Grace's Family

by James Patrick Kelly

  “I had adjusting to do.”

  “Going through a trade is the most stressful life event. Worse than death of a crew member.” Qory reached over and patted Orisa’s hand.

  She seemed surprised by this gesture. “So, I’ve been catching up with Grace. I like her. Not as bossy as Mercy. But she thinks we should begin to sort ourselves out, and I agree.”

  I pushed my bowl away. “Okay.” I’d lost my appetite.

  “You were a nuclear family unit with Gillian and Dree,” Orisa said. “Obviously that isn’t going to work with us, so we’ll need a new social construct.”

  “Can’t we just be crew?” I said.

  “Fine for now, but workplace units are inherently unstable in a group this small. Who knows how long we’re likely to be together?”

  “Years,” said Grace, jumping into the conversation the way she always used to.

  “Yes. We don’t need to make any immediate decisions, but we should at least do a little brainstorming. For example, Jojin is at an age…”

  “Call me Joj.”

  “… Joj needs to have sexual intimacy outside of story. Grace says that hasn’t happened yet.”

  I could feel my cheeks flush.

  Qory filled the awkward silence. “That’s right.”

  “Doing the math,” said Orisa, “we could go for a triad or a group marriage configuration, although, Joj, I understand you’re trending heterosexual at the moment.”

  I nodded, grateful that they weren’t giving me much time to be embarrassed.

  “Which probably means that Qory should modify herself to become more sexually available.”

  “Already on it,” said Qory. “Whatever way I go, I’m done with this body.” She flicked her fingers, as if to discard her kid self.

  “A triad would be acceptable to me,” said Orisa, “although not ideal. I like female bots, but not as sex partners. No offense.”

  “None taken.”

  “Or Joj and Qory could be lovers and I could be celibate. That would work, although I do enjoy sex and had multiple partners on Mercy. But I’m certainly willing to take drugs to dampen my sex drive. That was how I got through part of my last Survey stint. Or it could be Joj and me.”

  “Sure.” I wanted to gawk at her and imagine. I’d done plenty of that already. “At some point.” Instead, I stared at the remains of my lunch.

  “At some point,” she said. “Right.” And then she chuckled. I didn’t know her, or her laughter, but there was a music to it that made me catch my breath. I glanced up, and she was smiling at me, her eyes merry. Qory was grinning too.

  “What?”

  “You’re such a boy,” said Orisa.

  “You keep saying that. Why is that bad?”

  “Oh, it isn’t.” She wiped most of the smile from her face. “I think it’s charming, as long as it isn’t permanent.”

  We all looked at one other.

  Then we all nodded.

  “Someone has to be captain, then,” said Qory, moving the conversation off our sexual arrangements. “You know it can’t be me. Humans only.”

  “I don’t care about being captain.” Orisa waved dismissively. “Doesn’t matter to me.”

  “It matters to me,” said Grace.

  This took Orisa by surprise. “Really?”

  “Grace is a little old-fashioned that way.” Qory shrugged. “She likes her traditions. Dad … Dree was captain before. Feero before him.”

  “Does it come with any perks?”

  “Dad always chose our destinations,” I said.

  Orisa gave a dismissive snort.

  “Assigning watches,” I continued. “Casting privilege in the family … group stories. Editorial direction.”

  Orisa considered, then gave me a sarcastic salute. “Aye, Captain. Orders?”

  I didn’t want to be the captain either, but I decided to assume command to protect myself. “Before anyone makes any more decisions,” I said, “we’re going to spend time getting to know you.” I rose from the table. “And you’re going to get to know us.”

  * * *

  “For a bot,” said Orisa, “you sure have a lot of hobbies.”

  We were standing in the garden Qory had built in one of Grace’s empty modules. She’d printed several cubic meters of soil and had filled twenty raised beds with crops collected from around the infosphere. Leafy vegetables here—kale and spinach vine and bittergreens—root plants there—zebra nut and carrots and candy lilies. Cucurbits in all the colors of the spectrum spilled out of one container and reached tendrils across the deck. The sugarfingers were in bloom, filling the air with their tart scent. Orisa had never seen gac before, so Qory picked one off the vine and sliced through the spiny skin to reveal a clump of oily magenta sacs.

