O Master Caliban (13 page)

ARDAGH WIPED
the
place down hard with alcohol and pinched the skin so that the hard knob stood out. Then she took the knife and made a clean section slightly longer than a centimeter. The transmitter popped out on a small well of blood. She caught it in her palm. “Here, Shirvanian, it’s all yours. I’d have been embarrassed if that was a tumor.”

“So would I,” said Sven. “Now let’s pretend they won’t kill me without it and they can’t kill him with it.”

Ardagh squeezed the cut once, lightly, to bleed it a bit more, and when it slowed cleaned it, pushed a gauze pad against it and taped it firmly. “I’m good with frogs and rats, but I’ve never gone higher yet.” She knew it hurt; she didn’t ask. She glanced at his face, then put her finger to her lips and touched the bandage.

“You could be a little more direct,” Sven said. “I think I deserve more.”

She looked around. Except for Shirvanian, who was examining the transmitter for signs of deterioration, the others were so tired their heads were nodding at the firelight. She pulled his face down and kissed his cheek. They were both dirty and sweaty, but she still carried a small fragrance of the world she had come from. “Thank you,” said Sven. “Now where are you going to put it, Shirvanian?”

“Let me have some of the tape,” Shirvanian said. He pulled up his jersey to expose a small pot belly, pushed the transmitter into his navel, and fastened it with the tape.

“New belly button,” said Esther. “You won’t lose it there, I guess.”

They had struggled up and then down the zone baffle and cut back toward the road, where the bricks were blue now; they had camped half a kilometer away. There were no erg patrols; one ore carrier had passed them by. The trees had thickened so that even the dead ones stood stiff in their buttresses or were supported by
lianas gross as trees had been in Zone Green. The forest was hunched and brooding, the ferns stunted and pocked with nodules; the floor was almost bare, and they had spread out a groundsheet over a mattress of twigs, with another set up at an angle to blunt the wet winds from the east and catch a little warmth from the fire. It was past sundown, nearly seven hours to midnight. The evening was quiet: animal noises, a little rain spatter, a lightning flicker. A moth or two jittered near the flames and caught red light on its wings.

Koz, too, was quiet. He had set his idol, Mother Shrinigasa, between himself and the fire, and his lips were moving in prayer. His wrists and ankles were haltered to allow movement, and he had not protested. He was aware of what had happened. Since his training had enabled him to stay at ease he had not disturbed the others, and they managed to treat him as before. But Mitzi was careful not to bait him.

“Day and a half, twenty-five kilometers,” said Esther. “Only fair. We started thirteen from Zone Blue and there are three-four to the factory ...”

“Yah, this time tomorrow we’ll be okay or dead,” said Shirvanian. He shivered and pulled his blanket tighter around him. Esther had noticed a mold spot behind his ear, and her scraping and scrubbing was the final knock on his exhaustion.

“Okay or dead,” Mitzi echoed. “I don’t think I really give a damn.”

Sven was thinking of the cage. The beasts. The face of Dahlgren.

Staring through the bars.

He said, “The things in the cage ...”

Ardagh yawned. “Clones, maybe.”

“You think so? How? Why?”

“I don’t know why. But there were samples around the lab. Spit here, scrape there, pee in that. Sperm and ova. Esther said so. Maybe ... maybe Dahlgren wanted kids—”

“Ugh.” But he got me.

“Though if he was as good as you say, they should have turned out better. They looked like a botch.”

“The lab techs wouldn’t have left one with a harelip,” said Esther. “What’s the matter, Shirvanian? You feeling worse?”

“The things in the cage. I didn’t like them.”

“I don’t think they were meant to be liked. They didn’t even like each other.”

“What they were doing ...”

Esther reached over to pull the blanket around his head and tuck it tighter. “Usually it goes with affection, and maybe even love. Wait and see.”

“I won’t—” Shirvanian began, and pulled his lips tight.

Mitzi said through a yawn, “Shirvanian’s gonna build himself a mechanical girl when he grows up.”

“Why not?” Shirvanian was not annoyed. “Long as she’s not like erg-Queen.”

