Ribofunk

by Paul Di Filippo

  Sitting gingerly, as if sore, Mister Michael’s wife picked idly at the food set before her. Neither she nor Mister Michael spoke for some time. Finally, though, setting down his paper, which rustled loudly to Little Worker’s ears, Mister Michael said, “There are some important people coming up today from Washington. They’ll want to meet you.”

  “How very tedious. And what time would that be?”

  Mister Michael seemed to be restraining his anger. “Around two.”

  “I’ll try to be there.”

  Mister Michael’s anger escaped. “Try! You’d damn well better be there. As my wife, you have certain official responsibilities, just as I do.”

  “No one elected me to be the prime minister’s wife.”

  “You elected yourself when you married me. You can’t pretend you didn’t. You knew quite well that I might end up as prime minister someday. I told you so from the outset. God, what do I ask of you, other than to show up for a few ceremonial occasions? Do you imagine I’ve got it any easier? It’s not a part-time job, governing a whole bloody continent!”

  “You wanted the job. I didn’t.”

  Mister Michael folded his hands, as if afraid of what they might do. Little Worker’s hands clenched in sympathy.

  “Let’s not argue, shall we? Please make every effort to be at the Ministry by two.”

  “I’ll simply rush through the stores then.”

  “Good. I appreciate it.” Mister Michael looked down at Little Worker. “It’s time to go. Would you please get my briefcase? I left it by the bed.”

  Little Worker quickly gained her feet, eager to please. “I will get your briefcase. Where will you be?”

  “Just inside the front door. Oh, have the car pull around also.”

  “I will have the car pull around,” agreed Little Worker.

  On the way to the garage, Little Worker considered the argument she had overheard. She reached the same conclusion she had arrived at while standing before Mister Michael’s wife’s bedroom door: Mister Michael’s wife was not a good one for him.

  In the garage, Little Worker confronted the sleek, low-slung car. “Mister Michael wishes you to idle at the front entrance.”

  “I will exit the garage, after opening the door. I will proceed down the drive, through the gate, after opening that also, and around to the front entrance. There I will await further orders.”

  “Good.”

  The car started its ceramic engine and opened the garage door. Little Worker left it. She took the back stairs to the second floor and approached Mister Michael’s bedroom from a direction different than that by which she had gone earlier.

  The door was ajar. Little Worker entered.

  The room was not empty.

  Lying languidly on the bed among the rumpled sheets was a naked gynomorph. When she heard Little Worker enter, she opened her eyes.

  “Hello,” said the gynomorph. “I am a hetaera, of the Lyrical line. Do you wish to hear me sing?”

  Little Worker was stunned. “No. I do not wish to hear you sing. What are you doing here?”

  “I am now owned by Mister Michael. He brought me here. Do you wish to know my pedigree?”

  “No.”

  “I will recite it anyway. I am comprised of five species, with three percent being human. My skeletal structure is avian, insuring a lightness and appealing fragility. I weigh only forty kilos. My musculature is feline, my skin a derivative of chamois. My brain is based on that of a mink. I have a vaginal contractile index of ninety. My pheromones are tailored specifically to arouse Mister Michael.”

  The gynomorph moved her legs and arms luxuriously and arched her back slightly, elevating her pubis. Little Worker stared furiously, her mind in turmoil.

  “I am comprised of twelve species, with a full ten percent being human,” she finally countered.

  “My measurements, in centimeters, are one hundred, forty, eighty. What are yours?”

  Little Worker looked down at her stocky, compact, and muscled form beneath her shift. “I do not know my measurements,” she said.

  The gynomorph smiled, revealing delicate pointed teeth. She ran a tongue over her lips. Little Worker could hear it rasp.

  “Well,” said the hetaera, “I guess you don’t know much, do you?”

  “It seems not,” said Little Worker.

