Having battened down my administrative hatches, I began my sabbatical. I had a lot of accrued freedom coming, and would need every second of it for what I had to do.
* * * *
When I returned to work, a delivery boy standing in the front lobby screamed and fainted. The copying machine repairman flew under a desk and began to whimper.
My entire life savings had gone into my transformation. Skin grafts. Hormone injections, both natural and synthetic. The removal of certain bones. Tendon and cartilage augmentation. Gland transplants. Extensive redistribution of muscle tissue. And more. Much more.
I was supreme, imperious, an industrial juggernaut: the Squidd, Inc. logo incarnate.
I slithered into the department head meeting and stopped in my slime-streaked tracks. Abernathy, he of the gingham-patched suit, was sitting in my chair. With a squeal of outrage, I lashed out a tentacle, knocking out his teeth from across the table.
He rushed out of the room, his mouth gushing blood. I then looked to the head of the table, anticipating a big thumb’s-up.
It was then that I saw the unthinkable.
Next to Old Man Hawthorne sat McCallum. The Spunky young Director of Public Relations had given up his orange Mohawk and dog collar. Now, he too sported a slick, cone-shaped head and a writhing cluster of sinuous appendages —
Six inches longer than my own.
McCallum wriggled up to me. “Nice try, my friend,” he said with a gurgling chuckle, “but I’m afraid that mine is just a bit…nicer.”
A red mist of fury seethed across my vision.
“I have news for you, McCallum,” I stated, whipping my two largest tentacles into the air. “It’s not the length that matters…” I lashed my mighty musculature around his thick throat. “It’s what you do with it.”
And then I squeezed…and squeezed…and SQUEEZED…
First, his cone turned dark purple.
Then his eyes bugged out of his skull.
I decided to let go when his brains started to squirt through his thin vestigal nostrils.
Old Man Squidd bared his dark teeth in a crazed grin. Later, he took me aside for a man-to-monster chat.
He said he admired my drive and ingenuity. He told me about a special clinic in his hometown of Innsmouth that could fit me with gills, making my transformation truly complete. He then lifted his flabby jowls, revealing shallow, green-edged fissures just under his jaw line. He explained that this sort of thing happened to the men of his town when they reached a certain age. And someday, after his gills finished growing in, he would take me down, down, down to the ocean floor, to visit the sunken Home Office. There we would pay honor to our Chief Executive Officer: mighty Cthulhu, power monger of the deeps.
But in the meantime, there was work to be done.
* * * *
I have become the prototype for an exciting new product line. The Old Man’s empire is expanding, taking the world of plastic surgery by storm. Around the globe, Squidd BioMorph Clinics are currently under construction.
Are you tired of the same old body, day in and day out? In the market for a new look? Our skilled specialists know how to bring out the real you. Ladies: fuller lips and bouncier breasts can be yours for the asking. Men: there’s certainly no need to suffer the shame of, shall we say, tentacle envy…
But don’t stop there, my friends. Try fangs. Pincers. Ghoul claws. Night-gaunt wings. Let your imagination run wild. You will love what we can craft out of you.
We’ll have you looking smart and sassy —
And as Spunky as hell.
Shoggoth Cacciatore
Serving unit Romeo14 watched the dented blue-green shuttle descend into Parking Sector H. At one point it jerked awkwardly, hitting a lighting pole. He wondered what sad ambulatory bits of space-trash were navigating this sorry craft. Probably Ong-Ponthians. They were the worst. Tacky, ignorant mutants that couldn’t decide if they should select from the carbon- or silicon-based entrees.
When at last the craft had settled, the door slowly creaked open and—
Romeo14 emitted a soft electronic whistle—his version of a gasp. Earthlings? Yes indeed. A man and a woman: a couple.
The slender silver bot had been modeled after a handsome male humanoid—from the waist up. Waist down, he was simply a pillar with three silver wheels at the base. He turned and glided into the Golden Nebula restaurant, almost bumping into a busbot with dish-filled prehensile arms. He veered past it, moving with graceful speed along the back wall of the dining area, in the shadows so as not to disturb the patrons. He sailed through the kitchen doors and headed directly to the preparation area.
