Brigadier General Glorious D’Iver put her financial surrogate, the homeless schoolteacher, on the bus with all of five sinqs of her paycheque. The rest was in her purse, newly liberated from the cheque-cashing establishment across the street. Their fee, she noted, had eaten the two sinqs extra that the government had allotted Mr. Zusman for transportation, plus one more. Being a poor person without a bank account was expensive.
Come to think of it, being a poor person with a bank account that had less than an arbitrary amount in it was expensive. If you wanted to deposit “tuppence” like that cute little waif in the musical, the fees would eat it up before you stepped out of the building.
Thus, for the moment, the money was going into Miss Otis’s suitcase. They would cut it up and feed it to Mr. Zusman in whatever portion sizes he would accept. Perhaps the inconvenience would gradually tempt him into taking more than a few days’ worth at a time.
“Are we all done?” Maggie asked hopefully. “Can we go to the movies?”
“Magnificent, we are meeting Calliope for lunch.”
“Window shopping, then.”
“…That is not an activity I would choose for myself. It seems a bit whimsical. Nevertheless, will you allow me a little longer at the pension office to see if I can find Corporal Santee? I was hoping to take down her current address in case…” She considered. “In case I make pension days less of a habit.”
Maggie blew out a long sigh, but she was already nodding. “Yeah, I worry about her too.” She frowned. “Corinne gets even less money than you, they think you’re a sergeant. Does the cheque-cashing place charge her the same?”
“It is a flat fee, so it appears so.”
Maggie snapped her fingers and pointed, “That’s how Erik means poor people pay a flat tax more. Even he wasn’t sure how that works, he just thinks so because Uncle Mordecai started a revolution about it. Three sinqs isn’t going to hurt a general, but Corinne might need that money for food and a bed. They’re taking more of what she needs to live.”
Maggie paused and tugged her mother’s gloved hand before they could cross the street back to the post/pension office. “Mom, does Corinne have enough money to live?”
The General sighed. “In the manner to which she is accustomed, yes. But not with the level of care she needs.”
“Privates get paid even less, right?”
“Yes.” The General began walking again.
Maggie jogged to keep up, toting a satchel of more questions. “Well, what are they supposed to do?”
“Find work. They expect most of us to find work, Magnificent. Most are still young and capable… Or I suppose they expect the women to get married.”
“What if you can’t?” Maggie said. “Any of that stuff. Corinne can’t.”
“Social programs,” the General muttered.
“What?”
“Workhouses, soup kitchens and railway bridges, Magnificent,” she reiterated.
“So, what, if you got your arm blown off with a buzz bomb instead, where would we…”
“General D’Iver!”
That was an excited female voice approaching rapidly. Maggie rolled her eyes heavenward before she even turned around to look. “Hoo, boy.” It was either a hand-shaker or a thrower-of-things and, honestly, they were both tiresome. Her mother was always unflaggingly polite and dignified in any case, so whatever it was they were both going to stand here at the edge of the sidewalk and take it.
Maggie’s own personal code of conduct had loosened up over the past couple of years — still no doughnuts, but no more white gloves either — but the General was starch and steel down to the core. There was no shifting her.
“Coo-ee!” cried the blonde woman in the emerald green satin dress. She had a large paper shopping bag hooked over one arm, and the other was lifted above her head to wave her feathered hat in the air.
Maggie began to grin. She didn’t care if this one wanted to shake hands and throw things. “Lola! Hi!”
“Hi-ee!” Lola bounced to a halt in front of them, with one high-heeled shoe in the gutter. “Have you seen Corinne? She’s not living where she said she’d be. I figured she’d have to be here. I’ve got something for her.” She held up the bag.
The General bowed. After a light nudge, Maggie did too. “It appears our objectives are similar, Miss Garofalo. I’m afraid Corporal Santee changes addresses frequently. What did you say it was called, Magnificent?”
“‘Couch-surfing,’ but Calliope said it first,” Maggie replied. “So, like, that’s probably the slangiest possible way to put it. I don’t know if there’s a polite way.”
