“It’s simple,” the old man had said. “If the people who know what to do don’t take their God-given right and use it, it all falls into chaos. I made you, son, not merely to inherit the Hurt Empire. I made you to be a watchdog on Human Evolution.”
At the age of twenty-five, Earnest Evers Hurt had rebelled. With pain, the recollections flickered back: the retreat to Sanctuary Planet. The airy beauty of that world, where all religions of the universe were allowed to set up outposts, not for missionary work but for simple contemplation. A lonely pilgrim, he had wandered that planet, half-expecting to be picked up forcibly by a team of his father’s well-known hired hands. He’d straggled through the hundreds of different brands of Buddhism, of Shintoism, Taoism. He lingered in Christian and Moslem sects, spent a full year studying the intricacies of Hinduism. Finally, one day, in some nameless encampment of some nameless new branch of belief—confused and desolate, still not quite able to understand, feeling as though all he had learned had simply sifted out of his head, a messenger came bearing a letter with his father’s archaic wax seal.
The letter read: COME HOME, MY BOY. THEY CAN’T KEEP ME GOING MUCH LONGER. The signature was even more of a scrawl than usual.
“I’m sorry, Father,” he had said by the old man’s bedside. “But I had to leave.”
“I expected it,” the old man said, voice weak even through a mechanical vocalizer. “You have to be your own man, Earnie. I didn’t make you to be some sort of weak shadow of me. My whole life has been trading, politics, and business. It runs in your blood too, I know. Shit, you’re even better than me. Meant it to be that way. When you see further, like you do, your range and sights get wider . You start thinkin’ about other things. So, what bugga-bugga have you brought home with you, Earnie?”
“Just confusion, Father.”
“Yeah, well let me tell you my simple philosophy on that. All this mumbo-jumbo about afterlife? Well, it’s just wishful thinking.”
“There should be a gentle surrender to whatever is, Father,” Earnest had said, glibly mouthing a mishmash of what he had learned on Sanctuary.
The old man’s eyes had started from their sockets. The life-support alarm rang. A nurse ran up to administer sedation. By sheer force of will, Artemus Hurt pushed him away and grabbed his son’s collar. “I didn’t raise you for that, Earnest. You’re not just a collection of skin and bone and brain. You’re not just my son, not just what people have defined you as. You’re you, man! Whatever you do, you’ve got to survive! You’ve got to struggle to your dying minute. The creatures who went with the flow are still fish, Earnest. Human beings are survivors. You must survive and your race must survive, because it’s a cold universe, Earnest, and it doesn’t give a shit whether you burn with happiness and completion or you just rot.”
Despite the doctors’ predictions, the old man had lingered for another month, fighting for his life every inch of the way, staying lucid and conscious, telling his son and heir all his secrets, letting down all barriers. During that time it seemed that the man’s fervid willpower seeped into Earnest’s very sinews.
When the old man had gasped his last breath, Earnest was by his side, holding his hand. The grief had been heavy, for their bond had become great; nonetheless, Hurt came away with renewed purpose, feeling as though his father lived on in him.
Survive. You represent the human race. Survive, his father had said one day. You may well be the key.
Absently, in times like these, Earnest Evers Hurt wondered if perhaps, in a state of delirium, his father might not have had some kind of cosmic insight into his son’s true destiny.
Anxious despite himself, Hurt watched the countdown to blast-off from Earth’s orbit. Below him, the crew busied themselves with their various tasks.
Something troubled him. Something vague gnawed in his mind, even though the proceedings had thus far been letter perfect.
Hang on, old man, his father seemed to whisper. Hang on.
Nonetheless, niggling doubts moiled inside his mind. He didn’t feel himself at all. He felt as though some other hand than his were in control. Fate? Destiny? Yes, he told himself. That must be it.
Time passed. Departure moment came.
Earnest Evers Hurt watched as the planet Earth diminished in the vu-plates as his magnificent starship, the Star Fall, drifted into the Void.
