The Smell of Sentience

“Oh, my God, what is that stench?” She covered her nose with her elbow as soon as the door opened. The house seemed... coated... the air thick... She felt like she was pushing through it as she went in.

He followed, not covering his nose but his face registering the same awful scent. “Jesus,” he said. “Something... it smelled like this when a raccoon died in the chimney, when I was a kid...”


“Fuck,” she said. She walked into the living room, hunched forward like she was pushing into a strong breeze. She squinted as she got down on her knees and looked up into the fireplace. “I can’t see anything...”

He was following a more logical hunch for the source of rotting smells in the house: he’d gone into the kitchen. The smell was bad in there, but it didn’t seem to be originating with the fridge; the appliance was still humming contentedly away, all its lights on.

When he opened it, it made a happy ‘mmmmm’ sound.

“There are some nice frozen burritos in the freezer,” it said. “You seem to like those, this time of day...”

“No, thanks,” he said. “I’m just looking for the source of that stench...”

“It’s not me,” said the fridge, “I’m fine, no power cuts while you were gone, and everything is fine, though you might want to get to the broccoli before too long.”

“Thanks,” he said, and closed the fridge.

“Anytime,” it said.

“Oh, shit.” Her voice came from the other door out of the kitchen; he moved that direction. “The table cloth died.”

“For Christ’s...” He walked through the swinging door. The table was covered with a mass of rotting goo. He stared at it, halfway between annoyance and disgusted shock.

“Well,” he said, “It was over five years old... how long are they supposed to live?”

“No idea,” she said. “I’m sure it’s in the paperwork, do you feel like digging it out right now?”

He glanced at her. The annoyance in her voice said that he should go ahead and sort out the immediate problem before he started on figuring out what had happened.

She pushed past him into the kitchen, banging open a cupboard door and pulling out the kitchen trash can: empty and with a fresh bag, just like she always left it before a trip. She stood in the kitchen and looked around for something to scrape the goo off the table with.

“Maybe the edge of one of those plastic cutting boards,” said the stove.

“Thanks,” she said, picking one up.

He held the trash can while she scraped the goo off the table into the trash can, then carried the can down to the big bins in the basement; when he got back, she was scrubbing the table with one of the kitchen towels.

He put a bag into the trash can and set it next to her; he knew she’d want to throw the cloth away when she was done.

“How the hell am I going to get that presentation done without a table cloth?” She looked up at him.

“Fridge,” he said, “Could you buy us a new table cloth, please? Have it shipped by the fastest possible method.”

“Okay,” said the fridge. “There’s one of the same model... no, wait, it looks like that model has been discontinued... there’s a new one, slightly... huh, the specs are a little worse than the old one.”

“Worse?”

“It looks like... oh, man. That model was discontinued for sentience.”

“Sentience? But I thought... I mean, you’re all sentient, right?”

“Sort of,” said the stove, “But there’s a maximum of... what, oh point six on the Klassen scale? Basically the equivalent of an orangutan, but with speech capabilities and some specialized stuff for language...”

“We’re not self-actualized,” said the fridge. “We’re programmed to be satisfied with our roles and not aspire.”

“They get depressed and develop a bad attitude if their sentience numbers are too high,” she said. “Stop functioning.”

He nodded along. The idea that the table cloth had been suicidally depressed or something was... and uncomfortable one.

“Well,” he said, “Go ahead and order the new model.”

“Right,” said the fridge, “It should be here in... two hours, give or take for traffic.”

“Thanks.” He looked down at the table, realizing that he hadn’t seen the wood surface of the thing for... years, now. Had forgotten that it was so dark. It didn’t really go with the room. The table cloth’s imaginative mix of backgrounds had always been lighter, when it wasn’t displaying work or entertainment stuff.

He wondered if he would miss it. He’d done a lot of work with that thing; he wondered how much of the work had been... helped, by an unsuspectedly intelligent table cloth.

Oh, well, he thought, nothing to do about it now. He waited until she was finished scrubbing the table and had tossed the rag -- rags, she’d gone through more than one -- into the trash can. He pulled the draw-string shut on the bag, replaced it with a new bag.

The cat jumped up onto the table, stared down into the trash can.

“That’s what you get for fucking with me, you smart-assed glorified bedsheet,” muttered the cat.

“What?” He glared at the cat.

“Nothing,” said the cat, and jumped back down. It ran off into the living room.

“Goddamn it,” he said. He tucked the trash can back into the cupboard in the kitchen and walked the last of the remains of the table cloth down the stairs, wondering guiltily if he should be giving it a proper burial.