Asimov's SF, October-November 2011 (22 page)

Zeno cleared his throat. “It's saying,
I'm tired of eating all this crap!
There's a very vulgar word I translate as crap, but it could be translated as something else."

Samantha and Kate said, oh, they understood.

"It's very, very angry,” Zeno said. “Very angry."

"I guess that's bad news,” Samantha said, reflecting on it. But then she brightened, smiled at Zeno, and said, “Kate and I were going to have espresso and biscotti. Would you join us?"

"Absolutely!” he said.

In the kitchen, Samantha prepared the coffee and Kate brought the cups to the table while Zeno listened to the water streaming into the sink. Then the door flew open and slammed shut and here was Cy with an armful that he dropped on the kitchen table—a hacksaw, two screwdrivers, a wrench, pliers, stem packing, machine oil, and a glittering nickel-plated faucet. He climbed out of his parka and noticed Zeno for the first time. “You are here because . . . ?” Cy asked Zeno.

"Because Samantha wanted me to listen to the water flushing through the toilet bowl."

"Wait, wait!” Cy said. “Let me guess. It spoke to you in
Italian
."

"Turkish."

"You know Turkish?” Cy asked.

"Armenian father, Greek mother, spent my childhood in Istanbul.” Zeno told him.

"Of course the toilet bowl speaks Turkish!"
Cy cried, throwing up his hands.

"My family left Istanbul as soon as we could,” Zeno added.

"We were going to have espresso and biscotti,” Samantha said.

"Fine,” Cy said, sitting down. “
First
we'll have espresso,
then
I'll change the talking faucet."

"Frankly, I'd change the toilet plumbing first,” Kate told him. “It sounds awful. A horrible gargling choking sound. And very angry. As if it were going to explode."

"That reminds me,” Samantha said, speaking maybe to Cy or perhaps to Zeno. “There's something I forgot to mention.” But before she could mention it, there was a knocking at the door and Cy sprang up to answer it. He returned with an athletic-looking man in a sweater and a quilted outdoor vest, his dark blond hair tied back in a short ponytail.

"This is The Water Works Plumbing Company,” Cy announced.

"Jens Stillsen,” the man said, setting down his battered tool box.

"Hi, Jens,” Kate said rather faintly.

Jens Stillsen simply stood there looking at her for a couple of heartbeats. “Hi, Kate,” he replied.

"You two know each other?” Samantha asked.

"We were in a rock band, I think,” Kate said. “It's all very vague, a bad memory."

"You went off with some skanky girl,” Jens said. “Remember?"

"Wait, it's coming back to me,” Kate said. “You were living with that little bitch—I forget her name."

"Hey! What's going on here?” Cy cried. “You're The Water Works Plumbing Company.
Are we going to do plumbing or not?"

"We were absolutely going to have espresso and biscotti first,” Samantha told him.

Jens and Kate went on talking, refreshing each other's memory.

"I don't need this,” Cy said, apparently exhausted. He dropped into a chair, flopped his head on the table, and closed his eyes.

Zeno leaned over to Samantha and whispered, “Maybe I should leave now."

"Oh, no, no, no, no,” Samantha said, grabbing his wrist. She snatched back her hand as if touching him had scorched her. “I wanted to tell you about the water in the shower. It's making strange new sounds. That's what I forgot to mention. Can you listen to it?"

"Yes, of course, yes. What language?"

"It sounds like French to me,” she said in a hushed voice. “I studied French in high school."

Samantha and Zeno went to listen to the shower water.

Jens had taken the chair at the corner of the table next to Kate, telling her, “The groupie? No. Of course not. She screamed and threw things. It was hell. What about you?"

Kate laughed. “I couldn't get used to it. I tried, God knows I tried. It was like being in bed with myself. All weirdly familiar down there. It wasn't ever going to work. She didn't scream or throw things, but she made off with my three best sweaters and the only string of pearls I ever owned."

Cy opened his eyes, sat up, and took out his cell phone.

11

In the bathroom, Samantha discovered that the rushing stream from the showerhead needed to strike something before it gave voice to the rapid, rippling fluid sound of French speech. When she or Zeno held a hand or bare arm in the pouring water the syllables came fast, sparkling in the air around them, but the words were so partial and scattered that they made little sense.