Amen, he thought ironically.
So be it.
THE CABIN was not exactly sumptuous.
A bed, a fridge, a three-dee set, a computer terminal, a chest of drawers.
Crestfallen, Charley Haversham threw his bag on the bed, which wobbled. Big deal, he thought. A hydro-mat. Fancy-sounding name for a waterbed. Shit, he was expecting an antigrav couch or something. He checked the bathroom. Functional. That was about it. They sure didn’t spare the hired hands much luxury.
The omnicleaner shuffled in behind him. The door slid shut. The ’cleaner squatted by the desk.
Cripes, thought Haversham. Not even a decent control desk.
Thumping down on his bed, he checked his duty roster. He didn’t have to report for eighteen hours. Great. Time for a shave and a bath, a quick tour around the ship, then some shuteye.
He sighed, and a shiver hit him, a sudden feeling of homesickness.
He was going to be on this starship for a year. The notion’s excitement remained, but some of the reality crept in. He’d been a planet hugger all his life. Venturing into space was not as easy as he’d imagined.
Just glad to get away from Deadrock.
Funny. Where had that thought come from? What the hell was Deadrock?
Suddenly an ache grew in his head. Automatically, he went to the medicine dispenser in the toilet, hoping it could dope him out some pills or something. Probably came from the rocket journey. Extra gravities and all that. Though you’d think the null-gravs would—
Charley Haversham caught sight of himself in the mirror. The familiar bright-eyed, friendly face surrounded by shaggy hair stared back at him and then suddenly—
... shifted ...
To somebody else’s face.
Huh? He blinked and looked again. No, everything looked all right now. What was wrong with him, anyway?
Maybe he’d better zip straight to the Med/Sec. Where was his bloody guide, anyway? He stumbled to the bed, fumbled in the bag for the booklet.
The omnicleaner belched.
Or made a funny noise that sounded like a belch, anyway. It jiggled, jerked, then the entire top popped open.
A bare foot lifted up, wiggling its toes.
“Blasted wire,” a voice said. “Hey, Charley. You want to get me out of here?”
(Foot. Leg. He remembered now. Remembered finding that robot leg fooling around in the omnicleaner section. Remembered the little nozzle of the cannon, lifting ...)
“Hey, who are you?”
“The question is, my friend, who are you? There we go. Bit of a snag. Rough connection, you know, but it did the trick.”
On metal arms, the leg lifted itself from the wide canister.
“We made it.”
“You still haven’t answered my question.”
The leg hopped to his side. “No need for any more questions, my friend. No need at all.”
Without warning, some sort of webworking shot over Charley’s head.
A light tracery of sparkles glittered over the net, soundless fireworks. Instinctively, Charley flinched—then suddenly the lights invaded his head, swarming in like maddened fireflies.
The sensation was not unpleasant. Merely disorienting. Flashes of strange visions assailed him, strobing an unfamiliar series of memories.
... the carbolic smell of a jail cell ...
... a breathless flight above the City ...
... the jab of a hypodermic, a fall into the night-damp grass ...
Al
l mixed with traceries of equally unfamiliar recollections, fading softly (the perfume in Debbie’s hair, the feel of floor wax on his hands, the thrum of maintenance machines) disappearing like dreams shedding after a restless night.
After a spell of dizziness, a session of nothingness ...
... He found himself lying, arms akimbo, on the bed. Motors whined, pushing oculars his way. A high voice said, “Well, I told you I’d get you on board the Star Fall some way, didn’t I?”
Todd Spigot took in a sharp breath. He bolted upright, staring around him. “How the devil did I get here?” He swung to face Cog. “And you? The last thing I remember was luring that fellow into the copse of trees. What happened?”
