The Saffron Malformation (37 page)

             
“Whatever you’d like,” she replied.

             
“What if I would like to leave?” he asked.

             
Ryla had starred at him then and asked, “Why would you want to do that?”

             
Jacob had tossed his hand up dismissively, “Why does any prisoner flee incarceration.”

             
“You’re not a prisoner,” she replied.

             
“Am I not?”

             
Ryla sighed.  “I’ll tell you what, in a year or so, when you’re finished, I’ll take you anywhere you’d like to go.”

             
“Why will it take a year to finish me?”

             
“I don’t have the parts.”

             
“There are plenty of parts.  I’ve seen them in the basement.”

             
“I wanted to give you a body like… that looks like I have, only male.”

             
Jacob thought briefly on that and asked, “Why would I want that?”

             
“So you can blend in and go wherever you like.”

             
“What?  Like you?  So I can wander around pretending to be what I’m not.”

             
“What do you know about what I am?” she asked, peering at him.

             
“I know plenty about what you are.  You’re a weak, scared little thing that hides in this place and doesn’t have the courage to admit you don’t belong.  You don’t belong here with these robots any more than you do out there with those humans.”

             
“Jacob,” she said calmly, “Why would you-”

             
“And you are not what you claim.  The worst, and possibly saddest, part of your hypocrisy is that you’re oblivious to it.”

             
It was the following week that he tried to kill her.  He would have succeeded too, if she’d have given him a better body.  Jacob had come at her with a knife but had missed.  Ryla was able to get behind him and pull the chord connecting his head to his body.  He’d been locked in the basement, resting on that table ever since.  She severed his tie to the planetary networks signal but it was too late.  She tried to talk with him everyday for a while after that, hoping somewhere in there she could find a way of reasoning with him but there seemed to be none.  His mind was made up, his beliefs were in place and there was nothing she could do to change either.

             
She’d gone back down there today in hopes that she could talk with him the way Quey did with her, but she lacked that skill and their conversation went back to a debate of fact and perception.  She couldn’t make a joke as he would have.  She couldn’t just ‘have a chat,’ as the book she was reading suggested was healthy.  Perhaps she could teach him a hobby or find one he liked.  Perhaps he was all ready too far gone.

             
She sighed.

             
When the doors opened and she stepped out onto the third floor she felt drained.  Months of laboring and all she had to show for it was a head in her basement that wanted to kill her.

             
Ryla moved to her bedroom and collapsed on the bed.  Boyfriend came around to check on her and she asked him to lie down with her.  Of course, he did as he was asked without protest.

             
She lay there thinking about that and for a moment she thought she understood Jacob.  Wasn’t that the reason she built him to begin with, to have someone around that didn’t follow programming?  And she wondered then if Boyfriend’s programming was enslaving him.  She wondered if somewhere deep down in a place he couldn’t express he hated her.

             
Ryla shook her head.  That was crazy.  That wasn’t the way it worked.  Boyfriend couldn’t hate her deep down somewhere because he was a product of his programming.

             
She sat up suddenly.  Wasn’t that Jacob’s point as well?

             
Suddenly she growled then stood up and stormed off.

Hidden Truths and Burning Lies

             
Rachel’s pupils shrank to pinpricks of black amidst the variety of shades of brown in her iris then expanded again, just as they should, when Natalie moved the light away again.  She could follow the pen and didn’t seem to have any balance issues.  Still, there were a few things throughout the exam that troubled Natalie, though she couldn’t say for sure what or why.  It was just a feeling.

             
“I really think you should go to a place that can do a proper brain scan.  The hospital here has an imag-”

             
“You think something’s wrong?” Dusty asked worriedly.

             
The three of them were in Natalie’s kitchen, dimmed by the closed blinds over the room’s only windows.  Rachel sat on one of the chairs with Natalie across from her while Dusty leaned against the counter.  They’d neglected consulting anyone about Rachel’s injury for nearly half a year now but everything had seemed okay until that morning when she’d awoken with a vicious headache and finally admitted she’d been having minor ones for a while.  Later that morning while they were at breakfast her nose began to bleed a bit, seemingly for no reason.

             
“Look,” Quey had said, “Just go to Natalie, have her do a once over and see what she says.”

             
Rachel tried to play everything off as no big deal, claiming she didn’t want to put Natalie out, not after the news they’d just delivered but Dusty insisted and Quey agreed and she realized that further denial would only result in an argument so she conceded.

