Deck three had almost no lighting. That was always by design; it was materially more effective to mimize both power and resource consumption. Gentle illumination came from the floor; glowing diodes in the grout between ceramite tiles. It gave the halls the feel of a chapel; when the different servants roamed the halls, the click of the heel echoed like an ancient building of stone and wood. The ceiling could almost never be seen due to the low lighting, though it was at most seven meters tall. This only heightened the effect, and any passing observer might remark that it was impossible to tell whether they were in a moving vessel or high-ceiling cathedral.
The sounds weren't much like a church, though. There was a hum of the engines against the void and the sound of micro-servitors skittering through the halls. The tiny robots sometimes had an insectoid appearance, and the gentle sounds of their appendages still echoed. This was coupled with the mechanical sounds of the biological servants and drones taking care of the craft. Rubber squeaked, heels clicked, and the constant whirr of respirators juxtaposed an industrial soundscape against a sanctified temple.
And finally, there was the sound of the slaves. This was deck three of thirty, rack five - though it was emblazoned with a huge Latin number. A gigantic "V" with Romanesque serifs denoting that this production rack was the fifth one. Not that this physical touch mattered; all of the workers saw everything behind a thick layer of rubber, smart-glass, and augmented reality. The information to the workers was unending. But to those uninitiated, it was just a strange chapel filled with strange creatures.
Among these creatures were those on the production rack. This one was full, with ten individuals all in matching attire. Their body shapes differed, but all of them were humanoid and all female. Every single one of them bore the same accoutrement and attire, though a few had heavier, smaller, or larger equipment to accommodate their size.
Each unit's curvaceous hips, narrow waist, and jutting breast were smothered in an unbroken and unending layer of smart-fiber latex. It was black, of course, and its design kept it perpetually glossy. Just as the subjects were perpetually plumbed, they remained perpetually and permanently glistening as though just polished. From head to toe, tip to stern, the anonymous women's ebony skin never let up. The only spots of color were the dull metal tubes and golden-yellow straps that formed the myriad restraints.
Each of them knelt in supplication. They rested on their knees, each leg dipping into a groove custom-built for their body shapes and then worn with constant use. A padded interior kept their legs reasonably comfortable, and golden straps at strategic locations kept them from leaving the grooves.
Past their knees and legs, each female was heavily harnessed into a web of restraints that took most of the burden from their legs. Golden yellow bands of rubber and dull obsidian metal clasped around the neck, shoulders, arms, breasts... it compressed the torso like a pallet wrapped for transport. Arms were kept at the sides, ending in thick, bulbous mittens. Each hand's mittened contained a viscous gel , allowing some vague degree of movement but never enough to escape or even attempt removal.
The units did move, of course. Each of them was trapped in a dreamy state between wakefulness and sleep. They wore matching helms and matching masks. Their headgear was nowhere near as bulky as that of the hive-workers, but it didn't need to be. Tight, featureless rubber was the only thing required. Sight, sound, and vision could all be provided inside the mask, in the rare cases that it was needed. The result was sublime enclosure, a complete and nearly airtight seal. There were a few exit points; tubing and piping ran from the subjects' heavily plumbed nethers and from the back of the hood, but these were minor additions. The production units were 'complete.' They were docile and compliant, making many of the restraints unnecessary most of the time. Only when they were roused from their induced torpor did they shake and moan.
And moan they did! On the occasions when their hallucinogens ran dry, production slaves would understand the severity of their predicament. Tell-tale whines and moans, shrieks of displeasure mixed with long, lusty moans that resulted from their constant stimulation. A stimulated unit was a distracted unit - and distracted units were obedient. Those that had been here the longest were quite thoroughly trained.
Production wasn't constant. It generally happened in bursts - bursts that the subjects often were quite cognizant of. The milking procedure was intense and rapid. Every unit was implanted into the milking system, of course; tubing, piping, suction were all provided. Worker drones only needed to take filled canisters and add empty ones. It was simple and efficient. Issues with plumbing were nonexistent, and rack five on deck thirty was no exception.
So it continued. The production units were treated as objects, not women. The workers treated them as less than cattle, for even cattle require attention and care. The most attention a production slave could hope for would be a thorough groping and intense molestation of their mammaries in the uncommon event that production would stop.
Milking was critical to the society. These production units (fed a steady diet of nanoproduction robots and nutritional liquids) produced not milk but "nectar". This rare ambrosia was the basis upon which their encasement hinged. No longer was it sufficient to harvest natural latex from trees; no longer could it be synthesized in a lab. Nectar was much more advanced - capable of sustaining life, creating fabulous structures, and allowing the soldier-drones afar great weaponry. Nectar was life, and so it was the life of every woman on Rack 5.
When Unit E began to decline in production, a note was made. No action was taken for a day, then a week, then a month and then three. No new acquisitions had been made to replace her. Nothing could be done without a substitute. It was nearly four months later that when the first worker finally touched her.
"Status." The techo-lingua used was far more efficient than crude verbal communication. In an instant, Worker Drone V52 "Von" was acquainted with 3VE. He saw her old life. He saw the day she 'volunteered' and the day she was whisked away. Years had passed, with 3VE in splendid isolation, unaging, immobile, and bountiful. Her production had declined; Nectar had suffused her body. She was something greater than the ordinary human when first acquired. She was something more terrible and beautiful, and this really was no place for her.
He methodically stepped towards Eve and, one at a time, removed her restraints. Not all of them, and certainly not all at once. Her form was strong, muscular, and endowed from constant suffusion with Nectar.
V52-Von pulled her to her feet. She hadn't stood up in years, even if her body was built for it. Clipping a cable leash to her collar, her tugged her gently. Soon, she would be welcomed as a member of the Collective. She needed to be prepared. Von scarcely noticed the automated units preparing a replacement.