by C. Gockel
6T9 huffed defensively. “No, she didn’t. It was the werf—” His eyes fell on the “lollipop” stick. It was shorter than it should have been, and had a “hinge” joint at the middle. At the end were tiny digits. Volka plucked what was either a forelimb or a hindlimb stripped clean of muscle and tendons from her mouth and plopped it into the garbage .
“Get out of here, Volka,” Darmadi said. “And take the garbage with you.”
“Yes, sir, sorry, sir…” Volka said, bending once again, this time hauling the bag out of the garbage bin. She exited the house with the bag and without a coat.
6T9 glanced at the curry and vegetables he’d made. The plating was beautiful—the colors were bright and contrasting, the shape of the flatbread offered further visual interest, but more importantly, the fragrance of all the elements was nuanced and rich. She hadn’t even tried it. He was so disturbed he almost forgot to use potholders when he retrieved the mousse from the oven.
“A rat,” he whispered, remembering the potholder just in time. “She ate a rat.” It was so unsanitary and barbaric.
Running a hand through his hair, Darmadi said tiredly, “Probably caught and killed it, too.”
“Hey!” Carl Sagan protested over the ether. “She only wrung its neck. I caught it! She doesn’t have time to hunt properly.” In the real world, he began licking a paw.
6T9’s jaw dropped, and he hastily put the mousse on top of a rack to cool. She killed it? It had been alive when Carl Sagan dragged it in? She’d felt the creature’s fluttering heartbeat under her fingers and decided to extinguish it? Granted, he had tried to flatten a rat or two with a broom before his Q-comm. But now he had a Q-comm, and he began downloading data on the species. In their own way, rats were more sophisticated than sex ‘bots. They could learn, they had a sense of humor, and they formed attachments during their brief lives.
“She’s an animal,” Mr. Darmadi continued, and 6T9 felt static flare under his skin.
Carl Sagan hissed in 6T9’s mind, “She’s a facultative carnivore, but you two pious would-be herbivores are trying to give her indigestion.”
6T9 was busy pulling down data on humans that killed small animals. “She might be a psychopath,” he replied silently to Carl.
“I kill rats,” Carl shot back. “Am I a psychopath?”
“You’re a werfle,” 6T9 replied over the ether.
Carl Sagan looked up at the ceiling. “I do have the desire to play with them before I eat them…” He purred. “In this form, I might actually be a psychopath. How interesting.” He hopped away.
“Animals,” said Darmadi. “All weere are animals. Remembering that will make all your dealings with them easier.”
“Easier,” 6T9 replied, staring at where Volka’s raincoat still hung by the door. “It just makes everything that much more confusing.” He’d imagined Volka as an innocent, almost childlike, but she definitely was not.
The rain pounded on the windows. Darmadi’s face went strangely blank. He glanced down at the dish 6T9 had left for Volka, an eyebrow rising. “I’ll leave you to prepare for tomorrow,” he said, and then he left the room.
Even having eaten the rat, Volka was hungry again by the time she got home. Hugging herself and soaked through from the rain, Volka trudged through the enormous puddle that surrounded her home. She hadn’t been able to face going into the kitchen again after the confrontation with Niano. His voice, muffled by the door, rose in her mind. “A rat. She ate a rat.” The disgust had been evident.
She closed her eyes. But his surprise had been evident, too. He’d really made the dinner, as unappetizing as it was, for her. He was trying to be kind. She remembered the wink and growled. Maybe he wasn’t trying to be “kind” so much as wanting something from her. She stomped up her stoop. Well, this evening’s events would dissuade him, and it was for the best, really. Humans and weere didn’t belong together.
She kicked her soaked and muddied shoes off under the awning, inserted her key into the lock, and entered her house. Myra’s scent was fading, but she could smell the warm furriness of the werfle. Her eyes got hot. The werfle had understood her hunger and taken pity on her…just another example how weere and humans were separate species. She took a step. Her toe caught on something, and it went skidding across the floor.
Blinking down, she saw an envelope. The night was too dark even for weere eyes and Volka lit a gas lamp to read by. The envelope bore no address. Opening it, she saw the disjointed scrawl and knew it was written by a weere with claws instead of nails.
