The technician

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“Thank you for using a Simmonds Personal Sky Elevator,” said the soothing male automated voice from inside the large, oblong capsule. “Please step all the way into the car.”

Neal Rodriguez did as he was told, stepping off the windy roof of Gates Tower 3 and into the gold cylinder’s gleaming, all-white interior. He turned and allowed himself a last, wistful glimpse of New San Francisco before the doors closed and sealed, leaving Neal completely surrounded by white, featureless surfaces. Somehow it all made Neal feel smaller. Why did they make these personal capsules so big anyway—big enough for four of him, with four more standing on their shoulders? He adjusted his dark green technician’s uniform self-consciously.

“Destination?” the voice inquired. Neal looked up at the flat ceiling of the cylinder, a several feet over his head.

“Orbital base Sierra Seven.” The newest and largest one—almost a hundred thousand settlers and staff, he’d heard. His new home for at least three years. Neal sighed: would they let him get planetside often? Or at all?

“Orbital base Sierra Seven,” the voice repeated. “Present your thumbprint for identity verification and billing.” A small panel, a few inches square, began to glow faintly on the curved interior surface near the door. Neal already had his thumb ready and had taken a step forward, having ridden in sky elevators since he was a boy. When he pressed his thumb to the panel, he knew what would happen next: a brief lurch, and then a sense of motion, most of it in his head. All part of the routine.

But what happened after that was definitely not part of the routine at all. The capsule was suddenly bathed in a bright blue light, and the voice said in its eternally disinterested, matter-of-fact tone these remarkable words: “Congratulations, Neal Kevin Rodriguez. You are the one billionth customer of Simmonds Sky Elevators LLC.”

The voice paused, and Neal cocked his head expectantly. He’d heard about customer rewards programs like this, though they were pretty rare now that Kelly-Rox Cola had a dominant share in Congress. But before Neal’s train of thought could go much further, the auto-voice continued.

“Using new beta version of the Simmonds patented MatterShift technique, we would like to express our gratitude by offering you three free alterations to your body. Please speak your requests clearly and carefully when you’re ready. What is your first request?”

Huh? “Alterations to my body? Like, what, ‘taller’?”

The voice did not respond directly. Instead, the blue light that was bathing all the surfaces shifted abruptly to a darker, richer shade and, at the same time Neal smacked his head against the smooth, rough-textured flat surface of the capsule.

“What the fuck?” Neal grabbed his head with both hands. It was like the ceiling dropped down and smacked him on the noggin. His eyes swam, and his mind seemed to capsize for a moment. His vision was filled with shapeless light blue.

Even as his disorientation started to clear up he heard the voice, now seeming to come from some invisible spot very near his ear, say (rather loudly), “‘Taller’ implemented. What is your second request?”

“What, what?” moaned Neal, his head still aching. But now that he could see, it was obvious: Neal was now as tall as the capsule. Perhaps a bit more, as his head was a bit hunched over. Experimentally he bent his knees very slightly, so his head wasn’t pressed so hard against the ceiling, and frowned down at himself, but he couldn’t quite take it in.

“You requested ‘taller.’ You did not provide parameters, so the full set of humans was used as the parameter. What is your second request?”

The main thing that struck him was how weird and kinda ridiculous his technician’s jumpsuit looked all stretched out to his new size, like they’d had to use thirty bolts of Siberian cotton. Wait, shouldn’t he have grown out of his uniform? The capsule must have MatterShifted the uniform too. A very considerate body-reshaping corporate rewards program, Neal thought, caught between wonder and bemusement.

What the voice had said suddenly registered. “Wait—you made me taller than everyone?” Neal said.

“You did not specify parameters. What is your second request?”

He was staring down at himself, seeing his newly stretched out body now clearly as if for the first time. His arms seemed to be as long as he used to be tall. He started to panic—he was so skinny! Being all stretched out to this height with no muscle, as thin as a shirt box, made him feel punier than ever. “No, damn it, you got it wrong! You have to make me—” He gestured, unable to sort out his syntax—Neal often stumbled over words when he was flustered. Unfortunately.

“Please clarify.”

“Just—I don’t know. More!”

The light shifted to the darker blue again, and, now that he was paying attention, he felt a heavy thrum throughout the car.

And then, suddenly, the capsule was full.

“Capsule volume limit reached. ‘More’ request complete. What is your third and final request?”