Tiny arms displayed something that looked like a miniature pocket calculator. “Simply a matter of a small operation. An implant effected by these wonderfully deft digits of mine.” The leg hopped up and down, giving itself over to a burst of Cremian joy. “It’s very simple, Todd. For a while, for all practical purposes, you were a man named Charley Haversham. Conversely, Charley Haversham was you. Right now, in fact, the overlay is probably wearing off and poor Charley is waking up in a jail cell. I feel a bit guilty about that part of it, but it was the only way.”
“Charley Haversham?” Todd said, a little frightened and bemused. “Overlay? What do you mean?”
“A network of artificial engrams. In anticipation of just such a need, I developed this method. You see, Todd, your surface identity—consciousness, or more exactly, your ego—is the result of biochemical formations and reactions holistically spread throughout your brain in the form of connected neurons. These processes give off unique impulses, which no one has yet has been able to change—like they can change fingerprints, say. But with my system, the device in your head is basically able to maintain the adjustments, chemical and electrical, in your identity system. Thus, you’re still you. For example, even as ‘Charley Haversham,’ if you took a nap you’d dream normal Todd Spigot-type dreams. Call it an identity mask so effective that the wearer actually believes it’s his real face.” The leg hopped up to the bed and removed the net draped over Todd’s head. “This cancels out the effects—or integrates them, as need may arise.”
“You mean—if you do that again, then I’d be this fellow—”
“Charley Haversham? Yes. Have his personality, his mannerisms, his surface thought-patterns. It’s your disguise. It’s what got you past the ID check.”
“What if something goes wrong, Cog? The two identities get mixed up. I won’t know who the hell I am!”
“It won’t work that way, I promise. The ‘Haversham’ Identity is on a different and opposite track—different polarity, shall we say. The human brain is a quite remarkable device—as is any brain of a sentient creature, material-based or not. I’m sure you’ve heard of cases in the history of human psychology of a person bearing two or more different personalities in one body. Well, I’m simply utilizing your brain’s capability to do that.”
“So now that I’m smuggled aboard, I’ll have to answer to the name Charley Haversham, do his work ... how am I supposed to accomplish that, Cog?” Todd shook his head wearily. “And I thought I was badly off before.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve programmed you to be capable of Haversham’s essential duties. But believe me, you won’t have to do them very long. What’s going to happen on this cruise is imminent. In fact, according to certain of my more delicate sensors, it’s already begun.”
“What’s begun, Cog? Are you going to tell me why you’ve dragged me back on board or not?”
“Todd, believe me; if I felt I could, I would.”
“What? You don’t trust me?”
“No, no. I trust you implicitly. It’s just that I’ve thus far concealed my presence aboard the ship, and even if the owner knew I were here, he doesn’t know I’m on to his activities. At the moment, things are in a delicate state, and I don’t wish to burden you with the truth. Please, just go along with my instructions for a little while longer while I make a few surreptitious investigations in my disguise.”
“In the meantime, what do I do?”
“I understand that this Earnest Evers Hurt chap has changed things around a bit. You can just tour, work, meet people. Enjoy yourself. I’ll arrange regular rendezvous times and points, fill you in on exactly what is happening and what you can do.”
“No,” Todd Spigot said. “I refuse.” He grabbed the pillow on his bed and covered his ears. “I’m not even going to listen to you anymore. I just don’t care.”
“Todd!” the leg cried. “There are bigger stakes this time than last!”
Abruptly, Todd leaped up and grabbed the leg, shaking it till its optical units rattled. “Last time! Last time! And what happened afterwards? You deserted me, you little bastard!”
“Todd. I was busy! I got wind of what Hurt was up to! I had to investigate, make preparations. You’ll understand once I fill you in.”
Todd released the robotic leg and hrumphed back to the bed. “So tell me.”
With a mechanical sigh, Cog said. “Okay. You wanna know, I’ll tell you one thing. I was hoping to spare you for just a little longer, not burden your anxieties with further strain. But noooooo, you have to know. Todd, you remember our old pal Ort Eath, don’t you?”
