by M. D. Cooper
How is a bartender unfamiliar with lemonade? If it were anyone else, I might suspect some sectarian rube-ishness at play.
The attendant nods. “Of course! Shall I bring three lemonades while I send word to the engineer?”
“That’d be sporting of you,” Pinky says approvingly.
The poor woman looks so relieved that I feel sorry for her, and she hurries off to score some lemonade.
I peek at the people across the aisle. They keep giving us furtive looks, but don’t seem as anxious as before.
Twenty minutes later we’re sipping lemonade, watching the landscape fly by the window, and waiting for the engineer to call us up. I don’t really want to visit the engine. I don’t hate trains or anything, I just don’t need to visit the place where the driving happens.
When the attendant returns to let us know we can go back to the engine, I opt to remain. “You two go have a look. I’ll stay here.”
“You sure?” Greta asks. “I could stay here if you’d rather.”
“No, go ahead.” Pinky’s already on her way, so I whisper, “Just keep Pinky out of trouble.”
She giggles and nods before hurrying off after our tall friend.
They remain absent for the rest of the ride. I don’t mind. With the gentle rocking of the train, I could almost fall asleep. But I won’t. Because falling asleep in public is a great way for a guy like me to get robbed, beaten, or wake up in a tub of ice in Hoboken with both my kidneys missing.
Not today, organ pirates!
The train has stopped and the other passengers have disembarked by the time Pinky and Greta finally return. Improbably, they’re both wearing train conductor hats and looking quite pleased about it.
I say nothing.
I continue to say nothing on the ferry ride, and by the time we finally step out and get a good view of the Statue of Liberty, I’ve kind of forgotten about the hats.
We stand looking at the big green metal majesty of the statue. Pinky nods slowly. “I like it. She looks like someone I could be friends with. Do you think I could get a pointy hat like hers?”
A big, metal crown with huge spikes? I doubt it. But I say, “Hm, I don’t know. Might be tough.”
“A shame. Everyone should have one of those. Maybe I’ll get one custom-made. I know a guy.”
I feel a strange sense of synchronicity. Somehow, Pinky fits in Old New York/New France better than I ever did. She does it without even trying, too.
We wander around, eat some funnel cake, and just kind of waste time until we can get back to Nana’s house. It’s nice. It makes me think of how I would have misspent my youth if I’d had the chance.
Better late than never.
The trip back to Nana’s is easier going. My friends are already champs at taking the ferry and the train, and though Pinky complains again about the taxi, we return to Nana’s in good spirits.
I ring the doorbell and almost immediately the door opens. Nana steps out of the house.
Back in her day, Nana was a bonafide beauty. She’s pretty even now, with the left side of her face covered in cybernetics. She always said her left eye was a little lower than her right anyway. Now it doesn’t matter. She has a carefully coiffed puff of thick white hair, done up in an old-world style of wavy glamor. Most of her body below her chin is hardware. It’s good that it cured her arthritis, but bad that she can’t get repairs when she needs them. She wears a feminine dress in some old-lady style, with lacy stuff around the edges.
“Charlie. Come give your nana a hug.” Her voice has a metallic ring, but it mostly sounds like her.
I give her a hug, careful not to dislodge any hoses or scrape myself on metal.
“I’m so glad you came. Who are these people?”
“Greta and Pinky.” I point to them in turn. “The best friends in the universe.”
“I didn’t think I’d live to see the day,” Nana says. “But then, I didn’t think I’d have an exhaust hose instead of a rectum, so there you go.”
Greta laughs in surprise, but Pinky nods approvingly. “I like her.”
Nana didn’t used to be so blunt, but now that I see Pinky digging it, it occurs to me that the two of them have things in common. Huh. I wonder if that has something to do with my nearly instant liking of Pinky.
“You’ve done well.” Nana’s looking at my friends. “You should marry her. You’d have cute babies.”
Even cyborg nanas worry about marrying off their grandkids.
“Which one?” I ask, wondering if she can pick up on my love for Greta.
