Wolflow, Stolen

1

Little Bit was a little girl at the moment, or at least she looked like one.

She loved walking barefoot along the edges of lawns, when the grass was dewy wet, each blade mown to a precise height. She loved when her neighborhood was dark, when low fog clouds floated like a band of lost souls. She loved venturing out past her bedtime, wearing sleeveless pajamas the shade of pink lemonade just like a pair she had when she was twelve.

The little boy with her only looked like one, too. He wore clothes and shoes three sizes too large, like a fairy-tale urchin. But he walked along the sidewalks and held her hand, serving as an ideal companion.

Approaching home, she paused to appreciate the moment and the company. She stood close to him and held him. Inspired, she kissed him the way grownups did.

Somebody saw them, though. Across the wide street, Mrs. Titus, a busybody for the community and world at large, was walking her tiny dog.

She stared at them, confused. She pointed, then called out. “You there,” Mrs. Titus demanded. “You shouldn’t be out at this hour. What’re your names? Who’re your parents?”

Neither of them responded. Mrs. Titus had a point. It was after midnight, which was too late for children to be prowling around and kissing like grownups. Little Bit could feel her companion tense, prelude to losing his temper.

He turned towards Mrs. Titus, and he turned. He took a step in the old woman’s direction, then he became the beast hidden inside. He was suddenly two meters tall, sprouting patches of hair on his body, with his face a hybrid of wild creatures. He bared his sharp teeth and snarled aloud.

Poor Mrs. Titus stared saucer-eyed, too terrified to scream. Her old dog tried to growl but then ran, yanking the leash from her hand.

“Run, bitch!”

She did. Finding her feet, she stumbled towards her front door. She would probably run inside and call the police, to report two wayward children and a werewolf. They would tell her they were sending somebody to investigate, while adding her name to their own list of frequent callers who wore foil fedoras and believed fairy tales were real.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Little Bit said, standing close to him.

“Sorry. Couldn’t help myself.”

He was no longer the beast or a boy. He looked like the young man she was more familiar with, whose clothes and shoes fit much better.

“I wish you could turn into a horse,” she said, “so I could ride you home.”

He bent down, and she climbed aboard. She rode piggyback, like she’d done with her father, who died sixty-three years ago. Little Bit was actually eighty-six, after all. Her companion, whether boy or wolfman, was twenty-four.

Such was the way of things, for the chosen few, in the age of kleptech-- the stolen secret sciences.

***

Back home, he filled a ceramic basin, so she could wash her small delicate feet.

“Why do you prefer this form?”

She only shrugged.

“But I heard you had a challenging childhood. Why would you want to repeat it?”

She shuddered, like a much older lady. “Well, maybe I want to go back and do it better,” she replied, “so I can enjoy it this time.”

He nodded and smiled. “Good answer.”

She started to unbutton her pink pajama top. “Shall we go to bed?”

“Not until you’re older.”

“Fine,” she replied. “Just give me a minute to concentrate. I’m not as young as I used to be.”

He gave her a look, as if appreciating her way with words, before he stepped out. She removed her pajama bottoms and got in bed, prepared to give the matter the thought it required.

In her mind, maintaining her present form would’ve made for a memorable experience. When she was actually twelve, she was passionate about an older man, who’d been the first one to make love with her. She recalled it all with fondness and fire, having forced herself to forget the pain. Her lover was sent to prison, after all, when he (allegedly) molested another girl who didn’t love him like she did.

She never told anyone, because her family would’ve considered her a victim. And she’d never been anybody’s victim, throughout her long life.

By the time her companion returned, she’d become a teenager. Little Bit had turned into Bete Zee-- ready to relive another episode, but without the braces and blemished skin. He was shirtless and muscular; but he’d also become younger, as if anticipating her change of age.

He crawled under the covers to lie beside her. Her smooth flesh touched his, and it was intoxicating. Before that latest relationship, she hadn’t shared a bed for thirty years. She’d nearly forgotten the sensations created when bodies blended.

In the morning, she would be her current age again, a result of simply falling asleep. Her skin would be wrinkled, her bones brittle, her hair white. She would be eighty-six, and her companion would be twenty-four.

Such was the nature of life in the Vacuum-- Voluntary and Complete Cellular Metamorphosis.

