Apprehensions and Other Delusions

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  But she is holding up her hand to silence you. “If They catch me again, They will try to kill me. But first They will try to find out what I know. And They will find out, no matter what I try to hold back. They will find out. So it is best that I know as little as possible. I wish I could know nothing.”

  Does it add up? You wonder. Does it? Or is this some subtle trick, some devious way to catch you off guard for a moment, vulnerable for just long enough for her to use that knife she has in her boot? It’s cold and you want to relax, but what if that’s what she’s waiting for, a moment when—

  The boy is breathing stridently now, sounding as if there is something clogging his throat. You know what it is. You’ve heard it before now.

  So has she, you think, because she moves a little, shields his eyes from the dark as he struggles against his failing body, trying to make it not die. He gasps, one hand flailing, his face changing colors.

  Then she closes those blond staring eyes, moves the dead boy off her lap, stands and stares at the body at her feet as if he were an unfamiliar and faintly puzzling part of the landscape. She cocks her head to the side and looks away from the boy, looking almost-but-not-quite at you.

  “And being pioneers was the way to have things even again. We were going to find a real equalizer. Pioneering was going to make us all brothers. No more war, because we could all be pioneers instead. People were going to pool their talents and strengths and virtues and courages to launch a united assault on all the empty places. We had it all figured out. We would restore the world, restore all the worlds, make them bloom.” She rubbed the back of her hand across her mouth as if there was something foul on her lips. “Ask this boy what the equalizer is. He knows all about it.”

  She is about a head shorter than you are, built strong, wire-lithe, taut. You find you’re staring at her hands. They are large, would be large if she were a man; large and long-fingered with knots at the knuckles. No, you decide, she’s not pretty, not by any standards you’ve seen. She’s not much of anything. In a crowd no one would notice her unless they were looking for her.

  She tilts her head, watching the door or the light, you aren’t sure which, and you see that she has high cheekbones and a wide brow, what some people might call good bones. She is a human, just a human, with nothing added or taken away, so far as you can tell. There are dark circles around her eyes and the look of fatigue and hunger draws the lines in her face with shadows. In this light it is impossible to see what color her eyes or her hair are.

  You realize you are staring: you look away.

  “They’re trying to take over here, you know,” she says, her voice as remote as if she were discussing the weather or the fate of another place. “They came two years ago.”

  “Yes.” You have heard the story. “We’ll keep Them out,” you assure her, knowing that you can promise her nothing.

  “So what?” She looks up at you again. “What’s the difference if you or They wreck our fields? Why should it make it better that you burned down our houses than if They did?”

  You scowl. “It isn’t the same.”

  “No?” She gets onto her feet slowly. “I suppose he’d say the same thing, if he could speak.”

  “But he’s one of Them,” you remind her.

  “Oh, yes: one of Them.” She squints into the darkness. “It makes his dying all right.”

  You frown. You find yourself thinking of the soldiers who were with you this morning. They were all right, this morning. Now they’re—Stop it. It’s night now and there’s no point in remembering the men who died. “But he was one of Them.”

  She looks up, startled. Almost as if she’d forgotten you’re here. She tries to smile, to ease up a little or to misdirect you into feeling comfortable. She’s not successful, but that’s all right. She tried, and you appreciate that.

  “Yes, that’s right,” she says. But she is on her feet, pacing, and nothing is right. That reminds you that your ankle needs attention. You bend down and loosen your boot. Your foot is numb to your touch and it fits the boot badly.

  She catches your movement. “What is it? Capuchin burn?” The question comes too quickly, but you try to ignore that.

  “Twisted my ankle,” you say.

  “Where?”

  “Back there. The other side of the ridge. There was a cross-fire.” You talk in grunts as you pull at the bindings, the whole damned boot.

  “So that’s what I heard,” she says.

  “Our squad was caught in the open. That’s what you heard.” You tug at the straps, grimacing.

