“I know what pajamas are, of course. But what's silly putty?"
“You mean it's actually gone? I thought it was self-breeding. It's a soft substance that children used to play with. I spent more than one Sunday afternoon transferring the color newspaper comics onto a handful of the stuff."
“Color newspaper comics?” He waved his hands when I opened my mouth. “Never mind. You have a tendency to explain one ancient thing with another. You'd never get started on the simulator. But I'd wager you do have time for a little dinner."
I tossed the rag onto the simulator. “I sure do! Smells good, too! What is it, split-pea soup?"
“Very good!” He said admiringly, pulling the cover off the tray, revealing a bowl of steaming soup and a hunk of fresh bread. “Enjoy!"
“That won't be hard. Dorothy's a great cook.” I took an appreciative sniff of the soup. “Although if she were to add a little more pepper and perhaps a touch of—"
“Abigail!” Alan said sharply.
I jumped at his hard voice, then caught myself. I couldn't dwell too long on food preparation, or I'd be guaranteed to shard as Miss DeChant.
“Sorry, Alan. Thanks.” I sat down and said my dinner prayers quietly. I started digging in while Alan left me alone to eat.
I was tempted to linger over the soup, but had a lot to do tonight. I ate some, then picked up the end of the loaf and took it with me and began dusting down the simulator. By now, the heavy air molecules had gathered enough to blur some of the edges. I began brushed them off, filling the rag, then shook it out. The de-ionized cloth helped break down the molecule structure of the air. It was tedious, repetitive work.
At least I had something to think about. With this simulator, Mike would be able to better link this room to the puterverse. I had long suspected there was something more to puterverse access than a virtual link. True, our bodies remained motionless in the physical world—I chose not to distinguish it as the “real” world because to do so would mean the puterverse was not real, nor anything in it—but there was a toll on those bodies. Whether that toll was because the puterverse was slightly hostile to our physical bodies or whether it was merely involuntary reactions to imagined stimuli was unknown. I suspected the former. Mike didn't scare Posen to death, he executed him.
By improving the link through external support like this simulator, the physical toll was reduced. At least for Alan. The puterverse had absolutely no physical effect on me. I didn't know why, but I was beginning to have an idea...
I took a big bite of bread and started brushing off the base of the unit. I was nearly finished. The bread had cooled by now, but was still very tasty. Trust Dorothy to bake it just long enough to bring out a crispy...
...crust that locked in the wonderful yeast smell. She'd learned that from me a couple months ago, though she was nearly as good to start with. Heaven knows she had enough practice, cooking for all those shards. We very much appreciated her efforts.
I stood up and looked around. Where was I? I sighed sadly. Abigail must have let her thoughts drift again. I looked down at the rag in my right hand and the piece of bread in my left. Only moments ago, it had been a freshly cleaned bed sheet I was folding for Dorothy to take down to the Room. Of course, those moments may have been days or weeks ago. I looked at the machine Abigail had been working on. I had absolutely no idea what it was or what it did. There was some sort of display on the top, but what it meant was quite beyond me.
I folded the rag and placed it on the machine. It would be best not to disturb it. Abigail was a gifted young woman and knew far more than I ever would about technology. I ate the final bite of bread, and looked for the tray of food. Picking up the napkin, I wiped off my hands.
My middle felt cool, and I noticed my shirt was not tucked into my pants. Embarrassed and more than a little nervous, I carefully straightened it out and tucked in the shirt. Next to feeling guilty about taking over Abigail's mind, this was probably the most difficult thing about sharding. She was a fine girl, proper and demure by most accounts, although she tended to be a trifle careless about both her appearance and her modesty. I recognized that I was at the base, which meant Alan had certainly seen her stomach and naval. Quite unladylike, though understandable, I suppose. She was young and very attractive. I had been both at one time, myself, and though my riping makeup precluded my ever wanting to be a showoff, I remember feeling a small amount of pride in the way I turned a man's head forty years ago. More precisely, four hundred years ago. Now, I had the body, but not the mind to find such things desirable. Far better to serve quietly and efficiently. I picked up the tray and headed to the kitchen.