“It is a particularly stressful way of being almost homeless and I don’t think it’s worth dressing up,” said the General. “Unless her situation has improved dramatically, she is either couch-surfing or maintaining herself at doss houses entirely. I was also hoping to find out where she is, but I don’t always see her on pension days.” She shook her head with a sigh. “I suspect sometimes she recognizes me from a distance and hides. You might have better luck by yourself, Miss Garofalo.”
“I haven’t so far. It’s an awful lot of people in blue coats.”
“We are both operating with handicaps, it seems. She knows me well enough to avoid me and you do not know her well enough to find her. Under the circumstances, though it pains me, I believe I will have to see if my reputation will allow me to cut the line and inquire after her indoors. Please excuse me.”
Lola scurried after her with an eager grin. “Are you going to pull rank on some people? Do they still have to do what you say?”
The General did not slow or even turn her head. “No.”
Maggie gave in and followed them for Lola’s sake. “They just know better, Miss Garofalo. You’d better stand back.”
◈◈◈
“I don’t have your pension cheque! I don’t have it! I’m O through S! Oh, gods, I’m O through S!”
The General removed a handkerchief from her purse and wiped the fire extinguisher foam from her face. She turned and addressed the soldier whose transaction had been so rudely interrupted. “Please excuse me, Commander O’Shannon. It was only my intention to ask after Corporal Santee in the most logical place. Would you like to attempt to conclude your business?”
The clerk was perched on the opposite counter, bunched up like a terrified kitten in blue business attire. He was still clutching the now-empty extinguisher and tracking the General’s movements with the hose.
Kathleen O’Shannon covered a bemused smile with her gloved hand. “I think you had best finish what you started, General D’Iver.”
The General laid both hands on the counter, as benignly as possible, while making no move to breach the security of the brass cage. “I am looking for my friend, Corinne Santee. Can you tell me if she has picked up her cheque today?”
“Yes!” shrieked the clerk. Noting a displeased expression, he threw himself backwards, dropped the extinguisher and crossed both hands in front of him. “I mean no! I don’t know! I don’t know who that is! What do you want to hear?”
The General hefted a sigh. She waved a hand — the clerk screamed — and the rest of the foam evaporated from her greatcoat and skirt. “Magnificent, if nothing else, let me take this opportunity to explain that terror is of very little use during an interrogation. My lack of self-control in dealing with the pension office has made it impossible for me to wring any useful information from this man.”
“Mordecai already told me that’s how come torture doesn’t work,” Maggie said.
“In that case, this exercise has been entirely pointless. I apologize, Commander O’ Shannon.” She bowed.
The Commander saluted her with a light snicker. “Quite all right. I do understand, sir.”
“Would you like a chocolate, mister clerk?” Lola said. She had worked her way around the entire counter and was standing in the employees-only area, unmolested, with a hand in her purse. “Do you prefer caramel or crème? Mind if I have one?” She smiled and unwrapped it slowly. “Mmm. You sure were quick with that fire extinguisher. What a wild place to work. Oops.” She had just dropped a second chocolate on the counter. “May I have my chocolate back, please, sir? Raspberry crèmes are my favourite. I’ll trade you. Thanks, cutie.”
Half a dozen chocolates later, the clerk had gone through the whole file two times and confirmed that Corinne’s cheque had indeed been collected. “I’m so sorry you missed your friend, Lola. If you want to wait back here for her to show up next month, just let me know. I’ll be here. I get off at five,” he muttered aside.
She scribbled a phone number on a change of address slip and stuffed it into his shirt pocket.
The General waited until they were outside again to object, “Miss Garofalo, as a matter of self-respect…!”
“I think it’s perfectly respectable to hand strange men the number of the time and temperature lady, it’s all over the phone books anyway,” Lola replied. “And if I want another favour next month, I’ll just tell him he misread it.” She dumbed down her voice and pursed her lips in a pout, “So sowwy my handwriting is so awful, mister clerk.”
The General slowed to a stop. Her mouth twisted as if assessing a bitter taste. “Magnificent…”
Maggie was grinning. “Ye-es?”
“Let me make an attempt to clarify…”
“Edit.”