  “Move.” She’s down at your feet, her attention on you as it was on the dead soldier. “Let me take care of that. You’ll only make it worse.”

  “I don’t have any replacements.” You pat the kit strapped to your back. “We aren’t given replacements for a short campaign, this is only Day 16. A.F. model-4s won’t get anything new until day 30.”

  “What do you mean, replacements?” She bats your hands out of the way and works with the thongs as you lie back and allow yourself the luxury of groaning while she gently, gently, pulls the boot off your very painful foot. You feel how cold the air has become, even in the thawing shed. As she peels off your sock, you take a deep breath.

  Then she touches your ankle with those long fingers of hers.

  You hiss and pull back.

  “Hurt?”

  You say some obscenity and regret it all in the same instant. “I’m a cyborg; it’s not pain,” you remind her.

  “You look pretty human to me. Your ankle is sprained and swollen and—”

  “I’m a cyborg. I need a replacement.”

  “You’re a human. You need a splint.” She rocks back on her heels. “You’ve sprained the ankle. I don’t think you’ve broken it, that’s something. I can probably make some kind of brace for you. Can you wiggle your toes?”

  You demonstrate, trying not to notice how painful that movement is, since there cannot be pain. A.F. model-4 soldiers are not capable of hurting.

  “Can you feel your toes? Are they numb?”

  Yes, you tell her, you can feel your toes. They’re fine, thanks. The toes aren’t the matter; it’s your ankle that’s bothering you.

  “Good. I’ll do what I can to fix you up. You can come with me when I leave here. I was afraid you wouldn’t be able to travel.” You know from her tone that she is capable of leaving you behind without a trace of guilt.

  Just where is she going, you want to know.

  “Craoi-Venduru. It’s a pioneer settlement south of here. They’ve been there about fifteen days. They came with Their new replacements, but not a strong force.”

  “They? They’ve got replacements?” you ask, your eyes narrowed. You were not told They had landed replacements for more than two months.

  “Yes. Who do you think I meant?”

  You shrug.

  “The pioneers were killed, oh, a long time ago, and there was almost no one left when They moved in. That’s why we’ll be safe there: They’ll never think of looking for us there, right under Their noses. We’ll be safe.” Her smile lacks warmth or confidence, but it does not tremble. “The other reason to go there is that Craoi is the closest settlement to the A.F. lines, unless there have been changes since early this morning. If we can get through anywhere, it’ll be there. The river runs within three kilometers of the town, and if we can get across it we’ll be safe. You want to get back to the A.F. lines, don’t you?”

  You look at her.

  She makes no apology for her implication. “There was the chance that you’d deserted under fire—”

  “Cyborgs don’t do that.”

  “—and in that case, you’d want to find Them first.”

  “And if I were a deserter?” It is fascinating to watch how flat her expression can become.


  “Oh,” she sighs and her shoulders sag. “I would have to kill you, soldier. And I am very tired of killing.”

  You look away abruptly, not knowing where to direct your eyes. You stare at your bootless foot—did she help you with it, or has her assistance been nothing more than a ploy to make you helpless?—and then at the dead boy on the other side of the shed, his uniform no longer recognizable in the darkness. The doorframe is now just a denser black against the night. “Why would you help me? Why should I trust you?”

  “Because you’re lost and I know the way back. Because I need help, and you can help me.” She picks up your boot and looks at it, then puts it down again.

  You laugh, once, with contempt.

  “You’d better rest, soldier. We have to travel before first light. It’s safest then. No one is out at that time of night.” She takes a deep breath and looks up toward the loft.

  “At night? We will move at night?” The day is more convenient if you have to fight. The day is warmer.

  “Yes. Because They won’t, not if They can help it. They stay out of the cold when They can. And They don’t see in the dark much better than you do.” She has gone back to pacing. Then she stops and bends down.

  When she stands up she has something very ugly in her hands: an automatic laser.