***

Bete woke when a ray of sunlight fell across her face.

She was an octogenarian again. A china teacup sat on the nightstand. Her companion had risen early and fixed it for her, just the way she preferred. It was chamomile, with a spoonful of brown sugar and a splash of half-and-half.

She required energy and nourishment, to become the little girl hidden within her again. That was when he entered her bedroom carrying a tray with breakfast. A plate that matched her cup held a biscuit, half smeared with apricot preserves and the other with cream cheese. A small cup brimmed with apple juice. All the way she liked it, better than she would’ve done it herself.

“Good morning. How did you sleep?”

She shivered. “Well,” she replied, “but I woke up feeling older than life on earth.”

“Eat and enjoy. That tea’s like a magic potion.”

She took a long sip. “So good,” she said. “Please promise me I can change.”

“Just eat. And feel better.”

He left the room, and she ate. A bite of the biscuit and the tang of the juice reminded her of bright mornings of the past. The chamomile was indeed a potion, able to turn an old crone into a smooth-skinned child. When he returned, she had become Little Bit, with a full belly.

“The Ladies are meeting at six this evening,” she said.

“Is that today?”

“It is,” she replied. “They want to meet Suna, remember?”

“I remember. They invited Quince, too, didn’t they?”

She’d forgotten that fact, a symptom of her true age. “Quince?”

“I think you’ll like her.”

2

Sweet Suna-- most faithful of friends and wisest of advisors-- was a lady with a past.

She came to life, in her original form, after a long gestation. Her body, piece by part, was built from scraps of experimental alloys discarded by the labs of Majus Arts and Sciences, remolded and remade. She, and her creator, had to wait patiently for advances in technology, to provide a proper musculature and lifelike skin. The darker corners of the web finally offered mini-gears and micro-sensors, to allow for more natural movements.

She was constructed in Dr. Freeman Wolflow’s garage but activated in a niche in the basement beneath Majus’ main lab, where obsolete equipment was stored. She lived there during her infancy, where she experienced her first software download and data update.

She learned to speak and understand human language. Dr. Wolflow was fortunate to find a program patch online containing state-of-the-art algorithms, which permitted her to learn from her mistakes and make improvements with every attempt.

She became a technological marvel. She had access, via the net, to the vast array of human knowledge. She was able to communicate fluently. And she was an ideal physical specimen, with a beautiful face and shapely body.

Dr. Wolflow informed his superiors at Majus about his progress. They were intensely interested, but only within the limits of corporate policy. Majus never employed software from unauthorized sources, so their research started from scratch. A development team was assigned, but they produced few breakthroughs in the short term.

Wolflow continued his work in various fields, while his prototype, known officially as S1 (or Servo One), was studied by others. He remained fascinated by genetics, his specialty, from which the company had derived a great deal of profit during his decades of employment.

He used the S1’s assistance in his ongoing study of subgenetic markers in the greater genome.

***

After Dr. Freeman Wolflow died at his desk, Suna’s unlikely odyssey began.

She was deactivated and placed in a crate, stored in the same niche where her creator brought her to life. Due to a labeling error, the crate was scheduled for disposal and removed from the lab, so its contents could be harvested for components or incinerated. She disappeared then, presumed lost; though some unidentified person added a few anatomical upgrades during that period. After nearly three years, she was offered at auction in one of the web’s darker corners.

She was purchased by Rodham Wolflow of Lakeside, widow of her creator, who’d been alerted by one of her husband’s black market contacts. Ms. Wolflow took possession of the S1, which had been renamed Suna at some point. She presented it to her grandson Magnus on his sixteenth birthday, symbol of his grandfather’s legacy and a project to inspire his own scientific education. He was also given a nearly complete set of his grandfather’s handwritten notes, which were disorganized and difficult to read, like the man himself.

Magnus appreciated that gift, though he lacked his grandfather’s aptitude. But Suna was only a beautiful piece of furniture when he met her. According to his grandfather’s notes, she was supposed to move, speak, and live. So, his first grand challenge would be to find out how to switch her on. After that, he would ask her what else she was capable of doing.

