The Exposition of Modified Women

Now seems like a good time to restate that this story is complete fantasy, and that while real-sounding names have been used to lend authenticity, characters depicted here are fictional and no resemblance to actual persons is intended.

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The Exposition of Modified Women, Part 9 - The Speed Demon (continued)

by Benfan

 

 

 

The image of Brandon victorious faded to black, and he appeared again in his more charming mode.

"Having achieved my goals on the track, I soon began to yearn for new challenges.  With all respect for the traditions of the Society Cup, I wanted to run my girls free from rules and restrictions and explore the true limits of female speed.  And so I retired from sanctioned racing, but I did not disband my stable.  Instead I began to experiment with new technology and training techniques to harness my ponies' power most efficiently."

The film now cut quickly through several clips that featured an assortment of strange vehicles into which members of Brandon's pony troop were strapped.  Some of the machines were shown indoors, bolted to a machine that measured the power output from their wheels.  Others tooled around a small paved outdoor track.  Most of the conveyances were pedal driven, though their configurations varied wildly.

First came a sequence of single-girl machines like recumbent cycles, with two, three, and four wheels.  There was also a strange contraption that carried one girl in a hands-and-knees position, where she alternately curled and extended her body like an inchworm as she pushed a set of pedals and handles that captured her motion and translated it via a complex chain drive to her cart's four wheels.

Then there were two-girl machines.  The first positioned a pair of pedalers upright in tandem, one behind the other like a common bicycle-built-for-two equipped with straps at seat and pedal.  Then came a series of double-recumbents, in which two ex-ponygirls sat either side by side or back-to-back.  One unique tricycle harnessed two females one above the other, like lovers in the missionary position, with their four feet driving a single large cog.

The females powering the experimental machines were apparently subjects of investigation, as well.  Many of the pony-pedalers were wired with small adhesive pads stuck to their torsos and legs.  A variety of masks, hoses, and gas cylinders showed that Brandon was testing various breath control and supplementation schemes.  And as the sequence progressed, one or two of the females appeared to lose their arms.  To save weight, Mark supposed.

"These experiments went on for over a year.  My team of doctors and engineers became the world's leading experts on the extraction of mechanical power from the female body.  Some details of this knowledge, we'll keep to ourselves," the blonde billionaire said with a smile.  "But we did find that when it comes to speed and FPUs - that's our development team's shorthand for Female Power Units - more is better...  As long as all the units powering a vehicle are carefully balanced and coordinated, which becomes impractical beyond a certain point.  We projected that the ideal number of FPUs for our planned vehicle would be four."

The odd contraptions faded away and Brandon's image returned to the screen.  "All well and good.  But a successful design would have to solve several problems.  Chief among them: how to harness four females so that they're able to produce maximum power, while minimizing drag and weight?  How to keep them all working together in close coordination?  And where to find a set of four females of exceptional physical ability, all matched closely and trained to work in harmony?"

"To see how we solved these problems, and to understand how the XX4's drive system works, it's best to see it in action.  As I said at the beginning of our programme, I was unable to bring the entire vehicle to the Expo for you to see.  But, I have at least been able to bring one of the pistons from its record-setting engine."

Brandon's face turned to his left on the screen, to face the black curtains at the side of the little theater-tent as they were drawn open on cue by a Brandon Industries employee.  Behind the curtains was the source of the low whirring noise that had continued, barely audible, since Mark had first entered the tent.  It came from the three-foot flywheel of a steel machine bolted to the floor, driven by a U-shaped crankshaft.  Suspended above the turning crank, her feet strapped together to the bend in the "U," was a most unusual female specimen.

"I introduce you to Karissa Myles, formerly of the champion rowing team from Wemberly College.  Miss Myles is a record holder in the single sculls, and was once expected to bring home Olympic glory.  Since the age of twelve she is undefeated on the water - and now quite likely to remain so.  But if she will never row again, she has earned a title even rarer than Olympic gold: she is one of the four fastest women in the world!"

The "piston" formerly known as Karissa Myles - six feet, one and a half inches from heel to crown - was suspended above the crankshaft of the spinning machine in a frame of shiny aluminum.  Two A-frames rose to the height of her shoulders, where they were joined to her unusual gray harness by a pair of shiny brackets.  Lighter frame members continued up and over her head, and from the uppermost corners a pair of black rubber straps stretched down to snap links at the sides of her head harness, above her ears.  The torso and head harnesses were high-tech affairs, crafted from flat pieces of flexible plastic padded with a thin layer of white foam.

