A Psalm for the Wild-Built

by Becky Chambers

  Dex shut their eyes, dredging up dusty information. “Way back in the day, people killed all the wild dogs in Bluebank, because they wanted to go fishing and hiking and whatever without maybe getting mauled.”

  “Right. And that wrecked the ecosystem there.”

  “Specifically, the elk wrecked the ecosystem there. They ventured into places they hadn’t before, and they ate everything. Shrubs, saplings, everything. Soon, there was no ground cover, and the soil was eroding, and it was fucking up waterways, and all sorts of other species were thrown out of whack because of it. A huge mess. But if you think about it from the elks’ perspective, this is the greatest thing that ever happened. The whole reason they never went into those fields before is because they were afraid. They lived under constant fear of a wild dog jumping out and eating them or their young at any moment. That is an awful way to live. It must have been such a relief to be free of predators and eat whatever the hell you wanted. But that was the exact opposite of what the ecosystem needed. The ecosystem required the elk to be afraid in order to stay in balance. But elk don’t want to be afraid. Fear is miserable, as is pain. As is hunger. Every animal is hardwired to do absolutely anything to stop those feelings as fast as possible. We’re all just trying to be comfortable, and well fed, and unafraid. It wasn’t the elk’s fault. The elk just wanted to relax.” Dex nodded at the ruined factory. “And the people who made places like this weren’t at fault either—at least, not at first. They just wanted to be comfortable. They wanted their children to live past the age of five. They wanted everything to stop being so fucking hard. Any animal would do the same—and they do, if given the chance.”

  “Just like the elk.”

  “Just like the elk.”

  Mosscap nodded slowly. “So, the paradox is that the ecosystem as a whole needs its participants to act with restraint in order to avoid collapse, but the participants themselves have no inbuilt mechanism to encourage such behavior.”

  “Other than fear.”

  “Other than fear, which is a feeling you want to avoid or stop at all costs.” The hardware in Mosscap’s head produced a steady hum. “Yes, that’s a mess, isn’t it?”

  “Sure is.”

  “So, what was done?”

  “You mean about the elk?”

  “Yes.”

  “They reintroduced wild dogs, and everything balanced back out.”

  “What about the people who wanted to go hiking and fishing there?”

  “They don’t. Or if they do, they accept the risks. Just like the elk do.”

  The robot continued to nod. “Because the alternative outcome is scarier than the dogs. You’re still relying on fear to keep things in check.”

  “Pretty much.” Dex leaned their head back, getting a good look at the ceiling. There was an eerie beauty to it, grotesque and tragic. The vat behind them echoed softly as they moved their head, and they thought of the water tank sitting unguarded by the stream. “Why did you bring me here?”

  “I wanted to show you that I understood how you felt about the algae.”

  Dex hated few things as much as feeling lost. “I’m not following.”

  “The algae in the stream. That’s what bothered you, wasn’t it?”

  “I’m not sure. I guess so. There was a lot of weird gunk in there. I know it won’t hurt me. I know it’s going to be filtered out. But something … I don’t know.”

  Mosscap smiled. “Some part of you doesn’t like it.”

  “Right.”

  The metal smile grew wider. “A remnant. An evolutionary remnant trying to keep you from getting sick.”

  Dex scratched the back of their neck. “Hmm.”

  “Remnants are powerful things. Hard to ignore. But you have the sense and the tools to avoid getting sick from that water. And I…” Mosscap traced a finger along the vat, making flakes of rust fall like snow. “I know that the world I’m headed to is not the world the originals walked away from.”

  Dex angled their head toward the robot. “So, we’re smarter than our remnants, is what you’re saying.”

  Mosscap gave a slow nod. “If we choose to be.” It brushed its palms together, wiping them clean. “That’s what makes us different from elk.”

  They both watched the light for a few moments—the light, and the pollen dancing within it. A shadow of a bird sailed by. A delicate spider meticulously lay anchor lines of silk between old control levers. A vine stretched, its movement out of sync with human time.

  “It’s pretty here,” Dex said. “I wouldn’t have imagined I’d say that about a place like this, but—”

  “Yes, it is,” Mosscap said, as if making a decision within itself. “It is. Dying things often are.”

