Era of Cold Hearts. Part 1
Copyright© 2026 by Loa Cyberros
Chapter 3: The Wasteland Hound
Science Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 3: The Wasteland Hound - In the far Mojave Desert, seven depraved vixens have seized the last refuge of America. Only one daredevil challenges them with brutal sabotage. What will the usurpers do to break his mind? What are the limits of their insane fantasies? Can a drop of humanity survive in a world of cold hearts?
Caution: This Science Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Ma/Ma Mult Coercion Mind Control NonConsensual Rape Slavery Lesbian Heterosexual Fiction Science Fiction Post Apocalypse Robot FemaleDom Sadistic Group Sex Orgy Interracial Anal Sex Double Penetration Enema Oral Sex Sex Toys Body Modification Doctor/Nurse Public Sex
[December 3, 2109. The Dome. Early morning]
Mark jumped at the sound of a hoarse voice cutting through the silence of the lab. Someone had called his name, and the sound had definitely come from that table with the cyborg on it. Or had he imagined it?
He froze, heart hammering. The synthaioid’s main power lines were disconnected. The previous day, the electrolyte transfer tubes had been detached from the internal systems and plugged into special sockets. The stationary medical unit was quietly pumping life-sustaining green fluid. The high-power actuators posed no danger, but the low-voltage bus of the voice module, as it turned out, had been left energized.
Mark walked over and bent down over the giant. Among the tangle of wires and the shimmer of green electrolyte, an indicator was blinking.
“Who called me?” he asked timidly.
A voice from the speaker answered, barely audible, buried in static.
“That hardly matters now. Forgive the old crackpot ... We almost pulled it off,” the sound kept cutting out and coming back. The module was evidently damaged after all.
“Pulled what off?”
“Getting rid of those ... Architects.”
“Then why isn’t anything happening?”
“Because I’m an idiot! God, deliver me from the sin of pride...”
“Who are you?”
“Shut up and listen. The implant settings update only goes through on the first of each month. The next one is in twenty-nine days. We simply ran out of luck.”
His stomach cramped. In an instant he grasped the full hopelessness of his position. Almost pulled it off...
“So what do I do?”
“Run from the Dome. Now! They’ll find you here sooner or later.”
“But where?”
“Shut up and move! You know the layout of the service tunnels. Think!”
The silence lasted a second. Then the voice came back, even quieter, the static building.
“There’s no time. You need to hold out until January first. Farewell.”
“Come back!”
The disassembled cyborg remained silent. The module let out a shrill whine and the indicator went dark.
Mark grabbed the machine’s lifeless head and shook it in furious despair. No response. So it was all pointless?
Mark—almost certainly the former head of the lab now—scrambled toward the workbenches, sweeping spare parts onto the floor. Where the hell is it?
Finally, in a pile of junk, he found a compact synthaioid-grade hand cannon. Three rounds in the magazine. Two contacts on the breech. Touch them together and the weapon fires. Probably...
The lab doors clicked. The security system had triggered an emergency lockout. He was trapped!
Like hell ... not that fast.
Mark retreated to the far corner, aimed the cannon at the door, and pressed the contacts together. The blast was deafening. The mangled panels shot out into the corridor.
Awesome! Why haven’t I done that before?
He burst out and sprinted toward the service compartments. Just make it in time...
For several minutes now he’d been weaving through corridors, and after another turn he nearly ran straight into a patrol. Four women with assault rifles and a security officer. Naturally, also a woman. So they really are here for me...
Mark barely dove around the corner before automatic fire stitched the air above him. Way above head level. Not aiming? Do they want to take me alive?
The officer shrieked at the top of her lungs:
“Mark 7-7-0-7! Hands in the air and surrender! You will not be harmed!”
Yeah, right...
How about this—did you see this coming?
The next move would have gone down in the annals of close-quarters tactics, if anyone had survived to write it down.
He suddenly burst out at the strike team head-on and fired. The recoil knocked him off his feet, slamming him to the floor.
Damn it! Did I miss?
The result was worse than anything he could have imagined. The round detonated under the officer’s feet, and shards of deck plating flew out like shrapnel. The small fireteam was turned into bloody paste.
