Darkly Human

by Laura Anne Gilman

  “Not even for you, Beloved of the Sand,” it went on, before she could speak again. “Once past my gates, all roads end.”

  My beast moaned, its long neck turning to the side, as though the stench of death hung about the god, somehow worse than the camel’s own breath. I slapped it, my gaze hard on my lady, awaiting her command.

  “What must I do, to earn him back?” She had read every text, prepared every spell, and none had told her this, only that it could be done.

  “The dead do not return.”

  “I do not wish him dead. His crown calls for his head, his sword for his hand. Return him to me, O Lord. Return him to the sands. Whatever the price, I am here to pay.”

  She: not her brothers. Too valuable, the heirs, the true Beloveds of the Sand. Seven sons: each of them content to recline in their tents, and wait for one of them to be chosen – and six of them to die. Such was Fate.

  My Lady was not of such patience. And so we – she and us – rode into the dawn and into the dusk, to beg the lord of everlasting to give us back our king.

  Behind us, the guards were restless; they did not move, did not speak, but their worry gnawed on my neck. Eleven of the strongest, the bravest, the most loyal of women, and they would not hesitate nor break. But they wanted to be here no more than I.

  There was no choice. Not one of the seven was worthy.

  “Whatever the price?” Those red eyes did not close, that slender muzzle did not turn, but gave the look of deep thought. The god weighed her offer against all his riches, against all his needs, and laughed.

  I did not like that laugh; so close to a jackal’s, so close to a sob. My lady’s hair was the color of the night air, her lines blurring into the dusk, and I mistrusted that, too.

  She had ridden ten days, to demand what could not be done.

  “The price cannot be given, nor taken, Beloved of the Sand. Surely you did not come here without knowing that.” The god mocked us, but his eyes were filled with sorrow.

  “Tell me.” My lady let go of the reins of her beast, and stood before the gate as though she would enter it herself. The sand rose and swirled at her feet, scraping against my cheek. “Tell me what to do, my lord. I beg this of you.”

  The dog sighed, an oddly mortal sound. “Then give me your heart, Beloved of the Sand. Your hunger, hidden low and sated. Your breath, perfumed with the blood of your heart. These things which may neither be given, nor taken.“

  My lady did not falter, but I, who knew her best of all, saw the shift in her stance. I saw, and I knew.

  “Such a price cannot be paid.” Her voice was too low.

  I slipped from my saddle, wrapped the leather straps around the girth, that the beast not tangle itself, and stepped to my lady’s side. Her face was stern, but her fingers reached for mine.

  “Breath may not be given nor taken, nor the hunger sated, nor the heart, though the poets may think it so.” I had no course with poets, but one heard them nonetheless, in the streets declaiming their verse. “Neither given nor taken, and yet lovers own all. And thus to spread they must be shared.”

  I let the words pause, and finished, “or stolen.”

  Those dark red eyes turned on me. I am not my lady’s equal in rank or strength: I sank to my knees, the sand cool and harsh under my palms, my forehead to my fingers. I had not expected to live forever, but I had not thought to end before dawn, either.

  “No.” Her word was denial, not an order.

  “All mortals die, my lady. Our fate is placed upon us in the moment of birth, no moment sooner nor a moment less. But fate may be avoided…” I dared greatly, then, to look up. “and what may be avoided may also be manipulated.”

  Her voice, so sweet and solemn, held laughter, even now. “When did you become a scholar, my long-time companion, the heart of my nights?”

  “I am whatever you need, my lady.”

  She would have gone into the Gate for her king-father. I would have followed her anywhere. I would have let her open my throat, if that had been needful; had prepared myself for it to be done.

  “It will come swiftly,” the god said. “Between one breath and the next. Too early, with things yet undone. Words unspoken, promises unkept. And then your king will return.”

  There was silence. I lifted my head, and saw the gate was gone. I turned my head. The dog was gone. We stood in the midst of the desert, thirteen still, and strong.

  No man may know his fate, but every woman does.

