Woodsman

by Thomas A Easton

  Membership on the committee was a function of intelligence, ability, and energy. The members therefore tended to have in the world outside the building positions as high as society would allow a bot. They were executives and researchers. One was an artist. Others were gengineers. Many had surpassed the ten-year life-expectancy of the average bot.

  The gengineer’s name was Cindy Blue, and her scalp blossoms were a pure and snowy white. She turned toward Alice Belle. “You have asked us to let humans move into this building with us. Why should we, even if we do have a vacancy?”

  Alice Belle glanced out the window, turned, and eyed the members of the management committee. Her gaze lingered longest on the strange figure in the middle of the ring. “We’re bots,” she said at last. “Plants the gengineers have moved toward being human. They—the Nickers—are humans who have moved toward being plants. At least, they have chloroplasts in their skin, they photosynthesize, they love bright light.”

  “But that doesn’t really make them very much plant,” said the bot named Shasta Lou. Her blossoms were pale blue with yellow centers. “Skin them, and they’re still just meat.”

  “Our blood is just as red,” said another.

  “They love the future. They’re like us that way,” said Alice Belle. “Change and difference.”

  “They’re neophiles,” said Cindy Blue. “Technophiles. Not conservatives.”

  “Not Engineers,” said someone, and there was a rustling of antipathy, as if a gathering of Catholics had crossed themselves in unison at mention of the devil.

  “And they’re my friends,” said Alice Belle. “I like them. And…“She smoothed the paper she had been holding against her thigh. “I’ve shown you this.”

  “They are hated,” said Cindy Blue, nodding. “And feared. Discriminated against. Even persecuted. That is plain.”

  “But they are not bots,” said Shasta Lou. “No one threatens them with axes and torches. No one promises to destroy them for the crime of what they are.”

  “Yet,” said Alice Belle, but before she could either go on or indicate that she was done, a gust of odor struck the ring of bots. All turned toward the figure at the center. “Eldest,” they said in unison, for that was who they faced, the last of their ancestors still alive, a relict from so many generations before their own time that she had only a few human genes, just enough for size and brain and thought. Their answer was a flexing of the Eldest bot’s trunk, a bending of her leaves, and a flow of perfumed pheromones, an ever-changing mixture of floral and other odors.

  The small bot just within the ring finally spoke: “We too are human now. Just as smart as they. But we are different too. We cannot save them. We should not try.”

  Alice Belle stared at the Eldest, for she knew whence the words had really come. Once her kind had been able to sense and interpret the communicative pheromones directly. But the continuing admixture of human genes to their genome had canceled the ability, distancing them from their roots almost as completely as would shaving their calves. Fortunately, there still remained a few survivors of those generations that had been able to communicate in both ways and could therefore translate from scent to speech. This one bore the title of Eldest’s Speaker.

  “But they are friends!”

  “Too different,” said the Eldest through her Speaker. “This building, others too in other cities. They are our refuges, refuges for us, our kind. Not humans.”

  “But they are our kind!” cried Alice Belle. “They have more human genes. They have added plant to human, not human to plant. But they too are part plant, part human.”

  Shasta Lou jerked one hand dismissively. “They are human base,” she said. “They are therefore evil.”

  “They are not Engineers!”

  “But they are apt to be converted,” said another bot. “And then we would have enemies, spies and saboteurs, among us.”

  “No!” cried Alice Belle. “That’s how their troubles started, when they said no.” Briefly, she then related what the Nickers had told her of the Engineer recruiters at the door with their pamphlets. “That’s when they lost their jobs as teachers, and…”

  “Teachers?” said Cindy Blue.

  Alice Belle nodded. “They’re human base,” she said. “But not all humans are as deranged as the Engineers and their sympathizers. The Nickers aren’t, I know. Sam and Sheila are good people.”

  “And so are we,” said the Eldest, the words coming on the heels of the gust of pheromones. “We try. We do. But we must also live. Survive. Protect and shield and isolate us from our enemies.”