"You may remember the tragic story of the Wemberly team, which was at the top of the news briefly almost three years ago.  Their van suffered a freak accident, careening into a river after blowing out two tires."  While he spoke footage from a news broadcast played soundlessly on the screen, showing a smashed white van laying wheels-up in a raging brown torrent.  Along the steep, muddy bank rescue workers frowned in their weather gear, while a pair of black body bags were carried up toward an ambulance.

"Officially, the bodies of only two victims were recovered: the fifty-four year old coach, and the 95-pound coxswain.  After a lengthy search the rest of the team was assumed to have been swept away and out to sea.  But in fact, and by fortunate coincidence, one of my private security teams had been nearby when the accident occurred and managed to rescue all eight of the champion rowers."

The somber news clip concluded by displaying the faces of eight smiling young women, the missing victims revealed in portraits that might have been taken from a school yearbook.  By her blonde hair and high round cheekbones the wholesome, heartland-bred girl pictured at upper left could be identified as the "Female Power Unit" that now toiled on the wheel in Brandon's tent.

But the golden hair had been shorn to a mere inch in length, poking out here and there through gaps in the plastic harness that enclosed most of her head.  The bright blue eyes were darkened, and sunk deep in a pale face.  And the shy smile was a distant memory.  The former student-athlete's mouth was filled with a strapless gag, from which projected a strange mushroom-shaped object with a flat chrome front and a dark screen around its sides - an air filter.  A shiny butterfly valve in the center of the chrome housing flapped open when the girl exhaled, always on the downstroke when her legs drove the big wheel, and closed again when she bent her knees on the return. 

"Three of the eight were too short to match well with the others.  These I either assigned to other projects, or traded to other Society ponymasters for training as cart racers.  A fourth proved to be untrainable, and is no longer with us.  The four remaining would compose our record-setting team.  As soon as we verified their suitability through a few weeks of traditional pony training, they were turned over to the team surgeon who performed the physical modifications that our experiments had shown would produce the most effiicient propulsion for the XX4."

The piston/girl was armless.  The plastic straps above and below her shoulders embraced the smooth round stumps that projected where her upper limbs had been neatly amputated just below the shoulder joint.  Her torso and legs were dotted with adhesive pads that trailed delicate wires, which were all neatly bundled and run to a black box at the base of the suspension frame.  Small green LEDs glowed steadily on the side of the device.

"Looking at Miss Myles here today, you see an abbreviated version of the XX4's engine."  The projection screen showed images of the vehicle with its shell removed and inner works exposed, revealing four similarly modified female forms all working in machine-like sequence.  "In the complete vehicle the four FPUs are mounted shoulder-to-shoulder along the long axis, above a lightweight aluminum crankshaft.  This arrangement allows for a narrow vehicle, to best slice through the wind.  The crankshaft transmits the power generated by our four pistons through an adapted motorcycle transmission to the XX4's two rear wheels."

"Watch as Miss Myles goes through a stroke, and you can see the advantages of positioning her as we have.  Being secured to the frame at her shoulders, instead of being placed in a seat, allows her to apply the muscles of her back and abdomen to swing her legs forward and back.  While the downward leg-thrust is still the most powerful segment of the cycle we get much more total power per revolution than in, for example, a recumbent bicycle design, where the muscles above the hips are not able to contribute very much.  The superiority of this arrangement was one of the discoveries we made during our year of experimentation."

The plastic body harness was flexible through the midsection, allowing the girl to bend her torso to and fro as her feet went round in their little circle.  This not only allowed her tummy and back muscles to work, but also freed her hips to align with the up-and-down strokes of her legs, increasing their power.  Mark watched as the crankshaft rotated, and the female piston's prominent abdominals alternately tightened and relaxed while her torso curled forward and back.  It appeared that Brandon's arrangement did indeed utilize every possible muscle to its utmost.

