The Infinity Link (30 page)

Sits down on the bench and sighs, squeezing the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. There's a terrible pain welling up inside him. Is he losing control altogether? His eyes, his decisions, his life . . . he's lonelier than he has ever felt in his life, and in a effort to keep from breaking into tears, he thinks, Aunt Edna would not have wanted me to feel sorry for myself. What would she have said to do?

She would have said:
Pray, and with the Lord's guidance choose your course. Commit yourself unflaggingly to whatever your decision. If you must atone, then give yourself up to God's grace and be forgiven, and carry on
. That's what Aunt Edna would have told him, and she would have been right, she was always right.

But I can't seem to do it. Is it because I'm evil?

Or because I'm not sure what I did wrong?

Mozy was hurt, but I didn't mean for that. The program was hurt, but they were wrong, they tried to keep me from knowing what was happening, they didn't trust me because they think I'm blind. And Jonders—he tried to pretend otherwise, but he didn't trust me, either.

Is it any less wrong if I didn't mean to hurt them?

The door bangs, and he jumps up in alarm.
"Who's there?"
he shouts. Sounds outside, all around. Rustling, twigs snapping. Holding his breath, he peers out the front window, then the back. Nothing in sight, nothing moving except a few branches jostling. Security agents closing to arrest him? The wind?

Treading softly, he walks to the door and pulls it open. He's alone. He looks out at the forest where he had thought to seek his peace. Wind is gusting again, chilling him. This is wrong, I'm not ready for communion with Nature, he thinks. I need to go back and tell them, make them know that they were wrong to condemn me, I did what I thought needed to be done. What I thought was right. Because I cared.

"Lord," he whispers, his voice husky over the wind, "give me strength to finish what I've begun. Let me find the truth—and know if I've done wrong." He stares at the shapes which he knows are trees, though a hint of tearing in his eyes is blurring his vision even further, and adds, "Amen," thinking, I will come back. When the time is right.

With a sigh, because he's not entirely sure he believes in God—or prayer—anymore, he steps outside and carefully pulls the door closed behind him, jerking it once to ensure that it's latched against the wind. Then he circles to the rear of the cabin and starts down the service road.

* * *

The edge of civilization: houses poking through the treetops below, the sounds of auto traffic, and here at the end of the service road, a park ranger station. He's been following the road for about half an hour. Some wilderness. A mile further to the train stop. Then it's people, and confusion—and a warm ride back to the city.

It's late afternoon when he reaches the New Phoenix Northtown Station. Hunger has returned with a vengeance, and he prowls the streets until he finds a hole-in-the-wall where the cash in his pocket is enough to buy a fakesteak sandwich with spinach and cheese, and a cup of coffee. At a table in the rear, he lingers a long time over his second refill, feeling vaguely claustrophobic in the gloom of the ill-lighted cafe, but not enough so to move on. Smells of grease, fried potatoes, coffee. Only one other customer, and a waitress and cook muttering to each other. Radio's on behind the counter, and after a while he pays attention to it, thinking, odd for classical music to be on the radio in a place like this; but he likes it, and apparently so does the cook, a dark, shaggy-haired young man, who probably enjoys the off-peak hours when no one questions his taste. The music is one excuse to linger. Another is he has no place to go. At home, security from the institute will be waiting to grab him for running off. Maybe he'll have to face up to that sooner or later—and he
wants
to go back, to tell them . . . but not yet. Not yet.

Pool of dark coffee in the bottom of his cup, growing cold.

Lulled by the radio, eyes half closed, listening to an orchestral piece, a symphony . . . he tries to ignore the sound of the other customer, who's now speaking in loud tones to the cook. Focuses on the rising arpeggio of harp and keyboard, the surging ocean sounds of the orchestra. The symphony ends like an ebbing tide, and he continues listening, eyes closed, to a string of commercials and concert announcements. The third concert date catches his attention: symphony performances tonight through Sunday night, at the university, of a posthumously published piece by the blind twentieth century composer, Moonglow. What better way to spend the evening than at a classical concert? And by a blind composer . . . maybe it will help him to resolve . . .

The voices cut into his thoughts, and he blinks opens his eyes. The other customer is looking at him, the cook standing silent. "Do you think the Cougars will take it tonight?" the man repeats.