“Correct,” the General said firmly. “Let me correct any lesson you may have learned from this experience. Women are expected to possess the sort of soft power Miss Garofalo has demonstrated for you. In many cases, being able to perform as expected is valuable. The ability to set men on fire at will is equally valuable, but not in this specific situation. Ideally, as you grow, you will refrain from putting all your eggs in one basket. But if you come to prefer a certain technique, I will do my best to understand and support it.”
“That’s very sensitive of you,” Maggie replied.
The General could not suppress a shudder. She shook it away. “Miss Garofalo, since it seems we will not be able to contact Corporal Santee through the pension office today, I would like to invite you to lunch. We are meeting Calliope in SoHo — which I believe is on your way home?”
Lola applauded. Her paper shopping bag crinkled. “I don’t care where it is, I love Calliope! What are we having?”
Maggie snickered. “Depends. How much change have you got?”
◈◈◈
The sign was large red vertical letters outlined in blinking light bulbs: AUTOMAT. Further letters on the plate glass windows — done in slick, italic paint — promised: Fine Dining — On A Budget! Pies Baked Fresh Daily! Tix Accepted! SoHo’s 1st Automated Restaurant!
“Eee!” Lola jumped up and down. “I love this place! They have the best macaroni and cheese and you can just work on whatever you’re doing without a waitress coming to top off your coffee every five damn minutes.” She made her expression deadpan and mimed taking a drag off a cigarette, “Hon.”
“We imported them from Gundaland, so they are soulless and efficient,” the General noted.
“That’s a compliment,” Maggie assured Lola. “Mom loves it too.”
“Do you love it?” Lola asked with a grin.
Maggie snickered and shrugged. She didn’t have much of an opinion, but there was a lot of pressure to appreciate the mechanical things in life with Lola along. “I guess it’s pretty fun.”
The ambience inside was decidedly art nouveau, with swooping lines and floral motifs on the lighted glass signs. Banks of cold food waiting behind individual glass doors were alternated with banks of hot food, each case being five cells by three cells with an insulated space in between. Pies were in one segment, Hot & Cold Sandwiches in another. Soups & Salads and Entrées were neighboring, for those that preferred a full-course meal.
The Penny Arcade, with cheap things like grilled cheese and coffee cups, was all the way on the other side of the restaurant, separated by a sea of burnished metal tables and chairs.
Coffee or a cold drink was included with most sandwiches and entrées. Wine & Cordials were in a little raised area near the drink dispensers in the middle, with an attendant standing nearby to demand identification from people who looked young enough to start a revolution.
Just in case you forgot who was running the joint, Plaisirici — which was not a real word but which was, conveniently, trademarkable — was plastered all over the cases, drinkware, tableware and napkin dispensers, but in a tasteful font. It all looked very shiny and sophisticated but, like the dingy ice cream parlour in Strawberryfield, you could hit it up with some spray cleaner and wipe everything down with a rag. However, unlike Strawberryfield…
The smiling woman in the white apron and striped dress stopped them just inside the door and pulled them into a small glassed-in area with panelled walls below waist height, and a wooden bench which offered seating or a place for short people to stand and watch. “I’m sorry. Please give us just a moment, it’s the cleaning cycle.”
“Yippee!” Lola cried, although there was one every forty-five minutes, so you were likely to get a floor show at least once during your meal, unless you threw it into a box and took it to-go.
A little metal sign below the glass, and at each table, politely reminded them: PLEASE DO NOT TEASE THE AUTOMATION, IT IS EASILY CONFUSED. (THE MANAGEMENT IS NOT LIABLE.)
An automated pipe organ, or perhaps just a very good recording of one, began to play “Mein Kleiner Grüner Kaktus.” This had either been programmed in by the machine’s originators in Gundaland, or Plaisirici, a Marselline company, was just being cute.
Above them, nestled amongst the pendant lighting, was a forest of brass metal tracks, tanks and nozzles, and black rubber hoses. The nozzles descended from on high in tandem, most of them aimed at the floor, walls and cases. One was also positioned above each table, and one above each place setting at the bar.
As it was lunchtime, most tables had people sitting at them, and a few had been only briefly vacated by patrons who wished to refill their drinks or use the bathroom. Most of the nozzles detected something other than a bare table in their way and ascended again politely. A few stuck around to investigate, and the ones that detected a raised red flag on the napkin dispenser (helpfully labelled YOU MAY CLEAN THIS TABLE) called for reinforcements.
