IGMS Issue 2 (21 page)

She led him into the living room, opened the carrying cage, and picked it up, very gently.

It had feather-like antennas, and too many legs, and a sort of bristly fur: a teddy bear version of a termite, perhaps. Its heart was going bap-bap-bap -- poor thing. It was so adorable. She stroked its fur.

"Whoa," Bill said.

It squeaked. "That's its happy squeak," she said. It sounded just like the recording in the manual.

"Can I hold it?" he said.

She found herself reluctant. Maternal instinct. But she transferred it to him, carefully. It was so tiny it could fit entirely within his calloused hands.

He started to sit. She stopped him. "Your trousers aren't dusty, are they?"

"I changed after work," he said. "Your white sofa's safe, and your white shag carpet, and your glass coffee table."

Diane nodded; he sat. The alien snuggled up to him. She found herself jealous. Silly.

"Are you sure it's a good idea, having it?" he said. "When you had a puppy, I was over here every week fixing things. Ain't no telling what a giant bug will do to this house."

"It's not a bug," she said. "And it's not like training a dog; it's intelligent! In a couple of weeks I'll be able to tell it what to do, and since I'm its queen, it'll do it."

Bill laughed.

She felt a little defensive. "It's not like a regular pet," she said. "Early on, I show it gestures of dominance, and later, it will understand rational statements, although its thinking can be rigid. It can actually do simple tasks, and it thrives on praise."

"You sound like you read that out of a book," Bill said.

Since she had, she said nothing.

"What's its name?" he said.

"I haven't decided."

He looked it over. "How about 'Cheesecake'? Because of the color of the fur, and all."

What a sweet name! "Perfect," she said.

"Or maybe 'Corn Bread.'"

Diane imagined telling everyone about her new pet, "Corn Bread." No. She said, "'Cheesecake' will do just fine."

Having Cheesecake was like building a family, without the messy detail of finding a man she could respect. The next day, at work, Diane still wanted to tell everyone. Well, not the other managers. They were all men, all married, and every one of them fat, balding, and on the make. Yuck.

She could only really talk with underlings. That wasn't a problem. She waited until Carole, from Accounting, was free, and they sat in Diane's office, drinking lattes from the coffee shop downstairs.

"So you bought an alien monster, and you named it 'Cheesecake,'" Carole said. "Got it."

"It's
not
a monster!" Diane said. "It's a 'builder drone.' And I didn't name it; Bill did."

"Bill?"

Diane sighed. She didn't want to talk about Bill; she wanted to talk about the alien. "He lives on my street, and he fixes things in my townhouse sometimes. Anyway -- you should just see it. It's all furry, and it loves --"

"Forget the creature," Carole said. "Tell me about the man."

Diane laughed. "Forget it, Carole. He's a redneck. I mean, he wears
cowboy boots
to work! He's a carpenter or something."

"What's that song?" Carole said. "'Save the Horse, Ride the Cowboy'?"

"I'm being
serious
! I mean, could
you
respect a man who fixes your toilet?" she said, only half teasing. "And he doesn't even charge me." There was that time he'd been working on the sink, and came in when she'd had a date with, oh, she couldn't remember the guy's name. Bill stalked out, red-faced . . . not embarrassed, Diane thought, but put out. Too bad, but it was about time he got the message.

"Honey," Carole said, "if he'd do the plumbing under the house, I'd marry him."

Carole was always over the top, Diane thought. Which was why she was so much fun. "Wouldn't your husband have a problem with that?"

Carole seemed to consider the question. "Does he do dry wall?"

Diane laughed. "Probably. I'll set you up."

After a couple of weeks, Cheesecake was able to communicate. It came suddenly: one day, it could say anything it wanted, through the translation box. Genetic knowledge, the manual said.

She stopped keeping it in the crate during the day. "No poo-poos, except in the litter box," she told it. The translation box didn't know "poo-poo," so she had to be more explicit.

Cheesecake's response, through the translator, was satisfactory, if a bit indelicate. Oh, well -- they'd never have to have
that
conversation again.

One day, Bill came home at the same time she did; so she invited him in.

In the living room, on the far side of the sofa, there was . . . something strange. A cocoon?

Cheesecake came out and squeaked at them.

"It must be twice as big!" Bill said. "Three times. But it's still cute, isn't it?"

The translation device, sitting on the entertainment center, activated. "Welcome, Queen. What is the role of the entity beside you?"

Good question, Diane thought. "He's one of my, ah, worker drones," she said. The machine translated.

"
Lord
, Diane!" Bill said.

"Sorry," Diane whispered. "I had to tell it
something
." Then she asked Cheesecake, "What is this thing beside the sofa?" It looked disgusting.

"A nest," Cheesecake said, "for your eggs."

Bill laughed.

Diane's face burned. "Get rid of it," she said.

