"Who is this?” said Mark.
The princess turned pale. Would Mark laugh at her, and shout, Princess, princess, kiss your frog? Would he jump out the window? “It is my frog,” she whispered.
"Nice to meet you,” said Mark. “But surely you see—the new system told everyone it would make more and better things and make everyone feel richer. So when it failed to do so...."
Every day after class, Mark and the princess and her frog would argue and drink tea. Mark did not agree with the frog's ideas, but he admired it, and he introduced the frog to some other friends who thought the way it did. Soon the frog began to speak at rallies of many people. Usually the princess would take it there, in her handbag, and place it on the lectern before the microphones.
"The new system had flaws,” the frog said. “It tried to be just and fair, and often it failed. Comrades who acted like princes twisted it around for their own power. But what have we replaced it with? We have given up on even trying to be fair. This latest way is worse even than the days of kings and princesses! A king at least had a heart, but a corporation cannot have a heart."
Then many people would cheer. The frog decided to run for Parliament.
One day, when the frog was out at a rally without the princess, Mark turned red and began to cough and stammer. The princess thought he might have some disease, but then she listened more closely to what he was saying. It turned out he was asking her to marry him.
"We should probably try kissing first,” said the princess soberly. Mark, trembling, nodded. They tried it out, and the princess learned that the frog had been right: kissing between honest and considerate comrades was pleasant and healthy. She did not feel as if she were going to die, or as if it were spring instead of November, or as if she had been made for this moment. She did not turn red and shiver and sigh the way that Mark did. But she liked it.
"Please marry me,” Mark said. “If you do, I promise that we will live happily until we die."
The princess did not know what she wanted. Mark was very kind and she loved to talk with him. And kissing was fun. She felt that something was missing, but she knew that was probably romance. And wasn't the frog perhaps right, that romance was just to confuse people, and make them buy more clothes and perfume and movies, and think princes and princesses were more important than other people? And she liked the idea of Mark living happily until he died. So she said, “All right."
When the frog returned home, the princess told it what had happened. The frog began to hop back and forth across the table. “I see,” the frog said. “I see."
"Don't you think it's a good idea?” the princess said. “Don't you think he'd be a very good husband?"
"Yes, yes,” the frog said. “Of course. Mark is a good person. He has many wrong ideas, but at least he listens. You will be a good match.” It stopped hopping and looked at the princess, first with one eye, then with the other. “Do you...."
"What?” asked the princess. “Do I what?"
"Never mind,” said the frog, hopping again. “I was going to ask an irrelevant question. Never mind."
"Frog,” said the princess. “Are you ever sorry that you are a frog? I mean, do you want me to kiss you? I mean, now that I am engaged to marry Mark, don't you think there isn't so much danger anymore, of it leading to all those things you were worried about before?"
"No!” shouted the frog. “No, no, for the hundredth time! How many times do I have to tell you?"
The princess was shocked. She said nothing.
"Pardon me,” said the frog, turning a darker green. “I did not mean to be so...abrupt. Ah. Forgive me...if I do not want to talk about it further."
"All right,” said the princess in a very small voice, and she went to bed. But she could not sleep, and lay the whole night wondering what the frog meant, and what the irrelevant question was that it had been going to ask her.
When she thought about the frog, she felt that her life was magical, and that she was meant for the frog, that she and it, princess and frog, were like a lock and a key, and that if she held the frog to her heart she would be more than happy—she would be right.
But of course, this was exactly the sort of foolishness against which the frog had warned her.
Once the frog had collected enough signatures to get onto the ballot for Parliament, it began to have enemies.
"The frog is against God,” said the preachers in the churches.
"The frog will bring back the work camps,” wrote the newspapers.
"The frog eats flies,” said a man on TV.
Posters with the frog's picture on them were carried through the streets. Volunteers came to drive the frog to huge rallies.
The princess stayed home with Mark.
One night they were sitting at the table. Mark was studying for his finals, and the princess was pretending to study for hers. But inside the geography book that she had open, she had hidden a letter from her older sister, which she was reading over and over again. It was a letter of congratulation on her engagement. It was a letter about love. Her older sister wrote that if she wanted to know if Mark loved her so, it was in his kiss. She wrote that Mark should make her feel like a natural woman. She wrote that, if Mark had any other girls, she should not care about his other girls, if he would just be good to her.
The frog hopped up on the table, and the princess closed her book with a start. The frog snapped at a fly with its long tongue and said, “I am leaving for the highlands tonight. Your father has agreed to come and speak on television with me tomorrow night, at the site of the camp where he had to work. I will apologize to him, in the name of the new system, and he will accept. This will show the people that the work camps were a mistake, and that I am against them."
"Good,” said Mark.
"Good luck,” said the princess. She thought about offering to go with the frog. To carry it in her handbag, perhaps. But then the frog's supporters were there with the taxi.
On television the next morning, a man from the rich country of supermodels and gossip columnists said that his company owned all the rights to talking frogs. Any talking frogs not licensed by his company were violating the trademark of a famous cartoon character, and his country would enforce its company's rights by any means necessary.
