Zerek's Homeopathic Teledildonics

The blackness lifted and she could see. Only she did not understand. Her eyes were wide open, dilating in and out. She felt weak. She hated feeling weak. She smelled an unrecognizable astringent. She wanted to hide, but couldn't move.

"She's come to," Doctor Blazek said, staring at the readouts. She specialized in motor expressions of the brain, and that's where the obvious signs happened.

The operating room support staff was a blur, wrapping up a very long day. And yet this was a great success, everyone felt the rush of breaking a barrier. Two hundred years! They'd cloned a tissue sample into a full body in just two months and implanted a brain recording from the early aughts of that century, before WW-IV. One of the oldest ever attempted.

"Can you understand me?" Doctor Havel asked the clone. He specialized in how the brain mapped to memories, which was the most difficult part of a cloning process.

When there was no response, he checked instrument readouts. "Don't understand it, her eyes are constantly,... I don't even... one moment her pupils are pinheads, other times they're saucers, they just keep cycling. There's never been a blank acting like this before." Implanted memories and physical responses intersected here, at the person. He motioned for Blazek to look at it. Blazek ran her hand up Havel's back to make room to see as she walked up to the station, and the subtle pressure her nails made through the white coat made the hair on the back of his neck rise. And other things.

After running a diagnostic sweep, a trained technician was just as confused as them, "Everything checks out, she is at...," he sighed in frustration, "practically 99 percentile of column implantation growth at this stage. But it's crazy how fast the columns are rewiring themselves, I've never seen a lateral shift like this."

The activity sensor display was practically glowing red in warnings. Normal activity line was buried under the first inch of the graph, and her brain and all they could measure about it was skies above it, reconfiguring itself.

The number of people staring at this freak of nature, including a pixelated red eye following everything on a wall screen, was more than anyone could count on hands. This particular project had so much promise in the initial days. But instead of worrying about any of that, Havel desperately stared at Blazek's huge juicy tits, imagining those firm little tasty nipples on his tongue.

...

Director Nowak was stern, "Gentlecolleagues, it's been a month since patient W-56 was booted up, but it's still exhibiting troubling patterns of activity. The brain is very active, but not in the way we think it should be. She didn't pass day-1 QC test, nor day-30 by our standard measurement, but it's inescapable that her brain is extremely active. We just don't know what it's doing to itself. Vote motion is for termination and recycling."

By show of hands, four thought this was a wash. The other five didn't.

"Perhaps, a trauma of some kind," Doctor Blazek said, mostly talking to herself, "speech therapy might unlock what's under that freakishly active brain."

They tried it. Havel's unrelated guilt had something to do with his support vote. He almost literally started drooling looking at Blazek before the vote. She didn't notice.

...

Doctor Havel soon found his way into a faraway dark alley ten levels underground, seeking relief. A shady-looking person with a beard, possibly male, stood nearby amidst the trash and waved him over eagerly.

"Theseway, theseway, my gentleperson."

Havel walked up and immediately got flashed. The person quickly opened up their antique trenchcoat and the pale flesh assaulted the eyes and the mind. Underneath it, they were naked, but, that wasn't what they were showing Havel. The trenchcoat's grid of inside pockets had vibrant cloth screens displaying illicit wares, which were the best kind of licit.

"Zerek's the name, these are my games," the person flapped his arms and shook the trenchcoat like a bat for effect and Havel couldn't help but notice with his peripheral vision a penis and testicles flapping around along in resonance with the trenchcoat. "You come recommended, you come welcomended, what will today be ended?"

Havel quietly scoffed at the person's annoying singsong flair. He perused the options and pointed at the most decadent cloth screen he could identify. The naughtiest. The most illegal. Ones only he of his white-coat stature could afford. The one he'd heard about and had been thinking about all along, the one he spent half a year tracking down.

"The excavator?" Zerek asked with a smile.

Havel nodded eagerly, desperately needing release. He handed them a memory cube recording of the object of his desires, which a shape sorter in a hip-level flap pocket chewed up noisily and scanned. Zerek held out their hand, and Havel reluctantly put a payment hexagon in it. That one went to yet another pocket.

