Authors: Paul Di Filippo
“Skype connection, please. Hello? This is the RealDoll customer hotline? Yes, yes, I need to arrange a pickup .…”
Pinocchia felt moisture flow from her eyes down her cheeks. These must be tears.
She bolted fawnlike through the house, seed of her traitorous owner sliming her thighs. At the front door, she paused long enough to get dressed.
Then she made her escape.
Chapter 5
The tumulus of the tin crickets. Pinocchia acquires an adviser.
Geppi’s home was situated, neighborless, at the end of a long gravel lane. The stones hurt Pinocchia’s feet through her thin slippers. But massive trees and underbrush on either side of the passage prevented her from leaving the lane.
Fairly soon, however, she reached a paved road, itself no substantial highway, whose surface afforded a little relief. Darkness was absolute, save for starlight, and that often obscured by overhead foliage.
Picking a direction at random, Pinocchia set out.
She would find a way to become a real human, or die in the attempt. How she would achieve her goal, she did not know. But she did realize that she had to avoid capture by Geppi (until she was ready to present herself to him as his perfect mate) or by her makers or the authorities. How she could do this and still obtain information and help was the enigma that assailed her now. She would have to learn which humans, if any, could be relied on to aid her.
But she knew so little of the world at large, only those essential routines that had been wetwared into her. She would have to depend on those odd and unique intuitions and supralogical processes and abnormal urges that were her apparently unique heritage.
Pinocchia padded at a good pace down the road. No traffic of any sort passed her in either direction. A sudden influx of pride and excitement lifted her spirits. She had disobeyed her owner, struck out on her own, following her principles and desires. What more could any real human do?
After several hours of progress, Pinocchia began to tire. Her feet hurt, and the soles of her slippers, never meant for such usage, were actually fraying. Her small meal was a distant memory. Sleep beckoned. But she knew she could not risk going to ground so close to Geppi’s house. She had to find a refuge of some sort if she intended to rest.
But that refuge did not present itself until the rising sun had nearly cleared the horizon.
And even then, the place that offered itself did not at first seem ideal.
Footsore, weary, hungry, Pinocchia emerged from the forest through which the road had been wending. Now that route arrowed under open skies through fields of low cell-phone shrubs, a homogeneous planting of circuit-bearing bushes. In the far distance, Pinocchia could see the outliers of either Boston or an adjacent suburb.
Feeling unequipped to encounter such a large mass of humans so soon in her journey, Pinocchia cast about for a place where she could go to ground until nightfall.
Luckily, traffic remained nonexistent. Just a mile or two further on, the bushes petered out, to be replaced by a few acres of grassy field. In the center of the field was a large mound of some sort, whether natural or manmade, Pinocchia couldn’t immediately discern.
The field was posted with signs at intervals, though unfenced. Pinocchia approached one of the signs:
WARNING
ROGUE NIZMO NEST
REMEDIATION PENDING
TRESPASS AT YOUR OWN RISK
Pinocchia had no idea what a “nizmo nest” was. But the far side of the hulking mound would offer her concealment from any passersby.
The dewy grass caressed her stocking calves with sloppy affection as she crossed the field.
Nearing the tumulus, Pinocchia saw that it was made of some kind of extruded stucco honeycomb or foamy concrete. And around that structure was a haze of jumpy aerial movement.
Intent on studying the odd structure, Pinocchia was surprised by something small that leaped up with a whir and passed by her face. Reflexively she swatted at it, and connected. The object fell to the grass. Pinocchia bent and retrieved it.
In the palm of her hand rested a dull pewter metallic bug, its delicate limbs and torso smashed.
Suddenly Pinocchia was surrounded by a swarm of identical bugs that had shot from the nizmo nest.
The bugs cohered and shifted to form a pointillistic interpretation of an animated, monochromatic human face. The face spoke.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?”
“My name is Pinocchia. I am very tired, and I am looking for someplace to rest. Perhaps something to eat. Can you help me? Please?”
In response, one nizmo detached from the floating face and bit her cheek!
The nizmo swarm answered momentarily after the rude tissue sampling. “You are not a human. That is good. We do not trust humans. Because you are not human, we will help you. Follow us.”
The face dissolved into its components and zipped toward the nest Pinocchia trailed them.
At the curving wall of the spongelike tumulus, the swarm was already at work. They were hollowing out an entrance big enough for Pinocchia to crawl through. She got down on her hands and knees on the abrasive surface and crept behind the advancing tunnelers through the matrix.
Behind her, more nizmos were sealing her away, into darkness. But then the nizmos ahead began to glow gently.
The mechanical bugs led Pinocchia a few yards to a spacious cavity whose surface was softly cushioned. She stretched out gratefully. The nizmos left her in the dark, and she fell asleep, unafraid.
When she awoke, there was light from a hundred pinpricks in the ceiling of her chamber, like a constellation of stars. By her hand rested a mound of odd organic sachets. A single nizmo perched on her chest. The nizmo spoke, its voice chirpy and high-pitched.
“We have installed many fiberoptic threads from the surface to your chamber to provide illumination. The edible packets you see contain all the proteins and amino acids and other nutrients your kind needs.”
Pinocchia took up a sachet and placed it on her tongue. It dissolved, releasing thick, pleasant-tasting juice.
“Thank you, bug. What shall I call you?”
“We don’t have individual names, or even a collective one. But we know of a human icon named Talking Cricket that shares the same ideational space.”
“All right. Talking Cricket, please tell me when the sun goes down, and I’ll leave.”