But Mark also noticed how the girl's prolonged training in this one, strictly limited motion had reshaped her body from that of a typical well-balanced athlete.  Where they were visible above and below her padded plastic belt, her rippling stomach muscles looked like a body builder's; her quads and calves were huge and sharply defined.  But Brandon had focused her exercise monomaniacally on the muscle groups necessary for her new role as a piston in his engine.  Meanwhile the muscles along the sides of the girl's torso, hips, and thighs had atrophied with disuse, so that her figure was oddly narrowed.  Adding to this effect was her almost complete lack of body fat: even her modest breasts hung flaccid on her chest.

In her specialized role, the remodeled Karissa Myles certainly appeared to be very powerful.  But for all its strength her new body appeared not so much athletic as vaguely...non-human.

"Once we'd acquired a well-matched set of suitable females and designed an appropriate arrangement for them, the main problem we faced was getting them all to work together in close synchronization.  It helped that the girls had been trained to work in concert and at a precise pace.  But in a rowing shell they all pulled together; in the XX4 the FPUs would work in sequence.  We knew all along that the key would be computer control, but getting the details right required more experimentation."

The screen now showed images of a brown-haired rower, armless and clad only in a pair of hi-rise latex panties, strapped into the padded seat of a type of exercise machine.  Her feet were raised in a pair of pedals, and wires dangled from points all over her legs and abdomen.  While lights flashed on a machine in the background, her legs pumped jerkily against the pedals.  Her movements were spasmodic and uneven; she looked as though she were in the grip of a seizure rather than exercising.  Like all the clips this one was soundless, but the pinched face, gaping mouth, and straining muscles along her throat suggested that this had been a noisy session.

"First we tried direct control of their key muscle groups, by means of electrodes implanted under the skin.  But we found that the nervous system of a trained athlete is much more efficient and subtle in controlling its own movements than any artificial system we could devise.  So we redesigned the computer system in the XX4, which we call the governor, to guide the FPUs' efforts rather than control them directly.  We removed the implanted electrodes and replaced them with the adhesive pads you see decorating Miss Myles.  Each FPU is wired with about four dozen of these electrodes, which have two functions: the white pads monitor the exertion of individual muscles, while the red ones administer mild to moderate shocks as necessary to correct errors in form or timing."

A scene similar to the previous one played on the screen, though there had been changes to the electronic equipment and wiring.  A mouth-filling air cleaner had appeared in the girl's mouth.  Her motions on the machine were much smoother now, as she pressed the heavy iron weights up and down in a steady rhythm.

"The other key input for the governor comes from pressure sensors located in the FPU's foot pedals.  These sense the amount of force she's applying at each point in her stroke, information that the system uses to determine where, when, and how powerfully to encourage her efforts.  In its final version the XX4's drive governor is a highly flexible and efficient control system that we feel can extract nearly every ounce of power that our FPUs are able to produce.  Elite competitive athletes, like Miss Myles here, are often headstrong and can be difficult subjects for traditional pony training,  But the electronic governor quickly proved irresistible.  Within a few weeks, the early portion of which was devoted to fine tuning the system, the four FPUs were developing good individual form while beginning to work well in sequence."

The screen showed all four harnessed piston-girls together - each varying slightly in features and coloration, but closely matched in stature and unnatural physique - and suspended in a row above a turning crankshaft.  Their legs pumped in sequence as they drove a flywheel connected to a device that measured their output of power.  On the control panel gauges jumped and lights flashed red and green.

"After eighteen months of rigorous training on the final version of the XX4, the FPUs were able to maintain proper form at very high levels of stress, while we could control their pace with a precision of 1/4 of a revolution per minute.  It was time to take the XX4 out of the training hangar and into the field.  For our speed trials I chose the dry lakebed of Takungaya, in East Africa.  The hard flat terrain was ideal for our purposes, and the remote location promised fewer security headaches than more familiar sites such as Bonneville...."

"Unnhhh ....aah.....Oh, that's a good girl, Candy.  You're daddy's good girl."

"Gulp......hee hee!"   The happy couple seated behind Mark interrupted again, the male voice lowered out of consideration for the rest of the audience but the pink bimbo as loud and grating as ever.  "Thank you daddy...thhhppp... Can we fuck now?"

"No, I'm still watching the movie.  Stay down there, put it back in your mouth.  No sucking, just hold it in those big, pretty lips daddy bought you....Yes, that's it, that's a good girl.  Now be patient and we'll go see the ponies soon."  With his bimbo pacified, the man raised his voice slightly in general apology: "Sorry, gentlemen."

