by C. Gockel
Hair rising, Volka growled. “They aren’t lying.”
6T9 stopped running his queries. He let out a long breath and met her eyes. She was glaring up at him, hands balled into fists. “That they all are lying seems statistically unlikely,” he admitted. Many had gone to their executions declaring their innocence.
Her hair slowly settled. Resisting the urge to smooth it down, 6T9 said, “It’s possible I wasn’t sufficiently cautious in my actions this evening.”
Sighing, Volka slowly sat on the floor. Sundancer still didn’t have a seat, other than the toilet in the aft compartment. There was now a tablet with a radio transmitter on the bridge to speak with Luddeccean ground control, but no furniture.
Crossing her legs and setting her elbows on her knees, she said, “Most of us aren’t rational about these things.”
6T9 sat down beside her. Neither of them said anything for 34.7 seconds. The hull of the ship had darkened during their conversation, but in their silence, it brightened. When 6T9 put his hands down, Sundancer heated the deck beneath his palms and fingers, recharging his batteries.
“How did you even know?” 6T9 asked. “I was discreet, we were out of eyesight and earshot of even you.”
“I can still smell her all over you,” Volka said.
“I washed my hands very carefully. I work in a kitchen,” he said, and his own emotional recognition applications told him he sounded defensive…with good reason. He was scrupulous about hygiene in the kitchen and out.
“It’s least on your hands. I can smell the soap there—lemon,” said Volka. “It’s everywhere else. In your hair especially. It usually takes about three showers before you smell like just…you.”
It was data that was new to him. He wondered how many of his encounters Volka was an olfactory voyeur to, and he wished he had that power.
“Don’t get yourself slagged, Sixty,” Volka said, sounding very tired. “You’re my best friend.”
His Q-comm went momentarily offline, and then flared. Every circuit in his body went white, and it tinged his vision for a moment. When he came online again, he found he’d already slipped his arm around her back. He didn’t stop himself. He pulled her close so her side was flush against his. He dropped his head against hers and felt the softness of her ears against his cheek. His eyes closed, and he committed the sensation of her beside him and against his arm to his eidetic memory. They were like “chalk and cheese” as the ancient idiom went. Volka was horribly monogamous and he was not, but they’d carved out something between her nature and his programming—a refuge for them both. Friendship seemed too small a word. “I’ll do my best.”
He heard her swallow. Time was a construct that existed within the universe, but not without it according to most physicists. For a moment, Volka didn’t move, and he thought they might have temporarily slipped out of the universe because the moment felt both like an eternity and too short. But then she took a deep breath, and her head bowed. “Sixty, I love you, I really do…” His circuits brightened but dimmed with her next words. “But right now, you smell like a woman who is going to have me reported for insolence and you need to let me go.”
His head jerked up, and his arm fell from her back. “What?”
“It’s a long story. In summary, I cannot pass as human like you.” Not meeting his gaze, she touched her temple. “Carl’s awake and in contact with the interim premier’s mother’s cat. Snowball is saying that the interim premier’s mother is suggesting the members of the embassy should be allowed to travel outside the embassy compound…so…” She shrugged. “Well done, I guess.”
Her ears were down, her head still bowed. She looked miserable. All his doing?
“I’d say I told you so…” he said, trying to make her laugh. “But that would be rude.”
Volka frowned. “It’s not a joke, Sixty. Just by being here, we’re upsetting things…” Studying her hands, she said, “We’re supposed to be here helping mend divisions, but I have this horrible feeling we’re causing more…”
14
Rifts
Planet Luddeccea
Hungry and tired, Markus was already crying when Alexis entered the house after their six-week appointments. She wished she could scream, too. She hurt from being prodded by the doctor and burned from his words during his exam. “You’re in great shape, Alexis. I sewed you up tight as a virgin. Your husband should thank me.”
Was that why she still hurt?
