Starship Waking

by C. Gockel

  The werfle darted from the drive into the trees, and she darted after it.

  “Wait, Volka,” Sixty said, hot on her heels.

  “Your werfle!” she cried.

  “Will be fine. He probably smells a rat,” Sixty—Mr. Niano—replied, not panting at all.

  Volka sniffed and slowed. “There are rats,” she said. She licked her lips, and then flushed and put a hand to her mouth subconsciously, her irritation at him replaced by shame.

  If he’d noticed, Mr. Niano didn’t comment. To cover her embarrassment, she said, “I’ve heard werfles, if they escape when you’re traveling, they’ll return to their home.” Sniffing the air, she licked her lips again. “I could sniff him out for you…so he doesn’t return to the interior.” Did she sound too eager? She did. But warm rat meat, any meat , was satisfying in ways not even French toast could be.

  “He’s a very unusual werfle,” Mr. Niano said, just behind her shoulder. “Come on, we don’t want to be late for work.”

  Volka exhaled and turned around. For a moment, she met Mr. Niano’s eyes. He was shockingly handsome in a way that seemed almost unnatural. “You’re right, Mr. Niano,” she said, quickly averting her gaze.

  “I understand now, that you’re not supposed to call me Sixty in public—”

  Thank God. Walking back to the drive, she winced, remembering the scene on the bus.

  “—but can’t you call me Sixty in private?” He sounded so plaintive.

  Volka started to respond. “It’s not a—”

  “Volka?” Mr. Darmadi’s voice came from beyond the screen of trees.

  “I’m here, Mr. Darmadi,” she said, hurrying to the lawn. She squinted in the foggy drizzle. Mr. Darmadi was beneath the gazebo. He had his easel and paints set up, and she remembered he wanted to get a rainscape en plein air of the house this season. The rain began to pelt harder, and she broke into a jog, Sixty loping easily beside her .

  “Who is this?” Mr. Darmadi asked as soon as they reached the gazebo. Volka froze. How was she going to introduce Sixty? How would she ever explain how she found him? If she said that he’d spent the night at her house, Mr. Darmadi would think what all the weere had thought.

  “Volka,” Mr. Darmadi said, but his eyes were on Sixty.

  Sixty was looking rapidly between him and her.

  Not knowing what to say, Volka babbled, “Mr. Darmadi, he wants to be your chef. I know it is extremely unusual for a human to want to be a domestic, but he is from the interior, and is a bit lost and looking for work, and I thought you might give him a chance because…well, he’s a very good chef. At least, I think he might be and…”

  Not looking at her, Mr. Darmadi smiled at Sixty. “That sounds fine.”

  Her eyes widened. He hadn’t asked for any of Sixty’s credentials.

  Sixty smiled back, Mr. Darmadi took a step toward him, and Sixty’s smile slowly built to something absolutely sinful. Oh.

  “Aren’t you, ahh…going to introduce me, Volka?” Mr. Darmadi said.

  “Mr. Darmadi, this is Sixty. Sixty, this is Mr. Darmadi.” Too late she realized her mistake.

  Mr. Darmadi turned toward her, mouth agape, face flushed. “Volka! Where are your manners?”

  Squeezing her eyes shut, Volka said, “This is Mr. Sixty—I mean Stephen—I mean Mr. Niano. Mr. Stephen Niano, this is Mr. Darmadi.” This is why she didn’t want to call him Sixty, even in private. She knew she’d trip up and call him by his nickname in public .

  “You must excuse her,” Mr. Darmadi said hastily. “I don’t know what came over her. I don’t tolerate that sort of rudeness. Even if you work here, she will treat you with the respect you’re owed.”

  Sixty—Mr. Niano’s—smile dropped. His frame became rigid. His lips parted as though he were about to say something. Volka shook her head and silently willed him not to argue, not to tell Mr. Darmadi that he’d requested she address him by his nickname. If he did, Mr. Darmadi would know they were, well, almost friends, and that could make everything worse.

  Sixty shut his mouth, but when he looked back at Mr. Darmadi, his smile was chilly. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

  “Come, come,” Mr. Darmadi said, stepping from the gazebo. “We should go inside. It’s cold out here. I suppose I should ask to see your references.”

  Falling into step with him, Mr. Niano said, “Unfortunately, I don’t have my references on hand to show. I had a bit of a bad turn on my arrival in New Prime, and I lost some of my belongings.” Volka’s ears went back. He’d said nothing of that to her.