  “Could they help us as we help them?” asked Cindy Blue.

  Alice Belle was silent for a long moment. Perhaps good deeds should not be traded like goods in a marketplace, but they were. She had seen it often in the world outside this brightly lit enclave, and this was hardly the first time she had seen it within. But what could the Nickers offer in exchange for a place to live?

  Finally, she recognized the interest Cindy Blue had shown once already for what it truly was. “They’re teachers,” she said again. “And we cannot send our children to the local schools.” Quite aside from the question of whether the kids would survive the inevitable persecution, their lives were simply too short. If they were forced to learn at the human pace, they would be dead of old age before they finished high school. If they were forced as well to abide by human notions of age and readiness, they would never make it out of the elementary grades.

  “We have our own ways of learning,” she added. “But they could help, I’m sure.”

  “So.” Shasta Lou constricted her leaves tightly around her trunk, a gesture of rejection. “We give them a home, and jobs as well. And then they will put our blossoms in vases, and our leaves in salad, and…”

  “No!” sent the Eldest. “They need. We need. That is truth, it is. It is also true that we can help each other. But should we? Dare we? Dare we trust the strangers?”

  “They are kin!” cried Alice Belle, and the others stared at her, their mouths open in shock. The Eldest was never interrupted.

  Yet the Eldest did not seem to mind. “No,” her Speaker said. “They are greenskins. Not kin. Not enough. They are too human, closer kin to Engineers.”

  Again a collective shudder ran through the group. “We should be thankful,” said Cindy Blue. “That humans are not that unified. There are those who oppose the Engineers, those who could help.” She fell silent for a long moment before adding, “And we may need all the help we can find in the days to come.”

  “The situation is not that bad,” said Shasta Lou.

  “Perhaps it is,” said the Eldest. “Listen to the honeysuckle…”

  Obediently, the others let the tendrils of their roots find those of the honeysuckle that wove throughout the soil beneath them. The same gengineer who had taken the first step toward the bots had designed the honeysuckle as a way for sentient plants like the Eldest to communicate over larger distances than scent could carry. It had soon become something more for, equipped with sensors for vision and sound and other senses, it could gather information from any place where its vines grew and pass that information to any bot who wished to receive it. Now the sensory data gathered by the honeysuckle flowed to the Eldest, to Alice Belle, and to the members of the management committee.

  It was a collage of bits and pieces drawn from a thousand viewpoints, in this city and others, in other nations, in other continents, all labeled “NOW” despite the differing times of travel:

  —A parkland dormitory, a horde of Engineers, these equipped with cans and bottles of flammable liquids; the police stood idly by.

  —A dozen city sidewalks, a dozen isolated bots being stripped of leaves and blossoms, being chopped to pieces with heavy blades.

  —A Roachster bake, with several burly Engineers laughing uproariously as they watched the vehicle sputter on the coals.

  —Bioform houses, an orange pumpkin, a purple eggplant, a stucco-coated squash, set afire
, while sharp blades and sticks kept the residents from escaping through the windows.

  —More traditional homes torched as well, apparently because their residents, their bodies visible on their lawns, bore too many genetic modifications.

  —A zoo, all those exhibits bearing “Endangered Species Replacement Program” signs destroyed.

  As one, the younger bots shivered in reaction to the horrors they had seen and withdrew their roots from the honeysuckle. Only the Eldest did not seem to react.

  “We must,” said Cindy Blue. “We must do something.”

  “There is nothing we can do,” said Shasta Lou. “Nothing. Nothing at all. The enemy is at the gates, and we are doomed.”

  “We can try,” said Alice Belle. “We can help others, and thus deserve whatever help may come our way.”

  Shasta Lou snorted, but there were nods of agreement. The scenes the honeysuckle had shown them had impressed them all with the danger that surrounded them, the danger that threatened even non-bots if they had been gengineered. Yes, the axes did await the Nickers.

