There’s no point trying to hold a conversation. She leans forward until she can feel his breath in her ear. “Meat and mind, Manny. Meat, and mind. You’re not interested in meat, are you? Just mind. You could be boiled alive before you noticed what was happening in the meatspace around you. Just another lobster in a pot.” She reaches down and tears away the gel pouch, exposing his penis: it’s stiff as a post from the vasodilators, dripping with gel, numb. Straightening up, she eases herself slowly down on it. It doesn’t hurt as much as she expected, and the sensation is utterly different from what she’s used to. She begins to lean forward, grabs hold of his straining arms, feels his thrilling helplessness. She can’t control herself: she almost bites through her lip with the intensity of the sensation. Afterward, she reaches down and massages him until he begins to spasm, shuddering uncontrollably, emptying the darwinian river of his source code into her, communicating via his only output device.
She rolls off his hips and carefully uses the last of the superglue to gum her labia together. Humans don’t produce seminiferous plugs, and although she’s fertile she wants to be absolutely sure: the glue will last for a day or two. She feels hot and flushed, almost out of control. Boiling to death with febrile expectancy, now she’s nailed him down at last.
When she removes his glasses his eyes are naked and vulnerable, stripped down to the human kernel of his nearly-transcendent mind. “You can come and sign the marriage license tomorrow morning after breakfast,” she whispers in his ear: “otherwise my lawyers will be in touch. Your parents will want a ceremony, but we can arrange that later.”
He looks as if he has something to say, so she finally relents and loosens the gag: kisses him tenderly on one cheek. He swallows, coughs, then looks away. “Why? Why do it this way?”
She taps him on the chest: “property rights.” She pauses for a moment’s thought: there’s a huge ideological chasm to bridge, after all. “You finally convinced me about this agalmic thing of yours, this giving everything away for brownie points. I wasn’t going to lose you to a bunch of lobsters or uploaded kittens, or whatever else is going to inherit this smart matter singularity you’re busy creating. So I decided to take what’s mine first. Who knows? In a few months I’ll give you back a new intelligence, and you can look after it to your heart’s content.”
“But you didn’t need to do it this way—”
“Didn’t I?” She slides off the bed and pulls down her dress. “You give too much away too easily, Manny! Slow down, or there won’t be anything left.” Leaning over the bed she dribbles acetone onto the fingers of his left hand, then unlocks the cuff: puts the bottle conveniently close to hand so he can untangle himself.
“See you tomorrow. Remember, after breakfast.”
She’s in the doorway when he calls: “but you didn’t say why!”
“Your memes are just a product of your extended phenotype; if you like you can think of it as a new way of spreading your memes around,” she says. She blows him a kiss and closes the door, bends down and carefully places another cardboard box containing an uploaded kitten right outside it. Then she returns to her suite to make arrangements for the alchemical wedding.
CAROL EMSHWILLER
Carol Emshwiller’s most recent books are Report to the Men’s Club and Other Stories and The Mount. Her two Westerns are Ledoyt and Leaping Man Hill.
About “Creature,” Carol says: “Creature” is a sequel to “Foster Mother” though the sex of the two creatures seem to be different to their caretakers. I figured dinosaurs might be hard to sex.
Her Web site is http://www.sfwa.org/members/emshwiller/.
CREATURE
CAROL EMSHWILLER
This creature looks more scared than I am. Come knocking . . . pawing . . . scratching at my door. Come, maybe in search of me, (I’m easy prey for the weak and scared and hungry), or maybe in search of help and shelter. . . . (I’m peering out my one and only little window, hoping it won’t see me.) It’s been snowing—seems like three or four days now. The first really bad weather of the year so far.
It looks so draggled and cold. . . . I open the door. I welcome it. I say, “Hello new and dangerous friend.” My door’s a normal size, but too small for it. It pushes and groans and squeezes itself in. Then collapses on the floor in my one and only room, its big green head facing the stove. It takes up all the space and makes puddles.
