Vaela reattached the last four cables to the electrical module and wiped her brow with the green sleeve of her coveralls, smearing grease and sweat into her pale blonde hair.
"Is that any better?" She called up through the tracks for the hydraulic arms. The PL9 could hear her through her earpiece, but she liked to imagine the sound was coming from the machine itself, rather than a server in the South wing.
"Much better. Thank you, Vaela," the PL9 replied.
Finally. She'd been troubleshooting for nearly three hours, and in the end it was only a loose connection that had stopped production. But it was an odd place for a loose connection; there were no moving parts in the electrical alcove, and no reason for anyone to be here. Maybe someone had dropped something from the check bay overhead—but Vaela had done the last few checks herself, and couldn't remember dropping anything.
"Has anyone come back here lately?"
A double blip sounded, indicating communication with the remote hub. "Two workers were in the area from 7:53 to 8:12."
"Cleaning staff?"
"No, two mechanic uniforms were identified, but their identity tags were unreadable. Would you like to review the surveillance tapes?"
They had probably put foil over their badges and come back here to slack off. Vaela shook her head. "Tomorrow. I'm already on overtime. Thanks, L9."
"Of course, Vaela. Have a good night."
"You too, L9. I'll see you tomorrow." Vaela crawled out of the alcove.
Time to go home.
~~~
She arrived on the 47th floor, and put her hand on the door to push it open, annoyed by the slight delay before the lock gave way. The door was waiting for contact before reading her prints, which meant either the fiberoptic sensor or the infrared sensor was out of whack. But just like she had for the past week, she decided to leave it for now.
Vaela looked around her unit and wrinkled her nose. She'd left empty drink packets and machine parts strewn about, and a pile of unwashed clothes in one corner. She'd have to do some tidying up.
Later.
She took off her boots and flopped face-first onto the unmade bed. After a sweaty 13-hour day of troubleshooting and repairs on top of her regular maintenance checks, all she wanted was sleep. Well, sleep and maybe a bit of self-indulgence.
Thank you Vaela,
L9 had said. It wasn't nearly often enough she heard that from any of the machines, much less L9.
She turned her head to look back at the floor, inadvertently smearing machine grease from her face onto the sheets. There on the rug was her current project—her future husband, she often joked to herself. Right now it barely had a form, and to anyone else it would look like a mish-mashed pile of parts. But eventually, it would be able to talk to her like L9, and to move—to hold her in place, just like this, on the bed. Its steel framework would press against her from behind, pushing her ass in the air while its cold, polished phallus extended out to brush against her soft blonde pubic hair...
Vaela slid her hand down between her stomach and the sheets, enjoying the soft warmth of her skin beneath her fingers. The long, smooth curve between her tummy and her side was so different from hard, straight steel. In its grasp she would be pliable, vulnerable.
She fumbled with the button of her jeans, then moved her hand down over the soft trimmed patch of hair, and pressed lightly, rubbing the lips over her clitoris with one finger. Closing her eyes, she envisioned how her creation would look. It would have hydraulic arms like L9—the ones that moved so smoothly, yet with so much force behind them. Its four-pronged grips, coated in stiff silicone composite, would be large enough to grab and hold her thighs, and dextrous enough to pinch her nipples with perfectly calculated force.
Her free hand slid under her shirt to her breast, almost on its own. First she pinched gently, then more firmly, eliciting an electric nerve response. She gasped, her head tilting back as the tiny shock travelled through her.
It would have a head—something the PL9 didn't have—with eyes to see her with, to monitor her responses. Scent receptors would let it know when she was aroused. It would know when she was wet, and what she needed.
She could hear her own slick fluids now, as her finger slipped between the folds to touch her clitoris directly. She moaned softly, then paused, slowly sliding her hand down, and pushing her finger in and up. Soon, she added another, to feel the stretch of her vaginal entrance. Her juices coated both fingers, and after only a moment of gentle stretching and pressure, she slid them back to her clit.
Beneath her fingers, her clitoris was a toggle switch, flipped back and forth in rapid sequence, with each motion sending an electrical impulse to her core. Her breathing came faster, and her body arched against her hands until she shook, and the lightning bolts under her skin branched and spread and warmed her deeply. She revelled in the feeling a moment, holding her body in an arch with her fingers still brushing her clit lightly, extending the impulse, sending shivers through her body.
After a moment and a long, slow breath, she relaxed. Vaela tugged a pillow from the twisted pile of blankets, rolled onto her side, and slept.
~~~
The following morning was dull and overcast, and Vaela was glad to get to work. As usual she was twenty minutes early, and the only one around was Chan, finishing up the night shift. She gave him a nod on her way in, put her coveralls on in front of her locker in the console room, then headed to PL3 for its weekly maintenance check.
PL3 was four years older than PL9, and its sole function was to box up the delivery orders it received from PL9's gift packaging outflow. It took up a mere 600 square feet of floor space—only one eighth the size of PL9—and had far fewer points to check. By the time she'd finished, replaced a worn seal, and started PL3 back up, it was barely time for her shift to start.
It looked like Jeremy had arrived on time and no earlier. He was hanging up his coat when she got back to the console room. Mariette and Hamid were nowhere in sight.
"Morning," she said absently, punching in her user code.
"Fuck you, blondie," Jeremy replied.
She ignored him, and pulled up the machine logs. She could have PL9—or almost any of the machines—read them out, but it was faster to glance over the colour-coded entries on the console. It didn't look like anything of interest had happened overnight.
Mariette breezed in with her fake red curls and overdone makeup just as Vaela was signing off the machine. She smelled like cotton candy and fizz mints, which was a bit much for this early in the morning. Vaela excused herself.
"Hey L9. What's on the agenda today?" she asked, stepping into the PL9's West maintenance corridor. It was noisy here, but even with the constant crunch of cellophane wrapping, the clunk of the baskets dropping to the tie slots, and the hiss of ribbons pulling off their reels, it was one of Vaela's favourite places. She loved to watch PL9 at work.
"Good morning, Vaela," the PL9 replied. "You have entered maintenance log information for PL3 already this morning. PL2 is up for a weekly maintenance check, and PL7 needs an annual check and review. Your reporting is up to date. Your equipment log is up to date. Your morale credit is 97. Your employee file requires an update. Has your contact information changed in the past six months?
"No changes. Can you read me the review on PL7 from last year?"
The PL9 read the report aloud to her, and as she listened, she watched the machine at work. Each rectangular basket dropped into a slot lined with cellophane, pushing the film up around it. The PL9's pronged grips—four of them—grasped and twisted the cellophane, then tied an intricate bright blue bow onto the packaging.
Vaela watched the machine arms, admiring the composite coating on the grips. The PL9 adapted to custom orders every day, on verbal command alone. Her eyes closed, and she could already feel her body warming as she thought of it. Those coated steel 'hands' could slide down her body with a precision no human could ever achieve. Could deftly undo her coveralls, pulling them gently from her breasts, then down her thighs—
But something the PL9 said pulled her from her fantasies.
"Repeat that, about the fluid supplies," she said.
"Core fluid storage for PL7 will require full replacement next year in order to comply with facility air quality regulations, as indicated by the Federal government. Material degradation ratings for PL7 supplies are low, thus a replacement has not yet been required since installation of the machine. Costs are expected to—"
Ugh.
"Thanks," said Vaela. "I forgot about that."
