weapons that money could buy to speak on your behalf. They didn't have to say much. AM's lawyers were almost as feared as the PMOs. The territorial conflicts were legendary, though. Some had raged for thousands of years. The chigasi and forlans had been involved in armed conflicts over oranium caches that were buried inside meteors that would pass through the spatial-border orbits of each of their home planets. The chigasi would complain that the forlans weren't packing up and leaving a particular oranium meteor fast enough when it'd wander into chigasi orbit range. The forlans would do the same when the meteors breached their home world's orbit range. Negotiations usually ended in large explosions and hundreds of bodies. All for some shiny rock. All for money. That's why Cam was happy where he was. Samaran 17 wasn't a fabled vessel where every man was a king. It wasn't a gleaming, technological marvel or an example of aesthetic beauty in design, but it was home. Sure, it had crime and corruption, but so did everywhere else. It was old and rusty and most of the internal tech was hopelessly obsolete. There was disease and grime and filth, but all within acceptable levels. There hadn't been a terrorist attack in over twenty solar revolutions and crime was steady. You could walk down an alley at night and odds are you'd make it home in one piece. More than you could say on some of the colony ships. Some of the ships were like floating prisons where the inmates roamed uninhibited. AM's security forces made sure that the economic integrity of the colony ships was maintained. AM didn't give a crap about the workers, but it cost less to maintain order than it did to hire new laborers, should they get killed as a victim of the high crime rates. It was only sensible to them if it was cost-effective. No, Sammy was quaint and livable. Cam's living block was always fairly quiet. The architects had planned for a lot of people to live and subsist in a relatively small space so all the streetside shops were tight and compact. You'd be lucky to fit five people in your average drink shop. You were always making involuntary elbow love with perfect strangers. The walking lanes outside were narrow, only around two body widths, and if you wanted to go far your only option was to wait for a mag-lev tram to come by, which they did every few minutes. No one owned personal transports, except some of the bigwigs working for the company. City-states like Garreth de Voldro on the trade world Venn was basically a megamicro-sized version of Samaran 17 with all the architectural dimensions scaled down. Albeit, a lot darker and grimier, but a city nonetheless. When Cam's father served in the Malanari Royal Navy down on Arceus he worked on a Mariner Class medical frigate called the Trident Glory and told Cam that Sammy was just a bigger version of that medical frigate he paced the halls of for the eight years he served. Clunky, unforgiving, unapologetically economical in design. The architects of Sammy must've had guns to their heads and were told "Design with utility in mind." because there was a reason for every scrap, pipe and bolt; where it was, why it was there and who had to maintain it. Nothing was designed willy-nilly. Nothing superfluous. You didn't find any mellow, soothing colors on Sammy, either. No pastels. Nothing soft. Everything was either dull, melancholy grey or splashes of headache-inducing neon hues which the shop signs all seemed to employ. No one could walk five feet without bumping their heads on one of the signs. It was information overload. There were so many signs that no one even paid attention to them. The air generators made sure the denizens there didn't suffocate. Thankfully for the citizens of Samaran 17 the engineers built those things to last. But the place wasn't built for convenience, comfort and especially not to be easy on the eyes. It was built by the company for sheer efficiency. The buildings grew out of the ground like steel sprouts. The external piping even looked like tree roots, but there was no vegetation anywhere, except for the rare potted plant that'd get smuggled in from Arceus. Small potted plants actually became a sort of novelty item and, thus, the traders made a decent living fleecing the workers who couldn't afford shuttle trips to and from Arceus themselves for one. On the company dime, employees were only assigned the smallest possible living space on Samaran 17. Cam's quarters was about twenty by twenty and little of that was actually navigable. He had a lot of trinkets and useless possessions that cluttered the little space he had. The flickering neon red from the restaurant sign across the block would beam in through his window slats at night and illuminate all of his junk. He loved that for some reason. Cam's mother told him that first time they visited that the place seemed cold and oppressive. Of course, she said it in that protective, motherly way. She was just concerned about her little boy. If it were up to her, the whole place would be made of that spongy stuff that seems to be all the rage with the toy companies. She'd have the whole place kid-proofed. Be that as it may, there was never any unrest between the classes because there were no classes on Samaran 17. Only one class; the working class. Only the proletariat. There wasn't any pressure to adopt mannerisms that weren't theirs. They had no one to aspire to, no one to impress. Everyone there were equals and they weren't going anywhere. That's what Cam liked the most. That's what he loved. There, you felt like part of a family where no one looked down on you. There was security and solidarity. The differences between them and some of their brethren on other worlds was that they were content with our status. There weren't any uprisings or political divisions. They were beyond that. All they had was work. Their work lives weren't detached from their real lives. They were one and the same, inseparable. AM didn't pay much, but it was enough to make a decent living. Some of the workers would send huge chunks of their pay to their families off-world where making a living was an even tougher proposition. Cam didn't mind his job, though. Sure, it was a little mundane and predictable but it gave him purpose. As a packing clerk for AM, he spent most of his day in a saccharine setting. He worked in a mostly sterile, uneventful office, surrounded by computing terminals. He had his own bathroom and a tiny desk. He'd receive digital