Then a man from the government called the frog a terrorist.
"This is getting bad,” said Mark.
"Let's go,” said the princess.
They drove Mark's old car to the highlands. As they got near the camp where her father had worked, the princess saw more and more tanks and soldiers. Finally they came to a place where the soldiers had blocked the road.
"No one can go past here,” said a soldier. “This area is only for soldiers who are hunting terrorists and copyright violators."
"Wait,” said another soldier. “I recognize her—it is the princess from the old system. I guarded her family for many years."
"Oh, guard, guard!” said the princess.
"Come,” said the guard. “I will take you to your father."
She kissed Mark and got on the back of the guard's motorcycle. They flew over the rough roads to the site of the old camp, which had become a museum and television studio.
"You don't have long,” said the guard. They heard the sound of tanks and helicopters. “I'll wait here.” He gripped his handlebars nervously.
The princess found the frog in its dressing room, surrounded by clothes and makeup and bright lights. “Frog,” she said, “they called you a terrorist, they are coming to arrest you."
"Ah,” said the frog. “So it ends."
"You must escape,” the princess cried. “Come, get in my handbag."
"Do not be foolish,” said the frog. “You do not want to run away and hide in the forests to fight for the new system. You do not even like the new system. You are getting married and becoming a teacher. Go back to your life."
"Frog,” the princess said, “I will give up that life to save you. I will go with you."
<
br /> The frog stared at her. Its throat sac expanded. Then it looked away. “It will not work,” the frog said. “They will search your handbag. They will search everywhere."
"Kiss me,” the princess said.
The frog flushed dark green. Without a word, it hopped up onto the makeup table. The princess leaned over and kissed it.
There was a flash of light; the cold lips touching the princess's turned warm. When the princess opened her eyes, there, where the frog had been, sat a beautiful woman, only a few years older than she was.
The woman did not have any clothes on. She got up quickly and dressed herself from the clothes hanging in the dressing room.
The princess sat down.
"Well,” said the woman who had been a frog, “I thank you. If you ever want to find me again, ask your father about the old witch. She will know where I am."
"Can you kiss me one more time?” said the princess.
The woman who had been a frog frowned. “Well,” she said, and stopped. She turned red, and then she turned white, and ran her hand through her short dark hair. “I suppose."
After the kiss, she left the princess sitting alone in the dressing room, listening to the sound of helicopters landing and soldiers running.
The princess still did not know what she wanted.
But she would have to decide soon.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Short Story: THE FAIRY PRINCESS by Dennis Danvers
Dennis Danvers is the author of such novels as Wilderness, Circuit of Heaven, and The Watch. His short stories have appeared in Realms of Fantasy, Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet, and Space and Time, with other stories forthcoming in Electric Velocipede and Richmond Noir, an anthology of crime stories set in and around Virginia, where Mr. Danvers lives. He makes his F&SF debut with a story about a woman with an unusual job. WARNING: This story has adult themes and might not be appropriate for younger readers.
Let's start with the part where you won't like me much, then take it from there. No excuses. I was married to a nice man with a little girl three years old, when I fell in love with another man and left my husband, lost my child in the custody battle, and ended up in the high Rockies with my lover. He changed. What did I know? I'd known him nine months when he shot himself in our cabin, the dead of winter. I dragged him outside so he'd freeze solid and I could figure out what to do with him, but before I figured it out, something dragged him off. When the thaw came, I got down off the mountain. I live in the city now, a different one from where my husband lives. He's remarried, moved on. My daughter calls her stepmother Mom last I heard, though she's old enough by now to have a daughter of her own. I leave them alone. That's the only thing I'm proud of in that story, not that I ever tell it. So that's who you're dealing with. In case you think it matters—a person's best-forgotten, sordid past. For what it's worth, I've changed too.
I work nights here at Skelley's. We make high-end sex toys. Screwbots. Anything you might want in a one-night stand. Fairy princess, rock star, Jesus—you name it. Special orders—that special someone who doesn't even have to know you're leasing a surrogate—are slightly more expensive. All you need is a photograph and the money and thirty minutes, like a pizza. They all look perfect, feel perfect, and screw perfect. By design, however, the personalities I install, debrief, and wipe are only as convincing as the potency of the drugs you're on and how horny you are. They're for twenty-four hours only, as mandated by law, and frankly, Skelley's doesn't want clients to get too attached. Lovesick Johns are bad news at any brothel. Clients screwy enough to fall for a Screwbot, and I've seen one or two, are particularly bad news. There's not as much back door business as you might think. A week on a yacht for the richer than rich is the most I've ever heard of the rules being bent. There's just not that much demand for prolonging the experience. A weekend with a Screwbot is a long time. How long can you hold your breath? How long can you pretend you're not alone?
