Near + Far

by Cat Rambo

  He kept blinking at me. "You want your ashes scattered in the San Juans?"

  "It's in my will," I said. "Hey, I'm tired and hungry, and ready to go home. You hear what I'm saying? Give me a few more days fiddling the numbers before you ask me again. Lila's got her Regency Robots almost ready; go breathe down her neck for a change."

  Mikka blinked a final time, then nodded and lumbered away.

  When I got home, there was a small and shabby servo huddled by my doorway. I don't like the trend of making robots look human, and so I was prepared to dislike this one, with its Emmett Kelly air of bedraggled dignity superimposed over a smiling cartoon face.

  "Excuse me, ma'am," it said. "Would you be Adelaide Andrews?"

  "Depends on who's asking," I said.

  It didn't have much of a humor lobe, because it just looked at me. I relented.

  "Yeah, I am," I told it. "What do you want?"

  "I'm so pleased, ma'am, to meet the author of Thor's Hammer and The Eight Legs of Sleipnir. Your programming style is as lean and taut as the stomachs of your protagonists, and moves with the grace of a Valkyrie aloft."

  "Uh," I said. I'd never had a fan appear at my house before, and this one was a servo, to boot. Then I thought of something. "Hey, you don't belong to a woman who wears a Kali suit, do you?"

  It glanced up and down the street, antenna poised warily. "No, no, ma'am. Of course not. I belong to ... " There was a pause as it performed a search. "Mr. and Mrs. John Doe of ... " Another pause. "101 Pleasant Street."

  "Ooookay," I said. "Look, I'm tired and hungry, and I'd like to go in."

  "Let us go in at once, and I will prepare grilled cheese sandwiches."

  "What?"

  "Mr. and Mrs ... John Doe have sent me to express their appreciation for your writing. I will cook, clean, and tend to your needs. So you may focus on writing."

  "Hey, I'm not about to let a strange robot into my house," I said. "You could be programmed to do anything. Murder me in my sleep. Or steal my silverware."

  The antenna drooped. "I assure you, ma'am, I mean you no harm."

  "I listen to public service announcements," I said. "I know the score."

  It must have analyzed my voice and found resolve there, because it didn't put up any argument after that—just trudged off down the street. I watched it till it was out of sight, then punched in my door code and went inside.

  My apartment was one of the larger ones in the building: three rooms painted in a tasteful off-white, and photos on the walls from Sally's senior year trip to Paris. IKEA's "Kludge" line had furnished the blue sofa and chairs, along with a few shelves for readers and some replicas of seashells. A sisal-colored carpet that stopped a few centimeters short of the walls. And not much else.

  The sour mood that had seized me when scolding Mikka still lingered in the corners of my mind as I looked around the place. What exactly had I done with my life? I'd had promising grades in school and teachers praising my talents, and then I'd used them to become just another gear in the machine pumping out dreck to keep the masses who felt they were too cool for video amused. Was this what I really wanted?

  Turning on the wall screen in the kitchen, I let my favorite cooking show, "Juan's Mesa", guide me through a meal. Juan Estrella, a vivacious, elderly chef, was sponsored by a coffee company, so every meal ended with a cup, but I ignored that and focused on the braised seitan and black-eyed peas that seemed to be a rehash of a show I'd seen last year. "I could have been a chef," I thought, watching him pour and mix and hold a steaming strip of seitan up to the camera so the audience could see its browned surface. "I could have been anything."

  I took a sleeping pill and went to bed.

  The next morning seemed brighter in the way that only a good night's sleep can accomplish. Out on my doorstep was a small basket of freshly baked muffins and a double latte in my favorite proportions. The servo from yesterday was lurking near the mailboxes. I chose to ignore its hopeful looks and took the offerings inside.

  A few minutes later, after tasting the muffin, I went back to the door and let the servo in. It bustled around with profuse thanks, lights flashing in what I assumed what the robotic equivalent of happiness. Growing up, I hadn't been around many robots, and down deep in my soul memories lingered of high school stories of robots gone wild, massacring baby sitters and poodles. But I wasn't going to look a gift horse that could bake a chocolate chip cream cheese muffin that melted away with every bite in the mouth.