shipping manifests from the incoming cargo ships transferred up by the droids in the warehouse and docking bay. The few humans that worked in his department were mostly tolerable. Like everyone else, they had their moments, good and bad. Archie was the master mechanic and handled diagnostics and repairs on-site for the docking droids. Sure, he didn't shave often and his distended gut always hung down under his shirt, but he was a genuinely nice guy. Cam bought him rounds over at Anchorpoint, the local watering hole, maybe once a week. Cam feared, though, that Archie would have a coronary and drop. He'd already undergone several over-the-counter nano-bot "pipe-cleanings" due to clogged arteries and was well on his way to another. Marti was a good guy, too. Back on Earth, he would've been referred to as an "Indian". He practiced an ancient religion called Hinduism. His ancestors apparently prayed to lots of six-armed, blue-skinned women. He worked in accounting a few floors above Cam. He didn't see Marti often but whenever he did he seemed like a cheery chap. Had a couple of kids and a wife. Then again, the looping data-streams in the video-frames he had in his office of his kids running around giggling and his wife kissing him on the cheek could've been fabricated. It wasn't a common practice but it did happen. J'Ahnnatharius was a darian and worked with Ko'Lokk, a thorian, in the docks. Cam didn't understand a word they said and since their neural translators usually spat out incorrect translations of alien languages he had to try and piece together what he thought they were saying to him. They both always came off as personable, although Cam thought that Ko'Lokk had a strange general dislike of humans. But they both brought Cam gifts on his birthday every year so they were good in his book. J'Ahnatharius had even brought Cam a spear tip that was given to him by his grandfather when he was little. Supposedly, it was a great honor so Cam accepted it happily. Moto worked in SR, sentient resources. The SR reps were the one any of the aliens onboard Samaran 17 went to when they had any complaints or concerns. Ironic that the corporate office would assign that duty, in Cam's department, to a synthetic lifeform. Moto's bulging bug eyes were always a little off-putting for Cam but they designed his voice to be the most soothing one in the office, so he rolled with it. Nothing much made sense where Cam worked, though, so a synthetic SR rep didn't surprise him. That left the on-site head technician who handled all the repairs on the computing terminals at the station; Cam's terminals and the ones out on the dock floor and the warehouse. It used to be Hamolde, a saracian intellectual. He was a bit of a brainy, inaccessible type. He was the only alien that Cam's neural translator actually made more coherent. Hamolde's head was always in the clouds; buried in numbers, equations, circuit boards. Cam theorized that he'd one day marry a terminal, if he only could. Hamolde loved working on them. So much so that corporate was moving him to one of their newest colony-ships, a state-of-the-art darling they named Artemis Cloudfarer. So, Hamolde was on the way out the door so they brought in an assistant to replace him. Her name was Maximillia von Barlaphon, a human from Mandra Bay down on Arceus Echelon. Mandra Bay was a fishing town. A lot of homeless aliens seemed to gravitate to the area. Runaways, too. And slavers and pushers. Law enforcement down there left a lot to be desired and unless you had a license to fish karfa then odds are you weren't employed. If Maxamillia grew up there, odds are she wasn't well-balanced. On first sight, you would've made that assumption, too. She was technically a human female but you had to take a few seconds to make that observation. Along with a shaved head, tats all up her arms, lower torso and lower back and a scowl that could strip the paint off the side of a nebula cruiser, she didn't exactly look like she just came from giving the valedictorian speech at the local university or from some upscale finishing school. She was definitely a hard-chargin', fast-livin', running-on-a-knife's-edge type. The first time Cam saw her he noticed scars on her arm. Cut marks, most likely. And it wasn't like she was a poser. She wasn't trying to be rock hard because she was, but it didn't seem like it was her only option. She had the eyes of an old soul; someone who had lived far beyond her true years, even though she was likely around Cam's age. Her eyes looked like they'd been plucked out of a war weary space pirate who'd spent a few decades dancing on the edge of hunger and desperation. There wasn't any passion or hope in those black irises. They were dim and tired, beaten down. She was really quite attractive, even with her raccoon-eye make-up and perpetual mean mug. Her unique look evoked the imagery of the lovechild of a hoverbiker gang leader and his horned, vampiric succubus concubine. The first thing Cam thought when he saw her, after noticing the scars, was "That's the cutest grease-monkey I've ever seen in my life.". He was justified in thinking so. Hardship Troopers She was thin and toned; her tight skin concealing a body wrapped in stringy muscle, probably a result of the aforementioned hard-chargin' life; one that lacked superficial luxuries and senseless wants. She seemed like the type that only got what she absolutely needed out of life and had to fight tooth and nail to get even that. Her arms and midriff were always bare and she always wore dungaree-style work trousers. Done intentionally or not, Maximillia's dungarees always managed to perfectly accentuate her rear end, which was surprisingly supple and voluptuous. Most skinny girls weren't gifted with the natural ability to tow a full load around back, but she was more than well-endowed in that department. Maximillia's chest wasn't nearly as stacked as her backside, but it didn't matter. It actually added to the charm of her pleasantly unique physique. She wasn't a typical, orthodox girl and didn't seem to realize one bit that she could really work her body if she wanted to. Cam knew it was a sick and misogynistic thing to admit, but he thought to himself how she could do porn if she wanted. He knew it wasn't the most noble thought, but it was a reasonable one. There was an enormous market for hardcore virtual reality data-streams where the user could have any sexual experience they wanted in a first person perspective. Sex, on