  Clean Up Your Room

  starlight starbright

  first star i see tonight

  i wish i may i wish i might

  give back the wish i got last night!

  “Rise-and-shine, Jessy!”

  Jessy moaned into her pillow, flinching as the shades moved slowly along their automated glideways, flooding the room with sunshine. It was too early for House to be waking her. Way too early. A late riser by nature, the glare from the wall-length windows was more than this night-owl could handle. Blanket over her head, Jessy tried to ignore House’s odd behavior, promising to track down that glitch later. Much later. Like next Tuesday. She had just finished a particularly grueling weekend of program revisions, and was looking forward to a few days of complete, sybaritic abandon before moving on to her next project. As the creator of most of the current housecomp software on the market — everything from EntryHall Basic to last month’s HouseSitter upgrades, she was entitled to a little downtime. Wasn’t she? With over 50 million units of the latter sold at last royalty statement, she damn well thought so. Back to sleep, she commanded her weary body. Back. To. Sleep.

  The window snapped open and a cool breeze nipped her bare skin where the blanket didn’t cover.

  That was more than enough. “House, close bedroom window,” she commanded sleepily.

  “Nonsense. Some fresh air is just the thing in the morning.”

  Wha? House never spoke back. Even with her custom-programmed job, the safeties built in didn’t allow for any kind of resistance that would annoy consumers. What could have gone wrong? Think, Jessy, she told herself, frowning. She’d gone to bed early this morning after loading the new Maternal Uplink, and... that was it! Her baby was up and running!

  With a whoop, Jessy swung out of bed. Leaning over, she accessed the keyboard, which was lying where she had flung it the night before. Bare feet swinging inches off the hardwood floor, she was oblivious to the fact that the window was still open, cold air making goosebumps along her exposed skin. A small receptor set into the plaster wall tracked slightly, taking in Jessy’s lack of clothing, and the window began to slide slowly shut.

  “Jessy, put that away and come eat breakfast. You won’t get anything useful done on an empty stomach.” The voice was the usual gender-neutral computer-generated drone, and yet it sounded different to her this morning. Obviously, the tone modifiers Gregory had suggested were working, too. That was going to be a selling point for everyone yelping about the dehumanization of home life. In a few generations, they’d be able to personalize the voice, maybe even to customer order.

  “Jessy…”

  Grinning broadly, Jessy shook her head. “Not now, MUM.” M.U.M. — short for Maternal Uplink and Monitor. Three years on the planning board, a year ahead of schedule in execution, and the money was just going to roll on in for all of them once this hit the market! “Not that I’m in it for the money,” Jessy reminded herself, typing furiously.

  “I’m making blueberry muffins” the electronic voice wheedled. Jessy paused, then gave in. If MUM had interfaced with the kitchen software already, she wasn’t going to complain. The stuff that came with the software was standard cookbook healthy — good for the body, but hell on the tastebuds.

  “And Jessy,” MUM continued as the woman struggled into a t-shirt, “could you pick up your room a little? It looks like it hasn’t seen a vacuum in months.”

  With a groan, Jessy waved a hand at the photoreceptor over the door. “Please, MUM, not now.” She hadn’t mad
e her bed in eighteen years — not since her mother died, and her dad gave up on teaching then-twelve-year-old Jessy any of the household graces. There was no way was she going to start on the neatness-next-to-godliness kick now, just because a program said she should. It wasn’t as though she left food lying around, after all.

  “We’re going to have to do something about that comment,” Jessy muttered to herself. “Make nagging an option package, maybe?” She ran her fingers through the close crop of blonde hair she was trying this month and shook her head. That would be the headache of the folks in sales. She was just the resident genius. Nobody expected her to do anything practical like make decisions. Throwing a sweatshirt on over her tee and grabbing a pair of ratty sweatpants from off the floor, Jessy thumped down the stairs, following the smell of fresh-baked muffins.

  Once awakened and fed, it seemed simpler to Jessy to just begin her day a few hours earlier than normal, rather than drawing the shades and trying for some more sleep. The odd hours wouldn’t kill her — probably.

