Martin Greenberg: The Future We Wish We Had

“ Squirrel .”

“Ve-ry good, mad-e-moi-selle. ”

Marjorie felt a dreadful pang of apprehension. The kitchen’s voice sounded distinctly tense, tightly strung. She recalled something from the online tutorial briefing she’d taken prior to marketing her first Mequizeen-equipped home: early detection of most malfunctions is a snap, and easily diagnosed before serious consequences can arise. Our diagnostic software is programmed to reflect incipient breakdowns via the kitchen’s vox humana. In other words, imagine you’ve got a full-time, four-star, naturally temperamental French chef working for you. Pay attention to what he says and how he says it. Above all, never presume that a potentially bad situation will get better on its own. You wouldn’t ignore a real chef’s displeasure, would you? This impish rhetorical question was illustrated with a jolly animated cartoon of a chef, white toque erupting like a volcano, flinging bloody cleavers everywhere.

“Ms. Newcomb, wait!” Marjorie cried. “Perhaps we should postpone the rest of this demonstra-”

“Emily June, Miz Marjorie’s right,” Boone said. “We shouldn’t go on with this, not with you feeling so-”

“We will go on,” Emily gritted. “Kitchen! You’ve got your orders. Get going.”

“Yes, mademoiselle.” If possible, the kitchen sounded even grimmer and more indomitable than Emily. “One… squirrel stew, tout de suite. ” The tray with the tiny corpses began to retract, but Emily shot out a staying hand before it could vanish from sight.

“Not so fast.” She bared her teeth. “Aren’t you going to ask me what I want to drink with that?”

Something in the kitchen began to make a thin, skin-tingling, crackling noise. It sounded like a cross between arcing electricity and human bones slowly being crushed to powder. “Ah,” the kitchen said. “An appropriate beverage to accompany ragout d’ecuerreil, yes. My… pleasure. No doubt one of your unique palate is aware that squirrel needs a big, bold red. Something from Domaine Colt, peut-être ? A robust zinfandel which will pair the black fruit and pepper notes of the wine with the gamy taste of the meat. I will of course make sure that some of the wine is used in the preparation of the dish. It’s best if the squirrel comes from the same vineyard as the wine, but one cannot have everything one-”

“Milk,” Emily said doggedly. “ Chocolate milk. Stirred, not sha-”

“I’ll give you chocolate milk and squirrel, you hopeless hick!” The Caréme 6000’s overwrought shriek shook the walls. Panels slammed back, revealing rack upon rack of ominously clattering cutlery. The dishwasher opened and vomited up a sudsy tsunami. The coffee maker carafe shattered as the machine itself sent a geyser of boiling cappucino spurting skyward.

Then the frozen squirrels flew.

To her dying day, Marjorie couldn’t say exactly how the Caréme 6000 managed to launch the rock-hard varmints like a flight of furry missiles. It was the most sophisticated piece of food-handling equipment on earth: it found a way. The kitchen echoed with the howls of wounded reporters, caught in the barrage. The room was crisscrossed with the same golden beams of light that Marjorie had praised earlier as a safety feature. Now they were transformed into targeting devices to make any sniper proud. No sooner did one icy squirrel hit its mark and bounce off than the kitchen floor beneath it opened. The body-cum-brickbat was swallowed up and relaunched at its next target in a glorious display of recycling gone horribly, horribly wrong.

Boone and Betsy Newcomb had good instincts: they hit the floor the instant the first frostbitten critter took wing. Marjorie didn’t wait for an invitation to join them. Top-notch New York City realtors were top-notch survivors too. The three of them cowered together while the kitchen rained rodents and the voice of the Caréme 6000 called its owners everything from tin-plated, mouth-breathing hayseeds to inbred trailer-park trash to an astonishing set of verbal variations in the key of redneck. And through it all, Emily June Newcomb stood howling with glee, her point proven, her vendetta against Joss Parker complete.

She never saw the squirrel that got her. No one ever does.

The Newcomb-Parker nuptials were the wedding of the season. Marjorie served as matron of honor, walking down the aisle with a wreath of oak leaves perched atop her head. They were silk, of course, and the acorns a marvel of the master goldsmiths employed by Cartier. As she stood with the other wedding guests to toast the happy couple she finally had sufficient leisure to observe how her boss was enjoying his own wedding.

Joss Parker did seem to be having a fine time. He raised his Baccarat crystal flute, apparently at peace with the fact that it was filled to the brim with frothy chocolate milk instead of fine champagne.

And why wouldn’t he be happy? Marjorie thought. He adores celebrity, and the man who marries Emily June Newcomb’s got media attention in his pocket from here to the heat-death of the universe.

“To my lovely bride,” Joss Parker declared, lavishing a paparazzi -pleasing smile on the woman at his side. “They say fairy tales don’t come true, but we know better. I was blind to the real meaning of love until I saw what this fantastic girl was willing to do to make me pay attention. I want to thank her for that from the bottom of my heart. As you all might have noticed, everything about this wedding is a tribute to what my darling did for me on that unforgettable day. I love you, baby.”

In her state-of-the-art wheelchair, Emily June Newcomb stopped petting the toy squirrel in her lap long enough to look up at her new husband. Her vague smile and empty eyes didn’t look entirely out-of-place on a bride, but most everyone present knew they were permanent fixtures. She said nothing; she hadn’t said a single word since she’d come out of her rodent-induced coma. Very few people can take a frozen two-pound specimen of Sciurus carolinensis upside the skull at thirty miles per hour without damage. She was lucky to be alive.

“I’d also like to thank our good corporate friends at Mequizeen for being so gosh-darned understanding about the really creative way my Emily used their fabuloso Carème 6000 to show her love.” Joss gave his glass an extra lift to his honored guests, the Mequizeen Board of Directors.

Marjorie smirked. You’d better smile, boys, she thought. Sure, Emily June’s super-publicized love-tantrum lost you billions in business and left you bankrupt, but what can you do about it? Press charges against her for driving your Carème 6000 into mechanical apoplexy and you’ll look like the world’s worst bullies, attacking a woman who gave all and nearly lost all for love. The twit.

The toasts ended; the wedding cake made its grand appearance. It glided into the center of the room on an automated trolley, to the awed exclamations of the guests. Even Joss looked surprised. “I didn’t arrange this,” he said.

“We did,” said the CEO of the now-defunct Mequizeen corporation. His smile was suddenly genuine. With an elegantly synchronized movement, the entire BoD reached under their seats and donned motorcycle helmets just as a familiar voice from the wedding cake trolley exclaimed:

“Is that chocolate milk I see? In champagne glasses? Again ?!”

A frozen squirrel popped out of the center of the wedding cake’s top layer. A lone laser beam pin-pointed the center of Joss Parker’s forehead. Marjorie dove under the table.