demand, with any man, woman or alien imaginable; living, dead or even fictional. The digital constructs were indistinguishable from reality. A girl like Maximillia, if she ever considered a career in that racket, could rake in a fortune. A man, or woman, so willing, could direct her to do anything they wanted. It's no wonder that the erotic VR data-stream industry was booming and was even lining the pockets of digi-pirates and unlicensed construct artists. A young human male, infatuated with his mom's hot friend, could order up a VR sex fantasy that would make Caligula blush. But, even though her scarred, inked and supple body was a perplexing enigma to most heterosexual men, it was Maximillia's face that was the most intriguing. For some reason, she tried to be ugly, but just couldn't pull it off. Between her flawless, silky-smooth skin, her perfectly sculpted nose, her full, engorged, pouty lips and her narrow, dark eyes, she was unbearably and mysteriously engaging. One day, Hamolde brought Maximillia around for formal introductions with Cam's department. Cam saw that, when she met everyone else, she was visibly less than enthusiastic, which didn't bode well for him. Like he expected, when they officially met, she didn't bother reciprocating when he offered his hand for a handshake. She downright looked bored and uninterested. She barely looked at him, and for the brief moments she did, it was more with indifference and even a tinge of mild contempt. How embarrassing. He was certain that he involuntarily shed that crimson shade that exposed his humiliation. Cam was always a bit nonplussed around beautiful women, but not so sheepish that he couldn't make eye contact and put together a coherent sentence. For Cam, though, it was really hard not to stutter in Maximillia's presence. She was almost hypnotically attractive, but also an unapproachable, inaccessible, armor-plated bitch with no patience for kindness, which she took as weakness. He figured she already didn't like him so he was in a hole that'd already been dug for him that he needed to find a way to crawl out of. The fact that the terminals were always buggy, especially in Cam's department, made him realize that eventually he'd have to have a face-to-face with Maximillia. When he did, it'd be because he needed her help and she'd have to be inconvenienced because of his inability to help himself. It'd be like trading in an organ without anesthetic or showering in pig blood and throwing yourself into a cage with a hungry, predatory carnivore. It'd be a sneak peek into oblivion, but it was something he knew he was going to have to experience at some point. Strangely though, the fact that a confrontation was forthcoming and inevitable was actually nervously exciting. He was afraid of the moment, but knew it would be unpredictable and volatile. Maybe he'd actually crack her armor a little and see a twinkle of humanity in there. That or she'd get to know him a little and that would increase her level of contempt for him from mild indifference to severe loathing. It was going to happen, though, so why bother to worry? CHAPTER 2 Descent Into Darkness Cam woke up on a Third Day, middle of the six-day work cycle. Groggy as hell, he drug himself out of bed. He was still riding the tail end of a bender, courtesy of a few rounds of shots at Anchorpoint the previous night. He pulled himself into the shower, then got dressed and knocked back a can of Purient, which was a slurry of six Arcean fruits and veggies, "all in a delicious stew of vitalectable flavors and energy!". At least that's what the unsolicited REM sleep transmission advertisements said. Knowing Maximillia was going to be at work, that there was an off chance that he might cross her path and an even more distant possibility that she'd look in his general direction, he spent more time than usual in front of the bathroom mirror. He sculpted his dark hair into a fancy curl of a horn. That particular hairstyle was all the rage with young men his age back on Arcean. He knew his chances were infinitesimal but someone forgot to inform his hormones, which were notoriously stubborn. If anything, he just wanted to look presentable enough that he'd feel slightly less exposed and vulnerable in her presence. Cam rolled into the office, keeping an eye out for Maximillia. He hadn't seen her yet but knowing she was either in the vicinity or would be sent a tingle down his spine. It was a tingle born of both excitement and dread. He felt like, at any moment, Maximillia could pop up and shank him in the ribs with a rusty screwdriver. She was that terrifying, but her ass was also to die for so it was a definite internal conflict. He hadn't felt this kind of social anxiety in regards to a woman in a long time. Women never were a huge priority in his life. He'd had lovers in the past, human and alien alike, but he was never the type of guy who was always "on the prowl" just guided around by his rocket. He wasn't a party animal, an exhibitionist or even a mildly extroverted thrillseeker. Sure, he had drinks at Anchorpoint from time to time, but even that was mostly a solitary recreation. Cam was a very introspective person, his mind always off in deep thought. He was more an intellectual, a philosopher more interested in ideas than people, a far cry from adrenaline junkies or social vampires who needed to be constantly stimulated, bombarded with attention or praised to be sustained. His mellow, disciplined upbringing kept him on the level and he never really strayed from the path. Girls like Maximillia were more alien to him than, well, female aliens. As he sat down to his main terminal, it activated automatically, the environmental sensors detecting his presence. The system booted up as it always did. He did recall, though, that the terminals had been acting up for weeks. Just little symptoms of bugginess; the occasional delay in response time, the occasional missing data file, the need to reboot ever so often. Nothing major or catastrophic, but slightly annoying in the least and ominously foreboding at best. He never worried about the buggy systems because he knew he could always call on Hamolde to fix the problem. Now, though, was a different situation. More complicated than the terminal situation was how to approach the new technician, should things go awry. Then, hours into the day, it happened. At first the system chugged and Cam wasn't able to access recently archived cargo manifests. Then, it would take longer