“Either. They’re both good. I can tell.” Nana tilts her head to one side. “Though, I doubt you could handle the big one. Sexually speaking.”
“You got that right,” Pinky agrees.
You probably think I’m dying a thousand deaths of embarrassment, but actually I’m not. Sure, my nana and my friend are talking about my sexual prowess, and right in front of the woman I love, too, but I long ago gave up the idea that I even had any sexual prowess. So nope. I have no feelings to hurt in that regard.
Besides, I agree with them.
“Come in, I’m making tea.” Nana doesn’t wait for an answer. She just goes into the house and leaves us to follow.
As we enter, she greets Greta and Pinky likes guests going through a receiving line at a wedding. She clasps their hands and thanks them for coming. “You can call me Rose. Or Nana, like Charlie does.”
“You got it, Nana Rose.” Pinky points at Nana and makes a loud click sound with her tongue.
We sit at Nana’s little table in the kitchen and she fusses with cups and saucers and pouring tea. When I take a sip, I’m relieved to find that it’s not bad tea. It’s thoroughly tolerable.
Then she breaks out the cookies. “I almost forgot these,” she says as she arranges them daintily on a plate. “They’re Charlie’s favorite.”
I try to warn my friends with my eyes, but it’s tough to convey panic and destruction without Nana also seeing it.
Greta takes a polite nibble, smiles, and sets the cookie down under the guise of sipping her tea. She’s clever like that.
Pinky’s chewing thoughtfully after tossing a whole cookie into her mouth. “Minty. I like it.”
Oatmeal cookies are not supposed to be minty. But, because I love Nana, I take a bite and chew, smiling as if hell demons of doom are not dancing on my taste buds.
What is that other flavor? It’s kind of…grassy. And then there’s the weird taste that is both metallic and oily, and seems to be the signature flavor of all her baking.
“I added some green tea leaves, to make them fancy,” Nana adds.
This is not what fancy tastes like. But I smile at Nana all the same, while formulating a plan to dispose of the cookie when she’s not looking.
If I talk, I can’t eat. “So, Nana. What’s the problem you’re having with unrepaired parts?”
“My joints all need to be realigned and tightened. My hearing is not right. And my shoulder has a tendency to hitch at the most inopportune times.” Nana rubs her right shoulder.
“Mrs. Dubstep said your hand keeps falling off,” I say.
“Oh, that busybody. I wasn’t going to mention that. Don’t want to seem like a complainer.” Nana pouts.
“Nobody thinks that,” Greta assures her. “You deserve to get the maintenance you need. We’ll make sure you do.”
“It won’t be easy,” Nana warns. “The cyborg union is notoriously chintzy when it comes to repairs. You pretty much have to have an entire system failure for them to do anything.”
“Not cool,” Pinky says after swallowing another cookie. I think she actually likes them, and that makes me question things about her. “Greta’s right. We’ll make sure you get what you need.”
“Hot damn, I’ll be swimming in oil tonight!” Nana rubs her hands together.
Nana always liked the phrase “hot damn” but the idea of swimming around in oil only became an appealing one to her after being assimilated.
She takes off her apron, hangs it on a peg, and smooths her dress. Then she stands by the door. “Well?”
Oh. She wants to leave now.
We jump up and follow Nana.
“You got it, Nana Rose,” Pinky says on the way to Nana’s car. “Let’s go make those bastards fix your hand, and the rest of you, too.”
“Damn straight.” Nana holds up her metal fist and Pinky fist bumps it.
What’s happening here? Greta and I exchange a look of uncertainty.
Pinky has apparently won front-seat privileges, because Nana tells me to sit in the back with Greta. Or maybe she’s still working the marriage angle. It’s hard to tell with her.
Nana was an iffy driver back in the day when she was entirely biological. Now, she’s a downright terrifying one. She calculates things so precisely that she can drive in a way that, for anyone else, would be insanely reckless.
It doesn’t help that every time our bodies get crushed down with g-force thanks to a sharp turn, Pinky raises her hands and yells, “Whooo, that’s it, Nana Rose! Metal to the pedal!”