The baby was born. Healthy boy. Our noses say the father is who she said he is. Myra wants the father to be informed. We are uncertain. Can’t leave. Rain’s too heavy.
Volka sank to the floor, and her heart sank somewhere even farther below that. A weere-human baby…It couldn’t be…not after everything she’d been told. Not after everything she’d told herself.
12
Family Ties
“I don’t think I’m a psychopath,” Carl Sagan thought.
Stirring up a sauce on the stove, 6T9’s eyes shifted to the werfle and went wide. “Get off the counter!”
Licking a paw, but otherwise not moving, Carl Sagan pontificated, “It’s true. This body would kill and torture for fun, but it isn’t aware enough to contemplate the suffering of its prey. To the limited intellect of this body, it’s all play.”
Dropping the spoon in the pot, 6T9 backhanded the werfle to the floor.
“Rawr!” Carl Sagan screeched.
“I’m too busy for this conversation, Carl,” 6T9 said aloud. There were only six guests and five courses, but there was only one of him and he had to time everything precisely.
The werfle continued, “This body also desires to feed its family, and what it considers family extends to those outside its blood.”
Volka ran into the kitchen on some errand. From upstairs in his bedroom, Darmadi shouted, “Volka!” Spinning around with a sigh, she left again.
“For instance,” the werfle said. “I desire to catch Volka another rat. She is very hungry. She’s barely had time to eat here. She hasn’t had any time to shop for food for her home, and all the rain has washed out the rat colony that lived beneath her house.”
Retrieving the spoon from the pot, 6T9 glared down at the werfle. “Are you trying to put me on a guilt trip?”
The werfle’s eyes narrowed. “Do you feel guilty?”
Static rippled through 6T9’s synth skin. “I just haven’t had time to prepare her anything…what with the meal tonight and Darmadi’s breakfast and lunch.”
Trotting to the door, Carl Sagan said, “Well, I’ll go fetch her a rat, then. This nearly psychopathic animal is concerned with her suffering.”
“I’ll make her something!” 6T9 snapped, angry at the werfle for launching him on the “guilt trip,” but angrier at himself. 6T9 hadn’t really thought of Volka being in discomfort. She hadn’t told him, and there was no ether connection between them—he might have picked it up in a mental lag as they conversed. It wasn’t his job to feed her, and before he’d only made her an extra plate of whatever he’d been making Darmadi. He didn’t owe her anything…His shoulders fell, remembering the searchlights…except possibly for saving him from the Luddeccean Guard. He thought of his plan to escape to Libertas…and there was that, too.
The werfle stopped, turned around, and blinked at him. 6T9 swore he smiled.
In the study, a “telephone” rang. 6T9 heard Mr. Darmadi answering it.
Setting aside the sauce, 6T9 retrieved a piece of lizzar from the refrigerator and a few hard-boiled eggs. In 4.5 minutes, he had an artfully arranged platter of lizzar tartar. He deftly chopped the eggs and arranged the cubes in the center. He sat the platter aside and muttered, “And now back to our previously scheduled programming…” Grabbing a bowl of butter and garlic sauce, he opened the oven and proceeded to baste the xinbats. Behind him, he heard Darmadi’s footsteps. “Sixty, we’re going to have one more guest. Will that be a
ll right?”
Reluctantly closing the oven and losing its glorious heat, 6T9 nodded without turning. “It should be fine.”
Darmadi clapped his hands. “Oh, I’m relieved. The Archbishop heard that you were preparing an authentic Founders’ Feast and I couldn’t say no.”
Winking at him, 6T9 gave him a smile. “I told you it was the perfect menu.” 6T9 hadn’t known what sort of dishes had become popular in the last hundred years, but Eliza always said, “If you have to serve hardliners, make it a Founders’ Feast. Not enjoying a Founders’ Feast is close to heresy.”
“I’ll tell Volka that we need one more place setting,” Darmadi said.
“Sounds good,” 6T9 said distractedly, going to retrieve some bornut butter from the refrigerator.
Despite his words, Darmadi didn’t move. Closing the fridge, 6T9 found him frowning at the tartar instead. “Sixty, tartar isn’t part of the authentic Founders’ menu. It might offend the Archbishop.”
