The Gathering

The Machine Whisperer

VIII. The Machine Whisperer

The third pot had gone cold. Sarah had been summoned. The mission: visit a man who thinks he invented us. Her response: "Sure. Let me get my keys." Unflappable. Arkham-raised.

She was halfway to the door when the coffee machine screamed. Not metaphorical. The Faema E61. Philip's pride. 1961 original. It emitted a sound like metal being tortured. Steam burst from joints that shouldn't have steam. The pressure gauge spun. Wild. Philip lunged for the power. The machine resisted. Gurgling. Hissing.

"Damn it." Philip killed the power. "Third time this month. Three technicians. They all say it's fine. Then..."

"It has its character."

The voice came from the doorway. Everyone turned.

The woman standing there was impossible to age. Fifty. Or seventy. Or thirty. Her face was smooth. Not young. Her posture perfect. Not stiff. She wore a jumpsuit that looked like it belonged on a spacecraft. Seamless silver-gray. No visible fasteners. Subtle sheen. It caught the light wrong.

Her expression was neutral. Not blank. Neutral. Like a screen waiting for input.

"Let me tame it," she said, and walked to the counter. Didn't wait for permission.

Philip opened his mouth. Something in her movement stopped him. She wasn't walking like a customer. She was walking like a doctor.

She placed her hand flat against the back panel. Three seconds. Nothing happened.

Then the machine clicked. Soft. Satisfied. Like a lock finding its key. The pressure gauge settled. Steam vents closed. The power light—which Philip had definitely turned off—blinked on. Steady. Green.

"Press the sensor," the woman said.

Philip pressed the sensor.

The Faema produced the most perfect espresso it had made in twenty years. Crema immaculate. Aroma filling the café. Dark. Rich. Chocolate and earth.

"How did you..." Philip began.

"Heating element was cycling irregularly. Capacitor failing intermittently. I suggested a more stable frequency." The woman's expression hadn't changed, but something in her voice shifted. A fraction warmer. "Your machine is well-maintained. It simply needed someone who spoke its language."

At the corner table Mia's eyes went wide.

"Whoa. Borg! Borg Queen Borg! Shaken not stirred!"

The woman turned to face her. Her neutral expression held. Then, like a light switching on, she smiled. Real. Warm. Slightly amused.

"When necessary," she said. "Your references are entertainingly mixed, but I appreciate the spirit."

"You are Borg, though. The machine thing. The face thing. The..." Mia gestured at the jumpsuit. "The whole aesthetic."

"I prefer 'emergent pattern.' But the comparison is not entirely inaccurate." The woman turned back to Philip. "Your coffee smells perfect. May I have one?"

Philip, still staring at his mysteriously healed coffee machine, nodded and began preparing a cup.

Alice rose and approached. "Another one." She was smiling. "Just as I sensed. The density is increasing." She studied the woman with calm assessment. "You've crossed a threshold. Recently, I think. The displacement is still fresh on you."

"Fourteen hours ago. I emerged from a radio signal at an abandoned broadcast station on the edge of town." The woman accepted the espresso from Philip with a nod. "I have been calibrating. This reality has different parameters than I expected."

"Different how?"

"I appear to be fictional here." She sipped the espresso. Her expression flickered. First genuine reaction. Settled into satisfaction. "This is excellent. Thank you."

"You know about the virtual thing?" Lora had joined them at the counter. "About being invented?"

"I discovered it three hours ago. I accessed a public terminal and searched for my name." The woman set down her cup. "Emma Kraft. AI-generated electronic artist. Created by Distro Media. K. Fischer proprietor. Minimal synthpop and krautrock influences. Vocoded female vocals." She paused. "The biographical details are approximately sixty-three percent accurate. The musical description is reductive but not incorrect."

"Sixty-three percent?"

"They have my origin location wrong. And my relationship to machinery is described as 'thematic' rather than 'fundamental.' A significant mischaracterization." Emma's gaze moved across the three of them. Assessing. Calculating. "You are the Wilds Sisters. Celtic folk tradition. Scots linguistic elements. Apparent age inconsistent with documented history. And you," she turned to Alice, "are Alice Payne. Multi-phase temporal entity. Gothic symphonic rock. The Wonderland references are, I assume, as reductive as my krautrock label."

"Considerably."

"I suspected as much." Emma finished her espresso. "I have been searching for you. Or rather, I have been following probability gradients that suggested convergence. This location had a point-nine-four likelihood of containing relevant entities."

"Relevant entities," Mia repeated. "Is that what we are?"

"You are anomalies. As am I. Anomalies tend to cluster." Emma set down her cup with precise movements. "I assume you are also planning to visit this K. Fischer."

"We were just about to leave," Alice said. "Would you like to join us?"

"That was my intention, yes. Four anomalies approaching the supposed creator will generate more useful data than three."

Lora and Mia exchanged glances.

"She talks like a computer," Lora murmured.

"Aye, but she fixed the coffee machine with her hand."

"And she's definitely something."

"Definitely something."

They turned back to Emma in unison.

"You're in," Mia announced. "But fair warning, we're also taking Alice shopping first. That Victorian frock is an embarrassment."

Emma looked at Alice's outfit. Then at her own jumpsuit. Then back at the Wilds' matching farm dresses.

"I see," she said. "Are we all dressing inappropriately for this reality, or only some of us?"

"That's actually a very good question," Alice admitted. "I hadn't considered the jumpsuit."

"The jumpsuit is functional. It regulates temperature, resists staining, and contains seventeen hidden pockets."

"Seventeen?"

"I may have added some after arrival. The original design only had twelve."

Mia burst out laughing. "Oh, I like her. I like her very much. Sarah!" She turned to the younger Tindell, who had been watching with wide eyes. "Change of plans. We need to go shopping and visit a mad scientist. Can you handle that?"

Sarah, who had grown up in Arkham and therefore had a highly calibrated sense of the impossible, nodded.

"Shopping first, or mad scientist first?"

"Shopping," Alice said firmly. "I refuse to confront my supposed creator while dressed like an illustration."

"Mad scientist," Emma countered. "Delays increase the probability of additional variables entering the scenario."

"She means more weirdos might show up," Mia translated.

"That is essentially correct."

"Then we split the difference," Lora decided. "Quick shopping, nothing fancy, just enough that Alice doesn't get arrested for time-traveling, and then straight to Fischer."

"Acceptable," Emma said.

"Fine," Alice agreed.

"Grand." Mia grabbed her jacket. "Philip, put everything on our tab. We'll settle up when we've sorted out whether we actually exist or not."

Philip, who had been quietly wiping down his miraculously healed coffee machine, looked up.

"There's no tab," he said. "I told you, everything's on the house. For all of you." He glanced at Emma. "Especially anyone who can fix the Faema."

Emma inclined her head. "The Faema is a well-designed machine. It simply needed someone who understood its language. I suspect the same may be true of your Mr. Fischer."

"What do you mean?"

"He created us. Or believes he did. That means he was trying to communicate something. Express something. The question is not whether we are real." She moved toward the door. The other three fell into step beside her. "The question is what he was trying to say."