Shirvanian, friendless and adored focus of the family burning-glass at age six, had built himself a friend, a very small non-humanoid robot. It did what he wanted: raided the pantry for candy, stole components from warehouses to repair his other machines, composed excuses for tardiness and bed-wetting. His parents had seized upon it and entered it in a competition where it won scholarships, respectful tutors, advanced degrees, more adoration. He despised his parents.

He pushed Esther’s hands away. “Leave me alone.”

“You yell for Mama when you’re in trouble, don’t you?”

“You think you can read minds?”

“No. I learned a little about kids. Why?”

“I was thinking about ...” ...
such a dangerous question. Why not? Why not? Why not?

Being, you stupid child ...

“I am not! and I do hate—”

“What are you saying?”

Winds gusted and the heavy lianas creaked around the trees. Spatters hissed in the fire. The night closed down.

He pulled himself away and in, so tight his eyes crossed, half closed his lids, his jaws clenched. “The Dahlgren says.” The words pushed through his stiff lips. “Do you hate Mod Seven Seven Seven?”

“Fever,” Esther muttered.

“No!” He struggled with the blanket. “Oh no, no!”

“Not you too!” Esther grabbed, tried to hold him. “You’ll get worse!”

Sven said, “He’s full of solcillin. Let him chatter if he wants.”

“All right, talk! But keep the blanket on.”

Shirvanian squeezed his eyes shut and stuck his fingers in his ears. “Dahlgren says. I don’t hate. I despise.” He swallowed. “That is dangerous.”

They waited, eyes on him, uncomprehending.

Sweat-beads burst on his forehead. “Mod Dahlgren One says. She does not always control me. Oh, I know the
being
that
hates her.
Shirvanian says
she broke my bird.
Dahlgren moves away and is afraid of me. I will not hurt you Dahlgren. I am not made to hurt. Will you play chess? No I want to go to bed. Now. Mod Seven Seven Seven is coming. She can stop my being. I want to go on being. Dahlgren is correct: it is dangerous. Help. I cannot break. I must break circuit and clear this train of thought. Help! Please. Please?” The automaton voice ended, his eyes opened. “Think about something else, you stupid machine! Think of chess, you must have read books! Any page!
The Middle Game in
...” He went limp, breathing hard. “He made it.”

Esther wiped his forehead. “He’s cool.”

Shirvanian’s voice was cold. “You thought I was delirious?”

“Nobody knows what you’ve been saying,” Sven said. “Maybe you’d better tell us ignoramuses.”

Shirvanian pulled in again and shivered. “I don’t think you’ll like it.”

“I know we won’t like it,” said Esther. “But we better find out.”

“Dahlgren’s alive, a prisoner.” Shirvanian licked his lips. “But she’s going to kill him, Mod Seven Seven Seven, the erg-Queen, she made the robot, the Dahlgren android she calls Mod Dahlgren One, to take his place at GalFed,” the words tumbled, “I’m not sure why, and she’s got them playing chess so the—the machine can learn what he’s, what Dahlgren’s like, but he learned, the Dahlgren robot, more than she wanted, so she doesn’t trust him, he thinks she’s going to turn him off and ... and, he asked for help ...” Shirvanian looked down and twisted the blanket-corner in his hands. “He picked me up on some kind of esp band, and he—he just called ... out ...”

“A robot? Asked for help?”

“Erg-Queen can read him, but he’s got more storage than she can monitor all the time ... she thinks she and the ergs did too good a job, made him too. Human.”

“Shirvanian!” Sven cried. “Is it true? Is it real or are you dreaming? Do you know the difference?”

Shirvanian beat his clenched fists together. “Did I turn off the servos? Was that dreaming? I’ve done all I could and you just think I’m some kind of dumb weird kid.”

“I don’t think you’re dumb,” said Esther. “I just don’t understand a machine calling for help.”

Shirvanian went on twisting the blanket. “I told him how to break the circuit ... I said you wouldn’t like it.”

“That’s not what I don’t like,” said Esther. “Dahlgren ...”

“Dahlgren is alive and a prisoner. I told you.” He looked straight at Sven and tears rose in his eyes. “Please?”

The hot lead ran out of Sven’s heart. “I’ll take your word.”

