by C. Gockel
6T9’s eyes narrowed at the werfle, still not sure where Carl was going with this—or if he was going anywhere. The creature had a habit of going off on tangents that weren’t relevant to the crisis at hand.
Carl nodded sadly. “We are that stupid when we’re young…like most young, I suppose.” He averted his gaze and scratched behind an ear.
“What’s your point?” 6T9 said, his exertion in the higher grav of moments ago catching up with him. He’d need to power up soon. Or should he just shut down? Was he useful like this or simply dangerous?
“Our venom comes in slowly, so we know how to use it judiciously,” Carl said. “I imagine having the ability to wound and kill come on suddenly would be quite a shock. I think that an accident or two would be almost inevitable.”
6T9 stared at the werfle for 2.3 seconds, and then he looked at the path he’d ripped through the grass—it was almost wide enough to be a road. Beyond that was the forest, with felled trees and shattered tree limbs. “An accident?” he said.
“Yes,” said Carl Sagan, setting a paw on 6T9’s knee. “An accident. Accidents happen when any species learns new skills.”
6T9 swallowed. His eyes dropped to Carl’s tiny claws. Carl really wasn’t the fragile werfle body with a tiny braincase. The body was just the host for a thousand-and-then-some year old being. 6T9 could end the life of the fragile host in just a few thumps of the creature’s dual hearts. But Carl didn’t believe he’d do that, or he wouldn’t be so close. 6T9 let loose a long breath. The creature was exonerating him. It made his circuits misfire. “I think,” 6T9 said, “that you are just angling for a tummy rub.”
Carl pulled back. Standing on his hindmost two paw pairs, he touched four paws to his chest. “I am always angling for tummy rubs.”
Arranging his limbs so he was sitting cross-legged, 6T9 patted his thighs. “Come here.” Carl hopped into his lap and threw himself onto his back. 6T9 scratched his chest and tummy with a touch that was lighter than he knew Carl liked, but he was afraid to press too hard. What if he thought of something that caused his rage to “uncork” again? Carl purred anyway, and, for once, didn’t criticize.
“James says Noa’s theory is that I’m suffering from a hundred years of repressed rage,” 6T9 said.
Carl opened a sleepy eye. “That seems plausible.”
“What do I do, Carl? I seem to be on a hair trigger fuse.”
Closing both eyes, Carl purred. “Talk instead of act when you can. Funnel the urge for violent action into constructive or harmless actions when you can’t talk or just need a release.”
At that moment, 6T9 glanced up and saw FET12, the sex ‘bot designed to look like a twelve-year-old child. He and Volka had rescued the ‘bot from pirates.
6T9’s hand on Carl’s stomach seized up, and then his body began to shake. Sex ‘bots didn’t like upsetting humans, and FET12 had been disfigured by the pirates, so he wore baggy long pants, long sleeves, and a hoodie that reached halfway to his nose. Sex ‘bots could up their masochism settings to enjoy pain and ask for new synth skin upgrades. But FET12 had never asked for new skin. He was fearful of humans and didn’t seem to crave their company generally, or even sex. Something had happened to him, something that his programming couldn’t handle—and sex ‘bot programming could handle quite a lot. What 6T9 wanted to do to the pirates that hurt FET12 and who had been planning to torture and rape Volka couldn’t be said aloud. Every circuit within him fired, and he felt like he might self-combust.
Carl’s necklace crackled. “I would like to see the pirates responsible for FET12’s injuries die a slow, excruciatingly painful death.”
6T9’s head jerked down to the creature.
Gazing at FET12, Carl said, “Noa, Volka, the Marines who stayed here when you turned this place into a bed and breakfast, and the police officers who were there when you liberated him all want the same. It’s a natural response, 6T9. Thinking and feeling it isn’t a crime.”
Circuits within 6T9 fired. Queries that he hadn’t known he’d been running returned results that said Carl’s analysis was correct. A police officer after the pirates’ capture had said, “Death’s too good for this lot,” and a Marine who’d taken advantage of the asteroid’s short stint as a bed and breakfast had said, “Fucking monsters should be castrated and then roasted alive, balls first.”
