Adam heard her mother at the bathroom doorway, and turned to her. "Um," she said, "I guess we should get rid of these, before they start to...um, rot."
"Well, there's no danger of that just yet," her mother said. "But yes, probably so."
"Um," Adam said, "there...I dunno, there's this service...to avoid mix-ups, or something...?"
Her mother nodded. "I heard the report you were watching. I don't know that that's really necessary, though."
Adam sighed in a bit of relief, and then realized that she hadn't even noticed she was tense until now. She wasn't quite sure why, but...the notion did strike a bit of a wrong chord with her. Maybe it was just that she still couldn't quite fathom the idea of someone throwing out a viable egg...or maybe it was that it brought up some unpleasant images in comparison to a commercial egg farm, and that brought her back to the feelings of mortification and freakishness when she'd first realized she was laying eggs...but that was probably unfair; as far as she could tell from the program, they were trying to be ethical and professional about it, and if it was likely to be a problem, it was good that someone was offering a solution...
...still, it was a relief to hear someone suggest that maybe she didn't have to get involved in that, didn't have to have anybody involved in her private matters but her...well, and her mother. But on the other hand... "Are you sure?" she asked. "What if someone wonders whether they're viable or not? It's not like you can tell by looking..."
Her mother nodded. "True. But we can mark them as unfertilized." She picked up one of the eggs and felt its surface - hard and smooth, but not glass-smooth - it was porous enough that it could hold ink. "A Sharpie should work just fine. That'll clear up any confusion. I suppose we could make really certain by breaking them, but...I don't know about you, but that seems a bit unnecessary, to me..."
Adam nodded; perhaps it was instinct talking, but she bristled a bit inside at the idea of doing such a thing. "O-okay," she said. "Yeah. That makes sense." She looked at her mother. "Um...th-thanks, Mom..." she said, voice beginning to crack a little.
Her mother smiled gently and hugged her. "You're welcome, sweetie," she said. "It's a lot to adjust to, I'm sure. But you're doing fine, honey."
Cecilia drummed her fingers on the dashboard of the sedan. "You know," she said, "some people spend their weekends gardening. Or golfing. Or reading. Not tooling around on business saving the world."
Hawkins chuckled softly and shrugged. "You don't even like golf," he said. "And you know perfectly well there's nothing stopping you from reading if you want. You've probably got some webpage open right now. Anyway, I'd rather be working than sitting around a hotel room killing time."
The robot-woman nodded. "I know, I know," she said. "I just have to wonder when this world-saving business will be done with, and we won't have to camp out in a hotel twelve hundred miles from home."
"Well, probably never, if we don't get the job done right," Hawkins said. "One step at a time, hm?"
"Yeah," Cecilia said. "Anyway, I suppose there's still the question of why all this stuff has cropped up in this area, too...did you hear about Collins? They caught her on observational equipment out in the inner solar system. Neighborhood of Mercury."
The masked man whistled. "Did they, now? She must be able to work up to quite a good clip, if she got that far and back in anything less than weeks."
Cecilia nodded. "She'd probably have a future with NASA or something, if she could only communicate. Anyway, about Two...Becca said her name's Morgan Mallory. I looked and there's only one Mallory family in the area, so that's gotta be them. Do we want to call ahead?"
Hawkins shook his head. "I don't think it would help much. We'll probably seem more credible in person than over the phone, and I expect they'll be home on a Sunday afternoon. Besides, I'd rather not get stuck with an appointment later in the week; I'd really like for her to be there with the other three this evening."
"Right," the gynoid said. "From what Becca was saying, it sounds like Morgan can be a bit...intense. But I don't know what that means from a kid's perspective. Guess we'll see."
Perhaps it was the vibrations of the furnace - a shuddering old behemoth whose rattling could be heard through the vents even on the upper floor of the house in the colder months - hitting the resonant frequency of this or that gear and generating just enough force to trip some incredibly delicate mechanism. Perhaps it was fluctuations in the unknown energy source that wound the key, having an effect on the basic, vital regulatory mechanisms that never, ever stopped, no matter what, even when everything else was still. Perhaps it was just that all intelligent beings dream, and nobody knows why. But even in absolute stillness, even with her normal cognitive functions set at rest, there was activity in Ricky's mind.