A bald gentleman regarded the nozzle above his table suspiciously and shooed a hand at it. “Go away. I’m eating.” The nozzle acknowledged the motion and retreated.
Lola snickered and nudged Maggie. “He’s too shiny, that’s what it is.”
The poor automation really was easily confused. If you wanted a shot of cleaner in the face, all you had to do was hold the clean underside of a plate at head height. (Lola had tested this herself.) There were about a million ways she wanted to fix it, but nobody would let her. She’d have to forge herself some coveralls with that darn Plaisirici logo on them and sneak in sometime.
Metal arms descended over the tables which required clearing and swept all the half-eaten food and unbreakable dishes into metal tubs that descended along with them. The unified clatter was timed to the music, so as not to be rude, but a few patrons jumped anyway. Some of the younger ones applauded.
As the dirty dishes ascended to a higher plane, the nozzles sprayed down every table in tandem, like a water ballet with a floral industrial scent. A few people shielded their meals and drinks with a hand, but the over-spray really wasn’t too bad.
The nozzle that swept past the glass where Maggie and company were standing had little cartoon googly-eyes glued to it. Maggie waved at it automatically, before she caught herself and her fingers wilted. She was too old for that.
Lola grinned and waved too. “They have personality so you feel bad and you won’t mess with ‘em. It’s brilliant.”
Rubber wiper blades, also with eyes, dropped down and replaced the nozzles where applicable. The chairs and tables, with their complicated surfaces, got a blast of hot air from the nozzles instead, also synchronized to the music. The napkins ruffled slightly in their dispensers, but a built-in metal ledge protected them from the worst of the onslaught.
Maggie managed to refrain from waving at the wiper blade that cleared off the glass in front of her, but Lola said, “Hi there, little buddy!”
For the grand finale, about two dozen disc-shaped auto vac-mops zipped out of little doors under the food cases, to eat any debris the nozzles had knocked down and dry the parquet-look linoleum. A few people nonchalantly lifted their feet so the creatures (with their cute googly expressions) could scamper under their chairs. Others didn’t bother, causing the discs to zip out of the way with an apologetic beep. A few of them knocked into walls, tables or each other, but everything had rubber bumpers that were designed to take the abuse.
The disc that diverted to clean the floor of the glass booth noted a bunch of feet in the way and veered off, disappearing into a little door which opened for it in the opposite wall.
“Sorry, maybe next time!” Lola called after it.
All the little doors under the Entrée section, which had opened as each disc drew near on its own procedurally-generated path, snapped shut at once. At the same time, all the nozzles and wipers locked back into place in the ceiling. The silly music played a brief flourish and ceased. The burr of conversation started up again almost as if it hadn’t been interrupted, but there was scattered laughter and applause.
One of the clapping people was sequestered in another glass booth near the drink dispensers. Coffee, hot water, ice water with lemons (Free Refills!), a soda machine with colourful glass bottles (Deposit Token/3sc), and one dark-haired lady wearing a black domino mask (Free Criminal?).
Maggie ducked past the attendant and waved, “Hey, Calliope! We’re here!”
“Hi, you guys!” said the cross-cast comedy bank robber.
The attendant dropped them a curtsy and got out of the way. “Thank you for your patience. Welcome to Plaisirici’s Automated Restaurant. Let us know if there’s anything you need!”
“Where are my glasses?” a female voice demanded near the bar. “I was in the bathroom! What’ve you done with my reading glasses? And my sandwich!”
The attendant smiled. “Excuse me.” She ducked away and pressed a red button on a discreet speaker box. “Alejandro, we got glasses, turn off the auto-destruct. Apago el… el auto-destructo! Oh, heck.” She scurried towards the shouting woman, “I’m very sorry, ma’am!”
“Can’t a person go to the bathroom for two minutes?”
A person could go to the bathroom for exactly fifteen minutes, in fact. After which point the staff were instructed to raise the flag on the napkin dispenser for them. Admittedly, this was cutting it a little close for petticoats, corsetry, makeup and waiting in line. It was almost always women who got their half-eaten food cleaned up and small items stolen by the automation.
