Droplet Read online

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  Droplet

  by Benjamin Rosenbaum

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  Science Fiction

  * * *

  Fictionwise, Inc.

  www.Fictionwise.com

  Copyright ©2002 by Benjamin Rosenbaum

  First published in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, July 2002

  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

  * * *

  1.

  Today Shar is Marilyn Monroe. That's an erotic goddess from prehistoric cartoon mythology. She has golden curls, blue eyes, big breasts, and skin of a shocking pale pink. She stands with a wind blowing up from Hades beneath her, trying to control her skirt with her hands, forever showing and hiding her white silk underwear.

  Today I am Shivol'riargh, a more recent archetype of feminine sexuality. My skin is hard, hairless, glistening black. Faint fractal patterns of darker black writhe across my surfaces. I have long claws. It suits my mood.

  We have just awakened from a little nap of a thousand years, our time, during which the rest of the world aged even more.

  She goes: “kama://01-nbX5-#..."

  I snap the channel shut. “Talk language if you want to have sex with me."

  Shar pouts. With those little red lips and those innocent, yet knowing eyes, it's almost irresistible. I resist.

  “Come on, Narra,” she says. “Do we have to fight about this every time we wake up?"

  “I just don't know why we have to keep flying around like this."

  “You're not scared of Warboys again?” she asks.

  Her fingertips slide down my black plastic front. The fractals dance around them.

  “There aren't any more,” she says.

  “You don't know that, Shar."

  “They've all killed each other. Or turned themselves off. Warboys don't last if there's nothing to fight."

  Despite the cushiony-pink Marilyn Monroe skin, Shar is harder than I am. My heart races when I look at her, just as it did a hundred thousand years ago.

  Her expression is cool. She wants me. But it's a game to her.

  She's searching the surface of me with her hands.

  “What are you looking for?” I mean both, in the Galaxy and on my skin, though I know the answers.

  “Anything,” she says, answering the broader question. “Anyone who's left. People to learn from. To play with."

  People to serve, I think nastily.

  I'm lonely, too, of course, but I'm sick of looking. Let them come find us in the Core.

  “It's so stupid,” I groan. Her hands are affecting me. “We probably won't be able to talk to them anyway."

  Her hands find what they've been searching for: the hidden opening to Shivol'riargh's sexual pocket. It's full of the right kind of nerve endings. Shivol'riargh is hard on the outside, but oh so soft on the inside. Sometimes I wish I had someone to wear that wasn't sexy.

  “We'll figure it out,” she says in a voice that's all breath.

  Her fingers push at the opening of my sexual pocket. I hold it closed. She leans against me and wraps her other arm around me for leverage. She pushes. I resist.

  Her lips are so red. I want them on my face.

  She's cheating. She's a lot stronger than Marilyn Monroe.

  “Shar, I don't want to screw,” I say. “I'm still angry."

  But I'm lying.

  “Hush,” she says.

  Her fist slides into me and I gasp. My claws go around her shoulders and I pull her to me.

  * * *

  2.

  Later we turn the gravity off and float over Ship's bottom eye, looking down at the planet Shar had Ship find. It's blue like Marilyn Monroe's eyes.

  “It's water,” Shar says. Her arms are wrapped around my waist, her breasts pressed against my back. She rests her chin on my shoulder.

  I grunt.

  “It's water all the way down,” she says. “You could swim right through the planet to the other side."

  “Did anyone live here?"

  “I think so. I don't remember. But it was a gift from a Sultan to his beloved."

  Shar and I have an enormous amount of information stored in our brains. The brain is a sphere the size of a billiard ball somewhere in our bodies, and however much we change our bodies, we can't change that. Maka once told me that even if Ship ran into a star going nine-tenths lightspeed, my billiard-ball brain would come tumbling out the other side, none the worse for wear. I have no idea what kind of matter it is or how it works, but there's plenty of room in my memory for all the stories of all the worlds in the Galaxy, and most of them are probably in there.

  But we're terrible at accessing the factual information. A fact will pop up inexplicably at random—the number of Quantegral Lovergirls ever manufactured, for instance, which is 362,476—and be gone a minute later, swimming away in the murky seas of thought. That's the way Maka built us, on purpose. He thought it was cute.

  * * *

  3.

  An old argument about Maka:

  “He loved us,” I say. I know he did.

  Shar rolls her eyes (she's a tigress at the moment).

  “I could feel it,” I say, feeling stupid.

  “Now there's a surprise. Maka designed you from scratch, including your feelings, and you feel that he loved you. Amazing.” She yawns, showing her fangs.

  “He made us more flexible than any other Lovergirls. Our minds are almost Interpreter-level."

  She snorts. “We were trade goods, Narra. Trade goods. Classy purchasable or rentable items."

  I curl up around myself. (I'm a python).

  “He set us free,” I say.

  Shar doesn't say anything for a while, because that is, after all, the central holiness of our existence. Our catechism, if you like.

  Then she says gently: “He didn't need us for anything anymore, when they went into the Core."