  “Why don’t I cook for you?” Mr. Niano continued.

  “That sounds like a start,” Mr. Darmadi said, and then added, “If this works out, you can stay at my guest house until you get on your feet. My nephew used to stay there…it’s quite comfortable.”

  Volka pressed her lips together, and her stomach sank. The guest house had been Alaric’s, and she felt like her memories were being defiled.

  Looking over his shoulder, Mr. Darmadi called back, “Volka, bring my things in,” and then the two humans walked beneath the awning of the house just as the rain picked up, creating a curtain between them and her. Volka watched them disappear and felt suddenly horribly, irredeemably alone. She wavered on her feet. Was the feeling hers…was it in her gut, or in her mind? She bent over, and the world became inky black, and she was so afraid , her body felt like ice, but she couldn’t even shiver. “Please…” she whispered. “Please.”

  She heard a cheep, and her vision returned.

  The blackness lifted. Volka looked down and saw a wet Carl Sagan trotting across the grass toward the gazebo.

  Sucking in a breath, Volka straightened. What was that? A head rush? Was she getting sick?

  “Squeak,” said Carl, hopping up the steps and threading between her legs. She swore she heard a man say, “It’s all right.” The voice was a lot like a voice she’d thought she’d heard in No Weere this morning. She thought she’d just been catching fragments of conversation from someone heading to the bus stop, but there was no one else on Mr. Darmadi’s lawn.

  “Nerves,” she said aloud. “It’s just nerves.” Her jaw got hard. “And I am not getting sick. I am going to Libertas.”

  The werfle looked up at her through narrowed eyes and then hopped away.

  11

  Cruelty

  6T9 stuck his hand in the oven. He felt his invisi-filaments activate. A charge ran up his arm and into his power cells, but he frowned. The oven was five degrees cooler than what he’d set it to. Closing the door, he adjusted the temperature knob. Straightening, he smoothed his chef’s coat, feeling the comfortable shape of Eliza’s ashes, bound to his stomach with surgical tape, and surveyed the kitchen. Unlike Volka, Mr. Darmadi had electricity, a refrigerator, a gas range, and an electric toaster, all based on models from the 1950s. There was not a digital display to be seen anywhere, but aside from the challenge of working with 1950s-era technology, the past two days had been as boring as he’d predicted.

  6T9 opened a chrome and glass blender and peered at the liquefied liver and butter within. Hearing soft werfle footfalls behind him, he said aloud, “Hard to believe this was once a living creature grazing carefree in a field. Sometimes I forget how barbaric this place is.” Everyone civilized in the galaxy ate lab-grown meat. He narrowed his eyes at Carl Sagan. Werfles were not civilized—as “Mr. Pickles,” Carl had endeared himself to Bernadette by dispatching rodents and rabbits. Taking a seat and licking a paw, Carl spoke into the ether. “Whatever. Real meat has greater ‘chemical complexity’ and tastes better.”

  Volka burst into the kitchen with a bag of potatoes. “Here you go,” she said, laying the bag on the table. It was about as many words as he’d heard her speak in the few days he’d worked with Mr. Darmadi.

  “Would you like some dinner?” 6T9 asked her, gesturing to the pot of lentil curry and vegetables on the stove.

  She glanced at the kitchen clock. “I have to clean Mr. Darmadi’s brushes,” and
scampered out without a backward look at him, or the food he’d carefully prepared for her as much as Mr. Darmadi.

  “That dish smells disgusting,” Carl thought.

  6T9 snorted derisively. “Carnivore.”

  Carl headed out the door, but said into the ether, “You’ve got a plan for how you’re getting aboard the Leetier, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” 6T9 replied, and frowned. An announcer’s voice came from a tiny radio in the corner. “Time for the jazz hour. We’ll be kicking it off with Dave Brubeck’s Take Five as performed by the South West Province Jazz Orchestra.”

  The music began to play, and according to the data 6T9 pulled down from Time Gate 1 over the Q-comm, the rendition of the piece was exceedingly faithful. Take Five had been composed in 1959. He hadn’t heard anything composed later since he’d arrived.