There’s a tag stapled in its ear—rather tattered (both ear and tag), green (both ear and tag), with a number so faded I can hardly make it out. It might be zero seven. Strange that it has ears at all considering what it (mostly) looks like. But they’re small—tiny vestigial . . . no, the opposite, evolving ears. They look as if made purely for a place to put a tag.
It’s wearing a large handmade camouflage vest with lots of pockets. Now, while it’s still out of breath and collapsed, I check for weapons, though with those claws, why would it need any? What it has is old dried crumbs of pennyroyal, left over from some warmer season and some higher mountain, a few interesting stones, one streaked green with copper and one that glitters with fool’s gold, two books, one of poetry (100 Best Loved Poems) and one on plants of the area. Both well worn. A creature of my own heart. Perhaps.
It looks half starved—more than half. I have broth. I help it raise its heavy head. It sips, nods as if in thanks, but then shows its teeth, blinks its glittery eyes. I jump back. Try to, that is, but I bump into my table. There’s no room with it in here. It shakes its head, no, no, no. Seems to say it. “Mmmnno.”
But how can such a creature talk at all with such a mouth? But then come words, or parts of words. “Thang . . . kh . . . mmm you . . . kind. Kindly. Thang you.” Then it seems to faint or collapses, or sleeps—instantly—snow melting from its eyelashes (it has eyelashes) and rolling off its back, icy mud drying between its claws. The tiny arms look as if made for nothing but hugging.
While it seems in such an exhausted sleep, or maybe passed out, I take pliers and carefully remove the staple that holds the zero seven ear tag. I notice several claw marks along its back and it’s lost a large chunk off the end of its tail.
Now where in the world did this thing come from?
I’ve heard tales. I thought they were the usual nonsense . . . like sasquatch, yeti, and so forth, abominable this or that. (And here, for sure, the most abominable of all.) But I’ve heard tales of secret weapons, too. I’ve heard there are creatures made specifically to patrol this empty border land. Supposed to be indestructible in so far as a living breathing creature can ever be. Supposed to attack everything that moves in this no-man’s-land where nothing is supposed to be but another of its own kind.
I’d probably help even a suffering weapon, I probably wouldn’t be able to keep myself from it, but this one seems odd for a weapon, too polite, and with vest pockets full of dried bits of flowers, that book of poetry. . . .
I drink the rest of the broth myself and stare at the creature for a while. No sense in trying to mop up with this thing in the way and still dripping. I can’t even get across the room without leaning against a wall or climbing over my chair or cot. I step over its legs. I squinch over to my front door. I take my jacket. I’m not worried about leaving the thing alone. It doesn’t seem the sort to do any harm—unless by mistake.
I whisper, “Sleep, my poor wet friend. I’ll be back soon,” in case it hears me leave. It doesn’t move. I might as well be talking to myself. I do that all the time anyway. I used to talk to my dog, Rosie, but since she died I haven’t stopped. I jabber on. No need for a dog for talking. They used to say we men were the silent sex, at least compared to women, but not me. Rosie just made it worse. She would look up at me, trying hard to get every word. Seemed to smile. I’d talk all the more. And now, as if she was still here, I talk. I talk to anything that moves.
* * *
As I go out, right outside the door there’s some juniper branches threaded together as though it had made itself a wind shield of some sort and dr
opped it before it came in. Farther along I see broken branches around my biggest limber pine. It must have sheltered there—leaned against the leeward side. Hard to think of such a creature giving out.
I lean against the leeward side, too. You’d think it would have smelled my fire and me. Perhaps it was already weak and sick. I don’t dare leave it by itself for long but I need space. That was like being in a squeeze gate. Still, I like company. Watch the fire together. Come better weather we could make the shack bigger. It was polite, even.
I say, “Rosie, Rosie.” The wind blows my words off into the hills before I hardly get them said. That name has already bounced off these cliffs sunrise to sunset. Not a creature here that hasn’t heard it. I’ve called her, sometimes by mistake, sometimes on purpose. Sometimes knowing she was dead, sometimes forgetting.