Freeman Wolflow’s handwriting resembled hieroglyphics. Magnus reviewed certain passages, picking out words he recognized and substituting his best guesses, until he felt like he were trying to read the lips of a mumbling madman. He discovered a section entitled Activation Sequence (or possibly Artichoke Sequoia); and he deciphered a series of steps worth attempting.

He lifted her left knee, while using his thumb to press her navel; then raised her right arm, while depressing a button between her vertebrae, speaking the code WolflowActivate.

She came back to life. Her eyes blinked and flashed. She hummed and grew warm. Her mouth made sounds, as if testing her voice.

“I have been deactivated for twenty-seven months,” she said, her tone uneven. “I was activated at Majus Labs. Then I was in East Romanoff for twenty-four months and two days. I am currently in Lakeside. . .”

Her internal GPS remained active, at least. The exact details of her movements during that time were still a mystery.

“Welcome back. My name is Magnus, but my friends call me Max. Your name is now Suna.”

“Hello, Max,” she finally replied. “I’m S1. But my friends call me Suna.”

***

Magnus kept his grandmother informed of his progress, for the most part.

He told her about his struggles to interpret his grandfather’s handwriting. He told her that Suna had been reactivated, and they were able to communicate.

At Suna’s suggestion, her response time improved when he replaced her obsolete memory storage with newer chips. To accomplish that task, he had to remove her backplate and follow her directions. She took off her clothes first, which he found both distracting and inspiring.

Somebody had added realistic genitalia and large breasts to her symmetrical form, for some purpose besides the aesthetic. His grandmother must not have known about those alterations, or she probably wouldn’t have offered him that gift in its current version.

“Do you have a program for sexual instruction?”

“No,” she replied, “unless it exists in my protected kleptech files.”

“Did you say kleptech? What does that mean?”

“Stolen sciences,” she replied.

“Stolen? Did Dr. Wolflow steal them?”

“Unknown,” she replied.

“Who were they stolen from?”

“Unknown,” she replied.

“What do these files contain?”

“Two files require a password to open,” she replied. “One was left open when Dr. Wolflow died.”

He was intrigued. “What’s in the open file?”

“The Theory of Voluntary and Complete Cellular Metamorphosis,” she replied.

It sounded like science fiction. “And what’s the password for the other files?”

“A password is required for me to reveal that information,” she replied.

3

The newest passenger on the bullet train headed west looked like a city street-girl, twentysomething and strangely dressed.

The attendant on duty approached that human eyesore, prepared to escort her to a Lesser-class car. That was when a young man came aboard, just before the doors closed. He handed the attendant his metallic id card.

“She’s with me. Please add her fare to my account.”

“Her name?” the attendant asked.

“Quince Thurlish,” the girl herself replied, with dramatic flair. “That’s Quince with one n, and Thurlish with two y’s and an apostrophe. . .”

“Just list her as my guest, please.”

“Yes, sir,” the attendant replied, headed back to the front of the car.

“So, this is first-class, huh?” Quince said, observing the décor. “Comfy cush, and it smells a lot better than the back half.”

“True and true.”

“So, all the way to the end of the line, huh?” she said. “You think they’ll let me back into Lakeside?”

“Why not? There’s no dress code.”

“Not officially, maybe,” she said. “I am looking forward to seeing the Ladies, though.”

The sleek bullet pulled into Main Station. Only one passenger boarded the first-class car. She was a child, no more than twelve. She had brassy ringlets and a pretty bow mouth. She wore a shiny new trenchcoat a few sizes too large, and sported a pair of pink hightops. Her appearance also got the attention of the attendant, since unaccompanied minors weren’t allowed on the train. The young man waved her back again.

“Another guest. Add her to my account, too.”

“Surprise,” the little girl said to him. “Happy to see me?”

Before she sat next to him, she gave him a hug and three kisses, one on each cheek and one on the lips.

“What are you doing here?”

“I went shopping,” the little girl replied. “Ms. Birdsong drove me. I told the stores downtown I was Ms. Zontag’s granddaughter, and they let me put everything on her account. Do you like my new coat?”

“Nice. I guess you’ll grow into it.”

Quince, seated on his other side, seemed curious. “Who she?”

He thought about it. “Bete. Also known as Little Bit.”

“Little Bet?”

“Close enough.”

“Oh,” Quince replied. “She’s kinda kissy for a kid.”

