Gorgon Child

by Steven Barnes

  "I know what you're trying to do—I just don't know what I want. For three years I've tried to be something that I'm not, and I'm just not cutting it!" The last four words were a scream.

  "I'm not a builder, I'm not a leader, and I'm not a dancer. I'm a fighter. Put me in a Scavenger's suit and I'm a fighter pretending to be a Scavenger. Strip off my clothes and have me dance naked in a stream, and I'm a fighter stumbling naked through the water, and that's all, damn it."

  He shook himself, grimacing, and stalked out of the water.

  "Aubry . . ." she called after him.

  "I'm sorry," he said as he pulled his clothes on. "I'm just not cut out for this. I've tried, damn it. I'm getting out of here. I—"

  She stood in the stream, face a luminous oval masked unevenly by shadow. He thought that she was going to have something more to say, but she didn't.

  "They said that you might be able to stay if it wasn't for me. All right. Stay. I'm getting out."

  Her voice was a bare whisper. "Where are you going?"

  "I don't know." He sealed his boots and stood. She watched him, and their gaze met for a long moment. Too long, and he felt every fiber of his body reach out to her. He fought with all of his mind to resist. "I don't know. I have to think."

  Without another word he disappeared into the woods.

  Promise sank to her knees in the water, and began to cry.

  Courtney Willis tinkered with the controls on the dashboard of the Mazda-Chrysler Tetra, nodding with satisfaction as the display shifted.

  He still remembered cars it was actually possible to fix. Now, you just replaced parts. Once, you could pound out the bumpers rather than just put on a new one. Jury-rig an alternator rather than replace the entire modular electrical system. Adjust a carburetor rather than replace the computer chip that controlled the input.

  Those had been simpler days, and his father had told him of even more basic ones: times when a car could literally be built from scratch, with no more education than a young man could pick up hanging around the shop.

  In some ways, Courtney had to admit he had it easier. An enterprising mechanic could enter the desired specs— cost, performance, durability, ease of construction—into a computer tied to the automotive database in Michigan. One characteristic at a time, the machine allowed you to design your own car from the wheels up, complete with holographic instruction playbacks that made assembly disgustingly simple. Today, any idiot could design his own car. It would be unique to his temperament, and outperform anything a team of engineers could have cobbled together only thirty years earlier.

  It wasn't fair, damn it.

  Just the same, he liked the dashboards.

  Well, really, there were no dashboards. All of the instrumentation and even the windshield on this new model were holo display.

  From the outside, the craft looked like a black bullet sliced lengthwise. A little chilling to see it sliding down out of the sky—you didn't see many tru-flight vehicles up in Oregon.

  And the man who stepped out of it bothered him, too. No taller than average, no wider than average, but there was something about him that set Courtney's teeth on edge.

  The man wore leather, all leather, and he squeaked when he walked, damn it.

  The man watched from behind wraparound sunglasses, sat in the corner of the garage and watched every motion. The skin on his face looked fake. He didn't know how else to put it. Fake, or maybe dead.

  When his wife Sylvie came out to bring him a beer, the man hadn't looked at her, for which Courtney felt a mixture of relief and curiosity. Most men stared at Sylvie.

  Maybe he was gay. Yeah. That might have been it.

  But something made him nervous anyway, and he worked on the adjustment of the holo. The projection mechanism combined map coordinates with infrared and radar scan, giving perfect tracking and navigation in any weather conditions. For some reason, even that made Courtney feel a little uneasy.

  The dashboard display needed so little readjustment. It hardly seemed worth the stop.

  Unless . . .

  Unless he didn't need service at all. His batteries and fuel cells were fully charged, and there were no gross malfunctions of any main or auxiliary circuit. Why did this man, in his incredibly expensive vehicle, end up at an off-road service station?

  Courtney began to sweat.

  He closed the door on the car, and turned around. "Well, that's about all that I can do for it. The resolution is better by maybe five percent."

  "That's quite enough," the man said. "Thank you." His voice was quiet.

  "How will you be paying for this?"

  "Credit Marks. You take them, don't you?"

  "Yes," he answered carefully. "But I don't see many of them these days."

  "You saw one last week," the man said casually.

  "I did?"

  "Um-hum." The man held out two bills to Courtney. His every movement measured, Courtney took them. He started to run them through the cashequiter

  "Oh, they're good enough. Just like the one last week. It came from the Buenos Aires Mint to San Cristobal, then Toronto. Then it bounced around in the States for a while before it hit Los Angeles. Ended up in the hands of a man calls himself Warrick. Or Aubry Knight. Those names sound familiar?"

  "Nope. Hear a lot of names."

  "In a little backwater shit place like this? Somehow I don't find that believable." The man took a freezecard image clipped out of a holo broadcast, and held it up to Courtney. "You remember him now?"

  "Yes. I think I do."

  "That's better. Much better." With a flip like a magician making a card disappear, the man returned the freeze to his jacket. A pair of trade notes appeared in their place. Courtney gasped at the denominations.

  "We're very friendly people, and those who help us end up on top. It's really as simple as that."

  Courtney swallowed hard. "Ain't really got nothing to tell you."