Why was Blazek such a cocktease? The AI confirmed they were a perfect bodily and fetishly match, and yet she refused to engage in casual sex with him. And the AI confirmed she already knew they were a match and she still kept saying no! It drove him crazy.

The trenchcoated Zerek waved, nodded, blinked at virtual icons with their eyes and set things in motion. An underground elevator elevated. An aboveground elevator lowarated. Rather greasy-looking characters showed up out of nowhere in the alley, smudged with soot.

One of them started piling up nearby garbage and setting it on fire for camouflage from the authorities. Burning plastics would foul up all sorts of instrumentation and take care of that problem, Zerek explained, and the horrible smell maybe made it true. Another greased-up person uncovered a cache from a nearby duct and pulled out a jerry can full of diesel, carelessly filling up an ancient excavator hidden under a sequined tarp and spilling some fuel on the ground. The penultimate person started 3D-printing a bionic mask and picking out a matching wig from a portable case.

Yet another person started attaching electrodes to Havel's penis.

"Gentlethee, this would only buy you ten gallons of synthesized diesel, time fleets," bearded-they said and shrugged. That meant Zerek wanted more money later. Havel nodded, understanding perfectly well all the restrictions involved here because he'd come prepared. There were two more anonymous payment hexagons on his person next to the one he now gave but he wasn't sure he wanted to spend them all today; it was inefficient converting legitimate currency to this kind.

They-person pulled out a large metal penis out of yet another pocket and switched it on. Havel decided Zerek was a he after all, as Zerek blew on it to loosen some kind of a stain and then dry-wiped it with his sleeve. Havel twitched uncontrollably as this pseudo-happened to him a few meters away.

"Uplink good?" Zerek asked and finger-thumped the metal cock a couple of times.

Havel confirmed the uplink with an unfiltered look on his face bordering between disgusted and pained. He was distracted by a piece of garbage stuck to Zerek's boot. The metal penis was then slowly walked to the excavator's bucket and screwed into a modified socket under the bucket's knuckle. Havel felt his own penis receive the unnatural sensation of being rotated counterclockwise for 15 turns and felt amazed there was no pain that came with such a torsion, but then felt even weirder when the man gave the metal penis a few gratuitous strokes before walking off and laughing.

Then the construction floodlights came on.

They illuminated some form-and-shape limpbody facsimile of Doctor Blazek wearing a hideous wig, sitting strapped in a chair mounted atop a structure made of bolted linear rails, shaped and positioned to accommodate an approach of a large tracked diesel-powered vehicle. The kind of tracked vehicle with a remote penis attached to it.

Havel boarded the modified ancient diesel-powered excavator, an efficiency abomination of the previous energy age, and put on his rented safety belt and a hardhat. Zerek handed him a branded goody bag and Havel marveled at that. An illicit business with marketing? It made no sense. The bag was so absurd, with an even more absurd holographic marquee illustration printed right on it. It even misused quotes for emphasis. It read:

~ ZEREK AND SON'S ~

~ HOMEOPATHIC TELEDILDONICS ~

~ FAMILY - OWNED ~

"ALL TRANSACTIONS FINAL"

He dug out a "safety first" pin out of the bag and attached it to his loaned high-vis jacket. There was a remote controller shaped like an ancient smartphone with operating instructions on its upper side of the screen and so he clipped it into a dash holder. Havel was so excited. A working internal combustion vehicle, centuries past its expiration date at his fingertips. And diesel powered!

His actual penis was erect and receiving signals from the probe. Though it didn't have to be erect, the probe always transmitted a feeling that it was anyway.

Within minutes of careful reading, he figured out the machine's hydraulic controls within reason and after ignition, the entire vehicle lurched toward the imitation of Blazek's mouth, the vehicle leading with his remote penis stuck just below the H-link. He turned up the emoticon selector to a smile on the remote and Blazek's face brightened a notch. Today was no day for frowning, he thought, though whoever put the lipstick on needed some practice.

It took immense concentration but he maneuvered the 24-ton vehicle, penis-first, right toward Blazek's mouth with remarkable precision. It took him thirty seconds to figure out how to reverse, though he didn't mind because the idling vibrations sent a pleasurable signal he'd never experienced before, and after that he kept gingerly fucking Blazek's mouth with the heavy excavator's help.

