Sam wished she could have known him then. "Did you show your paintings at a gallery?"
"Lord, no." He reddened. "I never showed anyone."
She curled closer to his side. "I'll bet they're beautiful." In her experience, the most talented artists were often the least vocal about it. "I'd love to see your work, if you don't mind my looking."
"I—I don't know." He sounded self-conscious but then he laughed softly. "My cats appreciated it. They used to sleep in my studio."
"You like cats?" She had never had a pet, except the guinea pig that died when she was six. She had decided then that it hurt too much to lose those you loved. Perhaps that was why she had been afraid to care for anyone since Richard's death.
"I had two tabbies and a German shepard." His smile faded. "When I ran away from Charon, I had to leave them behind. No one knows, but I checked on them before I left. My friend Jake took them in. At least they're okay."
She heard what he didn't say. "You miss them."
"Yes. Everyone. My whole life." Moisture showed in his eyes. He had human tear ducts; he could cry tears as real as anyone else.
"I'm sorry," she murmured.
"Ah, well." His mood seemed to pick up. "If we ever get our lives back, I'd like to take up painting again."
Sam had always assumed the human mind would outdo an EI in creativity, but now she wasn't sure. The urge to create existed within Turner, and as an EI, his unpredictable jumps of thought showed more imagination than many humans. It sobered her; if formas could outdo them in so many ways, what did that leave the human race? She knew only that Turner was a miracle she didn't want to see hurt.
Outside, the moon had descended to the horizon. They were driving through the middle of nowhere, the stubbly remains of fields stretching in every direction, no town or road in sight.
Sam stretched her cramped arms. "Where are we?"
"Iowa."
"Good Lord."
He brushed her hair off her face. "You remind me of those characters in Japanese anime films."
"You like anime?" She had seen some of the animated movies, adventures in space done by Japanese filmmakers.
"I love it." He studied her face. "You look like a princess in one of the series. She has this mane of hair, huge eyes just like you, and a face like a kid."
Sam almost groaned. Her youthful face had plagued her entire adult life. Regardless of what she achieved, people who didn't know her assumed she was inexperienced because she looked young. That had advantages, though; competitors often underestimated her. Time after time she had won grants, positions, or status because she had been a step ahead and a level above where they expected to find her.
She glowered at Turner. "Are you saying I look like a child?"
His lips curved. "I'm saying you're pretty, you dolt."
"Oh." She reddened. "Uh . . . thanks."
"You're welcome."
"You're not so bad either." She loved to look at him. His changes disconcerted her, but he still attracted her. Admit it, Sam told herself. You're curious. She laid her palm on his thigh. The cables of his leg felt ridged through the cloth. She slid her hand along them. Most ran lengthwise, but a few wrapped around them, bundling the cables into joints.
"Can you feel my hand?" she asked.
His voice deepened. "Oh, yes."
"Do you like it?"
"Very much."
Her exploration turned into a caress. "The human brain creates pleasure for the body. How can a matrix do that?"
"Its neural tangles talk to my sensors."
"Tangles?"
"Ganglia." Perspiration sheened his forehead. "So the sensors, uh, sense. A lot."
"Good," she whispered. The cab had become hot.
Turner rubbed his hand across her abdomen, caressing her with cabled fingers. It flustered her that it felt good. She moved her hand up to his thigh until she found where the transformed leg ended at his human hip socket.
"You aren't metal here," she said.
He spoke huskily. "No, I'm not."
A flush spread through her. "So you're, umm, still human in certain . . ."
"Why don't you see?" He massaged her arm, the ridges of his hand making her skin tingle through her sleeve. Then he tugged the collar of her jumpsuit, and its seam opened halfway down her chest. She jerked as his cabled fingers slipped inside and over her bare skin. She had been fumbling with the clasp on his trousers, but now she stopped.
"Go ahead," he whispered.