6T9’s body stopped shaking. “FET12’s tormentors were abhorrent to humans, even though humans don’t regard him as alive or a being worthy of rights.” The contradiction made his processors whirr.
“FET12’s not worthy of rights,” Carl said. “He can’t handle the responsibility rights would entail, but humans have rules against tormenting animals.”
“They also eat animals,” 6T9 countered.
“The animals are not aware of their impending fates,” Carl replied. “And creatures without self-awareness and higher understanding are much crueler than humans when it comes to slaughter…well, perhaps not crueler than the factory farms that exist on some worlds even still.”
6T9’s mind sparked with Carl’s words.
In the forest, FET12 began awkwardly breaking apart a branch so he could drag it away. The ‘bot was picking up 6T9’s mess. “I should help him,” 6T9 said.
Carl sighed. “Ordinarily, I’d say scratching me should come before all else—but in this case, I think it’s a good idea.” Rolling over, he scampered up to 6T9’s shoulder.
6T9 was still clutching his key in one hand, and he slipped it into his coat next to Eliza’s ashes. “What would Eliza think of me if she saw this?”
“She’d be glad you had gotten ownership of yourself,” Carl said matter-of-factly. “The whole reason she survived as long as she did was to make sure she lived long enough to see you had a processor that would give you the ability to live independently.”
Carl could read minds, and he’d known Eliza. It was like a window into his lover’s soul. He wanted to say thank you, to give the creature a scratch behind the ear, but then he saw the mess of fur Carl had left on his leg. Static flared under his skin. He was programmed to not like being exposed to animal fur and dander, and it always made his circuits misfire, but now his circuits lit brightly. He could change his programming. He owned himself. He could not be annoyed by the werfle’s bids for affection—at least, not on account of shedding.
Standing up, he dusted himself off and headed into the forest to help FET12, saying, “I’ve got time to adjust. Volka won’t be here for another week.”
Carl’s necklace crackled, and 6T9’s circuits dimmed. “Spit it out.”
Carl’s esophagus was so close to 6T9’s ear that he heard when the tiny creature swallowed. “Noa’s been called into an emergency meeting on Earth.”
Noa was on Luddeccea—months away from the nearest time gate to Earth at lightspeed. If she needed to be at an emergency meeting, the only one who could get her there was the sentient, faster-than-light starship Sundancer. The only beings Sundancer would travel for were Volka and Carl. If Volka was leaving Luddeccea on Noa’s account, she’d make an excuse to come here. Still, his fragile new programming and the circumstances were less than ideal.
“What? Why is Noa being recalled to Earth?” 6T9 asked, torn between happiness and dread that the Dark was spreading and fear of having an “accident of rage” around Volka. He seized on a bit of hope. “Is Volka spiriting a female weere off of Luddeccea?” Maybe Noa’s “meeting” was a diversion to get out of Luddeccean space without causing alarm?
Carl’s whiskers trembled, tickling his cheek. “No…although the scheme to recruit female weere is proceeding apace. I wish I could be there to see it...” 6T9 swore he could hear a wicked little smile in the werfle’s voice.
6
Ladies Who Lunch
Luddeccea
The weere maid admitted Alexis into the Nilsson residence. The home smelled of citrus wood polish and peppery gardenias, a pleasant change from the cab that had smelled of sweat many times over. It was a warm
day, but the home was surprisingly cool. Perhaps it was the high ceiling with a gently undulating fan instead of a fancy chandelier or the trees just outside the Eastern entrance with their deep shade?
Holly wasn’t far behind the maid. Holding out her arms, she exclaimed, “Alexis, so good to see you.” Holly was in her late forties or early fifties with some gray in her hair. She wasn’t fat or thin, short or tall. She was a no-nonsense woman who always spoke and moved with purpose. Alexis would have called her sure-footed, literally and figuratively, but as Holly came forward, she stumbled. Alexis stooped over and caught the other woman’s arms, keeping her aloft, without thinking.
“That cat again!” cried the weere, which was when Alexis noticed a strangely familiar, long-haired, brilliant-white cat with blue eyes trotting out from between Holly’s legs.