and longer to process simple requests, like deleting a file or searching an index. It got to the point that he realized it was now a detriment to his work. He knew he wasn't qualified to meddle with the system. He inhaled deeply, knowing clear and true the task at hand. Willing himself out of his chair, he moved into the hallway. Hamolde's old workspace was just down the hall and, in the past, whenever Cam needed him, he could just stroll on over and ask for help. For the first time ever, he was dreading having to approach the tech workshop. Cam rounded the corner into the large cubicle but found it empty. He sighed, breathing a momentary sigh of relief but he realized his problem wasn't solved. He needed to find Maximillia. He noticed the access panel leading into the sub-basement at the far corner of the room was ajar, a forbidding red glow emanating from below. He approached slowly, peeking in, then stepping inside and proceeding downward. The sub-basement was illuminated by a series of emergency lights that bathed the pipe-infested chamber in a neon red wash. It was designed like the innards of a centuries-old battle submarine there; nothing but pipes and thundering rattles and mysterious clangs and pings reverberating throughout. Very disorienting. Carefully, he moved forward, eyes darting to and fro, until he rounded a corner and saw her there, sitting at a small table in the dark, furthermost corner, drenched in the crimson lights, turning her light skin a demonic red. There she was, Queen of the Underworld herself and mistress of her domain. The atmospherics certainly didn't help bolster Cam's steadily dwindling courage reserves. She was quietly reading a book, a bottle of andalarian scotch and a shot glass conveniently next to her. As far as Cam could tell, she hadn't noticed him yet. Or maybe she had and hadn't bothered to acknowledge his presence. Looking at her, he was actually frozen, unable to speak. His brain was glitching just as bad as the terminals in his office. To him, she looked like a coiled grass serpent. The kind he remembered finding in the fields near his home on Arceus. When coiled but not quite prepared to strike, they were harmless, but when approached and provoked, they could kill with a single bite. Cam knew he had to say something. He inched forward and with his most delicate, unthreatening voice, he broke the silence. "Umm, hi. Uhh--Maximillia..." Her eyes slowly drug over to him while the rest of her body didn't move a centimeter. He winced, trying to salvage the slowly tumbling situation. "Yeah, I--I hate to bother you but I've got a little situation in my office." "Max." she said cryptically. Cam didn't know what she meant. "Uhh, I'm not sure I underst--" "My name..." she interrupted. "It's just Max. Saying Maximillia just wastes your time and my time. It's Max. Saves time on syllables." With that, she turned back to her book. "Okay, Max. I--I was just saying that I was having some issues with the terminal in my office." he stuttered. She sighed loud enough for him to hear and laid down her book, turning those fiery eyes back onto him. He gulped, trying not to wet himself as she stomped past him and up the stairwell. Max swept into Cam's office, as if she knew exactly where she was going. She did. As Cam followed behind her, carefully not to breach her personal bubble, she stopped short of the terminal and sat in his seat. Her fingers danced on the holographic keyboard that hovered in space before her, her digits moved as if possessed, just typing up a swarm of text on-screen. She entered commands so fast and the data was scrolling upward at such an insane speed that he could barely keep up. Cam considered himself computer literate, but apparently Max was on another level altogether. Within moments, she'd breach the internal operating system of his terminal and was punching in complex coded program lines, silently diagnosing the system. She finally stopped, analyzing the data on the screen. Cam couldn't decipher what it all said, but he read her face, watching for every muscular twitch and reflexive nuance. Max finally looked over at him. "When's the last time you defragged this terminal?" "I--I" he stuttered. "The data core is jammed full of crap diagnostic files, outdated archive materials and undeleted core-scan records." she said, just staring at him. Cam felt so imasculated. There she was, this lithe, stringy muscled, bare-armed tat queen just drilling into his soul with her mesmerizing dark eyes. His mind was spinning, desperate for a retort, any retort. "I--I'm sorry. I had no idea." Clearly, she knew that no response he'd give would be sufficient. Max had him over a barrel and was probably revelling in the feeling. She rolled her eyes and sighed, quickly tapping the holographic keys. The screen flashed green and emptied to a blank slate. She pushed away from the terminal and walked away, exiting the room. Cam exhaled, attempting to scoop up the last remnants of his self-respect. He realized that she was more of a handful that he initially thought. She was ferocious. The look in her eyes showed no patience for weakness. She came off as a flawless piece of organic engineering incapable of even the slightest fault or indecisive pause. Every choice she made she made without even a momentary delay and every choice seemed to be the right one. She commanded that terminal as if inhuman, as if in direct digital control of it, from mind to motherboard. In short, she terrified him. Thankfully, the terminals in Cam's office held and he wasn't forced to endure another emotional ball-kicking. The other people in Cam's department weren't so lucky. Archie, Marti and J'Ahnatharius all felt the brooding cynicism and overall unpleasantness that was Max. She actually wasn't nearly as aggressive, impatient and agitated with them as she was with Cam but they certainly sensed that negative aura and vibe she gave off. Hard to complain, though, when her actual work on the terminals was so effectively fruitful. When it came to brass tacks, Max was a workhorse and tackled a faulty terminal the same way a mechanic would get a hoverbike out of a salvage heap and back into the air. She was focused, laser-like, on her objective and didn't sway and swerve until the job was done. When the job was done, she walked. No banter, no chit-chat, no witty or humorous observations about the state of modern politics, sports or entertainment. It was strictly business, and when she was done, she returned