We. Me and my little robot pal, which followed me all around, like a quiet puppy, plodding along in my wake, little metal bird feet clicking discretely on pavement and bare floor, soundless on the carpet that pretty much lined every building we’d visited so far.
“Pipe dream,” I whispered, voice rasping like a cartoon character, mouth dry as dust.
The robot made some little oot-boop sound or another, as if a sympathetic noise. There were always plenty of puddles around in the morning, but by noon they’d mostly dried up. I found one now, kind of oily and sludgy looking, knelt beside it, and leaned down.
“Foooo?” Slim metal fingers on my shoulder.
I looked up. “Man, if you know where there’s any real water, this is the time.”
Its head cocked to one side, not so much like it understood, as the way a dog looks at you when you talk to it. They want to understand, but they don’t. I turned away, leaned down again and took a sip. Gagged. Spat. “Jesus.”
Rubbing my hand back and forth across tingling lips, I picked a house, went up on the porch, robot clicking along behind me, opened the door and went inside, where it was already gloomy, only light coming from the windows. Finally, I sat down on the carpet, wondering what next.
“What did I think I was going to find in the fucking museum?”
The robot was standing there, looking down at me, red eyes bright, as if concentrating. Does it really want to understand? How the hell would I know? Just a robot. A robot made by aliens, rather than some little guy from the Bronx.
I had a vision of me and the robot, finding some way to mark down Earth in the big star map, then mark it out again on the dome of night. Of the robot leading me to some ancient apparatus in some old thrintun exhibit.
“Wally to Earth! Wally to Earth! Hey, can you hear me guys?”
The robot just stood there, continuing to stare. “Right. Only in stories. . . .”
But this . . . but this . . . !
I whispered, “So what the hell should I call you? Friday? Nah, too obvious.”
It made some random fluty sounds, like the ones Millie made on the recorder she’d gotten last Christmas.
“Tootle?” Like the train in the story. “I think I can, I . . .”
It suddenly reached out and tried to stick a metal finger in my mouth.
“Hey!”
It froze in position, then said, “Whee-oo. Dot-dot.”
Mournful and sad. I lay back on the rug, curled up in a little ball, put my hands over my face and made some stupid little sobbing sounds. No tears though. Probably too dried out to cry. Rolled onto my back, stretching out, looking up at meaningless black shadows, my throat making a little clucking noise as I tried to swallow.
Well. There would be water in the morning. Hot, bitter water, but it hadn’t killed me so far. I looked up at the robot. “You know how to turn on the lights, buddy? Is there a fucking TV here anywhere?”
Shit. I missed TV. When was I going to see Gilligan’s Island again? What the hell would the Professor do in my shoes? Or Mr. Wizard? No, not that one. The owl one. Drizzle, drazzle, druzzle, drome, time for zis vun to come home . . . ?
Jesus, I miss a lot of things. Things I thought I hated. Mom and Dad. My sisters. My so-called friends. Murray. Even school. Maybe. Some time or another, still bullshitting myself as the room grew darker and darker, ’til all I could see were the robot’s staring red eyes, I must have fallen asleep.
Woke up suddenly, opening my eyes on grainy darkness, pain roaring in my arm, sitting up, struggling to figure out . . . to find . . . my voice, yelling, echoing, something like a scream that’d started in my sleep.
The robot’s bright red eyes were near me, making enough light so that I could see the gleam of its body, arms and legs and featureless face, could see the reddish-black outlines of things in the room, thrintun furniture.
I tried to stand, stumbling, twisting to look at my upper arm, pain radiating away from a black smear. Black and wet. Blood! I’m bleeding! I made some weird gargling sound, looking back at the robot, which seemed to be holding something in one hand, pinched daintily by its few fingers.
The clenched hand went to its featureless face, briefly, as if eating the whatever-it-was, though it had no mouth, then reached out and grabbed me by the arm, just below the bloody spot.
“No! No! Lemme go!” Shrieking, voice breaking.
Its other hand reached out and touched the wound.
Flare of white light.
Sear of pain.
Just like that, I blacked out.
And awoke again, clear-headed, salmon-pink sunshine flooding the room. The robot was standing over me, motionless, red eyes staring. No eyelids. Right. I sat up, no stiffer than usual, mouth still dry, dull ache like a bruise in my left upper arm.
