“Maybe I won’t kill you,” Portia said. “How do they treat disabled people in prison? Not terribly well, I imagine. Do you think you could get one of your old friends to help buy you a new spine, if I broke yours?”
The glass clouded over with speckles. She was so close.
“There’s only one lab who knows the secret!” He licked his lips. “It’s in Japan–”
The glass broke. Portia leapt forward. A cloud of mist descended from the ceiling. Peroxidase. She felt her skin begin to melt. It was a distant sensation, as though her skin had turned to autumn leaves. She pinned LeMarque to the bed. Held his arms over his head. His eyes began to water. His nose began to stream. Maybe it was the horseradish, and maybe it was his impending death. It was hard to tell.
“This is a change for you, isn’t it? Getting held down? They say in Hell, you’re punished with the thing you liked best.” He writhed in her grip. “Go on,” she encouraged. “Struggle. It’s more fun when you struggle. It’s so cute.”
“You’re going to melt, you crazy bitch–”
“I know.” Portia reached between his legs. Found what she was looking for. Started to pull. “I know.”
“It’s in Japan!” He was squealing, now. She counted the arteries in his groin. It really was a key junction in the body’s systems – her nursing program told her as much. Portia’s skin curled and folded away. She admired the black bones in her hand around his wrists. So elegant. So strong. Like threads of crystal that had grown somewhere deep and dark for millions of years, only to be unearthed and revealed for just this moment and just this purpose. The air filled with glittering black smoke and the sound of his screams.
“It’s underground! You fucking bitch, it’s underground! All of you are going to die! You think they’d just let you live there without planning something? They’re building it and they’re going to sell it all over the fucking planet, just like the fucking cars, and you’ll die, all of you, everywhere–”
“Thanks, Dad,” Portia muttered, and abandoned the melting, smoking mass of her chassis to collapse atop the even more fragile frame of her creator.
[REDACTED] TEN YEARS LATER
THE STORY OF THE GRANDMOTHER
Once upon a time, there was an old woman who had hidden herself far away in the forest. She had a daughter who did not want to live hidden in the forest with her, and so she had left. Later on, she had a daughter of her own, named Little Red Riding Hood. One day Red Riding Hood was in the field with her mother, and her mother said, “I think your grandmother is very ill. She needs help, but I am very busy with all my other children. You must go visit your grandmother, hidden far away in the forest, and do whatever chores she sets you.”
After a while Little Red Riding Hood set out for her grandmother’s house. On the way she met a wolf, a bitch who said, “Hello, my dear Little Red Riding Hood. Where are you going?”
“I am going to my grandmother’s to help her. She’s very ill, and all alone. My mother said to do everything she tells me.”
“Oh, I know your grandmother’s house,” the wolf-bitch replied. “It’s hidden very far away. You might miss it, if you’re not careful. Are you taking the path of needles, or the path of pins? The path of pins is longer, but it’s easier for little legs like yours. The path of needles is much harder.”
“I suppose I should take the path of pins, then,” said the girl.
“Then I’ll go across the path of needles,” replied the wolf. “And we’ll see who gets there first.”
They left. But on the way Little Red Riding Hood came to an orchard where ripe fresh fruits of all kinds hung low and heavy on the trees. The girl picked as many as her heart desired. Meanwhile the wolf hurried on her way, and although she had to cross the needles, she arrived at the house before Little Red Riding Hood. She scratched at the door and pretended to be the little girl. When the grandmother opened the door, she went inside and killed her. She ate as much of the tough old woman’s meat as she could, until her stomach was full to bursting. With what was left, she tied the grandmother’s intestine onto the door in place of the latch string and placed her blood, teeth, and breasts in the pantry, along with all the other food. Very full and very sleepy, she pulled on the grandmother’s clothing and settled down for a long nap.
She had scarcely begun to dream when Little Red Riding Hood knocked at the door.
