The Machine's Child (Company)

by Kage Baker

  “You didn’t really think we’d forget, did you?” said Sylvya gleefully.

  “Do we ever forget?” Leslie said, bringing the flowers forward and setting them in a vase just beside David’s window. “There! Now you can look at them while you work. You see? Delphiniums and white roses. Your favorites.”

  “As always, David, it’s very nice having you work for us,” murmured Mr. Chandra.

  David reflected that he really was a terribly lucky man, to be employed by Dr. Zeus Incorporated. He knew that lots of big corporations weren’t nearly so thoughtful as regarded their employees’ happiness. This hadn’t exactly been a surprise—they remembered his birthday every year, year in, year out—but that only made it all the nicer, something to be anticipated shiveringly all day from the moment he removed his sleep mask.

  “And you’ll find a little something downloaded to your entertainment console when you go back to your Flat this evening,” Mr. Chandra said.

  David looked up sharply at Sylvya and Leslie. “No! Not Totter Dan’s Mountain Rescue? You didn’t!”

  They giggled wildly.

  “Wait and see,” said Leslie.

  “Oh, you didn’t,” David said, hugging himself.

  “And you can all go early to lunch,” Mr. Chandra told them, bestowing the final beneficence of the day. “Back at two. Shoo now. Go have fun.”

  Well! What a happy man was David Reed.

  ONE MORNING IN FEZ,

  MOROCCO, 2319 AD

  Suleyman was working at the credenza in his study. It was a lovely room, elegant in a spare way: high bare walls set with Moorish tile, fine old carpets on the floor, tiny latticed windows far up the walls that would have made it difficult for an assassin to shoot an arrow through them, once upon a time, or for any unidentified person to lob an explosive device through them now.

  Not that Suleyman expected anything so trivial or half-hearted from his enemies. A bomb would be merely a warning gesture, after all, and the opposing side in this game never gave warnings. Besides, on this particular day in 2319, many on the opposing side weren’t even born yet.

  Then, too, there were more than two sides, and the degrees of opposition varied depending on which side was considered in relation to which other side. All very confusing. One would need to be a fairly old immortal, with a calm and not easily distracted mind capable of appreciating extreme subtleties, to keep track of it all; and Suleyman had days when he felt neither so calm nor so good at geometry as he ought to be.

  He became aware that he had a guest long before he could hear the voices approaching his study, so he logged off and closed up the inlaid rosewood cabinet that housed his credenza. By the time the double knock sounded on his door he had already risen, and was crossing the room with his unhurried stride to open it.

  He regarded Latif and his visitor, a formidable-looking lady who would once have been described as Nubian.

  “Nefer,” Suleyman said with genuine pleasure, holding out his hands to her. She rushed into his arms and embraced him, murmuring an exclamation of relief.

  “This is the Nefer who used to be one of your wives?” said Latif, leaning in the doorway and grinning.

  “Oh, yes,” Suleyman said. “Back in 1699, wasn’t it, Nef?”

  “God, that was a long time ago,” said Nef, still holding tight to him. “You don’t mind if I just cling here a minute, do you? You smell like safety.”

  Suleyman raised his eyebrows at that. “Latif? Tea, please? And—you haven’t dined, have you?” he said, frowning as he pulled back to look at her. “You haven’t slept, either.”

  “I’ve been running since I found out,” she said, in an exhausted voice.

  “Tea, brunch, and a guest room,” predicted Latif, turning on his heel and going off to arrange matters.

  “Come on,” Suleyman coaxed, leading her to the divan. Nef still wore field clothing, dusty and travel-stained, and carried her field pack by one dangling strap. She collapsed into the pillows and stared at him with haunted eyes.

  “I know this is going to sound incredibly stupid, but I only just found out about—that place,” she said.

  “The Bureau of Punitive Medicine,” Suleyman said, his smile fading.

