Tower of Babylon Pt. 04

In the other pod, Norma arched her back, convulsing in her victory pose.

Minutes later, they lost the second round almost as badly.

"Well, that's too bad," Weaver remarked, dryly. "Not to worry, best three out of five?" He spread his hands magnanimously.

Matt let out of breath of air, sick to his stomach. He was sweating profusely. Okano leaned up against him, concerned but with a curious look in her eye as if intrigued by something. She mouthed something.

He blurted, "Of course I care. I want to win this thing, damn it." He composed himself to respond to Weaver. "I wasn't expecting beginners luck to be on my side. Thank you for giving me the chance to reclaim my honor."

"Noblesse oblige."

Ok, Bee thought to herself. She could do this. The other blonde still seemed a bit dazed from her victory reward. When the start of the third round intoned, Bee lunged forward, slamming a fist onto the opponents bubble, knocking it backwards and almost out of the combat ring.

Bee mouthed, "Your turn to fall on your butt!"

The anti-shock fluid did its job, absorbing most of the kinetic energy such that the rider inside merely swayed slightly instead of being torn from the saddle.

Instead of a reward, Bee was given a shock. If she could have screamed bloody murder, she would have.

Weaver announced, "The rider must follow the command input. Her initiative is commendable but not allowed. Not to worry, we will reset and resume the match without further penalties." This was printed on her display since the induction speaker mostly sent tones.

Damn it, Bee thought to herself. Might as well have the goggles black out her vision, she grumbled. She focused on paying attention to Matt's trigger pulls on his console stick, almost imagining that it was his hand grasping her body and each electrode a fingertip that could give either pleasure or pain.

Matt felt he had improved at least. The bout continued on a more even footing although he suspected that Weaver was pulling some of his punches. Matt hated being condescended to, but he also did not want to lose. He'd practiced some Judo so he used some of that knowledge to grapple. There wasn't any fabric to grab but he managed to command Bee to hook her arms under the opposing mechs joints and an unlucky bad step on the opponent's part allowed them to tip it over.

Bee was gleeful, staring Norma down as their bubbles contacted. The enemy mech was pinned and didn't have the leverage to stand back up. Norma just gave her a grin, arms wide in surrender.

"I concede," Weaver announced drolly.

Okano reached over and hit the reward button when Matt hesitated.

The stimulator hit Bee's most sensitive spots with graduating intensity while the leg braces kept her from jumping away from the overpowering sensation. It was the most intense thing she had ever experienced, and she quickly became a quivering mess. Bee's awareness turned blank for what seemed like a short infinity as she underwent a series of uncontrollable orgasms.

When she came back to her senses, she was worried she'd cramp up when the machines lined up for the next round. It didn't look good since she was still in a daze from the reward and she almost tripped up out of the gate. There was a crash as the honey blond managed to get a hit on Bee's right appendage. A following hit smashed the sensor array that constituted the mech's head. Amber warnings lit up in Bee's goggles. The head was more cosmetic than functional, fortunately, not that the blinking digits and meters meant anything to her.

Desperately, Matt commanded Bee to move away and get some separation as their opponent pressed the advantage. Bee slipped and went to one knee, half outside of the ring. Weaver went in for an ambitious flying kick to knock her out of the ring for the winning blow.

Matt gripped the controls, panicking. That didn't help, as Bee recoiled in a futile attempt to escape the flurry of sharp stabs. In her flailing, by sheer luck, her working arm deflected the leg in mid-kick. Norma, equally inexperienced, was unable to counter, and lost her balance. It turned into a flailing wrestling match, both mechs limbs thrashing against the ground and each other with little effect.

Matt heard Weaver cursing under his breath. Suddenly, Norma's mech seized up. The blond operator was convulsing, but not in pleasure. A neutral woman's voice intoned, "Warning. Safety protocols have been triggered. Do you wish to continue? Disclaimer: doing so may compromise the health of the rider, executive override will be required."

Weaver tossed away his controls in disgust, "T.K.O it is then. Fuck, stupid bitch. I may not have mentioned it, but if the rider cannot continue the match, it becomes an automatic DQ."