After she died I ran out in a snow storm naked—and not just once or twice—hoping for . . . what? Death by freezing? I yelled, answering the coyotes, until I was so hoarse I couldn’t have spoken if there’d been somebody to speak to. After that I whispered. Then I sat, brooding over the knots in the logs as I had when I first came out here. Rosie needed me. She kept me human. Or should I say, and better yet, she kept me animal. I don’t know what I’ve become. I need this creature as much as it needs me. I’d make it a good meal. Maybe that’s what I want to be.
I squat down, my back against the tree. I shouldn’t go far. I should listen. Even just waking up and stretching, it could mess things up.
* * *
I chose this no-man’s-land. I came here ten years ago. There’s a war been going on for a long time, but never any action here—not since I’ve been around. Missiles fly overhead, satellites float in the night sky, but nothing ever happens here. The war goes on, back and forth above me. Sometimes I can see great bursts of light. I wonder if there’s anything left on either side. No-man’s-land is the safest place to be. Had I had the sense to bring my wife and child here, they’d still be alive. Of course I didn’t think to come here myself until they were gone and my life was over.
* * *
I don’t know how long I sit, the sun is hidden, but I’ve had no need for time since I came. I don’t even keep track of my age, let alone the time of day.
I’ve never seen a single one of these thick skinned things until now. I wasn’t sure they existed. I didn’t want them to. I felt sorry for them even when I didn’t believe in them. How can they have any sort of life at all? Seeing this one, I think perhaps they can. (Or this one can.) But here they are in the world in spite of themselves. No fault of their own. And in all kinds of weather. If they get sick, I suppose they pine and die on their own.
The creature seemed . . . rather sweet, I thought. Fine fingered hands. Womanly arms. Perhaps it really is female.
* * *
Then I hear the scraping and thumping of something who hasn’t hardly room enough to turn around. My poor friend, Zero Seven. I hurry back as best I can clumping through snow a foot deep in spots. I open my door and go from a wall of softly falling flakes (softly now) to a wall of shiny green.
I push my fist into its side as one does to move a horse. I hope it feels my push. I hope it’s as sensitive as a horse. “Let me in, friend.”
It moves. I hear something falling over on its far side.
“Do gum in. I’mmmm afraig I. . . . Mmmmm . . . as you ksee.”
I slide myself in—scrape myself in, that is, it’s the wrong direction for the scales.
It turns toward me as best it can and seems to almost bow, or perhaps it’s a nod, one elegant little hand at its mouth as if embarrassed. I do believe I’m right about the sex. It must be female.
“Kh kvery, kvery, sssssorry. I’ll leave mmmm-nnnow.”
With me in the way it can’t turn around to go. Perhaps not even with me not in the way. It’ll have to back out.
“Don’t go. Sit down.” It’s in a half crouch already. It goes down into a squat, its stomach on the floor, feet splayed on each side—long toed, gruesome feet with claws I wouldn’t want to argue with.
I slide myself around the creature to the stove on the far side. I should have had the dishes washed and put away. Well, no matter, they’re tin. A few more bumps and scratches won’t make any difference.
No doubt about it, it’s sick. I could even feel that as I move around it. Though how do you know if a reptile is sick? But there’s an odd stickiness to it and I imagine it normally doesn’t have any smell at all.
“Stay. You’re sick. I’ll make stew. Rest again.”
It shakes its head. “Mmmmmukst go.”
“I don’t want to find you out there dead.”
“Dhuh dhead in here iks worssse for mmgh . . . mmyou.”
It shows its teeth. There are lots of them. Is that a grin? Can that be? That the creature has a sense of humor? Rosie seemed to grin, too. I take a chance. I laugh. It opens its mouth wider but there’s no sound. We look each other in the eye. Some kind of understanding, lizard to mammal, passes between us. Then the creature shivers. I pull a blanket off the bunk, big Hudson Bay, but it only covers the creature’s top half like a shawl. It helps to hold it on with those tiny arms, and nods again.
“I’ll build up the fire and get us something to eat. You just rest.”
“I hhhelp-puh.”
“Please don’t.”
It grins again, mouth wide, that row of teeth gleaming, then huddles close against the wall opposite my kitchen area, trying to make itself small. Still, I step on its toes as I work. When I do, we both say, “Sorry.” “Khsssorry.” We both laugh. . . . Well, I laugh and it shows its teeth.
