Twenty-One Percent

Disclaimer:

"This is a work of fan fiction using the setting and concepts of the world of the RPG "Rifts," which is trademarked by Palladium Books.

This work does not utilize any specific characters created by Palladium Books, and this work has no influence or affect on the official setting of the Rifts RPG (or any other work by Palladium Books).

I am not profiting financially through this work, and I have no claims on any setting material or concepts that were created by Palladium Books.

I would like to extend my thanks to Kevin Siembieda and the rest of the Palladium gang, for creating wonderful settings that have given several of my friends decades of enjoyment.

Author's Note:

While there is explicit sex described in this story, many readers may find it more tragic than arousing.

I wrote this piece at the request of a friend who regularly plays the table-top RPG "Rifts," and asked that I create a story about a full conversion cyborg. After reviewing the nature of cyborgs in that setting, this is the story that came to me. It is a story that is more about the price of power than it is a story of power itself.

Twenty-One Percent

By Richard Bacula

Miguel looked at the whore in front of him. The whore looked back at him. Or rather, she looked up at him, and up. The whore was maybe five foot four, and Miguel's metallic body stood nearly twice her height.

"Well," Her eyes were wide, and she seemed nervous. "Let's see it."

Miguel didn't know what she was talking about at first. See what? Then it clicked. He'd paid the credits for this room and for her services, so she assumed that he had come... equipped... for a normal business transaction.

"I don't have one." His voice was flat, factual. He'd lost his penis almost two years ago, during an accident in the clay pits where he'd been forced to work. A pallet of bricks hadn't been secured properly, and it had tumbled off the truck, crushing Miguel's body. He had been a good slave, though, and the King himself had given him a commendation just a month before the accident. Miguel had worked a 24 hour shift with his shovel, without complaint, when other workers around him were dropping like flies. He had had a good body, young and strong, with an incredible endurance. Miguel missed that body.

The new body, the body that the whore was staring at, the body that the king rewarded him with after the accident, was much stronger, with infinite endurance. Miguel's artificial muscles were more powerful than his organic body had ever been, and he never grew tired in the ways that normal humans tired, not physically. But mentally... mentally, he was always tired.

Working in the clay pits was hard work, wading through weighted filth that clung to his body like a second skin, only it kept accumulating, until it was a third skin, and a forth. The clay would stick to the workers, weighing them down. The could scrap the clay off from time to time, but there was always more.

More than the weight, the numbness had always bothered Miguel. He couldn't feel things properly through the layer of clay and grime. He couldn't quite touch things. He couldn't touch his shovel, for example. Oh, he could move it about, work with it, but he wasn't really touching it. He was touching a layer of clay on his hands that was touching a layer of clay on the shovel. He couldn't feel the wood of the handle- all he could feel was the clay.

Life as a slave had been rough and brutal, but at the end of each day (on the days that did in fact end), the workers could shower, could spend time scrubbing themselves off under cold water, scouring the clay from their flesh. It was these times that kept Miguel going, that kept him human. It was those times that kept Miguel sane, because he could feel again. He could feel the water running over him, feel the course fabric of the sheets on his cot, feel the pillow underneath his head as he passed into blessed unconsciousness each night.

Things had changed. Miguel was no longer a slave, and he no longer worked in the clay pits. On the other hand, he was still a kind of slave, a slave to his new body. In a way, he was still in those clay pits, too. While science had worked many miracles, had invented new limbs and organs to keep a person alive as a borg, had even invented ceramic and metal bodies that were almost godlike in comparison to a normal human body, science was not infinite. Science could not fully replicate the most valuable of human sense, the sense that everybody used and everybody took for granted- the human sense of touch.

The best that science could achieve was 55% the normal range of sensation where touch was concerned, and Miguel suspected that he was toward the bottom on the scale, around 35%. He could see his bionic hands, he had watched those hands pass his credit cards to the madame upstairs. Feeling those cards in his hands, that was another matter. It was like they weren't really there. He couldn't really feel them. It was like he was wearing oven mitts that he could never take off, and the mitts covered his entire body. It was like wearing a layer of clay that he could never scrub himself clean from.