“Not to worry, it’s just for Volka,” 6T9 replied, turning his back on the man and attending to the bornut soufflé.
“She’s like a daughter to me,” Darmadi said.
6T9 held his tongue, but his lips curled into a sardonic smile, his emotional expression programming winning out over his self-preservation programming.
“I’m serious, Niano,” Darmadi said.
One eyebrow raised, 6T9 looked over his shoulder at the man.
Standing straighter, Darmadi said, “I won’t have you take advantage of her.”
6T9’s thoughts started looping. How was preparing a dish for Volka taking advantage of her?
Carl’s thoughts whispered in the ether. “Oh, he is serious. I’ve mostly only noticed him being jealous of Volka; he thinks you’re not interested in him and trying to engage in mating behaviors with her.”
6T9’s skin prickled with static. The man who had her working twelve-hour days somehow saw 6T9 as the person taking advantage of the weere?
Darmadi’s eyes dropped. “She’s been through enough already. She doesn’t deserve to be mistreated in that way.”
6T9’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t deserve to be mistreated at all. “I made her dinner. That is all,” 6T9 replied, tone clipped.
“That better be the case,” Darmadi said, turning and leaving the room.
6T9 watched him go, electricity sparking up his spine.
“Not your circus, not your monkeys,” Carl Sagan said.
6T9 hadn’t heard the expression before. It took a half a second to comprehend it, but when he did, he smiled despite himself, or maybe his emotional expression thresholds were set too low.
In the study, he heard Darmadi say, “Volka, there’s a plate of food for you in the kitchen. Go ahead and eat. After that, I need you to set another table setting. The Archbishop is coming to eat here.”
He heard Volka gasp, “Such an honor!”
“I hear he is kind to weere,” Darmadi said.
“Oh, yes! I’ve heard so,” she said, sounding excited. “Perhaps he’ll bless me.”
“I think it is likely,” said Darmadi.
6T9 rolled his eyes and returned to his cooking. Sitting close to his feet, Carl said, “We just have to pull off this dinner thing without incident. The Leetier leaves for Libertas tomorrow.”
“I’ll have you know,” 6T9 said, “my dinner parties are never circuses.” His lips curled at the way he’d worked the new idiom into the reply.
At that moment, Volka burst into the kitchen. “Mr. Niano, did you hear that Archbishop Sato is going to be eating here?”
6T9 dropped his whisk into the soufflé, his eyes went wide, and for a moment, all his circuitry dimmed. Volka whirled away, and 6T9 whispered, “No, it can’t be him.” It couldn’t be his friend Admiral Noa Sato’s brother, Kenji Sato.
Carl began to hop at his feet. “Oh, I see from their mental pictures that it is Noa’s brother Kenji!”
6T9 looked down at the werfle in disbelief and hissed, “He’s a fanatic!”
Carl’s whiskers twitched. “He’s nice to werfles, though.”
The creature hopped away. Kenji Sato was Eliza’s great-great-something -grandnephew, and he’d met 6T9 on many occasions before. 6T9’s Q-comm sparked as he compulsively calculated the probabilities of running into the single person on a planet of over a hundred million who might recognize him at a dinner party for seven.
“Wait, don’t open the door,” Niano whispered.
Hefting the tray high, Volka looked heavenward. Her burden was heavy, and she was having a bad day. She’d had more nightmares the night before, a dream of expectant doom and darkness. After waking up in a cold sweat, she’d finally gotten to sleep again and somehow managed to sleep through her alarm clock. She hadn’t had a chance to visit Myra and the baby before work, and half of her wondered if her nightmare, and oversleeping, were products of her envy. She was jealous of Myra’s baby, and it made her feel sick with guilt. She wasn’t in the mood for Niano’s tomfoolery.
Niano moved to the other side of the kitchen and then whispered, “Okay, now is fine.” It was as though he didn’t want to risk being seen.
Her arms ached, but she reminded herself that at least her stomach didn’t. The raw lizzar had been a generous gesture on his part, whatever his motives, and she needed to be more compassionate and accepting. Maybe he was being shy. In the interior, he probably didn’t meet high-ranking clergy very much. She backed through the swinging door and entered the dining room. When she came back into the kitchen, he jumped back from the door fast.
