“I heard on the tube that the Kirkwood Gaps are home to giant worms. Is that true?” Ali asked the first morning, holding a chocolate-coated Eggo waffle. She had spent much of the night peppering Rodrigue with questions, rapid-fire, like a soda-fueled machine gun.

  “Balivernes!” Rodrigue scoffed. “Indeed, I did chance upon a few venerable Soviet cosmodons in my travels. Savvy?”

  “Impossible!” I exclaimed, just as captivated as Ali.

  “And yet!” Rodrigue exclaimed theatrically, leaping onto the table. His sword whistled over our heads as he recounted his tale. “Alas, my spineless coxswain forsook me that fateful day—he took flight with my caravel just as I was rallying the sailors within the assault pods!”

  “Why?” Ali and I asked.

  “To speak candidly, no abundance of rhodium in all the cosmos could ever justify a struggle against a nuclear-powered metal behemoth,” Rodrigue admitted, with a flourish.

  He was right. Even today, few Marine cruisers and their escorts could hope to contend with such colossal mechanical adversaries.

  As the ball drew near, the Chrome Condor’s radar signaled our arrival. My anticipation grew as I imagined the famed Liddenbürg manor. “It’s said to be a real castle floating in space,” I remarked to Rodrigue while assisting him with the approach procedures.

  Indeed, it was. Perched upon the main board, I gazed in wonder as the fortress revealed itself on the screens—a regal stronghold adrift around an uncharted asteroid of the Kingdomlands. It appeared as if conjured by some ancient magic, emerging from a swirling veil of celestial dust that sparkled like the remnants of a dream. The estate’s ramparts glimmered with the radiant hues of a comet’s iridescent tail. Towering spires of alabaster stone, crowned with slate roofs, reached towards the heavens, their arrow slits whispering of long-forgotten tales. From these heights flowed banners of shimmering light, their holographic threads weaving a story that seemed both timeless and otherworldly.

  “A manor?” I exclaimed, pressing my paws against the bridge’s main CRT. “This chimera deserves to be called the ‘Versailles of the Liddenbürg’!”

  “Many organics shall grace this year’s gathering,” Rodrigue remarked, his gaze sweeping over the myriad of exotic vessels that encircled the formidable stronghold. “Yet, I have no doubt that Lady Ali shall eclipse them all in brilliance! She’s resplendent!”

  I chuckled, turning towards the elevator doors just as they slid open. “My scruffy partner? Resplendent? That’s a stretch—Sacrebleu!”

  Rodrigue’s flattery was well placed when Ali joined us, ready to buckle in for deceleration. She was radiant in a Polish gown of red fabric, the gold bodice accentuating her figure and blending seamlessly with her golden curls. A dazzling diamond pendant, Rodrigue’s personal gift, rested elegantly on her corset-enhanced chest.

  “And you, Monsieur Lee,” Rodrigue remarked as a laser beam directed the Falstaff towards the docks, “your mane shines with the brilliance of the most exquisite nebula. Pray, what is your secret?”

  Such praise did not leave me indifferent. Rodrigue had certainly risen in my estimation—a worthy ally to the feline race, indeed.

  Once inside, the mansion revealed itself to be even more enchanting, as if drawn from the pages of an ancient fairy tale. Gold-embroidered carpets stretched across the floors, their lush texture a delight beneath my paws. Chairs adorned with plush pillows bore the regal effigies of corpo-kings and corpo-queens from adjacent realms, offering a most agreeable seat for my feline grace. Towering portholes, each as vast as the Kitty herself, were framed with silk curtains that whispered of decadence—perfect for a satisfying stretch of my claws.

  The grandeur extended further, tailored for human elegance, with soaring ceilings gilded in gold, marble fireplaces crackling with warmth, and masterful paintings reimagined to celebrate the legacy of robots. Crystal chandeliers cast a kaleidoscope of light, while Louis XV buffets crafted from genuine wood stood as proud remnants of a bygone era. It was a realm of wonders, a setting of unbridled splendor that delighted both my partner and me beyond measure!

  Yes. I admitted I like fairy tales. Spare me the theatrics.

  In the Grand Salon, Rodrigue introduced us to his diverse acquaintances—androids equipped with orgatronic units, each bearing a grandiose, though entirely fictional, title. Most seemed to treat these titles as an inside joke, a playful tradition cultivated over years.