  "I think you're lying," the man whispered, reaching out as if to caress Courtney's hand.

  Human bone and muscle couldn't create the kind of pressure that Courtney felt next. It was as if his hand was caught in a vise. He tried not to scream, because if he screamed, then Sylvie would come out of the house, and if she did then—

  But he couldn't hold it any longer, and he did scream, and the man released his hand.

  Courtney fell to the ground, entire body flaming with the pain. "I . . . they said they were from Los Angeles. They were driving an '04 hovercar. Toyota, I think."

  "Yes. What else?"

  Courtney thought desperately. "They asked where Shasta Lake was."

  "Is that where they were headed?"

  "Said they might camp there. Go on in the morning."

  "Go on to where?"

  "They didn't say. Honest, they didn't say."

  "Honest?" The man laughed. "On your honor? You had your chance to be honorable. You decided to side with scum."

  The man knelt down next to him, Courtney curled into a ball, clutching what remained of his hand. The bones were pulp, fragments twisting through to the surface. Blood drooled from what was left. "Anything," he heard himself babble. "I'll tell you anything."

  "I'm sure you will." The man stood, and smiled benevolently. He suddenly lashed out with a toe, connecting with Courtney's knee. The pain was incredible. "Just so you won't wander off while I disconnect your beacon. We don't want to be disturbed now, do we?"

  There was a sudden scream, and Courtney heard the sound of his front door slapping open.

  "Don't move." It was Sylvie's voice.

  Don't. Get out of here. ... He tried to say the words, but pain had frozen his vocal cords.

  The stranger laughed. "Now why don't you put that down, little lady?"

  Courtney wiggled around until he faced the house. Sylvie was on the steps, the Remington pump nestled against her shoulder, barrel aimed precisely at the stranger's face.

  "You get away from him," she said, her voice on the edge of cracking
.

  The stranger laughed again. "This is all just a misunderstanding. I'm sure we can work something out—"

  He was turning sideways, and Courtney saw that his right hand, hidden from Sylvie, was reaching into the coat—

  There was a sudden roar, and one of the Tetra's windows exploded. Before anyone could move, Sylvie had shifted the barrel again, and the stranger was no longer smiling.

  "Next shot's right between the eyes," she said. "Law's on the way, mister. Always takes 'em too long to get here, so if you take off right now I might decide it's less trouble to let you go than to shoot you or try to keep you covered for a half hour. Get."

  The stranger's hand dropped away from his pocket, and he nodded, smiling sickly. He swung into the car. It started with the first touch of the ignition, and lifted away, blasting them with dust.

  Sylvie ran to her husband, who was beginning to lift himself from the ground.

  "Damn nice car," he said, nursing his hand. "Wasn't the car's fault." The blood was draining from his face as he stood. "Should have shot him in the leg." And he collapsed against her.

  Killinger was hovering at two thousand feet when the rest of his unit caught up. They were specks at first, almost invisible in the afternoon sunlight. Then a dozen of them materialized. All were encapsulated, so that it would be impossible to see who or what was within.

  The first vehicle wagged its fins in salute. The radio crackled. "Sir?"

  "Nothing," he said irritably. "They didn't know anything."

  Killinger tamped his anger down. It was unprofessional. Later, after this was all over, he would come back and take care of those two. "Knight has disappeared for now. Fortunately we have business farther north, or my trip would be for nothing. Are the incendiary units in place around Marjo?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Well, then." He sighed in satisfaction. "Let's go and pay those bitches a little visit. It's time the Medusas got their test run."

  Chapter Fifteen

  Ariane

  Tuesday, May 30

  "No, I haven't seen him since this morning. Why?"

  Promise smiled uncertainly. Why indeed? If Aubry wanted to go off by himself and sulk, that was his option. If only it wasn't so damned important. If only . . .

  Promise left the administration building and stepped out into the oval. All around her, the life of the encampment was in full swing. Women were working at a myriad of large and small tasks. The new eastern dining hall was almost complete. There, to the south, the concrete foundation for a new amphitheater was being poured even as she walked.

  She strolled the center lane, forcing Aubry from her mind. She loved him. Her body screamed for him when she woke in the morning, when the empty sheets caressed her skin at night. But perhaps he was right. Perhaps a chemical could create a bond that shouldn't have existed in the first place.

  And is love enough? Is it enough to want someone right down to your marrow? Or are other things as important, perhaps more important . . . ?

  Perhaps it was time for them to find out.

  The smiles that she received from the passing women were genuine. In no way were they ingratiating, imploring, expectant, cajoling. They were a genuine emotional embrace. They were faces that said "welcome," and voices that echoed the thought.

  Perhaps, just perhaps . . .

  Her own jobs in administration and nursing were undemanding, but held a certain potential. If she were to stay. If she renounced the outside world, then there would be more responsibility, and a position of greater importance. Her administrative skills, gained in tenure with the Scavengers, would be of great use to Ephesus. They had let her know that in no uncertain terms.

  But for now she just walked, looking.

  There were so few men here. How did that make her feel? How did it feel to live in a world dominated by women, after spending the ten years of her life in a world where men controlled almost everything.