While this exchange had gone on the theater's screen had been displaying images of Brandon's team unloading their equipment from a trio of cargo planes at the site of their record attempt.  A time lapse sequence showed a village of white tents springing up in seconds, and the assembly of the XX4.  The crankshaft, piston-frames, and running gear were carried in a lightweight chassis of bright aluminum beams.  An inclined plastic seat and some control equipment were hung at one end, between two of the man-high, delicately thin spoked wheels.  After the four naked, harnessed pistons were mounted, a fairing of aluminized mylar stretched over a gossamer frame of black tubes was lowered over the whole contraption.  The featureless silver teardrop from the film's opening moments had returned.

As the commotion behind Mark died down, Brandon's voice could be heard again.  "With its narrow wheelbase and large side profile the XX4 is very sensitive to crosswinds, so we made our runs at dawn when the desert air was quietest."

The images on the screen now shifted quickly, between views obtained from several cameras both inside and outside the experimental vehicle.  Mark was surprised to see that once the sky brightened, the silver mylar skin appeared transparent from within.  The impression from inside the craft was of an open, skeletal structure gliding windlessly across the barren landscape, which was dimmed as though viewed through sunglasses.  This property of the mylar, Mark realized, made a clear windshield for the driver unnecessary.

Mark lost track of Brandon's narration for a while, as he marvelled at the images of the former ponymaster's machine in operation.  In a view looking back from behind the driver's head the interior of the cramped vehicle seethed with activity as legs pumped, the crankshaft turned  and wheels spun while wires and hoses bounced in time with the motion of the four hard-working pistons.

By her blonde buzz cut Karissa Myles could be identified in the position immediately behind the driver.  The FPUs crowded shoulder-to-shoulder behind her were darker haired, but their similarly trained bodies were virtually indistinguishable from one another.  Their faces, mostly hidden by plastic straps and blackened goggles over their eyes, were all in a row facing to the driver's right.  The FPUs' heads barely moved with their efforts, being held securely in position by the heavy elastic straps that stretched from above their ears to the uppermost frame member an inch above their crowns.  At full extension their toes were scant inches from the ground that slipped past the transparent floor of the XX4, and when their legs bent on the upward stroke their knees and heels almost brushed the tissue-thin skin of the narrow craft.  Fastened to the frames here and there were black boxes upon which LEDs glowed green or flashed red, and small gas bottles from which thin plastic tubes ran to fittings on the FPUs' air cleaners.  Other tubes led directly up their noses.

The external views of the sleek silver craft gliding across the eerie terrain contrasted starkly with the furious activity inside its cramped interior.  It took several shifts back and forth between the cameras for a viewer to accept that they presented simultaneous views of the same vehicle.

"Finally..." the word brought Mark's attention back to Brandon's narration.  "We worked out these inevitable teething problems and were ready for the event that we'd been working toward for three years: the official speed trial, timed by representatives of the Society Records Committee..."

The XX4 sat motionless under a colorful dawn sky.  Through the vehicle's transparent skin a camera looked over the driver's shoulder and out at the surreal vista.  In the far distance the flat white lakebed met the descending ranks of craggy dark peaks; in the foreground the driver's hands could be seen anxiously gripping the narrow handlebars that steered his ship.  The thin black tube that defined the craft's leading edge appeared as a vertical bar dividing the distant horizon.

"Tire pressure.....check.....guidance.....check.....governor.....check.....FPU vitals..... check, starting O2 ...."  The words passed between the XX4 and its support team via radio.  The raspy electronicized voice of the driver could be recognized as that of Pritchard Brandon.  While he worked through the checklist with his support team his gloved hands could be seen touching buttons on two small panels that hung before him.  The one on the right included a small LCD screen that displayed four animated blips, a graphic representation of the four hearts that beat in harness a few feet behind his head.

"OK, Mr. Brandon, you're go for the timed run.  Good luck!......Thanks! OK, throttle up ..."  Brandon's right hand twisted the grip of his handlebar.  The view forward from the driver's seat shrank into a corner of the screen, most of which was taken over by the interior view looking\back down the row of FPUs.