  “Listen,” said the Eldest. “I have stayed with the vines. Not all the news is bad. One of ours has found a promise. A hint of refuge. She will travel soon. Learn of possibility and potential. And if and if and if, then just perhaps…” Her scent and the Speaker’s voice trailed off together.

  “Yes,” said Alice Belle, sighing. “We can hope. But in the meantime, we should also help.”

  Even Shasta Lou nodded in agreement now, though her movements were stiff, clearly reluctant. Cindy Blue said, “The enemy is those who kill, those who hate change, those who crave the stasis of the past. There are people who share our form and minds, who favor life and novelty and the changes of the future. And to them we really should offer what protection we may hold.”

  The debate was over. Alice Belle had won her point. The Nickers would be invited to move into the building.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 7

  Frederick Suida stared at the tub of dirt by the window. It was empty except for the branch of honeysuckle vine that had crossed the windowsill to invade it. The bare surface of the dirt seemed freshly tilled around two slender footprints, broken and churned where Donna Rose had withdrawn her roots that morning. He supposed he should call maintenance and have the tub removed.

  He turned in his seat to stare at the Fat Bag commercial on the veedo. The gengineers had modified the virus that caused skin tags so that the once tiny tabs of flesh now grew larger, filled with fat preempted from the body’s normal depots. To lose weight, one now needed no more than a pair of scissors, a dab of antiseptic, and a bandaid. No more diets! No liposuction!

  He snorted and blinked and sighed. The patch of carpet by his desk where Renny had liked to sprawl was bare. He sighed again. The dog too was gone. He looked at his watch. In just a few more hours, the genimal would be beyond the reach of PETA, safe from Engineers, safe from persecution, legal or otherwise.

  He glanced toward the leaves of his bioform computer screen. The requisition was still displayed there. A window showed that he had approved it and arranged the necessary spaceplane tickets, one for a cargo crate containing one experimental animal, dog, invoice number 98-2377742, one for an animal handler, non-federal, ID number B-701-33-2047. The B prefix marked the ID numbers of all bots.

  He hadn’t had to lie very much at all. In fact, Donna Rose had already had all the identification she needed to support his claims on her behalf. For tax purposes, the cleaning service pretended it was a broker for a horde of subcontractors, and each individual cleaning bot was suitably defined in the government’s computers. He had just had to ask the Civil Service computers to change her assignment. Fortunately, he had enough authority for that.

  Frederick had known he could never keep Renny. He had known that if PETA won its lawsuit, the court decision would take him away, put him away; if PETA lost, he would go off on his own. Either way, the genimal would be gone. He wasn’t a pet. But Frederick had grown used to having Renny around. He missed him already.

  Somewhat to his surprise, he was realizing that he missed Donna Rose as well. He hadn’t known her as long, but she was attractive and sympathetic. And she aroused his own sympathy, just as did Renny. He supposed his history must have something to do with that. He too had been persecuted, had lost friends and loved ones, had…

  “Mr. Suida?” He had not heard his office door open, but the fact that there had been no knock was enough to tell him who his visitor was. He did not need her voice.

  “Dr. Breger.” He turned toward the BRA Assistant Director. Her coverall was as metallic in its finish as it had been the other day, though it was now bronze, not silver. With her dark skin, she looked almost robotically efficient. Her expression was a narrow, tight-lipped smile, almost like that of a mother amused by her child’s mischief.

  “What have you done now, Frederick?” she asked. As the door clicked behind her, she pointed at Frederick’s computer screen. “Didn’t you know the system would flag that sort of expenditure? It was the first thing on my screen when I got back after this morning’s policy meeting.”

  He had forgotten, but what could he say other than what he had rehearsed to himself a dozen times already? Deliberately, he shrugged. “I didn’t think there would be any problem.”

  “But there is.” Breger leaned over his desk, supporting her weight on her hands. She was precisely as intimidating as she intended to be, although the touch of red in Frederick’s cheeks came not from that, but from the narrow gape of her coverall and what it showed. “Tell me about it.”