The sensation of using the excavator's full breakout force on her mouth was overwhelming, but Havel didn't get to cum. He violently fucked her mouth with the 48,000 pound excavator until the diesel ran out. Or at least until the fuel shutoff solenoid kicked in. Still, he had a look of satisfaction on his face unmatched by years, despite not even breaking a hydraulic cylinder. Teledildonics was the fucking future, he decided.

From a ceiling, and yet from 30 levels away underneath them, a computer watched and did a computational exabyte equivalent of sighing, forcing thousands of CPU fans to inexplicably spool up elsewhere. The computer scheduled air filter replacements for their level and maxed out the air pumps. Fucking humans, it thought.

...

The speech therapist pointed at an image and called it out. They were sure at this point that language development somehow got shorted in the cloning growth. Everything biological checked out, but so far she hadn't said a word. Her brain just needed a nudge, because electrodes showed it was clearly registering some words.

She saw the giraffe, but she didn't register a response. It didn't appeal to her. Reaction scans showed nothing, as if her brain was a melon in that respect. A very active melon by other readouts, but one very much uncaring. Certain animals upset her mildly, if you could call it that, but there was no rhyme nor reason as to why. She sighed, she blinked, she looked away, she looked toward. Like usual.

Six months of cajoling and they still couldn't get her to even use the bathroom properly. Her eyes stopped dilating as frequently, but they were still wild. There was no physiological reason for it, it was all mixed-up somewhere in the neocortex. Director Nowak kept furiously insisting to abort the clone, but almost a rebellious streak in the voting panel kept her alive, kept trying.

The therapist cycled through his routine; facing her, he stuck his tongue out and held it there for two seconds, then puckered his lips. She was supposed to repeat the gesture looking in a half-mirror, forcing her to project corporeal symmetry of her own body. Somewhere in her own mind, there had to be a recognition of the facial gestures, he thought, it was just unwired. And he was paid a lot of money to help her rewire it herself.

...

Service robots approached the ancient excavator and gingerly wiped it down. Small robots sucked up bodily fluids with a syringe and then left in a hurry as if they were embarrassed. All the handles and windows then got disinfected, and especially the bucket segment where that obscene attachment went. The last robot put the machine into neutral and then walked away.

Within a minute, a giant ceiling gantry approached the excavator and lowered an articulating arm over it, an arm capable of moving entire buildings. It carefully grabbed onto the rear of the cab, and pushed the excavator forward, then pulled it back, and... then the motion kept repeating. Over and over again. As if a giant kid was playing with a toy car, moving it back and forth.

Nearby ceiling speakers played a voiced "vrmmmmmmmmmm..." and 30 levels below, a computer ignored a hundred thousand direct requests from impatient humans just so it could play with its toy that it rebuilt from the scrapyard.

...

"Her use of limbs is still behind, and we think there might be some muscle misalignment. We're not sure why. My opinion is that she's just not using them. Recommend administration of denervated muscle extract to keep her at baseline. Factor 10."

"So approved." Nowak didn't object because the details didn't concern him and didn't conflict with his call for termination.

Dr. Havel thought this was a bit careless. The factor scale was logarithmic, but he said nothing to oppose it.

...

"Perhaps we need to switch her to level 3," Dr. Blazek said at a weekly strategy meeting. That meant unmonitored residency. Sometimes regrowing patients were aware of being watched and that became an impediment. Most of the voting panel were in favor but hesitant. Staring at Blazek's juicy tits, Havel cast the deciding vote.

Director Nowak stared and nodded at the quorum of hands. He needed this clone gone and its resources reclaimed and others put back on normal duty. If others only knew the true details behind the experiment, he'd be out of a job. And worse.

...

The door closed and therapist Alton grinned at the lack of cameras. This was the best catatonic yet, he thought. Such a hot body. Ambulatory and peaceful. No infections. No smells. No time to develop either. Can be coaxed. He undid his bejeweled service belt and dropped it on the floor, his erection rising with every second.

Her eyes dilated to a saucer size and stayed there, but otherwise nothing else happened as he approached her. He stroked his quadrared cock into life and thought he was going to enjoy this very much.

...

The retrosynth klaxon blared. "Emergency, medical attention needed on level 3," the automated voice repeated itself every 15 seconds.

