Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 61982 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 207(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61982 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 207(@300wpm)
He cocks his head to the side before answering me.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were a habitual sneak thief?”
“Because I wanted to get away with stealing stuff and I figured it was better if you didn’t know what to look out for,” I say boldly. “But that excuse doesn’t hold up for you.”
“I am past the point of wanting to talk about war. The Fematrix is about peace,” he says. “That’s why I am involved in this project. She is going to be more than a weapon. She is going to be a beacon of hope.”
“A beacon of hope with missiles,” I smirk.
“Yes, and more. But we hope she never has to use them.”
“And you’re going to use my brain to program it? Or me to fly it?”
“You, if you are able to be properly tamed, will be the equivalent of an interstellar warship of a kind never seen before. You will be communicating with her through quantum channels, directing her actions.”
“That’s a heavy responsibility,” I murmur.
“It will be, but you will not be acting on your own. We will be there always to oversee you. Think of it like a video game you get to play.”
There’s something unsettling about that, the notion of piloting a creature of unimaginable powers while aliens give me commands and I am expected to execute them without question. They have to know there are limits to what I will do.
For now, though, I let myself enjoy Arkon’s ministrations.
* * *
I spend increasing amounts of time with Drak. Arkon is often helping the juniors and now that the machine training doesn’t have the sexy stuff attached to it, Arkon is happy to let his counterpart supervise me.
I can’t say I mind. Drak likes to drop lore that I find fascinating, and then when I do see Arkon, there’s some tension that builds up from Drak having been with me that makes him particularly attentive.
I start to think Drak’s not that bad. He likes to spoil me from time to time in ways Arkon didn’t. He lets me get away with stuff, like language, that Arkon would whip my ass for. Whenever I get sassy with Drak, he just kind of smirks and lets it go.
The spoiling culminates one day when I get off the machine and find that what looks to me like an absolute banquet has been laid out on a small table.
“What’s all this?” I ask Drak. It looks delicious. It also looks like food I absolutely cannot eat.
“He’s not been sharing our food with you, has he?” Drak murmurs the question almost seductively. Not in a sexy way, in the way a chocolate cake is seductive. In the way crepes with fresh cream make you want to just give into pure instinct. That kind of way.
“No, he says it’s poison,” I say. “He’s very strict about it.”
“This won’t hurt you,” he says. “I’ve made certain to isolate the proteins and minerals that are poisonous to humans. You can consume this quite safely.”
I don’t quite trust him, but I also don’t see why I should be suspicious right now. He needs me, after all. I am the one who is the interface for his glorious invention. Hurting me makes absolutely no sense.
He extends one of his hands, holding out a beverage that looks like a milkshake and somehow smells like every single food I have been craving since I got here. Berries and cream, and chocolate and pumpkin spice and… somewhere in the vestigial parts of my mind, I remember a cautionary tale about a factory in which delicious things were made, but I can’t recall the details and the instinct to sip is too great.
“Oh, my god,” I mumble. “This is so good. This might be the best thing I have ever eaten in my life.”
“Have some of the pie,” he says, pushing a plate of what looks like chocolate pie over to me. “This should be like a taste of home.”
I take a forkful and discover that it has a thick, pudding-like heft with a cake consistency. When I put it in my mouth, it tastes like the best cake I have ever consumed in my life. The taste is rich and flavorful, not too sweet. It is dense and airy at the same time. Someone has studied the human palate to within an inch of its existence and knows exactly what the mouth wants.
“The machine fed me the recipe,” he says. “Pun intended. We have analyzed so much data from you now, we know precisely what will taste good to you.”
“Wow. That machine really works. Do you mean the one inside the goddess?”
“Yes,” he says. “You could call this the food of the gods.”
“Ambrosia,” I mumble to myself.
I am starting to feel a little heavy and relaxed. I didn’t know it would feel so transformative to finally get food in me that didn’t taste like the colors gray and beige mixed together.