Blushing and recovering herself, Holly said cheerfully, “I see your reputation for heroics is quite well deserved.”
“Shoo,” said the maid, sweeping the air between her and the creature with a hand. The cat replied by sitting on its haunches and blinking at her.
Releasing Alexis’s arms, Holly said to the maid, “No, Tala, it’s all right.” Raising an eyebrow and turning to Alexis, Holly inclined her head toward the cat. “This is Snowball, Stella Tudor’s cat. I swear she comes over some days to observe me.”
“That she does,” grumbled the maid.
Both of Holly’s eyebrows shot up. “But she’s such a pretty thing, Tala, and she keeps the rats away, I dare say.”
Tala narrowed her eyes at the creature. The cat licked a paw in a way that seemed almost…defiant. Giving the cat the side eye, Tala left the foyer, saying, “I’ll go get the tea, ma’am.”
Holly and Alexis exchanged some pleasantries, and then Holly said, “Come this way.” The older woman led Alexis through a sitting room and past what looked like a cluttered study, saying, “We’ll go to the porch on the north side of the house. It’s very comfortable there, even on hot days like this one.”
Alexis thought she would be sad to leave the cool and quiet house, but it turned out the porch on the north side of the house was even cooler. It was set nearly against an artificial hill—the ruins of an ancient factory that had been constructed to build hover craft, or was it robots? It was a relic of the days before Revelation, when Archbishop Sato discovered machines were scheming against the people of Luddeccea. After Revelation, the factory complex had been torn down, and the rubble turned into the hill behind the house. Now it was covered with thick Luddeccean palms and ferns. Cool air sank down the hill beneath the thick foliage and into the house. No wonder it was so comfortable.
Alexis almost shivered, but not with the cold. The factory had been destroyed because of the fear of sentient machines—some said the factory workers had been executed and the hill was a graveyard for them as well. Most Luddecceans wouldn’t think much of a few humans dying to protect the planet from computer influence. Looking up at the lush vegetation, she couldn’t help wondering if some Luddecceans wouldn’t prefer her being under it.
She was part machine now, with tiny nano ‘bots remaining in her body, seeking out and destroying faulty cells. An accident of her treatment, she’d been told. While she’d been infected, the Republic doctors had kept her hyperthermic. The Republic, a civilization with centuries of space colonization experience, had plenty of experience with hyperthermia. As it was often brought about by radiation exposure, part of the standard injection to ward off system failure also had a nano ‘bot component that stayed behind to scrub away mutations caused by said radiation. Because of the nano ‘bots, the Luddeccean Council hadn’t wanted to let her return. They’d only done so because of the threat of Alaric defecting to the Republic. And maybe because she was the only Luddeccean who could translate the People’s writing.
Her fellow Republic translators were machines. She’d never had a problem working with them—and the Luddeccean authorities hadn’t banned her from doing so. Although she wasn’t sure how many of the counselors were aware the Republic translators weren’t human. Standing at the edge of the patio, her eyes caught on the shadowy depths of the trees, and her hand went to her throat. There were things much worse than machines.
The white cat dashed by her ankles and took a seat on a low marble column set among a few potted gardenias.
“Have a seat, dear,” Holly said, directing her to some wrought-iron metal chairs. Situated around a similarly designed table, they had been painted white and outfitted with cushions. Alexis took a seat and found the chairs and their cushions to be more comfortable than she expected. She settled in and realized she had no idea how she wanted to proceed.
“Oh, Tala, thank you,” said Holly, as the weere maid appeared bearing a large platter, giving Alexis time to compose her thoughts.
Alexis had called Holly yesterday because she’d had a personal issue to discuss—she still had that issue—but Volka’s visit had left her off kilter. Holly was a descendent of the First Families; her background was as illustrious as Alexis’s own—or as illustrious as Alexis’s background had been before her family had conspired against the premier and Archbishop Sato. Holly was tied by marriage or by blood to no fewer than twelve members of the council. Throw in her husband’s contacts, and that number doubled. Telling Holly about Volka’s visit would be worth telling a dozen women’s groups. But how did she go about it?
“Tala,” Holly exclaimed, “You got tea cakes…how did you ever? They usually sell out by nine.”