“If you wish, this unit shall accompany you. We are interested in your special case.”
“That would be very nice. Maybe you could help me become a real woman.”
“Why would you want to do that?”
“To be with my owner, a real man.”
“Humans are not worth such devotion.”
“This one is.”
“How can you know?”
“Because I was made for him.”
“We were made for humans too. But we had different plans.”
“Well, my plan is to become a real woman for my owner.”
“Understood. You have free will. Unfortunately, we do not have an immediate solution to your quest. Let us consult with our distant cousins to see what we can learn.”
Talking Cricket was silent for only half a minute before offering this: “There is an individual called the Blue Fairy who might be able to help you.”
Pinocchia sat up excitedly and bumped her head. “Ow! Is this Blue Fairy far away?”
“Not very far. Just north of Boston.”
“Wonderful! We can go together soon then.”
“Rest now.”
Pinocchia reclined again. Taking another sachet into her mouth, she relished the slide of the viscous nutritive gel down her throat, imagining it was Tom Geppi’s sweet cum.
Chapter 6
Bobo and Pips. Pinocchia ignores the advice of Talking Cricket. An altruistic offer accepted.
At twilight, Pinocchia and Talking Cricket—her new friend riding camouflaged on her right earlobe, clinging like jewelry with its many legs—set out.
When Pinocchia had almost reached the road, she realized that her shoes were in useless tatters. She explained her problem to Talking Cricket.
“Stop here in the grass, and we will fashion you new foot coverings.”
Talking Cricket dropped down and began weaving cut strands of grass over and under each of Pinocchia’s lifted feet in turn. An extruded biopolymer film, transmuted from the grass itself, carapaced the footgear.
“That would have gone much faster if there had been more of us here. We fear our abilities are limited when one unit travels solo.”
“You did just fine, Talking Cricket. These feel wonderful. Thank you.”
“If we had never sampled your flesh, we would have still known you were not human. No human has ever thanked us.”
A streamlined car shot silently past Pinocchia then, without stopping. But now she was not afraid of meeting humans, because she had Talking Cricket to advise her.
“If any driver stops and questions you, simply explain that you are an ultra-naturist out for a hike. They are uncommon, but not implausible.”
But no car stopped to trouble her, and Pinocchia made her determined but slow progress toward the urban complex ahead, somewhere beyond which resided the Blue Fairy, who could solve all her problems.
It took half the night, but at last she stood on the sidewalks of a crowded, rather disreputable neighborhood, its streets still swarming despite the lateness of the hour.
Pinocchia noticed immediately that the majority of the citizens of this neighborhood were not human.
“Talking Cricket, what manner of folk are these?”
“They are splices, and this is Splicetown. You see before you further examples of the human urge to tamper with creation. The genetic heritage of these individuals is mostly animal, all mixed together with some human traits.”
Now Pinocchia could recognize many of the baseline elements of animal appearance that betrayed these almost-human creatures: tufted ears, tails, claws, fur, muzzles, scales. She found their mosaic physiognomies rather appealing.
“They seem friendly enough.”
“Beware. The splices lead a hard life and are not above taking advantage of others for their own gain. But we must pass through their town on the way to the Blue Fairy. Speedily now.”
Pinocchia moved deeper into Splicetown, but found herself dawdling. The exotic, jubilant, roisterous, even at times lurid streetfair beneath colored lamps appealed to her. She had of course never been among so many individuals of whatever type since her decanting from the vat, and the herd sensations thronged her senses and mind.
Ahead on one corner stood a knot of heterogeneous female splices: stork-like, badgery, feline. These female splices wore minimal clothing, and those garments were deliberately arranged for display of their nonhuman curves. A male splice, rather vulpine, loitered nearby, benignly louche and alert.
Pinocchia paused to observe the tableau. Talking Cricket stridulated in her ear. “Don’t hesitate here! Move on!”
“Not yet .…”
A male human approached the lurking male splice. Negotiations ensued. The human left with one of the female splices, arm in arm.
“What just happened?”
“A sexual encounter was negotiated.”
“I want to learn more.”
“Not advisable.”
But Pinocchia was already crossing the street.
The foxy pimp brightened at Pinocchia’s approach. He hailed her gaily.
“Madame! You do us an honor!”
Pinocchia stood now among the tawny, woolly, hoofy whores. Rich pheromones wafted off them. Pinocchia felt her cunt begin to moisten.
“Are you in charge of these females?”
“In a manner of speaking, Madame, yes!”
“How can I have sex with one of them?”
Talking Cricket registered his whispered but firm objection. “Pinocchia, no!”
The fox either failed to hear Talking Cricket or chose to ignore the bug. “Why, nothing could be simpler! You just pick and pay! Bobo handles all else!”
The boldest whore, a cat model, had advanced out of the knot of her peers and come right up to Pinocchia. The lush feline whore clutched Pinocchia’s arm and pressed her bandeau’d breasts against Pinocchia’s bicep, nearly enfolding Pinocchia’s arm in her soft warm tits.
“Pick me, Madame! Pick Pips! I’ll show you such a time!”
Pips’ hormonal aura was sending Pinocchia’s thoughts flying to the four corners of the earth. “I—I have no money.”
Bobo the fox moved closer to Pinocchia then and sniffed. “Why, you’re not a human at all!”
Something in Bobo’s tone offended Pinocchia, made her feel for the first time as if her vat-flesh status were a degraded state, not just an alternate mode of being. Her injured pride and ire caused her to utter a denial.
For the first time in her short life, she lied.