Dorothy was pulling out another of her endless loaves of bread from the oven when I walked in. She smiled at me, then noticed my shirt. She kept smiling, but I noticed a small flicker of disappointment in her eyes, for which I bore her no grudge.
“Oh, dear. She must have gotten caught up in my food again."
“Oui, Mademoiselle. Either that or cleaning. She had a dust cloth in her hand when I woke up. How long have I been gone?"
“Seven days, Miss DeChant. Abigail came back for four days, then she sharded as the foundry, coming out of it just today. It's about midnight now."
I shook my head sadly, my eyes becoming wet. “Only a few hours this time? It is so unfair, Dorothy. I have had my life. It seems that she should have an opportunity to celebrate hers, without me intruding constantly. Such sadness."
Dorothy put an arm around my shoulders. “Don't blame yourself, Miss DeChant. It's not your fault. You are as much a victim as Abigail."
“Not true, Mademoiselle. She is a real person, my soulner. I'm just a construct, the image of a man's dream, a man dead now for centuries."
“You're being too hard on yourself. We're the same age, Miss DeChant. We have many of the same experiences. Who's to say which is more real than the other? I'll not make that judgment. If you are my inferior, you cannot disagree. If you are my equal, you will not disagree. And if you are my superior, then that is its own proof."
I smiled, cheered by her words. “I appreciate your comfort, Dorothy. Merci.” I began to fill the sink. “Well, let us not waste time. You finish your bread, and I will begin work on these dishes."
* * *
Chapter Eight
It must have been early morning, judging by the slight chill, when I awoke the next day. I had stayed at the base assisting Dorothy for several hours before returning to Abigail's room. Perhaps it was my room as well. I had made changes to it since Abigail selected it four months ago, and she had kept them. She had even written me several notes, thanking me for keeping the room so clean. But since there was only one person living here, it seemed silly to call it “our” room.
I rose to my feet and pulled the sheet from the bed to wash it. The pillowcase was not very clean, so I removed it as well. I went to the kitchen area and removed the stopper from the water pipe to fill the basin. I then set to the task of cleaning the room.
How a child could live in such a place was difficult for me to understand. I know she made an honest effort to keep our living quarters clean, but she missed so many of the little things that it generally looked like a well-taken-care-of mess. She had hung up her other shirt on the line, but it was bunched up and even in this dry air was still damp in a few spots. There was a note to her from Dorothy that had been left out. Beside it, a note Abigail had written to me. Even the cooking pot looked as though she had not rinsed it out. All this in just a few hours. I had never been like this! Of course, I had had no choice; I was a conscientious housemaid from the moment they began riping Abigail's mind, implanting my programmed psyche into it, which they then put into a young body not unlike this one. What she lacked in domestic skill she more than made up for in other areas. I couldn't flit about the puterverse like she could, nor work with such complicated machinery as she did. Between the two of us, we made a good team. For not the first time, I wished we could have the opportunity to meet and ta
lk in a place other than that horrid little room. Which reminded me of her note. I picked it up and opened it.
Hiya, Miss DeChant!
It's October 21st, 2679, so if you're reading this, you probably haven't missed too much. I'm heading over to the base to fool around in the puterverse with Mike and Alan. My project is coming along nicely and I hope to take it to ‘em in a week or so.
Dorothy washed our pants out yesterday or the day before. (I think I was out for two days as the foundry, but I haven't foundry out yet.—ha! ha!—) If you're looking for something to do, and you always are, we're out of bread. We don't want the girl to get hungry and wander off in broad daylight, so if you get a chance, bake up a loaf or two. I'd try to cook some, but I'd either ruin it or shard into you anyway, so you're nominated.