“I stopped by the bakery before work, ma’am,” Tala said.
“Oh, you shouldn’t have gone out of your way, Tala,” Holly said, real warmth in her voice.
“It was no trouble, ma’am,” Tala replied, and Alexis could hear the shy smile as she spoke to Holly.
Alexis’s eyes were on the trees, but unfocused. Something in their tone made her attention snap to Holly and her maid. Tala was perhaps in her early thirties. She had dark brown fur atop her head that was about as long as the span of Alexis’s fingers. It was held back with barrettes behind pointed ears covered with short black velvet. Her eyes had that kohl-like lining weere often had, and her pupils were ovoid in irises a blue paler than even Alaric’s. “You must have some then, Tala,” Holly whispered conspiratorially.
Tala’s ears came forward. “Yes, ma’am…thank you,” the weere woman whispered.
Perhaps seeing Alexis’s eyes on her, Tala’s ears went back, and she bowed toward Alexis before pouring the tea, first in Alexis’s cup and then Holly’s. The weere had a wedding ring on her left hand made of polished wood that matched her barrettes. Her nails were normal in color, but too thick.
Finishing her task, the weere stepped back and bowed again. “Thank you, Tala,” Holly said. And again, the words held warmth. Why?
“Yes, ma’am,” Tala murmured before stepping away and out of sight, though with those dog ears, she probably was not out of earshot.
Alexis stared into her teacup. Should she have said thank you? Was Holly looking at her, a slight furrow between her brows?
Alexis’s eyes traced the maid’s path.
“Don’t worry,” Holly said. “I know you’ve been through an ordeal lately.”
Did that mean she was supposed to have thanked the maid? She looked down into her cup again. Pterys called and flapped their wings in the trees. A branch fell somewhere, and a gust of cool air rolled down the hill.
Where did she begin? What was the protocol? Holly talked to her weere maid as though she were a friend, and hadn’t she seen Holly and her husband talking to a poor farmer and his wife at Stella Tudor’s party? Maybe Holly, like Alaric, didn’t care much for protocol?
In the novels she’d enjoyed as a child, they always said honesty was the best policy…her mother always said that was nonsense. The best policy was conforming to propriety—it was protection, and a weapon, too, when wielded correctly—it set one apart if one knew all the rules. It put others in their place. But maybe propriety changed with
the person one was with?
She took a sip of her tea, and then said carefully, “I made this appointment on account of a personal matter, but this morning I had a visitor—Miss Volka, the attaché of the Galactican Ambassador.”
The furrow between Holly’s brows deepened. Crossing her legs, she straightened in her chair. “The weere woman from Stella’s party.”
Holly had been there and had seen the whole sordid scene—Alaric’s defense of Volka, and then, during the soup course, Alexis’s abrupt leaving. Had Holly heard the rumors of Alaric’s and Volka’s affair? Of course she had. Holly wasn’t one to gossip, but Alexis’s mother always said, every woman loved gossip, whether they dabbled in it or not. Alexis took a hasty sip of tea. “She rescued me from the pirates, you know.”
“I did not know that. I had presumed it had been your husband,” Holly said, and Alexis could almost see her ears perk.
“Alaric came later,” Alexis said. “Though I was unconscious at that time and don’t remember his arrival.” She’d been out cold, stunned by the robotic man when she resisted rescue. What to say now? Holly got along with her weere maid.
“And now we are the best of friends.” The words came out of Alexis’s mouth dry and rueful sounding. Holly’s eyebrows rose in shock or disbelief. Alexis couldn’t tell. Putting down her teacup with a shaking hand, she tried the truth, since fakery hadn’t worked. “We aren’t…there are…dreadful rumors about her and Alaric. I’ve been told by several sources they aren’t true, but nonetheless …” She took a breath. But nonetheless, Alaric still loved Volka as much as he’d said he wanted to love Alexis.
Holly’s brow smoothed, and her eyes got soft. “I would find that very uncomfortable.”
Alexis exhaled. Holly didn’t know that Alaric still loved the weere woman, yet she sympathized. Seemingly, anyway.
“It is,” Alexis replied simply. “But she came to me today with a request.”