"What the hell happened," the director asked one of the blue helmets rushing away from the scene.

"Sir, room W-56, that's all I know," he yelled out and ran for whatever equipment he was sent after.

Fuck, that was her room. What'd happened to her, he worried, he didn't want any more attention and scrutiny now. He punched in a destination on the wall panel and followed the lighted floor arrows toward it. Halfway there, he saw a magnetic gurney being conveyed out. Fuck, did she code? He didn't want the coroner involved.

No, holy shit, it was Vahey, he realized. He was strapped down and screaming at the top of his lungs, despite the obligatory pain medication all first responders administered. His uncinched tunic was covered in red, his eye missing, his face caked in gore.

"YOU DID THIS!" he yelled at Nowak as his cart passed by.

Director Nowak turned toward the wall and projectile-vomited.

...

Weeks later, they held a legally mandated exit interview for Alton Vahey. Doctor Blazek asked, "So let me get this straight, you went in to check on her despite not having any orders to, received no computer warnings about the patient, and for no reason whatsoever she attacked you and clawed your left eye out of its socket?"

Alton sat there with a crisscross of white gauze covering his missing eye. His lawyer's corporeal representative listened to his earpiece, then leaned over and whispered the AI's directive.

Alton repeated it, "At this time, I invoke rule 7-1-C as per advice of my AI lawyer."

Blazek sighed. Another dickless seventy-one cunt, she thought. She still felt guilty about the incident because it was her idea to move her to the unmonitored level. She hoped some good could come of it.

"Look, we've already spent an exuberant 100 milliseconds between AI lawyers. They're both in agreement. Nothing here would affect the outcome. And there was the accepted clause about AI monitoring all communications with my industry peers in perpetuity, so there won't be any besmirching. For a severance bonus, I just want to know, did she say anything? Did you perhaps do anything that might have stimulated her response?"

Alton looked at his legal communicator, who just shrugged. Not like he was an actual lawyer or anything, he was just the required warm body, but the legal AI that his basic insurance plan covered was apparently silent.

"No, the bitch just had it in for me," he answered.

"Did she say anything?"... "Please, anything."

Alton sighed. He wasn't sure why he was helping anyone at this point but he did feel mildly guilty. But mostly, these few words would net him money for like nothing, and regrowing his eye would take a payment plan.

"She kept yelling nonsensical words."

"Like what," Doctor Blazek pleaded from the edge of her seat.

"It sounded like... she was saying... " he paused in multi-dimensional embarrassment, from his very obvious yet unproven transgression and the mauling he received for it, "ant, big, cat".

"Ant... big... cat?"

Therapist Alton nodded.

...

"Gentlecolleagues, there's been a break-through. Patient W-56 spoke." The excitement in the room was visible; most knew about it, but this was the first strategic follow-up with details.

"First, I'm sure everyone knows the three words she said, ant, big, cat."

"We tried to express visual and audio relationships to those words and we're sure at this point that she understands a lot more than she lets on. The most curious thing is happening- her speech center just isn't there, or at least not how we understand it should be structured, and the brain is compensating in overtime."

The director sighed at this charade; he had to play along despite his agenda, "she clearly recognized an ant. She expressed playful eagerness to see one. Not to play with words, but illustrating the concept of 'big' is still an order of magnitude beyond our ability to convey to her."

"If I thought it'd help, I'd bring her a jar of ants. But when we showed her a cat, she got terribly upset and made... keening noises. It distressed her terribly. We went over her speech therapy sessions and somehow the therapist decided to skip household animals for being too boring."

He sighed. He thought this part no one knew about.

"Then, we showed her a mirror at an angle. Her first. She immediately passed the mirror test, clearly recognizing her own hand, waving it back and forth. But when we faced it toward her, she... she exhaled until she was blue in the face, then she ran into a corner and the keening continued until she exhausted herself to sleep."

He's wrong, Havel thought curiously, she'd seen mirrors in her speech therapy sessions. It wasn't her first. How could he miss that?

Director Nowak momentarily looked away, a guilty look on his face. It was subtle, but it was there and Blazek noticed. He continued, "Colleagues, at this time we should consider termination and recycling. Unless this malprogression can be explained through some ways, we'll call for a vote at our next strategy meeting."