A medical crew immediately entered the field to retrieve the nearly unconscious woman from her pod.

Matt surmised that the pain stimulus had been too much for her. Where he had tried to be as light as possible on the stim-prods (minus the accidents), Weaver had been the opposite and brutal.

Weaver gave Matt a wry smile, "I'll have your prize sent over as soon as she is cleared. A lightly used model but still a fine addition to your cadre. We will work out the legal arrangements for the transfer."

Relieved, Matt wiped his brow, happy to have won so he didn't think too much about the implications. He would realize later that those legal arrangements were an important part of the negotiations, or indeed, the most important reason for them. The whole game was a farce. He stepped away, looking to find a drink to slake his bone dry throat.

Okano smoothly took his place at the controls.

Bee didn't have a chance to enjoy her victory as the reward was in itself practically a punishment. She tried to send a signal to refuse it but Okano ignored the desperately flashing indicator on the console, instead dialing all the settings to their max detents.

Bee attempted to voice a long string of expletives, but it was unspoken, unheard, and unremarked.

Interlude: Somewhere in the Monterey Polity

(Author's note: At the end of this chapter, there will be an optional historical entry that goes into more detail about the world and its origins. Read if you care to plow through it.)

Minister Helena Holst hated visiting the Protectorate embassy but she believed in acting directly instead of sending representatives in her name. Her assistant, Jacob, accompanied her to the entrance of the building that was leased to the foreign state. The guards barely gave her a glance, instead giving her assistant a smug look that bordered on pity. Nervously, Jacob lowered his head as he followed his superior into the lobby. They went through a brief security screening before going into the holding area that had been agreed upon as a neutral point where visitors could transition into the Protectorates laws and customs without offending the host nation's quite different ones.

Jacob went ahead after having his credentials confirmed. For the Minister, things were not quite as easy, for the Protectorate had more elaborate customs governing women, customs that were considered barbaric in most places such as the Monterey Polity. It had taken much effort to even negotiate the establishment of relations between the two states and many still opposed the existence of the embassy itself.

The minder, who waited to evaluate the minister, by mutual agreement, was a woman wearing a robe that kept her modesty. In many places, the thin material would be considered lingerie, and it was clear the woman wore nothing underneath, but such was the compromise. By Protectorate law, attractive women must wear a diminishing number of textiles based on an arbitrary metric of comeliness as deemed by their leadership, while those viewed as unattractive had to be covered or essentially rendered invisible to the public eye. The Minister already knew where she stood in this order, having visited in the past.

Still, she had to disrobe in order to be evaluated by the minder. The room was kept at a comfortable temperature at least and was supposed to be free of any surveillance although she had her own doubts about that. Her clothes and personal items were collected into a box for later retrieval. The Protectorate had initially demanded that the Ambassador would have the right to determine her level of public attractiveness, but a difficult battle had been won to allow visitors to request the sex of their preference to conduct the evaluation. If the Protectorate minder had any pity for her, she didn't express it, as she gave the older woman a thorough once over.

"You know, my doctor doesn't even look in there," she managed to joke as the minder did her work.

"Thank you for your patience," the minder responded serenely. "Do you wish a report on your evaluation?"

"No," the Minister shook her head. "I did last time, and it was a mistake. Just give me the robes."

"Of course," the minder nodded as she pulled out some garments from a drawer set along one wall. She selected a full body robe with a face hood, and a pair of gloves. Although the hood vaguely resembled the niqab of certain traditions, the intent was totally different plus the garments were, overall, less confining. The design of the clothes were to shield the eyes of the observer from having to bear the mental stress of viewing someone deemed unattractive, not to preserve any sense of modesty.

The Minister, well into her sixties, was plump and healthy, but certainly not holding any illusions as to where she stood in that absurd order. The air still wafted up to her nether regions as she walked barefoot out of the holding room. At least they had wash basins in the restrooms to keep ones feet clean, she mused. Jacob met her outside, obviously uncomfortable but trying hard to retain his composure.

His ears reddened when they entered the reception to the ambassador's office.

