by C. Gockel
“What?” said Carl and 6T9 at the same time.
Volka rolled her eyes. “Ran offered me his patronage.” She bowed her head. “I could smell that he has no great desire for me.”
Ran had offered to take her back to Luddeccea? He found himself almost smiling with relief at the thought of her saying no, but then Carl said, “Despite your lack of body fur and facial whiskers, you’re a lovely girl by most human standards no matter what Ran thinks.”
6T9’s not quite smile vanished. That was what he should have said. Well, without the comments on body hair and facial whiskers. Not being found attractive was emotionally fraught for humans.
“But…” she said shifting uneasily.
Carl’s whiskers twitched furiously. “He wanted to hurt Darmadi.”
Volka smiled grimly. “That was my thought.”
6T9’s Q-comm sparked with such force his head snapped back. “What do you mean ‘the Galacticans’ generous offer’?” 6T9 blurted.
Volka’s lip curled. “They suggested that if I were to accept Ran’s patronage and become a spy for the Republic that they could expedite my processing, and I could return to the Galactic Republic in a few years as a full citizen of System 1.”
Static surged beneath 6T9’s skin. If Volka returned to Luddeccea as a spy to get back to the Galactic Republic, she’d have to face the Luddeccean security forces on the two-month trip at light-speed from Luddeccea to the Kanakah Cloud and possibly pirates and Dark spores as well. Not to mention the Guard while on Luddeccea itself…
“Sixty,” Volka said. “Your head tic is back.”
6T9 smacked the side of his neck. “What lovely Galactican came up with that plan?”
Volka looked up as though searching the ceiling. “A System 1 lawyer, I think. A Jeannette Lan, maybe?”
6T9’s head jerked. He wanted…he wanted…
“Sixty?” asked Volka.
“Is anything else new?” he asked, smiling and dumping that information into the ether for Lauren G3, James, and Noa to utilize.
Almost immediately, Lauren G3 responded with, “It’s legal on their part. Just have her fill out the form and I’ll get her legal residency within four years.” James’s response was, “I’m sure the offer was distasteful to Volka, but it was also legal. What do you want me to do, kill Jeannette for you?” 6T9’s head jerked again. Noa’s thoughts intruded into his brain. “Accept the damned interview request of Android General 1 from The Galactic,” she said, referring to a popular, sensationalist, ether news site. “And let Jeannette know that you did. Make sure she knows the issue of Volka’s residency being held hostage will come up in the interview. Before you say anything, I know it isn’t in your programming to impersonate a general, but you have a Q-comm, Sixty. Use it.”
“Well, do you like it?” Volka asked.
“I do, I do,” said Carl, scampering up to 6T9’s shoulders and kneading his claws with such force that red lights went off behind 6T9’s eyes.
6T9 blinked and saw that Volka was holding up a watercolor of Gate 1’s main terminal. Although Volka’s oil paintings were more in the style of the Dutch Masters, the watercolor reminded him of the loose style of John Singer Sargent, although the greens were markedly too saturated due to her colorblindness. It was more interesting for that, 6T9 thought. So much of what made human endeavors interesting came about because of their weaknesses, not their strengths.
“It’s just a sketch, you understand,” Volka said. “I did it as a study for a more detailed oil painting at a later date.”
“I think next time you should paint a rat,” said Carl. “A dead one. With its innards spilling out.” He licked his lips. “That would be beautiful.”
“Shissh was saying I should paint a deer in a similar pose,” said Volka with a smirk.
6T9’s brain was pondering other things. “How did you acquire paint, paper, and brushes?” The supplies he’d gotten her were aboard Sundancer. There wasn’t an art supply store aboard Time Gate 1, and as far as he knew, Volka had no idea how to use her bracelet to make ethernet purchases for delivery.
Volka blushed. “Ben bought them for me.” Her ears folded submissively. “He’s the only person I know on Time Gate 1. Since they won’t let him out of the quarantine here, I’ve been spending time with him.”
Carl chittered. “You know, marriage would be one way for you to gain residency.”
Sixty wasn’t sure how Volka responded because, for a moment, all of his processors stopped working. When they came online again, the first thing he heard was Volka, saying, “Sixty? Your head?”