  “This most exquisite Lapérouse!” exclaimed one android, his powdered wig rising to a height rivaling that of Big Ben. “Pray, from whence do you arrive, bedecked in such magnificent finery?”

  Rodrigue, however, stood apart from his peers. He embraced his role as an aristocrat with solemn dedication. That evening, he wore more ribbons than ever, paired with impeccably polished, knee-high boots. Despite these embellishments, his commanding aura remained intact, a testament to his imperial bearing. “Ah, but these mere trinkets pale in comparison to your dazzling attire, Duchesse,” he replied with a bow. The duchess giggled, vanishing into the crowd with her dance partner.

  The humans accompanying the androids, by contrast, resembled swashbuckling brigands or corsairs, their opulent attire unable to mask their rough edges. It came as no surprise when I recognized the “queen’s” dance partner as none other than José Gacha, a notorious drug dealer from the asteroid belt with a hefty bounty on his head.

  “Rodrigue, what is that convict doing here, mingling with the charming… Queen of Borovia?” I inquired, my gaze fixed on our metal-skinned host.

  Ali, clinging to Rodrigue’s arm, turned with him as he surveyed the room. “Queen? Hardly,” Rodrigue chuckled. “That radiant individual is Magnificence Liddenbürg, eldest daughter of our gracious host and his heir apparent. I see she’s in gallant company tonight. Quite the captivating figure, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Captivating, maybe. But Gacha and ‘gallant’ hardly belong in the same sentence,” I muttered, noting with some dismay the apparent ability of robots to produce heirs in this fantastical palace.

  Ali, too, recognized Gacha from his infamous exploits on Ceres, though her interest quickly shifted to the lavish buffet. “I didn’t realize robots needed sustenance until we met Rodrigue,” she mused as the Marquis moved on to greet another group of aristorobots and their organic guests.

  “I recall mentioning to you one day that the first-generation orgatronic units required fluids and nutrients,” I reminded her before redirecting my attention to a matter of greater concern. “But do you see that unsightly biped near the Champagne fountain?”

  “Of course. That’s Gacha. We saw him in your database the other day,” she replied, nonchalantly.

  “No—I mean yes,” I stammered, momentarily thrown by her unexpected diligence. “But I’m referring to the one behind the old Liddenbürg couple. The one with the flamboyant haircut.”

  Ali squinted. “The guy who looks like that Martian tennis player?”

  “Precisely. But that’s actually Ottis Speck, worth C$27,000 on Gygax—Mercury’s invisible moon.” I nudged her cheek with my paw to direct her gaze. “And over there, by the chocolate fondue with King Bill! Those two loudmouthed geese with chopstick-thin teeth—are the Hydra-Moray Sisters of Carmine. C$35,000 per scalp! And they’ve got four!”

  Hijacking this soirée could have made us millionaires, but Ali had other priorities. She glanced at her wrist computer with a dismissive shake of her head.

  “I know what you’re plotting, smart-butt, and the answer is no. Not again!” she said, stuffing a caviar toast between my fangs. “Enjoy the evening. We’ll chase bounties once this is over. They won’t get far after the hangover kicks in.”

  I pressed my case. “We have a responsibility—”

  “Lee, no,” she interrupted, cutting me off mid-sentence. “I told you, tonight I’m a princess, and nothing—not even you—is going to ruin it for me.”

  “Did you forget we have to earn a living?” I protested, leaping onto the table. “At least admit this gathering of crooks can’t be a coincidence—”

  “Oh my god, Lee, I don’t care!” Ali snapped, her voice rising in frustration. “I need this, ok? For the first time in months, I’m enjoying myself. Can’t you understand? I need a break—a break from the Purges! From the Emporium! From kids murdered by Custom-fucks and data thieves who vanish without a fucking trace! A break from my miserable life!” Her outburst cast a shadow over the evening’s festivities. With a sigh, she softened. “Please, Lee. I don’t want blood on my hands tonight.”

  “Fine. I apologize,” I huffed, retreating to the edge of the table, my tail stiff with indignation, “for being part of your miserable life…”

  “That’s not what I—oh, come on! Don’t sulk!” she called after me, but I remained resolute in my silence.

  I had left Ali to her own devices while the evening unfolded with lively dances and spirited conversations about le contrat social and cultiver son jardin. Around desert, the Grand Salon became a stage where costumed mechanical puppets performed La Dame aux Camélias, featuring a holographic Sarah Bernhardt at the height of her glory. Once the show ended, the atmosphere lightened, and the festivities spilled into the ballroom, where alcohol flowed freely.