Calliope had her reading glasses stowed securely in her front pocket, and she didn’t have anything to do with makeup or complicated underwear. She hugged Lola, her polar opposite in that respect. “Hi! What’re you doing here?”
“I have an extra arm,” Lola deadpanned. She wasn’t all that different from Calliope, under the surface.
“Cool. Can I see?”
The blonde woman snickered and handed over the bag. “It’s for Corinne, but we couldn’t find her.”
Calliope drew a graceful, female-sized mechanical arm out of the paper bag. All the delicate articulation was done in silver metal, but the palm and each joint in the fingers were sculpted out of pale stone. It looked like a fragile white dove in a steel cage. “Awesomesauce!”
Maggie stared. “Oh, my gods, I thought that was canned food or clothes! Geez, Lola, you’re fast!”
“I cheat,” she replied with a wink. “This is just my old Henckel, plus some marble I hacked off a statue. And a few new connections.” She shrugged. “It’s too small for me and it’s way outdated, but Corinne is itty-bitty, and this is just a proof of concept. I think as long as the contacts and touch surfaces are stone, she’ll be able to move it and feel it. If it works, she can use it while I make a better one. It’s lighter than pure stonework, that’s the main thing.”
“A composite,” said the General. “Calliope, may I?” She examined the stone fingertips and the ring-shaped locking mechanism, augmented by a single leather strap. “This does not require any mergers to stay in place, she can remove it herself.”
“She’ll have to, it’ll rust in the bath.”
“It can’t be more than five pounds.”
“Three-point-seven. It’s still heavy for her. I did the math. Right around two-point-three is a good size, but this is a proof of concept.”
“It is still a vast improvement over ten-point-five.” The General shook her head. “I hope it does work, for her sake. I wish I hadn’t come today. You might have seen her if she didn’t see me.”
“Cheer up, Glorie,” Calliope said. “Maybe she’ll break into our house again for Twelfth Night.”
“Yes. I suppose that is a possibility.”
“You look about ready to do some breaking and entering yourself,” Lola said.
Calliope snickered and removed the mask. “Nah. That’s from Chris and Katya. They have this cute idea for a transitional piece between their space and they didn’t want to pay a model for it. They just dressed me up and took an instant, and Katya’s going to blow it up and decorate it. She does all these art nouveau ladies, and Chris has all these photos of a dead raccoon around town, so I’m an apotheosis. It kinda works both ways, raccoon to woman or woman to raccoon. Depends which way you’re viewing the exhibit. I’m not gonna judge which is better, they both seem fun. Katya needed her gloves and necklace back, but this is just cheap, so I kept it.”
The three new arrivals stared for a moment.
Lola smiled, shaking her head. “Nope, I got nothing.”
Maggie said, “I know Chris took a bunch of pictures of that stuffed raccoon he found but I can’t put the rest of it together.”
“More context, please, Calliope,” said the General. “Lest we be distracted while putting together our lunch.”
“Oh, sorry,” Calliope said. “The space for the show. The gallery is kinda snake-shaped, but you can start at the head or the tail. It’s Chris, then Katya, then me, then Teagan…”
“Teagan?” Maggie said. “Not incoherent-cow-photos Teagan?”
Calliope snapped her fingers and pointed. “Good name for her. I can’t stand her, but we drew straws for the snake and I’m stuck next to her. I don’t have anything that matches her stuff and I’m not going to bother making a new thing. If I finish the cuckoo clock I’m going to put it right before her space so all her dumb photos look like crap. I’m putting Ann as a saloon girl next to Katya’s stuff.”
“I think if we wait for her to untangle all this we’re going to have lunch for dinner,” Lola said, grinning.
“We’re calling it the Minority Report,” Calliope said. “Chris is coloured, Katya’s from Prokovia, I’m half-Wakokuhito and Teagan’s a girl.” She shrugged. “Like, there are more women than men in Marsellia, but I guess not if you just count the art world. And we need the money, so we really are stuck with her.”
“She tried to beat up our friend John because he insulted her ‘artistic vision,’” Maggie made the quote marks with her fingers, rolling her eyes, “and she nailed his friend Rob in the face with a chair. It’d be kinda cool if she wasn’t such a snot.”