Memory.
“Kee-rist . . .” still whispered.
Dream?
No. The sore spot on my arm was marked by a skinny white scar, like a really bad cut from a long time ago. Right. Fresh scars are red, then pink for a while. One that big would take months to fade. I touched it. Tender, but not too bad.
“What the hell. . . .”
When I stood up, licking my lips, the robot backed off a few paces, staring right into my eyes. Then it lifted a hand and seemed to beckon. This way. This way. Come on. Turned and walked slowly to the bathroom door. Turned to face me. That hand motion again. Come on. What the fuck are you waiting for?
I followed it into the bathroom. “Well?”
When it reached out and tapped a glass button, the little room filled with pale pastel pink light, making my skin seem to flush with health and well being. I thought, If there’s light at night, I’m going to wish for a book. It tapped a button on the wall over the hole in the floor. There was a flicker of dim blue light somewhere down the hole, a faint sizzle, a fair electric smell.
Yah. Disintegrator.
Why the hell didn’t I just tap all the buttons in the house myself? Was I afraid? Jeez, I’d filled the tub, and the kitchen sink thingy . . .
It tapped the button over the tub, the same one I’d tried, the one that’d gotten me a tub full of battery acid. This time, some clear, smokeless stuff began welling up. All I could do was stare, watching it fill up, rubbing the scar on my arm, feeling my heart pound.
“All right,” I said. I glanced at the robot, no expression possible, red eyes on me. “Something’s going on. What? Ah, fuck.” I reached out and stuck my finger in the stuff. No sizzle. No burn. Warm, though. Cupped a handful, brought it dripping to my face. Sniffed. Odorless. Put it in my mouth. Tasteless. Swallowed.
“Water.”
Some little parrot-voice repeated, “Waw. Tur.”
There was a prickling in the back of my neck, as if something were crawling in my dirty hair. I turned and looked at the robot. “You say something, buddy?”
“Beeee-oooo.”
“Oh.” Turned back to the tub, swallowing hard. Then I pulled off my filthy clothes, stepped over the rim and sat down. Sat down in warm water, leaned forward and plunged my face, rubbing my cheeks, where scruffy, patchy, half-silky, half-rough beard had grown out maybe a quarter-inch or so, opened my mouth and tried to swallow, came up gasping, choking, laughing.
I looked up at the robot, and shouted, “Jesus! This is wonderful!”
It said, “Waw. Tur. Wun. Dur. Full.” Turned suddenly and walked away, leaving me alone in the tub.
I leaned back against the rim and sank down, feeling the water prickle all over, lifting scales of dead skin, old sweat, grime and dirt and who-knows-what, suddenly wishing for shampoo, for soap, toothpaste and toothbrush.
How the hell did it know I needed water? Sudden memory, me, screaming, trying to get away, blood on my arm, robot touching whatever to its face, the sizzle of the fleshwelder that made this scar on my arm.
I touched the scar, and thought, Sample. It took a sample for analysis. What was it they said in science class? We’re seventy per cent water? Somethi
ng like that.
I wished for the bottle of nasty blue Micrin mouthwash sitting by the bathroom sink at home. I’d asked Mom to buy Scope, like Murray’s parents, but it was green, you see, and Mom always liked blue stuff best.
I guessed if I washed my clothes in plain water, it’ll help a little bit. Wouldn’t it?
Better than nothing, anyway.
The robot came back, carrying a stone plate heaped with some smoky, steamy brown stuff, filling the bathroom with a smell like pork chops. Plain pork chops, no Shake ’n’ Bake or anything . . . my mouth suddenly watered so hard I started to drool.
The plate, when I balanced it on the rim of the tub, was full of something that looked like very coarsely ground hamburger, closer to shredded than anything else, a lighter shade of brown than you see in cooked ground beef. I touched it with my fingertip, getting a little juice on my skin. Sniffed. Licked.
Yah. Pretty much like pork chop grease and . . . jerked. Looked up at my staring robot. “Synthesized from . . . ?” Nothing.
Smart. Smart as hell. Smarter than me. What else should I have expected from a star-faring civilization? A little thrill from somewhere inside. Better than Arsenal of Miracles. ’Cept, of course, for the parts about Peganna of the Silver Hair.