  “They called yesterday to say they had a new spacedrive that might do funny things to living matter…”

  “What sort of funny things?”

  “I don’t know. They didn’t say. But apparently they don’t want to take a chance on a human test pilot.” He was careful to look her in the eye as he lied. “They wanted an animal.”

  “And you had one.”

  He nodded jerkily. “I suggested they go through NSF, but they said the biological effects…”

  Now it was the Assistant Director’s turn to nod. “Made us seem more appropriate.” At the same time, she relaxed, straightened from her dominating stoop, and walked around his desk to stand beside him. “I suppose you’re right.”

  “And then this morning…” He gestured at his screen. “There it was. So I went ahead and approved it. And bought the tickets.”

  She stared at him. “And the bot ‘handler’?”

  This, he thought, was the weakest point. “It’s a long trip, and I thought the crews wouldn’t have much experience with animals.” He shrugged again. “I decided to send someone to look after him.”

  Her stare did not relax. “Is she coming back, Frederick?”

  He shifted awkwardly in his seat and added, “She’s a cleaner. Part of the night crew.” He looked away, toward the window, and knew she was noticing the empty tub of dirt. “I took her in after the Engineers trashed her dorm.”

  The Assistant Director grunted and nodded as if she understood what had moved him. “So you’ve moved two out of harm’s way,” she said thoughtfully. “I wish I could think it would make much difference.” But then she scowled, her smile vanishing as if it had never been, even in the rudimentary form he recalled. “Do you realize what a mechin’ mess you’ve made?”

  The question was not one that needed an answer. Frederick sat rigidly still and said nothing.

  Breger groaned theatrically. “There are channels, you know. It’s not your place to approve such things.” She spun away from him, clutched her hands behind her back, and strode to the window. “Honeysuckle!” She bent, yanked the vine from the dirt it had claimed and hurled it out the window. “You’ve made us all look like mentally defective twits who care nothing at all for public opinion. PETA will get its judgment quite automatically, just as soon as the judge finds out. We—or you, just you, I hope—will be up for contempt of court and favoritism and conflict
of interest. The Engineers will be on the sidewalk down there, screaming for your blood.”

  She spun. “Why?” She glared. After a moment, she said, “I know why. Judgment or no judgment, the dog is safe. But you, sir, are not. You’re…”

  “Fired?” Frederick’s voice shook. He hadn’t expected this severe a reaction, though he was already telling himself he should have.

  “No.” Breger let out a gusty sigh. “No, dammit. You’re suspended, with pay, until we find out…If I’m right, we’ll have to be able to show we’ve taken steps. Then we’ll schedule the disciplinary hearing.” She moved toward the door. When her hand was on the knob, she turned toward him once more. “Maybe,” she said. “Maybe we can convince the judge to say experimentation is a more useful form of disposal than execution, that by shipping Renny off in this way, we have capitulated in a way that he can simply rubber-stamp. But I doubt it. PETA would certainly object.” She shook her head. “We all have our natural sympathies. I should have known yours would make trouble.”

  He was alone again. Staring at the tub of dirt, empty now of honeysuckle though the window was still open and surely the vine would invade again. Staring at the carpet, the veedo, the requisition still on the computer screen. Feeling sorry for himself. He had blown it. Disgraced himself. Meched himself out of his job. Yet he did not feel that he had done the wrong thing.

  What now? he asked himself. And then he realized. Breger had said nothing about canceling the tickets. She could have. Renny and Donna Rose would still be in the airport, waiting to board their spaceplane. So she must be going to let him get away with it. She too had her natural sympathies, and if she couldn’t bring herself to act on them, she could let him. PETA’s lawsuit would be moot, for Renny would be safely out of reach. So, for that matter, would be Donna Rose, though Breger had hardly reacted when he had explained who the bot was. And all the blame was his. He guessed that she would simply throw him to the wolves. A scapegoat. Scapepig. He shouldn’t feel surprised, though he did.