Ribofunk Read Online Free Page B

I ask of you, other than to show up for a few ceremonial occasions? Do you imagine I’ve got it any easier? It’s not a part-time job, governing a whole bloody continent!”
    “You wanted the job. I didn’t.”
    Mister Michael folded his hands, as if afraid of what they might do. Little Worker’s hands clenched in sympathy.
    “Let’s not argue, shall we? Please make every effort to be at the Ministry by two.”
    “I’ll simply rush through the stores then.”
    “Good. I appreciate it.” Mister Michael looked down at Little Worker. “It’s time to go. Would you please get my briefcase? I left it by the bed.”
    Little Worker quickly gained her feet, eager to please. “I will get your briefcase. Where will you be?”
    “Just inside the front door. Oh, have the car pull around also.”
    “I will have the car pull around,” agreed Little Worker.
    On the way to the garage, Little Worker considered the argument she had overheard. She reached the same conclusion she had arrived at while standing before Mister Michael’s wife’s bedroom door: Mister Michael’s wife was not a good one for him.
    In the garage, Little Worker confronted the sleek, low-slung car. “Mister Michael wishes you to idle at the front entrance.”
    “I will exit the garage, after opening the door. I will proceed down the drive, through the gate, after opening that also, and around to the front entrance. There I will await further orders.”
    “Good.”
    The car started its ceramic engine and opened the garage door. Little Worker left it. She took the back stairs to the second floor and approached Mister Michael’s bedroom from a direction different than that by which she had gone earlier.
    The door was ajar. Little Worker entered.
    The room was not empty.
    Lying languidly on the bed among the rumpled sheets was a naked gynomorph. When she heard Little Worker enter, she opened her eyes.
    “Hello,” said the gynomorph. “I am a hetaera, of the Lyrical line. Do you wish to hear me sing?”
    Little Worker was stunned. “No. I do not wish to hear you sing. What are you doing here?”
    “I am now owned by Mister Michael. He brought me here. Do you wish to know my pedigree?”
    “No.”
    “I will recite it anyway. I am comprised of five species, with three percent being human. My skeletal structure is avian, insuring a lightness and appealing fragility. I weigh only forty kilos. My musculature is feline, my skin a derivative of chamois. My brain is based on that of a mink. I have a vaginal contractile index of ninety. My pheromones are tailored specifically to arouse Mister Michael.”
    The gynomorph moved her legs and arms luxuriously and arched her back slightly, elevating her pubis. Little Worker stared furiously, her mind in turmoil.
    “I am comprised of twelve species, with a full ten percent being human,” she finally countered.
    “My measurements, in centimeters, are one hundred, forty, eighty. What are yours?”
    Little Worker looked down at her stocky, compact, and muscled form beneath her shift. “I do not know my measurements,” she said.
    The gynomorph smiled, revealing delicate pointed teeth. She ran a tongue over her lips. Little Worker could hear it rasp.
    “Well,” said the hetaera, “I guess you don’t know much, do you?”
    “It seems not,” said Little Worker.
     
    * * *
     
    Now they were at the office. The office was different from home: different noises, different smells. There were no windows in Mister Michael’s office, no blots of jelly-light on the tan carpet, into which Little Worker’s garment nearly blended. At home, Little Worker could do pretty much as she pleased, as long as she was there should Mister Michael need her. At the office—and in other public places—she had to be more circumspect and diligent. Little Worker was on duty here, in a way that was more intense than behind the electrified fence and active sensors of the estate. Little Worker normally prided herself on her diligence.