  Dex raised an eyebrow. “That’s a little macabre.”

  “Do you think so?” said Mosscap with surprise. “Hmm. I disagree.” It absently touched a soft fern growing nearby, petting the fronds like fur. “I think there’s something beautiful about being lucky enough to witness a thing on its way out.”

  6

  GRASS HEN WITH WILTED GREENS AND CARAMELIZED ONION

  One of Dex’s many, many cousins back in Haydale had a young kid named Oggie. Some day in the undefined future, Oggie would be brilliant, but for the time being, they were annoying as hell. Whenever Dex came to visit, Oggie hovered the entire time, asking question after question, wanting to know everything there was to know about Dex’s shoes, teeth, bike, friends, hair, home, habits. The kid never stopped. Dex remembered one night in particular, when they’d been seated around the fire pit with the other adults. All of a sudden, Oggie, who had long since been put to bed, came marching into the circle in cotton pajamas, imbued with a level of confidence Dex could not remember ever possessing, demanding to know why feet had toes, and why toes couldn’t be more like fingers. Bedtime be damned. Oggie had to know.

  Oggie came to mind as Dex attempted to cook dinner with Mosscap watching rapt over their shoulder, so close that Dex could hear every miniscule click in the robot’s joints.

  “And that?” Mosscap asked, nodding toward the chopping board. “I’m unfamiliar with that type of bulb.”

  “This is an onion,” Dex said. They removed the skin and began to chop.

  “There can’t be many nutrients in that. Not that you can process, anyway.”

  “I … I dunno. I guess not. But that’s not the point of an onion.”

  Mosscap angled its head so it was looking straight at Dex’s face—much, much too close. “What is the point of an onion?” it asked with intense interest.

  “It’s delicious,” Dex said. “There’s basically nothing savory that can’t be improved by adding an onion.” They stopped mid-chop and rubbed their eyes with their sleeve.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah,” Dex said, tear ducts unleashing. “Onions just … hurt. They … Ah, fuck.” They rubbed their eyes harder, taking a steadying breath. “Their smell is—it does this.” They gestured vaguely at their wincing, wet face.

  “Goodness,” Mosscap said. It picked up one of the chopped slivers between two fingertips, examining carefully. “It must be very delicious.”

  Dex chopped as fast as safety would allow, then darted away from the kitchen, seeking some clean air. Gods, that onion was potent.

  Mosscap appeared right beside them again, its blue eyes fixed on Dex’s weeping ones. “How long does this reaction last? Is there any danger? Can I help?”

  Dex rubbed and rubbed, but their eyes would not stop burning. “You could get the onions started, if you want,” they said.

  Mosscap looked as though it had just been told that today was a festival day. “What do I do?” it asked gleefully.

  Dex pointed. “The pan’s already hot. Throw some butter in it.”

  Mosscap picked up both knife and butter tub as if it had never held those objects before—which, of course, it hadn’t. “How much butter?”

  “Like…” Dex approximated a size with thumb and forefinge
r. “That much.”

  The robot carved out a hunk of butter roughly that much and put it into the pan. “And what is the point of butter?” it asked, raising its voice over the sizzling.

  “It’s fat,” Dex said. “Nothing tastes good without fat.”

  Mosscap considered this. “I think most omnivores would agree,” it said. “What do I do now?”

  “Brush all those onion bits into the pan—except the skin and the top. Those go in the digester.”

  The robot gestured at the scraps with the tip of the knife. “These, you do not eat.”

  “Right.”

  “I see.” Mosscap brushed the onion into the pan, as requested, and put the scraps in the digester, as requested. It then drew its full attention to the chemistry happening within the pan. “You’re the only species that does this, you know.”

  Dex walked back to the kitchen, the onion’s assault finally relenting. “You could say that about a lot of things.”

  “Hmm. True, but you can turn that right back around. Owls are the only birds that hunt at night. Tiger beetles are the only species of beetle that sing. Marsh mice—”

  “I get the point.” Dex ducked into the wagon, opened the little fridge, and retrieved a growler of barley ale they’d been given in Stag Hollow. There was just enough left for one last glass, and this felt like the right day for it.

