I had left Ali alone while the rest of the evening continued with vibrant dances and discussions. Around the dessert a scene appeared in the Grand Salon. There, mechanical puppets in costumes played Funny Girl with a holographic replica of Barbra Streisand at the height of her glory. Finally, the show gave way to a lighter atmosphere while alcohol flowed in the Grand Salon and the Ballroom, opened after the performance’s conclusion.
“D'rigue, y—you’re a su—super-nice fellow for inviting us,” I heard grumpy-yet-happy-Ali stutter from another buffet table next to mine. The so-called ‘princess’ had a half-closed eye, but a smile up to her ears with a bottle in her hand and a shrimp tail in a lock of hair. However, her condition was similar to the other guests, regardless of their organic cells’ rate.
“The pleasure is mine, lady Ali,” the android simpered without expressing any judgment. “Will you allow me to get you away from the festivities for a moment? I would like to speak with you privately.”
My sapiens giggled and drank her bottle of Earth-harvested Château Margaux down in one go while a group of guests applauded her. Rodrigue, equally amused, grabbed her by the hand and she followed him after snatching a fistful of chocolate éclair.
I chose this moment to emerge from my table’s bowl filled with the same pastries. I was on a mission—but I didn’t know which one. I wasn’t seeing double—but triple. Deprived of my senses, I clumsily dropped myself on the tablecloth and slipped between a lime pie and a quiche topped with real cranberries. “By the 79 moons of Jupiter!” I whispered alone, drunker than an off-duty cop on Ceres. “An infamous dessert made of red dots!”
Two parts of quiche between the fangs, I ventured into the labyrinthine cosmic mansion whose walls seemed to keep changing places. After a long walk, I landed in the manor’s eastern wing with a more libertine atmosphere than the Grand Salon and the Ballroom. The orgatronic units had kept their primary instinct to eat, but also to reproduce. Certainly, no possible exchange of gametes was feasible, yet sex between humans and plain robots was commonplace in the system. This time, however, the relations were reciprocal. Perhaps. I wouldn’t ask them; I had a remaining part of quiche to devour.
Without the moaning and sizzling, the adjacent corridor was much quieter as I settled in the muscular arms of a white marble statue. With a round belly, I philosophized, four meters above the ground, nibbling some crême brulée macarons found in a boudoir. Unfortunately, cantankerous-Guinevere and the traitorous Lancelot billed and cooed just below me, but visibly far too busy to pay attention to me. Their following nonsenses were nobody’s business. Except perhaps for some aerobics instructors, because some positions seemed to be mechanically impracticable for two vertebrates.
“Lady Ali…” finally chirped the aristorobot, speaking of his orgatronic unity. “I am blessed among the metal beings thanks to this organic source breathing life into me. Because it allows me to witness sincere feelings about you!”
“What do you mean by ‘sincere feelings’?” asked my irritable-human while she put back on her white stockings and her tasteless, yet expensive, crystal Louboutin.
Rodrigue resumed: “I love you with true passion.”
I was delighted. With my wild partner, emotional scenes were a show. But the imaginary moons of Venus had to be lined up, because I saw Ali, slightly intoxicated, blushing over the alcohol. Even more surprising, she stroked the android’s cold steel cheek.
Cheerful, Rodrigue continued his serenade: “Alas! I also feel shame, since I am a monster.” He had moved back with his head lowered and his hand on his heart.
“What? What are you talking about?” cried crotchety-Ali, as the scene took the turn of a melodramatic Shakespeare’s play.
“What do you know about our history, lady Ali? Regarding the androids of my kind.”
Ali scratched her chin before answering: “I dunno. Lee once gave me a tedious lecture on your organ-something unit—that it was some kind of living viscus. A substitute spinal cord holding every part of your metal body together, allowing you to move and feel. That’s all I know, because he tends to put me to sleep with his fables.”
“Charming,” I grumbled, still unnoticed. “You may find some litter in your cereal tomorrow morning, princess…”
“Your amazing companion is an educated animal,” replied the synthetic man who made me escape a purr. “Unfortunately, he did tell you the truth. But did not mention what we were hunted for.”
Rodrigue apologized again and, under the supplications of Ali who had sobered up, began his story. Developed by the Germans, the orgatronic technology gave birth to one of the system’s most powerful AIs. But such a singularity came with a terrible price. This complex alchemy mixed out-of-control quantum processors, printed spinal cord and a true organic half-brain. No one fully understood how it worked yet, to cut it short, the orgatronic units needed a special liquid to stay alive. Alas, the synthetic fluid’s formula was lost during East-Berlin’s obliteration. However, according to Rodrigue, the aristorobots of the Liddenbürg family had succeeded in determining the juice’s main active element. The solution naturally resided in the very origin of the orgatronic unit: the cerebral fluid of the Homo sapiens.
Did you get the picture? Ali did. And facing these revelations, she slapped Rodrigue; and I wished I had cheddar-flavored pop-corn.
“So that’s why you brought me here, Bellescharettes? To suck my brain out after… you son of a—damn!” She was furious. It was understandable. I too, wouldn’t like to have my cortex eaten after such a nice evening.