The secretary, a reddish blond with vaguely Slavic features, sat behind a clear acrylic desk that showed that she was completely nude, straddling a specially designed seat which gave her a humiliating pose as it was clear both her orifices were penetrated by devices mounted on the saddle. She had to sit leaning forward, so her mammary glands swung heavy like ripe fruit ready for plucking. If she felt humiliated, she gave no indication as she asked for them to wait on the sofa until the ambassador was ready to see them.

The Minister sat with arms crossed, eyes narrowed to show her contempt. If she burst into a tirade she knew the meeting would be called off, so she held her tongue. The coffee table was another acrylic block recessed into the floor so that a diminutive girl, again nude, could lie inside. It must have been vented somehow as the dark haired Asian seemed quite comfortable despite her predicament. In fact, her eyes snapped awake when she noticed the newcomers since she had been napping before they had arrived. She stretched languidly, giving Jacob a wry smile and rubbed herself with a speculative eye.

"Don't you get bored in there?" asked Helena. If the girl could hear her, she gave no reply as she saucily tried to give Jacob a show. He did his best to ignore her by staring at the walls but even the artwork was garish, adorned with statuettes and suggestive paintings that completed the perverse theme of the place.

A tray of coffee, tea, and snacks was brought out by a dark skinned lady of mixed heritage, perhaps Indonesian, as the Protectorate recruited, to put it politely, from all parts of the globe. Her black hair was pulled back in a ponytail with a string tied to it that ran to a metal hook in her ass. This forced her to walk with a peculiar gait and when she set down the tray, she had to carefully kneel in order to not hurt herself. Her puffy breasts swung near Jacob's face, obviously making him even more embarrassed.

Helena gave him no mind. She could have brought her female assistant, but that would have been even more humiliating as she was in her early thirties and probably considered fit enough to have to be mostly unclothed for the visit. Plus, it was frowned upon for attractive women to do work beyond certain specialties in the Protectorate. Jacob had to carry any documents, electronic devices, and sundries for her; otherwise, she'd have come alone in the first place.

As they waited, the secretary gave a mild squeal as the devices in her orifices made her climax at random times. The Minister wondered how she had the stamina to pull this off, but it seemed as natural as breathing for the poor woman. Below them, the other woman had curled up her legs in order to pleasure herself in full view. She caught Jacob watching her with the side of his eye. The Minister sighed.

Trying to distract himself, Jacob picked up a remote controller that was on the arm rest of the sofa. He asked, "I wonder what this is for? Maybe a massager?" Before the Minister could stop him, he instinctively pushed one of the buttons. The girl under the coffee table gave a mock squeal of surprise as it began filling with water.

Shocked, he tried mashing the buttons but it did nothing to stop the sudden influx of water as it filled the chamber at a rapid pace. Through some hidden mechanism, the air above the water level was displaced without there being an obvious valve for it to escape.

He desperately pleaded to the secretary for help, but she stared into her computer screen obliviously. Even the Minister seemed calm, arms still crossed, as she sat back, sighing deeper.

"Is this okay?" Jacob blubbered as the tank filled up to nearly the top, suspending the girl inside. She spun around, her dark hair streaming around her head. His mouth gaped when he saw that she was furiously masturbating as she held her breath underwater. It was as if her life depended on it, and perhaps it did: as if triggered somehow by her completion, the water suddenly began draining, air being returned somehow via the hidden valve works. The girl gulped in the life giving oxygen, grinning at his consternation.

Once again, the girl, sodden now, lay on the flat bottom of the tank as if this was all routine while Jacob tried to calm his beating heart, and hide the erection in his pants.

At long last, they were called in to meet with the ambassador.

The ambassador's office was as garish as the reception area, appointed with the same taste in terms of artwork as well as the living sculpture behind the official: a hapless woman hung suspended from polished chrome crossbars, her face covered in a black mask and her legs spread so he could casually reach to fondle her crotch whenever he pleased. Currently, the tip of a vibrator attached to a stand was placed on her pubic mound in order to keep her stimulated as his attention turned to his guests.

Jacob sat meekly next to the Minister, expecting her to burst out from beneath her hood with some scathing remark, but she remained calm, almost serene throughout the entire audience. He was confused as to the specific nature of the meeting, and the conversation did little to enlighten him.

