Originally from Revere, Massachusetts, Sandra McDonald spent eight years as an officer in the United States Navy, during which time she lived in Guam, Newfoundland, England, and the United States. She has also worked as a Hollywood assistant, a software instructor, and an English teacher. Her short story “The Ghost Girls of Rumney Mill” was shortlisted for the James Tiptree, Jr. Award in 2003. Her first novel, The Outback Stars, was published in 2007, and was followed by two sequels: The Stars Down Under (2008) and The Stars Blue Yonder (2009). Her short story collection Diana Comet and Other Improbable Stories won the Lambda Award for LGBT SF, Fantasy and Horror works in 2011. She lives in Jacksonville, Florida.
Scott said that Alina was his favorite mashup between a sexbot and a toaster oven, but Alina disagreed. Although she shared the same buxom brunette shell as the 7832BNX7 series, she hadn’t been given a clitoris, vulva, or vaginal port. Her programming included only the most rudimentary knowledge of human sexual practices. On the other hand, her expandable womb was adjustable for time and temperature, had a durable protective shell, and could wirelessly transmit information the same way any kitchen appliance could.
“I think I’m much more toaster oven than sexbot,” she said as he adjusted her left nipple tube.
“Trust me.” Scott snapped her areola back into place. “Parents look at you, they see inflatable doll and not melting pizza. That’s why they had to frump up the rest of your series.”
Alina glanced at the other units getting serviced in the maintenance bays of New Human, More Human. Some had oily hair (undesirable) or asymmetrical facial features (acceptable within certain parameters) or deliberately crooked noses (unacceptable). “I was the first?”
“You’re number seven,” he said, floppy bangs hanging in front of his blue eyes (very desirable). “Lucky seven.”
“I don’t remember the others.”
“No, you’re not equipped with long-term memory.” Scott stepped back and gave her a wide grin. “Go ahead, squirt me.”
She loaded her breast with saline from an internal reservoir and took aim. The fluid hit his lab coat. Scott spread his arms, delighted. “There’s my girl. You’re all set. Inspected, warrantied, and ready for your next implant. See you in nine months.” Alina buttoned her pink blouse, straightened her floral skirt, and walked herself down to the Impregnation Department. Six-foot-tall photographs of happy babies and their parents hung on the cream-colored walls. Dr. Oliver Ogilvy, who was tall (desirable for men) but had a weak chin (undesirable in either sex) brought her into his office. Awards and plaques dotted the walls, and the windows overlooked the Hudson Valley.
“This is Mr. and Mrs. Crowther, Alina,” he said. “They like your profile. Eleven successful terms.”
“That’s quite impressive,” said Mr. Crowther, jovially. He was middle-aged, with thick artificial hair and well-tailored clothes.
Alina shook his hand gently. “Thank you, sir,” she said, although she had no knowledge of previous pregnancies. She was programmed to believe whatever Dr. Ogilvy told her.
Mrs. Crowther, short and slender (both characteristics desirable in females, but not in excess) folded her arms across her chest. “Ninety-nine months pregnant. Doesn’t it… get stress fractures or something? All that expansion and contraction?” Dr. Ogilvy leaned back in his leather chair. “The womb is built for flexibility. The torso was specially designed to expand in proportion to your child’s development.”
“And it walks around while pregn—while it’s incubating?” Mrs. Crowther asked.
“We call Alina ‘she’,” Dr. Ogilvy said. “It humanizes the experience for you. Yes. She’ll be walking around. She’ll be living with you, consuming food at your table to process for your child. She’ll interact with you both on a daily basis. Your family and neighbors will get to know her. You might even have a baby shower.”
Mrs. Crowther flinched. “Baby shower? For a robot?”
“For you, honey,” Mr. Crowther said. “She’s just carrying it, but you’re the mom-to-be. You’ll be the center of attention. I promise.”
Alina’s decision trees told her it would be appropriate to nod, so she did.
Mrs. Crowther looked doubtful. “Maybe we should just let the machines carry it here. I don’t know if I want it in my house. It—she—seems so bland.”
The chair under Dr. Ogilvy creaked as he leaned forward. “She doesn’t have a personality profile loaded yet. You choose the options. Shy, extroverted? Witty, educated, quiet, unobtrusive? You pick her intelligence level and hobbies. Her last couple wanted her to speak Italian and excel at cooking.”
“I can cook just fine,” Mrs. Crowther said bitterly. “I just can’t get pregnant again. We’ve been trying for twenty-seven months now.”
“That’s exactly what Alina is for,” Dr. Ogilvy said smoothly. “Think about it, Joyce. Nine months from today, you could be holding your son or daughter. Your waistline won’t change an inch. Your hormones will be steady and calm. You won’t have the trauma of childbirth or the risk of post-partum depression. Your child will be brought into this world in a safe, secure, extremely successful robot incubator.”