“Ort Eath? Of course. Killed himself. I saw it.”
“Sorry. They never found Ort Eath’s orgabox, did you know that?”
“My God, you mean?”
“You betcha ... Ort Eath is still very much around.” Cog lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. “Everywhere.”
* * *
Energies channel and coalesce, then dissipate. The ebb and flow of the Six quivers, taking random samplings of the sensory data available, then merge once more into unconsciousness, into dreams. These dreams are recorded, then stored in the vast appendix computer constructed by the Keeper.
The Sleeper lies uneasily, vaguely troubled by the energies draining into this construction vortex. Somewhere, relays click. Somewhere superconductors are employed, whirling back the dreams, spinning back the memories, again processing. Electricity courses through a particular matrix at a specific conjunction of nodes, lasers fire, and the scene erupts suddenly into the Sleeper’s mind, vivid and keen as life with all its scope and depth:
* * *
Darkness has been disturbed. Silence is parted by a spark of life—
“... Amazing,” a voice says. “We’ll have to do a detailed check. Most of the circuitry is beyond my ken. I’ll just have to see if one of my Morapn guests can explain it to me. Hmm. What’s this? We’re lighting up here. But why?”
Automatically, visual sensors switch on. The Core has been penetrated. In the moist dimness, in a strange life-support system, stands a man. Biologically sound but extremely aged. He carries with him an instrument slung over his belt.
By his side is a biological robot, part metal, part flesh, its appendages working nimbly over the Core circuitry. Blips and bleeps and flashes of light erupt. Vague sensations that might be termed pain fill the Sleeper.
“Ever encounter anything like this before, Unit Five?”
“Negative,” the creature responds in a monotone. “Mr. Hurt. My electronic probes register a distinct reaction, not previously encountered in even advanced computers. According to my readings, this central system, linked to every other system, is meshed with five biological brains that are fused into one being, one consciousness.”
“Brains? Are you sure? I mean, this could be part of the Morapn system originally installed,” Hurt says, parting the shadows with his flash cube. “Fascinating. This could work out very well, ultimately. I thought it would take at least five years for interior-computer renovation. But if we’ve already got something unbelievably advanced, all we have to do is learn its use, tap into it, change it into the kind of programmable machine we want ...”
/>
Awareness fills the Sleeper. With awareness comes burning memories of searing defeat of one section. With an inner scream of agony, it thrashes.
What lights there are in the Core splatter into incandescenses, then plunge everything into darkness. The interior quakes and spasms. Fires flare.
When things still, the human flicks his light cube back on.
“Careful, Unit Five. I do believe you might have drilled into a raw nerve or something.” The man’s previously calm voice is shaken. It reveals a peculiar kind of fear.
“Mr. Hurt, as I may remind you, I discouraged your descent here,” the biobot unit says. “As one of your personal bodyguards, the state of your health and safety is of the utmost importance to me. I realize, sir, your excitement in the recent acquiring of this most original and interesting starship, but because of its alien qualities, it would be best, I think, if your servants and associates, such as myself, explore the vessel and its properties thoroughly before you survey it.”
“Perhaps you are right, Five,” Hurt says. “My enthusiasm outstripped my common sense. Let’s go. You and your colleague may examine this room later. Is it my imagination or has the temperature risen in here? Radio up. Have the elevator—”
The Sleeper, fully awakening, lashes out.
A cable rips free from one of the coiled emplacements on the convoluted siding. With its spear-sharp head, it jabs into the biobot, sparking. The biobot spasms. Dark juices leak from its body as it tumbles to the mist-covered metal flooring of the room called the Core.
Before the man can react, the biobot struggles to its feet. A strange light glows in its numerous eyes.
“Who are you that disturbs my rest and brings me pain?”
Hurt turns to flee, then seems to get hold of himself. Pausing, he swivels back to address the possessed biobot.
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