  “He could have just turned us off. He set us free. He gave us Ship."

  She doesn't say anything.

  “He loved us,” I say.

  I know it's true.

  * * *

  4.

  I don't tell Shar, but that's one reason I want us to go back to the Galactic Core: Maka's there.

  I know it's stupid. There's nothing left of Maka that I would recognize. The Wizards got hungrier and hungrier for processing power, so they could think more and know more and play more complicated games. Eventually the only thing that could satisfy them was to rebuild their brains as a soup of black holes. Black hole brains are very fast.

  I know what happens when a person doesn't have a body any more, too. For a while they simulate the sensations and logic of a corporeal existence, only with everything perfect and running much faster than in the real world. But their interests drift. The simulation gets more and more abstract and eventually they're just thoughts, and after a while they give that up, too, and then they're just numbers. By now Maka is just some very big numbers turning into some even bigger numbers, racing towards infinity.

  I know because he told me. He knew what he was becoming.

  I still miss him.

  * * *

  5.

  We go down to the surface of the planet, which we decide to call Droplet.

  The sky is painterly blue with strings of white clouds drifting above great choppy waves. It's lovely. I'm glad Shar brought us here.

  We're dolphins. We
chase each other across the waves. We dive and hold our breaths, and shower each other with bubbles. We kiss with our funny dolphin noses.

  I'm relaxing and floating when Shar slides her rubbery body over me and clamps her mouth onto my flesh. It's such a long time since I've been a cetacean that I don't notice that Shar is a boy dolphin until I feel her penis enter me. I buck with surprise, but Shar keeps her jaws clamped and rides me. Rides me and rides me, as I buck and swim, until she ejaculates. She makes it take extra long.

  Afterwards we race, and then I am floating, floating, exhausted and happy as the sunset blooms on the horizon.

  It's a very impressive sunset, and I kick up on my tail to get a better look. I change my eyes and nose so I can see the whole spectrum and smell the entire wind.

  It hits me first as fear, a powerful shudder that takes over my dolphin body, kicks me into the air and then into a racing dive, dodging and weaving. Then it hits me as knowledge, the signature written in the sunset: uranium-236, mandelium, large-scale entanglement from muon dispersal. Nuclear and strange-matter weapons fallout. Warboys.

  Ship dropped us a matter accelerator to get back up with, a series of rings floating in the water. I head for it.

  Shar catches up and hangs on to me, changing into a human body and riding my back.

  “Ssh, honey,” she says, stroking me. “It's okay. There haven't been Warboys here for ten thousand years..."

  I buck her off, and this time I'm not flirting.

  Shar changes her body below the waist back into a dolphin tail, and follows. As soon as she is in the first ring I tell Ship to bring us up, and one dolphin, one mermaid, and twelve metric tons of water shoot through the rings and up through the blue sky until it turns black and crowded with stars.

  “Ten thousand years,” says Shar as we hurtle up into the sky.

  “You picked a planet Warboys had been on! Ship must have seen the signature."

  “Narra, this wasn't a Warboy duel—they wouldn't dick around with nuclear for that. They must have been trying to exterminate a civilian population."

  The water has all sprayed away now and we are tumbling through the thin air of the stratosphere.

  “There's a chance they failed, Narra. Someone might be here, hidden. That's why we came."

  “Warboys don't fail!"

  We grow cocoons as we exit the atmosphere and hit orbit. After a couple of minutes, I feel Ship's long retrieval pseudopod slurp me in.

  I lie in the warm cave of Ship's retrieval pseudopod. It's decorated with webs of green and blue. I remember when Shar decorated it. It was a long time ago, when we were first traveling.

  I turn back into a human form and sit up.

  Shar is lying nearby, picking at the remnants of her cocoon, silvery strands draped across her breasts.

  “You want to die,” I say.

  “Don't be ridiculous, Narra."

  “Shar, seriously. It's not enough for you—I'm not enough for you. You're looking for Warboys. You're trying to get killed.” I feel a buzzing in my head, my breathing is constricted, aches shoot through my fist-clenched knuckles: clear signs that my emotional registers are full, the excess externalizing into pain.

  She sighs. “Narra, I'm not that complicated. If I wanted to die, I'd just turn myself off.” She grows legs and stands up.

  “No, I don't think you can.” What I'm about to say is unfair, and too horrible. I'll regret it. I feel the blood pounding in my ears and I say it anyway: “Maybe Maka didn't free us all the way. Maybe he just gave us to each other. Maybe you can't leave me. You want to, but you can't."

  Her eyes are cold. As I watch, the color drains out of them, from black to slate gray to white.

  She looks like she wants to say a lot of things. Maybe: you stupid sentimental little girl. Maybe: it's you who wants to leave—to go back to your precious Maka, and if you had the brains to become a Wizard you would. Maybe: I want to live, but not the coward's life you keep insisting on.

  She doesn't say any of them, though. She turns and walks away.

  * * *

  6.

  I keep catching myself thinking it, and I know she's thinking it too. This person before me is the last other person I can reach, the only one to love me from now on in all the worlds of time. How long until she leaves me, as everyone else has left?