Mr. Crowther put his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “Sounds ideal to me, sweetheart.”
Mrs. Crowther lifted her chin. She gave a tiny nod.
Alina was impregnated the next day. The fertilized egg instantly attached to her artificial endometrium and began to divide. Forty-eight hours after that, she was loaded into a van, transported across the continent, and delivered to the Crowthers with a blue corsage pinned to her wrist. The corsage held a handwritten note from Dr. Ogilvy: “Congratulations on your future baby boy!”
Mr. Crowther said, “Let’s name him Owen,” and Mrs. Crowther said, “Show it to its room.”
*
The Crowthers’ house was a two-story Mediterranean-style villa with hardwood floors and oil paintings of rustic landscapes. Alina’s room was on the second floor, adjacent to the nursery. She wasn’t allowed in the nursery. Her room had a bed, although she didn’t require one. It had a walk-in closet where she kept a different skirt and blouse for every day of the week. Her breakfast was delivered every morning, each meal perfectly calculated for the fetus’s benefit. After eating, she sat in a rocking chair by the window and gazed at the crystal blue swimming pool below. No one ever swam in its waters—not in the winter, when the hills were brown; not in the summer, when the hills were still brown and the maids complained of drought.
Lunch was delivered promptly at noon. Afterward Alina emptied her waste port and returned to the chair again. She didn’t think or dream or speculate; she didn’t grow bored or restless or impatient; she had no insecurities to wrestle with, no resentments to harbor, no agenda to pursue. She monitored the fetus and adjusted hormones, nutrients, and antibodies as needed. She watched the faint ripples of pool water when the pump kicked in. She analyzed the colors in its depths as the sun moved across the sky.
Late each evening Mr. Crowther would gather her at dinner. They ate in the large kitchen, with its gleaming marble counters and heavy smell of spices. Mr. Crowther asked about the baby and talked about his own childhood growing up in Schenectady. He would put his hand on her growing stomach and listen to her project the baby’s heartbeat through a speaker in her chest. He apologized for Mrs. Crowther.
“We had a daughter, but she drowned,” he said. “And another, but she was stillborn. You’re our third chance at happiness. Maybe having a boy will bring good luck.”
Alina had been programmed for optimism. “I’m sure it will, sir.”
In her sixth month, after a dinner in which he consumed a bottle of wine, Mr. Crowther walked Alina back to her room and, once inside, leaned forward until his mouth was only inches from hers. His skin was flushed, his pupils wide. “Do you mind… I mean, I know you don’t… but would it be okay for me to kiss you? Could I do that and you wouldn’t tell Mrs. Crowther?”
“I’m programmed to be honest if she asks,” Alina said.
Mr. Crowther kissed her anyway. She measured the pressure and temperature of his lips and waited for him to stop.
“Well,” he said, eventually. “Body of a sexbot, demeanor like a cold fish.”
‘Yes, sir,” she replied.
On the fourth day of her thirty-fifth week, her womb transmitted a completion signal to Dr. Ogilvy’s office. A midwife-technician arrived six hours later. Alina stretched out for the first and only time on the bed in her room. Mr. Crowther entered his identification code. Mrs. Crowther entered hers. The skin over Alina’s belly slid back to reveal a hatch, and the hatch popped open to reveal baby Owen squirming in a puddle of earthy-smelling fluids. Alina could have reached down and cut the cord herself, but the technician did it.
“Congratulations!” The midwife lifted Owen and deftly began to clean him. “Happy birthday, Mom and baby. Do you want Alina to nurse him, or is she coming back with me?”
“We have formula,” Mrs. Crowther said. “Take it back.”
The next morning she was back in the maintenance bay, her milk extracted and recycled. A technician named Scott flushed out her nipple tubes. He said she was his favorite mashup between a sexbot and a toaster oven.
“I’ve never heard anyone say that before,” she said.
‘You’re not programmed with a long-term memory.” He stepped back and said, “Okay, let’s see how your aim is. Hit me with both barrels, baby.”
She took aim and soaked the front of his jacket.
“Excellent,” he said. “Go get knocked up, and we’ll see you in nine months.”
*
Dan Poole and Mark Dubay were a gay couple who paid for an egg from an anonymous donor. They each provided sperm but asked the laboratory to randomly pick whose would get used. “She’s going to be both of ours regardless,” Mark said confidently, and Dan agreed, and so Alina was forbidden from revealing that it was Dan’s DNA she could detect in the fetus. Both men were of African descent, and the egg had come from a similar donor. Alina mixed up hot chocolate and added just enough cream to illustrate the baby’s probable skin color.