Red LEDs flashed throughout the engine compartment and with slight bucks in their harnesses the four pistons pressed on their pedals.  The blonde in the lead position started with a slow downstroke, while those behind her began by raising their feet or swinging them forward or back.  As their pace built over several revolutions Mark saw that the pistons fired in a 1-3-2-4 sequence, with their crank angles varied by ninety degrees so that one was always pressing downwards in the most powerful segment of her cycle.  Just as the last piston in line was reaching full extension and swinging her feet backwards, the leader was beginning another downward stroke.

"10km per hour...Tracking straight, running smooth..... Great, looking good at our end, you are 3.9km to mark 1..."

Brandon called out the building speed in 10-kilometer-per-hour increments while his support team chattered back with technical jargon and distance-to-goal.  In the theater the audience could see when the driver shifted gears, as the pace of pumping knees and thrusting hips behind him built gradually from slow to frenetic then dropped suddenly, only to immediately begin building again.  All the while the machine's big skinny wheels spun faster and faster, until the smooth lakebed below was blurred by speed.

A second small image appeared at another corner of the screen, showing an external view of the silver apparition sliding across the desolate landscape.

"50kph.....3.2 to mark, on schedule, on the ball..."

Wires and hoses flopped inside the XX4 as the spindly-framed craft shuddered when Brandon upshifted again, and his pistons' pace dropped from 80 rpm to 40 before slowly building again.

"70 -  FPU rates coming up..."   On his monitor the four blips wiggled excitedly; behind him in the engine room a sheen of perspiration had appeared on the pumping legs and flexing torsos.

"Still well within the green.  Acceleration on schedule..................80kph....2.4km to mark..............90......2.1 to mark 1 and on the ball - we're keeping an eye on Number Two, sir, she's coming up a little fast...."

Except for brief red flashes during the gear shifts the dozens of LEDs in the FPU compartment had glowed almost solid green since shortly after the run had started.  Now several of the tiny lamps began to flicker.  On the driver's monitor the number next to the second dancing blip had increased to 144.  Brandon shifted gears one more time.  In the external view the flat lakebed blurred into a seamless white carpet beneath the shining craft; a slight shimmer of wind played across its delicate skin.

"I see it, it's OK, she's always the jumpy one....coming up on a round number, gentlemen - there it is, 100, running smooth and tracking straight.....100 kilometers per hour at 1.4km to mark, square on the ball.....Call out 1.0 to mark....Yes, sir.......106 - I seem to recall that's an important number?.....Yes, congratulations Mr. Brandon, the XX4 now holds the unofficial record for female-powered speed....Unofficial, eh? Give me two more minutes and...Excuse me sir, you're 1.0 to mark 1....Right, going to afterburners..."

Brandon's voice had risen with his excitement.  Now his left hand reached up and punched a button.  Behind him an LED flashed on the regulator of a small gas bottle.

"Sir, the surgeon is advising against the boost for this run, says Number Two is running hot....Thank him for his advice, John, we're going to make every run as though it were our last..."

Seconds after Brandon opened the remote valve, all four heart rates on his monitor jumped.  The second number on his screen rose to 172 and glowed yellow.  Behind him a few of the LEDs nearest the second churning FPU began to flash red, while green lamps flickered up and down the line.

"Wow, what a kick in the pants, the girls really love that stuff -110kph.....0.9 to mark.............120...0.7 and on the ball..............................130....0.4 on the ball.............................140 .....0.1, and - you're on the clock!"

The black line across the desert that marked where the official time began to run was barely visible as it flashed beneath the speeding XX4.  In the silver machine's engine room the four pistons strained furiously against their pedals, flinging drops of sweat against the transparent walls of their craft as each pair of knees rose and fell almost one and a half times per second.  Red LEDs flickered up and down the line now, as the electronic governor administered its targeted shocks liberally in an attempt to keep the FPUs in proper form at this unsustainable level of exertion.  The numbers on the little monitor read 175, 195, 180, 184, all yellow with the second figure flashing into the red.

"145!.....0.6 to mark 2, Number Two is in the red at 201, sir.....I see it, dammit, come on, come on!  150kph!..... Copy your one-fifty, and - you're through the timed run at an average of 144 kilometers per hour.  A new record by almost 40, Mr. Brandon!"

A second black line had flashed below the XX4's spinning wheels.  But Brandon's right hand did not relax its grip on the throttle.

"I say again, sir, you're through the timed portion at 144."

"She's still accelerating, John, they have more..."