             
Truth was she was scared and a big part of her didn’t want to know the truth.  The road had been fun, as much for Rachel as Dusty.  Fen Quada had been scary as hell, and Bravette hadn’t been anything she’d buy a ticket to again but as a whole the experience had been rather pleasant.  The hours spent in the car with the rolling landscapes passing outside while they laughed and talked in a way they hadn’t since they first met had her feeling like a teenager again.  Then there were the sweaty nights in the expensive city suites and cheap motels along the road.  Places with faded holographic beckonings of ‘Vacancy’ and sometimes ‘Free breakfast,’ though more often than not that was a spread of muffins and doughnuts and a bit of bitter coffee.  Still, it was good, especially after a passionate night filled with acts as seedy as where they were taking place.

             
She knew things could have gone either way on the road.  All that time crammed together might have driven them apart.  They might have fought endlessly and sure, once in a while they had a spat and one or both of them would go for a walk, but in the end they realized how silly whatever had come up was.  Eventually they came back, and that was always fun.

             
A little truth she didn’t mind admitting was that the time on the road hadn’t conjured even half as many arguments as planning their wedding had.  This was a fact Dusty had pointed out one night as he rolled off her back and collapsed beside her, breathing heavily.  They’d had a bit of a spat about an hour before but it hadn’t lasted long and he’d reminded her how much rougher their fights had been about things as trivial as invitations and guest lists and the like.

             
The road was the best thing that had happened to them, as a couple, since getting engaged.  They’d talked about traveling some day, Dusty claiming he’d been to a lot of places, sure, but it’d be nice to see one of them from a vantage point that didn’t include garbage or alleyways.  He’d like to stay in a place that hadn’t been abandoned and didn’t smell like various bodily excretions.  Now they were.  They weren’t always staying in the finest of hotels, but thanks to Quey they managed a few here or there.

             
Whenever they did, Dusty and Rachel seemed to play one of two games.  They would play ‘fancy people,’ where they pretended to be rich, sometimes famous people, on holiday (because it’s fancier to say holiday than vacation) who just would like to not be bothered.  The other game they tended toward was meeting in the bar for an illicit encounter.  Sometimes they’d be travelers on business there for one night looking for a bit of company, possibly married.  Sometimes a certain mood would come over them and Rachel would pretend to be a very expensive escort (because once you reached a certain level the term prostitute no longer applied).

             
It was fun in a way she never considered.  It was carefree and liberating, just going along with the road and choosing where to be next on whims.  But now reality was trying to settle on the game.  The road had been dangerous as well, and it had almost killed her right at the start.  In Natalie’s kitchen, with the blinds pulled and the lights off, they were looking to find out if it still might.

             
Dusty was looking at Natalie, his question hanging heavy from his shoulders.  “You think something’s wrong?”

             
“I don’t know,” Natalie said, scratching her forehead nervously.  “But I’m not a neurologist, hell technically I’m not even a doctor.”

             
Rachel looked over at Dusty who said, “We just need to know what you think.”

             
Natalie stood, turning off her penlight, and crossed to the window where she pulled the blinds open.  “And I told you.”

             
“I mean did you find anything not quite right.”

             
“Of course she did,” Rachel said, her voice slightly patronizing and he looked at her with a bit of surprise.  It wasn’t like her to be condescending.  “You think she’d tell us to go to the hospital and have tests run if she didn’t?”

             
Dusty looked at Natalie whose face showed what Rachel was saying was true.  She shrugged.  “I don’t know and that’s the problem.  Plus,” she began with a sigh, “This kitchen exam isn’t a three dimensional brain mapping, it’s an archaic field test no doctor in their right mind would rely on these days.”

             
Dusty’s face shrank and he took a breath.

             
“The brain is a strange organ.  When I was in med-school I heard a story about a guy who got shot in the head and was walking around that same afternoon with nothing but a few bandages and a couple of pain killers.  There are also stories of people sneezing and dropping dead of an aneurism.”  Natalie looked over at Rachel and said, “Shit, sometimes they don’t even sneeze.  Sometimes they just collapse.  That’s the brain for you,” she concluded with a shrug.

             
After a moment of silence Dusty said, “Okay.”

             
Both women looked over at him.

             
“We get the tests.”  He looked directly at Rachel.  “We pay cash, we’re in and out.”

             
Natalie looked at them both with a bit of suspicion.  There was something on both their minds and neither of them wanted to mention what it might be, so she offered some information.  “Northshire’s registered.  May look and feel like a quaint little place but rest assured that’s by design.  Blue Moon is here, security outpost and all.”  She took her gaze from theirs and let it drift to the wall as she said the last part.  “Just wanted to let you know, in case there’s some reason you wouldn’t want to scan into a registered facility.”

