Nekropolis by Maureen F. McHugh Read Free Book Online Page B

didn’t make.”
    “I’ll pay you back,” the daughter says.
    “Pay me back! This is more than you get in a month!”
    “You want me to dress like a beggar!” the girl says. What a tongue she has in her. “If you gave me enough, I wouldn’t have to take your credit chip!”
    “We’re not made out of money!” her mother says.
    “You have enough money for her !” the girl says. “I should be in school with that money!”
    “School is a waste with you!” the mistress says. “Your marks are terrible! If you got decent marks, I could see spending the money!”
    “I hate you!” the daughter shrieks. “You never give me a chance!”
    Akhmim. I think of him all the time. Rather than listen, I think of telling Akhmim about the daughter, about the master.
    Emboldened by my mistress’s approval, I rearrange the furniture. I take some things she has-they are not very nice-and put them away. I reprogram the household AI. It is very limited, insufficient for anything as complicated as bismek, but it can handle projections, of course. I remember the things my old mistress used to like and I project cobalt blue vases and silver-framed pictures. Marble floors would overwhelm these rooms, but the ivory tile I pick is nice.
    My mistress is delighted. It is wonderful to work for someone who is easy to please.
    My days are free on Tuesday and half-a-day Sunday. Tuesday my mistress apologizes to me. They are a little tight on credit and she cannot advance my leisure allowance until Sunday, do I mind?
    Well, a little, but I say I don’t. I spend the afternoon making flowers.
    When I make flowers, I think of Akhmim and myself on the bed, surrounded by crushed carnations and irises. It isn’t good to think about Akhmim. He doesn’t miss me, I’m sure. He’s a harni, always an owned thing, subject to the whims of his owners. If they had constructed him with lasting loyalties, his life would be horrible. Surely when the technician constructed his genes, he made certain that Akhmim would forget quickly. He told me that harni do not love. But he also told me that they did. And he told me he didn’t love the mistress, but maybe he only said that because he had to, because I don’t like the old mistress and his duty is to make humans happy.
    I put the blue and white and silver paper flowers in a vase. My mistress thinks they are lovely.
    Long lilies, spiked stamens, and long petals like lolling tongues. Sometimes feelings are in me that have no words and I look at the paper flowers and want to rip them to pieces.
    On Sunday my mistress has my leisure allowance. Mbarek used to add a little something extra, but I realize that in my new circumstances I can’t expect that. I go to the Moussin of the White Falcon, on the edge of the Nekropolis, to listen to the service.
    Then I take the train to the street of Mbarek’s house. I don’t intend to walk down the street, but of course I do. And I stand outside the house, looking for a sign of Akhmim. I’m afraid to stand long, I don’t want anyone to see me. What would I tell them, that I’m homesick? I’m jessed.
    I like to take something to do on the train so the ride isn’t boring. I’ve brought a bag full of paper to make flowers. I can earn a little money on the side by making wreaths. Anything I earn on my own I can keep. I’m not allowed to give it to my mistress, that’s against the law. It’s to protect the jessed that this is true.
    In the Nekropolis we lived in death houses, surrounded by death. Perhaps it isn’t odd that I’m a bit morbid, and perhaps that is why I pull a flower out of my bag and leave it on a windowsill on the men’s side of the house. After all, something did die, although I can’t put in words exactly what it was. I don’t really know which window is Akhmim’s, but it doesn’t matter, it’s just a gesture. It only makes me feel foolish.
    Monday I wake early and drink hot mint tea. I take buckets of water and scrub down the stone