“Our little café au lait,” Dan said, which is how the baby earned her nickname.
Their house was a large, L-shaped ranch set in the countryside of central Georgia, surrounded by forests and streams. They both worked from home. Greenhouse science, they said. They had opted for her to be energetic, polylingual, knowledgeable about wines, and good with dogs. Every day Alina took a long walk with either Mark or Dan and one of their three Dobermans.
“Are you happy being a pregnant robot?” Dan asked one day as they walked along a stream.
“Yes, sir.”
“Really?” Dan threw a stick for one of the dogs to fetch. “Can you be happy?”
“I’m programmed to say it and portray it in appropriate circumstances,” she replied. “You seem eager for me to say yes, so I said yes.”
“But you don’t have any emotions of your own.”
“No, sir. My series was not approved for emotion chips.”
The summer woods edged to fall and then winter, with snowfall so heavy that it blocked the road to town for two weeks. On the first day of Alina’s thirty-fourth week, the Womb Alert announced Au Lait’s readiness. Dan entered his code without error, but Mark was so nervous he hit the wrong numbers twice and nearly locked her womb. Baby Au Lait, now named Sonora, emerged healthy and kicking. Mark and Dan retained Alina to breastfeed her for six months. She also changed diapers, burped the baby, and rocked her through sleepless nights. But she didn’t love her, because how could she?
One day, Mark said, “Alina, we want to have another baby. You have to go back to the lab for the implant, but they’re not going to erase your memory of us. You’re coming right back here with a son. We’ve already nicknamed him Con Leche.”
“That’s excellent news, sir,” she replied.
Once she was back in the lab, Scott flushed out her systems and adjusted her nipple tubes. Bent close to her, his breath hot on her skin, he said, ‘You’re my favorite offspring of a toaster oven and a sexbot.”
Alina tilted her head. ‘You told me that the last time you serviced my nipples. They seem to require much maintenance.”
He abruptly stopped fiddling. “Did I? Maybe I should check your waste port instead.”
Later she reported to Impregnation. The donor egg had already been fertilized with Mark’s sperm. Alina climbed into a transfer chamber and went into rest mode. A subroutine monitored the successful implantation of the egg into her womb. Shortly afterward, her external sensors recorded the dimming of the light over her chamber. The power feed snaking up into her foot abruptly spiked, and an emergency command was fed into her central processing unit: START STASIS.
Alina and Con Leche both went to sleep.
*
Thud, crack, thud, crack. Alina opened her eyes. She was in a dark transfer chamber. Above her were dim pinpricks of light, distant and shifting as something made noise and dug toward her. The external temperature measured below freezing (inhospitable to human life) and after a few milliseconds she concluded the chamber was buried by ice and snow.
No decision tree offered an advantageous course of action. She opted for inaction, and counted thuds and cracks until a shovel hit the plastic a few inches above her face. Soon a human face was staring down at her. The face was asymmetrical (undesirable) and damaged by sun and wind (regrettable). Snow goggles covered the eyes and a parka hood hid the human’s hair and chin.
Alina waited patiently until the human broke through the shield.
“Are you awake, or just staring at me?” the human asked.
“I’m awake, thank you,” Alina said. “Are you a male or female? Your face and voice are indeterminable.”
“Doesn’t matter,” the human said. “Get up, robot-girl.”
Alina freed her feet from their plugs and climbed out. What had once been the implant lab was now a snow cave illuminated by battery lanterns. Thick ice coated the equipment, machines, and computers. The roof had partially collapsed, which explained the snow and ice piled on Alina’s chamber. A long knotted rope hung through a separate hole that had been cut in the ceiling.
“I’m Coren,” the stranger said. He or she was about Alina’s height, maybe a little overweight, no facial hair. Young, perhaps mid-twenties or so. It was impossible to discern breasts under the bulky gray parka.
“I’m Alina,” Alina said. “Should I call you sir or madam?”
Coren began breaking the shovel down into smaller pieces that fit into a backpack. “You’re really hung up on gender, aren’t you?”
“I’m programmed to recognize two.”
“Well, I’m not programmed to answer you,” Coren said. “Call me by my name, or call me hey you, or just call me a person. I don’t care.”
Alina’s databank lit up with information about gender-neutral pronouns. She had several options to choose from. Ze, En, Co, Thon. In her sixth pregnancy, the parents had both been professors of female sexuality at Brown University. They’d taught her feminist language and theory, matricentricty and gynocritics and—
The ice slid out from under Alina’s feet. She fell flat on her rear and stayed there.
“Hey!” Coren abandoned the backpack. “Are you all right?”