She was on a stage - it reminded her of the one at the little college So-and-so's Memorial Theater her parents had used to take her to see her cousin in The Nutcracker every Christmas when she was young. The light was dim and there was nobody but her. She was wound-down, standing motionless and gazing out across the empty seats. Everything was quiet except for the soft tick and rattle of her mechanisms, just kept active by her backup power source.
Then there was someone down in one of the seats, watching her. It was a young man, but she couldn't quite make out the face. She was almost grateful to not be alone, but...there was something about the way he was watching her that made her uncomfortable. The stare was a little too intense, a little too...it felt like he wasn't looking at her, he was looking at her body. And his expression...she didn't like it. What was he thinking about? But she couldn't do anything about it; she could only stand there.
The more he stared at her, the more she began to dislike it. But at the same time...she almost felt sorry for him. He looked...sort of empty, as if he hoped whatever he was thinking of was going to fill some hole in his life...but she couldn't quite bring herself to pity, not with the way he was looking at her.
And then he moved towards her.
Ricky watched him walk up to the front row and clamber up onto the stage, her gears spinning faster. Get away, get away, run...but she couldn't. Standing motionless, helpless, caught in time in a single pose while he moved freely...his hands were on her, warm but somehow also clammy...she would've cringed if she could move, but she stood in place, like the doll she was, while he felt her...clumsily, crudely caressed her...began to unbutton her blouse...
In any dream, the rules of the narrative change on a whim. Ricky found that she could move when she started back from him, then turned and ran. She was going so slowly...she wasn't wound, she could hardly move, her feet were like lead...and it always seemed like he was gaining on her, but he never actually caught her. That wasn't how the dream went.
She ran backstage, through dressing rooms filled with women's clothes, into the storage area. Here there were others - a dozen others, clockwork girls exactly like her. They were doing...was it a rehearsal? It was like a dance, like a factory process, like a puppet show, like a child's-play mimicry of everyday life. Boil the water, steep the tea, pour the tea, drink the tea, do it all again... She felt a sense of relief - here she was safe. Here she would be indistinguishable from her sisters, and he couldn't find her.
She found her place at the stove, cooking the breakfast that another sister ate, and slipped into the routine natural as breathing, her key turning steadily - somehow she'd been wound in the scene-change. It brought a peace, a sense of belonging and purpose, to be in her place and performing her part...but she felt a little pang of regret. What if he couldn't find her, and turned to one of her sisters instead? Was she just going to hide, and use them to keep herself safe?
The door opened and he stepped in. He looked the scene over, searching - and, not able to tell at a glance, he s l o w l y walked past them, one by one - and then back again, looking increasingly uneasy, as if he was suffering from some kind of withdrawal. He reached Ricky...and passed her...and she sighed in relief...and then he stopped at her sister, the one who ate the breakfast. He extended a trembling hand towards her...
Knowing she was going to give herself away but not caring, Ricky struck out at him. It went against something deep down, for her to act so suddenly and so violently, but that was HER SISTER. But instead of physically striking him, sunlight burst from her fingers and engulfed him...
And then she saw who he was.
Ricky stared, mouth agape, gears zizzing away at an unbelievable rate, as she stared into his face - Ricky's face, that he had worn only hours before. It seemed so crude in this state; had he really looked that simian? Or was it in the expression? But the change was already overtaking it - in a moment, she was staring into a perfect replica of the face she had now. Other-her stood in stillness for a moment; then her key began to turn, and she came to life. Other-her stepped into place at the stove and began the routine - make the breakfast, serve it to sister. Boil the water, steep the tea, serve the tea, drink the tea. One, two, three, four, one, two, three, four, tick, tick, tick tick tick tick TICK TICK TICK TIC-
Ricky started back to consciousness with a mechanical screech as a gear that was spinning much too fast braked down to its intended speed somewhere inside her. The ticking was the clutch on her winding key; she was fully wound again, and as she stood and shivered and tried to calm her notional nerves, it began to turn the other way and she felt her body come fully back to life. A...a dream...it was a dream.