“An artist,” said the General. “You are telling us details about your participation in an art show!”
Calliope shrugged. “Yeah, I said that.”
“Cool!” Lola said. “When is it?”
“We’re opening on New Year’s, but we’re there for two weeks.”
“You have less than a month and you’ve only begun organizing this now?” the General said. Not that she was surprised. Not if Calliope and her irresponsible ex-boyfriend were both involved.
“Huh? No. We’ve been working on this since September, I’m talking about organizing the space. Also, the caterer cancelled on us and Chris is freaking out, but something always goes wrong like that. I told him we could get one of those big party sandwiches, but he’s concerned with our ‘image.’” She made air quotes like Maggie, but perhaps even more sarcastic.
Maggie put a hand on her arm. “Calliope? Remember when we had that talk about hiding fun from us?”
“This isn’t fun,” Calliope said. “Well, this is.” She handed Maggie the mask apologetically. “But I didn’t know we were doing that. Besides, you had to help Seth. I was gonna tell you about the actual show, but that’s not until January. You guys aren’t filling your calendars out that far in advance, you don’t have real jobs like my Mom. Er, sorry, but you know how I mean.”
“Calliope, we are three competent individuals who are invested in your wellbeing,” the General said. “Isn’t there anything any of us could do to help?”
“Any of you cater?”
“I can make cupcakes!” Lola said brightly.
“No, no.” Maggie scolded her with a finger. “We all like our teeth, Lola. No.”
“I just need a bigger kitchen,” the erstwhile baker muttered.
Calliope shook her head. “It’s just a lot of fiddly stuff and hanging things up. We don’t need you to hang things up, Glorie, we’ve got some of that temporary picture tape. I guess there’s the lighting, but it belongs to the building and they won’t let you play with it, Lo-Lo. All you have to do is stand on a stepladder and aim ‘em. Anyone can do that. It’s not fun yet, I promise.”
The General sighed. “I suppose if you need anyone threatened…”
Calliope signed her a thumbs up. “I know who to call. Let’s get food and sit down, I want to dish about Milo and our cuckoo clock.” She shook her head. “But you can’t help me with that, either, Lo-Lo. You and Ann need to make your own, if you want one.”
“You can explain that after I get my macaroni and cheese,” Lola said.
“That’s the stuff!” Calliope said. “Those robots in the back make a darn fine mac and cheese!”
“Pretty sure they have real people making the food in the back, Calliope,” Maggie said.
“Aw, man. Way to spoil my illusions, Maggie.”
They broke up and fed change into whatever cases struck their fancy. The glass doors slid open on their own, as it was difficult enough to juggle plates and coins. The General chose a responsible sandwich and salad, with coffee. Maggie knew better than to buy nothing but desserts, but she did stow a piece of pie at the table first, before heading to the Penny Arcade in search of peanut butter and jelly. She also purchased a banana, strictly so she could point it at Calliope, while wearing the mask, and say, “Stick ‘em up!”
Calliope raised all three arms, including the one from Lola’s bag, with a grin.
Lola and Calliope dominated the conversation while they ate, comparing the finer points of designing an arm and overcomplicating a cuckoo clock. They were both artists of a kind. Maggie asked an occasional question, while the General pensively consumed coffee.
They would make contact with Corporal Santee again at some point, it was only a matter of time. Not even worth worrying about. It was just a shame, that was all. The fact that such an essential part of Corinne’s wellbeing had to be outsourced to a charitable individual in the first place — instead of provided for her and others like her — was enough to make Brigadier General Glorious D’Iver want to chuck the whole blighted country in the trash.
Frustratingly, in this case there was nothing suitably symbolic to set on fire.
As if such petty destruction made any difference. She should have selected a charity and started making donations ages ago. It was just so painful to accept there was nothing better to be done.
As she approached the drink dispensers to refill her cup a third time, she heard a familiar voice inquire, “Sorry, ma’am. Do you take these here?”
Corinne was standing in the doorway, in her worn blue blazer with her stone arm in the sling, offering the attendant a pink meal ticket with her left hand. “The line at the kitchen was super long and they started handing these out.”
“Certainly, miss,” the attendant replied with a curtsy. “Just a moment. You can sit down if you like.”
