The
attack by the mad alien robot surprised everyone at the cookbook
writers’ award banquet.
The
official banquet had just broken up; the speeches had all been
delivered, the awards had all been presented. People milled about in
small groups as the crowd slowly filtered out of the dining hall.
Bian Dinh stood beside her chair, her petite figure outlined by the
gold silk dress embroidered with red dragons. “Did you hope to make
the party rounds tonight, Debs?”
Rabinowitz
winced at the college nickname. She’d already told Dinh three times
she preferred “De-BOR-ah” these days, but the other woman
steadfastly refused to listen. “Actually, I hoped to avoid them. I
like writers individually, but in groups….” She gave a mock
shudder. “As soon as they learn I’m a broker, they swarm on me to
sell their books offworld. I hate saying no.”
“So
I remember.”
“Well,
I’ve learned how to say it, now, but I get tired of the way
they look when I tell them it’s easier to snag the lottery.”
“I
wasn’t looking forward, either, to the parties. These people are
all dreskas, they talk of nothing but business. Recipes and
book contracts, as though the people who ate the food were less
important than the ingredients that go in it. The oppressed people of
the world can’t even afford most of the spices they write about.”
She paused. “I hoped we could have a more private reunion. We
haven’t seen each other in seven years—”
“I’ll
have to ditch that too, I’m afraid,” Rabinowitz said. Then, as
she saw Dinh’s expression fall, she added, “I have to be sharp
for a rehearsal tomorrow.”
“Rehearsal?”
“Yes,
I direct an amateur theater group these days. We open the Scottish
play in two weeks, and tomorrow’s our first full run-through.”
There
was a sudden commotion in the back of the hall. People were pushing
and jostling and there were a couple of surprised shouts. Suddenly an
alien’s rented robot body broke through the crowd and started
toward the center of the room.
It
was a cheap older model, with a short, thin unisex body and
indeterminate facial features. Its clothes were painted on and
peeling, while its face was covered with small scratches and dents
from users who tried to do unaccustomed things with it.
The
current user was also not very adept. The body leaned forward, having
a hard time balancing upright, while the arms swung about in front as
though the user were unsure whether to use them as legs. The head
turned from side to side as though used to scanning its surroundings
much more quickly. If it weren’t for the path of bruised and fallen
people it had pushed aside in its crude rush into the hall, the
creature would have been laughable.
“Malfunctioning?”
Dinh wondered.
“No,
it’s turned off the autos,” Rabinowitz said. “It couldn’t be
shoving people if they were on.”
The
robot had cleared a space for itself through the mob that scattered
before it. Its gaze reached Dinh and Rabinowitz, and suddenly
stopped. With a roar of incoherent syllables, the alien picked up a
butter knife from a nearby table, lowered its head and charged
straight at them.
Even
dressed as they were—Dinh in her tight silk dress, Rabinowitz in
her black strapless formal with the half-high heels—either woman
could have outrun the alien in a footrace. But the surprise of its
attack froze them momentarily; the alien was almost upon them before
they reacted. Rabinowitz recovered first. Grabbing the chair next to
her, she swung it straight into the attacker’s path.
A
human could have easily avoided the obstacle and kept on coming. Even
an inexperienced alien who left the automatic guidance system turned
on would have moved casually around it. But this alien had the autos
off and didn’t have the proper reflexes to deal with sudden
changes. Its legs hit the chair and lost what little balance they
had. The creature sprawled on the ground and slid across the polished
floor three meters past the women who had been its targets.
Rabinowitz and Dinh each tossed on a couple more chairs, then
together overturned a round banquet table and pinned the hapless
robot beneath it.
The
alien tried to get back up, flailing its robot limbs madly and
looking like a turtle trying to swim across a tile floor. The tension
in the room broke and everyone started laughing. The alien, realizing
its position was hopeless, suddenly froze in place.
“Show’s
over,” Rabinowitz announced when she could stop laughing long
enough. “He’s off-teeped and gone home. Somebody call the
police.”
The
police came, in the person of one detective and one uniformed
officer. They impounded the rent-a-bod and asked general questions of
everyone in the hall. When they learned the alien had homed in
specifically on Dinh and Rabinowitz, they asked more pointed
questions of them. Both women acknowledged knowing and having
business dealings with extraterrestrials, but neither knew of anyone,
off Earth or on, who wanted to kill them. Finally, after two hours of
taking statements, the police left.
“Well,
that was a nice little adrenaline rush,” Rabinowitz said, “but
now I really do have to be going if I’m to be at all
coherent tomorrow.”
“I
really did want to talk with you,” Dinh said, reaching out to grab
her arm. “I hoped that we could…well, I never get a chance to see
you in person, and there’s much to tell you.”
Rabinowitz
looked into Dinh’s eyes, sighed, and quickly reviewed her schedule.
“Will you still be in the City Monday? Good, why don’t we have
lunch then? Call me Monday morning and we’ll set up a time and
place.”
As
she walked away, Rabinowitz could feel Dinh’s eyes following her
with a strange intensity. She almost wished she hadn’t made the
date. Whenever Bian got this intense back in college, trouble usually
wasn’t far away.
“This
could be unpleasant,” she muttered. “Please, Bian, I hope you’re
smart enough to know that some things exist better as memories.”