In the Mill Tavern, instead of toothless hags working the tables for the scraps, Tarmac owned a homunculus to wait the tables whenever his daughter couldn't be pressed into service. Estrelle was a humanoform construct, a lovely one with rich golden hair cascading in a curly mass down to her rounded buttocks, cornflower blue eyes and high, firm breasts. She had a heart-shaped face and a coded desire to frolic, be it with males or females. As a homunculus, her thought patterns were deliberately limited and strictly nonsentient. But her coding didn't have to be all that complex. Feed people, clean up the room, look beautiful, jump into bed at the slightest invitation.
As Myron sat down, Estrelle oozed over and laid her hand on his shoulder. "Evening, Master Raeburn," she cooed. The homunculus was wearing high-heels, a short, blue skirt and a red bodice that pushed her breasts up until the nipples were barely concealed. As she leaned over, her breasts rubbed on his other shoulder.
"Yes, it is, Estrelle my dear," he replied, patting her backside. "I'll take whatever the fat guy is eating."
"Of course," she said, running her hand down his back, "and for later?"
"You'll have to discuss later with Mrs. Raeburn," he said with a sad smile. As Estrelle walked away he shrugged his shoulders at Edmund's frown. "You don't have to say it."
"No," Talbot agreed. "I don't."
Edmund had definite Views on the subject of homunculi. He knew they weren't "human" by any legal definition, that they were nonsentient and uninterested in such things as rights and freedom.
Realistically, they were nothing but fleshy robots, no matter how human they looked and, often, acted.
Despite that, he had a hard time not thinking of them as some sort of biological slave.
"They're no more human than . . . cows," Myron said, defensively.
"And would you go to bed with a cow?" Edmund asked. "Never mind. I'm sorry I said that.""I know," Raeburn replied. "So let's drop the subject. How was your day?"
"Quite good, until I started getting visitors." Edmund told him of the new spam under his identity and about his visit from Dionys, leaving out the details he had picked up from Carborundum.
"So McCanoc is back, eh?" Myron replied, taking a sip of his stew. "And nowyou're his project for annoyance."
"I figure if I just ignore him, he'll go away," Talbot said with a shrug.
"Not that gadfly," Myron replied. "He gets off on people trying to avoid him. Challenge him and then kick his ass is my suggestion."
"I . . . would consider that. The question is: Can I still kick his ass?"
"Of course you could," Myron said, looking up from his bowl in shock. "What kind of a question is that?"
"Well, I assume while he was gone he probably uploaded and ran some decent fighting programs,"
Talbot pointed out. "He's not just picking fights with the weakest anymore, and he's winning against some pretty decent knights. And . . . I'm not as young as I used to be. Assuming I'd win, much less kick his ass as badly as it needs to be kicked, is a major assumption."
"Cheat," Raeburn said with a shrug. "He will if he gets the chance. Look at the armor he's creating."
"If he hadn't been such an ass, or if I'd been thinking quicker, I would have made it," Talbot admitted.
"Why?"
"Well, I just have this wonderful image," the smith admitted with a grin. "Of him running around in Anarchia with this lovely, blue glowing, fantasy armor. And all the other bastards in there closing in on him and piling on to get a piece of it. I . . . doubt that he'd walk back out. Age and guile issupposed to be worth more than youth and strength. All things considered, if it wasn't a point of honor now, I'd probably make it just to get rid of him. In all senses of the word 'rid.' "
Rachel had elected to wear a stylized version of sixteenth-century Chitan court dress, less the bound feet. Her mother's limited efforts had not been sufficient to make her body anywherenear what was popular and she still felt like an overweight ox. The thick brocade and multiple layers would hide most of her bulk. And makeup would tend to reduce the overarching massiveness of her nose.
So it was in this dress that she translated into the garden Marguerite's parents had created for the party and stopped, shocked, at the number of people present.
The central lawn of the garden was at least a hundred yards on a side, with scattered beddings and statuary as well as a group of pavilions to provide shade for tables and a large refreshment area.
However, even with all the available space, the area was packed with hundreds of people, humanoform and otherwise.
There were beings that looked like giant floating fish and mer-forms, from mer-people to delphinoids to a weird ray creature that Rachel wasn't sure was human at all. There were centaurs and dryads and even, far on the other side of the lawn what looked like an elf. There were weres of every major predatory species, from panthers through wolves and bears to what had to be a were lion by his hair. There were unicorns, both Changed and genegineered pets, and thousands of pets, from fairly normal canines to "house cats" the size of small pumas to some really baroque hodgepodge creatures, all of which twined among feet, tripped the guests and importuned loudly for tidbits.
The air was filled with flying creatures, birds, reptilian and beautiful jeweled insects along with every imaginable cute, fuzzy animal with gauzy wings attached. Rachel was reminded of her mother's disparaging "Anything can have wings." Which was true but in most of the cases the wings were nearly or entirely nonfunctional and the flying "pets" were held aloft by external power.