The heavy tread of the synthaioids was already thundering behind him; in a minute they’d be there. Driven by raw terror, Mark kept running, nearly slipping on someone’s entrails.
A turn, another turn. His heart was slamming, he was practically choking on the strain. Ahead, at last, the blessed door flashed into view. Open, thank God. He tumbled into a small room with a garbage chute, yanked the filthy hatch open, pressed the cannon to his chest, and jumped.
The original plan suddenly seemed a lot less clever ... Wind shrieked in his ears, his body slammed from side to side. Easy enough to break my neck. He tucked, braced his boots against the walls, and managed to slow his fall a little.
Mark shot into a huge container, and only the fact that it was stuffed to the brim with waste saved his life. The garbage cushioned the impact like a shock absorber. Filthy from head to toe, he clawed his way out of the stinking heap. A layer of sticky slime covered his face; his boot soles were smoking.
Here they are—the Depths. Now what? I need to find a way out, fast!
He peered cautiously into the darkness of the corridor. The emergency lighting was doing a miserable job. He listened... Looks like no one’s here. Moving blind, he kept stopping, straining to make out anything at all. Found it, found it! A huge cast-iron hatch set right into the concrete. Impossible to lift alone. Good thing I don’t have to.
He hid behind a massive column, took aim, and fired. The obstacle vanished in a cloud of dust. Tossing the now-useless weapon aside, Mark shut his eyes and jumped into the abyss of the sewer shaft.
Two seconds later he hit the icy sludge flat. The impact drove the air out of his lungs; the liquid flooded his mouth and nose, burning. Mark surfaced, gasping. The current dragged him deep into the underground artery.
The viscous flow literally pulled him under, soaking through his clothes and boots. The sewer main snaked through the depths of Omega, an endless concrete labyrinth. Mark swam in darkness, navigating only by the occasional arcs of sparks spitting from damaged wiring along the tunnel vaults. The cold pierced to the bone, and his hands, scraped raw on the rough concrete, burned from the caustic sludge.
Half an hour later the stinking river slowed, widening into a gigantic underground settling basin. Mark found the slick iron rungs set into the wall and, fighting nausea and exhaustion, began climbing upward. The ascent felt endless. Finally he heaved himself over the lip and collapsed onto solid ground, his strength completely gone.
Mark lay face down for a long time, heaving in retches, while a puddle of foul black sludge spread around him. Gathering his strength, he tried to get up. It took two tries. Looking around, he realized he was standing in some kind of low-ceilinged room. The bolt on the door, to his surprise, slid open easily.
Ahead, stretching to the horizon, lay golden-pink dunes, some ruins in the distance. The Wasteland ... The great bulk of the Dome was far behind him now.
He started walking at random, leaving wet tracks on the brownish sand. If the unknown voice hadn’t been lying, Mark had to disappear for twenty-nine days. The virus had done its dirty work and self-destructed. The implant settings update program could not be altered. They had no specialists of that caliber.
Simple truths seemed to be opening up to him ... Omega had not been founded by the Council of Lilith at all; the Architects were merely clumsily operating the technology of the past. His conviction grew firmer by the minute, now that the implant’s yoke was off him.
The wise Ancients had known their business. They built the Core and locked its most critical functions away from the uninitiated. And Mark had unceremoniously cracked their flawless security system.
Now he had to get lost in the Wasteland fast and stay out of the hands of Security. They wouldn’t just let him go ... The Council would want revenge!
Some buildings appeared in the distance. He quickened his pace toward them. Maybe he’d find allies there, or at least water. Better to die of thirst in the Wasteland than fall back into the Architects’ hands. The mere thought of what they could do to him sent him into a panic. To hell with all of it! Mark clenched his fists and walked faster.
[December 3, 2109. The Dome]
The Architect of Consciousness walked through the mothballed sector without an escort. There was no danger here anyway. Except from herself, of course. Her heels clicked crisply on the dusty concrete. The conversation with her superior still rang in her head. That little meltdown half an hour ago, when Mayra burst into the comm channel and shrieked:
“Catastrophe! My terminal just notified me of a breach of the Core’s program. The virus was uploaded from the lab where your precious pet tinkers with robots, you filthy slut!”