  You grab for your beamer, hoping to get a shot off before she can aim and fire. You twist your ankle again and wince. All you can get your hands on is old, damp grain.

  “It’s almost out of fuel,” she remarks casually, lowering it and looking around at the dead man. “Do you know how to use one of these things?”

  You stare in disbelief. She wasn’t after you. She wasn’t going to shoot you. You’re not going to end here, smeared on the wall of a thawing shed, weaponless and with one boot gone.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “I was hoping he’d have some fuel for this.” She lifts the laser. She asks nothing. You guess she knows what you almost did. She goes on searching, saying nothing about what you were going to do, would have done. Then: “I guess not. I can’t find anything. Too bad. We could have used the laser.”

  You nod, but it means nothing. The laser means nothing. If you have to use weapons at all, you’ll need more than one hand-held laser.

  “You have any incendiary grenades?”

  “No. Do you?”

  “Two. They’re Theirs, of course. But they’ll blow a nice, hot hole as well as A.F. design, I guess. Grenades don’t care who uses them.”

  Your foot is getting stiff, either from the cold or from its malfunction. “Hey,” you tell her. “Hey, about—”

  She looks toward you, all but invisible in the night-covered shed. “What?”

  “D’you mind if I put my boot back on? I’ll need your help. It’s cold.”

  “Here.” She takes off the dark jacket of pioneer-made cloth and tosses it to you. You’ve seen this material before, but its lightness still surprises you. “There’s plenty of time to wrap it up, later. Why not get some rest? You won’t freeze if you use that.”

  “Why don’t you get some rest?” You did not mean to challenge her, but now that the words are out, you hope that she will have an answer for you.

  “I will, in Craoi-Venduru. You need sleep more than I do.” She starts away from you.

  “Cyborgs don’t sleep,” you tell her.

  “That’s fine for cyborgs,” she says, then looks at you, “but you are not a cyborg, no matter what you think. You’re just a soldier, as much a person as any other soldier.”

  “Crap,” you answer, as you have heard others answer countless times before now. “A.F. model-4, cyborg group 722 are made to look human. Most of our armor is under our skin, so we don’t look too much like machines.”

  “To use your word: crap.”

  You can think of nothing to say, not with your ankle the way it is. “I’m a cyborg,” you repeat.

  “Human. Truth,” she counters. “You need rest because of what you’ve done to your ankle. Go on. Lie down.”

  You regard her suspiciously, standing like a ghost, a dark brown ghost in the grey gloom, pale hands, pale face, dark, hidden eyes. Luminous hands and face hung on tenuous, invisible body. You fold your arms.

  She says a second time, “Go on.”

  You feel the desire for sleep clutch at your bones with an ache like grief. The jacket she has given you is warm on your cold legs, the grain is musty-damp but cozy. The shed is friendly if you ignore the dead soldier; it smells of grain and old dung and people. You try not to feel tired. “I can stay up,” you say, though you know you need rest if you’re going to fight Them again. You need rest, want it, crave it. “What will happen while I’m asleep, if I sleep?” You have to know, seeing the heap that was one of Their soldiers, remembering the knife strapped to her boot.

  “I’II be up there.”

  You look up, to where she points.

  “Up in the loft, watching.”

  “Why?” you ask.

  “In case we have visitors. Poor boy there was left to watch this ridge. The flank of his platoon went off toward the river and he was supposed to stay back, in case of counter-attack. He was under orders to report an hour after sunrise in the morning, but who knows what They might do if A.F. troops get any closer? I don’t want to be surprised, do you?”

  “Surprised? No.” Sleep, sleep is all you can think of. They are only an idea that is keeping you from sleep. They are nothing more than the products of a nightmare, if cyborgs could have nightmares. If cyborgs could have dreams. You are a soldier. They are less than nothing. And her? What about her? What about her knife? How can you trust her? “How do I know you’ll keep watch? How do I know I won’t end up like that dead soldier?”