  And how long can I stand her if she doesn't?

  * * *

  7.

  The last people we met were a religious sect who lived in a beautiful crystal ship the size of a moon. They were Naturals and had old age and death and even children whom they bore themselves, who couldn't walk or talk at first or anything. They were sad for some complicated religious reason that Shar and I didn't understand. We cheered them up for a while by having sex with the ones their rules allowed to have sex and telling stories to the rest, but eventually they decided to all kill themselves anyway. We left before it happened.

  Since then we haven't seen anyone. We don't know of anywhere that has people left.

  I told Shar we could be passing people all the time and not know it. People changed in the Dispersal, and we're not Interpreters. There could be people with bodies made of gas clouds or out of the spins of elementary particles. We could be surrounded by crowds of them.

  She said that just made her sadder.

  * * *

  8

  We go down to Droplet again. I smile and pretend it's all right. We spent a thousand years, our time, getting here; we might as well look around.

  We change ourselves so we can breathe water, and head down into the depths. There are no fish on Droplet, no coral, no plankton. I can taste very simple nanomites, the standard kind every made world has for general upkeep. But all I see, looking down, is green-blue fading to deep blue fading to rich indigo and blackness.

  Then there's a tickle on my skin.

  I stop swimming and look around. Nothing but water.

  The tickle comes again.

  I send a sonar pulse to Shar ahead, telling her to wait.

  I try to swim again but I can't. I feel fingers, hands, holding me, where there is only water. Stroking, pressing against my skin.

  I change into a hard ball, Shivol'riargh without head or limbs, and turn down tactile until I can't tell the hands from the gentle current.

  I fiddle with my perceptions until I remember how to send out a very fine sonar wave, and to enhance and filter the data, discerning patterns in very fine perturbations of the water. I subtract out the general currents and chaotic swirls of the ocean, looking only for the motions of the water that should not be there, and turn it into a three-dimensional image of the space around me.

  There are people here.

  Their shapes—made of fine motions of the water—are human shapes, tall, with graceful oblong heads that flatten at the top to a frill.

  They are running their watery hands over the surface of me, poking and prodding.

  From below, Shar is returning, approaching me. Some of the water people cluster around her and stop her, holding her arms and legs.

  She struggles. I cannot see her expression through the murk.

  The name “Nereids” swims up from the hidden labyrinths of my memory. Not a word from this world, but word enough.

  The Nereids back away, arraying themselves as if formally, three meters away from me on all sides. A sphere of Nereids surrounds me.

  Shar stops struggling. They let her go, pushing her outside the sphere.

  One of the Nereids—tall, graceful, broad-shouldered—breaks out of the formation and glides toward me. He places his hands on my surface.

  This, I tell myself to remember, is what we were designed for. Alone among the Quantegral Lovergirls, Shar and I were given the flexibility and intelligence to serve all the possible variations of post-Dispersal humanity. We were designed to discover, at the very least, how to give pleasure; and perhaps even how to communicate.

  Still, I am afraid.

  I let the hard shell of Shi
vol'riargh grow soft, I sculpt my body back towards basic humanity; tall, thin, like the Nereids.

  This close, my sonar sees the face shaped out of water smile. The Nereid raises his hands, palms out. I place my palms on them, though I feel only a slight resistance in the water. I part my lips. The Nereid's head cautiously inches toward mine.

  I close my eyes and raise my face, slowly, slowly, to meet the Nereid's.

  We kiss. It is a tickle, a pressure, in the water against my lips.

  Our bodies drift together. When the Nereid's chest touches my breasts, I register shock: the resistance of the water is denser. It feels like a body is pressing into mine.

  The kiss goes on. Gets deeper. A tongue of water plays around my tongue.

  I wonder what Shar is thinking.

  The Nereid releases my hands; his hands run slowly from the nape of my neck, across my shoulder blades, down the small of my back, fanning out to hold my buttocks.

  I open my eyes. I see only water, endless and dark, and Shar silent and still below. I smile down to reassure her. She does not move.

  My new lover is invisible. In all her many forms, Shar is never invisible. It is as if the ocean is making love to me. I like it.

  The familiar metamorphosis of sex in a human body overtakes me. Hormones course through my blood; some parts grow wet, others (my throat) grow dry. My body is relaxing, opening. My heart thunders. Fear is still there, for what do I know of the Nereid? Pleasure is overwhelming it, like a torrent eroding granite into silt.

  A data channel crackles, and I blink with surprise. Through the nanomites that fill the sea, the Nereid is sending. Out of the billions of ancient protocols I know, intuition finds the right one.

  Spreading my vulva with its hand, the Nereid asks: May I?

  A double thrill of surprise and pleasure courses through me: first, to be able to communicate so easily, and second, to be asked. Yes, I say over the same archaic protocol.

  A burst of water, a swirling cylinder strong and fine, enters me, pushing into the warm cavity that once evolved to fit its prototype, in other bodies on another world.