  * * *

  Now they were at the office. The office was different from home: different noises, different smells. There were no windows in Mister Michael’s office, no blots of jelly-light on the tan carpet, into which Little Worker’s garment nearly blended. At home, Little Worker could do pretty much as she pleased, as long as she was there should Mister Michael need her. At the office—and in other public places—she had to be more circumspect and diligent. Little Worker was on duty here, in a way that was more intense than behind the electrified fence and active sensors of the estate. Little Worker normally prided herself on her diligence. (Once, one of the men at the Training School had said: “Little Worker, you are the most diligent companion I’ve ever trained.” The men of the school had been nice, in their stern way. But no one was like Mister Michael.)

  Today, however, Little Worker’s mind was not on her work.

  Mister Michael’s first afternoon appointment had been shown in. Little Worker lay quietly behind Mister Michael’s big brown leather chair with the brass studs. Mister Michael was meeting with the people from Washington. Little Worker paid scant attention to them. They had been cleared by Security and smelled harmless. Little Worker couldn’t even see the visitors from her vantage. They were just a collection of mildly annoying voices, which interfered with her contemplation of the new and disturbing events at home.

  When Little Worker and Mister Michael had gotten into the car, Little Worker had circumspectly sniffed Mister Michael to see if any of the hetaera’s odors still clung to him. She was relieved to find that none did. Mister Michael must have washed. For a moment she felt heartened. But as the car accelerated down the front drive, picking up its entourage of armored outriders on cycles at the security station on the periphery of the estate, Little Worker realized that her relief was wrong. Mister Michael might smell normal, but his attitude was disturbed. He was not his usual self.

  Little Worker wished she could somehow make everything right for poor Mister Michael, who worked so hard and whose wife was so bad that he had to seek relief in the arms of that disturbing gynomorph.

  Little Worker would do anything to make Mister Michael happy.

  The visitors continued to talk. Little Worker was hungry. Mister Michael had worked straight through their regular lunch hour. She would have toast with jelly for her belated midday meal, the first chance she got. Surely the Ministry’s kitchens would be able to supply some. Perhaps she could convince the home food-center—which was rather stupid—not to dispense any more bread or jelly to the Bull andromorph. It would be worth a try.

  Little Worker was suddenly bored with her own problems, since no easy solutions presented themselves. She decided to listen to the conversation.

  “—tell you that you can’t ignore them,” said a visitor. “The Sons of Dixie may seem like just another fringe group to you up here in Toronto, but back home, they command a lot of sympathy—some of it from powerful folks.”

  The man had a funny way of speaking. He sounded emotional. Mister Michael, to the contrary, spoke calmly and in the proper way.

  “I’m not proposing that we ignore them. All I said was that we cannot afford to cater to extremist elements in the Union. The whole political structure is still too fragile, too new. Naturally, for the first decade or so, there’s bound to be a bit of confusion and uneasy integration, as people settle down to a new way of being governed. But we’ve had quite a bit of experience with our own separatist element over in Quebec, and the major lesson we’ve learned is that one must be firm. In fact, I intended to sound out you gentlemen on how your constituency would react to a ban on such groups as the Sons of Dixie.�
��

  There was shocked silence for a moment. Then one of the visitors spoke. “Why, that’s outrageous. It’s—it’s unconstitutional !”

  “I’ll have to remind you that the Union no longer functions under that document. New times call for new measures. Unless you can convince me there would be outright revolt, I believe I’m going to propose such a measure to Parliament. No group which advocates the overthrow of the Union—by violent or peaceful means—will be permitted to function.”

  Confused grumbles and mutters and chopped-off phrases issued from the visitors. Mister Michael let them babble for a moment, before cutting through their objections.

  “Gentlemen, I’m afraid you’ll have to consider it done. Let’s turn to more important matters. The Brazilians are pushing us on the boundary negotiations. Do we want to let them north of Chiapas, or don’t we?”

  Little Worker tuned out the unimportant talk. She was more concerned with her delayed meal.