The engine room of the XX4 was a blur of writhing forms and flashing lights, mostly red now, all seen through a lens that had begun to fog from the steam that rose from the four churning bodies.  In the external view the silver skin of the craft began to ripple with vibrations.

"Sir, FPUs Three and Four are in the red at 200 and 198, Number Two is at 212 and her output is dropping - the surgeon advises in the strongest terms to shut down now."

There was a pause in the audio while the XX4 continued to hurtle forward.  Then Brandon reached up and began flicking switches.

"Copy that, boost off, throttle down, clutch open." Amidst flashes of red light the wild exertions behind him slowed quickly to an idling pace of 30 revolutions per minute, while the XX4 continued to roll along under its own momentum.  For a moment Brandon's voice carried a note of dissatisfaction, but he brightened quickly.  "Did you say 144 officially?  I had a flash here of 153 but I think that was after we were completely through the timed run.  We need a longer run-up before we hit the timer, John.  We have to do this again tomorrow with a 5km run-up, maybe 6."

"Very good sir.  The surgeon wants you to keep flowing O2 and roll in as soon as possible, he's concerned that Number Two is still irregular."  On Brandon's monitor all the numbers had dropped back into the yellow except for the second figure, which flashed red as it jumped from 203 to 120 to 180.

"OK, coming home."   Brandon turned has handlebars gently to the right, and the XX4 coasted through a slow, sweeping turn back to the base camp.  Then the trio of images faded out, replaced by images of Brandon being helped out of his cramped cockpit and congratulated under a blue desert sky.  Behind him crewmembers rushed about tending to his machine, and its engine.  Brandon's narration resumed while the celebrations continued on the screen.

"In the XX4's first officially timed run we bettered the previous female speed record, set by an American cyclist, by nearly forty percent.  And we proved we can go even faster.  But unfortunately this was to be the only officially timed run we made during this visit to Lake Takungaya.  Our team surgeon advised that the FPUs needed a minimum of 72 hours to recover from their efforts before making another attempt.  While they rested the weather changed, the breeze picking up to speeds that made our afternoons in the desert more comfortable, but might have proved fatal in the light and narrow XX4 at over 150 km/h.  We waited several more days for the weather to change again but at last other commitments forced us to break camp for the season."

"But we continue to tune our machine, and train its pistons, and will return next year to apply what we've learned and push our mark even higher.  I think the next news you hear of the XX4 may be that it has achieved an official speed of 161 km/h over a measured kilometer, which for our American friends means one hundred miles per hour."

The triumphant scenes from Africa faded out to be replaced by Brandon again in the cavernous shop, surrounded by what could now be recognized as components of the XX4.

"Thank you for joining me! I hope you enjoyed our little presentation.  If you see me out in the paddock or about the Expo booths, please say hello.  Now, please exit via the side curtains, where you can get a closer look at Miss Myles and those bits and pieces of the XX4 that we were able to bring along.  I hope you enjoy the rest of the Expo!"  At last the image of the famous entrepreneur faded to black, and a few white-lettered credits flickered across the screen before the house lights brightened.

With a murmur and scattered claps the audience rose and moved toward the harnessed FPU, and the wheel she turned.  Slowly they filed past on their way out of the tent, gawking at the heavily modified woman and the carefully engineered apparatus of which she was a component.  Now and then a face would glance down at photos and other relics of the African adventure, of which Brandon had made a little display.  Mark hung back near his seat, waiting for the crowd to thin out so he could get an unrushed look at the live portion of the exhibit.

"Oh, that poor girl," Candy the bimbo said with apparent empathy as her escort towed her past the FPU.  "They haven't made her pretty and she doesn't look happy at all.  I wonder when she gets to fuck?  That always makes me happy."

"I don't know that she does, Candy," the slut's companion replied.  "That's not her job."

"No fucking?  But, that'd be awful!  You'd never give me a job like that, would you daddy?"

"Hmmmm, you're a tall, fit girl - you'd probably make a fine FPU..."

"No, daddy!" Candy squealed, her overfilled tits bobbing as she stopped short and raised a hand to her puffy lips in fright.  "Please don't tease me!"

"Well, as long as you're a good girl we won't talk about it anymore.  Just remember, you're a very lucky girl.  Some girls don't have it nearly as good."