“I am functioning well,” Alina replied, flooded with memories of that pregnancy— Professor Ahmeti and Professor Sauter, their house in Providence, the two white cats who sat in the sunny windows all day, the way Professor Ahmeti made meatball and garlic soup every Friday night and Professor Sauter chewed through pencils when grading papers, their happy faces when their baby was ready, the way they’d kissed Alina’s cheeks in thanks.
You’re not equipped with long-term memory, she’d been told. By Scott. Scott with his easy smile and his bangs in his eyes and his devotion to fixing her nipple tubes every time she came to the shop.
Coren said, “I know you’re just a robot, but I’ve seen healthier looking corpses. You sick?”
Alina adjusted her cheeks to include more pink. She flushed red to her lips, and made her eyes appear brighter and more blue (very desirable).
For some reason, the adjustments made Coren frown. “Let’s climb out of here. I’ve got a coat and clothes for you so you don’t freeze.”
“I am impervious to most extremes of weather, Person Coren. Also, my uterus operates independently on its own settings and is at optimal temperature.”
“Yeah. About that. Are you carrying?”
“Carrying what?” Alina asked.
“A baby, dummy.”
Alina answered, “Yes. I am carrying the fertilized egg of Mark Dubay and Dan Poole. It is four days old. Are Dan and Mark nearby?”
“They’re dead,” Coren said. “Let’s get out of this ice hole before we freeze over, and you can see what the world did to itself.”
*
Winter had come and stayed. Although Alina’s calendar told her it was June, the forest around New Human, More Human was nothing but frozen treetops buried by snow. She saw no birds or squirrels, no smoke from cities or factories, no signs that any humans lived nearby. Only snow, ice, and gray sky. She attempted to connect with the data center, but received no answer.
Alina said, “Mark and Dan were studying climate science. They postulated a scenario of long-term adverse meteorological change.”
Coren had hunched down next to a sled packed with supplies. “Sounds like fancy words for the Big Freeze. Come here, put these clothes on. Hard to explain me dragging you around dressed like it’s a heat wave.”
Alina donned trousers, boots, gloves, and a gray parka. The clothes were frayed but clean. Coren handed her a pair of snowshoes that looked like oversized tennis rackets and asked, “You ever use these?”
“No sir or ma’am.”
‘You better learn fast.” Coren strapped down everything on the sled, shouldered two straps to drag it, and said, “Let’s go.”
“I can pull that,” Alina said. “I’m not susceptible to fatigue or strain.”
“I’ll do it,” Coren said.
Once they had hiked all the way down the hill, Alina saw that Dr. Ogilvy’s complex was indistinguishable under the wintry landscape. He’d be disappointed, she thought. He had worked very hard on her and her predecessors, Acantha and Adelphia and the other four whose names somehow escaped her—
If it was unexpected to have this reservoir of memories bubbling inside her, it was equally unexpected that the data was incomplete. She could picture Dan’s kind face but not Mark’s. Every detail of her room at the Crowthers’ villa was crystal-clear, but the inside of Dr. Ogilvy’s office was a gray box devoid of specifics. It was likely that she was internally damaged. But Scott had said she had no long-term memory capacity at all. Had he been wrong?
You’re my favorite, he’d said. Time and time again, as he adjusted her breasts and held her tight.
They walked a mile in silence, then Alina asked, “My internal calendar says I’ve been in stasis for fifty years. Is that correct, Person Coren?”
Coren was leading the way, using snow poles to test for unsafe areas. “Just call me Coren.”
“I’m programmed for formality. Person is an appropriate title. Person also comes with a gender-neutral pronoun: per. Per talks to perself. Give it to per. Per went to the mall.”
Coren grunted. “If it makes you happy, call me whatever. Can you be happy?”
“I’m programmed to mimic.” Alina smiled widely. “I’m happy you rescued me.”
“Stop that, it’s creepy.” Coren stopped, dropped the sled straps, and rubbed per shoulders. “Here’s what I’d like. I’d like you to help me set up our tent. It’s getting dark and we better bed down.”
The tent was big enough for two people to lie down inside and to sit up if they didn’t mind being a little hunched over. The light gray fabric blended in with the snow and provided a barrier against the bitter wind. Coren also had chemical heat-packs marked with faded letters, and thermal blankets to wrap perself in, and a small camp stove that per set up outside.
“I know how to build a campfire,” Alina offered as they hunched beside it.
“No wood,” Coren said. “You need to eat, right? You can eat stew?”
“My unit requires no nutrition. My nutrient reservoir sustains the fetus and needs to be augmented by a regular intake of calories.”
Coren blinked. “So that’s a yes?”
“Yes, per. For optimal results at this stage of gestation, I should consume one thousand calories per day. If I were human, I would need much more.”
