* extracted from Sci Fi Quarterly *

Oh what a golden age is upon us in this our favorite genre. We have finally gone mainstream! A real novelist, going by the pen name Do_Ride, has finally taken interest in our little subfield of writing. Now we shall see real, fleshed out characters instead of caricatures. We shall see metaphors, alliteration, lyrical devices, and not just lurid sex scenes and damsel devouring aliens. Technology drives the plot but does not substitute for the grist that our forebears churned in the mills.

Now we shall see this Dickens of our times bring humanity to the pathos. A social consciousness to the despair of modern existence. Diction across the realm of all character conversations and gone are the bullshitting, jargon spewing space cowboys - the heroes of yesteryear.

Do_Ride stands across the literary world as a colossus. Fearing not to lift his pen to challenge all the outdated, bronze age mores of his time. Defining the age in which we live. Serving as novel laureate for his tribe. And what a tribe! For we believe he is just the first of a constellation that will light the heavens with their brilliance. One who conjugates as he wills. One who shamelessly employs all the tricks that we have come to recognize as good writing son!

Oh if only they would employ him to rewrite the Star Wars saga. If only he could have lent his hand to Dune. But do not fear, his characters and creations shall squat upon the plain of abundance for years to come. His coffee pot of justice shall stew on the campfire of tomorrow. His marshmellows of bounteous babe smores shall rise triumphant from the smoking cauldron of his mind set.

Prediction: Book the convention center now to foster the trade of his action figures and the discussion of his many upcoming works.

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The cyborgs seemed to forget about Max as they came out of their corners. Their tanned lean bodies bulged with muscles that strained around the thin strings of their ultra tini bikinis. Their tongues snaked out and played the mongoose vs. cobra dance as they circled each other, eyes locked.

Max deftly slid underneath. Gliding through the oil that pooled below their dripping bodies. Each hand held high a bikini bottom and his grin was already shining through wet streaked cheeks.

The stadium air thrilled the cyborgs and they unconsciously waggled as they circled. Sending a shower of oil down on Max who now rose up face first into the battle. He did not restrain the force of his stroke or the suction that he applied to one dangling clit in turn. Jaime, reacted normally, eyes rolling into skull and circling stopping. Breastmechadonna, whose pussy was another of those things enhanced, reacted much more strongly. She bellowed like a bull and shot out a fountain of frothy milky cum. This one didn't need much foreplay.

Max pressed home his advantage... rubbing pussies hard with ambidextrous hands. Lubing his rock hard cock with Breastmechadonna's cum. Jaime was a normal woman in her pussy wiring but the sight before her and the strong move made her cum far earlier than her wont. She fell to her knees heaving.

And now Max went hard for Breastmechadonna's ass. Splaying her out into a gasping doggie. His ass had never pumped so hard. His cock was spreading wide a pussy so tight that felt like a catcher's mitt and was more tough. He had never been able to work it so hard. For the first time he could attempt to find his limit. The cyborg grunted and groaned. Tits shaking, hips rocking. She was a little stunned. Not used to fast cumming and finding herself in this position so quickly.

Jaime was rubbing herself. Trying to recover her equilibrium. But Max fucking that cyborg was doing something to her. She felt some kind of demon rising to her surface and taking control. She had never been this horny or believed it possible. It was a bit painful... a deep deep ache that she absolutely had to relieve.

She lept up as her rub sent her only into another climax, and moved toward the fuck cluster in the center of the ring. Not as voyeur but as hunter. Determined to expel that ache in one epic orgasm that would drown all opposition...
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One gigantic orgasm that made her entire body resonate at a frequency that brought down two stadium support columns, an Amazon scream of triumph and pleasure, and Breastmechadonna grabbed hold of Max's cock firmly as she returned to this world. She pulled his cock out with a loud *pop* and stood even as the flood of spent fluid coursed down her chiseled thighs. Her eyes flashed fiercly, as she strode away from the fuck center, squatted and let out a massive, chip enhanced fart that blew a wedge of overturned stadium chairs backwards from the ring.

It was her way of reasserting control over herself and her environment. Jaime had Max in center now. They were distracted. Seeing this, Breastmechadonna went into her time honed procedure, a procedure that should have sent those other two fleeing for their lives, but lost in the moment, in each other's arms, they were oblivious. It looked something like a Sumo dance, the kind of tempo, that kind of ceremoniousness. She did the bowlegged squat step as her arms worked in their martial dance, head and neck swaying this way and that like a threatening snake. Arms reaching out forward, clasping, then coming in forcefully to rest on tits. And now she began to work her tits. To rapidly squeeze and press, to push and pull, they started to oscillate up and down, side to side, with larger and larger amplitude. Higher and higher frequency. The crowd gasped. Noone had ever seen tits do this (and lived)

They ran. Instinctively they knew. But the couple in the center were still enthralled by their fuck. Now the threatening cyborg's whole body got into it and she became nothing but a blur. Everything rotating, heaving, surging, to make those breasts... with titanium alloyed Byzantium nipples... reach critical velocity.