"Oh, I know, daddy, I know....and I'll be good, you'll see."  Smiling again, the FPU already forgotten, Candy slipped her hand down her man's trouser front as he guided her out of the tent with a hand on her bottom.

When the last of the audience had filed out Mark stepped forward to examine the FPU at close range.  The Brandon Industries employee who'd first appeared opening the curtain was making some checks and adjustments of her harness and wiring.  He was a slim, crew-cut man in his twenties, dressed in khaki trousers and a white polo shirt that bore the "BI" logo.  While he worked the FPU continued her steady, powerful stroke, and the flywheel went on spinning.

"Brandon makes it sound like it's all fun and glory," Mark opened, "but there must be some real headaches with taking care of a female in this condition."

"Oh, it's not too bad," the man replied in an easy drawl.  "At first you had to watch their feet, with some of them.  A kick from one of these gals could break your leg!  But we don't get much trouble anymore, they're pretty well tamed."

"What about hygiene?  Any special concerns?"

"Well, they're not exactly low maintenance, but Mr. Brandon and his people have come up with some things that make a groom's life easier.  The FPUs have all been plumbed so there aren't usually any messes to clean up - we just drain and purge 'em on a regular schedule."  Looking down Mark noted a white plastic fitting that protruded just below the FPU's rhythmically flexing butt cheeks.  "Monthlies are no problem, because the FPUs have all been spayed."

"We had kind of a funny problem in that area with one of the other units - Number Three I think it was."  The groom grinned as he recalled the story, warming to Mark as he recognized the sincere interest this visitor showed in his duties.  "It seemed like she was gettin' off on her crotch strap.  At high revs she would get all gooey down there, and sometimes on long runs her breathin' would get out of rhythm and her power output drop way off.  It's somethin' I'd seen before in cart ponies but we were a little surprised to run into it on the XX4.  She was a good worker otherwise, though, so when the Doc came to take their babymakers Mr. Brandon said just get rid of all that stuff.  Lips, clits, tunnels - Doc just trimmed all that out.  Then before he sealed 'em up he stuck plastic props up inside there, these white bottle-shaped things, to fill in some of the empty space.  Ran their pee out through their butts so we only have one fitting to worry about for their daily purge."

"Doc took care of all the FPUs that way, not just Number Three.  Mr. Brandon is always keen on preventin' problems before they pop up, and we shaved about twenty pounds off the total weight of the XX4.  The honchos in the rules committee said they didn't need those bits anyway - as long as the FPUs have the two X genes they count as females for the record.  I'd show you where this one's pussy used to be if that crotch strap wasn't carryin' half her weight - she's smooth as a doll down there, just a white scar about six inches long."

Mark raised his eyebrows and nodded at Brandon's ingenuity.

"Once their bottoms are fixed and plumbed," the groom continued, "the mouth is really the biggest worry.  I've seen bad tooth problems and worse in pony-mouths, and even before it gets to that point they can get to smellin' awful.  Mr. Brandon solved all that with a new gag setup."  He reached up and with a twist popped off the FPU's air cleaner, giving Mark a view of the mouth-stopper underneath.  It was tan plastic, most of its diameter taken up by a round hole through which air rushed alternately in and out.

"He fixed the biggest cause of trouble by havin' all their teeth pulled.  Then before their gums closed Doc planted a couple of stainless steel pins in the tooth sockets, that hold the lower jaw at just the right distance from the upper.  You don't want to give a pony - or an FPU - too big of a gag, you know.  If you push the lower jaw down too far you pinch the windpipe.  The pins are in for good, but this plastic mouthpiece you see gets popped out once a month for cleanin'.  If you could see the whole thing it'd be two parts: there's this big curved flange that fits behind the lips and then a tube that slides back between the jaw pins and on top of the tongue.  After her monthly cleanin' the mouthpiece goes back in, and we inject some expandin' foam that fills her mouth up real good around it so we get a good seal, and there's no room for microbes or whatever to grow.  See, you can see some of it pokin' out here..."  The groom peeled back the FPU's lip to reveal some of the orange-yellow stuff, like soft foam-rubber, that puffed out her cheeks.  "The foam has some kind of antiseptic mixed into it, Doc says.  Whatever, it does a great job with the germs - we haven't had any problems with infections or even odors since we started using it.  Can't speak for the taste, though."

