Chapter 4: Fallen Sparrows

I was woken from a dreamless sleep when Big Mama Bear shoved her tongue down my throat. My eyes flew open and I choked and sputtered. Big Mama backed off, huffing in bear laughter. Yes, bears have a sense of humor. Someone—make that two someones—were licking my feet: Big Mama’s cubs.

“Frenched by a bear!” Candice exclaimed.

“She is a Canadian,” Tess remarked. “Goes with the territory. You’re needed, Tom.”

The two women got me to my feet. The bears trotted off to do bear things and that probably meant stuffing their bear faces with food. Again. It’s their life and I just have to bear with it.

“You need more rest, but we have visitors,” Tess observed as I staggered through the transport pad into the next room. “This is important. It has to do with Bettie and Walt.”

“It’s part of your training, too,” Candice reminded me. “Manipulating sleep cycles is part of rewiring the brain.”

I kept the thought to myself that interference with sleep cycles had been declared ‘torture’ by America’s opposition party—and ‘banned’ as immoral. Besides, I wasn’t the enemy—or was I?

“I’m present as your lawyer,” Ricardo Corleone emerged from a wall in corporeal form. His artificial body was close to human form so that the AI could more effectively interact with humans. He was wearing a well-fitting suit that I couldn’t identify. “For the record, this is a Savile Row suit with hand-made Italian shoes. If it’s good enough for James Bond, it’s good enough for Ricardo Corleone.”

“Our first stop is your fur family,” Tess said. “The dogs and horses miss you.”

“Not to mention the cats and the others,” Candice added. “You’ll have to see the snakes without us, though. I don’t do snakes.”

“Cobras are too much for me, too,” Tess declared. “That new one scares me.”

“Darkwater is a gentleman,” I replied.

“You would say that!” Candice chuckled. “You nap with grizzly bears.”

“Big Mama regards me as one of her cubs,” I responded.

“There’s that,” Tess said.

While we talked, the three led me into the corral area and we were surrounded by horses. Blitzkrieg, a big gray stallion, was there, as were several mares. Mares, mayors—my mind was in free association at the moment. Blitzkrieg snorted and told me that I stunk of bear.

“You are correct, sir,” I agreed.

There were humans present as well, but the horses hogged my time. There weren’t any complaints—until it was time for me to leave. Blitzkrieg accompanied me to the kennels—and the dogs.

Most of the dogs were German Shepherds. I admit it—with heroes such as Strongheart and Rin Tin Tin and Roy Roger’s Bullet, there were just German Shepherds and pretend dogs. I’m a dog bigot! There were several male dogs, all trying to be the alpha—Butch, King, Rex, Bruno and Nana were the main contenders. A wolf named Calgary was Nana’s deputy—and Candice’s “dog”--but Calgary’s main ambition was motherhood. Nana remarked that I stunk of bear!

I guess I could have smelled like beer instead of bear.

There was good reason for me to visit my fur family members. Back when I was filling out my dance card—er, ah, picking my allotment of concubines—I mentioned that we humans had obligations, unwritten contracts, with other species on Planet Earth. Somehow, my plan to get enough cats, dogs and horses to distribute among established colonies wound up getting exotic pets such as lions, tigers and bears!

“Svetlana won’t eat family,” I reassured Tess. Candice giggled. Poor Lana was in pain, so I kissed the tiger’s muzzle, held her head in my hands, and accessed her nanites. In moments I was able to alleviate Lana’s pain and repair some of the damage—but eventually Lana was going to die.

“What’s wrong?” Candice asked.

“Lana requested that I make a rug out of her skin so that she could comfort me after she dies,” I said. “Of course I will. Right now, though, her skin is right where I want it.”

“And you’ll take care of her cubs,” Tess said. “I still don’t know how you do it.”

“It’s only with certain individual animals,” I said.

“Yeah, right,” Candice muttered.

Calgary agreed with Candice.

“You have just enough time to get cleaned up for the graduation ceremony,” Ricardo announced. “It seems that all the women want houri training.”

“Of course all women want houri training!” Tess exclaimed. “Houri not only give pleasure but learn to accept pleasure. It’s a power trip. A concubine with houri training is a very valuable resource. Sponsors with houri training control the relationship.”

The fastest way to clean up was visiting a medical tube. Yes, it’s perhaps a waste—but Arc Dios had a surplus of medical tubes because as a museum and mobile academy we’d be visiting colonies and might need to act as a hospital or leave medical pods at the colony. Fannie Mae—an olive baboon—was the medical tech on duty. In ninety seconds I was clean inside and outside. Fannie Mae informed me that I was in perfect health.

Naturally. Best health care program in the galaxy!

The new graduate houris were outfitted in cat costumes. There were strangers in the audience, but I was part of the stage play. The graduating class played Cyndi Lauper’s “All Through the Night.” It was appropriate because this class of houri were all rescued orphans. “We have no past, we won’t look back.” They were all adults—according to the Confederacy, adulthood was age 14 for humans—and all had taken the CAP test. It was becoming a tradition for those children who reached adulthood after being evacuated to space as a dependent—take the CAP test and be classified as either sponsor or concubine. I didn’t know which at the moment and neither did the new houri—they’d be informed in a week, after post-grad work in the Arc Dios brothel. I had hopes that eventually most of them would achieve sponsor status—and be warriors. “Until it ends there is no end...”