The place looks great! I can't thank you enough. You take such good care of me I feel spoiled. You're the best roommate a girl could have. Frank's got a housekeeper ripe, too, but she freaks out every time she sees himself and doesn't do anything except run around ... well, never mind. I'm sure you're not too interested in gory details.
I'm kinda rambling on here, huh? Just killing time until dark, partially. But it's also partially to help you know me. It's so hard to believe what we've been through together, yet we still haven't really talked to each other. (I don't count the round room; we're just not ourselves in there, right?)
I better finish up. I just want to let you know how much I love you and wish we could be real roommates. Maybe even sisters. I'd like that a lot. Anyway, take care and God bless you.
Love, Abigail
I sighed and smiled. The girl was a treasure of a soulner. I was a very fortunate ripe. But it was time for this member of the team to do her work. I straightened the shirt, placed the notes with the others on its small shelf and used the collected water from the basin to rinse out the pot. I picked up the bag of food Dorothy had graciously given me and began preparing a bread dough. As I blended the ingredients, I thought of the third member of our little team, the girl.
From the moment we had met in the room I had thought of her as nothing else. I had been told that she and I were together nearly two hundred years. I had been alone, not counting the computers, for over 150 years. Again, so I was told. There was no real passage of time for either of us. It may have been several hours, it may have been several millennia. It may have been both. In either event, it was a lonely time for us. She spent all of it satisfying her carnal needs, and I ... I wasn't sure what I did.
And now we were both free for the moment and perhaps forever. For if Abigail died, we would die with her. Until then, though, we contributed as best we could. For the girl, that was precious little. Since she was illiterate, we could not write notes to her the way we wrote each other. Dorothy tried to teach her some rudiments, but the girl had no interest. And as bad as Abigail was in keeping the room clean, at least she tried. The girl paid no attention whatsoever to it. At least she kept herself fairly clean. And since the three of us shared Abigail's body, that was probably the most important.
The bread was ready for rising so I turned on the ancient stove. I depressed a switch on the backplate for several seconds, then turned on the burner and oven. It was a necessary addition Abigail had added for our safety. If either she or I sharded into the girl or one of the computers when the stove was on, we ran the risk of causing a devastating fire. We also had an extremely limited amount of solar biogel to produce the methane we used as fuel If we completely drained the tank sitting on the roof, it would kill the microbes in the gel. So cooking was limited to two hours each day. Fortunately, the gas could collect for several days before the pressure valves would begin releasing the excess, so if I wanted to cook longer, I only needed to restrict cooking for several days to build a reserve. Of course, with winter coming soon, cooking would be cut back even further.
The basin was full, so I poured a portion into the cooking pot and put it on the burner. The oven was warm, so I turned it off and placed the bread in it, covering it with our only dish towel. It would be ready in ten minutes, an incredible accomplishment from my time when yeast needed nearly thirty minutes to rise. I lifted the basin clear and washed my hands under the small trickle of water from the pipe. I then stopped up the pipe and replaced the basin, adding a gentle soap. Now was the scariest part of the day for me.
I double-checked to see that the door was locked. It was, but I always checked. There were no real windows, only boarded and blocked openings above my head that let air circulate, but allowed no one to peer in. Satisfied that I was not being spied upon, I prepared for my bath.
Since my raping at the hands of Major Deiley's men, I had become like this. In France, serving Professor LeClaire, I had always maintained proper attire and modesty. But I was never self-conscious. Over the forty-one years I was his servant, there were several times when he had inadvertently seen me naked. Nothing ever came of it, nor was I upset. I was indifferent, which was what I had been carefully designed to be. Even in this century, when that woman Ellen had wished to force her sexual attention on me, it had left me unmoved save for a small discomfort that I was not being used properly. Yet now it was so very different. The smallest sound put me on edge, a flashing shadow set my heart to racing. My identity as a woman, even a manufactured woman, lay in shreds. Even the appreciation of acknowledging the beauty of my body had been taken away from me. And I was beautiful. My first body had been functional first, handsome second. This one was a magnificent blend of beauty and function.
