Pumping dead cartridges from my FCQ-69, I vault over the oozing carapace heap and scan the shadows for bugs. Sweat drips from my every pore like I was a cross between a faulty Proteenade dispenser and holo-Madonna live on stage. Hell, I love my job — for the killing, the credits and all those slidey doors that open with a whooooooosh.
Outside in the corridor, lights flash and cables dangle, but nothing moves save a lone utility bot playing Doom on its vac-flap. Something about its mechanical gripper reminds me...reminds me — Oh! Talula!
Some day soon I’ll hold her in my arms again, smell the sweet scent of her hair as I press my throbbing muto-phall implant hard against her polypro exosheen and inseminate her repeatedly with multiple uploads from my Ovum Wand. When all this is over, I’m taking that Byoodiful Girl (tm) to dinner, some place classy like Android Ani’s Intraglandular Hormone Pump Bar, or that diner out XL5 way that serves real cheese.
Anyways, I’m staring out the porthole at the stars, wondering if I got time to unhitch my groin guard and knock off a quick one, when lightning flashes across the glass, an eerie chord from an eerier church organ sounds over the ship’s iComm, and some weird looking guy, like a vampire, clambers outta the uri-poop shaft packing muttonchops erect with static.
“Androgynous cyberling replicant clone, huh?” he says, training his vizi-gogs on the pulse of my jugular, “call me sick, but I can’t get enough of that protohaem fluid!”
As he sinks his fangs into my neck, I’m thinking last time I mix transgenre fiction with transgender friction...