Neal was looking straight at his own face, a finger’s width away. And beyond that were others. He’d been wrong thinking the capacity of the elevator at four of himself, because the artful computer had somehow managed to carefully wedge six more of his lanky, elongated selves in the car. Of course, they were pressed very hard together. Sardines lived in lonely isolation compared to the seven Neals at that moment.

He was starting to get aroused. The Neal in front of him smiled self-consciously—he was getting aroused too. “Um…” Neal started to say, but another Neal on the other side of the car broke in—“Wait!”—and strangely Neal felt the glimmer of the one’s idea even before he spoke. Perhaps the seven of them shared some brain power—would he be smarter now?

The other Neal—he’d have to figure out names or something, later—spoke to the computer. “We’ve each had two ‘requests’,” he said, glancing around at his stretched duplicates. “It’s only fair we all get a third one.”

The computer barely paused. “Proceed,” it said.

Neal had an idea what the other Neal had in mind. They exchanged glances and Neal nodded. “A hundred more pounds of muscle, distributed in a way I’d find sexy, for all seven of us,” the Neal who’d objected said. Neal grinned. Nicely worded. Maybe he was getting smarter.

“Capsule volume limit——”

After we get out, then.”

“Request accepted.”

Another Neal on the far side of the capsule spoke up. “All our cocks should be a foot—no, two feet longer and 50% wider,” he said. The computer accepted the request and Neal gasped to feel the sudden weight of his newly enlarged monster organ hanging down the leg of his tech uniform.

“And all our balls should be twice as big,” added another of his selves. Neal gasped again. It might have been psychological, but the sensation of ponderous, enlarged testicles in his uniform—now lightly roomier in the crotch to accommodate his huge hairy spheres—made his suddenly very horny. The eyes of the Neal in front of him were alight with intense arousal and curiosity. There was hardly any space between their lips, and abruptly there was none. Some of the others were following suit. Soon they were all making out and groping each other in the tightly packed space.

“Fourth third request please,” the computer prompted, patiently/impatiently.

“To be able to cum a liter of cum whenever we want, anytime, all the time—all of us,” said another self, in between kisses. Neal’s cock and balls suddenly surged with power—a power he realized he could control. They were all adjusting their own and each other’s 30-inch super-thick cocks as they thickened and hardened, till they all had boners pointing straight up—still only partway up their superstretched torsos. Neal broke his kiss with the self in front of him to start making out with the one just over that one’s shoulder, the one who’d asked for all that cock. Meanwhile he could feel several hands running up and down his long, long back.

The Neal in front of him took the opportunity to offer his request. “And all of us shoot cum that grows other guys’ muscle and cock and makes them more beautiful,” he said.

The computer paused. “I can only alter you, not others,” it said.

The requestor was already leaning into a three-way kiss with Neal and the cock-requestor. He threw out “Nanobots or something,” before joining in the make-out.

“Request complete. Sixth third request, please.”

The Neal to Neal’s left said, “That we all stay young and beautiful—and arousing to any guy we want..”

Neal himself briefly broke free from his triple kiss and added the last one: “And that we all love and cherish and remain happy together forever.”

“Request complete. Congratulations and thank you again for using a Simmonds Personal Sky Elevator.” The doors popped open, and seven Neals filed out, each thickening with muscle as they did so, and gathered on the landing platform of Orbital base Sierra Seven looking out over the crowds of residents and workers, all of whom were no taller than their waists, almost all of them good-looking and fit thanks to cheap and easy in vitro genetics.

“There you are, Rodriguez!” said a wiry, blond young man in a similar technician’s uniform—Neal’s superior, Olaf. He marched up to Neal, ignoring his other selves, and glared up at the hunky giant. “You do realize we’re behind schedule up here!” He was trying to be stern, but clearly Neal’s beauty was having an effect on him.

“Right, Olaf, I know. The elevator had a mind of its own.” His other selves were drifting off into the crowd, to regroup later when it came time to go home, men already accumulating around them. Most of them were pretty sexy already—what would Neal’s cum do to them?

He wanted to find out. He knelt down and placed a big hand on Olaf’s shoulder. “Hey, boss, why don’t we step into your office for a second?”

“Why?” Olaf said, trembling.

Neal smiled, and he knew his smile had an instant arousing effect on Olaf. “There’s something I want you to try.”


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