Coren retrieved two unlabeled tin cans from the sled. The tops had been crudely welded on. Per opened them up with a can opener and revealed meat stew. “I don’t know much about calories, but it took me longer than I thought to find you. My supplies aren’t what they should be. We might have to skimp a little or find more to get where we’re going.”
“Are you taking me to Mark and Dan? They’ll be worried about Con Leche.”
“Con what?”
“The child’s nickname. It means with milk,’ as in coffee with milk.”
“I’ve never had coffee,” Coren said. “Besides, they’re dead, remember? Or, if they are alive, I don’t know where they are, or how to get you to them.”
Alina said, “1721 Peach Tree Lane, Cragford, Georgia.”
“We’re not going to Georgia, robot-girl.” Coren warmed per hands over the warming cans. “That’s not my mission.”
“Are you in the military, per?” Alina asked. “To my knowledge, the military does not accept soldiers of indeterminable gender.”
Coren looked cross. “It’s not indeterminable. It’s just indeterminable to you. At least I have a gender. You’re just an It.”
“I’m a She,” Alina said. “To humanize the experience.”
“Whatever you are, you’re still a robot.”
“I’m well versed in chromosome disorders that can blur gender boundaries,” Alina said. “I would alert on any fetus showing an XXX or XXY abnormality.”
“Call me abnormal and you can sleep out in the snow tonight,” Coren said.
“I don’t sleep, Person Coren.”
Coren nudged a can off the stove toward Alina and handed her a fork. “Close your eyes and fake it.”
“Wouldn’t it be better for me to keep an eye out for unfriendly people?”
“Are you programmed for self-defense?”
“I must protect the child in my womb.” Alina paused as new information popped up in her databank. “During my stasis, someone outfitted me with knowledge of twelve martial arts systems and other hand-to-hand combat maneuvers. I can also strip, repair, and fire pistols and automatic weapons. In addition, I can wire and disarm explosives—”
Coren coughed around some of per stew. ‘You need all those skills to guard a little baby?”
“I think the information was mistakenly uploaded during my stasis.”
“Or maybe someone saw the Big Freeze coming and thought you’d need it to survive.”
Alina finished her dinner. “If you are not taking me to Dan and Mark, you will need their access codes.”
“Their what?”
“To open my womb when Con Leche is ready. Only the parents have the authorization to access the child.”
“What if the parents forget it?”
“In the absence of a security code, I would need remote authorization from my owners.”
“Huh,” Coren said. ‘You mean, your dead owners? From that complex that’s buried under ice, everything broken and dead?”
“Yes, per.”
“So what happens if there’s no code and no authorization? How will the baby get out?”
“Dr. Ogilvy once said my womb was like a locked bank vault,” Alina said. “The only way to open it under other circumstances will be to destroy my control center. But don’t worry, per. The baby won’t be ready for approximately thirty-five more weeks. I’m sure we will reach Mark and Dan by then.”
*
After dinner was over, Coren said, “I’m going to go take a piss in the woods. You stay here, and don’t peek.”
Alina waited by the sled and contemplated stealing more food. She calculated that her food intake had been three hundred and eighty calories. Not optimal. Her decision tree told her to use her reservoir and not alienate the human, but the reservoir would deplete quickly as Con Leche grew.
When Coren returned per asked, “If someone tried to hurt the baby, could you kill them? Or do robots have some kind of rule about not killing humans?”
“Protection of the fetus is my priority.”
“So that’s yes on killing?”
“I have never had to make that decision,” Alina said. “I believe I could.”
Coren dug around in the sled and pulled out a sack of salted meat jerky for dessert. Per gave Alina some. One hundred twenty more calories. Coren asked, “What about deciding to flush it? Could you do that? You know, end it?”
“I am prohibited,” Alina said instantly.
“I kind of thought you’d say that. Okay, look, I’m going to bed. You stay out here. Keep yourself amused. Wake me up if you see anyone, or any kind of animal we could eat.” Alina saw no people or animals during the night. Instead she sorted through the new information that had been stored inside her. The self-defense knowledge was only part of a larger database about survival skills that included hunting, cooking and eating wild animals (difficult in this new climate, where many species had gone extinct); building winter shelters of snow and branches (but all the branches were coated with ice); and administering first aid to herself and to any injured humans.
The next morning, after a breakfast of canned peas, more jerky, and salted fish, they set off again. As Coren led her through the frozen wilderness to their classified destination, Alina asked, “Are there many humans left alive?”
“A lot, but I don’t know how many.”
“How do they survive such arduous conditions?”
“It ain’t easy.”
‘Yet you endured hardship, risked danger, and used precious supplies to find and retrieve me. Did Mark and Dan hire you?”