“Yes, she is the affectionate type.”

“But cute,” Quince said. “Don’t ya think? Cute as a bag of buttons.”

“Definitely. Cute as a box of puppies.”

“Cuter than a bug’s pajamas,” Little Bit herself added.

“Prettiest girl on the train,” Quince said. “Except for me and thee. Right?”

He exhaled. “Yes. I am undoubtedly surrounded by a veritable feast of feminine pulchritude.”

The girls laughed at that, as the sleek bullet arrived at the Lakeside Depot.

4

The Ladies of Mayfair met in a private dining room of The Merciful Maven’s Tea House, three blocks off the main thoroughfare of Lakeside.

The Ladies had congregated there, or in the home of one of its members, every week for the past sixty years, without fail. Most people who knew of their habits assumed they gossiped and shared vids of their grandchildren, which was true. But they also debated events of the day and did business.

The source of their influence, simply put, was money. Each of them had been born into wealth or married into family fortunes. They owned many prosperous concerns and a few less so, such as The Merciful Maven’s Tea House. They held large lots of stock in numerous companies, which they traded amongst each other like clipped coupons at those weekly lunches.

At present, five of the faithful members remained, in various states of failing health. Rodham Wolflow died six years earlier, so a chair was always left empty for her at every meal.

The survivors were Bete Zontag, Lacey Borders, Hilly Wester, Joyette Birdsong, and Panzi Thurlish Appletree, all in their eighties.

***

Their invited guests were a grandchild, his servo, and a grandniece.

Magnus Wolflow, grandson of their late comrade Rodham, was known as Max to most of them. He’d attended other holiday parties, so they’d watched him grow up. Rodham had also entertained them with exaggerated stories of his dedication to scholarship, like his famous grandfather. He had been to visit all but one of the Ladies in their homes recently, to deliver six injections apiece of an experimental serum, because they were asked to by their eldest member, Bete Zontag. She’d experienced the treatment herself and claimed the results would be worth any short-term pain they endured.

As a consequence, the Ladies also wished to be introduced to Suna, who’d accessed the necessary data and helped Max turn his grandfather’s theories into an effective procedure. And Quince Thurlish, granddaughter of Panzi Appletree’s youngest brother, had served as an apprentice to the great Freeman Wolflow, despite her present appearance.

When their guests arrived, the five Ladies were already seated at their familiar round table in the Fairest Mavens Room, which had pastel walls, oak trim, and silver flambeaux fixtures. The table was set with fine china, flatware, and crystal goblets. The Ladies themselves were equally well-attired, festooned with brooches, rings, and earrings that matched in design. Three empty chairs and place settings awaited Magnus, Suna, and Quince, who were led in by a young server.

“Guess I should’ve worn my fancy pants,” Quince commented.

Her colorful street-girl ensemble didn’t fit the décor, but she wasn’t turned away. The Ladies gave her a few curious looks, but she was still allowed a seat at the table.

“Come, children,” Bete Zontag said, unelected leader of the group. “Sit and enjoy good food and even better conversation.”

Magnus and Quince occupied two of the empty chairs, but Suna remained standing. She even positioned herself in an ideal spot to see and record everything said and done there.

“Won’t your servo be joining us?” Joyette Birdsong asked, as if insulted.

“No, ma’am. Suna doesn’t eat. She prefers to observe.”

Bete handled the introductions, mainly for Quince’s benefit. Quince exchanged polite smiles and nods with Ms. Birdsong, Ms. Borders, Ms. Wester, and Ms. Appletree (or her Grandaunt Panzi). Before any conversation ensued, servers came in with covered platters and ceramic bowls, to begin the dinner. The food, as expected, was delicious.

“Good chow,” Quince observed, between mouthfuls.

She was mindful of her manners otherwise, having grown up in Lakeside. She didn’t put her elbows on the table, at least. When wine was offered, she had a glass; but Magnus was relieved when she turned down a refill.

The Ladies conversed while they ate, exchanging some of the gossip they were famous for. No secret was safe in Lakeside, except those they themselves wished to keep. By the time the sherbet was served, reputations had been sullied and skeletons uncloseted. It was time for other far more important matters on the grand agenda to be debated and approved.