  “From Asia, one of the Earth continents.” She offered them to Orisa. “They’re mild, a bit like melon. Or a sweet carrot.”

  “You can taste, then?” said Orisa. “Not all bots do.” She nipped a sac out and popped it into her mouth.

  “Oh yes,” said Qory. “I was grown on Halcyon. We do the full sensorium.”

  Orisa chewed, then smacked her lips. “I’m getting a hint of cucumber.” She offered me the fruit, but I waved her off.

  Qory chuckled. “Joj likes his food printed.”

  * * *

  “You can climb in, if you want.” I stood by the open hatch of the roller.

  “But I’m not wearing your EM thingy.”

  “Clingy. Try it anyway. See if you fit.”

  She ran fingers around the opening. “Not sure I can,” she said.

  “Here.” I rotated the roller so that the hatch was flush with the deck. “Lie down and scoot in, feet first.”

  She blew a heavy breath that made the hair along her forehead dance. It would have been easier if Qory had been there to help, but she was standing watch. I’d gotten Grace to agree to a four-four-eight-eight schedule for now, with Orisa and I each taking a four-hour shift, Qory taking an eight, and Grace self-watching for an eight.

  As Orisa wriggled through the hatch, her jiffy rode up her stomach, revealing an expanse of smooth, dark skin. I don’t think she caught me staring.

  “Now what do you want me to do?” she said once she was inside.

  “Set your feet on the running pad and I’ll roll you upright.” I could barely manage this, since she filled the roller as I never had. She could steady herself by pressing both palms against the inside at the same time. My arms were too short to touch more than one side at a time.

  She was laughing. “And you take this overgrown kickball into space?”

  “It’s fun,” I said. “You really should try it.”

  “No thanks, space weather isn’t my friend. I’m allergic to low-energy particles. But I get it that boys will be boys. Help me out.”

  Later we toured my quarters. She played with McDog but seemed most interested in my dancing warriors. Over the years I’d designed more than a hundred different ones, each little bot twenty-five centimeters tall. When I was a kid, I made them fight, but Dad always said fighting was what they did on planets and crew should know better. So I had them march instead, following me up and down Grace’s passageways as I called various walkbeats. Mom and Dad and Qory would stand in their doorways and clap for us. Then to one of the empty modules to practice elaborate drills that morphed from mandalas to monsters, sailboats to starships. A few years ago I’d put most of my warriors away except for the handful that I taught to dance. When I was little, Mom used to dance with me; that always made me happy. Getting my bots to dance was almost as much fun.

  Orisa retrieved Teegan and Beko from the shelf and set them on the deck.

  “I only named the dancers,” I explained. “The rest were just troops.”

  The warriors bowed to each other. Beko opened his arms and Teegan stepped into close position, slipping past his scabbard. His hand rested against the leather armor on her back, loose but firm.

  I watched them glide across
the room and turn to the open side of their embrace. “I hardly take them down anymore.” A fan led to two quick steps and a check, and then they looked up to me for approval.

  “Why did you stop?”

  I shrugged. Wasn’t it obvious? I was nineteen—too old to be playing with dolls.

  “Do they talk?”

  I shook my head. “I never knew what they should say.” I couldn’t read the shadow that passed across her face. “They were smiling,” I said. “That was enough for me.”

  “You must have been so lonely,” she said.

  “I had my family.” I felt my cheeks flush. “And Grace.”

  “Did you ever think of giving up your place on the ship? Picking some planet, leaving space?”

  “No!” This was getting strange. “Why, have you?”

  “Sure.” She set the warriors back on their shelves. “But here I am.”

  I felt embarrassed when we settled at either end of my bed to talk. I offered to fetch the stool from my workroom but Orisa said no. I realized I needed a couch. Chairs, at least. She said I might try decorating the place and suggested that I ask Qory for a painting. When had she found out that Qory painted? But I liked the idea. Maybe Qory could do one of me in my roller.