  I was halfway to work, a basket of muffins accompanying me, when the Kali swooped down, wings extended, and grabbed me under the arms in a carry maneuver. I freely admit, I react slowly—we were thirty meters up in the air in a highly illegal flight path, the muffins lying in a sad little trail below us, before I could think to start shouting.

  "Kidnapper!" I yelled. "Abductor! Thief! Fraud! Litterer!"

  "I just want to talk," the Kali said.

  "Anarchist! Arsonist! Rapist! Pillagist!"

  "Just ten minutes," she pleaded.

  "Okay, but make it quick."

  We landed on top of a zeppelin. Yeah, it's an odd detail, but I remember it well because the city was full of them that week, getting ready for the HyperBowl. Landing on one was about as illegal as it gets.

  "This isn't where I want to talk," I said. Over the slippery, rounded side of the zeppelin, I could see the city laid out in very distant strips of steel and concrete. It made me nervous.

  The Kali advanced on me, shaking a finger on three different hands for emphasis. "You have my servo, Ticky."

  "My name's not Ticky, it's Adelaide."

  "The servo's name is Ticky. I hate you people who think just because you're all competent and professional, everything can make sense. All I want is my servo back."

  "Listen, I don't have any control over your servo, which you already said wasn't yours, but your uncle's. It came up, said a few nice things, then started baking me muffins. Plus it says it belongs to Mr. and Mrs. John Doe."

  "Ticky," the Kali sighed. "Ever since Grandfather tried reprogramming him, he's been odd. He has ... ambitions."

  "Ambitions of being a cook?"

  "Nothing as practical as that." Fumbling in her waist pack, she handed me a business card that read, in bright fuchsia letters, Mimsy Star. Body and Web design. "I guess you can keep him for a while if you like, but call me if he starts showing any further signs."

  "Any further signs of what?" I demanded. But Mimsy had already executed a showy backwards flip off the zeppelin, leaving me standing there.

  I didn't have wings built into my suit—just gliders, and it looked far enough down that I didn't want to trust them. Instead I waited for the cops to show, and then insisted I'd been abducted. They were willing to chalk it up to pre-HyperBowl hijinks, but dutifully dusted me and the zeppelin for fingerprints, and one was kind enough to give me a lift back down to the surface, sticking to the regular, approved flight paths.

  The office was bustling with life. "What's happening?" I said to Daisy.

  "Someone's coming through, and might be buying the place," Daisy said.

  "Buying the office, or the business?"

  "The business," Daisy said. "I'm hoping they'll want to expand."

  Panicked and bewildered, I made my way into Fitz's office. "What's going on?"

  Fitz was standing staring out the window. The sunlight that day was bright and brassy, painful to the eye, and gleamed on the back of the two zeppelins circling the HyperDome a few blocks away.

  "I woke up this morning to a horde of credit collectors on my doorstep," he said. "I just can't do it any more, Addie. This outfit's offering 12 mill—not a lot, but enough to pay off my debts and hold my head up again. I had to sell my cookbook collection last month."

  "You sold the collection?" I said, astonished. Fitz's collection of 20th century cookbooks, each signed by their respective author or chef, had been passed down to him by his grandfather, a noted gourmand, and had been his pride and joy. Ever
y Christmas, everyone in the office went round to his place in order to drink strange punches from the old books and slightly illegal treats laden with contraband cane sugar.

  "Most of them," Fitz admitted. "There's still a few that I couldn't bear to part with."

  I looked out the doorway and saw a group of three men in gunmetal gray Bodys, each arm laden like a Swiss Army knife with the paraphernalia of office living, walking around the desks while Daisy looked on with a brightly bland smile.

  "Who's trying to buy us?" I asked.

  The skin of Fitz's helmet pinked. "General Emotions," he said.

  "Fitz! I've heard of their takeovers! They'll get rid of all of us and outsource the production to Mars!"

  "You're all bright and talented people," Fitz said. "Even if you had to find new jobs, which they've promised won't happen, you'd find new ones."

  "Fitz, do you have to make a decision today?"

  "No," he admitted. "I figured I'd ponder it a few days and announce it at the office party this Sunday at the HyperBowl. One of the reasons they want this place is our box, but I figured we'd make use of it one last time."

