Sense of Wonder: A Century of Science Fiction (492 page)

(1954– )

Paul Di Filippo is just about the nicest guy in the world, which you would probably never suspect from reading his stories. Full of twisted, yet oddly compelling characters and environments, you can’t stop reading his stories, but afterward sometimes wish you had. And then you find yourself reading them again anyway.

A Rhode Island native, Paul knew he wanted to write full-time by the time he graduated high school. Rather than attend college he spent a summer working in a spinning mill, saved up, and then traveled with a typewriter and a book collection. He made his way to Hawaii, then Europe, and eventually back to Rhode Island, where he went to work at the Brown University bookstore to support himself while writing. He sold his first story, “Falling Expectations,” in 1977, but then it took eight years to sell a second one, “Rescuing Andy.” After that the sales came much more quickly, however, and a decade later he was writing full-time. Although he primarily writes stories, essays, and reviews, Paul has also written several novels, both alone (beginning with
Ciphers
in 1997) and in collaboration with Michael Bishop under the pen name Philip Lawson. His stories are collected in
The Steampunk Trilogy
(1995),
Ribofunk
(1996), and
Harsh Oases
(2009).

Paul has lived in Providence, Rhode Island with his partner, Deborah Newton, since 1975.

First published in
The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction
, December 1989

Little Worker came awake instantly. Lying curled on the red-and-black-figured carpet before Mister Michael’s bedroom door, she stretched her limbs beneath her plain beige sleeveless shift, then stood on bare feet. Mister Michael, she could sense, was still asleep. Mister Michael deserved to sleep, for Mister Michael worked hard. Little Worker worked hard too, but she never slept late in the mornings, for there was too much, to be done. (If Mister Michael stayed put in his office today, Little Worker would nap at his feet.) But in the mornings. Little Worker always awoke before Mister Michael. She always would. It was her way.

Little Worker appeared unwontedly reluctant to leave her nightly station. Something, this morning, did not smell right. She sniffed the air intently, nostrils twitching. The troublesome odor was nothing she could identify. It was new. This was not necessarily bad, but might be. The new smell emanated from behind Mister Michael’s door. It was not a dangerous smell, so Little Worker could not bring herself to knock or otherwise disturb Mister Michael. He would be up and about soon enough, for Mister Michael had a busy schedule. Perhaps then the source of the new smell would be revealed. Perhaps not. In either case, Mister Michael would instruct her about anything she needed to know.

Little Worker tucked strands of her moderate-length, stiff brown hair behind her ears. She brushed the wrinkles out of her shift. They disappeared swiftly from the dull utilitarian fabric. She curried the short fur on her face and licked beneath her arms. Her morning grooming completed, she set out for the kitchen.

First Little Worker had to go down a long hall. The long hall had a veined marble floor, down the center of which ran the red and black carpet with its oriental design. The long hall had large mullioned windows in its stone walls. Some of these windows had panes of stained glass. Through the eastern windows came bright winter sunlight. When it passed through the colored panes, it made lozenges of various hues on the carpet. Little Worker admired these dapples, for they reminded her of dabs of jelly on toast. Little Worker liked jelly on toast. She would have some this morning. She usually had some every morning, except when she took an egg to add glossiness to her coat. Little Worker, with the aid of the food-center, could cook whatever she wanted for herself. This was one of her privileges. Mister Michael himself had said, when first she came to live here, “Little Worker, you may order the food-center to prepare whatever you want for yourself.” This had made her proud. In the Training School, she had had to eat whatever the trainers set out for her. But Mister Michael trusted her.

The next door down the long hall from Mister Michael’s belonged to the bedroom of Mister Michael’s wife. Little Worker lifted her nose as she came abreast of the door, intent on passing without stopping. However, noises from beyond the door made her stop. The noises were thrashings and moanings and grunts. Little Worker suspected what the noises were, but curiosity impelled her to look anyway.

The handle of the door was shaped like a thick curled gold leaf. Above the handle was a security keypad. Below was an old-fashioned keyhole. Little Worker put one big hazel eye to the hole.

It was as Little Worker had suspected. Mister Michael’s naked wife was draped bellydown over a green plush hassock, being covered by her latest andromorph, a scion of the Bull line. Little Worker could smell mixed male and female sweat and a sexual musk.

The sight disturbed Little Worker. Mister Michael’s wife was not the kind of wife he deserved. Little Worker ceased her spying and continued on toward the kitchen.