“But they’re going to kill him. That I don’t like,” said Esther.

“And he did call for help. I mean Mod Dahlgren. I had to ...”

“You helped because it’s a machine!” said Mitzi. “I think you’re one too! Maybe we ought to take you apart and find out!”

“Mitzi, can’t you find yourself some kind of pill?”

Esther picked up Shirvanian, clasped him round like a baby, and pulled back under the shelter. “Dahlgren is alive. So far.”

Mitzi said, “If that thing can pick up Shirvanian it can find out whatever we’re planning. Do you think it’s going to be grateful for your help?”

“Maybe not. But if that one gets knocked off there’ll be another. I’m sure of that.”

Shirvanian did not struggle in Esther’s arms. He was too tired. He said through a yawn, “The Dahlgren-erg’s a prisoner too. It’s scared. Frightened machine, huh, scared of erg-Queen. He asked Dahlgren if he hated her. Found out he’d reached me. Asked for. Help ...”

“But it’s more dangerous!” cried Mitzi. “Can you turn it off?”

“Just like I can shut you up,” Shirvanian buzzed, and fell asleep.

Esther put Shirvanian down. “I think there’s a spare knit bag in the pack. Fill it with some dry moss and shove it under him so he’ll have something to sweat on.” She turned to Sven, who was brooding by the fire with his arms circling his knees. “You feel a little better?”

“They killed the others. They’ll kill him.”

“Since he wasn’t controlling them it’s a miracle they haven’t killed him yet. They couldn’t have been planning to award him the Stainless Steel Medal. If,” she nodded toward Mitzi, “they find out our plans, we can make as many plans as they can make moves. In chess games there’s millions of moves and not many surprises.”

“Yes,” said Joshua gently. “Just mistakes.”

Sven slept with his questions. Dahlgren alive? Check mark. And a prisoner? Check. But four arms? The clones in the cage? Harelip? Erg-Dahlgren?

The factory; the rads, 1 per hour now; if the ergs were not to kill him he was free to move among them without the transmitter—was Shirvanian safe with it? Suppose the plan had been changed and Shirvanian had simply unfolded their vulnerable sides? And Koz, painful, not to be trusted, his psyche enclosed in brittle shells?

His thoughts did not even take dream shapes, but extended and protracted in Euclidean nakedness. One light kiss, a shield, and his father living ...

A teardrop wakened him.

“It’s your watch,” Mitzi whispered. She knelt beside him.

The fire was low. Yigal snored beside it, wrapped in waterproofing. In the shelter the sleepers huddled like fetuses, Esther in a tree, covered with leaves. The forest rustled, the mists waited to engulf their breathing space.

He wiped her tear from his face. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” Her eyes swam, her hair was lit in gold whorls from the fire. “I killed a couple of bugs with stings. Something ran over my foot, I didn’t see what.” She had raw pink mold scars on her jaw and neck, round as coins.

He sat up and stretched. She flung herself against him, knocked his wind out, and his arms went round her in reflex. She was shaking. He didn’t know what to say. “It’s not raining.”

“I’m scared.” Her hands thrust under his clothes and ran up his back like small wild animals. He shivered with her.

“It’s the universal condition.”

“Don’t joke.”

“I’m not.” He was trying to decide what to think, feel, or do At the moment he was as scared of Mitzi as of anything else. Her cold fingers pinched and kneaded his back; she had had practice. But the tears kept running. He picked her up and moved away a space, to a clump of ferns, and crouched among them. Some broke as he brushed them; some scratched. They had narrowed and sharpened into spines, a few into dark reddish thorns. The sobs ground in her throat, her hands worked writhing on his back; he pulled them away, gently, and her arms locked round his neck. “You have to sleep.”

“I don’t, I can’t!”

Her hair was in his eyes, nose, mouth; it smelled of the forest dampness.
And the male snarled and slammed her away with his shoulder,
very simple.

“I have to watch ...”

“We’re all going to die anyway, so what?” She unwound one arm from his neck, her hand snaked in and down the skin of his belly and coiled about him; he pulsed.

“Mitzi ...” He was afraid of her and full of desire.