‘You remember what I told you about them?”
Alina sorted through her memories. “1721 Peach Tree Lane, Cragford, Georgia.”
“Oh, boy,” Coren said. “I think you’ve got a screw loose.”
They spent the next few days trekking along old roads and highways. The stumps of old billboards protruded from the snow pack, along with the roofs of rest stops or fast food restaurants. Alina debated the possibility of burrowing through the snow to find frozen food supplies, but Coren’s digging equipment was limited. Occasionally Alina could see the frozen contours of cars beneath her feet in places where the wind had worn away the snow. Frozen drivers and passengers could be defrosted and cooked to provide nutrition for Con Leche, but she didn’t think Coren would agree to the idea.
Each night Coren slept in the tent, swaddled in blankets while Alina kept watch. Alina didn’t think per sleep was very restful. She could hear per tossing and turning in the cold.
“With greater caloric intake, I could keep you warm,” Alina commented on the fifth morning. “I can generate external heat.”
“If you got more to eat, you mean,” Coren said, per breath frosting as per tugged the sled over a frozen obstacle.
“Yes.”
“I can’t make more food appear out of thin air, and I’m giving you as much as I can. What we’ve got has to last until we get to where we’re going.”
Alina continued, “I’m also programmed for sexual activities. Those can raise your body temperature, if you please.”
Coren stopped walking. “What did you just say?”
“During my stasis, someone uploaded operational knowledge of several sexual activities. I don’t have most of the equipment, but I have two hands, a mouth, a waste port—”
“Okay, stop!” Coren snapped, per face turning red. “I’m not going to start using you like some sex toy. That’s disgusting.”
Alina tilted her head to mimic curiosity. “Humans have long used mechanical devices for sexual gratification, haven’t they? The technician Scott used me for sexual pleasure approximately nine times, according to my databank. Mr. Crowther kissed me. Mrs. Labonte would shower with me and bring herself to—”
“Stop talking!” Coren said. “People shouldn’t be doing things with a pregnant robot.”
“But it made them happy. Isn’t happiness a priority?”
“No. Not with everything. It doesn’t mean people have the right to just do anything they want to you.”
“Humans often used machines to make them happy,” Alina said. “Do you find me unattractive? I was told that I was beautiful.”
Coren’s cheeks flushed even deeper. “Yes, you’re pretty. It’s not that.”
A shout from somewhere down the road interrupted their conversation. Two figures in bulky gray parkas were coming their way. As they drew nearer, Alina saw that they were both six feet tall, wore cross-country skis, and had rifles slung on their backs. One raised his hand. “Hey there!”
Coren said, “Let me handle them,” and put on a blank expression. Alina mimicked it.
The strangers stopped several feet away. They were both bearded men, Caucasian, perhaps in their mid-thirties. Larger than Coren. Stronger, too. Their clothes were dirty, but in the past someone had patched the elbows of their coats. They smelled like people who had not had the luxury of a bath or shower in a long time. Coren smelled the same way.
“I’m Gordon and this is Lewis,” said the one who had hailed them. He was slightly shorter than his friend, with darker hair, not smiling, but friendly enough. “You ladies passing through?”
Alina wondered what they saw in Coren to address her as female. Lewis remained silent, but his gaze swept from Alina’s face to her boots and back up again in a way that remind her of Scott the technician.
“Passing through to meet up with some family,” Coren said, per gaze frank and voice flat. “How’s the road?”
Gordon replied, “Passable. But the barometer back in town’s dropping. Won’t be safe to be sleeping outdoors tonight, not with a storm on the way.”
“We’re prepared for rough weather,” Coren said.
“Sure you are. But we’ve got twenty men, thirty women, bunch of kids, some extra space to bed down,” Gordon replied. “Bunch of folk trying to get by. Trust me, no one’s after your virtue.”
“I’m sure that’s true,” Coren said. “Thanks, anyway.”
Lewis was still eyeing Alina. She considered the possibility that the town had food supplies that would benefit Con Leche, or that they might have communication equipment that would reach Dan and Mark. She knew that evaluating honesty was a gap in her programming; how humans judged deceit was a mystery to her.
“Is your town far?” Alina asked.
Coren’s shoulders tensed. Gordon turned his gaze toward Alina, eyebrows lifting a little. “About a mile. We don’t have much, but we share.”
“Share or barter?” Alina asked. “Give freely, or take something in return?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Coren said firmly. “We’re fine on our own.”
“Not unless you plan to turn into a popsicle,” Lewis said, his voice rougher than the other man’s. He stopped looking at Alina and instead stomped his boots in the snow. “Last storm killed a man and his woman heading south. We found their bodies in their tent, frozen together.”