At the end of the long hall was a curving flight of wide marble stairs. Here the runner ended. The marble was cold beneath Little Worker’s feet. She went down the stairs quickly.

On the ground floor, Little Worker first crossed a broad reception hall along the walls of which were ranged busts on plinths, potted plants, and gold-framed paintings. She passed through a huge salon used for formal affairs, then through Mister Michael’s study, with its big walnut desk and shelves of books and wall-sized plasma screen. Several more chambers intervened before the kitchen, but finally Little Worker reached that chrome and tile room.

Most mornings, as now, the large kitchen was empty. On the mornings of those days when there were to be state dinners, the kitchen was bustling early with hired chefs, who prepared the more complex dishes the food-center could not handle. Little Worker disliked such interruptions of her normal schedule. However, this was not such a morning. The kitchen was empty.

Little Worker advanced to the food-center.

“Food-center, prepare me toast with jelly,” she said.

“There is no more bread,” replied the food-center.

No more bread. Littte Worker was disconcerted. She had had her heart set on toast and jelly. What could have happened to the supply of bread? Yesterday there had been plenty.

“What has happened to the bread?” asked Little Worker.

“Last night Mister Michael’s wife fed it all to the Bull andromorph. He ate three loaves. There were only three loaves. Thus there are no more.”

Mister Michael’s wife had fed all of Little Worker’s toast to her Bull. It was the fault of Mister Michael’s wife that there was no toast this morning for Little Worker.

“The bakery delivery occurs at ten o’clock this morning,” offered the food-center helpfully.

“I will be gone with Mister Michael by then. I will not be home at ten o’clock. I must eat something different.” Little Worker paused to reflect. “I will have hot cereal with a spoon of jelly on it.”

“There is no jelly. The Bull ate that also. With peanut butter.”

Little Worker tensed her fingers reflexively. Her morning, disturbed already by the new odor coming from Mister Michael’s bedroom, was not getting better. The change in routine upset her. It felt like a morning when chefs came. But no chefs were here.

“I will have an egg then,” said Little Worker.

“There are eggs,” said the food-center.

“There is no jelly for an egg?” hopefully asked Little Worker one last time.

“There is no jelly even for an egg.”

“Then I will have an egg alone.”

Little Worker sat at a table with metal legs and white tile top. When her egg came she ate it, licking the plate to get all the yolk. It would serve to make her fur glossy. But it did not taste as good as jelly.

When she was done. Little Worker ordered the food-center to prepare and serve breakfast for Mister Michael and his wife in the south dining room. Then she walked through halls and storage rooms until she arrived at the south dining room.

Mister Michael was already there, seated at one end of a long polished table, reading a newspaper and sipping coffee.

“Good morning, Mister Michael,” said Little Worker.

“Morning,” said Mister Michael somewhat gruffly.

Little Worker quivered inside. Mister Michael did not seem himself this morning. He worked too hard, thought Little Worker. He had too much on his mind. The state demanded too much of him. He should be better to himself.

Little Worker coiled up at Mister Michael’s feet beside the table, where she could watch everything that happened.

Breakfast was served. Mister Michael’s wife did not arrive on time. Mister Michael began to eat anyway. Only when the fine Canadian ham and scrambled eggs and poached fish were cold did she come through the door.

Mister Michael’s wife was dressed for shopping. She wore an ivory jacket short in front but with long tails that hung to her knees in back, over a pale blue silk blouse and tulip-hemmed ivory skirt. She wore blue metallic stockings and creamy high heels. She smelled heavily of expensive perfume, winch failed to conceal entirely from Little Worker’s keen nose the aromas of her recent mating.

Sitting gingerly, as if sore, Mister Michael’s wife picked idly at the food set before her. Neither she nor Mister Michael spoke for some time. Finally, though, setting down his paper, which rustled loudly to Little Worker’s ears, Mister Michael said, “There are some important people coming up today from Washington. They’ll want to meet you.”

“How very tedious. And what time would that be?”

Mister Michael seemed to be restraining his anger. “Around two.”

“I’ll try to be there.”

Mister Michael’s anger escaped. “Try! You’d damn well better be there. As my wife, you have certain official responsibilities, just as I do.”

“No one elected me to be the prime minister’s wife.”

“You elected yourself when you married me. You can’t pretend you didn’t. You knew quite well that I might end up as prime minister someday. I told you so from the outset. God, what do I ask of you, other than to show up for a few ceremonial occasions? Do you imagine I’ve got it any easier? It’s not a part-time job, governing a whole bloody continent!”