  Then Orisa asked about my stories.

  I was explaining about Darko Fleener and my adventures with the Right of Free Assembly’s First Contact unit when she interrupted and started telling me the secret history of the Holy Electric Empire. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Not only did she know the Annals of the Red Fleet, but she described a battlesnake called War of Attrition that could have been the Free Assembly’s sister ship.

  “But Fleeners was my story. I decided to go up against the Helveticans. I stole the Audacity.”

  “You did. So did I, once upon a time. So did a lot of other kids. Except my flipship was Sly and I won it at the card table. It’s formula, Joj. The starships use it because it works. It’s a fun story designed to teach girls and boys all kinds of things they didn’t know they were learning.”

  I gave a disgusted grunt. “Boys again.”

  “And girls. When I was your age, my favorite story was about a quest. I was summoned to find a wizard’s sword that could send the Demon Lord back to the Barrens. I had an amulet that let me change my shape and a map…”

  “A ring.” I felt so stupid. “In my story, it was a ring.” I couldn’t sit so I started moving around the bedroom. I stomped at the deck to see if it was still there because I wasn’t sure whether Grace herself might melt away and drop me into naked space. Orisa watched, waiting for me to calm down.

  “They seemed so personal,” I said finally. “It meant a lot to me that they were mine and not Qory’s. But they were nothing but stories. Stories for kids.”

  She pulled me down next to her. “There’s nothing wrong with stories, Joj. I’m the story I tell myself. You’re a story. The universe is a story. But it’s important to know what kind of story you’re in.”

  Her hand on my bare arm gave me goose bumps and I gazed up at her. “Are we a story?” I wanted her to kiss me then. “You and I?” That’s what would have happened if I’d been telling it.

  She smiled and shook her head. “Not yet,” she said.

  The moment stretched, then she let go of my arm.

  * * *

  Orisa had a strange reaction when we took her to Qory’s quarters to meet Hob and Nob, the glass mollusks. We didn’t tell her about them ahead of time; I thought it would be a fun surprise. Their tank filled half of Qory’s workshop space; the rest was taken up by the bench where she built the toys. I immediately went to say hello.

  “You keep pets, then?” Orisa hesitated in the entrance.

  “Grace doesn’t mind,” said Qory.

  “Qory’s had Hob and Nob since before I knew her.” I pressed my hand flat against the tank where Nob hung, suckered against the clear plex by two of its four tentacles. “Don’t worry, they’re harmless.”

  “Just like us.” Orisa gave an unhappy chuckle. “At least they don’t have to stand watch.”

  “They probably could,” I said. “They’re smart.” I turned around to see that Orisa was frowning. “Is something wrong?” Maybe she didn’t like mollusks.

  “Not at all,” she said. “It’s just a little sad.”

  “No, they like it here,” I said. “They even know our names. Watch.” I tapped the tank next to Nob and it burped a bubble the size of my fingernail that rose through the syrupy water and burst at the top of the tank, releasing a musky chocolate scent.

  “Smell that?” I said. “That means ‘Joj.’”

  “Actually,” said Qory, “it means, ‘Hello, Joj.’”

  But Orisa was done with them; she’d already moved on to Qory’s bedroom. “Is that a new painting, Qory?” she called. “Oils, I’m impressed.”

  * * *

  We settled into our watch schedules and the new routine. I still had breakfast with Qory before my watch. Orisa and I did lunch most days. We all ate dinner together. But the group stories were not going well. At first I thought it was because Orisa didn’t care about the plots. She wasn’t paying attention to where we were in the story and kept breaking character. She’d either get too serious in the sitcoms or turn silly at dramatic moment or else she’d object to details in the historical re-creations. But after a week of false starts I realized she was sabotaging.

  “Why don’t you take over?” I challenged her. “Pick a new story.”

  The women had been remaking one of the modules into a lounge. Each of us lay on divans that Orisa had created. Qory had donated two of her paintings and a frangipani tree in a pot. Jenny and Pevita from my army waited in the corner for a chance to perform; I’d invented some new toss-up steps.

