Virtual Doll

Chapter 1

Wyl

“Hey, Hank, can you hand me the scanner? I think I found something over here.”

My partner, and technically my captain, Hank Galgin, passes the device to me without even taking his eyes off the scrap metal he’s gathering.

Depending on the composition, even the decade-old, obsolete metal parts here on the abandoned Jupiter’s Joy can be worth a fortune in the right market.

The NanoSteel in the hull of this abandoned spaceship could set us for life if we find a good buyer, and there’s SynthWire all over the place.

More than enough to keep for repairs on our own ship, with plenty left over for sale.

This, though … this is something different than your standard salvage fare.

I’ve seen androids before. Everyone has these days; they’re easy to spot with their articulated outer shells and exposed wiring between the panels.

Once I removed the thick leather tarp covering this droid, though, I knew it was different.

Androids like the one lying dormant in front of me vanished decades ago, long before I was born, replaced by the current models.

No one builds ‘em like this anymore: Femdroid Model XR-17. Lab-grown skin, long, dark hair that looks almost human—and knowing the basic design of XR-17s, I’m sure it is. From what I recall, they used lab-grown, organic strands for these models.

Most modern droids have an androgynous build, humanoid in general shape but neither male- nor female-appearing, with no genital construction whatsoever.

This generic, cookie-cutter humanoid design was brought about by the 2573 Royal Droid Scandal, which outlawed the production of gendered androids like XR-17 and its male counterpart, the XR-20.

Galactic populace members did not approve of a ruler having a large harem of droid concubines, especially not ones programmed solely for his pleasure.

After the Grand Upheaval, the new ruling family decreed that droids must be nonbinary and completely genderless, and any sexual programming was strictly forbidden.

This XR-17 is definitely a pre-2573 design, though I wonder what it’s doing here, on a wreckage that’s only ten years old at most. Its parts look new, but that makes no sense. Even if it’s never been activated, there should be some degree of degradation due to the passing of time.

The femdroid is dressed … well, like a concubine. Silky, transparent material, draped provocatively on its shapely form, in immaculate condition despite the damaged interior of the ship. Nothing else. No shirt or skirt, no jacket, no socks or shoes … and, near as I can tell, no underwear.

My gut instinct is to leave it alone. These models cause nothing but trouble, and few markets will even consider one for sale.

I’d be just as likely to get arrested for even having it in my possession, let alone trying to charge a buyer for it.

Penalties for possessing an illegal, unregistered droid are stiff, often upwards of ten million galactic credits.

The penalty for owning an XR-17 … It’s too horrific to think about.

Still … the droid’s pretty. The sculpt on its face is sublime, and whoever designed it must have spent a great deal of time on the mechanical musculature beneath the skin.

I’ve never seen a droid with such defined muscles before.

Then again, most modern-day droids have built-in modesty clothing to cover a majority of their bodies, again due to Regent Archer IX and his … indiscretions.

Word is the Galactic Authority ordered all droids built after ’73 to be made entirely of metal alloys and synthetic parts to prevent “perversion.”

The femdroid’s proportions are generous, to say the least. Its chest is well endowed, possibly in genuine need of more support than the sheer garment provides, and the hips look soft and round …

Part of me is tempted to peek and see how realistic this sculptor made it under its clothes.

The fabric overlaps just enough at the apex of its thighs to prevent me from getting a good look.

I shake my head to clear my mind of those thoughts. If I don’t manage to avoid arrest for even finding this damn thing, I could get my sentence doubled for Thought Perversion. All the interrogators need is a little raised heart rate, some mild hyperventilation, and they’ll convict on the spot.

“Whatcha got there, Wyl?” Hank asks, breaking me out of my assessment. He’s behind me, partially hidden by stacks of cargo, so I don’t think he’s seen the femdroid yet. Should I tell him?

Eh, why not? Hank’s a good guy as far as I can tell.

I doubt he’d turn me in. Enough time has passed since the Scandal that there’s not a bounty for possession of one of these, anyway.

He wouldn’t benefit from turning me in to the Galactic Authority, no payout for ratting, and they might arrest him, too, for collusion.

“Some kinda droid. Older model, but it looks like it’s in good shape. I’m gonna scan for residual electrical currents. Might be dead, but it could still have some spark in it.”

While I activate the scanner, I hear Hank moving closer. He gasps and curses behind me, and I realize I may have misjudged him.

“Fuck, Wyl! That’s not a service droid! Those things right there are more illegal than HyperSpeed. Dump the blasted thing out the airlock before we’re caught!”

Though my back is to him, I roll my eyes at the older man’s dramatics.

“Oh, shut up, Hank. It’s not like we have a fucking permit to salvage this vessel in the first place.

Every serial number on board is getting scrubbed anyway, and we don’t plan on selling everything we find.

We can keep a few things, and the GA will never know.

” The scanner beeps, indicating mild passive electrical current within the droid.

“Besides, it’s got juice. The Galactic Artificial Intelligence Code dictates that it’s still alive.

Living AI can’t be terminated unless it violates its Prime Directive, so legally, we have to keep it safe. ”

“Or we could let it die out here on Jupiter’s Joy like nature intended!”

I choose to ignore him. “If I recall,” I mutter to myself, “XR-17s have a switch in the back of the neck, at the hairline …”

“Don’t you dare! That’s a fucking cursed droid.

If you turn it on, kid, you’re gonna have to find someone else to fly you back to Declan VI.

You might not be old enough to have lived through the Purge of ‘73, but I am. I like my head on my shoulders and my dick where it is; I want no part in this.” His magboots clang on the grated metal flooring as he storms off, possibly to make good on his threat and leave me here.

His loss. We’ve barely scratched the surface of the salvageable scrap on board, so if he leaves me, the rest is all mine.

I can fix up a pod or three—one to fly the droid and me out of here, and two to tow behind with the salvage.

Jupiter’s Joy has a full escape pod complement, so at least some of those things are bound to work.

Hell, maybe the femdroid can help me repair a couple.

Not all of these XR-17 droids were built for solely for …

recreational use. Who knows? It might have mechanic or engineering programming inside.

Pilot programming would be helpful, too, now that Hank’s on his way out.

Even though there’s still plenty left to salvage, he’s making good on his threat to leave me here.

Over the hum of Jupiter’s passive electronic systems, I can hear the hiss of the airlock three halls down, the loud bang of the docking clamps releasing, and the high-pitched whine of Skipper’s engines revving up and charging for lightspeed.

“Fine. We don’t need him anyway, do we, doll face?” I mutter as I feel the back of its head for the switch. At first, I think my limited knowledge of this model is incorrect, until—

Brrrt! Ping! Ping! Ping!

“Humanoid lifeprint detected … Analyzing …”

The droid unit jerks and twitches as a series of electronic and mechanical noises create a cacophony of artificial life.

Its eyes light up, the artificial irises glowing pale blue.

The eyelids blink a few times, fluttering its dark lashes, and a low-grade laser scan commences, emanating from the red pupillary openings.

Bit by bit, the droid maneuvers into a sitting position. Its back is straight, perfect posture, and its legs lie stretched out in front of it. Positioning its hands on its lap, the droid looks up at me.

“AURA unit … active.” Zzt … zzt … “Hello, humanoid user. Please input your personal data for unit registration.”