"I don't know why it doesn't make whole words. It did before,” Samantha said, clearly disappointed.

"Maybe I haven't heard a complete sentence, but I can catch whole words, I think,” Zeno said.

"I'm going to add more hot to the mix,” she said, turning the shower tap.

"Be careful!” he told her. “Your blouse is getting wet."

"It doesn't matter. I made it myself and it doesn't fit right."

"On the contrary,” he said. “It's beautiful and it fits perfectly. But it'll get soaked."

Samantha looked at Zeno a moment. “I hope you won't think badly of me,” she told him at last. “But to make it happen—I mean, to make it so the water speaks, I think there's something I have to do first."

12

In the kitchen, Kate Swift and Jens Stillsen were talking about the old band. She said she had heard the band had broken up. “What happened?” she asked Jens.

"Mike gave up pot and took to alcohol and began playing drunk. You can't have a drunk on a keyboard. And Jim, I have to say, was never really good on drums. It became impossible,” he told her.

"Do you ever think of forming a new band?"

"I think of it all the time."

Cy Kleiner was on his cell phone, saying, “I know there's a three hour time difference, honey. I've told you that every time you've called. But look outside. It's morning. You should be up by now, having breakfast.” And, after a listening a moment, he said, “You're right. I forgot it's Saturday. I apologize."

13

In the bathroom the hot shower water had fogged the window, transforming it to a fuzzy luminous rectangle, and a thick cloud of steam had blossomed in the air around their heads. Zeno had watched Samantha unbutton her blouse, take it off and hang it on a little hook on the closed door. Now she was unclasping her bra and Zeno, still watching her, pulled his shirt wide open, tearing the buttons loose so they shot every which way and bounced on the tiled floor.

14

In the kitchen, Cy Kleiner on his cell phone was saying, “I know. I understand. Accounting is a science, just like nanotechnology. And just as hard. Probably even harder. And I appreciate it more than ever. What? Yes, and I appreciate you. And I miss you. That's why I called to invite you. I want you here.” He listened a while, then said, “No problem. I'm not sharing the apartment with Sam anymore. I mean, by the time you get here I'll be living in a different apartment. Sam's moving to New Orleans. He's taken a job as a chef in a restaurant down there."

Jens Stillsen had asked Kate Swift if she had written any music recently.

"A few pieces,” Kate said. “A couple I'm not ashamed of. But you know I can't write lyrics."

"I can write lyrics,” Jens said.

"I know. I thought of that,” she said.

"You still have that slow smile,” he said, beginning to lean forward a bit. Kate came forward the rest of the way.

On his cell phone, Cy Kleiner was saying, “Honey, I've always missed you. Always. I need a strong woman near me. You know that. I'm so happy you're coming."

15

The bathroom had filled with steam, so you couldn't see a thing or hear a word through the rushing noise of the shower. Although you couldn't see or hear them, Samantha and Zeno had thrown off their clothes and were standing naked under the crashing downpour with their arms tight around each other, their streaming faces cheek to cheek, whispering the most amazing things to each other while the water sang of Paris, the Champs Elysée, and love in a spring shower.

16

You know what happened next. Cy Kleiner's woman in California, the forensic accountant, came east and moved in with Cy at his new apartment. Kate Swift moved in with Jens Stillsen, and by then Samantha Giardino had already moved in with Zeno Avakian. A short while later the maddened toilet bowl at Samantha's old place did, in fact, explode, blowing all the plumbing in the flat to bits and scattering songs everywhere.

Copyright © 2011 by Eugene Mirabelli

[Back to Table of Contents]

Jack Skillingstead recently wed fellow author Nancy Kress. Jack tells us that his latest story “was inspired by the unexpected advent into my daily existence of a real life poodle. Warning: These sorts of things happen when you get married."

Travis Larson sat in a red leather chair in his attorney's office. Cory the toy poodle curled in his lap, and Larson petted her fluffy gray head. “There must be something we can do,” he said.

The attorney, whose name was Beverman, replied, “She is within her rights."

"But Cory is
my
dog. The settlement explicitly states that I keep her."