  “You don’t,” she says flatly. “And I don’t know what you’ll do, either. I’m willing to take a chance.” She looks around the shed. “Might as well take advantage and get some rest; there’s no place we can go for a couple of hours, anyway.”

  “But you—” you begin.

  “You, too,” she answers. “But what’s the point?”

  You nod, hating your own weakness and the sleepiness that is seeping into your bones with the cold. You adjust yourself against the wall of the thawing shed, trying to forget the cold, the night, the dead man on the floor, the dead men of your squad lying in pieces amid frost shriveled crops. “What did you say to him, when you were talking to him?”

  “I told him not to be afraid.”

  You hear the squeak of the ladder as she climbs to the loft, a sound like heavy wind, and you tell yourself you will remain vigilant. You don’t require sleep. You require a med who can fix your ankle. That’s all.

  And then someone has taken you by the shoulder. Firmly.

  You’re awake, reaching for your beamer.

  “Shush,” she says. “Easy soldier. I’m here.” She puts her hand into yours, gripping. “It’s me.”

  You nod in the dark, trying to remember your day, why she’d wake you now. When is now? “What time is it?”

  “About two hours before dawn. We have to get out of here now, before it starts to get light. They’ll find us if we don’t leave.” She squats down beside you. “Look, I’m going to put your boot on. It’s going to hurt. Okay?”

  “It won’t hurt,” you say, but then you add, “But sure, okay. Go ahead.”

  She moves down your leg, taking the jacket off as she goes. You feel how cold it is now, much colder than it was.

  “It’s not too bad,” she says as she touches you gently. Her hands are cold.

  You pull away.

  “I’m going to have to bind your ankle very tight. As tight as I can get the bandages. You’ll be able to walk more easily, as soon as you’re used to it.”

  “I’m read
y.” You aren’t, but since you’ll never be, she might as well do it now and get it over with.

  First on goes the sock, which is surprisingly warm. “How?”

  “I’ve had it in my pocket,” she says.

  A warm sock isn’t too bad. You know better than to hope that the boot will go on as well.

  It doesn’t.

  If she were using a vice to mash your bones it couldn’t be worse, or so you tell yourself as you try to think of anything but the agony she has caused. You push back against the wall, eyes shut and smarting, sucking short gulps of air through your clenched teeth. As she tugs at the bindings to tighten them, you hear her say, “I’m sorry, I’m very sorry.”

  It’s nothing, you say inside. It’s the malfunction. It isn’t pain. Cyborgs don’t feel pain. It isn’t possible for you to hurt. It’s the malfunction, the malfunction, the malfunction. You don’t know what you say to her, if anything.

  “That’s about all I can do without meds. I don’t have one. Wait a bit and then try standing on it. We’ve got to be out of here, in case they check on that boy.” She nods toward the corpse, as anonymous as a sack in the dark. She takes her jacket from you and for the first time you wonder how she kept warm; it was freezing in the loft.

  “There’s a warming sheet up there, part of the thawing,” she answers. “Some pioneer farmer used it to protect his crop. Not that it’s done him any good.” She goes into one of the storage troughs and comes back with something strange in her hands.

  “What?—” Too late you realize it’s a weapon.

  “Another piece of pioneer equipment.” She raises the thing, resting barrels against her shoulder.

  You laugh, a braying sound in the cold, as you fight against the fear and your ankle. “It looks like a beamer, a little,” you tell her, because in this light even a broom would look like a beamer.

  “It’s a 20-gauge shotgun,” she says.

  Immediately you are filled with questions: what is such an archaic gun doing here? Does it even work, after all this time? You keep from asking them. She answers anyway. “There’s a big pioneer center about fifty kilometers back. It belonged to one of the big combines, so there’s lots of buildings with shipping centers and all the rest. They were using it for supplies. I found this in the pioneer stuff They discarded. I took it and all the shells I could find, and five incendiary grenades. When I got out of there, I used three of the grenades to blow up the bridges on the estate.”