“Mayra, the Head of the Council shouldn’t use that kind of language. It doesn’t suit you. Could it just be another security system error?”
“No, fuck you, it couldn’t. Five corpses. That’s your error. He’s gone.”
“What happened to the Core?”
“Very funny. Look who’s asking questions. You’re supposed to be watching your own toys! You screwed up yourself, now clean it up yourself, you fucking whore!”
“I understand your anger, but if you keep screaming like that, I’ll go deaf. And then I won’t be able to help at all. When exactly did it happen?”
“Just now. Fuck! Find him, or I’ll have you on your knees sucking dick in the Depths. Understood?”
“Oh my, you’ve terrified me. Fine, I’ll bring you the traitor’s head on a silver platter, my queen. Will that do?”
“No! He has to be taken alive. We need to find out what he did. We’re all in danger. I feel it in my gut,” Mayra’s voice trembled. So she really was scared. “Long story short ... take whoever you need. Selena will give you any number of soldiers. Just catch the little bastard.”
“I can handle it myself. Have a drink and calm down.”
The channel went dead.
“Psycho...” Helena muttered, cutting the connection.
She wanted nothing more than to never hear her boss’s hysterical shrieking again. Over the past years the queen of the Dome’s temper had curdled completely, and Helena often caught herself imagining pressing a pillow over her face and holding it there while she thrashed in convulsions. Her time would come, and she would silence that filthy mouth for good. But not today. Today there was more important business.
Mark ... The little bastard. Why did my favorite toy break? What did I miss? How the hell did he even manage to escape? Fine, that can wait. Right now she needed to figure out exactly where to look for him.
Her fingers flew across the sensor panel. Let’s see ... life support system reports. And ... bingo! Sector 23, the Depths. Main sewer collector hatch blown. Gotcha. Just hope he didn’t drown, the little fool.
Almost there. Here it is, an unnumbered hangar lost among dozens exactly like it. The biometric lock read her print, beeped, and lit up green. The door crawled upward with a creak of rusted rails. Helena found the switch. Bright light flooded the space.
In the center loomed her crowning creation. On a pedestal, secured by heavy clamps, towered the synthaioid Grom. The pinnacle of biomechanical art. A two-meter giant in matte black armor, with integrated weaponry. But the core of it—the human chassis—was what truly mattered. He was a former special forces operative whose brain had proved ideal for search-and-destroy protocols. The perfect hunter, soldier, killer. Not that anyone needed killing today. A pity...
It was her personal weapon, her secret. Years had gone into tuning and calibration. Grom obeyed only his mistress’s commands; there was no synchronization with the Core. The biomechanical knight had waited far too long for his awakening, and today he would finally serve his princess.
Helena released the clamps, took out a laptop, and jacked a neuro-cable into the data port at the base of the machine’s skull. The boot sequence scrolled across the screen...
A layer of dust covered the synthaioid, as it covered everything around; it seemed the dead flesh had finally lost its capacity for “new life.” And yet the life support systems had kept the brain and tissue in a state of full readiness; a pump hummed almost inaudibly, circulating nutrient solution. The monster’s mistress ran a full diagnostic of every cyborg system and issued the fast-boot command. The machine shuddered. The sensor clusters on the giant’s helmet twitched to sinister life.
The Architect entered the target profile and disconnected the cable. She’d decided to give the order by voice, imagining herself as Anne of Austria dispatching d’Artagnan after the diamond studs.
“Gate Twenty-One. Intercept the fugitive and deliver him alive. Incidental threats: destroy immediately. Sic ‘em!”
Grom shot forward. Armored feet struck the concrete, and the giant vanished into the guts of the technical corridor. The hunt had begun.
[December 3, 2109. The Dome’s surroundings]
A survey of the area around the camouflaged sewer exit confirmed the fugitive was alive and had made it outside. The hunter tried to pick up a clean trail, without success. Everything around was trampled with patrol prints: impatient Mayra had lost her nerve and ordered Selena to comb the terrain around the Dome.