  Peaceful. Frightening. Exhilarating. Her own strength was challenged, rose to the call. It was . . .

  It was home.

  Dinner time, and still Aubry had not appeared. Their hovercar was still there. Aubry hadn't removed any of his belongings from the room. Promise sat on the edge of the bed, and looked at his things. She picked up one of the shirts he had worn the day before. She smelled it, inhaled deeply. His natural spicy scent burst on her senses.

  Her body ached for him. She bit her lip, trembling. Was it right to want someone so badly? Was it healthy? She didn't know, and, in part, did not care. It was the way that she felt, and there was nothing to be done about that.

  But she could affect what she did with the realization.

  Promise walked to the window, and looked out over the valley of Ephesus. Why had she come back here? What was it that the outside world lacked for her?

  The domes of the houses, the evening lights just beginning to glow, all of these were good things, warming things, but they had not been in her mind.

  There was one reason, one clear and obvious reason, something that had yet to be resolved.

  She left the room, crossing the courtyard to Bioworks, the northernmost building on the oval.

  The building was a little cooler than the air outside. The halls were striped with gleaming plastic, more than any of the other buildings. Here there was more metal than wood, and the lighting seemed almost pointedly artificial. The floor beneath her purred with odd vibrations.

  Her feet felt heavy here, as if she were trespassing. A woman in a lab coat brushed by her in the halls. Promise smiled, and turned to let her pass. There was an entirely different feeling here in this place, and she wasn't sure what it was. The stained glass and the wood were decoys. The pattern of color on the ground, focused as if by a rotating jewel, softened every angle, somehow made it difficult to think.

  She scanned the pegboard at the end of the hall listing assignments.

  The names ran horizontally, each of them engraved on a tiny wooden rectangle and pegged at their daily assignment. She scanned them, searching for something.

  A. COTONOU. It wasn't larger or more prominent than any of the other tags, but then she wouldn't have expected it to be. But there was the name, Promise couldn't have forgotten it in a hundred years. Ariane was here.

  Promise peered up the stairway leading to the second floor, and sighed. She could have walked right up without a problem. But Ariane was in the basement, in a higher-security section. She couldn't get admittance without a passkey. There was no way to fake her way through. Everyone knew everyone else by sight. The only thing she could do was wait. She tried three doors before she found one that was open. Within, two lab coats were hanging on hooks. She slipped one on, warmed instantly by the heat-reflective cloth.

  Back in the hall again, she sank her head into her hands, and waited.

  Forty minutes later, the elevator chimed. Promise carefully scanned the emerging group. They numbered six women, trim and healthy and talking quietly to one another. Promise searched their faces. Could her mother have changed so in ten years? No . . . but she rose as they exited, and stood at the nearby water fountain, as if ignoring them. As the last of them walked past she slipped into the elevator before the door closed.

  Unbidden, the elevator sank slowly, and touched bottom with a sigh. The colored lights at the top of the door frame washed from green to gold, and then the door hissed open.

  It was actually chilly in this part of the building, making the insulated lab coat a necessity. The lights were skewed somehow. Promise peered through the long, low windows into the various labs where secret, tender miracles were being wrought. Each of the separate rooms was filled with glistening metal and crystal. One bank of walls was partitioned into hundreds of small slots, like safe deposit boxes. Each had a green glass window. The doors into the rooms were locked.

  There were two operating rooms at the far end of the hall, and neither was occupied. Promise slipped into one.

  Something inside her wanted to cry. It was her
e, or in a room much like this one, where she had been conceived. Was this where Ariane and her technicians had worked their gentle magic with Suzette Freleng's ancient, frozen eggs?

  From a rack to her left she extracted a slender glass pipette, and held it up to the light. Had this been part of the process? And had the frozen egg been transported in one of these to the next room, to undergo the delicate manipulations that would fuse them with one of Ariane's? Then was the resulting fertilized ovum implanted into her mother's uterine wall? She was the child of two women, but one had died long before Promise was born. Promise had always paid most honor to one, and now needed so much to . . .

  "This is the place."

  Promise turned, flushed with embarrassment.

  The woman who stood in the doorway was inches shorter than Promise, her skin fractionally lighter. Her hair was long, and very white. She was stout now, and, from the mixed Polynesian lines in her face, looked as if she would have been more at home in a sarong than a lab coat. Time and a slowing metabolic rate had stolen the muscle from her body. She carried a white plastic clipboard tight against her chest.

  "You're wearing glasses," Promise said lamely.

  Ariane studied her, harsh words hovering near the surface. She took the gold frames off, folded them, slipped them into a breast pocket. "Yes. I suppose I could have had corrective surgery, or optical feedback training. I've never liked the idea of little plastic chips floating on my eyeballs."

  Promise tried to laugh, but the best she could manage was a smile. "I had to see you." The air conditioner whispered a breath of cold air against the back of her neck.

  "Why?"

  Tears were close now. "I wanted to see my mother. There was a time when I could run to you when I hurt. If I skinned a knee, you were there. If I stumbled, you were there to pick me up."

  "That was a long time ago, Promise. You decided to leave. You knew the cost."