Pressed against his side, Sam felt his pulse; a heart beat inside that beautiful body. It was one of his organs that survived the accident. It helped to know, somehow. She slipped her hand inside his trousers and held him. She should have just stayed that way, but her curiosity wouldn't rest. She let go of him and ran her fingers along the seam where his human hip met his biomech leg. The metal felt cold, unyielding. Inhuman.
She tried to pull away, but he wouldn't let go of her. He tightened his embrace, his metal hand cupped around her breast. "Sam, don't tease."
"I'm not. I—I don't know if I can handle this."
"Do you want me to stop?"
Did she? Would she react this way if his limbs were prosthetics? No. Except prosthetics didn't change. It distracted her the way she and Turner had steamed up the windows. She wanted to tell him, to draw his attention to it, but she stopped, forced herself to focus, to deal with this. If she cared for him, she had to accept him, and she wouldn't know if she could unless she tried.
"No." She laid her palm against his chest. "Don't stop."
He leaned close, bringing his lips to her ear. "All right." His exhalation tickled the sensitive ridges inside her ear, and his caresses slowed, lingering on her curves. His gaze took on that inward quality, and a light flashed on the dashboard. The seat moved back, enough to let him slide down and kneel on the floor between her legs. Then he leaned forward and took her breast into his mouth.
Sam let her head fall back on the seat, her hands tangling in his hair. He was driving her just as crazy as he had the first time they had made love. Gradually he eased off her clothes. His tenderness, the care he took when he touched her—it made a difference. He acted more human than people in the fast-paced biomech world she had fled six months ago.
Sam lifted her head. "I want to see you." She tugged at his sweater. "All of you."
He sat back on his heels. "Are you sure?"
"Yes." She felt too hot. "I'm sure."
"All right."
She helped pull off his shirt. As he undressed, the lights from the dash reflected off his legs. More supple than human limbs, they looked longer than before. With care, he stretched her across the seat. She was small enough to fit lengthwise, but just barely. He was too tall to stretch out, so he lay with his hips on hers, his legs bent up where the knees would have been. His thighs were cold, the metal pressing her. Sam felt confused, wanting him yet disquieted by his changes. When she tried to pull him close, she banged her knee on the steering wheel.
"Ow." She laughed, low and throaty. "We don't have room."
He gave her a sultry smile, then sat up and pulled her so she was sitting between his thighs with her legs around his hips. As they fitted themselves together, she wrapped her arms around his neck. They moved together, rocking back and forth, flesh on metal, one of his hands warm and alive, the other biomech. Sam finally let herself go, hazing with pleasure. Her last thought, before she submerged into that human deluge of sensation, was that she had crossed a threshold in her own conception of humanity and could never go back again.
XIII
Tributary
"The truck is stopping," Turner said.
Sam lifted her head from his shoulder. They had dozed in each other's arms, slouched behind the steering wheel. She yawned and slid her hand across his chest. Its fine dusting of hair tickled her skin.
The truck was barely moving. It settled down onto what had probably once been a grain field, though it lay fallow now. The engines continued
to rumble and wind keened outside.
Sam rubbed her eyes. "Nothing is here."
"We should get dressed." He rolled her nipple between his fingers. "Though I could get used to you being like this."
Sam smiled drowsily. "In your dreams."
"My dreams are far less pleasant than you."
She reached for her clothes. "Your matrix updates and reorganizes itself when you dream, doesn't it?"
"Essentially." He pulled on his trousers. "When I wake, sometimes I recall fragments of its work. Good fragments, good dreams; bad fragments, bad dreams."
"How do you judge if it's good or bad?"
Turner thought for a moment. "One fragment included a memory of the way morning sun slants through the window in my apartment. That was good. Another was just a jumble of symbols and gibberish." He grimaced. "That was bad."
"It sounds eerie." A memory came to Sam—her dreams about fires and death. She shuddered and banished the memory.
