IGMS Issue 2 (22 page)

"These were not clothes," it said, its head on the ground. "Clothes are items the Queen wears. You do not wear these."

Not any more, she thought. She groaned with frustration. But it wasn't Cheesecake's fault: brainy or not, it was just an animal. She shouldn't scare it.

She went into the bathroom, so it wouldn't follow her, and calmed herself. When she thought she could stop herself from yelling, she went out. "Let's go sit on the bed," she said.

She did; it crawled into her lap.

"We have got to do something about you," she said.

She'd talk to the pet store tomorrow. And Cheesecake, sad as it was, would spend time in its crate, until she figured what to do.

She picked up the phone and dialed. "Bill?"

"Hey," he said.

"Can you look in on Cheesecake some time over the next few days, when I'm at work?" she said. "I'll leave the key on the door frame. I -- I've got to do something. It's destroying the house."

"I'm doing repairs for the college this week," he said. "If I can get away, I will."

If something isn't done, Diane thought, I'll need repairs too, and not just to the house. "Whenever you can," she said.

At work, over cappuccino in Diane's office, Carol asked her, "How's it going at home?"

"Awful," Diane said. "It won't stop messing up the house. I have to keep it in its crate when I'm not there." She felt terrible, but what could she do? Until she could get time off to consult with the vet or the pet store.

"I meant, with that man," Carole said.

Who? Oh. Bill. A ludicrous picture, of Bill messing up the house and sitting penitent in a cage, came to her mind. She laughed. "So far," Diane said, "he's been good. I haven't had to put him in a crate, or anything."

"How good?" Carole asked. "I want details."

Diane laughed.

"All my man ever does is drink beer and watch NASCAR," Carole said. "I live life vicariously."

Over the next week, at least according to Mrs. Mackelmurray's rants on Diane's answering machine, Cheesecake spent the days squeaking "so it sounds like something must be dying in there." Diane didn't know what to do. It spent the evenings cuddled up with her -- she let it sleep in her bed -- and its days in the crate. She'd only had the chance to wash the honeycomb thing on the porch with the hose; it was still there, scaring Mrs. Mackelmurray's brain-addled dog.

One evening, Bill met her at her car. "I can't believe what I saw in there," he said, red-faced with anger.

Oh, no. "What did it do this time?" she said.

"What did
it
do?" he said. "It stayed in a dang crate the whole day, messing itself. I told you not to get that thing. I told you you couldn't handle it -- and now you just keep it locked up the whole time!"

She stepped back, stunned. "It's an animal," she said. "I know there's a problem, but I'm doing the best --"

"It ain't good enough!" he said. "It wants to build. Let it, already!"

"It wants to destroy my house!" she shouted. Mrs. Mackelmurray looked out at them from behind curtains; Diane glared at her, and she disappeared.

"You can't control things!" Bill shouted back.

He was right about that. But there had to be some way. "I'm doing everything that I know how," she said. "I've got the manuals!" Which weren't sufficient. But what else could she do? Not that it was any of his business.

"Manuals," he said, with disgust. "Oh, forget it." He walked away.

She thought of yelling after him, but it seemed undignified.

Then she went in, saw Cheesecake, looking miserable in its crate, and her heart melted.

She read the manuals again, with Cheesecake on her lap, not even bothering to get dinner. They told her nothing new: dominance gestures, clear orders, and timeouts. Too bad the authors didn't publish their email addresses. She had some choice words for them.

And for Bill. Who did he think he was, anyway?

A man with a backbone, apparently. Who knew? There was more to him than met the eye. She wondered what.

The next evening, she came back -- early, so she could call the vet and get some help -- and Cheesecake was out of the crate.

The monstrosity on the porch was gone.

In the living room, there was a new sofa, a mishmash of straw, foam, shredded cloth, and Cheesecake-slobber cement. It was leaning slightly.

Beyond that, everything she could see was repaired -- carpet, walls, furniture -- but repaired with Cheesecake-construction, gooey and enameled and not quite the right color.