The first time this happens, Greta says, “Isn’t it pedal to the metal?”
“Nah,” Pinky says, pointing at Nana. “Cyborg.”
I laugh. Greta laughs. Then Nana takes another sharp turn and I feel like I might lose my tea.
In no time at all, we pull up to the cyborg union office. It occurs to me at this point that we haven’t come up with any specific plan. We’re showing up with nothing but the desire to help Nana.
Well, we also have Greta’s luck. And everything that Pinky brings to the table.
So, yeah. We’re good. We got this.
We get out of that car gangsta-style. I wish I could film it, because it’s like a movie. Nana and Pinky lead, with Greta and me flanking them. We walk side by side right up to the door like a group of highly intimidating vigilantes. I imagine what we would look like in slow-mo.
Nana opens the door and the moment is ruined because we have to line up single file to enter, and that’s just too orderly to be cool anymore.
But we’re in now, and those cyborgs are going to get an earful. Well, if they have ears. Okay, let’s just say they’re going to have their asses handed to them. Wait. Same problem.
Damn, why do so many phrases for throwing down involve body parts?
Whatever. We strut right up and…take a number. Because there’s no one here but a number-ticket machine. Apparently this place is entirely automated.
Of course. Because cyborgs.
We are so screwed once cyborgs compose the majority of the population.
We sit down on the hard, uncomfortable chairs and wait. Even Pinky cannot make sitting in a waiting room look cool.
Even though no one else is in the room, it takes a good fifteen minutes for the sign on the door to change to Now serving number twenty-eight. A latch mechanism in the door pops.
Pinky stands up.
“We’re twenty-nine, dear,” Nana says, waving her ticket.
“Well, today, we’re twenty-eight.” Pinky opens the door.
Yeah, she’s got her cool back. I don’t know if it comes across to you while you’re reading this, but it’s the way she said it that matters. She sounded like Zorbo Blergbot in the movie Laserfight in the DNS Corral. All tough and gritty and stuff, like she eats steel beams and spits them out.
On second thought, maybe she does.
We follow Pinky’s lead and enter a room with cyborgs sitting at teller windows. One window is labeled Employment. That’s not the one. The second has a sign that says Referrals and I don’t want to think too hard about what that means. The third says Maintenance, which seems like the place for us.
There’s only one chair opposite the teller, so we encourage Nana to sit. She’s probably tougher than any of us, but it seems like the right thing to do for an old lady.
“Can I help you?” the teller asks.
“I’ve sent a dozen requisition forms, but I haven’t been able to get repairs. I need joint maintenance. Especially for my hand.” Nana holds out the faulty extremity, palm up.
“You look functional,” the teller says, scrutinizing Nana.
“Well I’m not falling over or unable to activate my circuits, but is that what it takes to get service?” Nana asks.
“If we give everyone free tweaks that they don’t really need, how will we have time to service the people who really need it?” the teller reasons.
“I don’t know, maybe you let the people who are struggling decide if they really need it? Aren’t they the best judge of that?”
“No.” The teller sits straighter, and I can tell she’s about to refuse to help Nana.
“Look,” I say. Everyone looks at me. Uh oh. I didn’t have a good speech planned or anything. I’m just going off the cuff. This doesn’t bode well. “You cyborgs go around assimilating people and then not living up to your obligations. Nana didn’t ask to be assimilated. You did that. If you don’t start stepping up and helping people who ask for it, I’ll…” My mind races for a threat. I mean, what can I really do about it? What can anyone do? If cyborgs were easy to thwart, we’d have found a way to keep them from assimilating poor old nanas in their own kitchens.
My gaze goes to Greta. Greta of the golden glow and the woman I love, who has all the luck. How far can I push that luck?
Let’s see.
“I’ll call the Gvertflorian prime minister and ask his people to rid Earth of cyborgs once and for all.”
Everyone knows that Gvertflorians have a blood feud with cyborgs. Dang, there’s the body-part issue coming up again. Can you have a blood feud with cyborgs? They don’t have much blood. Maybe they have an oil feud or a coolant feud or something.
