Sourdough

by Robin Sloan

Once, I asked him: Do you … shower? He shrugged and said: The last time I showered was before I arrived here. Almost a year ago. A year without a shower! The idea of it made my skin crawl. And he did have a ripeness to him, but like the cheese he created, it wasn’t unpleasant. Agrippa had achieved equilibrium. He had won the inhabitants of his underarms to his cause.

“What if the King Arthur wins?” “Hey now! You gotta believe in your starter,” he said. “It can hear you. It’s right there. You need to have a warrior spirit, too! Lead the way!” I stood up. Stared down into the crock. The pale gray scum was no less pale, gray, or scummy than ever before. “Are you ready to fight?” I asked it. “There you go,” Agrippa said. “Are you ready to fight?” I cried. “There you go!” “Are you ready to fight?!” I held the crock over my head and stomped my feet. A starburst of shadows spun around me, cast by the lights of the bridge and the port and the city and the brewery, all the lights of civilization. Agrippa got up, too, and started howling and dancing along. The goats stayed on the far side of the airfield—wisely—but Hercules the alpaca wandered closer, curious.