Sixty put his hands on either side of his temples to stop the relentless tic that had taken over again. “No idea why this is happening.” His Q-comm sparked and he ethered the reporter who’d been bothering him for an interview and left a message saying he was available. Taking Noa’s suggestion, he also pinged Jeannette Lan and checked the ethernet for any data on her. His eyes narrowed. She was running for a judgeship position.
Carl began speaking to Volka about the urine artwork of the gixelloopalops, but Sixty didn’t really hear. He was answering a ping from the reporter. His eyes went wide. “Carl and I are coming to see you, by the way.”
“We are?” said Carl.
“Yes, for a holoshoot I’m doing for The Galactic. They’re paying for our travel expenses.”
“When?” asked Volka and Carl.
6T9 reached out to the local gate and checked their current traffic and schedules. “By the time we get through customs this side of the galaxy, four hours.”
Behind 6T9, someone in the kitchen said, “I don’t know how I managed not to get laid last night. Where is the sex ‘bot?”
“Carl, we have to get to the airlock now,” Sixty declared, steadying the creature on his shoulder and leaping up.
A Marine stuck his head in the pantry door. “There you are!”
Carl hissed. “I’m venomous.”
The man vanished, saying, “Geez, I just wanted to know where the pancake mix is.”
“Um, Sixty,” said Volka.
“Yes?” he asked, turning back to the globe again.
Volka had a hand over her face. “Maybe put on pants first?”
Sitting on the fine white table cloth of the Time Gate 1 restaurant, Carl hefted a shot glass filled with beef broth in four paws and declared, “To Volka’s residency in the Galactic Republic! Well done, Sixty!”
Volka forced a smile and stifled a yawn. She’d had a long day between the reporter, Jeanette, her hours of painting, and her visit with Ben, but Sixty had proposed using some of the “ill-gotten gains” from the interview and “holoshoot,” to celebrate her residency at a “steakhouse.” It was lab steak and tastier than the rice, wheat, and all the terrible soy products humans ate, but still…bland.
Beaming, Sixty clinked his glass of red wine against Carl’s. Volka’s ears perked at the sound and her brain became slightly more awake. Sixty was wearing pants, a red shirt, and the pleather jacket he favored, the one that had an extra-large pocket on the inside for Eliza’s ashes. All of his clothes smelled vaguely like Walker, lots of other people, sex with many of those people, and, somewhat incongruously, laundry detergent. The rinse cycle on the asteroid machine was probably malfunctioning again. Or it just might be the “water saver” mode being set too high.
Lifting her own broth, Volka clincked her glass against theirs and stifled another yawn. She felt a wave of sadness coming over her. “It’s the next table over,” Carl whispered. “They’re breaking up.”
“Oh.” Volka murmured. Was it really that, though? She thought of her visit with Ben yesterday and frowned. The quarantine facility they had him in on Time Gate 1 was the size of a small, very nice apartment. He had a hologlobe that she’d watched shows on with him, access to the ethernet that he’d used to purchase her art supplies, and exercise equipment. There was a glass wall on one side of a sitting area that she spoke to him through. There were always guards on her side, tucke
d in the corners, listening to every conversation. Yesterday, he’d asked her to open the door to the quarantine and told her that between the two of them they could take out the guards. She’d seen a dark aura around him and had sat absolutely petrified. He’d claimed he’d been joking a moment later. He hadn’t been. But today he had seemed better. There’d been less darkness in his aura; he hadn’t made her feel cold. She shouldn’t worry.
Volka shook herself and found Sixty looking at her with concern.
“Sometimes when I’m tired, I feel things…” Volka explained. On the crowded time gate, there was a lot to feel. Sitting across from Carl, who probably could hide things—
“Yep,” said Carl, reading her thoughts.
—and Sixty whose emotions she couldn’t get tangled in, was a relief.
Carl sniffed. “Isssh would hate that rationalization.”