The ambassador was a large man, hulking one could say, as he sat behind his wide desk made of imported wood. Greying hair slicked back close to his head, he almost had the cartoonish look of a 19th Century robber baron except without the facial hair, so it was probably closer to the countenance of a stereotypical mob boss.

"Do you wish the guarantees to be in writing?" he continued in a deep baritone.

"Of course not, this is a delicate matter," the Minister pressed. "I need the cake to be delivered, whole."

"Certainly, I only appreciate whole cakes as well."

"When can I expect delivery?" She leaned forward.

"I will have the caterers begin promptly, but a good cake takes time. Please be patient. As for the price?"

She paused for a long moment, "I assume, the usual? Payment will be made upon receipt."

He smiled. If he had a gold tooth, it would have glinted at this moment, but he only had normal ones, though perfectly aligned, "Acceptable. Then, I will make the arrangements."

Jacob wasn't a total fool, so he knew they were speaking obliquely to create plausible deniability yet he had no reference in order to relate this interchange in any comprehensible manner to anything he could imagine. As the minister stood up to leave, her assistant gave one glance back at the naked woman on display, something stirring in his own imagination. The ambassador gave him a knowing look in return, causing him to turn away quickly as he scurried behind the Minister.

The ambassador turned in his chair after the door closed behind the visitors and leaned back. He spoke, staring at nothing in particular, "I almost pity the poor fellow. Gladys, do you wish to cum now?"

The woman in the leather hood nodded eagerly, so he pushed up the vibrator until she shivered in pleasure. He said, staring absently into the distance, "These are interesting times. It's most pleasing when they open their holes voluntarily. The moment of...enlightenment...is very satisfying. Wouldn't you agree?"

Muffled behind her mask, she said, "Indeed, sir."

* * *

From the Secret History of the Heretical Republic, written in the latter part of the Third Epoch.

Once the collapse came, the old United States shattered into myriad regional powers that were unable to stitch Humpty-Dumpty back together again. Dissolution had come quick and fast after generations of erosion of the civil society, such that everyone was simultaneously surprised yet validated when the whole thing stopped working. There was no thing called "America" anymore, or at least, once the collective minds of enough of its members finally accepted that it was over, those who were left were powerless to stop it from being forgotten. The dream ended within a few short years of chaos and turmoil.

It was only the faith of its people, whoever they were, that had kept it alive as long as it had and by that time, there were few believers. Or perhaps, as some still assert, those who did still believe in what they asserted to be the one and only authentic "America" engineered its very demise by attempting to force their own will upon the whole while the cynical others played their games hoping to end up ahead but sabotaged the whole thing anyways. Does it matter who did what? Fingers would always be pointed at who was to blame the most, but in either case, a ship that attempts to go in more than one direction at once will break its back and sink.

It wasn't any one thing, it was all of the reasons together-as one can imagine-that brought about the end. A great thing called a nation has a momentum of its own, and once it is set on shattering it's almost impossible to stop like a bitter divorce on the last slope of dissolution. Of course, like husband and wife, the broken partners blamed each other. They were all guilty in the end.

The former nation's vast military machine splintered but individually each piece was still strong enough to repel foreign invasion while the shell of the old Federal government retained control of the nuclear arsenal. Armageddon would be going too far even for the most rapacious and misanthropic oligarch, at least the cleanup would be too lengthy. So the keys to the missiles were never turned, at least not all at once: there are yet parts of the world that will remain uninhabitable for generations.

The remnants of the Federal government never actually conceded the loss of the union but it didn't matter in the end as much of it was no longer worth saving. Vast tracts the mega-corps didn't care to annex for themselves were incapable of being governed, becoming lawless territories where anyone with a strong will and enough weapons could truly find the freedom they so desired. It was a Pyrrhic victory for many as the chaos meant that it was just easier to be pillaged and murdered by those stronger and more able than they thought they were. Warlords rose in the unincorporated lands, as they have in countless ages of humanities past. The rest, with a few exceptions, were controlled by mercenary armies supplied by the conglomerates that had risen to openly dominate society. The concept of the nation-state had become officially irrelevant around the globe long before the final blow fell.