“You wanted the job. I didn’t.”

Mister Michael folded his hands, as if afraid of what they might do. Little Worker’s hands clenched in sympathy.

“Let’s not argue, shall we? Please make every effort to be at the Ministry by two.”

“I’ll simply rush through the stores then.”

“Good. I appreciate it,” Mister Michael looked down at Little Worker. “It’s time to go. Would you please get my briefcase? I left it by the bed.”

Little Worker quickly gained her feet, eager to please. “I will get your briefcase. Where will you be?”

“Just inside the front door. Oh, have the car pull around also.”

“I will have the car pull around,” agreed Little Worker.

On the way to the garage, Little Worker considered the argument she had overheard. She reached the same conclusion she had arrived at while standing before Mister Michael’s wife’s bedroom door: Mister Michael’s wife was not a good one for him.

In the garage. Little Worker confronted the sleek, low-slung car. “Mister Michael wishes you to idle at the front entrance.”

“I will exit the garage, after opening the door. I will proceed down the drive, through the gate, after opening that also, and around to the front entrance. There I will await further orders.”

“Good.”

The car started its ceramic engine and opened the garage door. Little Worker left it. She took the back stairs to the second floor and approached Mister Michael’s bedroom from a direction different than that by which she had gone earlier.

The door was ajar. Little Worker entered.

The room was not empty.

Lying languidly on the bed among the rumpled sheets was a naked gynomorph. When she heard Little Worker enter, she opened her eyes.

“Hello,” said the gynomorph. “I am a hetaera, of the Lyrical line. Do you wish to hear me sing?”

Little Worker was stunned. “No. I do not wish to hear you sing. What are you doing here?”

“I am now owned by Mister Michael. He brought me here. Do you wish to know my pedigree?”

“No.”

“I will recite it anyway. I am comprised of five species, with three percent being human. My skeletal structure is avian, insuring a lightness and appealing fragility. I weigh only forty kilos. My musculature is feline, my skin a derivative of chamois. My brain is based on that of a mink. I have a vaginal contractile index of ninety. My pheromones are tailored specifically to arouse Mister Michael.”

The gynomorph moved her legs and arms luxuriously and arched her back slightly, elevating her pubis. Little Worker stared furiously, her mind in turmoil.

“I am comprised of twelve species, with a full ten percent being human,” she finally countered.

“My measurements, in centimeters, are one hundred, forty, eighty. What are yours?”

Little Worker looked down at her stocky, compact, and muscled form beneath her shift. “I do not know my measurements,” she said.

The gynomorph smiled, revealing delicate pointed teeth. She ran a tongue over her lips. Little Worker could hear it rasp.

“Well,” said the hetaera, “I guess you don’t knew much, do you?”

“It seems not,” said Little Worker.

* * * *

Now they were at the office. The office was different from home: different noises, different smells. There were no windows in Mister Michael’s office, no blots of jelly-light on the tan carpet, into which Little Worker’s garment nearly blended. At home, Little Worker could do pretty much as she pleased, as long as she was there should Mister Michael need her. At the office—and in other public places—she had to be more circumspect and diligent. Little Worker was on duty here, in a way that was more intense than behind the electrified fence and active sensors of the estate. Little Worker normally prided herself on her diligence. (Once, one of the men at the Training School had said: “Little Worker, you are the most diligent companion I’ve ever trained.” The men of the school had been nice, in their stern way. But no one was like Mister Michael.)

Today, however, Little Worker’s mind was not on her work.

Mister Michael’s first afternoon appointment had been shown in. Little Worker lay quietly behind Mister Michael’s big brown leather chair with the brass studs. Mister Michael was meeting with the people from Washington. Little Worker paid scant attention to them. They had been cleared by Security and smelled harmless. Little Worker couldn’t even see the visitors from her vantage. They were just a collection of mildly annoying voices, which interfered with her contemplation of the new and disturbing events at home.

When Little Worker and Mister Michael had gotten into the car, Little Worker had circumspectly sniffed Mister Michael to see if any of the hetaera’s odors still clung to him. She was relieved to find that none did. Mister Michael must have washed. For a moment she felt heartened. But as the car accelerated down the front drive, picking up its entourage of armored outriders on cycles at the security station on the periphery of the estate, Little Worker realized that her relief was wrong. Mister Michael might smell normal, but his attitude was disturbed. He was not his usual self.