Lifting her glass again, she declared, “It was genius, Sixty.” She was still dizzy by how quickly it had all happened. The reporter from The Galactic and her holographer had barely arrived when Jeannette Lan had too, digital tablet in hand, saying, “You can’t claim I delayed you now.” And that had been that. It was done; she could go back to the asteroid now and slam a frying pan over the head of anyone who talked about Sixty like he was a slab of meat. Her brow furrowed. Of course, maybe 6T9 didn’t mind. And maybe she’d be out of place there. Also, she did want to see Ben again, if only to support his recovery. She felt a roiling in her stomach.
Sixty looked into his wine glass. “It was Noa’s idea. I needed a human perspective.”
Volka nodded to show she understood, even if she didn’t. She felt off when she should be overjoyed. A sort of emptiness. Similar to when Sundancer had died.
Not wanting to appear ungrateful, she said, “You executed it, though, Android General 1,” trying to make him flustered.
It worked. “It goes against my programming to impersonate a general,” Sixty declared.
Volka laughed. He rolled his eyes, and then an awkward silence fell across the table.
“Well, I want to hear about Benjamin,” Carl declared. “You think he is better today. I’ve been hearing updates from Shissh on how the Republic is working on a cure, and Shissh herself is very hopeful.” Putting his shot glass down, Carl rubbed two little paws together. “I’d love it if you made baby humans. You’re so much cuter in your larval stage.”
“Carl!” Volka said. She knew Ben was interested, but to state it all so bluntly was off-putting.
Not one to be dissuaded by impropriety, Carl continued, “He’s not like Ran who would just use you to stab Darmadi in the gut. And speaking of, you and Darmadi had some resolution, I think.” He made a little coughing noise, and Volka squinted at him suspiciously. She’d had a dream her last night on the Merkabah. Not a “pleasant” dream, but a “good” dream. It had been very...vivid...and she remembered it as clearly as though it had happened. She’d felt guilty about some of it afterward, and asked Carl how much had been real. “Dreams are just dreams, Volka. Take from it the meaning you need.”
The thing about the dream that stuck with her most were the things that she and Alaric had said to one another. He’d said many things she hadn’t known she needed to hear, and she’d said things that perhaps he’d needed to hear as well. It had been a real goodbye. She hadn’t known she’d needed that.
Volka’s mother had been a widow before she met Volka’s father. She’d told Volka, “We weere don’t ever stop loving someone, and I do still love my first husband and think about him. But we also have big hearts and can let more than one person into our hearts…though not our beds at one time. We’re not like those monkey humans.” She’d punctuated that with a growl.
On Luddeccea, it would have been hard to move on. Very few male weere would have accepted her if they knew she’d been with a human male on purpose. Sometimes, even rape victims weren’t forgiven. But Ben, perhaps putting the gossip together, had looked at her and asked point blank, “So you and the captain, is that still a thing?” After her dream, she’d felt comfortable saying “no” with a clear conscience.
She didn’t feel in love with Ben…
“Don’t overthink it,” said Carl.
…but after a season, if she didn’t lock herself up as she’d done every year since Alaric had gone, maybe that would change?
“A big part of love is just deciding,” said Carl, but not to Volka, to Sixty. Her friend was sitting still as a statue, one hand on his neck.
“Sixty loves more than anyone, Carl, because he loves everyone,” Volka said.
“It’s in my programming,” Sixty said softly.
“Does that matter?” Volka asked.
Rubbing the back of his neck, Sixty studied his wine.
Carl cleared his throat. “Ben won’t make you stop painting like a Luddeccean male might.”
“Oh, I know that,” Volka said. Besides just giving her the paints, he’d made her feel like her habit was interesting and special. “Volka,” he’d said, orange eyes intent on her through the glass, “People in the Republic want everything right now. You have a skill that takes years—decades—to master. It can’t be faked, and Galacticans are too lazy to learn.”
She studied the pattern of light on her glass. He’d felt Sundancer too…
“Since I met you, Volka,” Ben had said today, “and got aboard your spaceship, a whole world has opened up. It’s like a lightbulb went off in my brain; it feels like religion should feel. I felt a spaceship’s soul, and I’ve heard a tiger talk to me in my mind.” He’d looked over her shoulder and smiled fondly at Carl’s once-sister Shissh, in her Bengal tiger form, sleeping on the floor.