  “And I know what you’re thinking. Where’s she been, in a cave?” babbled Nef. “Well, as a matter of fact I have been living in a cave, I’ve been on Gradual Retirement because there’s not a lot for me to do nowadays, and so I’d just sort of taken an extended vacation in the Serengeti, and you know how it is when you’re really having a good time, you just lose track of the years, and one day I noticed I was out of discs for my field unit so I thought I’d just hike into the nearest base and Kwame took one look at me and said Father Damballah, where’ve you been, I was about to report you as disappeared, too, and I said, What? And he told me about everything that happened back in July, and he told me all the rumors, and I thought—oh, shit, I’d better find someplace safe. And this was the only safe place I could think of,” she finished. “Sanctuary!”

  “Are you formally asking for my protection?” Suleyman said.

  “Oh, yes.” She nodded, closing her eyes wearily. “Please, Suleyman. I’m not in trouble, I haven’t done a damned thing wrong, but I’m just the kind of nobody that’s becoming superfluous nowadays. And some of these rumors I’ve heard . . .”

  “You know you’re welcome here, Nef.” Suleyman took her hand again. “But I’d like to know what you’ve been hearing.”

  “Well, Kwame played me back your broadcast,” Nef said, wincing at the memory. “And of course everybody says it’s just the tip of the iceberg, that there are actually hundreds of us that can’t be accounted for. Everybody seems to be talking about some Literature Specialist named Lewis, because he’s supposed to have been sold out by the Facilitator Joseph, who’s supposed to be one of the suspects. Him and somebody named Marco. Suleyman, I used to work with Joseph. He was a Company man to the bottom of his slimy little heart, but I can’t believe he’d be mixed up in something like this.”

  “I don’t believe he is, myself,” Suleyman said. “But, since nobody’s been able to locate Joseph, he can’t wash away any of the filth that’s settling on his name either. Very convenient.”

  “That’s what I heard,” Nef said. “And that the whole Gradual Retirement plan is just a way to make us lose track of each other, so the Company can dispose of immortals as we get closer to 2355. People whose work is done.” She shivered. “God knows mine is. I haven’t had a posting in ages.”

  Suleyman shrugged. “Maybe. We can’t learn much from the people we rescued. It appears that a lot of them were there for disciplinary reasons. No innocents, like Lewis.

  “But there are, yes, hundreds of people still missing. Maybe the bureau was simply where the real offenders were imprisoned, and the rest are at some other location we’ve yet to find.”

  “How hard is the Company searching?” Nef said.

  “Not very,” Suleyman said. “There was quite a splash when we dragged the bureau before their eyes, but the ripples are dying away now. A formal inquiry, a committee to look into the question. And a few of the disappeared have miraculously turned up in unlikely places, with no memory of where they’ve been for the past few centuries.

  “I know that some of the elite Executive Facilitators I’ve always suspected of really running the Company were horrified at what we found, horrified and angry as hell. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that some of the mortal masters have met with untimely ends, up there at their end of time. I may have precipitated 2355 by bringing this out into the open,” he added grimly.

  “Now I really want sanctuary,” said Nef. “I don’t suppose you’d like to get married again? Though Latif’s a little old to need a mother.”

  “He’d appreciate one anyway.” Suleyman smiled again. “For the time being, at least, things are going to be better. I don’t think any more of us will vanish, in the immediate future. We accomplished that much.”

&nbs
p; Nef sighed. “Nothing ever turns out the way we think it will, does it? Even when history cannot be changed.”

  “Even then,” agreed Suleyman.

  SANTA CATALINA ISLAND,

  1923 AD

  Alec!

  Alec opened his eyes, and so did Edward and Nicholas. The Captain had called them silently, so Mendoza slept on in Nicholas’s arms. Calm early morning, the ship rocking on a mild swell, the cabin full of reflected summer light.

  We’re lying off the leeward side of the island, son. Arrow Point. You’d recognize the place, Edward. I been scanning for Company structures. They got a transmitter array concealed in one of the mountains, and a couple of manned stations. There’s an underground storage facility, too, that ye’ll want to be looting, I shouldn’t wonder.

  How well defended? Edward asked, sitting up.