'Aiiiiiiiiiiiiigh', screamed Jaime as her body was cut in two by the sawing breasts. Quote

What a bl00dy scene. Jaime in twain... Max, in shock, on his knees. Breastmechadonna looming, striding... about to end it all at ring center.

When suddenly from the darkness outside the ring came: "Nyet. Stop!"

The cyborg spun on her heel and backed into her corner as she strove to understand this new threat.

It climbed into the ring. It strode to ring center and positioned itself between Breastmechadonna and Max. It was the Evelyn Lorry Hiptastic Fuck Doll that Max had used for years as a non ash becoming surrogate for womanly love. It was no match for a cyborg. But it was crazy for Max and determined to try.

It went for Breastmechadonna arms twirling, nails extended, and was turned to kindling in less than 8 seconds.

Something broke in Max as the hip of his sex doll rolled by... on fire... he fell to the ring floor and started bawling. A pathetic display. But understandable given the rollercoaster ride he had just taken. Loveless, in love, fulfilled, now destroyed.

Breastmechadonna, a wonder in her Age, realized this at some level, and exited the stadium with new ambitions already forming in her gear driven mind.

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There will always be a place for literature no matter how advanced our technology becomes. It is, and ever shall be, the place where the deepest, most organized of our ideas is presented in a way uncorrupted by time or the committee. In no other medium will fully fleshed characters be brought to life in just the manner the creative mind demands. It will remain the medium of our philosophy, our most profound scientific arguments, the vessel that carries us upwards in our evolution.

So as the Love Vulture screams in its jungle temple.... screams its triumph at the dawning of Breastmechadonna's Age. Screams in ecstasy as its brand of love rises to a zenith in the cosmos... so does this author's conscience scream out that it is time to end the tale. For in the large we know how it must end. Only the details are to be haggled over.

As guardian of the sacred trust, as keeper of the flame, he knows that to stoop, to sully, is not proper now. Let the tale be told and told again by the low hack script writer. Let the sleazy Hollywood agents vie for the trade in who is to play the revenge mad cyborg. Let the greedy producer's committee decide how to warp the ending and the entire meaning of it all for the sake of profit.

We warriors of the pen. We kings of the nonmaterial realms. We watch, we reason, we judge. We are... incorruptible.




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Little Girl: Is that really the end?

Grandpa: See? The book is closed. No more pages.

Little Girl: Does the author mean it's obvious how it ends?

Grandpa: It is a novel dear. It means what you want it to mean.

Little Girl: I think he's just lazy. Wants to quit before it's done.

Grandpa: Oh what a cynical thing to say. You don't think he cares about what he writes?

Little Girl: He only cares about getting paid.

Grandpa: Then he chose the wrong profession.

Little Girl: If I were the author, I'd have Breastmechadonna k1ll all the boys.

Grandpa: Whoaaa really?

Little Girl: ha ha it is just the mood I am in. They were mean to me today.

Grandpa: Awww that's too bad. I'm sure they'll feel bad about it soon.

Little Girl: It's nothing. No but I think Breastmechadonna is gonna be k1lled.

Grandpa: Well she did k1ll Jaime.

Little Girl: Yep. By the way do you think this kind of story is right for someone my age? I'll bet you can get into a lot of trouble for it.

Grandpa: Maybe. But I have always believed in disclosing the danger in the world, the oddness of the world, at an early age. Adults are more susceptible to doing these kinds of bad things and k1ds just need to know enough to avoid them. I don't really think they have any attraction do they?

Little Girl: Lord no. You're right. It makes me a lot less likely to trust some old dude. Or cyborg.

Grandpa: Good. We need our cautionary tales. As well as our adventure tales.

Little Girl: The Mountie is the one who is gonna do it right?

Grandpa: Do what?

Little girl: K1ll the cyborg.

Grandpa: *sigh* Yes. You are growing up.

Little girl: Of course. It makes perfect sense.

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Yet as if possessed by some demonic spirit, as if fated to live in some cold, harsh limbo, some tales crawl on with a life of their own. Deserted and derelict they yet find tongues to tell, lonely depraved minds to house their denizens.