  At last Mister Michael, consulting his watch, said, “Well, enough of work. We have a few more days during your stay to discuss such things. I believe you expressed a desire to meet my charming wife. She should be here any moment.”

  Everyone waited. Little Worker shifted positions to ease a cramp in her right haunch. Mister Michael’s wife never arrived.

  When the visitors had been shown out with many apologies, Mister Michael returned to his seat. He was silent for a time. Then he banged his fist on the desk. “Something has to be done about that woman,” he said. “Something has to be done.”

  Little Worker silently agreed.

  * * *

  One day not long after this time, Little Worker found herself home alone.

  This was highly unusual, for she was seldom separated from Mister Michael. In public or private, Little Worker was always by his side. Even when he traveled abroad, Little Worker went with him. (Little Worker had been to a lot of places with odd names, mostly other cities; aside from a few curious smells here and there, they all seemed alike.) But today Mister Michael was at the doctor’s, getting his anti-aging treatment. He had just started the treatments six months ago, when they became available. The location of the doctor’s clinic was secret, even from Little Worker. Mister Michael had explained to her that it was for her own protection, so that no one could capture her and force her to reveal where the clinic was. Little Worker had to smile at the thought of anyone capturing her. For one thing, no one ever paid any attention to her. Who would think she knew anything worth knowing? Little Worker felt it would have been all right for her to go with Mister Michael, but he wouldn’t hear of it. It was just him and the car, and the car would have its short-term memory wiped clean after the trip.

  As for Mister Michael’s wife—Little Worker didn’t know where she was and didn’t really wonder. After the trouble she had caused, Little Worker couldn’t have cared what happened to her.

  All that mattered was that for the first time in six months—and only the second time since she had become Mister Michael’s companion—she was without him.

  It made Little Worker very uneasy.

  So Little Worker wandered through the big empty house, searching for something to occupy her until Mister Michael should return.

  Upstairs, a fleeting impression made her pause outside the door of the bedroom of Mister Michael’s wife. Aromas of Bull seeped out to her. Impulsively, Little Worker tried the golden handle of the door. It turned without resistance, and the door opened. Little Worker entered.

  The Bull was lying on a couch. He wore nothing but a spandex thong that held his large genitals as in a pouch. He was flipping the pages of a colored picture book. When he heard Little Worker enter, he laid the book on his hard muscled stomach, pictures up. Little Worker could see that the pictures were of matings, illustrating various positions.

  “Hello,” said Bull. “Do you wish to have sex?”

  “No, I do not wish to have sex. I am Little Worker. I do not have sex with anyone. I wish to talk.”

  “I can talk.”

  “Very good. Would you like something to eat while we talk?”

  “Peanut butter is good.”

  Little Worker went to an intercom. “Food-center?”

  “Yes?”

  “Please send a jar of peanut butter to the bedroom of Mister Michael’s wife.”

  “With a spoon?”

  Bull looked guilty, as if doing something wrong. “No spoon.”

  “No spoon,” repeated Little Worker into the intercom.

  When the peanut butter arrived, Bull greedily unscrewed the cap and, dipping blunt fingers in, began to eat. Little Worker watched with approval. She knew very well how nice it was to feast on one’s favorite food.

  “Do you enjoy making sex with Mister Michael’s wife?”

  Bull looked confused. “What do you mean? It is what I do. Sex is sex. Peanut butter is what I enjoy. Am I supposed to enjoy sex also?”

  “I do not know. Perhaps you would enjoy it more with someone else.”

  “Someone else? I don’t understand. You said you did not wish to have sex with me—”

  Little Worker was suddenly inspired. “I am not the only one home.”

  “There is another in the house who desires sex?”

  “Yes. Would you go to her?”

  “I am not supposed to leave this room—”

  “You are supposed to provide sex when asked.”

  “That is true. You have stated a fact which contradicts the order not to leave the room. What am I to do?”

  “I tell you that you may leave this room.”

  “Who are you again?”