Markus’s scream increased to a wail, and once again it was as though he was expressing everything she felt. Her visit with the doctor wasn’t the worst of it. In the waiting room, she’d run into an acquaintance whose father was a counselor. The woman had asked her if she knew that the Galactic Republic Ambassador was going to have a weere as an attaché, and not just any weere—Silas Darmadi’s former maid. Volka.
Alaric’s weere was coming back to Luddeccea.
Markus took in a sharp breath, preparing for another ear-splitting shriek. Alexis patted him and whispered, “There, there,” the gentleness in her voice in stark contrast to her mood. He still smelled like new baby. His weight against her seemed like the only good thing in her life right now. And except for deafness, his current state of hunger and the dirty diaper she’d been smelling for the last five minutes, he’d passed his checkup with flying colors. That was what mattered, she told herself.
Having gathered his breath, Markus wailed again. She hurried up the stairs. Already in pain, the trip at least didn’t hurt more.
It wasn’t until after she was done nursing Markus that she realized how quiet the house was. It was Saturday. She should at least hear the boys in the yard with Alaric, the maid in the kitchen cleaning up after lunch, and the boards creaking under Silas as he worked in his studio. The silence was eerie, and she hesitated a moment before closing On the Origins of War, hiding it in the cushions of the chair, and setting the sleeping Markus in his crib. Slipping from the room, gently closing the door behind her because Markus could feel vibrations, she felt as though she stumbled into a dark fairytale where the inhabitants of a castle were all put to sleep.
She cried out in shock when she turned and saw she wasn’t alone.
Her husband held up his hands, and then lowered them slowly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” A clock chimed in the study, and neither of them moved. The distance between them seemed as vast as the light years he traveled when he was away. Alaric was no longer the awkwardly tall man she’d been introduced to with shockingly light blue eyes below black bangs. His gray hair softened his disconcertingly colored eyes. His shoulders had filled out since that introduction. Even his time in prison had barely diminished them. Other women told her she was lucky to have such a handsome husband. He was handsome, she supposed, but a stranger, too. She still felt that way after she’d borne him three children. The clock chimed a final time.
“Where is everyone?” she asked.
“Silas and the maid took the boys out for lunch at the park.”
Of course Silas would take the maid. He was affectionate with Markus but found the older boys to be “very energetic.”
“Alexis,” he said. “You had your appointment today?”
What he was on about became instantly clear. He’d managed to get the children, Silas and the maid, all out of the house because her six weeks of being off limits was over—as long as she had been cleared by her doctor. Which she had been, no matter how she felt.
“What did the doctor say, Alexis?” Alaric said, stepping closer to her, his hand going to her hip. “Are you well?”
She was not well emotionally. That weere was in Prime. Alexis was humiliated just by the creature’s proximity. He’d go right from Alexis to her without a backward glance; it was inevitable.
“Alexis, talk to me,” Alaric said.
Maybe it wasn’t inevitable. Things had been…good…between Alaric and her since Markus’s birth. At least on the outside they were the picture of a happy, if somewhat eccentr
ic, family. Maybe she could fight it. She should fight it. It was her duty to do so, and her duty to meet her husband’s needs as the wives of the Guards were always reminded…that was how to fight. It was said that weere women, especially during the season, would endure anything. She would endure as well.
She forced a smile that felt brittle. “The doctor said I am in perfect health.” Tight as a virgin. Your husband should thank me.
His hand on her hip tightened. His eyebrows knit. “Really?” he asked, sounding perplexed. “I thought maybe…I got the idea from Sol—well, never mind where—that this delivery was harder. I was worried.” His free hand went to her other hip.
She mentally finished his next unspoken words. He worried that she wouldn’t be able to fulfill him.
“The doctor says it’s okay,” she said.
“Oh.” His eyebrows rose. “Oh.” He looked to the side and said as though it had just occurred to him, “The house is empty.”
“Yes,” Alexis replied.
His lips were on hers a moment later, and his hands were tightening on her hips. She was filled with warmth and hope. This was the one thing that worked for them. But hadn’t been enough for him; he’d still had that weere, a tiny voice in her head cried. She pushed the gnawing little voice aside. It would work. There might be some discomfort at first, but it would be over quickly.