I picked up a chunk of crumbly meat and popped it in my mouth. Chewed. Swallowed. Took another. Not really much like pork. Kind of gamey, but not venison either. Suddenly, the plate was half empty, and my stomach wasn’t growling anymore.
I said, “So. Ground Wally tastes pretty good. You got any Worcestershire sauce? I like Lea & Perrins best.”
It said, “Ground. Wally. Good. No. Sauce.”
“Oh, that’s okay, I . . .” Stopped. Stared at those red eyes, realizing my nameless little robot pal had just said an original sentence.
Some time in the night I awoke, swimming up from a dream, knowing it was a dream, hating it, but knowing. Face wet, cooling, fingers gentle in my hair. I jerked the rest of the way awake, eyes opening on dim pink light, light coming from nowhere, everywhere, certainly not the square black windows.
There was a soft sizzling outside as the hot acid rain came down, tonight as every night.
The robot stroked its two skinny fingers and long thin thumb through my hair, animate, but hardly alive. “Wally. Wake. Up. Now.”
I whispered, “Yeah.” Started shivering, wishing for . . . something. Anything.
“Wally. Crying. In. Sleep.” Still that jerky delivery, though it’d improved sharply as the day wore on. Saying words as words now, rather than crude, isolated syllables.
What the hell had I been dreaming about? It was already getting away, the way dreams so often do. Something about my parents, some fight they’d had only a few weeks before Dad had moved out. I remember Mom said “scumbag” and Dad countered with “whore.” I remember their arguments were always like that, like they were playing some stupid game of one-upmanship.
I said, “Can you make me something to eat?”
“What. To. Eat.” No intonation, but it’d picked up on infinitives now.
What, then? So far, it’d been able to make ground meat and cups of some sweet, fatty yellow milk. Wally milk? This count as cannibalism? I had a sudden pang of longing, realizing I missed Brussels sprouts, of all things. “Ice cream?”
“What. Ice. Cream.”
What indeed. “Uhhhh . . . Milk. Sugar. Ummm . . .” Why the fuck don’t I know this stuff? I could picture it in my head. Taste it. Desperately taste it. Vanilla. I love vanilla ice cream. I could even call up an image of a vanilla bean. But I don’t think you could manufacture a vanilla bean out of the contents of Wally Munsen’s carcass.
The robot reached out and slowly stroked my hair one more time.
I said, “It’s cold. Frozen. Not hard like ice . . .” realizing it wasn’t cold here, that the robot might not know what ice was. “Soft. Mushy.” I shrugged helplessly. “Maybe it’s the fat that gives it that texture?”
I followed the robot out to the kitchen, curious about what it planned to do. Hell, maybe I could learn to run the synthesizer myself? All it did was put its fingers over four nodes, two on one side of the panel, two on the other. They lit up blue, and it stood there, motionless, for maybe a minute.
There was a soft gurgle, and a blob of white ice cream suddenly extruded from the bottom of the trough. Maybe a quart. The robot got a plate from the cupboard, reached in, scooped the ice cream onto it, and handed it to me.
“Ice. Cream.”
I took the plate, sniffing at the blob. “Maybe.” But it didn’t smell like ice cream. Not quite. “You got a spoon?”
“No. Spoon.”
I sighed. Might as well ask it to get me a MacDonald’s. I stuck out my tongue and licked the surface of the stuff. No. Not ice cream. More like heavy cream. Maybe the way ice cream would taste if you left out all the flavoring. “Good enough. Thanks.” I took a bite, getting it all over my face, and thought, Anyway, the texture’s perfect.
Afterward, I washed my face in the bathroom sink, went back to the living room and curled up again, wanting to sleep. Some time before I drifted off, the robot came back and squatted by my side, reaching out and slowly stroking my hair. Cold metal fingers, but nice enough for all that.
There were days now, when I awoke with a sensation of intense well being. Fed. Rested. Someone to talk to. Sort of. The light flooding in the window slanted sharply downward, as if I’d overslept, looking almost orange on the gray carpet.
I got up, stretching, listening to the gristle in my back make its little sounds, realizing I felt better sleeping on the floor than I ever had on any of the too soft mattresses my parents had bought me over the years. Mom likes soft mattresses, so that’s what everyone must like, hm?