Coren shook per head. “We’ve got supplies. Thanks again for the offer.”
Per tugged the sled back into motion and started off. Gordon caught Alina’s arm and said, frowning, “Don’t be foolish. You’ll die out here, just because your friend is stubborn.” He seemed sincere, but his presumptions were wrong.
“I won’t die,” she said. “Please release my arm.”
“Idiot women,” he muttered, and let her go.
As she walked after Coren she listened for any sounds that the men were following. That was a lesson that Professor Sauter had impressed upon her. As the physically weaker sex, women had to always be prepared that a stranger could be a threat, and that even familiar men could suddenly turn violent. But no footsteps followed them, no hands grabbed out. When she glanced over her shoulder, she saw that Gordon and Lewis had continued up the road.
“Why didn’t you trust them?” Alina said when she caught up to Coren.
Coren snorted. “Never trust anyone. Their ‘town’ might turn out to be nothing more than a shack, and we’d be dead or worse by sundown. They might keep you around, all pretty and indestructible, but me? Slit my throat, if I’m lucky.”
By early afternoon, however, it was clear that the men had not lied about the weather. The temperature dropped fast as the promised storm rolled in. Coren stopped their hike early. They had just finished setting up the tent when the first fat flakes of snow started spitting down. Dinner was hurried, more tinned meat and hard biscuits, and when Coren crawled into the tent per said, “You better get in here with me. Don’t want the wind blowing you away.”
Once inside, the only practical thing to do was for Alina to crawl into a nest of blankets with per. They both kept their coats and boots on, and Coren used a thermal blanket to make a protective peak over their faces. It was still daylight, though the light had dimmed with the steadily increasing snow. The temperature dropped rapidly, like invisible ice water flooding over them. Alina felt Coren shiver.
“Are you okay?” Coren asked.
“My womb is keeping Con Leche comfortably warm. How are you?”
Coren’s gaze went beyond Alina’s shoulder to the wall of the tent. “You could have gone with those men. I couldn’t have stopped you. Maybe they did mean well, maybe you could have more food for the baby.”
“I know. But you are taking me to Dan and Mark, and that is an important priority.”
“I’m not—” Coren didn’t finish the sentence. Per shivered again. “It’s like ice in here.”
Alina studied per thin eyebrows and pointed chin. In all the days they’d been hiking, Coren had not needed to shave per chin or lip line. Alina said, “They inferred you were female. You didn’t correct them.”
“Doesn’t matter what I am,” Coren said.
Clumps of snow began to weigh down the roof of the tent. Alina took it upon herself to periodically thump it free. She was careful to not nudge the blankets and let the below-freezing air into Coren’s cocoon. The wind started howling, a long ceaseless wail, and Coren broke open one of their remaining chemical packs. The heat didn’t last long. As full darkness came on, Alina calculated the outside temperature and Coren’s chances of survival given the resources they had. The odds were not in per favor.
“You should know where we’re going,” Coren said, just when Alina thought per had fallen asleep. “In case we get separated or something.”
“Separated how?” Alina asked.
Coren ignored the question. “Follow the old I-80 into Pennsylvania to Scranton. From there, south to Schuylkill. My community’s there, living underground in an old coal mine. We still mine the coal, trade it for food down south where they still get some summer. The boss there, he’s the one I got you for. He talked about you, how he always wanted to meet you, but he figured you were dead in the Freeze and never would ask anyone to go north for you. I wanted to prove I could do it. That I could get you for him.” Alina didn’t like how Coren’s words were slurring. Slurring was a sign of hypothermia, and the bitter, bitter air wasn’t going to get warmer anytime soon. She contemplated several decision trees. More than one path led her to prioritize Coren’s survival. She said, “I believe I should consume some food and generate heat for you.”
“Ain’t you curious?” Coren asked, per eyes closed. “Who wanted to meet you?”
“When you’re warmer, I will be curious.”
She crawled out from under the blankets to the supplies they’d dragged inside, switched on the lantern, and started eating the hard biscuits, salted jerky, cold stew, uncooked rice, and canned meat and vegetables. She ate as fast her as her throat could pass the food. Two thousand and seven hundred calories total. Her womb stayed steady at ninety-eight degrees Fahrenheit as she began to raise her shell temperature. Back in the blanket nest, she put her hand flat against Coren’s face. Coren moaned a little but didn’t wake fully. Alina took off her coat and blouse and put them on the pile of blankets.
“I have to remove your clothes now,” Alina announced.
Working carefully, she got Coren nearly naked and sidled close to per. Coren moved instinctively toward the warmth of Alina’s skin. Alina could feel all the details of per’s curves and weight. Coren’s breasts, soft and round, pressed against Alina’s chest. Coren’s penis, also soft, lay between them without a twitch. Alina didn’t doze off but she did channel more energy into heat than cognition, and was startled some time later when Coren said, “What the hell?” and pushed her away.