"Okay," The whore was saying to him. "So... how are we going to do this? If you don't have one..."

Her voice trailed off as she stared up at the glowing circles of Miguel's new, "improved" eyes, eyes that would let him see clearly in the dark of night, but which could never, ever act as windows to his soul.

In answer, Miguel removed his faceplate, the ceramic covering that protected his face during combat. Or rather, his "face," the immobile mask of metal that served as his countenance. He set the faceplate on the table, trying not to look at the whore as she stared at the steely skull that his head had become. Miguel stuck his tongue out at the whore.

That was it. That was the only part of Miguel that belonged to his original body that he had not only kept, but that could still interact with the world around him. He had his original brain, safe behind that steely skull. He had his heart too, and his throat, and a few other internal organs. Only internal though, except for his tongue.

"I want to taste you," Miguel explained. "I need to taste a woman again."

He had been young and strong. He had also been handsome, attractive. He'd had many lovers, young and beautiful, and their bodies had rolled together countless times in naked bliss. All before the accident, before his reconstruction. He had loved women, almost worshipped them. Now, they were scared of him as a rule, and even with the exceptions, he could take no direct pleasure from them. But he could still give some.

"Oh." The whore almost blushed, realizing that he was paying her just for the privilege of going down on her, for the chance to stick that oversized metal head between her legs, and to run his tongue over and inside the treasures that lay between them. "Well, okay. We can do that!"

She move back to the bed, laying down, starting to pull up her skirt.

"Not yet." Miguel told her. "Wait a bit. What is your name?"

She sat back up, straightened her skirt. "Maria."

"Maria," the name rolled off of his tongue. "Maria. That is a beautiful name. Maria, stand up. That's good. Let me kiss you."

Maria shied away from him. "That's an extra 50 Credits."

"They have my cards downstairs. They can charge me." Miguel had plenty of money for now. When the army from the neighboring kingdom had attacked the borders, Miguel had been upgraded, geared to fight. He had been sent to the front lines. After a disastrous battle, Miguel had once again been the only man standing, just as he had been the only slave standing after that 24 hour work shift. Only this time, the guards were dead too. There was nobody to keep him a slave. Miguel deserted. Miguel ran, as far and as fast as he could, until he was beyond the reach of his own kingdom or its invading neighbor. He had looted the dead around him, taken credits and weapons and gear, and was by some accounts a wealthy man. Or a wealthy machine. Once he stopped running, though, he had no idea what to do next, and he had found his way here, to the brothel.

He sat down on a wide, sturdy wooden bench. Paying extra for the dungeon room had been a good idea. Furniture made for torture was furniture made for his body. He wouldn't accidentally break anything here, crush it with his weight or his insensitive hands. He patted his knee. "Come over here."

Maria approached hesitantly, then climbed up onto his lap, straddling his thigh, her legs spreading over his thick, metal limb. He leaned his head down, and she turned her head up to meet him. They kissed.

Maria had to take the lead. Miguel's lips wouldn't really purse, but his mouth was opened partway, and she pressed her lips to his facsimile of lips, gently. He could not feel it. Then she slipped her tongue into his mouth, and he could feel that, could feel her tongue with the only flesh that he had left. He could taste her.

Her saliva had a neutral, clinical taste, almost antiseptic and sterile. She had probably brushed her teeth, and rinsed her mouth, since her last client. Miguel was glad for that. Behind that taste, there was a slight tang of lipstick, from his tongue brushing over her made-up lips as they kissed. Beneath that, she simply tasted of woman, that sweet, indefinable flavor of a woman's warm mouth. Miguel had sensors implanted in his head to help him identify what was in his mouth, molecular analyzers in his lungs, but even they could not begin to describe that flavor to him. He had missed it.

Miguel and Maria kissed for a while. She was surprised at his tenderness, and at his skill considering the inhuman head that he was working with. She closed her eyes, pretended that he was human and handsome. So did he.

They kissed for a while, until Miguel's internal chronometer let him know that almost one third of their time had passed. He came out of his daze, out of his fantasy of being human again, back to the clay.