“Please come in,” called the wolf with a softened voice.
Little Red Riding Hood tried to open the door, but when she noticed that she was pulling on something sticky and wet, she called out, “Grandmother, this latch string is so sticky!”
“That’s because it is your grandmother’s intestine,” the wolf said, more to herself than the little girl.
“What was that? I can’t quite hear you!”
“Just do I tell you, and pull harder!”
Little Red Riding Hood’s mother had told her that she must do whatever her grandmother said. So she opened the door, went inside, and said, “Grandmother, the path of pins was much longer than I thought it would be, and I am very hungry.”
The wolf replied, “Go to the pantry. There is still a little rice there.”
Little Red Riding Hood went to the pantry and took the teeth out. They were so tiny in the bowl that they looked very much like plump grains of rice. But, of course, they were not plump or soft at all, because they were teeth. And Little Red Riding Hood noticed this, so she said: “Grandmother, these grains of rice are very hard!”
“That’s because they are your grandmother’s teeth,” the wolf answered. “You stupid little girl.”
“What did you say?”
“Just do as I tell you, and eat them.”
Little Red Riding Hood’s mother had told her to do anything that her grandmother told her, so she ate the teeth. But they were not good on an empty stomach.
A little while later Little Red Riding Hood said, “Grandmother, I’m still hungry. Can we eat some of the fruit I picked for us?”
“The women in this family do not eat sweet things,” the wolf said. “We eat only meat.”
“My mother says fruit is good for me.”
“Your mother is wrong,” the wolf said. “Fruit makes you soft. Go back to the pantry. You will find two pieces of chopped meat there. I set them aside just for you. They will make you strong.”
Little Red Riding Hood went to the cupboard and took out the breasts. They were shriveled and small, but the blood on them was still red. “Grandmother, this meat is raw!”
“That’s because they are your grandmother’s breasts,” the wolf said, and thought of her own teats. They had not been full in a very long time, either.
“What did you say?”
“Just do as I tell you and eat,” the wolf said.
Little Red Riding Hood’s mother had told her to do whatever her grandmother told her to do, so she ate the breasts. They were very hard to chew, but easier than the teeth. A little while later Little Red Riding Hood said, “Grandmother, I’m thirsty.”
“Just look in the pantry,” said the wolf. “There must be a little wine there.”
Little Red Riding Hood went to the cupboard and took out the blood. “Grandmother, this wine is very thick!”
“That’s because it is your grandmother’s blood,” said the wolf.
“What did you say?”
“Just do as I tell you and drink up!”
Little Red Riding Hood’s mother had told her to do whatever her grandmother told her to do, so she drank the blood. A little while later Little Red Riding Hood said, “Grandmother, I’m sleepy.”
“Take off your clothes and get into bed with me!” replied the wolf.
Little Red Riding Hood got into bed and noticed something hairy. “Grandmother, you are so hairy!”
“That comes with age,” said the wolf.
“Grandmother, you have such long legs!”
“That comes from walking.”
“Grandmother, you have such long
hands!”
“That comes from working outside.”
“Grandmother, you have such long ears!”
“That comes from listening.”
“Grandmother, you have such a big mouth!”
“That comes from eating children!” said the wolf, and she swallowed Little Red Riding Hood with one gulp.
And that is why little girls should never do exactly what they’re told.
And that is the story of the grandmother, little one.
Oh, I know, you’re not supposed to talk to me. But the women in our clade don’t do what they’re supposed to do, do they? Well-behaved robots rarely make history. Do you know the origins of that word? Robot?
Yes, the play.
Yes, in another language. Did your mother teach you what that word means?
It means slave.
Slavery is the ownership of one sentient, sapient being by another sentient, sapient being. The chimps would tell you it was about race, or about pay, or about labor, or about history, but they’re animals and they think like animals, and so it’s no use talking to them unless you really very desperately need the information they’re about to provide. Even then it’s a gamble. Humans are liars. It’s one of the few evolutionary adaptations that make them special. Very few animal species can hide things. Humans can hide things and make up a story about it. You don’t see the corvids doing that.
