Starship Waking

by C. Gockel

The man edged closer. 6T9 could not read his expression. A scarf covered his face and his hat was pulled down to the rim of the snow goggles covering his eyes. He was slightly shorter than 6T9. His body was hidden beneath formless winter attire, but 6T9 guessed that it wasn’t just an illusion of winter padding that made the man appear broad and muscular. Humans who were raised on above standard grav planets tended to be strong.

  A communicator at his hip crackled with a child’s voice. “Father, did you find the calves?”

  The wind shifted, and the child on the comm said, “I smell you. I’m coming.” The sound of hoofbeats grew louder.

  Carl trotted toward the man, but the stranger shoved him away with a foot.

  “He’s too frightened for me to influence,” said Carl.

  Of them? One of 6T9’s eyebrows hiked.

  Volka said softly, “We mean you no harm.”

  “But you’ll bring it to me, won’t cha?” said the man.

  Not lowering the rifle, he said, “Move!” and indicated the direction they’d been going to begin with. Would the man shoot them outright? Or give them a room for the night and then turn them over to the Guard to be tortured and then killed? He looked to Volka. She met his eyes again and shivered. In fear or only cold, he couldn’t tell. Obeying the man, she turned around and began trudging along. 6T9 followed, tracking their captor’s movements in his mind.

  They’d gone thirty point three meters when a shadow appeared in the gloom. At first, 6T9 thought it was some sort of alien life form with four thin legs, a thick body, and a disproportionately thick neck, all capped off with multi-pronged horns. But as the shadow drew closer, 6T9 realized it was a weere girl, riding on an Earth reindeer. Above her scarf, she had humanish brown eyes that weren’t lined with black like Volka’s. Her wolf ears were very small and close to her head, covered by orangish brown velvet at the tips and filled with cream-colored fur on the inside. Locks of long red hair blew from beneath her hat.

  “Father,” the girl said. “Who are—?”

  “Get your mother,” the man said, “And bring Uncle Dean, too. We’ll be following your footsteps.”

  The girl’s eyes traveled over 6T9 and Volka and then went to her father’s rifle. Nodding, she turned her reindeer around and kicked her heels into its sides. Within moments, she’d disappeared into the veil of snow. Volka watched the girl go—or more precisely, her mount. 6T9’s eyebrows rose as she licked her lips.

  “Keep walking!” said the man.

  They’d only gone a few more steps when Volka’s teeth started to chatter. Human discomfort that wasn’t part of desired sexual scenarios made sex ‘bots uncomfortable. Easing his arms down, 6T9 protested, “At least let me give her my coat!”

  A few feet off in the gloom, Carl Sagan’s tail thrashed madly. “Don’t get yourself maimed or Volka killed. ”

  “Make another move, and I’ll blow a hole straight through your back,” the man said in response. And then the man said in a softer voice, “It’s not far.”

  “I’ll…be…all right…” Volka chattered, tromping through the forest.

  Four hundred thirty meters later, an alarm was ringing in 6T9’s head, telling him to power up now , and that Volka might be close to hypothermia, again —but just before he spoke, Volka lifted her nose and started sniffing the air. A moment later, 6T9’s receptors picked up the chemical signature of roasting meat and Earth evergreen trees. He could see nothing, though; the snowfall was too heavy. A few paces more, and the forest changed from native trees to Earth spruce and aspens. Here and there, where the ground was protected by their branches, he saw patches of dark black soil. A few paces more, and he made out the shapes of several buildings.

  Footsteps sounded in the cloud of snow. The reindeer rider appeared, along with two adult weere, a male and female, who were on foot. The woman had pigmentation around her eyes, wolf ears, and short hair like Volka. But her hair and the velvet on her ears was black. Her eyes were light gray, and her skin was startlingly pale. The weere man looked very similar, just taller and a little broader—the woman’s sibling, perhaps? And was he the man their captor had described as “Uncle Dean?”

  A light that had been flashing orange in 6T9’s vision, warning him that he was running out of power, stopped flashing and changed to red. His hands started to shake.

  The woman said, “Fionna shouldn’t have seen them.”

  “Fionna is a smart girl and will keep her mouth shut,” said their captor, rifle still aimed at 6T9’s back .