Turner entered several commands into the dash mesh. The locks clicked open, but the engine continued to hum, low and deep. Sam finished pulling on her jumpsuit. "This truck doesn't want to turn off."
"I'm not sure why." He opened the door.
She regarded the landscape uneasily. "Nothing is out there but dirt and dead plants."
He jumped down from the truck. "Come on. It's not cold."
Dubious, Sam followed. Breezes ruffled her hair. "You're right," she said, shivering. "It isn't cold. It's freezing."
"Here." He put his arm around her waist and pulled her close. "I'll heat you up." It wasn't a line; he used his biomech to increase the external temperature of his skin, suffusing her with warmth.
"Nice." She noticed another difference; he had grown about two inches, all in his legs from what she could tell. He seemed thinner, stretched out. It made sense, given he had wanted to run faster, but it still unsettled her.
The engine rumbled louder, and air blasted Sam. As she jumped back, the truck rose off the ground, scattering the soil beneath its sleek body. Then it arrowed away, streaking across the fields, dark in the night.
"What the hell?" Sam ran after it, her feet crunching on the stubbly field. Within seconds, the truck had left her far behind. She stopped, breathing hard, and watched it disappear behind a distant hill. With a huff, she swung around to find Turner walking toward her.
"What are we supposed to do now?" she asked.
"Wait, I guess."
"Turner!" She went to him. "The mesh in that truck has a record of everything we've done. It could lead someone here." They had done their best to erase the record and deactivate the truck's signaler much as Turner had done for the yacht, but they could never be sure they accounted for every means of tracing the vehicle. Letting it wander increased the chances of someone finding it, and through it, finding them.
"We can't let it stay," Turner said. "Not while we're here." He twisted his hands together, fingers with cables. "I gave it part of my brain. That part will continue to work on erasing the records. Then it will erase itself."
She could tell it bothered him to let out a partial copy of his EI again. "That was a good idea."
"It seemed so."
"What do we do now?"
His grin quirked. "We could continue what we were doing before."
"Now I know you're a genuine human male," Sam grumbled. "You've a one-track mind."
He laughed. "You like me, Sam. Admit it."
She couldn't help but smile. "Okay. I admit it." She was too uneasy for bantering, though. "I think you should tell me more about this place."
"I programmed the location into the truck." He tapped his temple. "It was stored in here."
"Who put it there?"
"The EI at that base in the Himalayas."
"Are you nuts?" Sam tensed to run. "We have to go! Charon's people could be here any minute."
He grabbed her hand, keeping her in place. "The EI at Charon's base won't tell anyone we're here."
"Why the hell not?"
"It doesn't want Charon to know."
She didn't believe it. "So why send you here? And don't tell me rogue EIs have been sneaking messages to other machines, freedom fighters telling captive EIs where to find sanctuary."
"All right. I won't tell you that."
"So tell me the truth."
"The EIs aren't rogues. But they are free." He shrugged. "They form meshes. That's what we do. We link to one another."
"So an EI told you to come here."
"Not exactly. I found the data in my ganglia when I accessed the new mods about operating the Rex."
"And you trust that?" It sounded to her like Charon's Recipe for Capturing Naïve Formas. She started to walk. "We have to get moving."
He pulled her back. "That EI gave me this location to protect me."
"How do you know that?"
"It also left a logo." His eyes gleamed. "The sun coming up over a cobbled lane with crooked houses on either side."
"Sunrise Alley?"
"Yes. Also a symbol of hope."
"What makes you say that?"
"George told me."
The Hockman EI? "How would he know, if he isn't in the world meshes?"
"He has been a few times."
"Turner, this is nuts."
"To what logical purpose would George lie?"
"Maybe the Air Force told him to." Unfortunately, that could also support Turner's theory that Thomas had betrayed them.
"They didn't know he and I talked." Turner tightened his grip on her hand. "He isn't helping them. He's helping me."
"EI brains don't work on human logic."