A few years back, a couple of young guys in my department figured out how to slip a fairy princess out of the inventory and into the store room, intending to keep her as a lunch break mistress. For all practical purposes, the princess had vanished. In less than a week, they tried to slip her back into the supply chain, and that's when they got caught. They wiped her without debriefing first. This raised red flags. They had to know this, but keeping the experience secret was more important, apparently, than their own freedom. That's my theory anyway. Most accept their story that they were just being stupid and forgot. They managed to steal from this place without getting caught—they could've ravished that princess forever, and no one would've ever known—and they're stupid? There's all kinds of stupid. They were out in less than a year. The judge was lenient. After all, they were just stupid kids. Skelley's destroyed the fairy princess. At least she never showed back up in the inventory.
Ever since, the security's been unbelievable. Even now, three a.m. Christmas morning, I couldn't sneak a Screwbot out of here if my life depended on it. Cameras everywhere, armed guards at all three exits, a secured perimeter with Screwbot-sniffing dogs. It's all a big show for the people afraid of Screwbots taking over the world. Ignore the fact that hundreds are shipped out each and every day. Even Christmas. Not to worry. A herd of horny hamsters would stand a better chance of global conquest. One dimensional is flattery. Parrots have more complex personalities.
Christmas is always a bad time at work. Everyone wants time off, but this is when demand is the highest. Santa anyone? Virgin Mary? The Grinch? Skelley's pays royalties for all the Seuss characters. This bothers some people. But from my perspective it makes more sense turning a kid's book character into a “personality” worth screwing than reducing Anna Karenina or Philip Marlowe to sex toys. The Seusses were fun to write, but like everything else, they got old. A rich celeb's secret Seuss Screwbot party last summer with dozens of rhyming concubines was it for me. Some people have too much money. It makes them do sick things just because they can.
The guy I ran off with was angry about the rich. He was angry about a lot of things. What does it say about me that I found that attractive? But he was sweet too, terribly sweet, the sweetest man I ever knew. I might as well name him. He's sure to come up again. Derek. John Connor's uncle. He had to explain to me who that was. His mother was a fan of an old TV show. He was named after an angry character on the show. That angered him too. I could never see the point of anger over decisions made before you were even born. That's like cursing gravity. Doesn't your own life provide enough regrets?
Ever since I found him dead, I've been trying to remain neutral. About everything. Let me tell you: If you remain neutral, you lose all your friends or never make them in the first place. Neutral is like a demilitarized zone. No one lives there. That's why I live in the city. There are lots of other people around. Their presence comforts me. I'm never alone. People might call it alone sitting at home in the middle of a couple million people, but they don't know what alone is. I don't have to interact with all these people. I can ignore them completely. The fewer people around, the more they refuse to be ignored. Alone, I wouldn't want to live. I'd be too exposed in a small town. The city suits me perfectly. Of course I'm lonely. Everybody's lonely.
I'm not usually so philosophical. Christmas always brings that out in me, all this hubbub about beginnings and endings and joy. What do beginnings and endings have to do with joy? Being the only living person for acres of industrial complex at three a.m. can make you feel small. I should turn on the radio, but I couldn't stand another carol. They'll be playing the grim ones now, the somber, pious, funereal ones. No zippy little shopping anthems. All the shopping's done. The radio's always too melancholy this time of morning anyway. Listen. It's not just this huge lifeless building in the middle of the night or the prospect of another Christmas alone with old movies and brandy that has me feeling like this. It's my whole life. My life has shrunk down to nothing, and still it's not small enough.
So. I have no plans for Ch
ristmas when it dawns in a few hours, which is why this shift has fallen to me alone when usually there's half a dozen of us doing this and that. Technically, it's Christmas already, about time for the Ghost of Christmas Future, or maybe Past. I can't remember. When I was little, I used to watch whatever version of A Christmas Carol surfaced on TV, kept watching through college, then watched with my little girl when she was too young to care about it. I cried though. I hope she did too when she was old enough. I don't hope she quit watching like I did, not wanting to cry, or afraid I wouldn't anymore. I hate to wish that on her. People call that growing up. Shriveling up's more like it.
Derek didn't do Christmas. Didn't believe in it. A shallow wallow in capitalist excess and sentimentality he found repugnant in every way. A day to be ignored like any other. So why do you suppose he picked that day for the chosen bullet to find its home inside his sweet head? I'm neutral on Christmas. Totally neutral. Christmas is wasted on me.
I still have a roomful of sleeping Screwbots to debrief, to wipe, to ready for the next shipment. These are all slated to ship out gift-wrapped before sunrise. A Christmas matinee. Installation takes no time. I've written all the scripts already. Before I can upload, however, I have to debrief them—examine and back up the bot's memory before I wipe it. By examine, I mean a fast-forward reprise of the job. A human witness, as required by law. Amongst ourselves, we call them quickies. Debriefing's a legal requirement after each use and a protection against litigation.
A Screwbot's memory contains exactly what happened from the time it was turned on till the time it was returned, even when it's sleeping. Every little thing. People forget that. It's my job to ensure that none of the bots acted improperly or were used illegally, that is, for anything besides sex. Skelley's interprets the term very broadly. I'm on the lookout for anything that might fall outside that vast territory. When I'm in the groove, I can debrief a dozen an hour.
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