"Okay, now." He let her know. "Stand up first. Let me undress you."

She did.

It went poorly. His large, clumsy hands managed to slowly pull the clothing from her, but he accidentally tore them in places. He told her to charge it to his cards.

Once, he had loved this part best. Well, almost best. Maybe third or fourth, or sixth, but he had loved it. Undressing a woman was like unwrapping a present, and he liked doing it slowly, relishing every reveal of a woman's sacred curves. He had loved seeing the woman's shoulders or collarbone as he had pulled her shirt up, in some cases down, to reveal her torso. Breasts were beautiful, but everybody knows that. Everybody loves the breasts, but not everybody really appreciates the beautiful symmetry of a woman's shoulders, the artwork of the bones and flesh right above the chest.

He could still see her beauty with his new eyes, but it wasn't quite the same. It was like the difference between seeing a woman standing right in front of you, and in seeing the image of a woman, on a video screen in front of you. No, it was not like that- it was that exactly. The circuitry of his eyes was intricate, even amazing, but for all the things that his new eyes could do, they couldn't see the same things the same way his old eyes had. Video beauty was not the same as live beauty.

Maria had to remove her own bra, which she wore for the same reason that she wore clothing, to start with- because clients often preferred it that way. Miguel wasn't the only one who liked to unwrap his presents. He couldn't unwrap all of Maria, though. His huge, fumbling fingers would have torn her clothing more, and might have even hurt her. He was trying to enjoy himself- he did not need the extra frustration of dealing with bra hooks.

Finally, she was standing naked before him, and she was absolutely glorious. Miguel would have wept at the sight, if he could have wept. Gingerly, he reached out, picking her up in his arms. She winced slightly at one point, as his hands closed too tightly on her human body, but he corrected himself, and he held her there. She was small compared to his new body, like a child or a doll.

Miguel lay her down on the bed, her breasts swaying then bouncing as he set her down. "Lie still," he told her.

He leaned down, and he kissed her again, rejoicing in the feel and taste of her mouth on his tongue. Then he moved to her neck, licking each side, taking in the flavor of her flesh. From there, he kept gliding his tongue over her skin, licking each collar bone, stroking each shoulder, then moving on to her breasts.

He could feel his tastebuds sliding over the silken skin of her bosom. There was a mild taste of sweat, and the feel of warmth, and the taste of woman's skin. He moved his only flesh across the mounds of her breasts, licking the soft curves, tasting each nipple, feeling the hard buds of them in his mouth. Her skin was dark, and tan. Her nipples were reddish brown, swollen from his tender ministrations, areolas even darker than the surrounding flesh.

His eyes were trying to adjust, microcomputers assuming that if he was so close, he must want to see more, so they magnified. Her nipples grew, becoming mountains as his vision sharpened to x4 normal magnification, then x10, then x20. He could see her pores, like moon craters, and he had to consciously override those computers, jerking his vision back to normal.

He reached out with his hands, softly, very softly, caressing her breasts. He had to use his full concentration to touch her without touching too hard, without hurting her. He could feel her, feel her wonderful breasts in his hands, but only sort of. His internal computer was calculating how much pressure he was using, how much resistance was offered by her full, supple flesh, but of actual sensation? There was some, but not much. Like touching through a layer of clay.

In frustration, Miguel moved down, used those massive metal hands to grasp her calves (carefully!), to spread her legs wide. He looked at her, looked at the beauty between her legs, moved his large head down, and down, to where he could reach her. She had no pubic hair- shaving was the local style, it seemed, at least among the whores.

Miguel licked his way down her legs, from her knee to her inner thigh, then repeated the trek on the other side, trying to lose himself in her scent, in her taste. He teased her pubic mound with his tongue, caressed her outer labia, stroking them. His old skills served him well, his talents honed by accumulated hours between the thighs of a wide number of slave girls, and a smaller number of nobles, or merchants' wives, who had sought a dalliance with him. Maria responded, rewarding him with a moan, with subtle movements of her body, her hips.