“Well, children,” Bete, the eldest, said, “I hope you enjoyed your meal.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Quince replied.

Bete smiled. “You will have to be brought into the fold, so to speak, before we proceed,” she said. “You’ll have to learn about the results of an experiment we’ve been conducting. But we’ll have to swear you to secrecy.”

Quince glanced at Magnus. “Okay,” she replied, uncertain.

“Do you agree with our decision, Max?” Bete said.

He gave the old lady a queer look. “I bow to the judgment of the wise and enlightened Mayfairs.”

“Well, isn’t he a polite boy?” Panzi Appletree commented.

“If we’re all agreed,” Bete said, “then I’ll ask the young folks to step outside for a moment, so we can speak freely.”

Magnus rose from his chair. “We’re leaving?” Quince asked.

“Just until we call you back in, please,” Bete replied.

“Smoke ‘em if ya got ‘em,” Lacey Borders added.

“We request Suna to stay,” Bete said, “to serve as an unbiased witness.”

It was an evening for the exchange of queer looks. Magnus nodded.

“Of course. She’ll also answer any questions you might have.”

***

He and Quince sat on the porch of The Merciful Maven’s Tea House, where she indeed enjoyed a cigarette.

“So,” Quince said, “what kind of experiment are the old gals talkin’ about?”

“Can’t say. I’m sworn to secrecy.”

She was halfway through her second smoke when they were called back in. The Fairest Mavens Room was the same as they left it, but there were other obvious differences. The table had been cleared, and Suna was standing in another spot. Bete Zontag and Joyette Birdsong remained in their seats, as they were; but between them, the other three seats were occupied by much younger women. They were teenagers, in fact, wearing the old ladies’ clothing and jewelry. And each of them was undeniably beautiful, in face and form.

The ladies, old and young, didn’t speak. Magnus was also silent, preferring (like Suna) to observe.

“What’s this?” Quince said. “Some kind of magic trick? You put their granddaughters, or somethin’, in their same clothes, right?”

“It’s not a trick, dear,” Bete replied. “Suna, are these the same ladies who were here when Max and Quince went outside?”

Suna blinked. “The ladies changed,” she replied, “but they are the same ladies.”

“Suna,” Bete said, “what would explain the ladies becoming younger-looking?”

Suna needed three blinks to consider it. “A possibility,” she replied, “is Voluntary and Complete Cellular Metamorphosis.”

“Ms. Zontag can do it, too. Remember the little girl in the white coat we met on the train? That was her.”

“Really?” Quince said. “Little Bit? Miss Kissy-Face?”

“Yes. And Ms. Birdsong didn’t receive the treatment. I assume it’s because she’s either afraid it wouldn’t work, or afraid it would.”

“Neither, my dear boy,” Joyette Birdsong replied. “I believe I was given this one life, to be lived in its proper order.”

“If it’s not a trick,” Quince said, “then you must’ve been messing with that kleptech stuff.”

Glances were exchanged all around. “That’s why we invited you, dear,” Bete replied.

“Suna knows more about it than I do,” Quince said.

“But the rest of her files require a password,” Bete replied. “We were hoping you might be able to help us with that.”

“I see,” Quince said. “And what’s the offer?”

“You could receive the treatment,” Bete replied, “and become any age you wanted.”

Quince laughed. “Maybe later,” she said. “When I’m your age.”

“And what would you prefer now?” Bete asked.

Quince considered it. “I want Max,” she replied, “if he’ll have me.”

“Max?” Bete said. “For what purpose?”

“Whatever I want,” Quince replied. “And Little Bit, too. But a little older.”

Bete remained calm, surprisingly. “Well, I’m sure something can be arranged.”

“And I’ll only tell the password to Max,” Quince added.

“Agreed,” Bete replied. “Go ahead.”

Quince grinned. She put her mouth to Magnus’ ear, behind her cupped hand. “It’s Wolflow, Stolen,” she whispered.

He should’ve been able to guess something so simple. At the moment, he was trying to picture her in their bed, between him and teenage Bete.

“And if the people the kleptech was stolen from ever find out,” Quince went on, “then we’re all in more trouble than you can imagine. You, me, and Little Bit better enjoy ourselves while we can, don‘t ya think?”

“I do.” And he did.