  “Little Worker, Mister Michael’s companion.”

  “Then I suppose I must listen to you.”

  “Very good. Please come with me.”

  “Let me finish this peanut butter first—there. Show me to the one who desires to have sex.”

  Little Worker led Bull out into the corridor and up to Mister Michael’s bedroom door, which was locked. However, Little Worker knew that code.

  Inside, the Lyrical gynomorph was found taking a bath. Amid the welter of sudsy bubbles in the large sunken tub, only her delicate face and one knee were visible.

  When the gynomorph saw Bull, her eyes widened and her nostrils flared. Bull developed an immediate erection.

  “You are the one who wishes to have sex,” said Bull.

  “It is my nature.”

  “Mine also. Is it convenient to have sex in the bath?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Bull tore off his thong.

  Little Worker left the pair of morphs together.

  Mister Michael’s wife was the first to return home, five hours after Little Worker had arranged the illicit introduction. Soon, she discovered Bull’s absence and his current whereabouts. Little Worker watched from the corridor as Mister Michael’s wife attempted in vain to separate the two morphs, who had ended up on the floor beside the bed, soaking the carpet with bathwater. Even striking at the pair with the sharp heel of her removed shoe failed to end the coupling. Eventually, special handlers had to be summoned. They too failed to halt the couple’s pistoning.

  “It’s no use, miz, they’ve developed a destructive feedback loop. We’ll have to take them in to be put down.”

  “Just do it, then!” shouted Mister Michael’s wife. “It’s disgusting!”

  “Yes, miz.”

  The morphs were loaded still interlocked and bucking into the back of a truck and driven off.

  Little Worker was secretly happy.

  But within days, Mister Michael’s wife had procured a Stallion, while Mister Michael solaced himself with a Moon Moth.

  * * *

  Little Worker came awake instantly. She had not been sleeping well lately anyway. Her life had not been right since that long-ago morning of no toast and jelly. (One good thing about the Stallion was that he preferred oatmeal.) Mister Michael was always preoccupied and distant. At times Little Worker almost resented
having to be in constant attendance on him. When she had such feelings, she became violently sick, for the bad thoughts conflicted with her lessons from the Training School. Then she had to remind herself that Mister Michael and his welfare were all her reasons for being.

  And now there was noise from downstairs.

  There should have been no noise from downstairs. It was the middle of the night. Oh, yes, once there had been noise in the middle of the night from downstairs. Guards from the security booth had come in to check on a possible breach of the perimeter. But it had been only a sensor failure. Perhaps there had been another sensor failure tonight. Little Worker would go see.

  She got as far as the head of the marble stairs.

  There she confronted four men. The men wore optical- distorting garments and infrared goggles. They carried light-rifles and had other weapons slung from their hips. They were not security men.

  “Well, well,” said one intruder. “Lookee here. It’s one o’ them fuckin’ cultivars. I’m gonna blow its head off.”

  “Don’t get cocky, son,” said a man who appeared to be their leader. “Just cuz we took out the local boys, don’t mean we can make all the noise we want. No shooting unless I say so. Anyway, maybe this thing can save us some time. You there—where’s the Pee Em sleep?”

  Little Worker was not afraid. She carefully considered the terrorists before replying.

  “I will show you. But you must collect his wife too, or she might summon help.”

  One terrorist whistled softly. Another said, “Shee-it, these vars ain’t got no loyalty at-tall!”

  “Okay, Beautiful, lead on.”

  Little Worker conducted the men to the bedroom door behind which slept Mister Michael’s wife. They slapped an illegal unscrambler to the lock. The device ran through all the possible combinations in three seconds, and they were in.

  Mister Michael’s wife lay sleeping in the arms of the Stallion. The men made various apparently honest grunts of shock, which awoke Mister Michael’s wife and her bedmate.

  Soon, she and the Stallion had been herded into Mister Michael’s room, where the Prime Minister was found in a similar situation with his new gynomorph.