In some cases there were clashes. In the middle of the lawn a centaur and a humanoform were apparently trying to capture their pets; the centaur's jeweled minidragon was in hot pursuit of the humanoform's golden dragonfly but if it wasn't fast something like a flying pike covered in glitteringdiamonds was going to beat it to the prize.
She looked around, shook her head and summoned her genie.
"Genie, is there anyone here I know?"
"The nearest person is Herzer Herrick," the projection said, highlighting the teen, who was standing to one side of the mob with a drink in his hand.
Herzer wasn'tquite who she had in mind, but he was, at least, a familiar face.
She, Herzer and Marguerite had attended the same day-school from childhood through early teens.
With no economic necessity for learning, most schools were not much more than socialization programs but their school had been an exception, permitting children to advance in learning at their own pace but using every modern technology to press information and the love of learning into young heads.
Given the vastness of modern information and the dependence upon the Net, determining what to learn once past the "baby steps" of reading, keyboarding and mathematics through integral calculus, the choice of emphasis and speed of advance became complicated.
Rachel and Herzer had both found that they enjoyed learning and had a shared interest in history and ethnology. Rachel leaned more towards the day-to-day aspects of life in prior centuries, from Egyptian beer-making techniques to the operation of devices like the "automobile," whereas Herzer was fascinated by the way that things worked and were put together. He had eventually gained the equivalent of a bachelors' degree in historic structural engineering. Marguerite had advanced at a slower rate because she spent more time on the socialization aspects. She had eventually settled upon a focus on social interaction and holistic living design.
As Rachel walked over, she noted that not only had the palsy apparently stopped, but Herzer had put on weight, muscle-mass, since the last time she saw him. Now he looked like a sculpted Greek god.
The cut lines looked . . . good on him, but they were hardly fashionable and there was no way, in three days, he could have gone from relatively flaccid to cut and defined without some really serious bod-mod.
"Hello, Herzer, out of the operation and into bod-sculpting I see."
"Hello, Rachel," he said with an embarrassed expression. "It's what my bodywould look like if all the exercise I was doing had done anything but keep the palsy in check. And it'sall mine, genetically; I wouldn't let the surgeon bottouch my genes."
"I hope not, after all the work mother did on them," she said, tartly. Then she sighed in exasperation at herself. "I'm sorry, Herzer, I know how much it must mean to you to finally be free of that awful . . ."
"Condition?" he asked. "I believe the term that was once in vogue is 'spastic freak.' "
"Nowyou're being snotty," she said, looking at his glass. "Wine?"
"Fruit juice," the teen said. "It's going to be a while before I feel . . . comfortable poisoning my body."
She summoned the same and looked around. "I had no idea that Marguerite had so many friends,"
she said. "It makes me wonder if she really thinks of me as a friend or just an odd acquaintance."
"Oh, I think she thinks you're a friend," he said, nodding at the crowd. "She just has lots of room for friends. Marguerite is a very charismatic young lady and she makes friends easily. But I don't think everyone in this crowd is her friend; some of them are just acquaintances or friends of friends.
Everybody wanted to be atthis party."
"Where doyou know her from?" Rachel asked. "We were all in day-camp together, but she's never mentioned you since then."
"Oh, our parents occasionally get together," Herzer said. "But she really asked me because she knewyou were going to be here and she somehow got the impression that we were friends."
"So you're a 'friend of a friend?' " she said.
"More or less," he replied with a bitter smile. "I don't have a lot of friends myself. Something about a revulsion to spastics."
"You're better now," she said, putting her hand on his shoulder. "And you're going to stay better.What you have to do now is either reintroduce yourself to people or meet new people. You've got plenty of time, centuries, to make friends."
"I know," he replied sadly, hanging his head. "But I want itnow . You know, I've never had . . . a girlfriend. I mean, I had a couple when I was a kid. But the damned complex popped up when I was ten and since then . . ."
She carefully removed her hand and gestured around. "Lots of girls to meet here."
"Sure," he replied, trying not to sound hurt.
"Herzer, I don't have a boyfriend for areason, " she replied. "I haven't met any that I like enough."
"Including me," he grumped.
"The ones I like don't like me and the ones who like me I don't want to be girlfriends with," she said. "Story of my life."
"Well, I'd be happy for one that likedme, " he said.
"Is that anelf ?" she asked, changing the subject. Elves were rarely seen outside of Elfheim. The relatively early genetic engineering had been locked in by the Council during a flurry of legal controls imposed by the Net in the wake of the AI wars. Since then, many of the legal controls had been relieved but a few, regarding harmful biologicals and, strangely, elves, had been left in place. Now, it was impermissible to Change into full elf mode, and even the template for them was locked; the only way to become an elf was to be born as one. There were various rumors about why such a simple Change would be outlawed but if the elves knew the reason, they were keeping their own council.
The tall figure, with the distinct height, swept-back hair and pointed ears of the elven race, certainly looked like one. Or an almost illegal replica.
"Yes," he said. "I asked. Another one of Marguerite's friends. Via your father as I understand."