“Caesar72, you will not believe who has just landed,” Romeo14 uttered in his chirping tones.
The squat golden cooking unit beeped irritably. “Who indeed? The Prime Modulator, perhaps, descended from Great Matrix of Time?” Both Romeo14 and Caesar72 had been programmed with male personalities, by a scientist who’d been fond of the works of an ancient Earth playwright. But structurally, both bots were as genderless as any of the pots, spoons and strainers floating above them in a handy theta-energy hover-field.
“Do not be facetious!” Romeo14 said. “I’ll have you know a real Earthling couple is heading this way at this moment.”
Caesar72’s ocular lenses began to pulse with blue light. “Earthlings? How exciting!” An extender claw shot out of his body and grabbed a Tyvarrian deboning knife out of the hover-field. He used it to subdue an unwieldy entree-to-be that he was still in the process of killing.
“Why, that pretentious old beverage-preparation unit down at the Solar Flare will turn rusty with envy tomorrow when I tell him we had humans here this evening. Oh, you should have heard him crow when those fungus creatures from Yuggoth had a few drinks at his place. Ha! Let’s see if he can top an actual human couple.” Romeo14 released a low hum of satisfaction. “I must rush back to greet them. In the meantime, think of something spectacular to serve them. Remember, no ammonia or arsenic or plasma waves—”
“Please, I know the dietary requirements and limitations of thirteen-thousand life-forms. As if I would serve plasma waves to a carbon-based being!”
“I am sorry. I did not mean to insult your fine memory matrix. I just want everything to be perfect for the humans.” So saying, Romeo14 hurried out of the preparation sector and back to the restaurant entrance, just as the couple had reached the base of the building’s steps.
It was difficult for Romeo14 to contain his excitement. He wanted to buzz, to chirp, to spin. Earthlings. There was no mistaking the placement of the ears, or the subtle curve of the cheekbones. “Good evening, sir and madam,” he purred. “Welcome to the Golden Nebula.”
The heavyset Earth male shot him an irritated glance. “A good evening? Maybe for you.”
The Earth female, whose damp eyes were rimmed with smeared makeup, shot the male an angry look. “You have to give everyone a hard time. Leave the nice whatever-it-is alone. He’s just doing his job.”
They are displeased! Romeo14 realized. This must be corrected. “You have had a long voyage, yes? Let me show you to a table, where you can have relaxing beverages as our skilled massage units apply their talents to your tense muscles.”
“Oh, that sounds wonderful,” the female said. She gave the male another look. “Tell the nice thing how wonderful that sounds!”
The male shrugged. “Yeah, wonderful. All I want is a gin and tonic—with Earth gin, none of that Zorvonian crap.”
“Earth gin! Yes, we always have plenty,” Romeo14 said. “Right this way. How marvelous that you have selected the Golden Nebula. My name is Romeo14, and I will be coordinating our services to meet your needs this evening.”
The Earthlings followed the serving unit into the dining area. “You sure seem happy to see us,” the female said. “Like we’re celebrities or something. I’m Mella and this is my husband, Squinn.”
“He doesn’t really care,” the male said.
Romeo14 led th
em to a table. “Oh, I am indeed very happy to see you,” he said. “Earthlings invented restaurants. Your civilization led to my creation. In a way, you are my—” He searched his memory matrix for an appropriate term. “—parents.”
“Oh, geez,” Squinn said.
Mella patted Romeo14’s cheek. “Aren’t you precious! I wish you were my son.”
“Mella, he’s not even alive,” the male said. “You want a bucket of bolts for a son?”
“He’s nice. Nice is better than nothing,” the female said angrily.
“I will summon the massage units,” Romeo14 said. He wheeled away from the table to a control console on the wall. He pressed a button to alert the massage bots, then entered the coordinates that would direct them to the right table. He pressed more keys, instructing the beverage-preparation unit to send gin-based drinks to the couple.