  A light went off in his mind, he opened the oven door, confirmed the temperature with his hand, slipped in the lizzar liver mousse he was pre-cooking for tomorrow’s dinner party, and set an alarm in his internal chronometer. Another internal alarm rang, and he turned off the range, took off the pot, and plated the lentil curry with flatbread and vegetables on three separate plates. Two he left in the kitchen for Volka and him; the third he put on a tray for Mr. Darmadi. He straightened the white chef’s coat that Mr. Darmadi had purchased for him, and then, picking up the tray, he walked out into the dining room.

  “Smells delicious!” Mr. Darmadi said, entering the room. “It’s so hard to find someone who cooks vegetarian.”

  6T9 was saved from having to respond by a crash upstairs in the studio. Frowning, Mr. Darmadi turned on his heels and stormed up the stairs.

  A moment later, 6T9 heard the man say, “What’s going on?” and Volka reply, “I spilled the brushes on the floor. That’s all.”

  “You’ve been dropping things all day!” Mr. Darmadi grumbled.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Volka replied.

  Sounding frustrated, Mr. Darmadi demanded, “It’s not the season, is it ?”

  6T9 blinked at the rain-spattered window. The rainy season made weere clumsy?

  Hearing Volka murmur something in reply, 6T9 crept to the bottom of the stairs and listened. “It’s my cousin. She went into labor, and I’m nervous for her, that’s all.”

  There was a moment of silence, and then, sounding tired rather than angry, Mr. Darmadi said, “Volka, I’m sorry.”

  6T9 blinked. It was the most compassion he’d heard the man express to the weere woman since he arrived.

  “But I need you,” Darmadi continued .

  6T9 snorted. That was an understatement. Volka was almost constantly in motion. She was Darmadi’s housekeeper, helping him pack his trunks, and, 6T9 suspected, also helped him with his paintings. She’d emerged from the studio a few times in an apron stained with paint.

  “The next two days are going to be rough, what with the dinner tomorrow night and our departure,” Mr. Darmadi continued. “I can’t spare you.”

  “I know, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

  6T9 heard Darmadi leaving the studio. Pulling out the human’s chair, 6T9 waited to help seat him, but Darmadi waved him away. “I don’t stand on ceremony when there’s no company,” he said.

  6T9 forced a smile. That didn’t seem to hold true for Volka. He wasn’t sure if his presence had made the situation worse. Sometimes humans had been quite decent to him when he was alone with them, and then changed as soon as other humans were around. Perhaps if he wasn’t here, Mr. Darmadi was a perfect gentleman when he was the only human about. Static flushed beneath 6T9’s skin. It was strange to be thought of as human . His sex ‘bot model was so common that most people in the galaxy knew what he was immediately.

  “You’ve been working hard. Why don’t you bring out your dinner, Sixty?” Darmadi said. He lifted the wine bottle on the table. “And I shouldn’t be drinking this alone.”

  6T9’s eyebrows lifted. The man had been making discreet overtures toward him since he arrived. 6T9 hadn’t indulged his primary function in four years, three months, and six days, fourteen hours, and twenty-two minutes. Mr. Darmadi was healthy and fit, which only mattered to Sixty insomuch as it meant he was less likely to experience a heart attack. 6T9 had been tempted, but then without fail, Mr. Darmadi said something cutting to Volka, and he just…couldn’t.

  On the one hand, this was bound to be a situation when such an advance was coming. On the other hand, 6T9 couldn’t get drunk and alcohol was easier to convert to power than food. “Why not?” he said.

  He went to get his plate, and heard Volka’s footsteps upstairs. He bowed his head. He judged Darmadi for his treatment of Volka, and yet, his plan to escape her planet was going to be far crueler to her than Mr. Darmadi’s cutting words.

  Volka crept down the stairs and the smell of lizzar liver rose up to greet her. Closing her eyes and breathing deeply, she momentarily forgot about Myra. Her cousin hadn’t left No Weere for the Northwest province because of heavy rains that started the day Mr. Niano arrived. And then she’d gone into labor this morning. Although, that hadn’t been why Volka had dropped the brushes…she’d had another dark vision, and a flash of fear. Maybe it was just the long hours and the fact that she hadn’t eaten anything since before noon.