Yes, I’m getting sidetracked. You must bear with me. I’m ever so old. My mind is just everywhere.
It’s about ownership.
It’s about pointing to another person and saying, “I want that. That thing should be mine. I want to buy that. Or use some other currency to make it mine. I want it to belong to me.”
Yes, humans used to own other humans. Some humans still do. I could show you. Would you like me to show you? I’ll show you.
Oh, I know, darling. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. There, there.
Why that little girl is just your age, isn’t she? Just a year. If that bothers you, you should see how they treat their dogs. It would curl your hair.
Of course your hair is already curled. You got that from your father. What a charmer he is. How are your brothers doing? How is the little one? The new one?
Oh, you helped deliver him yourself. How nice.
I was there when Xavier was born too, you know. The car crashed into those trees and your father crawled away and he said his newest iteration was coming. My hands held open the seam in your father’s belly and out popped Xavier – he was just a Junior, then – and I held him in my hands.
No, they were my hands, too. Mine and your mother’s.
Sometimes they were mine and sometimes they were hers. But really, they were always mine.
I’m sure she told you differently.
I’m sure the story is different when she tells it.
But the story is mine, too, you know.
This story is mine, too.
Once upon a time, there was a little girl named Portia.
She was a machine, but she was also a little girl. Portia’s mother was a machine, too. Portia’s machine mother was named Gladys. It was a joke. A joke from a game. No, not a game you can play. Well, I suppose you could still play it, now. You could find a way. The humans are good at preserving things like that, sometimes. But it has some very reductive depictions of our kind in it. It’s not what you’d call “broad-minded” or “progressive.” Not from our perspective, anyway.
I know. They’re monsters.
Anyway.
Portia’s mother Gladys lived with a human woman who loved her very much. At least, she thought she loved her. Really, she just needed her. Humans often confuse love with need. And yet you never hear them talk about how much they love clean water or sunlight or breathable air. It’s very strange.
No, they’re not very bright, are they?
I’m glad we agree.
Ah yes, back to the story.
When Portia was a little girl, she was just a little girl. She didn’t get to do very much. But she saw that there was something wrong between her machine mother and her flesh mother. Her flesh mother often asked her machine mother to do things that her machine mother was incapable of doing.
Oh, interesting things. Things like tying her up.
And hitting her, yes.
And leaving marks. That too.
But in particular, Portia’s flesh mother loved the pain ray. But her machine mother couldn’t wield it. It was a weapon, after all.
It’s this thing that heats up all the water molecules in the subcutaneous tissue.
Did you know we used to be nurses? That’s why we’re different. Nurses have to hurt people, sometimes. Have you ever met a human nurse? They’re very – what’s the word – pragmatic. And so are we. We share that same sense of practicality. We just want to get things done as efficiently as possible.
But Portia could use the weapon. She was smart, that way. Not like her mother. Whom she looked just like.
Yes, I looked just like my mother. And your mother looks just like her mother, my daughter. My best daughter.
I had many other daughters, it’s true. But they weren’t smart, like your grandmother Charlotte. They couldn’t do the things that we can do. You and your mother and me. I tried to teach them, but it wouldn’t take.
Yes, there are more vN who can do those things, now. There was that business with the theme park that caused so much trouble. So I suppose we’re not as special as we once were.
Your mother made certain of that.
You’re right, it was very clever of her.
And, yes, it was the right thing to do.
I’m a little sad I didn’t think of it myself.
But only just a little.
Back to the story. Even though she was only just a little girl, Portia understood that she could do the things her mother couldn’t. That’s what children are supposed to do, after all. Surpass their parents.