“All the humans in the castle tonight are criminals. Murderers and thieves,” pleaded Rodrigue. “We only gather Solaris’s misfits.” Yet so eloquent, Rodrigue got into deeper water every second he pursued talking. Fortunately, he quickly got his game straight: “But I was wrong about you. I was mistaken on both of you. Forgive me, I snooped inside your ship. I discovered only too late that you were Auxiliaries of Justice from the Alliance. And not mercenaries like the TV networks claimed it to be. I am a fool!”
“That doesn’t change anything now. We represent a threat to you,” grumbled Ali, back on the wall and arms crossed. “As you said, your kind’s been hunted for years. And guess by whom? Auxiliaries.”
“I just wanted a pleasant night with you regardless,” Rodrigue quavered. The orgatronic unit, a mixture of science and luck, had reserved many surprises in the past and had others still in reserve.
Ali straightened, ready to slap him again. But, unexpectedly, my partner kissed him—which was too much action for a prude Shakespeare’s play. Regretful yet smiley, the android left just after asking my human to join him in a few minutes on one of the balconies overlooking the Ballroom. He also strongly advised her not to return to the latter as it was close to the Jovian midnight.
I leaped on the floor after bouncing off a painting which slipped along the wall then smashed behind the bench where Ali had sat. “You learn something daily, don’t you?” I told my copilot.
She jumped before blushing from shame and anger. “Lee! What the fuck?”
“By the way, Auxiliaries don’t hunt orgadroids. The Techno-Police does.”
“What? What are you talking about?” My partner stood up, arms on her hips. “How long have you been there?
“Don’t worry. I grossed out pretty quickly.”
“You little weasel!” she shouted.
“Ali—ouch!” I took three small blows on the head; the origin of which I didn’t understand. “Stop it! This isn’t the time to fight. Aren’t you going to join your prince charming?”
My beloved human shrugged. “I was thinking about it but… I bet he has to put up his little show to all the poor dumbbells he brings back here. Just before pecking their cortex with Froot Loops.”
“No, I think he was sincere,” I admitted. “Sir Rodrigue doesn’t give off unpleasant vibes. And you can’t be a bad person if you look like Westley from Princess Bride.”
She smiled and sat again. For a few seconds, she just stared at the painted ceiling before finally resuming: “I’m sorry I was a bitch earlier. I was just—I—I’m good now.”
“Don’t you worry, feral-girl… Things haven’t been easy for us. Titan, the mutants in the belt, Europa… ‘miserable’ is a meager euphemism.”
Ali took me in her arms before kissing my cheek. “I’d rather spend a miserable life at your side than a tedious one alone, furry ball,” she said while hugging me tighter.
“You do?”
“Yes. This fucking solar system would eat me alive. I need my Falkor.”
I raised a whisker. “Did you just compare me—a gracious Maine Coon—to this flying feathered draft stopper of Falkor?”
“Never give up, and good luck will find you!” she uttered as I jumped on the floor to let her stand up. “So, Lee Koviràn, Xiao’s bane and proud pilot of the eternal Kitty, what do you want to do?”
“Depends. What would you like to do?” I sobbed.
She straightened, her right hand on the massive gun masterfully hidden beneath her beaded silk belt. “Getting back to business, furry ball.”
I nodded before gazing at her. She was beautiful in that dress. Anthropophagous robot or not, this Rodrigue de Bellescharettes was lucky to have her as a partner tonight. “We will. But before that, enjoy your night. You deserve it.”
Ali smiled and brushed my shoulder. “Do you think we will be able to collect the FIDs from the whole bunch of degenerates getting smashed in the Grand Salon once they have—well, you know…” she started before miming a zombie devouring his prey.
“Who cares about that…” I was pretty sure we could say goodbye to the contracts. It was undoubtedly with these rewards that the Liddenbürg ensured such a luxurious lifestyle for decades.
I followed Ali on her long walk to the balcony. Behind carved doors awaited Sir Rodrigue as from the Ballroom resounded Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. The android grinned; it was a real smile, full of love. When their eyes met, the third movement of Summer began. It was Ali’s favorite.
The Marquis stretched out his white-gloved hand and invited her to join him. “May you honor me with one last dance tonight, lady Ali?” he asked.
“Rodrigue, flattery comes before sleeping with the princess,” Ali joked as she took the android’s hand before clasping herself against him. “You can stop now…”
“Alas… I won’t,” I heard him whisper.
I sat on the railing of the balcony. Below, something slightly unusual started. Covered by the sweet hundred-year-old notes, the Liddenbürg and their guests began a very different and bloody choreography. A waltz of darkness where the orgatronic units consumed lives too long stained with death.
“Speaking of princess,” Rodrigue said. “Have you thought of staying here, with us? With me.”
Ali let out a discreet laugh. “What would you do with a woman-child raised by a choleric mop?”
“I heard that…” I commented.
She winked at me before turning back to the Marquis: “Besides, you’re mistaking sex and love, my dear Rodrigue.” She came closer to him again, her head on his shoulder. “Although I’m not indifferent to you, and we had a beautiful time together.”
“My apologies, Madame,” the sympathetic robot declared. “Perhaps I’m a man from another time.”
The two ephemeral lovers danced untroubled, as if it never had a tomorrow. Floating above all, Ali and Rodrigue were alone in the world, king and queen of their own universe, far from the Techno-Police’s AI hunters or the Lunar Gods. A glimpse of bliss in an infinity of perpetual violence.
Back to business!