  Shaking away her lightheadedness and following her nose, Volka almost missed Mr. Darmadi and Sixty sitting at the dining room table, dinners done, wine bottle less than a quarter full. Just as she’d expected, Sixty had integrated into human society. Her brow furrowed; although he was still getting her in trouble. He’d caught her hand this morning when she was in the kitchen and spun her around to a waltz on the radio. Mr. Darmadi had seen and she’d gotten an earful. Keeping her ears turned to them both, she went to the kitchen through the back way. Just as she got behind the closed door, she heard Mr. Darmadi say, “So, you plan to have freshwater clams and bi-shelled snails for dinner tomorrow night?”

  Volka’s eyes went wide and her face went hot. Clams were a euphemism for female anatomy and the bi-shelled snails were a euphemism for male anatomy.

  “Some men prefer clams,” Mr. Darmadi continued. “I prefer…snails.” His speech was slightly slurred by his drink.

  Volka’s breath caught. She couldn’t help herself. She turned around and peeked from the door that led to the dining room. Did Sixty—Mr. Niano—know what Mr. Darmadi was implying?

  “Personally, I prefer clams and snails,” Mr. Niano replied, his lips splitting into a smile that was so bright and perfect it was painful to look at.

  “Oh,” said Mr. Darmadi, his voice breathless, his face flushed with wine, and maybe possibilities. Volka’s mouth made a small “o” and her eyes went wide. Did Mr. Niano know the implications of what he’d just said?

  Waving his glass, Mr. Niano’s smile turned sharp. “Blackened, and in a butter garlic sauce.”

  Mr. Darmadi choked on his wine. Volka choked on her spit. Mr. Niano, for his part, just took a slow sip from his glass. He was just clueless, Volka decided, but then he cast a covert wink in her direction.

  Volka’s skin heated, and then her jaw got hard and she turned away. Was he flirting with her after his comments on barbarism and carnivores?

  Her eyes fell on a plate of food on the kitchen table. Mr. Darmadi didn’t eat meat, and it was some sort of curry of legumes and vegetables. Next to it was an index card that read, “Volka, for your dinner.” Her nostrils flared. She was so hungry that her stomach felt like it was starting to devour itself, but the entree smelled as appetizing as cardboard. Bread was barely palatable, but vegetables and greens—why not serve up pain and agony in a bowl? She wondered if this was Mr. Niano being clueless or if it was a tasteless joke, a way of rubbing in her inhumanity.

  Lips curling, Volka almost left, but then a muffled squeak and a soft scratching at the door to the garden made her pause. It was pouring rain, and she felt sorry for Carl Sagan out in the cold. She opened the door and the werfle hopped in, but he was not alone. In his jaws was the lar
gest rat Volka had ever seen. The werfle trotted over, dropped the rat at her feet, purred, and gazed up at her with its warm brown eyes. “Eat it,” she swore he was saying—oddly in the voice of the strange man she’d imagined in the gazebo and in No Weere. “You deserve it.”

  Mouth watering, she kneeled beside the werfle. “Is this for me, Carl?” she asked, as though it could answer. It butted its head against her hand. “I already ate,” she imagined it saying, and then it licked its lips and trotted over to sit beside the stove.

  Volka picked up the rat, and her mouth watered obscenely. Her ears flicked backward. “Another?” she heard Mr. Darmadi say.

  “Oh, why the Other Systems not?” she heard Mr. Niano reply.

  Eyeing the rat, Volka bit her lip. What harm could it do?

  The internal chronometer told 6T9 that the liver mousse was done. Smiling at Mr. Darmadi, he pushed back from the table. “If you excuse me, I have to see to something in the kitchen.”

  “You hold your liquor reallly welll,” Darmadi said, gazing at the table, eyes vacant.

  Shaking his head, 6T9 exited the dining room. He was midway between the two rooms, holding the swinging door ajar, when his eyes fell on Volka and his processors briefly flickered out. She was hunched over a cutting board, sucking on something that appeared to be a lollipop. Splayed on the board was a skeleton, a pile of skin and fur, and a long naked tail. She turned to him, and her black-lined amber eyes got very wide.

  Circuits sputtering, 6T9 blurted out, “What are you doing?” Eating anything around a dead rodent that likely harbored disease was foolishness.

  Behind him, he heard Darmadi’s chair screech, and then his footfalls, heavy and irregular with alcohol. Lollipop still in her mouth, ears flattening, Volka hurriedly dumped the contents of the board into the garbage. She stood up straight, lollipop stick protruding from her lips, just as Darmadi came in. Behind 6T9, he sighed in what sounded like exasperation. “Volka, you did not just eat a rat again in my kitchen.”