For a wonderful moment, I forgot myself. Pulling off the last of my clothing, I looked at myself in a piece of backed glass that served as a mirror. Propped against the wall, it was large enough to let me see a fairly good image. And what I looked at was marvelous. I found it much easier to appraise myself since I thought of myself as only a guest, though a welcome one. This thing of beauty was really Abigail's body.
She was of small build, little more that a meter and half tall and certainly less than forty kilos. Her frame was small, yet strong, and despite her poor diet and distressing living conditions, she kept herself wonderfully fit. Her overall form was far more than a child's but still less than a woman's. Two or three more years would address that area. Her beautiful hair was long, though she hid it under her clothing in an effort to play down her gender, which was a wise precaution. In loose enough clothing, she could probably still do it; her bust was healthy but not pronounced. I stepped closer to gaze at the face I had come to know so very well.
Like her body, she was an attractive mix of child and woman, with the woman being the dominant. Her hazel eyes had an intensity that was not from me. Indeed, peering into my eyes, I could see that it wasn't only me who looked back, but her as well. It should have been most distressing, but was not. I had already come to know her through her notes, her friends, and through that one brief and eternal, terrifying and strengthening time we shared together, inside her mind, outside the room, wrapped in each other's arms and fighting off our attackers.
These eyes should have been filled with sadness, yet they were not. They still had joy sparking in them, a happiness not warranted but nonetheless yearned for. And these eyes showed as windows into a soul that had a deep well of hope, a well that would not run dry because the source was not from inside, but from without.
There was a click as the stove burner shut itself off. I went to the stove, mildly surprised I hadn't jumped at the sound. I think that looking into Abigail's eyes had helped. I was not the shy animal I'd been only moments ago. Yet another thing to which I was indebted to her.
Indeed, feeling the playfulness of youth, I decided to be daring and punch down the dough before dressing. My practical mind justified this by saying that I should take proper care of my bread, or it would not be as good as possible. It was fooling itself only. I knew that I chose to do it because of the flush of excitement and daring that came with the thought.
Feeling very relaxed and light, I pulled the dough out and t
urned it onto a lightly floured surface. It was a trifle tough, so I decided to add water. I filled the cup with a hundred milliliters or so and set it beside the dough. I poured a few drops onto the dough, then pressed down, turning the dough into itself. I repeated the procedure several times, pour, press, turn. Pour, press
COOL RESET POUR PRESS COOL RESET POUR PRESS COOL RESET POUR PRESS COOL
air woke me up. I was lying down on the floor, and my hands felt strange. I looked at them and saw they had hard stuff on them. It smelled like bread. Maybe Miss Deshard had been making me bread and some got on my hands.
I stood up and saw I was naked. That was why I had felt cool. But I wasn't really cool. Just a little. I thought I should put some clothes on.
I found the clothes. There were some panties, but they wouldn't keep me warm, and there was no one who wanted to take them off me if I wore them, so I didn't put them on. The pants would keep me warm, so I put them on. I saw the shirt on the line and the shirt on the table and didn't know which one to put on, so I put on the one on the table.
After I put it on, I remembered that Dorothy wanted me to always wear that long piece of cloth for a bra. So I took off my shirt and put it on. But it wouldn't stay on so it kept falling off. Dorothy had shown me how to put it on, but I forgot again. A long time ago I had learned how to put on a regular bra, but this was too hard. I folded it up and put on the shirt again. I found the shoes and put them on.
Then I remembered that I was supposed to put the panties on, because I'd been told to. So I took off my shoes and then my shirt and then my pants. Then I put on my panties and then my pants and then my shirt and then my shoes. Only my shoes weren't on right, so I took them off and put them on right.
Shards [Book Three] Page 18