  "Do me a favor, Fitz—don't sign anything until then. Give me two days to try to figure out some better alternative."

  "I suppose," he said dubiously.

  From the time I was a small child, I associated the HyperDome with problem solving. My great-uncle Roy took me to every game as a child and then as a teen, and I'd used the time, bored out of my skull, to sit and watch the patterns of the players and figure out mathematical equations in my head. It was during the 2039 HyperBowl, and Vinnie Testaverde's famous final touchdown, in fact, that I'd worked out the formula for what became my trademark story arc, which allowed one extra chapter for the aftermath.

  So today I returned to the stadium, using my employee badge to access the box under the pretense of checking out dimensions for the party.

  "How many balloon bouquets can you fit in one of those and still let people move around, that's what I need to know," I told the attendant.

  Sitting up in the box, I looked out over the empty green sward stretching from goal to goal and tried to imagine the patterns that would emerge on Sunday, not just the elaborate loops of the players as the ball moved from one group to another, but the even more complex patterns of the patrons and vendors, the swarms going to and from the restrooms. On Sundays like this, dedicated football fans might pull out a Body with their team's markings, a paw-print marked chassis for the Cheetahs, rainbow paint for the Freedoms, glitter and tinsel and sparkle for whatever team you cared to name. Everyone would wear something flashy, particularly those who could afford dress-up Bodys; others would make do with decals and temporary paint. But it would be a festive, party atmosphere.

  The air-conditioned cold of the box penetrated my Body and I tongued the thermostat to up it. Gloom edged my thoughts with darkness. Some party, I thought, if it ends with a gladhand and farewell, see you all on the flip side. I liked working for Fitz. I didn't want to become a cog again.

  Someone knocked on the door, and I opened it to find the Kali.

  "Stars and Stripes," I said, employing one of Roy's more colorful expressions. "Are you everywhere? Are you cloning yourself?"

  "Too expensive," Mimsy said. She craned her neck to look behind me. "Would you happen to have Ticky with you?"

  "No," I said firmly.

  "My uncle's going to kill me if I've lost him."

  "What's your uncle's name?"

  "My uncle Juan. He owns half the HyperBowl."

  "Such problems you have," I said. "Look, I don't have any control over your servo, but I'll tell it tonight to go home."

  Clearing her faceplate, Mimsy brightened. She was a surprisingly pretty girl for such a ditz, I reflected. Her hair was the precise shade of her dark blue eyes, and her chin was narrow and vulpine. She looked a little like Sally. But a lot weirder.

  "Will you?" Mimsy said.

  "Yeah, whatever."

  "I'm sorry I said I hated people like you."

  "I'd forgotten about that actually. It was the abandoning me on the zeppelin that you should be apologizing for."

  "I'm not apologizing for anything!" Mimsy said. "I was trying to be nice!"

  I sighed. "There's no winning with you."

  "I should hope not!" Mimsy said. "When can I have my servo back?"

  "If it won't go back on its own, I'll bring it with me here on Sunday, and you can come claim it."

  "That works," Mimsy said.

  "Of course it does," I replied. "What, you think we practical and competent people can't come up with working plans?"

  "See, there you go again!"

  "What? What?" But Mimsy had vanished, leaving me there at a loss. And smiling.

  That night, as Ticky served gazpacho in a bowl crafted from freshly baked spelt bread, I said, "Ticky, why exactly did Mr. and Mrs John Doe send you, again?"

  It set salt and pepper on the table and gazed at me with eyes whirligigged with synthethic emotion. "Why, because you're such a fine author."

  "They've read all my books?"

  "Every single one. Even Helga's Tunic."

  "That was out of print almost as soon as it appeared," I said, astonished. For a robot, Ticky had excellent taste.

  It rearranged the condiments on the table with a careful mechahand. "They like your writing very much," it said. "Perhaps at some point you would like to talk about your writing process and I would record what you say for them."

  A dire suspicion grew in my head. "They don't want to write, do they?"

  "Of course not!"

  "Whew."

  "But they would like for you to instruct me in the art."

  "Oh." Now I understood. A servo who wanted to be a writer. No wonder Mimsy had said it had gotten odd.