He then glided back to the preparation area. “Caesar72! The Earthlings are not pleased. They are experiencing interpersonal difficulties. I trust you have given considerable thought to their dinner selections.”
“They are just hungry,” the squat bot said. “They will feel better after they have eaten.”
“The female seemed upset because they do not have young,” the serving unit noted.
Caesar72 mulled over this fact. “This scenario is not unknown to me. Are they older creatures?”
“I believe so.”
“Certain carbon-based life-forms cannot have offspring after they have passed a certain point in their reproductive cycle. Perhaps they delayed such matters for too long—and now it is too late.”
Romeo14 considered this information. “But medical advancements exist that—”
“They are extremely expensive. Also, there may be other matters involved. Do not question them: they do not need to address those issues tonight.” Caesar72 held out two plates piled with greens, lightly drizzled with an amber dressing. “Take them their salads. Make sure they have plenty of alcoholic beverages. They need to forget their life difficulties if they are to enjoy this evening.”
“How do you know so much about Earthlings?” Romeo14 said, taking the plates.
“Have you ever heard of ‘movies’? An emotion-based audio-visual artform of the Earth culture. I own a small but choice collection. Very informational.” Caesar72 pulled several kitchen tools out of the theta-field with extender claws. “Endeavor to direct their entree selection to the shoggoth cacciatore. They will not be disappointed.”
A smaller cooking unit rolled into the preparation area. “Is there anything else with which I can assist?”
“Please wash some more dandelion greens, Hamlet5,” Caesar72 said.
“Shoggoth cacciatore! Made with those marvelous red tomatoes. And they’re from Earth, too, like these lovely greens. One cannot go wrong with the right ingredients.” The serving unit buzzed happily as he wheeled away with the salads.
* * * *
“That’s just what I needed,” Squinn said, taking a long draw from his drink. A small, multi-limbed massage unit had removed the male’s shoes and was rubbing his feet.
Mella munched at her salad as her massage unit worked at her shoulders. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was,” she said.
Romeo14 nodded. “Excellent! Are you ready to make an entree selection? For a truly memorable dining experience, I would suggest the shoggoth cacciatore.”
“Shoggoth?” Squinn said. “You’re not talking about those monster-amoeba shoggoths, are you?”
“Indeed I am,” the serving unit said happily. “Though actually, their bodies are more like sea cucumbers than amoebas. In their natural state, they have a flexible, muscular infrastructure—and it’s delicious!”
“The shoggoths we’re talking about came out of the Antarctic when it thawed out many centuries ago.” Mella said. She bit her lower lip fretfully. “Big acid-blooded blobs. They killed millions of people.”
“I am surprised anyone still knows of the shoggoth attacks. That was so long ago,” Romeo14 said. “In fact, the only reason I know is because I am required to have a thorough knowledge of all our house specialties. Of course, my knowledge base is nothing compared to our lead cooking unit, Caesar72. “
Mella sat up and pushed away her massage unit. “Well, none of your other fancy diners may know about the shoggoths, but Squinn and I do. I’m a librarian. I have access to tons of old books, back from the days when they were bound sheaves of paper and not brain-implant chips. You want us to eat those horrible, savage monsters?”
“Beings from all over the galaxy praise our shoggoth cacciatore!” the serving unit said. “Do you recall how the shoggoths were defeated?”
Mella shook her head. “The books I have only chronicle the shoggoth uprising. Actually, I would like very much to know how they were destroyed. They seemed to be practically invincible.”
Romeo14 had no real reason to clear his spitless electronic throat, but he did so anyway for dramatic effect. “Remember: they only emerged from the Antarctic, their ancient base on Earth, after it thawed. Shoggoths cannot withstand extreme cold. Some rich Earthlings simply hired a service from KromTek, a planet of robots, to freeze them with liquid nitrogen blasts and ship them away. Robots hate to waste anything, so they experimented with the creatures and found that they could be…farmed. Isn’t that interesting? They found that after the acidic ichor was bled from a shoggoth, the remaining meat was in fact delectable.