back to the dark and cool confines of her subterranean abode. Cam would walk by her open bay workshop but she was never in there. Her seat was vacant and her desk empty. He could see the ominous red glow welling up from the sub-basement access panel, though, and he knew she was in there somewhere, like a black widow clinging defensively to her web just waiting for an unwary traveller to wander by and be snatched up. He held his breath every time he crossed her workshop, lest she hear him and come scrambling out after him. Word got around quickly cementing Max's reputation as a skilled and knowledgable technician, but also as someone with whom you should not fuck. Days went by without Cam so much as seeing the back of her shaved head. Part of him was thankful because he feared that the next time he did he might accidentally make eye contact with her and be turned to stone. She'd almost become a mythological figure in her own department. It certainly was an psychological conflict for Cam because, while she was terrifying, part of him also wanted to impress her. Weeks passed and every encounter Cam had with Max was less than positive. Every time they exchanged glances, she looked wryly unamused at best and mildly repulsed at worst. He started to wonder if he'd unintentionally insulted her somehow with something he'd said or done that could've been construed by her as offensive, no matter how trivial the comment or action. He couldn't think of anything, though. He was always polite and never projected himself as arrogant or obnoxious. Actually, he carried himself with a natural, unforced modesty. So, he was stumped. Whatever it was, it seemed her disdain was unequally directed at him. Darwinism doesn't fail, though, and Cam's futile mental make-up was evidence. She was definitely dangerous but also prime mating material. Sure, he was certain that after copulation she'd probably devour him headfirst, but the logical mind rarely dictates the procedure and execution of a young man's will, especially when a hot piece of ass is involved. Unfortunately for Cam, she was a hot piece of ass. Toxic? Yes. Venomous? Yes. Worth a climb? Probably. He certainly wasn't going to test the waters, though. Not quite yet, anyway. Before diving into that pool he'd have to constantly check the temperature. A toe at first, then a hand, then up to an ankle, a knee, then a full-blown dive. That's what he wanted to do, against all prevailing wisdom. He had no plan but he was intrigued by Max. She was a puzzle, an enigma. Cam was a nice guy, the type that always wanted people to like him. Some would consider that a flaw, but he always went out of his way to help others. In Max's case, she didn't seem like the type that needed help. She seemed the type that would vigorously deny help. He wanted to find the weak part in her armor, but where and how? **** A week had gone by after Cam's last flaming dud of an encounter with the department's token queen bitch, Max. He'd swept up most of his manhood and his self-esteem was almost at one-hundred percent again. The day was going well. Shipments were coming and going smoothly. He hadn't received a call from corporate in awhile and the proverbial train was chugging without incident. He realized around the middle of the work shift that he hadn't eaten anything and was getting a tad peckish so he strolled on down to the cafeteria. The cafeteria was completely automated; a few gyro-powered service automatons would roll and whir around the cafeteria, serving anyone who requested assistance. Other than that, food was stored in self-serve automats that patrons could buy by simply asking for an item. The voice identifiers would recognize the customer and automatically deduct the funds from their corporate account. Cam walked into the cafeteria to find it mostly empty, save for the aforementioned service automatons and a scattered few employees who wandered in from other departments. He went up to one of the automats, the only one that served fresh Arcean salads and stood before it, eyeing his choices. Seeing as that the cafeteria was almost empty, he felt free to take his time. He leaned in, looking through the glass at the colorfully prepared dishes. Cam literally stood there for minutes, carefully analyzing each salad. Why not? He was caught up on his work and was in no hurry to jump on the first thing he saw. Finally, he heard a sigh, then, a sultry voiced growled. "Taking forever." Cam looked over his shoulder and there was Max, arms crossed, an unimpressed look of spite on her face. Her standoffish pose certainly didn't help, either. After a moment he stepped aside, giving up his spot by conceding defeat and waving her in. She didn't offer a word of gratitude, just pursed her lips, unmoved. With his tail between his legs, Cam wandered over to another kiosk, ordered a burger and chips, accepted his purchase through the food slot and grabbed a tray. As he turned around, he noticed Max taking a seat at a table in front of him, her salad mocking him. They made eye contact only momentarily before Cam glanced away and walked past her. He crossed the length of the cafeteria and sat at the table near the entrance, the one that happened to be the furthest from Max. He sat with his back to her, not a move of disrespect but of intimidation. He thought to himself, wondering aghast, at how this tight little package of mascara, tattoos and bare skin could have such an effect on him. Maybe it was because she didn't give off any hint of characteristics common in basic, normal socializations. She offered no reciprocation of decent civility, no interest in superficial social interactions and not even an acknowledgment of the feelings of others. It's as if she wanted people to know that "the rules" didn't apply to her and that everyone should feel foolish for wearing the social masks they did on behalf of their perception of interpersonal relations. Hardship Troopers In a way, she was a passive, social anarchist; a person who, by way of passive aggression, made people question their own identities and, therefore, society and its pre-conceived hangups. Max looked across the cafeteria at her defeated co-worker and didn't bat an eye. After ten minutes or so, Cam heard a tray clatter into the wash slot, then the unmistakable sound of Max's boot-clad feet clomping towards him from behind. He glanced ahead, his eyes sneakily rolling over towards her as she walked out of the cafeteria. She didn't look back once, but could