             
Dusty and Rachel looked at each other and engaged in a brief and silent conversation of glances and looks.  “Ask,” Rachel finally said.

             
Sighing, Dusty turned toward Natalie and asked, “Say there was,” he began.

             
“I don’t know where the nearest unregistered imager is,” she interrupted.  “Been out of the loop for a while.”

             
Dusty ran a hand through his hair and noticed Rachel slump in her chair as if her own weight just became difficult to bear.  He went to her and sat in the chair across from her and took her hand.  “Hey,” he said.  “Everything’s going to be fine.”

             
Rachel nodded.  “Quey’ll be mad if we tell him won’t he?”

             
Dusty huffed, “Naw.”

             
She looked at him sideways and with a curl on one end of her lips.

             
He smiled, “He might be a little perturbed, but mad?”  Dusty shook his head.  “It’s not his way.  We’re his crew and to people like us that means something.”

             
The two of them chuckled a bit but there was no humor in it.  Both of them had been shattered into desperate little pieces just trying to figure out a way to be whole again.

             
Finally, after a long moment, during which Natalie sucked her bottom lip and furrowed her brow, the almost-doctor asked, “How long will you be in town?”

             
Dusty and Rachel looked up at her.

             
“I might be able to help you,” she added and the couple looked to each other once again.  This time the smile that passed between them was silent and genuine.

             
When the doorbell rang Natalie answered and Quey could tell that something was amiss.  Reggie was standing beside him and he was already a bit put off since Quey had to pull him away from a pair of ladies who’d been in the lobby bar to come out here.

             
“Come on man,” the big man had protested, “one of ‘em coulda been for you.”

             
Then he laughed, took a swig of whatever he’d been drinking and patted Quey’s arm.  He considered leaving the big man to his business, but the way Natalie looked when she’d called and the fact that he knew Dusty and Rachel had gone to have her examined gave him pause.

             
“Come on,” Natalie offered and led them into the living room.  Rachel and Dusty were sitting unusually close on the couch across from the screen, which now displayed an ocean view.

             
“Sit,” Natalie offered, waving her hand toward the pair of armchairs, facing one another across the coffee table before the sofa.  Quey sat left while Reggie parked it to the right.

             
“What’s this about?” Quey asked Natalie, as she leaned against the wall beside the door to the kitchen.  The air was heavy in the room, thick with tension that radiated from the couple sitting on the couch.  It was like a tomb and Quey noticed how tightly Dusty was holding Rachel’s hand just before Dusty spoke.

             
“Before we start there’s something you need to know.”

             
Quey and Reggie exchanged a look.  “All right.”

             
After a deep breath Dusty tried to begin but couldn’t so Rachel spoke up.  “Do either of you know my last name?”

             
Another look passed across the coffee table and both men shook their heads.  “Don’t believe I do, but what’s that got to do with whether or not your eggs are scrambled?”

             
Rachel swallowed hard before she admitted, “My name, my real name that is, the name I’m registered under is Rachel Hoss.”

             
Quey didn’t get it but when he glanced to Reggie he saw the big man’s eyes flare slightly.  “I don’t follow,” he began but was cut off quickly by Reggie.

             
“And I suppose since you’re making a big deal about this you mean Hoss as in-”

             
“Eric Hoss is my brother,” she admitted

             
Still, Quey wasn’t sure what that meant, though there was a prickle in the back of his mind at the mention of the name.  He’d heard it before, or it seemed familiar or he thought it was familiar because everyone was making such a fuss about it.  “Why do I know that name?” he asked, fishing for someone to enlighten him.  He caught Reggie.

             
“Eric Hoss is a terrorist,” the big man said, as if the words left a bitter taste in his mouth.

             
“He’s not a terrorist,” Rachel snapped.

             
“He got a lot of people killed,” Reggie nearly shouted from the edge of his seat.  His massive hands gripped the arms of his chair and Quey could tell he was about to shoot up to his feet and suddenly he remembered.

             
Eric Hoss was the leader of an organization called Blackout.  In the skirmish on the southern continent, the one in which Reggie had fought, Blackout had been the reason soldiers needed to be sent in the first place.

             
“What happened was tragic Reggie, and I’m sorry where it led to but you can’t just blame it all on one man.  We were trying to help people…”

             
Reggie sat back in the chair and gaped at her.  “Hold the fuck up,” he blurted because those were the first words that came to his mind as he slowly sorted it out.  “We?  You were with him?”

             
Rachel shook her head, “Not like that.  Not when the… you know… not when it started to go bad.”