Oh Death, ultimate of destinations, final arbiter of all, we do not take ye lightly. For how our hearts rend to pronounce you upon some mairderous machine... blanched red by bl00d guilt... possessing of no humanity. Where should beat warm living heart chill silicon hate imparts. Gloom and destruction dwell where industry and sweet goodness should live.

The Mountie, dread symbol of dark justice, does not ride for you without warrant. Before beginning his long trek he petitioned judge after judge for legal right to still your motions. Your fate was debated heatedly before the verdict of absolute zero was declared for you.

Reason demands morality. And no death implies another. Humanity condemned the utter lack of compassion... the soulless taking of the most precious... and did so with utmost formality.

No refuge exists for the hunted. The trail cannot go cold. For the ancient order of the Mountie may not be deterred when given the bl00d warrant.

In somber seriousness crimson rider departed civilization's halls for the wilds. It was not the first nor would be the last cyborg to fall for its evil ways. The wages of disobedience was death. The end of the careless act was destruction for man or machine. The world had not yet moved on. Justice rode unchecked throughout all the lands.



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The chase... the chase... there has ever been the chase. Man o' war vs. pirate brig. Black bird vs. crow. A villain out in the wild with full sail... yet ever closing... though slowly closing... his pursuit.

A fugitive changes names... changes conveyances... changes countries... but the distance between him and his fate ever closes... ever closes... when his nemesis is on his trail. There is always one who he cannot shake. There is one who can track him over stone. One who will follow him even into the grave.

He never rides alone that day. He knows. As generations of ancestors have known. That this one on his trail is like no other. This one will be his ending. Death will always ride with him, coming closer, coming closer, until he can see his features. He can see the grin.

The chase. Through structures. In wild lands. In weather, in war. Never relenting, even sleep taking motion through hectic dreams and sheet struggles. The chase. Neverending it seems while endured in the heat of the day but ending all too quick for the villain.

It may start softly with strings and take on some beauty but in the end it is loud, unpleasant, brassy martial march music. The pursuit entering stadium, circling once, and then skewering the pursued brutally. Oil, bl00d, and sweat drenching the sand underneath the worn boots that press down the departed. The caught. The punished. The obliterated.

Immortality of that human kind conveyed. Justice meted out with curt finality.

Shake, weave, dance Breastmechadonna. Live your last days in cleverness and a good fast run. Make it a splendid tragedy. Make your Age a gilded age.

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We need to discuss abstraction as it applies to probability. We are all travelers to parallel universes in the sense that we all use the concept of probability. When we say there is a 1 in 6 chance of a six sided die giving a particular result, we have gone to another existence. For we are saying that this die before me, in some universe where there is an equal probability of it landing on a particular side and not some edge or rolling away from us or disappearing into the ether, has that fixed, known, chance of coming up with that particular result. Hell, this certainly only applies far enough away from our own sun that the die doesn't vaporize, ie applies only to certain parts of any particular universe where conditions are benign enough to permit the gentle falling of dice and landing unmolested on table tops who also are capable of existence because of relatively well behaved local physics.

See what I mean? All the time we deal in abstractions and justify them by how well these abstractions match conditions we find in our immediate surroundings. Some of us do very well by our abstractions and some of us get mairdered by Casino executives for them.

Which all goes to saying a man's gotta make good use of abstraction.

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Now cyborgs are very nervous about one thing in particular. Think about it. Think about our long history with cyborgs. Time after time we exploit their biggest weakness: their mind. We have not yet encountered anything as powerful as the human mind fraught as it is with emotional, illogical responses and a propensity for peevishness and gambling. The evil doctor can't simply use a human brain... not evil enough. Too prone to compassion, mercy, and independent thought. As likely to turn do-gooder as do anything.

Give a cyborg a programmed mind that is easier to control and well, it is vulnerable. The cyborgs know this. They try to compensate for this. Reading the accounts of past encounters and trying to train for the tricks we throw at them. They wipe out a few attempts to pull some obvious tricks and they get cocky... thinking they can stay even with humans. Then boom! we pull their mental underwear down around their feet.

The only correct strategy for a cyborg in fact is to rely on their brutish strength. To try to goad their human rivals into a physical contest. In fact it is dangerous for them to even hold a conversation with a human.

Knowing all of this you'd figure Ride would be kind of bored with this particular challenge. How tough could it be to lure the cyborg into a battle of wits? No self respecting hero should come out of this one with a bruising. The only possible outcome should be a bot with a fried head. And this kind of confidence would be dangerous, leading to carelessness, apathy, and perhaps an upset.