The houri classes were small—seven women. Bettie was their primary instructor—for this graduating class. One of my duties was being the center of an orgy with the primary instructor and her seven students on their graduation day. It was a privilege and very pleasant, too—though overwhelming. One woman is usually enough—two trained houris can require a trip to Sick Bay if the male isn’t prepared, isn’t medically fit. Don’t ask me for details because there was just too much sensory saturation. I must have worn a goofy grin while being wheeled back to Sick Bay for post-orgy treatment.

Upon emerging from the medical tube for the second time in less than 90 minutes, I faced Bettie and Lilith—and Lilith?

“That’s right,” Lilith explained.

“There are two of us,” the other Lilith said.

“You actually met me first,” the first Lilith claimed.

“She’s my daughter Debra.” the other Lilith added.

“We decided to fool you, to see if it were possible,” Debra, daughter of Lilith, stated.

“You almost tumbled onto it,” Lilith said.

“You were introduced to me as Debra.”

I’ll spare you the rest of the ping pong game. For more than a year the two women had allowed me to think that the name Debra was merely my mistake—that there was only Lilith. When asked how I felt about that, I said, “Two of you? That’s twice as nice as one!”

“We have to meet our public,” Bettie reminded the three of us.

“I’m aware of being constantly observed,” I said, “and the Hawthorne Effect is a constant with me.”

During the period 1924 to 1932 the Hawthorne Works in Cicero, Illinois conducted behavior experiments. In 1958 the “observer effect” was labeled “Hawthorne Effect” and a significant behavior modifier was awareness of being observed. I’m under constant surveillance. My very thoughts are monitored. I have no secrets from the AI.

Besides, I had an audience for the orgy. A live audience.

“Those visitors are why I’m here,” Ricardo said. I had lost track of my personal AI—now acting in the role of a lawyer. “I will verbally authorize you to reveal secrets. I’ll also be present for contract negotiations. Both will be necessary.”

I think I preferred the public orgy—and I’m shy!

Oh, well, a monster’s work is never done.

“I want you to stay stiffly erect,” Debra said. Here’s my secret to telling which was Debra and which was Lilith—I mentally tagged them and then using my implants kept track of them. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it! “We are going to be dealing with people who love Bettie and I want you to project an image of an insatiable sex god.”

My mind was too foggy to think of objections. It was easier to simply float down the stream.

“You liked the theme of stray cats?” Bettie asked as we walked from medical to the little-used Conference Room Nine. Don’t ask how many conference rooms there are on Arc Dios. I have only been in five of them, mostly Conference Room Four. There might only be five, or there could be fifty. “Yes, I can tell. That was a winner.”

“I liked it when you graduated, Bettie,” I said. “The ‘Islands in the Stream’ theme fitted you.”

“Aw, you flatterer!”

And then it was game time! We were in the conference room with a gang I’ll call Friends of Bettie--’Friends’ for short. Bettie Page had achieved cult status. I’m probably guilty of that, too. It was explained to me by Lilith—or was that Debra? Bettie Page reminded me of Mother. Please excuse my inability to name names here, but I was worn out, my head stuffed with fatigue and cotton. There were several men and a handful of women in Conference Room Seven. Lilith, Debra, Bettie and I were naked—it was the standard uniform for Arc Dios. Ricardo was wearing his lawyer’s suit, a rich brown thing that my mind refused to further identify. Walt was there, looking young and chipper, just like he did in the early days of the Burbank Studios, casually dressed in slacks and polo shirt and those awful two-toned loafers. One of the guests wore silk pajamas and robe! The room was much smaller than Conference Room Four and the selection of refreshments and beverages more limited—but this crowd wasn’t interested in displacement feeding.

They were out for blood!

Mine.

“Why did you kidnap Bettie?” the man in the PJ’s demanded.

“I chose to be here,” Bettie objected.

“You’re a slave,” PJ man pointed out, “and he’s going to murder you in 50 years.”

“Actually,” I butted in, “Miss Page has sponsor status with a CAP score of seven point three—she wasn’t eligible for extraction due to menopause. What I offered her was youth and beauty so that she could return to public life as people remembered her.”

“Thomas,” Ricardo chided, “you were not given access to the CAP score files. You strayed into prohibited areas. That’s what you humans call hacking. Do not do that again without permission.”

This is no excuse, but I didn’t realize that I had hacked data bases.

“It was my idea,” Lilith said. “Think about it a while. Bettie, how long did you expect to live?”

“I was living on borrowed time, Lilith,” Bettie said. “I was old and not very well. Fifty years is far longer than I could live on Earth, especially after the Sa’arm arrive. It’s more than merely being alive, young and beautiful. The AI won’t let me have children. There’s some Confederacy laws against that.”