How nice to have somebody . . . something around that has a sense of humor. They must have left in some odd rogue genes by mistake.
I start to make stew. I have lots of dried chanterelles and I hope it likes wild garlic. It watches me as Rosie did, mouth open. I hum a song my grandma taught me. I thought hardly anybody knew that song but me, but then I hear the creature buzzing along with me, no doubt about it, the same song. I look at it. It blinks a slow blink, as if for a wink.
We eat my hare stew, it out of my wash basin. Licks it clean like Rosie always did. At least it hasn’t lost its appetite.
“Have you a name other than that Zero Seven on your tag? By the way, I took that off. I had a dog, Rosie. She died. I keep almost calling you Rosie by mistake. It’s the only name I’ve said for years.”
There’s that smile again. “Rrrrosie is kfine. Kfine.” Then Kfine turns into a cough. I heat up some wild rose hips tea. I always have lots of that.
Then it stretches out again. I pile on more blankets.
“Mmmmmnnno mmno. Mmdon’t.”
“I insist. You must stay warm. If the lamp doesn’t bother you I’ll read for a while, but you should sleep. I’ll make the fire high. Wake me if it gets cold. You should be warm.”
(My lamp is just a bowl of volcanic tuff with exactly the right hole in the center. I have a big one and a little one. The oil I’ve rendered even from creatures with not much fat. Even deer.)
I settle myself with a book. I like having company even if the company takes up most of the room. I think it’s already asleep, but then, “Khind, kh hind ssssir. I like being Rrrrrosie.” (It gargles it out as if it was French.) “Bhut who are mmmm kh you? If khyou don’t mmmmind.”
“Ben. I’m Ben.”
“Ah, easy khto kkh ssssay.”
I think: She. She is a she.
When I douse the lamp (by putting on the lid) and it’s pitch black in here, I do have a moment when I worry. She is starving. I might be her next meal and a better one than I’ve prepared for her so far, or at least bigger. What’s a little broth and then a little rabbit stew? But I won’t be facing anything my wife and child didn’t face already though my fate might not be as instantaneous as theirs. But I hear her breathing, snuffling, snorting in her sleep just like Rosie. I’m comforted and reassured by her snores.
* * *
Sometime dur
ing the night the snow stops. Dawn, in my one and only window, shows a cloudless sky. I watch the oblong of sunlight move down and across the far wall until it lights on her. She’s a bundle of blankets, but what little I can see of her shines out. Certainly she’s not made for a winter climate. Probably most comfortable in a hot place with lots of shiny green leaves to hide in.
She feels the sun the moment it touches her. (Thick skinned but infinitely sensitive.) Turns and looks at me. Grins her Rosie-grin. Like Rosie she doesn’t have to say it, it’s all over her face: Hey, a new day. What’s up now? And: Let’s get going.
“You look better.”
She nods. Says, “Mmmmm, nnnn. Mmmmm, nnnn.”
“We’ll go out, if you like. You must feel cramped in here.”
“Mmmmmm, nnnn.”
I’ve jerky and hard tack. We breakfast on that, and more rose hip tea—a pitcher of it for her.
“Keep a blanket around your shoulders. And I think you’ll have to back out.”
Like my Rosie was before she got old, this Rosie peers, sniffs, hops up on boulders, jumps for no reason whatsoever, she skips in the bare spots where the snow has blown off. Sings a ho dee ho dee ho kind of song. A young thing that, sick or not, starving or not, can’t sit still. I saw that in my boy.
I take her to my viewing spot. You can see the whole valley. I often see deer from here.
As we watch, another of these creatures comes down the valley heading south. I haven’t seen any until this one sitting beside me, and here comes yet another, and then two more not far behind. Driven down from the mountain passes on purpose? Or is it the cold?
We watch. Not moving. Rosie looks at me, at them, at me. I love that look all young things have, animal or human, of wondering: What’s up? What’s going on? Is everything all right?
Nebula Awards Showcase 2004 Page 31