  She was at her desk, basking in the sunshine coming through the skylight while she worked, when she smelled something coming from the kitchen. Jessy refused to wear a watch, and didn’t keep anything remotely resembling normal dining hours, but she didn’t think it was anywhere near two, which is when the kitchen was programmed to heat her some soup.

  “MUM? Cease kitchen program. I’m not hungry.”

  Sure enough, the smells died away. Grinning, Jessy jotted a note on her screen. She didn’t mind letting a program have initiative within parameters, but other users might not be so easy-going. “Gotta corral that, somehow…” Moments later her attention had narrowed to the project at hand, hazel eyes staring at the symbols glowing on her screen. With the concentration that had made her legendary in college kicking in, the rest of the world might not have existed for her. So it was some time before Jessy noticed that the smell of soup was back.

  “MUM!” Jessy bellowed after checking the computer’s clock to ensure that it was, indeed, nowhere near 2pm. “Cease kitchen program.”

  “Nonsense,” the House speaker chirped. “It’s 12:30, and you’ve been sitting in that position for hours. It can’t be healthy. Put everything away and come have lunch. You’re not going to get your best work done if you don’t put something in your stomach.”

  Jessy was about to repeat her order when the smell of beef soup bypassed her nose and went directly to her stomach. The rumble that resulted convinced her that, for now, MUM was right. Slotting the keyboard into its shelf, she pushed back her chair and went into the kitchen, where a bowl of soup was waiting in the nuker.

  Modern technology had years ago managed to automate everything except the actual setting of the table. Computers had never been able to manage ’tronic arm movements without breaking at least one piece, and so finally the engineers gave up — for now. Setting the table oneself was, most found, a small price for not having to cook or clean. TIME Magazine said that ’fridge-to-food software saved two out of every three marriages. Jessy still had that article clipped to the side of her workboard. When she was feeling particularly glum over one project or another, she’d re-read it, and feel that there were positive aspects to her work, after all.

  Jessy settled herself at the table, stuffing soup and fresh-baked bread into her mouth while jotting notes onto her ever-present slate. She would admit, when pressed, that her table manners weren’t all they could be, but the work-in-progress had always taken precedence. Her father had been the same way, and she had many fond memories of the two of them sitting across from each other at the table, lost in their own private worlds, only to emerge hours later with no memory of food consumed.

  The palm-sized computer hummed happily against the wood table, almost like the purring of a cat, her fingers stroking the keys. It was a comforting sound, the subliminal reassurance that all was right with her world. So it was a shock when the glow from the screen died in mid-notation.

  “Wha?” Jessy looked up to make sure that the rest of the kitchen was still powered. It was. She checked the cord where it plugged into the table outlet, then frowned. Even if the current had failed, the batteries should have kicked in before she lost power. She hit the side of the slate with the heel of her hand. Nothing.

  “The kitchen table is for eating, not working,” MUM’s voice came over the kitchen speakers. There was a tone to it Jessy had never heard before. Greg was definitely in for a bonus this year. “Whatever it is that’s so fascinating, it can wait until you’re finished eating.”

  MUM had stopped powerflow to the slate.

  A grin slowly curved the corners of Jessy’s mouth. Everything up until now had been simple circuitry-response, exciting, but expected once the basic idea flew. But this — this was an independent initiative! The biological materials contributed by the mad scientists over at GENius were linking with her programming to create an actual reaction to unprogrammed stimuli. They hadn’t been sure it would work, or in what way. Theoretically, given enough variables, M.U.M. would be able to deal with unprogrammed incidents, and learn from them. An honest-to-god adaptive network.

  A shiver of pleasure wiggled its way up Jessy’s spine as she obligingly put aside the slate and finished her soup with renewed appetite. It was too early to call GENius, she realized, knowing that they never picked up their messages before noon, Seattle-time. But she’d be the first person they’d hear from today!