feel Cam's eyes on her. He could tell she was playing with him. It was hard for him not to give the obligatory stare as she walked away, her well-endowed ass just taunting him with each step. He imagined a couple of puppies could've been wrestling under those criminally form-fitting dungarees of hers. He felt like biting a knuckle in sexually-repressed agony but knew he couldn't show that kind of weakness, not in public anyway. That was the struggle for him. Max was so untouchable, so inaccessible that it was almost difficult to just fantasize about her or objectify her, not that objectification is a good thing. For Cam, though, it was both easy and difficult. From a purely superficial, external standpoint, it was easy because she fit the profile of a young woman just ripe for objectification from the fertile mind of a hormone-driven young man. On the other hand, he knew that he had almost no chance with her and that extended into his fantasies. The second she walked out of the room, Cam tried to mentally envision the moment after Max walked past him, but in his fantasy she'd suddenly stop, spin around and beg him to use her ass as his playground. All that would happen, though, is that she'd spin around, eye him up and down in that critically evaluative way and wag her finger at him. Even in his dreams he couldn't get her to be submissive. Total psychological domination. The end of the day came mercifully. Cam punched out, grabbed his jacket and headed out. Thankfully, he didn't see Max after the altercation in the cafeteria and escaped the confines of the office free and clear. It was a long work day so Cam decided to treat himself to a few drinks at Anchorpoint. Anchorpoint was a little hole-in-the-wall watering hole in the dense marketplace section of Samaran 17. It was an outdoor bar that was basically a long countertop with a bunch of stool built into the floor. There was only room for about fifteen people and that's with zero elbow room. If you spoke, practically everyone at the bar could hear you it was so compact and cramped. The bartender, Mahklo, was an old, grizzled kylathian who'd made dealing spirits his living since he got out of the army on the kylathian homeworld. He got the license to sell liquor on Samaran 17 and was assured a built-in client base. Only a fraction of the organics living on the station patronized Anchorpoint but that was more than enough to keep the booze flowing. Cam liked the place because he enjoyed the cameraderie of rubbing elbows with fellow firewater afficienados, alien or human. Not to mention that Mahklo was always chatty and in good spirits. It was like a dysfunctional second family for him. He could always count on Anchorpoint to take the edge off of an otherwise lousy day. As Cam rode the mag-tram, he tried to put the events of the day behind him and look forward to his restful off-work hours. Even though there weren't technically "days" on Samaran 17, the day/night cycles were identical to Arceus. Sammy orbited Arceus at the same speed that Arceus rotated, hence, day on Arceus equaled day on Sammy. The cargo freighters arrived and departed, regardless of if the organic crew was there or not. When the organics were off-shift, the synthetics took over, managing the incoming cargo shipments automatically. After the organics' off-shift ended and they came back into the office, it was up to them to correct any errors made by the synthetics, which were usually few. Cam would usually have a few dozen documents waiting for him on his terminal when he'd come back to work, the natural result of the office going automated for the off-shift. The automation and reasonable volume of freighters that came in and out of the office during the off-shift afforded Cam the time to enjoy at places like Anchorpoint. It was a fairly stress-free routine that made for a predictable existence. As the tram neared the marketplace sector, he tapped the button to slow down and hopped off onto the walkway as it did. The marketplace was unusually packed. Probably tourists from Arceus. It was nearing Tarsian Liberation Day, an Arcean holiday that people from the nation of Mancia, where Cam happened to be from, celebrated. Mancians typically traveled around this time, celebrating the liberties won for them by their ancestors in the War of 12 Colonies. This meant that, every Arcean year, Mancians would flood Samaran 17 looking for interesting off-world novelties that they could get for far cheaper than they could on Arceus, once they hit the markets there. The cargo freighters came from other worlds to Sammy, bringing with them the types of wares; tech, flora and fauna, fine art and other assorted collectibles, that Arceans had a high demand for. Unluckily for Cam, it made life for him around that time of the solar cycle a tad more inconvenient. He traversed the sidewalk, avoiding the dense walkway traffic which consisted of those obvious Arcean tourists, and neared Anchorpoint. As he rounded the corner and saw that oasis that was Anchorpoint, his smiled was swept clean off his face. All the seats were taken except for one. Next to that seat he saw a familiar shaved head: Max. She was sitting at the farthest edge of the counter, facing his way but she hadn't noticed him yet. The vacant stool was next to her, facing the bar, back to the mag-track. Max looked up from her drink and finally noticed him. He put his head down, his hands in his pockets and strolled up to the vacant stool, plopping himself down. Mahklo coggled over to Cam, an unapologetically enthusiastic smile on his face. "Cam, it's been a few days. You okay?" "Hey, Mack. Nah, things are great. Work's been work. How you been?" Cam asked. "Holding up. My daughter's coming up in a few weeks, bringing up the granddaughter for the first time." Mahklo guffawed, his yellowed chompers peeking out from behind his lips. "Hey, that's great, man. Congratulations. Really." he complimented, trying not to glance over at Max. She was loosely hanging onto her glass, eyes scanning the countertop lazily. "I got family coming up, too." he said. "Really? Where'd you say you were from again?" Mahklo asked, ignoring the slurred plea of a patron at the end of the bar. "Uh, Roseville Landing." Cam responded. "Oh, that's right! I've read great things about Roseville Landing. How was it growing up there?" Mahklo asked, genuinely curious. "It was good. Comfortable, low crime, lots of trees." Cam chuckled. "Sounds better than my old stomping grounds. Can I get