Cheesecake set to work. "No, don't
eat
the stuff," she told it. It would have to go to the vet. Again. "Disassemble it, and put it in the garbage can!" She looked at Bill. "We're getting there!" she told him. "See, it can clean up its messes!"

"What's the nest made of?" Bill asked.

The machine squeaked, and Cheesecake gave an answer. "Solid structure from the sofa cushions, cemented with mucous from my mandible region."

Diane looked at the sofa. It didn't seem damaged. She looked at the back.

Into
the back. The sofa was completely gutted. "You ate my
sofa?
" she yelled.

Cheesecake flinched. "I used material from the interior, so that the appearance would not be altered. You ordered me not to destroy the appearance of the sofa."

Diane tried to calm herself. It wasn't Cheesecake's fault . . .

"Cheesecake," Bill said, "would you like to take a break for a while, and snuggle?"

"What should I do, Queen?" it asked. Its antennas were trembling.

"Snuggle," she snapped. It climbed onto Bill, who sat on the floor beside the ruined sofa, and he stroked it. It squeaked with contentment.

A few days later, Diane noticed some of her books missing from the shelves. As she looked for them, she found holes in the walls in places she wouldn't ordinarily look, and carpet gone (but only under the furniture), and when she asked -- still controlling herself, resolving to give more sweeping orders -- Cheesecake said its new construction was in the attic. Diane climbed the ladder and looked over the new nest, and told Cheesecake to stop tearing up the house, and stop doing anything in the attic, because fiberglass causes cancer if you breathe the dust.

The next day, when she returned from work, there were huge pods at the curb: containers of some mucous-and-mulch construction, hard like cement, and each beribboned with the tags the city required for garbage pickup. Cheesecake said they contained all the fiberglass that had been in the attic, now removed for her safety. (How had it known about the garbage tags? That was one smart drone.) At least its intentions were good, even she if would have to re-insulate the house. Or get Bill to do it.

"You left the house?" she asked it. "How?"

"Your door mechanisms are functioning normally," it said.

Well, of course. Unlike a dog, it had hands -- or claws, or something. Diane resolved to clean out the medicine cabinet before it got past the child-proof caps.

The garbagemen wouldn't touch the fiberglass pods. Mrs. Mackelmurray, next door, said they were scaring her dog, and Diane would have to remove them immediately or answer to the homeowners' association. Idiot. Bill, bless him, took care of them.

Intelligent or not, Cheesecake couldn't see reason. "I don't lay eggs!" she told it, again and again. "That's a different species!" It was silent while she talked -- waiting, she was sure, for her to stop talking nonsense, so it could go back to building something out of her scrapbooks, or her shrubs, or something else she hadn't thought of.

It knew what it knew. Genetic knowledge.

She let it build a new set of shelves, which looked like a giant honeycomb, in the basement; but then it needed something else to do, so she bought it interlocking plastic blocks, the kind toddlers played with. "These are not useful materials," it said. "My saliva will not adhere to them, and they are structurally unsound without it."

"I don't care," she said. "
No construction in my house.
Got it?"

"Understood," it said, as it always did, whether it understood or not.

One evening after work, when Diane came home, she could hear the beagle in the house behind hers, was going berserk. She went around the townhouse, dreading what new disaster Cheesecake had for her. From under Mrs. Mackelmurray's porch, Diane heard a noise, and started.

It was Mrs. Mackelmurray's collie, hiding, trying not to bark but unable to restrain itself. The beagle in the other house yowled as though the world were ending.

And on her own porch . . .

It looked like someone had slimed Playland at McDonald's. It looked like the nest scene from a horror movie, with dripping orifices and something about to leap out at the camera at any moment.

Cheesecake emerged, its mandibles smoothing a wall. The beagle continued its howling, with greater alarm; Mrs. Mackelmurray's dog went silent suddenly, and hid.

"Diane!" It was Mrs. Mackelmurray. Great. "That thing on your porch is scaring my dog. This is a violation of the homeowners' covenant!"

Diane ignored her, and went up onto the porch.

The construction
smelled
. Oh, no. She recognized parts of it. Baked beans. Crackers. Onions, probably puréed by Cheesecake's mandibles. She'd never told it not to use
food
.

"Diane, you have got to remove this thing immediately. It's in violation of city code!"

And health regulations, Diane thought.

She thought she recognized something else in Cheesecake's monstrosity. A strip of wooly sweater.
Her
sweater. A strip of faux fur.

Oh, no. Her winter clothes. It had better not be!

"Diane Bowen, I will not be treated this way!"

Diane pushed her way through the construction -- it hadn't blocked the door -- and went through the kitchen, into her bedroom, into the closet, where the chest was, and . . .

It was empty, except for cloth scraps.

She heard squeaking, and whirled around. "I
told
you not to use my clothing!" she yelled.

"Understood," Cheesecake said. The translator's words were flat, but Cheesecake cowered.

"You used --" She pointed to the chest. "These were my winter clothes! You destroyed them, for this, this . . ." Words failed her.