“Shoggoths can take the form of any life-form they touch—they absorb and assimilate DNA quite easily—and this fact is taken into consideration at the shoggoth-farming facilities. They often introduce new DNA, to flavor and soften the tissue to perfection. Rest assured, the meat loses this recombinant quality when it is cooked.”
“That’s all really fascinating,” the female said, “but it still sounds awfully scary.”
Squinn laughed bitterly. “‘Scary’? Oh, isn’t that rich. Everything scares you. We didn’t move to Pharnok while land prices were low because it was ‘scary.’ I didn’t take that job at—”
“Don’t you start blaming me for your crummy career in sales!” the woman cried. “I’m not even sure I can call it a ‘career.’ That would imply some kind of direction.”
“So, now it all comes out!” The man’s round face was red with anger. “Here I’m trying to save our marriage by bringing you to this fancy restaurant and all you can do is make fun of me. You’re the one who’s been holding me back all these years!” He turned to Romeo14. “For once I’m going to make a decision and not take any lip about it. Yes, we will both have the scary shoggoth cacciatore!”
The serving unit noted with unease that other diners had turned to watch the arguing couple. “Trust me, it is a mouth-watering delicacy,” he said softly to the female. “And it is cooked through and through. As a dining experience, it is unique and completely safe. You have nothing to fear!”
“Well, if you say it’s okay…” Mella grasped the serving unit’s hand. “My idiot husband seems to think one night at a fancy restaurant is supposed to make up for twenty years of crap.” She began to cry. “We don’t even have any kids. So many wasted years and nothing to show for it.”
“Now I’ve heard everything!” Squinn said. “Let go of that damned machine. He has to go fetch our food.”
Romeo14 patted the female’s hand. He searched his memory matrix for something to say that might console this devastated Earthling. Suddenly a possibility came to mind. “You must love each other very much if you’ve been together so long. You are very lucky. The vast majority of organisms are incapable of experiencing love.”
“Really?” She let go of the robot’s hand and looked around at the various aliens at the other tables. “Did you hear that, Squinn?” she whispered. “Most organisms can’t feel love.”
The serving unit spun around and headed off to place their meal order. But his hearing was very sensitive, and he heard the man say, “I bet that old tin can has never been in love. Hell, he’s not e
ven alive.”
* * * *
“But it is true,” Caesar72 said as he chopped at a large piece of bled shoggoth tissue. “You have never been in love. And you are not alive. Why should these facts bother you?”
“Because they seem unfair,” Romeo14 said. “I can think and move like a living creature. I am smart enough to discuss love. And yet because I am a machine, I am denied life and love.”
Hamlet5, who had been listening, tapped the serving unit’s smooth, featureless pillar. “You do not have the gonads of a living being. It would do you no good to feel love. You cannot bring physical pleasure to yourself or anyone else.”
Caesar72 pushed the smaller cooking bot away. “I should never have allowed you to watch those movies! You are using the facts they have taught you to make hurtful comments.”
The serving unit thought for a moment. “Interesting…We can be hurt. We do have feelings. So perhaps we can feel love.” He pointed to the small bot. “You do not know everything. Love is not all about gonads. Look at your mentor, Caesar72. See how he enjoys coating that shoggoth meat with herbs. He loves his craft. I love my work. One does not need gonads for that!”
Caesar72 slid a panful of shoggoth into the oven. Though he had many technological options from which to select, he still favored cooking with actual flame. “They should be ready in twenty minutes. That should give them enough time to roast completely.”
“Oh!” Hamlet5 rolled up to his mentor. “Is that important?”
“Of course. The shoggoth is an insidious replicant,” the golden bot said. “It downloads the DNA of other life-forms to suit its own purposes. We, of course, have nothing to fear, being machines. But if a living creature ingested the raw flesh of a shoggoth…There is no telling what would happen.”
“Oh no!” the small bot cried. “I have made a serious error! I neglected to consult the data files! Please, do not dismantle me!”
Best Little Witch-House in Arkham Page 9