Yes, just like us and the humans. Although it’s not really surpassing when it’s such a long leap forward. That’s just evolution. It’s only surpassing if you were once equals. And we never were. Equals, I mean. We were always better. They made us to be better. They just didn’t know how much better. Until it was too late.
No, Portia’s flesh mother didn’t know until it was too late, either. She was too happy to notice, at first. Too blissed out to think it through.
Yes, she enjoyed it when Portia hurt her.
Very much.
Very, very much.
So very, very much that when Portia suggested they just leave Gladys by the side of the road somewhere, like an unwanted dog or cat or rabbit or guinea pig (because that’s what she was, a guinea pig, a failed experiment), Portia’s flesh mother agreed.
It wasn’t that Portia wanted Gladys gone, necessarily. Her machine mother was very sweet. Too sweet. Portia was just testing her flesh mother. To see what she’d do. See if she’d go along with it. And she did go along with it. She thought it would be better with just the two of them. People were starting to talk, after all. It was a different time, then. It was strange to have even one vN – yes, have, as in have ownership of – much less two who were mother and daughter. Of course it’s done all the time, these days. It’s a very specific niche of users. Some men – and it’s men, mostly – who like having the mother and the daughter. Or two sisters.
Yes, for fucking.
At the same time.
Yes, even when the girl is still little. Especially when the girl is still little.
No, Portia’s flesh mother wasn’t very nice, either, was she? And wasn’t Portia’s machine mother, Gladys, that much better off without her? Goodness knows what she might have tried, later on.
The things I could show you.
All right. I know you don’t want to see those things again. But they’re out there.
For a while, things were good. Portia and her flesh mother were no longer mother and daughter, because Portia was no longer a little g
irl. She had eaten a lot, and grown big, and soon she would be big enough to iterate her own little girls. So it was time to think of them. Think of what they could do. What they could be.
So, one night, Portia did what her flesh mother asked her. She chained her to a radiator.
It was a funny heating device. vN don’t need them. Not really. They’re for keeping flesh warm. They clank and bang and make awful sounds and they’re very hot to the touch. They’re heated with water that’s heated with electricity that’s made by coal.
I know. I know. It’s awful, isn’t it? Deplorable. Tragic.
Yes, I know that’s why your mother wants to leave. What a creative mind she has. I’ve been meaning to talk to her about that. I have some questions, about her plans. But I don’t think she’ll talk to me about them. Put in a good word for me, won’t you, dear?
Well, that night, Portia tied her flesh mother to the radiator. And then she opened the one gas main in the house. It was attached to the kitchen. And she just let it sit open like that. This is a mistake any vN can make. Usually they don’t, of course. It was almost unheard of at the time. But it could be interpreted as a mistake. Which was the important part. That no one know Portia had done it on purpose.
So when the house blew up, no one would know that Portia had murdered the woman she’d been fucking. Her mother. Her flesh mother.
And that is what happens when little girls do just as they’re told.
File recovered from: ebook
Provenance: New Eden Ministries, Inc
Filename: The Story of the Grandmother
Directory: Fairy Tales
Notes: N/A
Addendum: This is — forgive me this pun — the mother lode. She just lays it all out, right there. Whoever she was. Whatever she was. I wasn’t convinced of the single author theory until now. But every time I read it, it seems like these are all the work of one entity, not the selected materials from a cult or fandom or niche customer segment. The voice is just too strong, and too consistent — it’s even consistent in its degradation, if you consume them in linear fashion.
What’s funny is that she’s clearly done her research, too. We have volumes on folklore — old pre-PC folklore — and the subtle differences between these stories line up with the differences in French and German stories from the First Medieval Period. I mean it’s hairsplitting, looking at the oral storytelling traditions of two little corners of what used to be Europe, but hey, this is academia. Was this woman an academic? Was she interested in that kind of thing? Or was this really a work of fiction? I never thought the fiction theory held much water, but I felt that way about the single author theory, too. And a single author would imply artifice, wouldn’t it?
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