Miguel could see her intimate skin flush and start to swell, his internal computers tried to switch to thermal-imaging, helpfully trying to assist him in gauging her heat, but he blocked it. Sensing, analyzing... it was not the same as seeing.

He moved his tongue down, finding her clitoris, stroking the hood, using the tip of his tongue to lift it up, to slide between the hood and the tiny kernel of nerves and flesh that hid underneath it. Maria gasped, trying to move her legs, to stretch them out like a satisfied cat, but Miguel's hands still held her calves fast. He had forgotten he was still holding them. He could barely feel them.

He let Maria go, bringing his hands down, sliding them under her pelvis, holding her off the bed by her buttocks. He squeezed them, gently, computers calculating acceptable pressure. He felt her ass in his hands, kind of.

He slid his tongue between her inner lips, licking them, slipping between them, licking at her entrance. He slid his tongue into her, as far as it would go. Which was actually relatively far- the shape of his new skull allowed his tongue to stick out to obscene lengths if he desired, and right now, he desired.

He could feel her flesh with his tongue, really, really feel it! He delighted in the sensation of her slippery, tight warmth. He tasted her fluids of arousal, his mind reeling with the memory of former lovers and conquests. Every woman tastes different, but all women have some flavors in common, and the taste and scent of Maria brought other tastes, other scents, flooding back.

Miguel sought refuge there for a while, his mind lost to memories and former joys. He hid his gigantic head between her legs, buried what passed for his face in the valley there. He hid from the pains that he had suffered, from all the things that he could feel, and from all the things that he could not feel.

Maria writhed in his hands, smiling at the unexpected joy that this customer was bringing her. She was fairly new to the trade, but was unfairly jaded. She could tell that Miguel must have been something, back when he had his body. She wished that she could have been with him then, before he was turned into a metal monster, back when he had a real, human body. Miguel wished the same thing.

Miguel carefully moved one hand out from under her. Her body was so small, and his body was so large, that he could hold her up with just his other hand. He lifted his head up. He lapped at her clitoris for a while, slow, teasing strokes, and he carefully brought his hand up, putting the tip of one of his massive fingers at her entrance. His mechanical fingers were large, as thick as any man's erection, and Miguel eased it slowly into her. The fingertips are one of the most sensitive parts of the human body, and Miguel's fingertips were one of the most sensitive parts of his new body. But it was not the same as really being there, not the same as being flesh and blood.

His metal finger slid into her, his human tongue bringing her gliding waves of pleasure. She was tight on his finger, and his internal computers calculated the pressure that her intimate muscles were bringing to bear. He moved his finger into her, and out of her, and in again, her hips rising to meet him, sinking back down into his other hand to help his finger withdraw after each thrust. She rode his finger as he used it to fuck her, using his finger in place of anatomy long lost.

It wasn't the same. It wasn't even the same as it used to be, when he had used his mouth and hands on a woman by choice instead of by necessity. Once, he had reveled in pleasuring women this way. He could feel their warmth with his hands, with his face, as he tasted those women. With Maria, he was cheated.

Miguel wanted with all his heart to just be able to feel the warmth of her body, but that damned computer inside his head kept telling him what temperature she was.

He persevered, intent on getting all that he could from this experience, even if it was only 35%. He wanted to bring her pleasure, to bring her to orgasm, and he knew that he could do it. She may have been jaded, may have been a whore, but she was still a woman. She was still far more of a woman than he was a man.

Her cheeks were turning red with passion, her tanned chest was changing to a more pinkish shade of brown. Her body was bucking, fucking his finger back, grinding against his face as he licked her. His finger was as thick as a cock, but it could do something that human cocks could not. Miguel crooked his finger, making a subtle "come here" gesture. Maria went wild as his finger rubbed against a spot of her inner anatomy that she hadn't even known existed. She shrieked, a sudden wave of pleasure rolling through her as she came, as she had the first orgasm of her professional career.

Miguel was unrelenting. He kept licking her, kept moving that finger in and out, kept rubbing that spot inside of her. He wanted to give her enough pleasure to make up for all the pleasure that he could no longer feel. He wanted to never stop this, to never stop licking her, never stop pseudo-feeling her slick body squeezing his finger.