  Nothing but electronics, and I can send ’em a fireship. The stations have a three-cyborg complement each. We won’t trouble with ’em. Near as I can tell, they’re just collecting and shipping loot other operatives have acquired.

  Edward stared out the window at the looming island, at the dry hills and sea-facing cliffs. As they cruised slowly past, a particular outline of cove tugged at his memory. He grimaced and turned away, but all he said was: It looks a good deal less green than I remembered.

  Well, now, lad, it’s been sixty years since you seen it.

  What’s the plan, Captain? said Alec, watching Edward’s face.

  Why, son, what’d be more natural for a innocent young couple of tourists than to wander about and have themselves a good look at the pretty scenery? Aye, but you’ll be laying a few mines under the Company’s keel. Metaphorically speakin’, of course.

  And our silver vial? Nicholas said. Is it here, Spirit?

  Something’s here, by thunder. There’s a storage unit with yer file designation on it, according to the records.

  Then we’ll take it, said Edward.

  To be sure, bucko, but not with blazing cannons nor drawn cutlasses, eh? Quiet-like, leaving no traces, just like they taught you when you signed on to be a Political.

  Edward’s eyes glinted. Nicholas and Alec exchanged glances.

  What of our lady? said Nicholas. This was her prison a long weary while. Will she not remember, and grieve?

  Why, son, why should she, with you at her side? And it’s changed a good deal, remember.

  And we can take her dancing, yeah? said Alec. At that ballroom she wrote about?

  That ain’t built yet, but we can jump ahead later. Get yerselves up and dressed.

  Splendid, said Edward, and taking control from Nicholas he leaned down and woke Mendoza with a long, hard kiss.

  “I know I remember this place,” Mendoza said, looking around at Avalon as Alec dragged the whaleboat up on the shingle beach. “Did we live here?”

  “Yeah,” Alec said, panting. “A long time ago.” He tied the painter to a pier piling.

  “It must have been, because I don’t remember the town . . .” Mendoza found a dry rock and sat to pull on her stockings and shoes. “Though it seems a nice little town. Perhaps we could have a cocktail somewhere, later?”

  “Okay,” Alec said. “The First Prohibition is going on in this time, though, so we’ll have to find what they called a speakeasy.”

  “What fun.” She looked around, frowning slightly. “Weren’t there more . . . trees?”

  “Things change,” he said apologetically, handing her up over the seawall and onto Crescent Avenue. She pulled him up beside her.

  They wandered along the street, a young man in a white linen suit and a young girl in a summer frock of peach-colored silk, with a strand of pearls about her throat. He wore a Panama hat; her white summer hat kept coming off in the wind, until they stepped into a shop and he bought her a hatpin. He fastened on her hat for her and they walked off, holding hands.

  On a street running back from the beach they found what had been a tent city, and was now rapidly being converted to a residential neighborhood. It was an odd process to watch: in some places the owners of the tents were simply slapping board and batten walls over canvas ones, or putting up modest Yankee clapboard cabins with names like Conch Cottage or Kilcare. Bougainvillea bloomed beside the finished ones, that were painted white or pink or green. The homes in progress stood like hopeful skeletons, bright new wood bleeding out amber pitch under a hot blue sky.

  “Why are we here?” Mendoza murmured.

  “I’m looking for a certain address,” said Edward, who had taken control. He smiled and tipped his hat to an elderly lady. “According to the Captain, this particular house, which is in the process of being built on this particular day in history, will still be standing in the year 2355. Ah! And here it is.”

  They stopped and regarded a house three-quarters finished. Workmen were hammering away.

  “What a charming residence this will be,” said Edward, loudly enough to be noticed.

  “And such a lovely location,” said Mendoza, clasping her hands.

  The foreman looked up and saw them.

  “I wonder, sir, whether the property is for sale?” said Edward, taking off his hat and smiling pleasantly.

  “This place is already sold, I’m afraid,” the foreman said. “But Mr. Glidden’s building more. You could inquire at his offices, up on Maiden Lane.”

  “Yes, I might at that.” Edward nodded.

  “Do you suppose, if we were very careful, we might walk through this one?” Mendoza said. “Just to see what the others will be like?”