  Mosscap noted the bottle and chuckled. “Oh, you’re definitely not the only species who does that.”

  “You know what this is?”

  “Yes. I have a remnant of beer. Of knowing what beer is, anyway.”

  “You remember beer but not butter?”

  Mosscap shrugged. “Ask the originals, not me.”

  “So … wait, what else drinks beer?”

  “Not beer. Fermented things. Woolwing birds will fight over fermented fruit if they can find it, even if there’s fresh fruit around. They are tremendously ridiculous afterward.” Something occurred to Mosscap, and it leaned toward Dex, eyes shining bright. “Will you do the same? Stumbling in circles, falling down?” The robot’s tone suggested that it sincerely hoped this to be the case.

  “No,” Dex said. “I’m having one beer.”

  “And that’s not—”

  “Enough to make me falling-down drunk? No.”

  “Ah,” Mosscap said, disappointed. “What will be the effect, then?”

  “I’ll feel chill. You probably won’t notice a difference.”

  “Oh. Well. All right.” The robot looked to the onions. “Should I be doing something?”

  “I’ll take over,” Dex said, as they filled a mug. They took a swig and savored the cool, bitter bite before finding a spatula. “See, you stir them around, like this.”

  Mosscap watched Dex’s motions studiously. “May I try?” it asked. “I feel somewhat invested in this now.”

  Dex smiled. “Sure. I’ll get the meat going.” They returned to the fridge, fetching a paper-wrapped bundle containing skillful cuts of grass hen, given to them by a grateful villager. It was the last of their fresh animal protein, they noted, and their veggie supply would run out in a couple days, maybe three. They weren’t used to going this long between restocking in villages, but they’d be all right. They’d had tons of dehydrated food in the wagon—at least two weeks of meals in there, they guessed, none of which ever got used. They unwrapped the poultry and began seasoning, focusing on that task instead of questions like how long they planned on being out there, and why they were out there in the first place, and whether it might be a good idea to interrogate the fervent little desire that didn’t want to go back at all.

  Dex found the salt and the pepper instead.

  “I don’t see you eat animals very often,” Mosscap said.

  “Not if I’m the one doing the cooking,” Dex said. “I always eat it if it’s served to me, and I take stuff like this”—they nodded at the meat—“if it’s given. Otherwise, I only like to eat it if I kill it myself.”

  “Do you have the skill for that?”

  “I can fish, but it’s really boring. And I’ve been hunting a handful of times but never alone. I don’t think I’d get anywhere with it on my own.”

  Mosscap lifted the pan to show Dex the onions. “Do these look right?”

  Dex assessed. “Yeah. You’re doing great.”

  The robot beamed, stirring with pride. Dex chopped and prepped the grass hen, eventually sliding the savory morsels into the pan and adding a huge handful of leafy greens on top. Silence fell between Dex and Mosscap yet again, but this time, there wasn’t anything awkward about it. Honestly, Dex thought … it was kind of nice.

  “Oh, hey,” Dex said. Something in the surrounding foliage had caught their eye. They picked up a kitchen knife and handed it to Mosscap. “Do you see that plant over there? The scraggly one with the purple flowers?”

  Mosscap looked. “Do you mean the mountain thyme?”

  “Yeah, exactly. Would you like to cut me a handful? It’ll go really nice with this.”

  The robot’s irises widened. “I’ve never harvested a living thing for food before.”

  “You cooked the onion.”

  “Yes, but I wasn’t the one who removed it from the ground.” It looked pensively at the knife in its hands. “I’m … I’m not sure—I mean, it’s one thing to watch…”

  “Hey, that’s okay,” Dex said reassuringly. “I’ll do it. Just keep stirring.”

  Mosscap did so, looking relieved.

  Herbs were cut, dinner was plated, chairs were unfolded, the fire drum was lit. There weren’t too many bugs beyond the fireflies, and the evening air was pleasant. But Dex pursed their lips toward the hot dinner plate perched on their knees. Something wasn’t right. They hadn’t properly enjoyed a meal since Mosscap had arrived, and at first, they’d chalked it up to the weirdness at hand. But cooking together had been comfortable. Why wasn’t eating?

