There was nothing funny, but the two laughed.
Into my earbud, Cupcake said, “This negotiation is going to be. So. Much. Fun.”
* * *
My clothes reeking like someone had died in them, I came in late from the junkyard and stifled a groan. The office had been transformed.
By her beaming, nervous expression, I knew that Cupcake had done all the . . . stuff. She had gone all-out on decorating, with sterling-silver utensils, fancy delicate china, and glasses with stems. A bottle of red wine, with a real cork, was sitting on the table. I hadn’t known we had a bottle of wine and wondered if there were more stashed somewhere in the junkyard.
There were also cloth linens, a long narrow table she had probably found somewhere in the junkyard and placed along the command center, and serving trays filled with food. The command chair was missing. I had no idea where it had gone. I hadn’t known it could be moved. Cupcake and I needed to have a chat.
After dinner. Which smelled fabulous.
In the fancy serving trays and some kind of big silver dish with a flame underneath to keep food warm, was a feast. A huge salad from the expanded greenhouse was in a crystal bowl. A mixture of roasted herbed baby potatoes, beets, and fennel root was in one side of the flame-hot dish. Beside the pile of crispy roots was a roasted chicken. Someone—I was guessing Amos—had killed, cleaned, and plucked the bird. I hoped it was the crowing rooster that annoyed me to near death.
“Quick. Get cleaned up,” Cupcake commanded. “And wash the grime from under your fingernails. What are you, some kind of heathen? I put a dress in the toilette compartment.” She shooed me with her hands as if I was a flighty dog or something nasty. “Go on. We have company tonight.”
I found myself in the personal toilette compartment, the door shut firmly behind me. I yelled through the door, “Did you manage Red this way?”
I made out a tinny voice yelling, “I managedeveryonethis way. Red woulda been prez if Warhammer hadn’t come along.”
“That’s what scares me,” I muttered. “That you’ll figure out what I could do and be, that you’ll take over and make it happen.” And she’d do it in my name. Whether I wanted to be part of her plans or not. Yet, the fact that she was acting of her own free will was some small comfort and something I had wanted all along. It made her a . . . a free thrall.
Free thralls . . .Bloody damn. The idea that free thralls might want their queen elevated in status was scary. What if they thought the best way to serve me was to take over the world and they went about that without my input?Bloody damn.
Following the orders of my not-quite-a-thrall, I cleaned up and pulled on the dress Cupcake had hung on the door hook. It was a sort of an orange-gold shimmery thing and looked great on me. It also itched, but what the heck. The shoes were little strappy sandals. Pretty. God knew where she had found the outfit. She had also laid out makeup. I shoved it out of the way and gooped up my hair into spikes, wondering why I was doing this. And knowing it was to see Cupcake happy. That thought itched as bad as the stupid dress.
I opened the door and nearly tripped over my jaw. Mateo—out of his warbot suit—was sitting at the dinette. Except it wasn’t really him. This Mateo had arms and legs and all of his head. He was also younger, had hair, and was wearing the dress blues of the CO of a starship. He wavered a bit, as if reality stuttered.
Mateo was an illusion. Or a laser representation. Or something else scientific I hadn’t known Jolene could do.
“Mateo,” I said carefully. “Cupcake. Amos.”
“Forgive me if I don’t stand,” Mateo said, his mouth not moving and his voice coming through the speakers. “You look lovely, as always, Shining.”
What the bloody hell?
“Yeah. Uh. You too. Well not lovely.” I broke out into a sweat the instant the words left my mouth. “I mean, Cupcake looks lovely. Is it okay to tell a man he looks lovely?” In the super macho world of the OMW it would have gotten me backhanded and if conditions were wrong, could have gotten me killed.
“I’m not offended.” I was fairly certain that there was laughter in Mateo’s voice.
Cupcake was wearing black slacks and a black long-sleeved shirt and a white apron. Amos was wearing a freaking suit. And in through the door came Wanda and her shadow—what was their name? Alex? Yeah, Alex. And a dozen cats who rushed in, tails high. I glanced at the med-bay to find it empty. Someone had released the neutered cats.
Wanda had cleaned up and dressed up, wearing a sheath dress and heels. I could associate this vision with my memory of her—clean, neat. Her demeanor was currently tentative but did nothing to hide the naturally capable and tough personality of the woman who had drawn a weapon on me the last day I saw her. She did however look a lot younger now that she was hydrated and fed. My nanobots had changed her.
When she saw me, her shoulders went back and her face took on a mulish expression.
Her kid stuck his—her—their?—head out from behind Wanda. Alex was dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt. I still had no idea of the kid’s gender as the clothing and hair could have been either, but I figured I could get by without using pronouns for a while longer.
“Hey, Wanda,” I said. “Hey, kid. Glad y’all could make it.” That pretty much drained my party talk. “Um. Cupcake did all the work.” Helplessly, I looked at Cupcake, who appeared oddly proud of me.
She gestured to one side of the dinette, across from not-Mateo. “We are so happy to have company and new nest mates. Please be seated.” To me she added, “You sit there.” She pointed next to Mateo’s image, which chose that moment to waver in and out of focus.
“Damn it,” Jolene said. “Hang on, Cap’n.”
Nudged by Cupcake, I sat and hoped Mateo didn’t reappear partially on top of me. I smothered nervous laughter and drank some clear stuff that turned out to be water. Mateo flickered into existence and smiled a wooden smile around at us. I glanced at his plate and shook my head. I knew in the depths of my mind that this was a dress rehearsal for Cupcake’s vision of the future. Me as queen entertaining my nest.
Ghastly.