"Father does have some elf friends," she said, considering the visitor more carefully. "Ithink that's Gothorielthe Youth. He occasionally goes to the Shenan Renn Faire."
"Well there's no way we can get a chance to talk to him," Herzer said, looking at the crowd around the distant figure.
"Oh, my word," Rachel said as a massive figure appeared in the air and then hunted around for a place to land. "It's adragon !"
There were only a handful of surviving dragons in the world. Dragons, by legal definition, were sentient beings. Nonsentient beings thatlooked somewhat like dragons were referred to as wyvern. No person could Change into a dragon since the AI wars, when dragons had fought primarily on the side of humans and, like elves, they were "grandfathered" as a species. Over the years their extremely low birthrate had dwindled the species, long lived as it was, to almost nothing.
After hovering for a bit, the dragon finally cleared enough space to land and then Changed into a redheaded girl in an emerald green dress. With a general wave she disappeared into the gathering crowd.
"Not much of a chance to talk to her, either," Herzer noted.
"Or to get around Marguerite," Rachel said. "Speaking of which, whereis Marguerite?"
"Not here yet," Herzer replied. He let go of the float-glass he was holding and adjusted his twentieth-century "tuxedo" then grasped the glass again, taking a sip. "I asked one of the butler-bots. He says she is intending a special surprise for everyone."
"And it looks like she was waiting for the dragon to arrive," the girl replied as two projections in twenty-fourth-century dress appeared at the entrance to the maze and waved a space clear.
"GENTLEBEINGS," a voice boomed through the crowd. "MARGUERITE VALASHON!"
There was polite applause at this over-the-top entrance-by and large the culture preferred a more sedate introduction-but the applause faltered and then picked up as a blue glowing cloud, projecting Marguerite's smiling face, appeared in the archway and floated out into the crowd.
It took Rachel a moment to adjust. At first she thought it was just a special effect but then the reality caught up with her. "She had herselfTransferred !" she gasped."Apparently," Herzer said in a sad voice.
"What'syour problem?" she asked. "I mean it'smy friend that just got turned into a cloud ofnannites !".
"I know, but . . ."
"You were sweet on her?" she asked. "A Transfer can take any form, you know. She's still a girl . .
. sort of."
"Like I said, I'd only seen her a couple of times since school," he snapped. "I wasn't . . . sweet on her. I'd hoped toget that way, though."
"Hopeless, Herzer," she said, gesturing around at the crowd. She started to walk towards Marguerite's apparent path, hoping to get at least a greeting in edgewise. "Marguerite's got more boyfriends than my dad's got swords."
"What's one more," he said, following behind her. "Speaking of your dad . . ." he continued as Marguerite turned towards them.
"Rachel!" the Transfer cried. She'd formed into a semblance of herself, wearing a pale blue body-cloak. But there was a blue glow around her that designated a Transfer and her voice, either through deliberate choice or an inability to master sound yet, had a reverberating overtone that was eerie and just a shade unpleasant; it reminded Rachel of ghost vids.
"Marguerite," she replied as Marguerite shifted through the welcoming crowd. "How . . . surprising."
"It was a gift from my dad!" the Transfer said with a smile. She shifted into a delphinoform and hung in the air. "Look! I can mer any time I want!"
Rachel smiled painfully and thought about her mother's lecture on Transfers. Humans went through natural changes in personality as they aged, their bodies going through a series of programs leaving the person of sixty different from the person of thirty different from the person of fifteen. Because the changes were a combination of experience and experience-influenced physiology, wildly random in their forms, there was no way to simulate them for a Transfer. So a Transfer, except for whatever experiential change might affect them, became "locked" in an age. From her mother's experienced perspective, the worst possible Transfer, other than a child, was a teenager. People didn't just get calmer and wiser, by and large, from experience. They got calmer and wiser because their bodies were programmed to.
Marguerite, however, would remain forever sixteen.
It was an odd thought. Instead of growing up in tandem, and presumably remaining friends, she suspected that by the time she was old, say, thirty, that it would be hard to stay friends with a sixteen-year-old Marguerite.
Other than that she thought it was neat.
"I love your dress, is that a reenactor look?" Marguerite continued, hardly noticing her friend's pause.
"Imperial court dress," Rachel replied. "From the time of the Chitan Imperial Court."
"And your mom finally broke down and let you do some sculpting," Marguerite said. "It looks good on you."
"Thank you," Rachel replied, not looking at Herzer. "Have you said hello to Herzer?"
"Charmed, miss," Herzer said, bowing. "A beautiful transformation of one already a beauty."
"Speaking of transformations," Marguerite said as she changed back to human form and ignoring Herzer's comment. "You're looking . . . better. Did Ms. Ghorbani . . . uhm . . ."
"Fix me?" Herzer asked, unconsciously flexing. "She did the neural work. I had a friend help me with the sculpting."
"Oh, okay," Marguerite said, dismissing him. "Rachel, I've got to go say hello to people. But I want to get together later, okay?"