  "Perhaps after dinner, you would care to discuss how you began writing while drinking a fine port that I have synthesized for you."

  "Perhaps," I said. "Hey, I'm going to be at a party on Sunday with some of the other writers. Why don't you come along and that way you'll get a chance to listen to them?"

  It gazed at me, enraptured.

  "You could make some treats for the party," I slyly suggested.

  "I will start preparing right now!" And with that it vanished into the kitchenette, from which the smells of citrus and mint began emanating.

  "I'd still like that port," I called after it, but there was no answer. Sighing, I finished spooning up my gazpacho, and flipped on the computer. Trying to find ways that the press could earn more money was harder than I'd imagined it could be. No matter what avenue I scouted down, I found traces that Fitz had been there before me. I slept briefly, then set to it again on Saturday, fueled by freshly baked cinnamon doughnuts and Mexican hot chocolate. Nothing. Again and again, nothing. I worked through the day and into the next night until finally I pushed the screen away with a groan.

  "I can't figure it out," I told the wall. From the kitchen, a waft of coconut and orange was my only answer.

  At the HyperBowl, I made my entrance, followed by the servo with its arms laden with containers of doughnuts, cookies, empanadas, churros, and coconut ices. I pointed to the buffet table, already laden with Fitz's offerings, and a massive punch bowl brimming with a murky, pale brown liquid.

  "Try the punch," Fitz said, appearing at my elbow. "I was going to save it for Christmas, but I figured might as well use it now. It's coffee based. A recipe from one of the cookbooks I kept."

  I looked at him as he poured me a cupful. "You've made your decision, haven't you?" I said.

  In the corner, Daisy was talking earnestly to Lila, yet another sheet of plas in her hand. Mikka was staring out the window at the field as though witnessing the four horsemen of the Apocalypse. The other two writers occupied themselves with their dates and the containers the servo was setting out. Rapturous noises came from that corner of the room; I didn't want to look closely enough to determine their source.

  Fitz's
shoulders slumped, assuming an exaggerated and awkward angle. "Yeah. I appreciate your position, Addie, but I just can't go it any longer."

  "Well," I began, then glimpsed Mimsy's face at the door. "Just a minute, Fitz. I'll be back in a second."

  I opened the door and Mimsy entered hastily, followed by an elderly man in an immaculate vanilla-shaded BodySuit.

  "You have my servo!" he cried angrily at me. "I could have you arrested for theft!"

  "Now just a minute," I said, looking between Mimsy and the man.

  "This is my uncle," Mimsy said unhappily. "He realized Ticky was missing."

  I glanced back over my shoulder and saw the servo trying to unobtrusively edge behind Daisy and Lila.

  "Arrested!" the man shouted.

  "Is there some problem?" Fitz appeared at my elbow.

  "I am Juan Estrella and this woman has stolen my prize servo, laden with ten thousand secret recipes!"

  "Addie?" Fitz said, his tone full of admiring wonder. "Did you really?"

  "It followed me home and baked me muffins!" I said. "How was I supposed to know?"

  "I'm Fitzroy Huggins," Fitz said. "Now, here, Mr. Estrella ... you're the chef Estrella, aren't you? Come and have some punch, and we'll discuss this all like civilized adults."

  "Arrested!" Estrella said again, but his tone was lower, mollified and flattered at being recognized.

  "I'm so sorry," Mimsy whispered in one of my external microphones. "He saw me leaving and decided he wanted to come too."

  Overhead, two silvery zeppelins circled, filming the crowd, their shadows falling across the flanks of festive Bodys and noBodys alike. Fitz poured Estrella a cup of punch, and the old man gingerly poured a sip down an intake tube. His suit colored in surprise and delight, blossoming peacock blue and turquoise.

  "What is this drink?"

  "Coco-latte punch," Fitz said, pleased. "late twentieth century ... "

  "I must have the recipe!"

  I'm fond of happy endings.

  "Well," I said to Mimsy, as we stood watching the halftime show. Down on the field, cheerleader Bodys marched in tandem, spelling out "Victory for all!" in cursive lettering. "That seems to have turned out all right. Your uncle has a new source of recipes and Fitz has enough cash to keep the house alive for a while."