It was still dark out, the wind shrieking and flapping the sides of the tent. Coren sat upright and fumbled with the lantern. The flash of light made per wince, and the icy air had per quickly wrapping perself in the blankets.
“Are you feeling better?” Alina asked.
“What are you doing? Molesting me in my sleep?” Coren demanded.
“You were hypothermic. I am generating heat for you.”
“You’re generating…” Coren looked bewildered. Then per saw the discarded debris of Alina’s dinner. “You ate everything?”
“You needed heat,” Alina said.
“You stupid…” Coren rubbed the side of per head. “Damn it, it’s too cold to argue with you.”
Per abruptly crawled back down into the blankets and pressed against Alina, seeking out every inch of warmth. Miserably per said, “You’re too good to pass up. I haven’t been this warm in months.”
“There is no shame in needing heat,” Alina replied, her chin atop Coren’s head. “I’m only a machine.”
“But it’s gross,” Coren muttered. ‘You could have at least kept your shirt on. Or my shirt on. What’d you have to take everything off for?”
“More effective heat transfer. Are you anxious because I am now aware of your physiology? You obviously have an XXY or XXYY chromosome arrangement.”
Coren sighed. “I don’t care what you think of my chromosomes. It’s gross because you’re topless and those are your naked breasts I’m up against and my full name is Coren Crowther and you’re my damned grandmother, how’s that?”
*
“I’m not your grandmother,” Alina said the next morning, as they packed up the tent under the clear blue sky. A thin layer of ice covered everything, but the storm was well past. “I’m a toaster oven who happened to carry your father’s fetus to full term.”
Coren was back in per own clothes, disgruntled because there was no food left for breakfast. “You keep saying that. But my dad, he’s the one who calls you his robot mom. He told us about you for the first time last year, on his birthday. Who would have guessed it?”
“He runs the community you live in,” Alina surmised. “In the coal mine.”
“The Crowthers made their money in coal,” Coren replied. Per tied down the last strap on the sled. “If the weather’s okay, we should be there in about five or six days. Is the baby going to be okay if you don’t get any food? You ate everything we had.” Alina had already calculated her nutrient levels. “It is not optimal, but I can sustain Con Leche, yes.”
“I might not be in such good shape. You might be dragging me on this sled by the time we get there. But it’ll be worth it just to see my dad’s face.”
“Is his gratitude important to you?”
“It’s not about gratitude.” Coren took up the sled straps. “I’ve got three older brothers. Big macho men. Everyone looks up to them, all the girls want to—well, you know. Me? Not so much. No one expects me to be as strong or fast or smart. So this way, I could prove myself. I could do something no one else did.”
Alina nodded. “I don’t have wishes, but if I did, I would wish to see your father. To help you prove your worth, regardless of the size of your testicles or breasts.”
Coren winced. “We don’t have to talk about that, okay?” Then per face clouded up. “What do you mean, you would wish it?”
“1721 Peach Tree Lane,” Alina said. “I must find Con Leche’s parents.”
“But you—” Coren started. “You can’t make it to Georgia on your own. That’s weeks away in this terrain and weather. The baby won’t last.”
“I will find food,” Alina told per. “I can trade or barter, I can perform sexual acts with strangers, I can dig up frozen corpses—”
Coren held up both hands. “Stop talking!”
Alina went silent. Coren took a deep breath and said, “The mine is a sure thing. We’ve got food and we can figure out a way to get your womb open; we’ve got some men who used to know a lot about computers—”
“Good luck to you, Coren, and thank you for rescuing me.” Alina started walking across the snow.
Coren caught up to her and snagged her sleeve. “No, wait! I’m serious. You can’t just wander around looking for two men who probably died a long time ago.”
“I’m aware there is risk,” Alina said. “But I can’t change my programming. I must seek the parents and deliver their child.”
She resumed walking. The fresh snow was thick and wet, hard on her snowshoes. The icy air made the slightest sound carry clear and wide. She was one tenth of a mile along the road before she heard Coren come after her with the sled. Alina stopped and waited.
“No digging up corpses,” Coren said firmly. “No more naked in the middle of the night. If I say run, you say how far. And after the baby’s done, you come back to the mine with me. Agree to all that, and I’ll go with you. Stupidest thing I’ve ever done, but I’ll go with you.”
Alina smiled. “Thank you. Together we can make Dan and Mark very happy.”
“We’ll see about that,” Coren said, not sounding entirely hopeful, and together they trudged toward the blinding white horizon.
(2012)