  “D’rigue, you’re a su—super-nice guy for inviting us,” I overheard Ali slurring near another buffet table. She looked every inch the tipsy princess she claimed to be, with one eye half-closed, a beaming grin, a bottle in one hand, and a shrimp tail inexplicably stuck in her hair. Yet her condition matched that of the other guests—organic and android alike.

  “The pleasure is entirely mine, Lady Ali,” Rodrigue responded with a deep, gracious bow, his tone untainted by judgment. “Might I have the honor of borrowing you from the revelry for but a moment? I desire to converse with you privately.”

  Ali giggled and downed the rest of her Château Margaux to applause from a nearby crowd. Rodrigue, clearly amused, took her hand and led her away, though not before she grabbed a handful of chocolate éclairs.

  Seizing the moment, I emerged from my hiding place—a bowl of identical éclairs. I wasn’t on a mission, per se, but something about the shifting walls of this cosmic mansion fueled my curiosity. Wobbling drunkenly, I tumbled onto the tablecloth and slid between a lime pie and a cranberry-topped quiche. “By the 79 moons of Jupiter!” I muttered alone, drunker than an off-duty cop on Ceres and squinting at the quiche as if it were a cosmic mystery. “A quiche with red dots! My nemeses!”

  With two slices between my fangs, I ventured into the labyrinthine manor. After what felt like hours of stumbling, I found myself in the mansion’s eastern wing, a far more libertine setting. While the Grand Salon celebrated elegance, here the orgatronic units embraced their primal instincts—eating, drinking, and indulging in other… pursuits. Certainly, no possible exchange of gametes was feasible, yet intercourse between humans and plain robots was commonplace in the system. This time, it appeared to be consensual.

  Without the moaning and sizzling, the adjacent corridor was much quieter. I climbed onto a marble statue for a better view, nibbling on crème brûlée macarons I’d pilfered from a boudoir. Beneath me, two overly enthusiastic guests engaged in activities best left to aerobics instructors. Their improbable positions proved that vertebrates—organic or otherwise—had limits I was not keen to test.

  Not far from my perch, Rodrigue and Ali had found a quieter corner. The android’s voice carried, tinged with uncharacteristic emotion: “Lady Ali, I count myself most fortunate among all beings to have crossed your path. Your presence imbues me with vitality far surpassing mere mechanics.”

  “Sure felt your vitality all right…” Ali laughed, adjusting her disheveled stockings and reattaching her crystal Louboutin shoe.

  Rodrigue hesitated, his tone shifting. “I am consumed by love for you,” he confessed. To my astonishment, Ali didn’t scoff. Slightly intoxicated, she blushed and placed a hand on Rodrigue’s cool steel cheek. His words spilled forth like an emotional torrent: “Yet I am ashamed, for I am a monster.”

  “Cut the c—I mean—what nonsense is this, milord?” Ali snapped, though curiosity softened her tone.

  Rodrigue bowed his head. “What do you know of the history of my kind?”

  Ali scratched her chin. “Not much. Lee once babbled about your organ-something unit—something about a synthetic spinal cord and a half-brain. But honestly, I stopped listening after that.”

  “Charming,” I grumbled under my breath, still unnoticed.

  Rodrigue explained that the orgatronic units represented humanity’s pinnacle of technological achievement, integrating advanced quantum processing architectures with bio-organic components, an unethical feat realized by Monsutā Corp. shortly before humanity’s exodus from Earth. But their survival depended on a patented fluid no longer in production, the formula lost before the corpo-war the Maiden told us about once, during West Berlin’s obliteration. The only viable substitute? Cerebral fluid harvested from Homo sapiens.

  Ali’s face darkened as understanding dawned. She slapped Rodrigue hard enough to echo down the corridor. “You brought me here to slurp my brain? You son of a—”

  “No! Never!” Rodrigue pleaded. “The humans gathered here today are criminals—murderers and thieves. Yet, I grievously misjudged you both. I, in my folly, snooped aboard your vessel and discovered the truth—that you are Auxiliaries of Justice, not mercenaries as I had assumed. Oh, Lady Ali, I am but a fool!”