I remembered my dad stretching in the morning, frowning as he arched his back. Not a clue.
I went to the door and out onto the porch. It was warm, soft breeze gentle on my bare skin. I walked over to where my clothes were draped over the railing and felt them. Dry, but stiff. I’d tried washing them in plain water, which turned out to be useless. Tried to get the robot to make soap, but it could only come up with something like Crisco, something that smelled and tasted good enough that I finally just ate it.
I’d put them outside to dry and forgotten them, acid rain leaching some of the color out of my pants, leaving little white streaks here and there.
Jesus. Mom will kill me.
I’d kept my shoes inside, and it was warm enough to go naked here. For now, anyway. I stretched again, peed over the railing into the grass, which wriggled and squirmed like it was trying to get away, then went back in the house.
“Robot?”
Nothing.
Awful damn quiet in here.
Went into the kitchen.
There was a plate of cold, pale brown meatloaf and a stone mug of yellowish wallymilk beside the trough.
“Robot?”
Felt my heart maybe pounding a little bit. No robot in the backyard. No robot in the bathroom. No robot in any of the other rooms, mysterious rooms, of the house I was making my home base. No robot in the street outside, or much of anything else moving. Grassy stuff stirring. Clouds in the sky drifting slowly, that was it.
No birds here.
No rats. No bugs.
I went back to the kitchen and slowly ate my cold breakfast. Thoughtful of robot to leave something. Thoughtful of it to let me sleep.
God damn it.
After breakfast I went to the bathroom and filled up the tub, trying not to feel scared.
Noontime. No lunch. No robot.
Finally, I put on my shoes and socks, went naked on out to the street and began to make my usual rounds, keeping my mouth shut, unwilling to make speech sounds that would go unanswered. Went out through the nearest city gate and walked to the empty spaceport, stood looking up at the grass-green sky, shading my eyes from the reddish-orange light of the brilliant noonday sun. No saucers. And no robot. Went back to the hous
e and checked in.
No robot.
Very slowly walked downtown, walked to the museum, wondering what the fuck I was going to do if it was gone for good. Sure, I had a sink, a toilet, and a bathtub. I’d got water to drink, I could stay clean, I could take a crap indoors.
On the other hand, I never had figured out how to run the synthesizer. I’d stood there with my fingers on the right nodes, stood there feeling silly, wishing it to work, muttering “Abracadabra, open sesame, you fucking piece of shit. . . .”
The robot had stood watching, red eyes on me, and finally said, “Wally no can do.” Getting good now, it was, though still with nothing like inflection.
“Go ahead you little bastard. Laugh!”
It said, “No can do, Wally.”
No can laugh. What means word laugh, Wally?
And every night, it would sit beside me and stroke my hair while I fell asleep. I was going to miss that, even if I didn’t starve to death. I went into the museum, willing myself not to cry. Anyway, what if it does come back? What if the ships never come again? What if I have to stay here forever? All by myself? Me and, maybe, if I’m lucky, the damn robot?
No, not forever.
I was barely sixteen years old, though.
What if I had to stay here for fifty years?
Fifty years eating my own synthetic flesh.
I got goosebumps, standing under the museum dome, standing in front of the useless God-damned star map. “Where the fuck am I?” My voice echoed under the dome, silencing me.
I walked over to the history section, to where I’d left off on the first day, to the aisles that dealt with what’d happened after the thrintun had made first contact, had been welcomed into the Galactic Federation, if that’s what it was. There was a whole section of cool little dioramas there, each one showing a single thrint surrounded by another sort of being, behind them all, a deep image of another world, pink suns and green, yellow skies, blue, purple, gold, you name it. Usually, there was stuff like vegetation in a color complementing the sky, as with Earth, with its blue sky and green trees.
Like God had a plan of some kind.
My favorite diorama was a world with a pale, pale yellow sky, just a hint of yellow, a world that seemed to be all tall buildings and not much else, the aliens’ version of Trantor, maybe? There were lots of different beings here, scattered among them a lot of land crab robots, which helped to give it scale. In the sky over the buildings was a flying saucer, and when you looked closely, very deep in the sky, shadowed by its color, there was a spome, obviously hanging in space, so big you could see it in orbit from the ground.
The Mammoth Book of Best New SF 17 Page 10