  The woman tilted her head and her ears flattened. To their captor, she said, “I don’t like this, Darragh.”

  “Neither do I,” Darragh replied. “But I don’t like a lot of things.”

  Carl Sagan slunk around 6T9’s legs. “Remember how I said Libertas was safer? I take it back. Something is wrong here.”

  Ears flicking madly, the woman frowned. Her eyes traveled over Volka, narrowed on 6T9, and then she sniffed the air.

  The weere man sniffed the air, too, and gave 6T9 a strange look. He turned to the girl and said, “Go stay with Tuyet.”

  As the girl turned her mount away, the strange woman said, “Get them into the greenhouse before they freeze.”

  The man with the rifle barked, “Follow Dean.”

  The black-haired weere man led them to a wooden door set in the side of a plastic-frame building. He opened it and warm air rolled out in a wave along with the distinct odors that made 6T9’s Q-comm hum. His chem receptors detected the signatures of Earth soils and fermented feces of several species—reindeer, pigs, and fowl birds—some was even human, though 6T9 detected no threatening odors of Clostridium difficile , Salmonella typhi , or Vibrio cholerae .

  Volka hesitated, nose wrinkling.

  “Luddecceans,” hissed the woman. “Get in there, girl, if you know what’s good for you.”

  Darragh nudged 6T9 hard enough in the back that he stumbled forward. Carl zipped by their feet. Volka’s brow furrowed, and she entered, 6T9 and their captors behind her .

  They were in a dark store room with gardening tools. 6T9’s sensors put it as not much above freezing—before he could worry about the implications of that, Dean walked ahead of them, opened a second door, and waved them through. Volka and 6T9 stepped into the greenhouse proper. There were full-spectrum ultraviolet lights on either side of them and rows of aquaponic tanks. Closer to the windows were stacked beds of other plants in soil. 6T9 didn’t have to use his Q-comm to recognize the plants; they were common enough in space gardens and he’d seen them many times: potatoes and beans in the soil rows, greens in the aquaponic tanks. In the middle of the room, surrounded by a circle of flat reddish stones, was a wood burning stove. 6T9’s mouth watered, anticipating the heat of the stove, and he stumbled toward it. If he could take off his coat and wrap his arms around the oven…His Q-comm hummed, reminding him that if he did that, they’d know what he was and shoot him.

  Poking 6T9 with the rifle, Darragh said, “Turn around.”

  Vision tunneling with the need for power, and too tired to think properly, 6T9 did. Standing with his back to the stove and coat on, 6T9 wasn’t warming fast enough. His arms started to fall.

  “Move again and I’ll shoot!” said the man with the rifle.

  Closing his eyes, 6T9 sent more power to his arms—they stayed aloft, but his legs gave out. Stones bit at his knees, but his internal sensors had gone dark and he had no idea how much power he had left.

  “Sixty!” Volka cried at the same time the man shouted, “don’t move! ”

  6T9 felt Volka wrap her arms around him. “What’s wrong?” she whispered.

  Over the ether, he tried to tell her, “I’m out of power,” and to admonish her for ignoring the man’s orders, but she had no ethernet channel. She could hear Carl Sagan through true telepathy, according to Carl—but she had no ethernet and couldn’t hear wireless channels. She couldn’t hear him.

  “He’s cold!” Volka shouted up at the men. “Let me take him over to t
he stove at least.”

  He heard Darragh’s heavy footsteps approaching in front of him and the cock of a pistol to his right. The world was swaying, as though the gravity was fluctuating.

  “Enough,” shouted Dean, somewhere far away. “You will let us search you both for weapons and then we’ll leave you alone.”

  Volka must have complied because her arms left his shoulders. 6T9’s energy gave out and he slumped against her. He heard the strange woman say, “Give me your pack, girl,” and then “Luddeccean credits, a lot of ‘em, all covered in werfle barf…What’s this?”

  “It’s my sketchbook…please…take the credits, but let me keep that,” Volka replied.

  “Could be code,” said the weere man. His voice was very close to 6T9, which is when he realized he was getting patted down, too.

  “It’s not,” Volka protested. “It’s all I have from my old life.”

  The woman snorted. “What are you two? A weere maid and some pretty counselor’s boy eloping?”