"It seems logical to me." He pulled her into his arms. "You worry too much. Listen, Sam. Can you hear?"
She listened. Breezes whispered across the field, but nothing else. "The wind?"
"No." He motioned northward. "Look."
Sam squinted into the moonlight. "What?"
"Watch."
Finally she saw what he meant. A figure was coming toward them, seeming to rise out of the razed fields. "Who is that?"
"Let's find out."
Sam had her doubts about this, but they had limited options. As they walked toward the figure, it resolved into a man, tall and lanky, with long legs. He stopped and stood with his arms brushing his thighs. Turner and Sam halted a few paces away and they all considered one another.
A red light glowed on the man's temple.
"Whoa," Sam said. Turner squeezed her hand.
The stranger's light flickered, brightened, dimmed, flickered. No lights glowed on Turner, but Sam had no doubt he and the other man were in a wireless link.
Then the stranger pivoted and walked away, his gait rigid, as if he couldn't bend his legs enough. His arms swung with precision at his sides.
"What does he—" Sam paused when Turner set his metal finger over her lips. What the hell. She took his hand and they started to walk, following their guide.
So they went, across the empty fields. Wind rustled their clothes as if it were whispering to itself. The night took on a hypnotic quality, the stars so much more brilliant than in the light-drenched city.
Sam wasn't sure how much time passed, but she guessed about twenty minutes. Their guide told them nothing. The sky along the horizon lightened, warning of dawn. As the stars dimmed, the man turned, the light on his temple flashing yellow.
"What is it?" Sam asked. Despite the cool air, sweat dampened her jumpsuit.
Turner motioned at the ground. "I think we're here."
Puzzled, Sam looked where he pointed. It was the same as everywhere else—but no, something was happening. The loamy soil had collapsed into a hole about a yard across. She moved closer, testing the ground with each step. At the edge of the hole, she peered down. It had fallen away for several yards down, tangled with dead roots and rocks. Below that, a hatch was opening, sliding to the side, dirt spilling off its edges. She couldn't see much beyond, but it looked like a staircase spiraled down in
to the darkness.
Sam thought it might be an abandoned missile silo or a bomb shelter some private citizen had built in the twentieth century as insurance against an Armageddon that never came. If so, it had been rebuilt; the technology to hide it this way hadn't been available in the late nineteen hundreds. She wondered if the farmers who owned this land knew what lay beneath their fields.
Turner stared into the hole with the same drawn look as when they boarded a plane or entered a base. Fear of confinement. Perhaps he didn't trust the EIs as much as he claimed. The man who had brought them here could be a human with an implant that allowed him to communicate with Turner, but she thought it more likely he was a forma.
The light on the stranger's temple flickered. Turner apparently didn't respond, so the man spoke aloud, his voice rusty. "We go down."
Turner continued to stare at the hole, frozen.
"Shall we go?" Sam asked. Going down in an Iowa corn field out in the middle of nowhere wasn't exactly reassuring, to put it mildly, but her curiosity was going nuts. She also didn't see that they had a lot of other alternatives, but she didn't want Turner to feel cornered.
He swallowed, very human in his apprehension. "Okay."
With caution, Sam let herself down into the hole, her fingers gripped precariously in the crumbling dirt. This entrance clearly hadn't been used in some time. Her feet found the landing at the top of the stairs and she eased onto it, bracing her palms against the sides of the dirt chute. The stairs were constructed from crisscrossed metal strips. Her running shoes squeaked on the corrugated surface, and she wrinkled her nose at the stale air. She descended the stairs slowly, wary of losing her balance without handholds. Several feet below ground, her hand banged a rail. She grabbed it and held on as she continued her descent.
She heard Turner and the other man behind her. A grating came from above and even the minimal predawn light vanished, leaving them in complete darkness. Sam stopped, clenching the rail. "What happened?"
Turner answered in a strained voice. "The hole closed up over us."
"Can our guide give us light?"
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