Urg.
Anyway, Gvertflorians hate cyborgs and would be delighted to come rain hell upon them. That’ll never happen because the fallout would be tremendous and Earthlings aren’t about to sign up for that.
The teller clearly doesn’t believe me. She shouldn’t either. It’s a ridiculous claim. Here’s where I back up my claim with some fake proof. I hope.
I hand my telcoder to Greta. “Call the prime minister’s office and tell them we may need to call in that favor.”
Greta gives me a look of panic, but she takes the telcoder and begins punching in numbers. A lot of numbers. Like, fifty of them. Intergalactic calling is a nightmare.
She turns her head, so only Pinky and I can see her look of surprise. “Oh! Yes, please hold one moment.”
She hands the telcoder to me.
I hand it to the teller. “Here. This is the prime minister’s private secretary. Heed my warning: you will be thinking about whatever happens next for the rest of your life. Don’t make it something you’ll regret.”
The teller looks unsure. She takes the telcoder. “Hello?”
The servo on her neck makes a popping sound. She thrusts the telcoder at me. “Take it!” she hisses.
I say into it, “Please stand by,” as if there is something to stand by for. Then I fix the cyborg with a look.
She backs away. “I’ll arrange Rose’s repairs immediately. I will also call an emergency union meeting with all representatives. We wish to avoid a Gvertflorian conflict.”
“Yeah, ya do,” Pinky drawls. “Get your robot ass moving. Nana Rose needs fixing.”
When the teller leaves through the back, I want to sag into a chair, but there isn’t one. I will my bones to remain solid for at least a little while longer. I lean against the wall and let out a long breath.
Oh no, the telcoder. I put it to my ear, and the line is still open. Crap. “Apologies,” I say. “We’ll call back later.”
Pinky, Greta, Nana, and I are trying to contain ourselves. We’re well aware that there are probably listening devices, and maybe video monitoring, too. Though I have a strong desire to cheer and celebrate our success, I hold it all in.
A cyborg man wearing a white coat enters. “Hello, Mrs. White. I hear you’re having j
oint issues? If you’ll come with me, we’ll get those fixed right now.”
He leads Nana away, and the teller returns.
Pinky leans toward her. “If we have to come here again, I’m not going to be nearly so nice. And I’ll be looking for you, personally. Got it?”
The teller’s neck servo makes another popping sound. “I assure you, the issue has already been handled. This won’t happen again.”
“Make sure it doesn’t. I like punching stuff.”
She walks back toward the waiting room.
“She really does,” Greta says before following.
I feel like I should leave some last, parting words. Something really cool like Zorbo Blergbot would say.
Nothing comes to me. It seems I’ve used up all of my cleverness for the day. I just point at her menacingly, then follow my friends.
We go right past the waiting room and outside the building. Once in the outdoors, I feel like I can breathe again. That building was downright oppressive.
Greta, Pinky, and I cheer, hug one another, do some funky victory dance moves, and generally make people either stare or turn around and walk the other direction.
We’re so hyped up on our success that I send Nana a message that we’re going to do some window shopping while we wait. I don’t know how long cyborg maintenance takes, but I’m guessing she’s going to get the extra-uber deluxe treatment, so I figure we have time to kill.
The first shop is a jewelry store, and while I’d like to do the cute shopping-for-a-ring thing with Greta, that experience is way off in the distant future. Maybe. I hope.
We skip the jewelry store. We also have no need for the beef jerky store. Why is there a whole store for that? It defies explanation.
The third store is a winner. It’s a monument and sculpture store, but Pinky spots something and strides right in.
With surprisingly little resistance, although with a hearty helping of puzzlement, the man inside removes a metal crown from a sculpture.
“But what are you…” he begins as he hands it to Pinky.
She puts the Statue of Liberty crown on her head. I must admit, it looks rather regal on her.
She looks to me for an opinion.
“Majestic,” I say.
“Magnificent,” Greta adds.