  “He’s got a stunner on him,” said the weere man. 6T9 couldn’t see at all anymore, and he didn’t know if he was up or down. His chemical receptors were offline; he no longer smelled anything. He felt the weere man withdraw the power pack from his side. “What’s that? Some sort of gel pack for injuries?”

  “But why the attached power cord?” Darragh asked.

  And then he felt the weere man pull out Eliza’s ashes. “What the hell?”

  Eyes opening—though he hadn’t realized he’d closed them—6T9 sat up—though he didn’t remember when he’d lied down. Every power monitor in his body was screaming, lights were flashing at the periphery of his vision, but he saw Eliza’s ashes in the weere man’s hands, and the weere man preparing to unzip the packet. “No!” 6T9 screamed.

  The world went black.

  Volka’s heart stopped when Sixty screamed. The veins—or whatever looked like veins in his forehead—and neck were popping out, and his tone was one of pure agony. How could a robot sound so emotionally wracked? Was it a trick by Sixty, or a trick on Sixty—had he been fooled by his makers into believing he had emotions?

  The weere woman holding Volka’s backpack dropped it on the floor and Luddeccean credits jangled on the stones.

  Dean, the weere man holding one of the strange packages she’d felt in Sixty’s coat earlier, stared at Sixty, eyes wide and shocked.

  And then Sixty slumped backward. Volka just barely caught him before his head hit the floor.

  “What’s in it?” Darragh asked Dean .

  The weere man opened the package and sniffed. “Ashes…” he murmured.

  “Could dump ‘em on the plants,” said the human man.

  Remembering 6T9’s scream, Volka silently prayed, “Dear God, don’t let him spill those ashes.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” said Carl in Volka’s mind, trotting toward Dean.

  Volka couldn’t address the werfle’s blasphemy. Holding out a hand, fingers outstretched, she said aloud, “No, please—”

  The female weere grumbled, “What are they?”

  Darragh edged closer to the weere woman. The human man was the weere woman’s lover, and the father of the half-weere girl Volka had seen earlier—she’d determined all of that by smell. There was a half-weere here—did they know that was extraordinary?

  Shaking her head, Volka replied, “I don’t know. But they’re important to him.” What could they be? What could make a robot feel agony? Her curiosity was suddenly as strong as their captors.

  Dean snorted.

  “Squeak,” said Carl Sagan at Dean’s feet.

  Dean’s ears flicked as though he was being nagged by a bug.

  Darragh took off his gloves and hat, revealing shocking red hair like the half-weere girl’s. Volka’s eyes caught on the gleam of a single band on the ring finger of his left hand. The woman took off her own gloves, and Volka’s mouth fell open. The weere woman wore a matching ring. They were married? Legally?

  Perhaps seeing the direction of her eyes, the weere woman said gruffly, “We don’t care who you love here, woman. This is Libertas.” Her lips curled. “But you’ve brought a heap of trouble down on us.”

  “If trouble comes to us, it may not come to other places, Bridgette,” said Darragh softly.

  Those words made Dean turn toward them.

  Bridgette’s ears flattened fearfully, but she said, “We should talk outside.” To the man who was her brother by the smell of him, Bridgette said, “Dean, come too.”

  Dean looked down at the packet of ashes, zipped it up, threw it at the unconscious 6T9, and stomped away. Darragh opened the door to the store room, and Volka was hit by a rush of frigid air. “If you leave, you’ll die,” Dean said, and with that, they left.

  “What happened to Sixty?” Volka whispered to the werfle.

  Carl eyed the robot leaning against her. “He stopped answering his ethernet hails a few minutes before he collapsed. I think he’s out of power.” Carl replied.

  “What do we do?” Volka asked.

  Standing on his hind limbs, he gestured with a paw. “Get him as close to the stove as you can—”

  Volka stood up and managed to drag 6T9’s surprisingly heavy body over the stones to the stove. “Now what?” she asked.

  Swishing his tail, Carl Sagan said, “Open up his coat and take off his boots. At this point, they’re keeping heat out.”

  Volka did as instructed. Lifting 6T9’s torso so his chest was facing the stove, Volka sat behind him, letting his weight press against her. Her ears flicked. She could detect no sound of machinery within him. It made her feel unaccountably sad, although he wasn’t real like Carl or she were, no matter how real he appeared to be, or even thought he was.