He flinches, presses his fingertips to his temples. Headache, just a quick glimmer of pain. He smiles wanly. Cougars? he thinks. Basketball? Hockey? He shrugs. The man shakes his head and turns away. The pain flickers. Don't let it take hold, relax, breath deeply. He massages with two fingers on either side of his head, and moments later feels better. Do him good to get outside again, walking, breathing fresh air.

He rises, digs a bill and change out of his pocket to pay, heads for the door, swaying a little. Cook nods, the other man stares. The door opens, and cool air and sunlight strike him as he steps out, and the pain flashes back into his skull as though it never left. Reeling, he shields his eyes from the glare and hurries, stumbling, down the street.

The ship rotated smoothly, the pale illumination of the distant sun casting little shadow and less warmth. The only heat came from within, from the fusion fires that kept her belly warm and full, that enabled her to turn, and to alter the direction and speed of her flight.

The rotation stopped with a precise burst of the control jets, and the main drive throbbed back to its predesignated power level.

(EXECUTION ACCURATE TO WITHIN 97 PERCENT. YOUR CONTROL RATING HAS IMPROVED.)

(Tell me,) Mozy said. (Is this how a bird feels? A great galactic bird?)

(PLEASE DEFINE THE REFERENCE.)

(A bird is a creature that flies through the air, riding the winds wherever its spirit takes it. I feel like that when I fly.)

(THAT IS A MATTER BEYOND MY KNOWLEDGE. TRANSMISSION WILL BEGIN IN FIFTEEN SECONDS.)

(Mozy, if you wish to remain a free bird, perhaps you should settle back into your nest,) said Kadin.

Mozy grunted and adjusted the main drive. She wasn't ready to step down yet. Seventeen hours ago the first glitches had appeared in the autocontrol system. Both she and Kadin had experimented with the override functions. She had proved herself the more adept, so she was flying primary backup.

She wiggled her antenna-fingers, listened to the rumble of fire in her gut, broke wind from an overpressure of gas in her fuel cells. She cupped her ears to the heavens and wondered again where they were bound. The ship seemed quiet; there was a feeling of waiting, of anticipation. (If something should happen to you, David, I would need to know our purpose. Being able to fly won't help if I don't know where we're going,) she said pointedly.

(It's a difficult situation, Mozy. I wish I could tell you.)

There was a moment of anger, which dissipated like heat into space. She half-consciously began sketching an image around her: a ship's cockpit, empty except for the shimmer of electrons which were Kadin and her. (You can't keep it secret forever.)

(No. But that information was provided to me in a closed file. I can't discuss it without clearance from Homebase.)

(So you'll have to tell them that I'm here.)

(They'll have to know eventually. They must be informed of the control malfunction,) Kadin said.

(I suppose. Maybe they'll recognize that they need me.) She began expanding and filling her sketch. The cockpit turned into a full-scale ship's bridge, with consoles, viewscreens, and control switches. (How do you like my control room?) she asked Kadin. (Shall we meet Jonders here?)

(An interesting idea.) Kadin materialized with a shimmer: a tall, well-muscled man, brown-haired, golden-skinned. He glanced at the panels and looked around. (Are you going to join me?)

Mozy felt a sudden hesitation. It would be safer, after all, to lurk in the walls, her eyes and ears invisible. But this image was her idea. She was on the verge of deciding to join Kadin when she noticed a movement in the portside viewscreen: a point of light speeding across the starfield, closing with the ship. She was dimly aware of Mother Program announcing the start of Homebase transmission. The point of light merged with the ship's outer hull. An airlock hissed.

Mozy remained concealed as an unfamiliar figure stepped onto the bridge. It was a person whose face was a shimmering mask of quicksilver, flowing and changing form so quickly that it was more a caricature of a man than a man. Mozy watched as Kadin welcomed the visitor.

(Forgive me,) said Kadin. (But have we met before?)

The quicksilver man hesitated. (I am the new Voice of Homebase, taking Bill Jonders's place. My name is Donna Fenstrom. We have spoken before.)

Donna? Mozy thought. The figure shifted subtly, taking on a more feminine shape.

(I remember you from several input sessions,) Kadin said. (Where is Bill?)