"And so you have."

"I don't want Kristine to have a copy."

"Honestly, Travis, there isn't anything we can do about that.” He moved his finger in the air and Larson's divorce settlement appeared. The lawyer swept virtual pages aside with little flicks of his hand. “There is nothing in your agreement pertaining to Information Transubstantiation. If your former wife wishes to own a copy of your dog, she has every right to do so."

"But— “

"Look, I understand your feelings. IT caught us all a little by surprise. But you can comfort yourself with the knowledge that you own the first, the original, Corky."

"Cory,” Larson said.

"Of course. Cory. I'm sorry."

"Let me show you something,” Larson said.

The attorney closed the divorce file, grabbing the projection out of the air and vanishing it in his first. “If you could make it brief; I have a meeting in five minutes."

Larson set Cory on the floor. The dog sat attentively, staring at Larson. There was adoration in the poodle's eyes.

"Up!” Larson commanded, brightly.

Cory jumped up on hind legs. “Round and round and round!” Larson said, his voice high and skirting some mock-maniacal precipice.

Cory danced around in a circle—a canine ballerina en pointe. Around and around and around, his little fluffy ears a quarter turn behind the rest of him.

Beverman nodded and smiled tightly, checking his watch. “Yes, that's very, uh, delightful."

"I know it's delightful,” Larson said. “And I know you've seen it. But you haven't
seen
it. I taught her that trick and a lot of others. You know, when I was a kid I never had a dog of my own. My sister got a dog, but I didn't."

Beverman stood up. “Well, as I said—"

"Cory is
my
dog,” Larson said. “I taught him things. I walk him every day. He sits with me when I read or watch TV. I feed him treats. He loves me. Do you think Kristine did anything for Cory? Do you think she even bothered to fill his water bowl?"

"I wouldn't—"

"Trust me. She didn't. She didn't
care
about Cory. She information-ized him for exactly one reason—to hurt me."

Beverman came around the desk and put a fatherly hand on Larson's shoulder. “I've known you a long time, Travis, and I like to think of myself as something more than your legal advisor. I like to think of myself as your friend."

Cory pawed at Larson's leg. He scooped the dog up and held him against his chest. Cory growled at Beverman, who patted Larson's shoulder and backed off a step. “And
as
your friend,” he said, “I advise you to let this go. Your divorce does not enjoin Kristine from owning a copy of your dog. And, frankly, even if such language existed, the propagation of an already information-ized poodle is impossible to halt. You simply have to accept the reality: Information is free."

Larson grunted. Cory, perhaps sensing his distress, started to whine.

A week later Larson was sitting in Central Park on his lunch break, eating a tuna salad sandwich. It was a pleasant spring afternoon, the sky soft and blue and blameless. People wandered the park in shirtsleeves, many walking dogs. Larson was getting over it. He had mostly put IT out of his mind. Then he heard a man's voice say, “Round and round and round!"

Larson turned sharply. A bald man in a business suit stood on the grass not thirty yards from Larson's bench. Larson recognized him. It was DeVris. He and Larson worked for the same investment firm. DeVris clapped his hands and laughed. Before him a toy poodle danced around in a circle on hind legs, floppy ears a quarter turn behind the rest of him.

Around and around and around.

Larson's hand closed into a fist, squirting tuna salad between his fingers. He flung the mess away, jumped up and stalked over to DeVris, wiping his hand on a paper towel.

"Travis,” DeVris said. “Look at my—"

"Where did you get that copy?"

"Isn't he adorable? His name's Corky."

"His name is
not
Corky."

"Excuse me?'

"Did my ex-wife put you up to this?"

"I— No, I don't know what you're talking about."

"Kristine didn't give you a copy of ‘
Corky
'?” Larson sneered the misnomer out like a bad taste in his mouth.

"Honestly, Travis, I don't know what you're talking about. Corky was a free download."

"
Free download
."

DeVris backed away nervously. “Corky” continued to dance around and around and around until DeVris waved his hand and the cheap nanoswarm that comprised the perfect 3D rendering twinkled out.

"For God's sake, Travis. If you want a Corky you can get one of your own. He's all over the web."