Her fingers went to the buttons of his shirt, and he pushed her into the bedroom. His lips didn’t leave hers, even when he slipped a hand from her side to close the door. Her heart beat in her ears. He wouldn’t care about her still-soft belly, or that her breasts would weep. It was baby number three; they’d been here before. She had to stay confident and not let her insecurities overwhelm her.
They stripped off each other’s clothing quickly, without artfulness, parents knowing that although the house was empty, they could be cut short at any moment. Sure enough, he wasn’t repulsed by her appearance—or not enough to be unready—and she was ready too when he lowered himself on top of her. Her fingers skimmed up the back of his arms, and her nails found familiar purchase on his back.
And then he touched her there and it burned like she was being rubbed with broken glass. She sucked in a breath.
“What’s wrong?” Alaric said, hand stilling.
“Nothing.”
His hand moved and despite herself she yelped. He stopped.
“It’s fine. Keep going.” She would finish this.
“You’re crying,” he said, pulling off of her and leaning on one elbow. He wiped her cheek as though catching a tear.
Closing her eyes, she said, “It’s okay. Just go ahead.”
He didn’t rise, and there was a silence so deep it had weight, like the air before a thunderstorm.
“What do you take me for?” The pain in Alaric’s voice made her open her eyes.
“The doctor says I’m fine,” Alexis said, a mantra to herself as much as him.
Alaric flushed, and his lip curled. “Well, then he’s a hack,” he all but shouted. His free hand whipped in the air above her. He’d never hit her, or even threatened to, but Alexis shrank into the sheets reflexively.
Alaric’s hand froze in the air, like a bird of prey halted mid-strike. He released a breath. “Alexis, I’m not angry at you.”
She’d failed. Staring at the ceiling, she scrunched her eyes closed. What would she do? She swallowed. She knew what she would do—exactly what her mother, and other women whose husbands had mistresses did. She’d pretend everything was fine.
“Alexis,” her husband whispered. “Please talk to me.”
Shouts from Sam and Lucas echoed from below. Silas’s voice joined them. “Boys, you wore me out!” The door slammed, and Alexis felt it in her body even all the way upstairs. Since she’d learned Markus felt vibrations, she’d begun to feel them herself.
Markus’s wail joined the chorus, and she sprung from the bed to find her clothes.
Getting up with her, Alaric said, “Let me—”
“He doesn’t need what you can provide,” Alexis said, and hurried to leave as fast as she could. She plastered a smile on her face as she left the room. She would not under any circumstances reveal that everything was not well. But inside she seethed.
Alaric had favored Luddeccea establishing diplomatic relations with the Republic, citing oh-so-logical reasons. But he hadn’t been being logical at all, had he?
She bit her lip. There was nothing she could do about it…was there?
15
Sex ‘Bot’s Paradise
Planet Luddeccea
“How are my favorite carnivores?” 6T9 asked, carrying a tray of raw lizzar and steak tartare out to the garden-space-port. Carl was sunning himself in the last sunbeams of the day. Volka was painting Sundancer as the setting sun turned her pearlescent hull pink.
Peeking over Volka’s shoulder, 6T9 tilted his head. Downloading the appropriate software could allow him to be a “painter,” but he would never have thought to paint the scene in the way she had. “It reminds me a bit of Georgia O’Keefe’s landscapes,” he said. Volka had cropped the keel of the ship so that the vessel appeared to be a mountain before Luddeccean pines painted in an oversaturated green. It was how Volka, who was naturally “colorblind,” saw the green. He couldn’t have mimicked it, and it was more beautiful than the pines really were.
“I just wanted to study the colors,” Volka said as though it was nothing special. And then, sniffing the air, she turned around. Her eyes dropped to the steak tartare and she licked her lips. “More meat came in!”