ya anything?" Mahklo asked. "Umm, gimme a Triple Shot. For starters," Cam grinned. Mahklo shuffled off to get his drink. Then, an awkward silence bridged Max and Cam. He knew she wasn't impressed with him in the slightest and he desperately didn't want to accidentally glance up and get caught in those dark, unforgiving eyes again. "Roseville, huh?" Max said unexpectedly. Cam hesitated, the words coming out of nowhere. He didn't want to answer, knowing that he'd just be feeding the beast. "Yeah," he said as Mahklo slid the drink in front of him. "Not surprising at all," she retorted flippantly. He knew she'd throw some snide, insulting remark but he was still miffed at hearing it come out of her mouth. "What's that mean?" he asked, now simmering with ire. "No, you just seem like a really swell fella," she said in a not-so subtle manner. He was almost at wit's end, on the brink. Cam was usually the fair-tempered guy but Max had been pushing and pushing and it showed on his face. He clearly had enough. He leaned toward her and spoke firmly but softly, with stern control. "Look, I don't know why you seem to have it in for me. I don't what I must've done to you in a past life for you to carry such a huge chip on your shoulder for me, but I don't have any beefs with you. I come here twice a week, it's my favorite place here to get a drink and I'm just minding my business. We work with each other and you have this seething resentment towards me and that's fine. I really just want to go to work, keep to myself and then come here and enjoy a few drinks. I would really appreciate it if you just allow me that. I won't bother you. I won't talk to you. I won't even look in your general direction if it makes you happy. I'll even make the effort to not sit too close to you if we happen to be here at the same time again. How's that sound?" She took a sip of her drink and set down the glass gently, not even having the courtesy to look him in the eyes as she gave her glib, disinterested answer. "Whatever." Cam had never been so close to wanting to punch someone in his life, much less a girl. He took a deep breath to calm his pounding heartbeat and turned forward and back to his drink. A few minutes later, Max paid her tab, got up and left without so much as a sound or a glance in his direction. For Cam, it was a devastating failure of an interaction. After he got home, he splayed himself out onto his bed and took the last few weeks into consideration. He was thinking about Max, this puzzle of a girl. He didn't know what to make of her. If he wanted to make end roads with her, he certainly wasn't going to gain any traction in any discernible mutual civility by snapping and basically barking at her in public. He knew he had to mend fences, regardless of the consequences. Minutes stretched into hours until he dozed off into unconsciousness. He "awoke" in a hazy dream state. It was strange. His vision was impaired, his perspective skewed. All he could see was darkness interspersed with bobbing, smooth light shapes. The shapes came somewhat into focus and he realized what it was: a chin, bobbing down into his field of vision before rising out of view. This bobbing and rising continued until he saw more. Above the chin were lips containing rows of teeth clenched together in a passionate exercise. Still, the imagery was cryptic. Then, blunt, muffled sounds were introduced into the bleary vision. Vague and monstrous at first, the deep dissonance revealed itself as moans. The first set of moans were alien to him, but overtly sexual in expression. He heard another set of moans and recognized them as his own. The moans grinded against each other, synchronized and in concert. In the dream, his eyes lazily drug upward and hovering just inches over his face he saw Max. She was completely enraptured, trapped in miserable, involuntary bliss, rising and falling onto his prone form. With an achingly slow reaction, he guided his dream form to tilt his head down. Now, he could see that Max's completely naked body was straddled atop him, her hips planting hard into his. Everything was happening in a stultified, compressed state of time. Every millisecond was extended, every sound reverberated deep, unnaturally bellowing. In the dream, he realized what was happening; the magical pressure in his loins, the lecherous exhaustion on her face, the tactile sensation of wet, engorged flesh grinding against his own equally wet, engorged flesh. Something primal began to well up in him and he felt a surge, as if springing towards the surface of an surging ocean. Suddenly, he heard himself emit a loud gasp and the dream went dark. He opened his eyes, now awake and could feel his nether region contracting and spasming against his command. He pulled the sheets away and looked down at his boxers, the front of which had mysteriously darkened, and which were now straining to conceal the massive, rigid, thumping piece of flesh contained within. He peeked into his boxers and realized he'd involuntarily unleashed a gooey mess. A smattering of hot goo had plastered the insides of his boxers, the tip of his penis dribbling out the pearl-white ooze. "Gahh..." he uttered, disgusted. He couldn't believe it. He'd had a wet dream, and the source of it was his dream of Max. Not quite a dream but the most vivid unreal sensory event he'd ever experienced. It was so real his brain told his penis to do what it would've done for real. Cam hopped into the shower, his mind reeling in total disbelief. How could he look at her now if he saw her at work? If he needed her help, if his terminal went down, how could he approach her? ***** With everything that had been going on at work and the stress that had been building, Cam decided to go see one of the on-site physicians to see if he could get something to calm his nerves and help him concentrate on something other than Max. The infirmary wasn't a top-notch, state-of-the-art facility, but it sufficed. Thankfully, the physicians were well-educated and had great bedside manner which offset the fact that some of the medical equipment they had could easily be considered outdated. As Cam sat in an evaluation room, a nurse walked in to take his vitals and ask some basic health history questions. With his recent sexual frustration connected to Max, it didn't help that the nurse was a large breasted kylaxian. Young kylaxian females were prized by human men because their natural physiology happened to fit all of the attributes that were