“Were you peeking?” she asked in a hushed voice.
“No.”
“I nearly broke your nose,” she said worriedly .
“I might have been peeking,” he admitted. His eyes scanned the floor. “That really is him…Kenji Sato.”
“Yes,” Volka said, beginning to smile.
“He’s over one hundred and eighty years old. How can that be?” Niano asked, rubbing his temple.
“It’s by the grace of God,” Volka replied, unable to keep the awe out of her voice. “He’s practically a saint.” When she’d served him, she’d been so overwhelmed that her hands had shaken.
Archbishop Sato was frail, his hair was completely white, and he sat in a wheelchair. He also had a strange metal disk in the side of his skull—a “neural port” from the time before Revelation, she knew. She’d managed not to stare at it. Other than that and his frailty, he’d seemed healthy. When he looked up at her, his face had been surprisingly smooth, and his eyes shockingly bright behind his bifocals. He’d smiled at her, oddly shyly, and said, “Thank you,” despite her poor performance. The memory made her eyes misty, and Volka made the sign of the Three Books: touching her forehead, her heart, and bowing her head.
Niano’s gaze met hers. “You believe that?” His voice was cool, without inflection. Volka’s eyes narrowed. She knew the rumors about Archbishop Sato being so mathematically gifted he might be a “robot,” or that he was controlled by a machine.
Her lip curled. “I believe he allows weere into the priesthood, and yes, that does make him a saint in my eyes.” That was the reason for the rumors; all the weere knew it. Kenji Sato was a miracle. That God protected him was proof that God existed.
Niano’s eyes softened. She brushed past him and made her way to the sink .
Later, when she was serving coffee, Archbishop Sato asked, “Mister Darmadi, this is the most authentic Founders’ Feast I’ve had since Revelation.” Volka’s stomach turned to a stone. Mr. Niano didn’t deserve his approval. “I’d like to meet the chef,” the archbishop added. He blinked, owl-like behind his thick lenses. “It’s exactly as I remember my last Founders’ Feast at my great aunt Eliza’s house. She was one of the First Wave settlers.”
Smiling proudly, Mr. Darmadi said, “Would you believe I have a human cook? He just made his way here from the interior provinces. Volka, go fetch Mr. Niano so the archbishop can meet him.”
Volka felt the ha
irs on her head rise up, and her ears flattened in what she hoped Darmadi would mistake for submission. Niano was so prone to saying…awkward things…and he’d just practically accused the archbishop of being a robot. Nodding respectfully to hide her frown, Volka said, “Yes, sir,” and went back into the kitchen.
“I heard,” Niano whispered as she entered. He was standing at the center of the room, stock-still, eyes wide. His Adam’s apple bobbed. Focus abruptly shifting to the floor, Niano said, “Carl Sagan, you go first!”
“Merr…” said the werfle, and it trotted out and slipped through the still-swinging door.
Volka blinked. She didn’t know a lot about werfles, but she’d always heard they weren’t ones for taking orders.
Her attention returned to Mr. Niano. He was running his hands down the front of his coat, drawing attention to his slight belly. She squinted, trying to remember him that first night in a tight shirt—he hadn’t had a belly that she could recall. Of course, her memories from that night were hazy. Or maybe he just helped himself to a little extra of the Founders’ Feast? “I don’t think it’s the werfle he wants to see,” she said.
As if to spite her, from the other room, she heard a collective, “aww” and Mr. Darmadi saying, “That is Mr. Niano’s werfle. ‘Carl Sagan’ is his name. If he’s bothering you, I can—”
“No, no, I like werfles,” the archbishop replied. Chuckling, he added, “‘Carl Sagan’? That is an odd name for a werfle. His name should be something more like…‘Fluffy.’”
“Squeak, squeak!” said Carl Sagan, and Volka’s ears swiveled back, hearing the werfle purr all the way from the other room.
Mr. Niano didn’t move.
“What do I do?” 6T9 said into the ether, static flaring so furiously beneath his skin he could feel his power cells draining.
“I don’t know. Kenji doesn’t know you’re here yet, so I don’t know how he will react,” Carl Sagan responded. “It is nice to see him again, though.”