  “No.” Orisa sat up. “I never want to plan another escape from an imaginary prison, and you can keep your clueless bosses. I’m my own boss.” She swung her legs around and faced me. “We could just talk, you know. You ordered us to get to know each other, Captain.”

  “Grace wants us in story together,” I said. “For socialization. Builds solidarity.”

  “Does she?” Orisa said. “You’re sure about that?”

  I expected Qory to take my side, but instead she deserted to Orisa. “Some crews need stories to get along,” she said. “But we seem to be doing all right without them.”

  I rolled over and glared at her.

  “For now.” Qory tried to look innocent.

  “Grace?” I said. “Tell them.”

  “Conversation is an acceptable substitute,” she said, “as long as it’s productive.”

  That stopped me. Productive?

  “For example,” Grace continued, “Orisa could tell us what’s she’s been writing.”

  This was Orisa’s big secret. We’d tried several times to pry it loose, but she wouldn’t let go.

  “No thanks.” She remained obstinate. “That’s private.”

  “Why?” Now Qory propped herself up on an elbow.

  “Because nobody ever understands. So would you please stop asking?”

  I waited. Clouds drifted across the sky that Grace displayed on the ceiling. The frangipani flowers breathed their soft, soapy fragrance into the silence.

  “Okay, then,” I said at last, “maybe another go at the roommates story?”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

  I was glad Qory didn’t call Orisa out for language. This was the most upset she’d been since she’d arrived.

  “I tried this on Mercy, but they didn’t get it.” Orisa kicked at the deck. “And then they wouldn’t stop talking to me about not getting it.”

  “We’ll be good,” Qory said.

  “Okay.” She hesitated. “Okay, I’m writing a novel.” She rubbed her eyes. “I’ve written eight novels.”

  “A novel.” I remembered novels from a story about how virtuality got invented. “That’s a story that’s just words? That doesn’t change?”

  “See!
” She turned on Qory, arms flung wide.

  Qory let the storm pass. “Can we read it?”

  “Does he even know how?” Was Orisa sneering at me?

  Qory give a quick shake of her head.

  I pretended not to notice them. “I can read.” Which was true, although I never did.

  “What’s it about?” Qory asked.

  “It’s a murder mystery,” said Orisa.

  “Set on old, Old Earth,” Grace said. “I like it so far.”

  I expected Grace’s snooping would set Orisa off again, but the compliment seemed to mollify her. I was irked. “I thought you said it was private. How come Grace gets to read it?”

  “You’re all part of the infosphere,” said Grace.

  “Yes, we’re all just happy little data points,” said Orisa.

  “You could read it to us,” Qory jumped in, sensing we were losing an opportunity.

  Which was what happened. We lay back on our divans as if we were going into story and Grace displayed the text on the ceiling. All those words made my head spin, so I closed my eyes.

  “Just a paragraph or two,” Orisa said, “and then you’ve had your fun and we forget about this, okay? And hold all comments, thank you very much.”

  I noticed her voice changing as she read; it suggested another, more mysterious Orisa, one whom I might never meet. “The living room,” she read, “was a hodgepodge of the old, the new, the pricey, and the garish. The four-door oak sideboard against the far wall and the elegant teak coffee table on the bright Peruvian rug…”

  “Wait,” I said. “What’s Peruvian?”

  “It’s historical.” Qory shushed me. “Just listen.”

  “… were from before the war. The couch and matching loveseat were so new that the cherry microfiber upholstery still had a gloss. A couple of paintings hung on the walls, blurry impressions of fruit bowls and bridges. Photos in matched silver frames marched across the sideboard. The cop and I settled on the couch. My client hovered anxiously before falling back onto the loveseat. The last few days had aged her a decade. A solid woman with too much face and not enough chin, she seemed to be shrinking into herself. Her eyes slid from one to another of us and then to the suitcase in the hall. She didn’t want to be here, probably didn’t want to be anywhere. She was wearing a lifeless blue pantsuit, a collared white blouse, and sensible black flats. Ready for another day at the office—except it was nine thirty on the worst night of her life.”