considered attractive by humans: big lips and eyes, smooth skin, slim legs and curvy figures. Sure, they had greenish skin and their swollen onyx-ian eyes and puckered lips resembled dried out trout, but they were still strangely sexy. Kylaxian women had massive udders on their chests that looked like enormous tits, but they were actually external lungs that would inflate and deflate as they breathed. Odd to see a pair of breasts act like living balloons. Ironic. As the kylaxian nurse leaned in to check Cam's blood pressure, he looked down her blouse, getting a partial from the sight of those massive chest bladders. The nurse must've known what human men liked because when she noticed where Cam's eyes were she gave him an approving grin. At that point he just wanted to spray her in the face with a load of jizz. He knew it wasn't a genuine emotion, though, he was just so pent up with sexual aggression for Max that he was prepared to unleash the beast on any fertile female within squirting distance. The nurse finally left giving him a clear view of her scrumptious derriere which again reminded him why he was there in the first place. When the doc came in, Cam was about ready to bust. The doc was a human and, for some reason, this made having to disclose all of the embarrassing stuff he was planning to disclose that much easier. Cam figured that, as a man, the doc probably could empathize with his situation. "Hey there, how are you? I'm Dr. Joyan. What can I do for you today?" the doc asked. Cam inhaled, prepping to vent his problems. "Hi, doctor. Well, I've got a few issues. Having a lot of stress that's work-related." "Work-related. Is it just the volume of work? Pressure from management?" he asked. "Not exactly. I'm sort of the manager in my department. No, it's more about a new employee." "So, this new employee, are they giving you trouble?" he asked. "I'm really just more confused than anything. It's more psychological." Cam admitted. "Psychological? Elaborate on that if you could." "The new terminal repair tech, her name is Max and she's the most confusing and socially backwards person I've ever met. She's kind of a real living-on-a-knife's-edge type person. I don't know, she must've had a crazy upbringing back on Arceus or something, but she's just really hard to socialize with. It's tough because she's great at her job in the department and she's really sharp and intelligent, so it's not that. It's almost like she tactically just screws with me. My stress levels are at an all-time high." "How does this Max person "screw with you" as it were?" "Trying to be civil with her, for one, is nearly impossible. She's not even aggressive, really. She's well-spoken, calm and, like I said, extremely intelligent. She just seems like she's got this serious chip on her shoulder for me. It's like this seething contempt." "Have you ever insulted or offended her?" "No, never. I'm a friendly guy and I'm always personable with people. Her first day, the day we met, she didn't seem thrilled to meet me but it's just been ramping up since then. Whenever I let her know that one of my terminals is down and if she can take a look at it she does but she's visibly unhappy. I caught her at the Anchorpoint, this bar, and it wasn't intentional, I wasn't following her or anything, but I got this passive aggressive earful from her there. It's just, everywhere I go, she's there. The stress is inescapable--" Cam said before the doc interrupted him. "Do you find her physically attractive?", Dr. Joyan asked bluntly. Without a moment's hesitation, Cam nodded. "Yeah. Absolutely. I mean,--she's--she's probably the most incredibly, perplexingly attractive woman I've ever met. And that's part of the problem. She's so--wow, but she's also so emotionally unattainable, like she's on another planet or something. It's driving me crazy. It's to the point where...", Cam shook his head, wondering whether he should continue the confession. "...where I'm having dreams of her that are so vivid and intense that I'm having... nocturnal... emissions." he finally said, trying to sound as clinical and impersonal as possible. To Cam's relief, the doc didn't even crack a smirk. He was just typing into his tablet console. "Nocturnal emissions. I'm assuming that's not natural for you to be having those at your age. You don't regularly have them, do you?" "Oh, no. I hadn't had one in probably ten years." "I'm not a psychologist, but from what I'm hearing about all of this passive aggressive behavior on Max's part, I think it may be possible that she finds you physically attractive. To her, because of that, she may see you as some sort of a threat." Cam couldn't believe what he was hearing. Max interested in him? Him being a threat? "I'm sorry, doctor. I'm not following you." The doc persisted, "Well, it's possible that Max may have experienced some sort of sexual abuse or dysfunction when she was younger. That abuse could be manifesting in an extreme form of emotional withdrawal and contempt in those she could feels she would otherwise pursue sexually, thereby exposing herself emotionally and making it possible for her to be abused again. I've got friends who are psychologists and they see that sort of thing all the time." Cam couldn't believe it. He exhaled in disbelief, as if the puzzle was coming into view. "I guess if that's true there's nothing I can do about it. Is there anything you can give me to at least calm my nerves a little? Something not too heavy." Dr. Joyan chuckled. "Yeah, I can prescribe you something. And as for your Max problem. I've got four words for you: Kill her with kindness." Back at home later that night, Cam laid in bed ruminating on what Dr. Joyan had said. Max interested in him? That was the worst joke he'd ever heard. But was it possible? No, couldn't be. But what if it was? On cue, when Cam woke up from a heavy sleep, his boxers contained the slimy evidence that his dreams of Max were persisting. What a life. **** CHAPTER THREE Regretful Apologies Coming into work that day, Cam decided he'd confront Max and give her a genuine, honest apology about the altercation at Anchorpoint. He couldn't have them fighting a cold war within the confines of the office. Work was always a peaceful temple; a cold, sterile environment free of emotional and physical stresses. The entire debacle with Max was throwing a wrench into it all. Cam was starting to actually dislike the prospect of coming to work after waking up. This had to change and soon.