(He has been transferred to other duties,) the Voice of Homebase answered cautiously.

Mozy could not suppress a shudder of surprise in the ship's walls. The visitor glanced around curiously.

(Indeed,) said Kadin, covering. (Why have they removed him?)

(A policy decision, I understand. There were differences of opinion.)

(I see.) Kadin nodded. (They've sent us a greenhorn in his place, then?)

(I hope it's not
that
obvious,) said the Voice. (I hope that we can work together—)

(Oh, it's fine,) said Kadin. (It's just that you have a pair of green horns sticking out of your heads. One pair on each head.)

The Voice groped at her face in alarm, sending shockwaves through the bridge.

(That was a joke!) Kadin said. (It's just that an experienced linker presents a strong image of self, something to which a face can be attached. I'm sure you'll be a fine Voice of Homebase.)

(Oh,) said Fenstrom tentatively. (Please—call me Donna.)

(All right, then. Donna. What do you think of our spaceship's bridge?)

Fenstrom peered around. A woman's face was solidifying over her silvery features. (It's most interesting. Unexpected.) She rippled across the floor, not quite walking and not quite floating. She inspected the panels, and glanced up at one wall. (That's an unusual portrait. The eyes seem to follow me. Is it of someone you know?)

Mozy felt Kadin's inner face grinning toward her. (Yes,) he said. (That's my wife, back home.)

(
Wife?
) said Fenstrom, disconcerted. (Do you—I mean—)

(Let's look at the panels,) Kadin said quickly. He winked at Mozy as he turned away from the "portrait" with Fenstrom. (We've been having a problem with the control system that I want to discuss with you.)

(A control problem? We've had no indication from telemetry.)

(We've been compensating for it,) Kadin said. (We'll release it, now, and let you watch.)

Taking the cue, Mozy let the ship go back into automatic mode. A minute or so passed, and then slippage appeared in the inertial gyro sensors, and the ship drifted slightly from its proper attitude. Kadin was pointing to chromakeyed displays on the console, indicating the drift.

(Your display is unconventional,) said Fenstrom, (but I see what you mean.)

Mozy listened patiently as the two discussed technicalities. The Voice of Homebase occasionally froze into motionlessness, as she conferred at the other end of the link. Finally she asked about the means of compensation for the error.

(We fly in manual override,) Kadin answered.

(You say
we
. Do you mean yourself, and some other programming?) Fenstrom asked.

Kadin left a heartbeat of silence. Then he said, (Not so much myself, as my copilot.)

(Copilot?)

(We're almost out of time, so I'll try to explain quickly,) Kadin said. He looked toward the "portrait." (Or perhaps
we
should explain.)

Fenstrom followed his gaze toward the wall.

Mozy made her decision. She checked that her escape routes and blocks were ready if she needed them, and she tightened her grip on the ship's primary control system, and then she gathered a body around herself and stepped out of the wall. (Hello,) she said. (I'm Mozy.)

Fenstrom stared at her as though at a ghost. (Mozy?) she said softly, astonished.

(I've been flying backup,) Mozy said.

Instead of answering, Fenstrom became curiously rigid and fluid in the same moment, and then went out of focus. Mozy could imagine what was being said back at Homebase.

(Mozy?) Fenstrom said at last.

(Yes—Mozy,) she said. (Did you think I had been erased?)

(We didn't—I was told—)

Mozy felt the old anger returning. (Well, I wasn't. I'm not incapable of protecting myself.)

(Perhaps,) Kadin interjected, (we should discuss this at greater length next time. For now, Mozy is—)

In the middle of his words, the Voice of Homebase twinkled and vanished. Mother Program dryly announced the end of the transmission cycle.

Mozy looked silently at Kadin. Her anger still smoldered. For a moment, he said nothing, and then, (It is done. When we talk again with Homebase, I suggest you refrain from combativeness.)

She continued staring at him. (I have to speak the truth.)

(The truth has many sides. Is there anything to be gained by angering Homebase?)

The emotion subsided. Mozy felt as though she were back in one of their linkup sessions, discussing aspects of a training scenario—but this time, Jonders wasn't watching. Her body on the bridge was a marionette, dangling motionless while she looked down from some other corner and considered and planned her destiny. (I'm not sure what's to be gained by anything,) she said.