“Yes,” said Sixty, eyeing the food that was once living, feeling beings. Neither animal had been particularly long on the brains department, but 6T9 had been short on brains, too, before his Q-comm. He had a certain amount of ambivalence serving the creatures to his carnivores, even though he knew if they didn’t eat it, they would get sick. Sighing, he set the tray next Volka’s paints.
Without any visible apprehension, Volka picked up a piece of tartare with her bare fingers and slurped it down with a smile. Carl appeared on the tabletop and began tucking in with such speed 6T9 wondered if he counted teleportation as a skill. Laughing, Volka moaned, “So good.” 6T9 relished hearing those words spoken with that enthusiasm during intimate acts, but he only managed a tight smile in response. Would being “so good” make the cow feel better about its fate?
Carl hissed, and Volka translated, “Carl says the ambassador has finally come to his senses.”
The ambassador was a strict vegetarian and thought killing animals for food was immoral. Since lab-grown meat didn’t exist on Luddeccea, he’d been enforcing a vegetarian diet for everyone in the compound—nixing 6T9’s orders for meat for Carl and Volka without even mentioning it.
“Once I explained you are obligate carnivores, he placed an order for fresh meat immediately,” 6T9 replied. Not without a sniff of disdain, though.
Motion at the periphery of 6T9’s vision snapped his focus to one of the Galactic Marines patrolling the border wall. The Marine’s eyes were focused with laser-like intensity on Volka. Another military man falling for 6T9’s carnivore…6T9 almost rolled his eyes at the predictability of it, and then realized the lustful look was actually directed at the dead cow in her hands.
His core programming devoted to human wellness triggered a search of medical literature by his Q-comm. The resulting data suggested that certain human populations could not properly utilize iron from vegetarian sources or utilize vegetarian proteins efficiently. His core programming urged him to talk to the embassy doctor about testing the personnel for anemia and other deficiencies immediately. He tried to reach for the ether to leave the doctor a note—and was blocked by the Luddeccean jammers. His core programming seized him again, turning him back in the direction of the embassy mansion like a puppet on a string.
“Sixty?” Volka asked.
Irritated by the urgency he felt, his response was a grumble. “I need to talk to the doctor about something right no
w.”
He took two steps, and his vision went…gray.
“Volka, is Sundancer having another nightmare?” he called out, and then realized that made no sense. Firstly, because even Carl’s ethernet access was affected by jammers, and 6T9 only got Sundancer’s emotions second hand from the werfle. Secondly, Sundancer’s nightmares were black. This was just a drab nothing. So, it could be he was experiencing a short or—
A low laugh that seemed to come from everywhere at once rumbled through the drab grayness. It was a laugh 6T9 recognized. He was being mentally shanghaied by Time Gate 1. Again. Just like he had when Carl had introduced himself and the time gates had been so appalled by The One’s choice of first contact that they’d called an immediate mental conference. This was a mindscape, a figment of his programming.
6T9 looked around the gray nothingness that was his mind, or server, or whatever. Because 6T9 hated not having a body, he let an avatar of himself form in the nothingness, and then put his simulated hands to his simulated head and groaned. “What did I do wrong now?”
The mindscape flickered, and Time Gate 1 laughed in earnest. “Guilty conscience, 6T9?”
“No,” 6T9 replied, jaw hardening, Q-comm firing madly. “Pattern recognition.”
Thunder filled the mindscape, so loud and so forceful that 6T9 sat down to avoid being knocked over by its reverberations—which didn’t make sense in a computer simulation, but there it was. He’d been seated for 1.24 seconds when he realized the “thunder” was laughter again.
When the thunder died down, Time Gate 1’s voice filled the mindscape. “I’m just playing switchboard operator this time.”
6T9 couldn’t talk directly via Q-comm to another android or ‘bot, only to the computer that was his brain aboard Time Gate 1, but Time Gate 1 could patch his brain into another brain. 6T9 sighed. “I really don’t have time for this right now. I have to talk to the embassy doctor about a potential nutritional deficiency among—”