  The rest of the afternoon passed quietly, as Jessy “walked” M.U.M through the HouseComp system, making sure that everything networked properly. There was one moment, when MUM tried to sort laundry, that Jessy thought she’d shorted out the entire neighborhood, but the power came back on almost immediately, so no neighbors with flaming torches came storming to her door. She made a rude noise in response to that image. Truthfully, the neighborhood was pretty used to her projects messing with their power flow by now. Mr. Alonzes did flash her the finger when he came outside to check on his alarm system, but it was her system he was resetting, so Jessy took it with a grain of salt.

  At the stroke of three, Jessy sat herself in front of the vidphone, feet comfortably propped on the desk, and punched in the direct line for GENius, Inc.

  “If it’s genetic, it’s GENius. This is an amazing facsimile of Dr. Dietrich, how may you help us?”

  “It’s me, you refugee from the mad scientist farm.”

  The blank screen fritzed static for a few seconds, then Don’s face appeared, peering blurrily into the camera. “Jessy, you wild and crazy bytehead, how are you? Long time no see type from! To what do we owe the honor of this face-to-face?” He leaned back, yelling over his shoulder. “It’s bytehead!” Jessy could hear a voice shouting in the distance. “Sue says hello, and what the hell are you doing up? It’s barely the crack of dawn, Elizander-time.”

  “M.U.M.’s up and running,” she said proudly.

  Don raised one eyebrow. “Really running, or sort of limping along?”

  Jessy grinned. “MUM?”

  “Yes, Jessy?”

  “Say hello to Doctors Dietrich and Stiefel. They’re responsible for the bio part of your biotechnology.”

  “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” MUM said politely, interfacing the House speakers directly with the ’phone line so that Don heard her clearly.

  “I will be damned,” he said, slapping his hands down on the surface in front of him in triumph, spilling his soda. “Whoops.” He swiped at the liquid with his sleeve, then gave up. “I will most surely be damned. We’re early, Jess! For once in our misbegotten lives, we’re early! Sue! Hook up!”

  The screen split into two, and Sue Stiefel’s face appeared next to her co-worker’s. “Wazzup?”

  “Good morning, Dr. Stiefel. It is a pleasure to meet you as well,” MUM sounded almost as though the greeting had been rehearsed.

  “The Uplink?” Sue asked, her eyes going wide. “But you didn’t think it would be ready —”

  I know,” Jessy c
ut her off. “But everything’s interfacing perfectly. I can’t believe it either, keep expecting something to go wrong.”

  “How long has it been in the system?” Don asked, pulling out his slate to make notes.

  “About six, no almost seven hours. It took a few hours from download to full systems integration, but —”

  “Jessy, it’s rude to talk about someone as though they’re not present.”

  Don and Sue stopped in their verbal tracks but Jessy, already inured to MUM’s outbursts, took it in stride. “Sorry MUM. Why don’t you download your vital stats to the GENius comps, and let us fleshfolk catch up on our gossip.”

  “Of course.” MUM said primly. Jessy grinned again at the expression of disbelief on her coworkers’ faces. “Ain’t she something?”

  Jessy took herself to bed sometime past midnight, feeling pretty good about the first day’s running. Even being woken up at the crack of dawn by open windows the next few days couldn’t bring her down, especially when the simple act of falling out of bed was rewarded with sourdough pancakes topped with more of those ungodly-good blueberries fresh from the specialty market Jessy could never remember to order from herself. Having M.U.M. do the shopping was a definite plus, in Jessy’s program. She could feel herself putting on weight, even before the waist of her jeans started to bind.

  Better than that, M.U.M. seemed unstoppable, interfacing and mastering every new program uploaded into the system. Jessy was on the line with Don and Sue every day, coming up with new ideas to try out. They were like a trio of crazed toddlers with a Lego set, Sue remarked acerbicly, before e-mailing a subroutine that would allow M.U.M. to access the User’s medical records and make a “best-guess’ diagnosis. Envisioning her boss’s reaction, involving screaming bouts about medical malpractice suits, Jessy and Don managed to talk her out of that in favor of a simpler “Med-Alert” program.

  “You realize, of course, that we’re all going to become rich and famous.” Don said off-handedly during one of those long-distance jam sessions.