“Hey, thanks.”
The local soup kitchens had made a deal with a few suitably cheap establishments. When the lines got too long they outsourced, handing out tickets good for free or discounted meals elsewhere. Most people only needed such assistance for a few months of their lives; after they got back on their feet they would return as paying customers. It was good advertising. Participation was only limited by a conflicting desire not to be seen with too shabby a clientele.
An automated restaurant where you could pick up a grilled cheese sandwich for a penny was not too concerned about that.
Corinne’s Tix got her a tray with a sandwich, a cup of soup, a coffee and an individual carton of milk. The General sidled back to her table while the woman was distracted. “Miss Garofalo.” She nudged Lola and subtly indicated Corinne. “I think you’d better go by yourself. At least to start.”
Lola picked up her paper bag and presented herself to Corporal Santee with a smile and a bow. After a few inaudible pleasantries, she also presented the arm.
Corinne gave a little yelp and then covered her mouth. She removed her arm from the sling and spoke in a lower voice, indicating the join above the elbow and shaking her head.
Now the General approached, slowly, with her hands folded and head down. “I’m sorry to intrude, Corporal Santee. Please let me help you.”
Corinne eventually allowed her to undo the mergers keeping the stone prosthetic attached. She turned her head away and shielded her eyes with her left hand — not squeamish or afraid, but ashamed. The General politely tucked the detached stone prosthetic in the paper bag, out of sight.
Lola demonstrated the function of the locking mechanism and let Corinne put on her new arm by herself.
“Now, if it doesn’t work…”
“Oh, my gods,” Corinne said thickly.
Lola cut a hand at her and shook her head. “Please, Corinne. If it doesn’t work, I’m going to fix it. This is just Version One. I won’t be mad or disappointed or anything, so be honest with me. I need real feedback to make a better one.”
Corinne slowly lifted the arm, flexed the fingers and turned the wrist. There was a light clatter of metal working, and a hiss of hydraulics.
“It’s old,” Lola said. “I warned you…”
“It’s so light,” Corinne said. She turned her face against her left hand and began to cry.
Lola pulled a handkerchief out of her purse, beating the General by a split second. “It’s okay. Can you feel it?”
Corinne nodded, choking. “Uh-huh.”
Lola brushed her fingers along the riveted metal surface. There was only a slight hitch in their motion to indicate she was using a prosthetic too. “Just the touch… I’m sorry. Just the stone parts or the whole thing?”
“Whole thing,” Corinne said. “Oh, my gods…”
Lola smiled. “It’s okay. You can play with it as much as you want. I’ll ask you some more questions about it later, but I know this is a lot.”
“Can I really… Can I keep it?”
Lola snickered. “I’m going to make a better one, I promise. So, not forever. Just as long as it takes.”
Corinne flung both arms around her and hugged, sobbing.
Calliope appeared a moment later with a glass of water and some paper napkins.
Maggie was hanging back, looking uncomfortable. The General retreated likewise and put a hand on her shoulder. “I don’t know what to do,” the girl said softly.
“There is nothing left to do,” the General replied. “We have ferried Corporal Santee to someone who can assist her and that is the best we can manage.”
Maggie regarded Corinne being plied with water and napkins and turned back to her mother with a frown.
“Magnificent, we are women of action,” the General said patiently. She caught an excuse forming on the tip of her tongue and killed it with a sigh. “This is difficult for me as well. Let us delegate.”
Maggie nodded, satisfied.
“Please do not raise the flag on our table, we are not finished,” the General informed the attendant.
The woman in the striped dress dipped another curtsy. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Hey, Corinne, let me ask you something,” Lola said. “Not about the arm. You don’t have to say yes. Not right now. But if you wouldn’t mind helping me afford an apartment with a bigger kitchen one of these days, I wouldn’t mind you staying there with me. Just so you know, okay?”
Corinne smiled.
Liner Notes: Author’s Note — Mein Kleiner Grüner Kaktus!
I listen to mechanical music on YT on a daily basis. Band organs, player pianos and such. I let it auto play, it knows what I like. When I was writing this instalment and wondering how an automated restaurant would clean itself, THIS came on!
What a vibe. It was PERFECT! Score one for serendipity!