  She glanced at Carl Sagan. The werfle was staring at her through narrowed eyes. Remembering what he’d said earlier, she said, “I know you’re not a god.”

  Licking a paw, Carl replied, “No, I am not. I have on occasion inhabited the body of a cat. Do you know what a cat is?”

  When Volka nodded in the affirmative, the werfle continued, “Cats were worshipped as Gods thousands of years ago on Earth.” He leaned toward her. “Would you believe they still remember?”

  “I’d think a real cat would be too stupid to conceive of such a thing,” Volka said.

  Dropping the paw, Carl Sagan swished his tail. “Like most beings, they’re quite capable of conceiving that which they wish to believe.”

  Volka’s brow furrowed. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “What do you think it is supposed to mean?”

  Volka huffed. “Can’t you do something more useful than talk in riddles? Like find out what Bridgette, Dean, and Darragh are talking about?” Her eyes went to the backpack, and she scowled. Bridgette hadn’t taken anything—not her sketchbook or Volka’s credits.

  Stretching, Carl replied, “They’ve moved too far away.” The hair rose on the back of his neck, and his tail swished madly. “I only know that they’re angry—and I need to sleep.” Slinking over to 6T9’s feet, he plopped down by the stove. “When he wakes up, ask him what the ashes are.” With that, he yawned and closed his eyes.

  Volka looked down at the unconscious robot in her arms. He was warm. His natural—or unnatural—scent was masked by the reek of feces in the plant house…but he probably smelled better than her. She smelled like fear and probably like vomit. He was shimmering slightly where the heat touched his skin, and he did look like the angel she’d first mistook him for.

  She had a feeling that she didn’t want to know what the ashes were. Not at all.

  6T9’s consciousness came back slowly. First, he heard a heartbeat. Next, he saw light behind his eyes. As his systems came online, his eyelids fluttered open, his fingers flexed, and he found himself facing the wood burning stove in the greenhouse. His upper torso was leaning against something soft. Carl was asleep at his feet. His power was still low, but it was increasing rather than decreasing. He must have shut down
.

  “Sixty?” Volka whispered, her lips close to his ear.

  Every centimeter of his skin touching a surface lit instantly. He was leaning against Volka. His head was against her shoulder, his shoulders against her breast, his torso against her legs. He glanced down. Her slender arms were resting on his chest. Though his coat was gone, they were both dressed…still, his touch receptors danced where their bodies met, and his body hummed with fulfillment. He wanted to focus on the sensation, but knew whatever caused his shut down could be putting them both at risk. He accessed his databanks, and the events before played back. “Eliza’s ashes,” he said, trying to sit up and falling back down again.

  “I have them,” Volka said. “They’re safe.”

  Grimacing, 6T9 twisted a quarter way around, trying to find them, needing to verify the statement for himself.

  “Wait, wait…” Volka murmured, and a moment later put the packet in his hands.

  Closing his eyes, 6T9 exhaled and lay back against the weere woman, Eliza’s ashes on his stomach. The sensation of fulfillment gradually returned.

  In the stove, a log cracked, and 6T9 spied sparks dancing behind its iron grate. His touch receptors were sparking just as happily.

  He heard Volka swallow, and then she asked, “Who was Eliza?”

  “My lover.”

  Volka’s body stiffened at his answer, and he smiled bitterly. He’d heard many times that humans couldn’t really love machines, especially sex ‘bots. The general consensus in the galaxy was that sex ‘bots weren’t anything but toys at best, mindless slaves at worst. But he had not been mindless at the end, and lovers was the right word for what he and Eliza were, even if, by that point their physical intimacy had been mostly platonic in nature. “She gave me my Q-comm,” he said defensively and then realized that was only gibberish to Volka. So, he explained. “The Q-comm is my brain, basically. It allows me to understand things like idioms and metaphors, make inferences, learn without a download, and understand what I feel.” He glanced at her hands and her dark gray and silver nails. His Q-comm gave him the ability to understand that the pigment was natural, and more. He knew that her arms around him, and her body supporting him, were platonic gestures, and that if he pushed for anything more, he’d lose those small comforts. “Without it, I am about as dumb as a box of hammers.”