  Ali crossed her arms, her voice cold. “The biggest fool of all. Mercenaries or Auxiliaries, we are still a threat to you. Both have hunted your kind for years.”

  Rodrigue stepped back, his anguish palpable. “I sought but a single, perfect night with you, nothing more, nothing less.”

  Ali raised her hand to strike him again but instead kissed him, an act so unexpected it could have stunned a Shakespearean audience. As Rodrigue walked away, he invited her to join him on the balcony overlooking the Ballroom. He warned her to avoid returning to the Grand Salon as Jovian midnight approached.

  I dropped to the floor, startling Ali. “You learn something new every day, don’t you?” I said.

  She glared at me. “Lee! What the fuck?”

  “By the way, Auxiliaries don’t hunt orgadroids. The Techno-Police and Pinkerton do for instance.”

  “What? What are you talking about?” My partner stood up, arms on her hips. “How long have you been there?

  “Don’t worry. I tuned out most of it,” I replied.

  “You little weasel!” she shouted.

  “Ali—ouch!” I took three small blows on my head; the origin of which I didn’t understand. “Stop it! Shouldn’t you join your prince charming?”

  Ali shrugged, her tone dismissive. “He probably gives the same speech to every sap who stumbles in here. Just before pecking their cortex with Froot Loops.”

  “I think he was sincere. Give him credit for that,” I countered. “Besides, Sir Rodrigue doesn’t give off unpleasant vibes. And you can’t be a bad person if you look like Westley from Princess Bride.”

  She smiled and sat again. For a few seconds, she just stared at the painted ceiling before finally resuming: “I’m sorry I was a bitch earlier. I was just—I—I’m good now.”

  “Don’t you worry, feral girl…”

  “So, what do you want to do?”

  “Depends. What would you like to do?”

  She straightened, her right hand on the massive gun masterfully hidden beneath her beaded silk belt. “Getting back to business.”

  I nodded before gazing at her. She was beautiful in that dress. Anthropophagous robot or not, this Rodrigue de Bellescharettes was lucky to have her as a partner tonight. “We will. But before that, enjoy your night. You deserve it. But as long as your connection to Monsutā would not be mentioned to poor Rodrigue.” Or displayed.

  Together, we walked to the balcony where Rodrigue waited, Vivaldi’s Four Seasons wafting through the air. The Marquis offered his hand.

  “May I have the honor of this dance, Lady Ali?”

  “Milord, flattery comes before sleeping with the princess,” Ali joked as she took the android’s hand before clasping herself against him. “You can stop now…” With a grin, she took his other hand.

  “Alas… I shan’t,” I heard him whisper to her.

  Beneath them, the shadows of the evening unfurled, dark truths weaving their somber tapestry. Covered by the sweet hundred-year-old notes, the Liddenbürg and their guests began a very different and bloody choreography. A waltz of darkness where the orgatronic units consumed lives too long stained with death.

  “Speaking of princess,” Rodrigue said. “Have you thought of staying here with us? With me. In the Kingdomlands.”

  Ali let out a discreet laugh. “What would you do with a woman-child raised by a choleric mop?”

  “I heard that…” I commented.

  She winked at me before turning back to the Marquis: “Besides, we’re not on Earth. You’re mistaking hooking up and They lived happily together, had many children, milord.” She came closer to him again, her head on his shoulder. “Although I’m not indifferent to you, and we had a beautiful time together.”

  “My apologies, Milady,” the sympathetic robot declared. “Perhaps I’m a man from another time.”

  For a fleeting moment, Ali and Rodrigue waltzed in their own untouched realm—where violence held no sway, betrayal found no voice, and sorrow dared not intrude. Two souls, one born of flesh, the other of steel, entwined in the fragile grace of an impossible dream. Free from Monsutā’s reach or the folly of a restless cosmos, they spun a harmony that neither time nor fate could unmake.

  Back to business!

  仕事に戻ろう！

  #12 NOAH’S ARK

  第12話 ノアの方

  Of all the lost souls in a Solarian society on the road to perdition, none were more pitiable than the Freaks. Their tragedy began in the post-WWII era, a time of reckless advancement in genetic engineering, when the “wise and kind” humans dared to rewrite their own DNA. From a blend of scientific curiosity and depraved indulgence were born grotesque hybrids—half-human, half-animal creatures. Back then, it took no more than a pill the size of a bean and a burst of gamma radiation as though ripped from the pages of a sci-fi pulp novel.