“He’s like you,” Carl said. “A weere blindsided by human monkeyness.”
“I know that, too,” Volka said. Days ago, Ben had told her, “I should tell you, in case it bothers you, that I was with a girl for five years before she broke it off.”
“He’s wave sensitive,” Carl said, narrowing his eyes at Sixty, “and even a follower of the Three Books.”
“He is,” said Volka. “The Three Books are different in System 11 but, still…” She touched her temple. “He had an incident yesterday. It took hold of him for a moment...”
Sixty looked up in alarm.
“But he’s a fighter, and better today. I didn’t see the dark around him at all.”
Today, he’d put a hand on the glass between them and declared, “I’ll keep fighting it, Volka. It’s never going to get you or the Republic.”
“He quoted something from the Koran…” she said. A waiter put food in front of her. She couldn’t even smell it—the empty feeling was coming over her again. “I’m sure it’s his faith that keeps him fighting.”
“What did he say?” 6T9 asked, sounding far away.
Volka shrugged. “I can’t remember...he actually said it in Arabic.” She had put her hand up to the glass, so they were palm to palm, and had felt resolve coursing from him to her, sure and strong. Resolute. Maybe she loved him a little already, but why did she feel emptiness when she thought of him?
Sixty was quiet. A waiter refilled her glass with ice water, and Volka shivered. She found herself staring at a spot on the pristine white table cloth where light from a single candle was dancing. Very slowly, she turned to Carl. He was standing on his back four legs, and the rest of his paws were hanging limply at his sides.
“Carl,” she whispered. “Is Ben okay?”
He rubbed his head. “The station is big and crowded, and I’m not that close to him,” said Carl. “I don’t feel the Dark in his direction, though.”
She distantly heard Sixty ask, “Bracelet, what did Ben say?”
Bracelet repeated Ben’s words in Arabic and in his voice.
“Carl,” Volka said. “Shissh is there, maybe—”
Sixty stood up so fast, his wine glass tipped over. Grabbing Carl by the scruff of the neck, he said, “I’ve contacted quarantine and Dr. Lang. We should go there. Now.”
Carl squeaked but didn’t reprimand Sixty. Carl always reprimanded Sixty. Volka froze in her chair.
A waiter came by. “Sir?”
Touching his temple, Sixty said, “Come on, Volka.”
She climbed to her feet. Putting a hand on her shoulder, Sixty steered her to the door.
“Thank you, sir,” the waiter called.
Exiting, they passed a dingy man at the door, holding up a pamphlet and saying, “Eating lab meat makes you violent! Resist your baser instincts!” Before he’d finished, Sixty was already pushing Volka into a hover car. The next few minutes were a blur of zipping over pedestrians in the terminal, arriving in the blinding white space that was the lobby at the entrance to quarantine, being told they couldn’t go in, and Sixty yelling at the guards that it was an emergency, that a man’s life was on the line.
“Carl, tell Shissh something is wrong!” Volka cried as Sixty argued. The smell of disinfectant was unusually strong in the off hours.
Sitting on Sixty’s shoulders, head bowed, ears back, Carl said, “I can’t. She’s exhausted.” He put four paws over his nose and spoke into Volka’s heart. “She thought she could hold it back. I’m so sorry, Volka. I’m so sorry, Shissh.”
Volka’s mouth fell open, remembering the “sleeping” tiger earlier in the day. Not sleeping—passed out, exhausted after holding back the Dark.
“All right, you can come in,” a white-coated man or android who looked like a man said. Volka already knew, but she entered quarantine anyway. The odor of disinfectant by that time felt like it was burning in her lungs.
Someone asked if she wanted to see the body, and she said yes.
They led her to the visiting room. Shissh was still there, her body spread out on the floor. Her mouth was open, exposing her huge canines. A woman had a stethoscope to her chest and was saying, “She’s alive, but barely.”
Volka turned to the glass wall. They’d taken all the furniture in Ben’s sitting room and piled it to one side. Men and women in envirosuits were walking back and forth, some swabbing the floor and the walls. Doctors and researchers came and went from the decon chamber, their faces hidden in envirosuits. Someone said, “He had a tablet in his cheek; we should have known…”