  “Well—since you’re interested—well, sure,” said the foreman, doffing his own hat and coming forward to offer her a hand up over the foundation. Edward followed smoothly.

  “We won’t be a moment,” he told the foreman.

  “Yes, sir, you go right ahead,” the foreman replied, and stood back to watch them as they picked their way through, peering desultorily into rooms and exclaiming over this or that architectural feature.

  “Jesus, ain’t they polite?” grunted a carpenter, watching from his ladder.

  “Real well-spoken,” the foreman agreed. “He’s English, huh?”

  “Sounded that way.”

  “Tall, too,” added the foreman. He was unable to better express exactly what he found so striking about the couple. The girl moved with a grace and self-control not often seen in people so young. And there was something eerie about the tall man’s eyes, in the way they focused on you and just . . . persuaded you, in the nicest possible way, to tell him what he wanted.

  Closely as they were watched, somehow no one noticed Edward slipping his hand into his pocket to bring out a little bottle, nor did they see him lean down to slide it between the laths near the baseboard of a wall.

  It dropped into the darkness with a soft thump and settled into the position it would occupy for the next four centuries, until the morning in 2355 when its contents would awaken and, snatching molecules from their surroundings, arrange themselves into a fairly dire weapon.

  “Oh, this must be the kitchen!” Mendoza said. “Look, darling, how modern and up-to-date.”

  “And yet preserving a certain quaintness,” Edward added. He took her arm. “Yes, I think we really must make inquiries. But we’ve detained these good men long enough! Let’s be on our way, my love.”

  They made their exit, thanking the foreman profusely, and walked away down the quiet street. At the corner Edward stopped, took Mendoza’s face firmly in both hands and bent down to kiss her.

  “Well done,” he growled. “Oh, we were made for each other!”

  “Of course,” she said. “Where now?”

  They continued their stroll up the canyon, climbing the steep bluff to the first hole of the golf course. There they sat for a few moments, on a conveniently placed bench, and anyone watching them would have assumed they were admiring the view. Edward withdrew some postcards from his coat pocket and passed them to Mendoza, who sorted through them thoughtfully.

  Edwar
d then took out what appeared to be a fountain pen, something small and cylindrical anyway, and removing the cap held it out over the lawn a moment. Anyone watching would have assumed he was attempting to shake ink down into the nib. In reality he had just activated a small laser, burning a vitrified tube to a depth of one meter in the earth under the beautifully manicured lawn. He passed the laser to Mendoza, who did not write on the postcards with it, though anyone watching them would have gotten the impression she was doing so.

  Edward, meanwhile, took out a roll of Lifesavers, loot from their raid on 1996. He opened it, in the process dropping a spiral of silver paper on the lawn. He leaned down to pick it up at once, and in the same movement, with flawless sleight of hand, dropped a tiny vial down the shaft he had burned in the lawn. The sporting party just arriving to tee off did not notice.

  He put a Lifesaver in his mouth and offered one to Mendoza, who accepted it. They sat on the bench and watched, apparently fascinated, as four middle-aged gentlemen who had clearly already located a speakeasy launched unsteady shots in varying trajectories. As the caddies were hoisting bags for the long trek down to the second hole, Edward rose and approached the nearest golfer, crushing in the top of the vitrified tube with his bootheel as he came.

  “Pardon me, sir,” he said, removing his hat once again. “Would you happen to know the location of a reliable source of refreshment?”

  “Huh?” The old duffer focused on Edward with difficulty. He met Edward’s gaze and his face lit with sudden comprehension. “Oh! Yeah.” He glanced about furtively. “Hotel Saint Catherine. Fine place. You ask for Johnny.”

  “You’ve been most kind,” Edward said, bowing slightly. The golfer stared past him a moment, goggling at Mendoza, who had bent over to adjust her stocking and in the process was further obliterating any trace of the tube.

  “You’re welcome,” he said, and lurched away. Edward replaced his hat, put his hands in his pockets, and walked back to Mendoza, who stood up flushed but smiling.