She heard a sound of hissing from the kitchen, and jumped. Then she recognized the sound: water flowing.

It was spewing out under the sink. Cheesecake was there, pulling out the pipes.

She rushed past it, and cut off the water under the sink, getting soaked while she did it. (Why did they have to make these things so hard to turn?) "What are you
doing
?" she asked Cheesecake, furious, when the water stopped.

"I am getting a pipe, to reinforce the sofa," it said.

"Well, stop it!" she said, anger fading into weariness at the same old argument. "Didn't I tell you, no construction in the house?"

"You did," it said. "I now understand why. You are not sane."

"
What?
"

"You acquired a builder drone, and forbade it to build. I understand now. You cannot be Queen; 'Queen' and 'insane' are incompatible concepts."

Ridiculous. "Well,
you
can't be Queen," she told it. All the books said so.

"I know," it said. "I have no legal rights. Bill is Queen."

Oh, please. Ever-compliant Bill?

But he wasn't compliant, after all, even if he did do her home repair while she just blew him off. She hadn't known who she was treating so dismissively. An image of his strong hands flashed in her mind: tightening plumbing fittings; cradling the infant Cheesecake that first week.

"The Queen ordered me to repair your house, and then come to his house." Its antennas twitched. Excitement, she thought. "I have usefulness to the Queen," it added. "He wants me to build things with him."

"With that goo you make?" Even Bill wouldn't put up with that.

"He has other means of attaching that he says are sturdier." Its antennas perked up as it squeaked. "He wants to teach me! He told me many things today." It examined her. "You are the kind of creature that does not use social structure; you do not need a drone."

What I need, Diane thought, is a new house. But it was wrong about her. "I do use social structure," she said. "I'm so sorry you were unhappy here. If you want to go live with Bill --" She sagged. "I'm just sorry, that's all."

"You need comforting," it said. "Would you like to snuggle? I can do that, after I finish the sofa."

"Sure," she said. She'd even sit on the gooey sofa, if it wanted.

"We could go over to the Queen's house," it said. "He would like to snuggle too."

"You'll be living there," she said. "He'll have plenty of chances."

"If you come, he can snuggle with you," Cheesecake said.

Diane laughed. "With me? Why me?"

"The Queen would like to build a social structure," it said.

"With
me
? He said so?"

"He told me many things," it said.

She thought about it, and laughed again. "You know," she said, "that might not be a bad idea."

Who they are isn't important. They'd be the first to tell you that.

It's
what
they are that counts.

But I'm in the business of who, as well as what, where, when and why -- so that's what you get up top.

First there was Jen Jameson, who wasn't captain because there was no captain of this boat. They called her Specialist One, since her area of expertise was the worm holes that got us where we were going. She also had a good overview of every other system on the ship. She'd always be captain to me because if there was a fight, she'd be the one to give the orders.

Then there was Specialist One-A, Bill Felder, who looked the part of an exec but I keep forgetting this is no Navy. This is a World Council Designated Field Survey Expedition Ship, which meant that Earth had finally got around to setting up a wormhole system, and had grown the balls to use it. Those of us who didn't like saying World Council Designated etc. called it the Guinea Pig cruise, and let it go at that.

The ship had a name,
the
Russell
, and though it looked like nothing so much as a giant battleship-gray golf ball, complete with dimples, I was told it would do its job, which was not to get us killed and maybe put us face-to-face, finally, with other ISs (intelligent species).

Jameson herself told us, at the one and only staff meeting we had, that the
Russell
wouldn't blow its bolts, or worse.

"You'll notice very little spacial change," she said, trying not to treat me like an idiot; she looked pretty spiffy in her World Council jumpsuit, blue with a Specialist One patch over her left breast, her only sign of rank. While regaining my seat, I took solace in the fact that the faces around me looked just as hungry for real information as mine; most of them were Seconds and Thirds, and knew as much about worm holes as I did, which was nada.