  Mosscap sat across from them in the spare chair, posture attentive, face parked in happy neutral, hands resting on its knees. It smiled at Dex, waiting for them to begin.

  Dex picked up their fork. The meat was cooked to tender perfection, spices blackened around the crispy edges. The vegetables looked soft and sweet, and ale was on hand, ready to wash the whole thing down. Dex stabbed a bite, lifted their fork, opened their mouth, and— “That’s it.”

  Mosscap blinked. “That’s what?”

  Dex set their fork back down. “I figured out what’s wrong.”

  “Is…” Mosscap glanced around. “Is something wrong?”

  “Yes.” Dex drummed their fingers on the armrest. “I can’t offer you food.”

  The robot’s confusion increased. “I don’t eat.”

  “I know. I know you don’t eat. And yet—” They gestured at their plate with a sigh. “It feels so incredibly rude to not offer you anything. Especially since you helped.”

  Mosscap looked at Dex’s plate. “There’s physically no way for me to consume that.”

  “I know.”

  “Putting that inside me would harm me. Or attract animals.” Mosscap considered the latter point. “That could be interesting, actually.”

  Dex narrowed their eyes. “You can’t bait yourself.”

  “Why not? It’s a possibility I’ve never considered. I have bugs inside me all the time. Why not a ferret? That could be fun.”

  “Sure. Or a bear.”

  “Ah,” Mosscap said. “Yes, you’re right. I couldn’t guarantee a small scavenger.” The robot bowed its head at the dismissed opportunity, then perked right back up. “Sorry, we were talking about food. You needn’t worry about it, Sibling Dex. I know you’d offer me food if I could eat it.”

  “That’s not…” A lock of hair tumbled into Dex’s eyes, and they fixed it, frowning. “I don’t know if I can explain how fundamental this is. If someone comes to your table, you feed them, even if it means you’re a little hungrier. That’s how it works. Logically, I get that our circumstances are different, but everything i
n me just crawls when we do this. I feel like somewhere, my mother is pissed at me.”

  “So, this is a familial expectation.”

  Dex had never examined this before. “Mmm … cultural. I’d find it rude if I went to anyone’s home and wasn’t offered food. I can’t think of a time when I wasn’t. But yeah, my family was particularly serious about this. They work the farmland in Haydale, and it produces a lot of food. We had a surplus. A surplus has to be shared.”

  Mosscap leaned forward. “I don’t think you’ve mentioned your family before. You said before that you’re from Haydale. You said you left when you were old enough to become an initiate. But you’ve never talked about your people.”

  “I keep in touch. I visit. But we’re … I don’t know…”

  “Estranged?”

  “No,” Dex said, recoiling. That word didn’t fit, not at all. “I love them. They love me. We just … I never really fit there. We don’t have much in common.”

  Mosscap considered that. “Except a need to share food.”

  A corner of Dex’s mouth tugged upward. “Yeah. I guess so.” They thought for a moment, looking for a way to skirt around this conundrum. “I have an idea. Can you hold this a sec?” They handed their plate to Mosscap, then got up and retrieved a second plate from kitchen storage. “Here,” Dex said. They took half of the food from the first plate, placed it on the second, and handed this to Mosscap. After a moment of letting their new situation sit, Dex nodded with relief and began to eat with gusto.

  Mosscap, it seemed, had absorbed their discomfort. It held the plate awkwardly, looking lost as Dex ate.

  And oh, how Dex ate. The grass hen and veggies were every bit as good as they’d looked, and as Dex stuck the last caramelized sliver of onion into their mouth, they felt nothing but contentment. They set their plate down on their knees, sighed in thanks to their god, then looked up at Mosscap, jutting their chin toward the robot’s plate. “You gonna eat that?”

  If Mosscap had been confused before, it was in a full state of befuddlement now. “We just discussed that I—”

  Dex held up their hand. “Say No, I’m done, you can have it if you want.”