"It's important to have a good seal?"  As a true pony buff, Mark was relishing the detailed information.

"Oh, yeah, we have to have a good seal so we can control her breathin'.  If you take a look you can see her nose is plugged, too." Mark bent close, putting his head above the FPU's pumping knees.  Looking up he saw a pair of rubber stoppers in her nostrils, from which dissimilar steel fittings projected.  "Mr. Brandon figured out with his experiments that proper breathin' is a big deal if you want to get top power out of an FPU.  The valve on the air cleaner is run by the computer and only lets her inhale durin' the right part of her stroke, when she's pickin' up her feet.  Of course we had to plug up her nose if the valve over her mouth was gonna do any good.  While we were there we figured we'd do the pluggin' with somethin' useful."

"That fittin' to the left is her feedin' tube, and the other one to the right we call the nazo port.  They come in real handy.  I've had ponies refuse food sometimes in trainin', but with these FPUs it's never been a problem.  At feedin' time we measure out their rations of calories and protein, and just pump it right in.  They get five meals a day, to get the calories they need without buildin' up fat.  The nazo port we use for squirtin' in supplements, and medicines, when we have to."

Mark nodded again, as he wondered to himself what "supplement" had been squirted up the FPUs' noses during their record-setting speed trial.  "How do you keep them when they're not working or training?  Do you leave them in those harnesses all the time?"

"No, not 24/7, but they can hang in the frames for a long while.  When we were at Takungaya we kept 'em in harness for almost a week at one stretch, waitin' for the weather to break though it never did.  When the shell is off the XX4 we can rotate the FPUs a bit so their weight is carried at different spots, and they don't get clots.  Number One here is goin' to stay in harness for the whole five days of the Expo, until we get back to Mr. Brandon's.  At the stable when they're not trainin' they go into their bunks, we call 'em.  Padded boxes - I guess they look sorta like coffins - but they're plumbed for air.  The bunks are big enough for them to bend a little and roll over, but not thrash so much that they can hurt themselves.  But you know, I could yap about our gals all day but I have a couple of things to tend to before the next show..."

"Sure, don't let me keep you.  She's really something, and you obviously keep her in fine condition.  Thanks for your time!"  Reattaching the air cleaner the groom thanked Mark in return and went off to work with the projector.

Mark moved his eyes slowly up the figure of the FPU now, taking one last look at the details of her harness and altered body.  The rubbery black straps around her feet pressed deeply into her heel and instep, embedded over the course of uncounted hours spent driving Brandon's machines.  Between the dozens of adhesive electrodes that governed her movement the FPU's lower body and legs were marked with tiny white scars, souvenirs of Brandon's experiments with electronic control of her muscles.  Looking at the padded crotch strap and waist belt Mark wondered if the empty plastic bottle that had replaced her female organs still caused her pain, as it pressed back and forth inside her when her tightly muscled abdomen curled forward and back with each turn of the crank.  As he considered the shapeless, dangling sacs that might once have been C-cup tits, Mark noted small scars at the front of the FPU's armpits.  Her breasts, he realized, had been liposuctioned, their soft filling pumped out to save another pound or two of weight.

Finally his gaze rose past the chrome air cleaner that hid the mouth stuffed with bitter antiseptic foam, and above the plugged nose that would never again smell a fresh breeze off the sea.  At last he looked into the dark-rimmed eyes of Female Power Unit # 1.

Her rhythm on the machine had not wavered while the groom had poked and probed her, turning the heavy flywheel at a steady 30 rpm while the two had discussed the cruelties that had been inflicted upon her as though she were senseless, or inanimate.  Now, with the groom absent, the former Karissa Myles - college student, champion athlete and Olympic hopeful - stared back at Mark with eyes that spoke what her mouth never would.  She reached out to him with a piteous expression that combined pleading with abject despair.

Mark had seen that look before: desperate slaves sometimes confused the intense interest he displayed in their situations with concern, or even pity.  He had seen that expression often enough in the eyes of ungagged females to know what words went with it.

"Please," said the eyes of the Fastest Woman in the World.  " Please kill me."

Mark answered with a smile, and an encouraging pat on her rock-hard buttock as he stepped past her and out of the tent.  The paddock was bustling now with preparations for the pony parade, and he wanted to see how some of the participants were harnessed before the procession began.

In the tent behind him the big wheel spun on.