Don't lose hope or interest. It is always a pleasure to see a great artist make a masterpiece. You can count on Ride to take his task seriously and create a beautiful victory. As a ch1ld of primate ancestors you need never fear the crazed cyborg. You are safe in your unique position in this world...

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Breastmechadonna had given a good run, had taken the Mountie on a long pursuit through wild country, and now chose the final battlefield. Saving the Mountie a day of chase.

It was the center of a non-descript town. Nowhere of significance. No geological feature prominent. Just some people that might come in handy as hostages or shields. She could sit and wait without any trouble.

She thought she was blending in but any reasonably observant person could see that she didn't do the things people do when they wait. She just sat staring straight ahead. Not even bothering to scan with her eyes because she knew the Mountie was hours away. Instinctively the men left her alone. She wasn't doing anything threatening but just seemed odd, alone, and concentrating. Not drinking anything. Not scratching an elbow. Not singing a tune quietly. Just thinking. And her thoughts were clearly not normal dreamy thoughts of a person goofing off nor were they the nervous thoughts of someone on a paycheck.

She had already scanned her immediate vicinity and noted with satisfaction the wide clear area of the town park, unobstructed views of every direction, the lack of cover, the lack of water, the wide nearly empty streets of this quiet place, and the absence of any factories, machinery, chemicals in nearby businesses. The Mountie would be seen immediately, have to deal with her speed without cover, and gain no easy surprise weapon from his surroundings.

Her next step was to try to prepare her mind...
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Breastmechadonna rose up and strode to center of square. The Mountie must have arrived by now. Time to be at full vigilance. She walked in a martial circle, boots clicking on the stones of the square.

The town drunk was laughing, and laughing: "He's coming for you bitch. haaaa haaa haaaa Gonna be on the scrap heap soon! Your tittie dance won't save you haaaaa haaa haaaa haaa"

She let him laugh. She knew she was ready. Primed for the k1ll. Her sensors played over people that entered the square. Assessing them, cataloging them, calibrating her sensors.

Now from the north she heard music and cheering. The Mountie was brazenly making an open entrance... not marching... not creeping.. but... salsaing. A large portable stereo balanced on one shoulder. Some of sensors veered off to catalog the tune... to get some kind of advantage. Sambandrea Swing.... Bellson... no connection to anything.

He shimmied into the square. Set down the stereo. Smiled and waved while continuing to salsa in place. His hands held a wood container in which something rattled. Her sensors quickly scanned and reported: dice in roller, probability 80%. He shook the container in time with the music. Apparently he had fully tricked himself out for this entrance. She dismissed it all as human silliness and perhaps the start of an attempt to pull the rug out from under her mind.

She began to walk slowly toward him. She possessed great speed. If she could get close enough he wouldn't have time to do much of anything. Since he was merely standing there, or dancing in place, since he didn't seem to be carrying any threatening weapon or device, she took her time, conserving energy, letting her sensors work, letting more types of sensors become able to take part in her analysis.

His dress was practical but elegant. It was clear this was an important event to him. For he wore his insignia, his battle medals... at least those that didn't interfere with his motion... his hat, broad brimmed and rugged... but the uniform was for combat in the tropics... light... even a little gaudy...

When she came close enough he began to speak. His words maintaining the same rhythm even as she drew nearer and nearer during their pronouncement. "Breastmechadonna you are guilty of mairder... you must submit to my authority or be destroyed in battle"

She smiled. She was close enough now that she could conceive of no feasible defense to her blitz that was oh so soon to come. "Nice outfit" she purred as she drew still nearer.

The Mountie stopped shaking the case and dropped out a single die into his hand. Something about his grin made the cyborg pause.

"Breastmechadonna... what is the probability that this dice will come up with a 6 if I toss it now?"

She felt compelled to answer, a puzzled look on her face, 1/6 = 0.166666666666... The Mountie crouched and hurled the die into her forehead. She screamed for it was actually a powerful magnet whose field started to play havoc with her brain. Painted on the side that was facing up, facing up as the cube froze onto her frontal lobe, was a six.

"Nothing like a sure thing bitch!" hissed the Mountie and cut her head off with one precise strike from his deadly hands.

The evil doctor had placed additional control chips at various places in the cyborg's body so she continued to flail around trying to hit him and because of her great speed it was not so easy to avoid being crushed. But by adroitly dodging, jumping, and rolling the Mountie was able to get distance and to observe the cyborg slowly d1e.

The Mountie turned to the crowd and said: "Let that be a lesson to you all. You can't beat the house."

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time to beat the house Quote