A Girl’s Memento
by Garry Vakarian
The sound of the keys was uninterrupted for a whooping thirty minutes. A new record I thought. Since Motoko changed her hands for prosthetics, she could write all of her ideas down, and not lose a single one. For me, it was a relief, but also a curse. The good thing was that she lost her temper, and became sweet as a Texan cacti flower. The worst thing was that I became more a bellboy to her, filling up her mug every five minutes or so.
Aside her old keyboard, the mug was the only object on the table. I always wondered, why she kept using this crazy-old tech when everybody swapped mechanical interfaces for holohaptic ones, ages ago. The mug, I could understand. Not everyone was okay with Nutripills. So old beverages, like coffee, or beer, were still available. And it was a memento from her father.
She liked to tell the story of this mug time and again. Her old man was a soldier in the Martian campaign, killing colonists in the name of Earth’s government. He had found it in the rubbles of a downed Havoc starfighter, and had carried it with him ever since. It survived bullets, nuclear detonations and repeated contacts with a Strogg’s skull. Motoko often joked that, thanks to daddy’s mug, every drink she had were strong. Oh funny…
Talking about tea, hers lasted two minutes so I had to get another one before she would notice, and go berserk on me. I took the old mug to the counter, and asked the droid clerk for a refill. The lone star special was Motoko’s favorite blend, and this bar was the only one in the biodome to offer it. Once the black liquid blowing out of the tin can’s nose had filled up the mug, I came back to Motoko’s side. “Thanks sweetie” she said with her lovely smile. And I thought, just in time, pfew!
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