The doors clatter open, and he steps down and away, scarcely mindful of the bus growling on without him. He walks three and a half blocks, trying to find an apartment building he has only visited once before, in the daytime. The night landscape is different, another kind of country altogether, one of blurrier outlines, darker darks, more ghostly lights. The building emerges out of the shapes like a familiar statue seen in different light, and he enters the lobby and finds Mozy's barely legible name on the buzzer plate, recognizing her printing before the actual name. He stares at it for a moment—Mozelle Moi—his steadiness and determination shaken by the rush of memories brought into his head by that name.
He finds the elevator and goes up to the third floor. Wrong floor. Then the elevator's gone, and he hikes up one flight of stairs rather than wait for it to return. Mozy's floor looks so unfamiliar to him that he wants to leave before he gets caught in some awful Minotaur's maze. Instead, he walks slowly down the hall, feeling like a criminal. The greasy smell of cooking sausage assaults his nose from one wing, and there's the sound of shouting children behind a door as he counts the numbers looking for 432 or 482. He can't remember which is the correct number. There it is. 482. He recognizes the gouge in the plaster near Mozy's door.
Her door surrenders to the key, and then he's inside, shutting it behind him, groping for the light switch. Nothing but flat wall and molding. All darkness and shadowy shapes in the room. If he squints like that and strains his eyes, he gets more amplification, especially in the infrared, and he can just about find his way across toward the ghostly form of a desk. He stumbles on the end leg of the couch, but reaches the table in front of him and finds the lamp. Then the switch.
The light glares in his eyes, and he turns away, blinking. Couch, desk, table. Room seems more cramped than he remembers it. Window at one end, kitchen at the other. Mozy, he thinks. Mozy, you should be here. Why are you hiding in that hospital, not listening, not talking?
He turns again, too quickly, and for an instant is overcome by a rush of dizziness, then tears. Jabs at his eyes with his knuckles, cursing, and tries to blink the tears out of his eyes so he can see again. Headache is returning, it's intense, a taphammer landing front dead center, and for a second he can't see straight, and then suddenly he's gasping, getting his breath back, trying to ignore it. He can live with it until he's through with his business.
The gerbils. Cage is on the table, right here in front of you. What did you think that smell was?
The gerbils are dead. Collapsed across one another in a pitiful little heap. Maggie and Mouse, both dead.
You bastard—you've killed them. Innocent creatures, and you've let them starve.
Tears stream down his cheeks. He didn't do it intentionally; he only got home yesterday, they were grilling him, there was nothing he could do. Blinking, he looks into the cage again. The least he can do is get them out of there and bury them, give them some dignity. His hand trembling, he fumbles at the cage latch, and finally gets it open.
One of the gerbils lifts its head and peers groggily at him. The thing's fur is all matted and it smells, but it's definitely weaving its head at him, blinking. "Maggie?" he croaks. "Mouse?" He wipes his eyes with his sleeve, and reaches in and touches the animal on the nose. It sniffs weakly at his finger. "You wonderful little bastard," he whispers.
He checks the food and water dispensers; both are empty. He yanks the water bottle loose from its clip, hurries into the kitchen, and carefully fills it. By the time he gets back, the gerbil has staggered to the open cage door. He stoppers the bottle and refastens it to the cage, and then, reaching back in, picks up the gerbil and sets it down near the water spout.
The gerbil takes a step toward the spout, sniffs at the bead of water, and starts drinking. Hoshi watches in satisfaction and reaches through the bars to tickle it with his finger. One alive is better than none. But the other he'll have to get out of there. He's going to have to touch it, a dead thing. His hand trembles.
He can't do it.
For Mozy? Not even for Mozy? You were supposed to feed them, and one of them's dead now and the other's barely alive; can't you do this much for her, and bury her poor dead gerbil? Use your head.
He goes into the kitchen and switches on the light. The glare hits his eyes with shocking brightness. Counter and cupboards and stove shimmer before him like fire elementals, and he reels, vision suddenly going black. Struggling to stay upright, he covers his eyes with his hands, praying that it will stop. He starts to slide down the wall, his nostrils suddenly filled with a sickly odor, a smell of rotting vegetation. He pushes himself back upright, fighting for control. Work, muscles, he prays—hold the body steady.
As suddenly as it came, the smell is gone. Vision is returning, at first just a fuzzy grey field; then as he blinks, the stove hardens into focus. He looks around, frightened but relieved. Light and shadow are clear once more: the cupboards over the sink, bathroom door to the left. This is the worst attack ever. God, what's happening, has my punishment started already?
You're losing grip. Remember what you're here for.
He grabs a handful of paper towels and hurries back to the living room. He bends over and squints into the cage, trying to see which gerbil to grab—only now both gerbils are near the water, or is he losing his mind, his eyes going for good? He presses his thumbs into the center of his forehead right over his eyebrows. He looks again.
The two animals are sucking greedily at the water; they were both just sleeping or passed out. They're tougher than he imagined. The second gerbil looks even rattier than the first, but who cares, it's alive, it's breathing.
"You beautiful little bastards," he whispers. He blinks again, rubs away a tear. Mozy, do you forgive me? Now can you forgive me?
* * *
The phone screen is full of snow, or maybe it's just his eyes. But it looks like it's working—so why doesn't she answer?
Maybe he got it mixed up. Maybe this is the wrong person altogether. No, he's sure her name was Mardi. Mozy talked about her enough, he ought to be able to remember the name. Besides, why else would it be on Mozy's quickdial list?
If she answers, what is he going to say?
The screen flickers, and a face appears. "Mozy?" says an anxious voice, the voice of someone looking at him now in bewilderment. "Who are you?" she says.
He gnaws his lower lip, tongue-tied.
"Who are you? Is this a joke? Why are you calling from Mozy's number?"
"Is—is your name Mardi?" he stammers.
She eyes him suspiciously. "Yes."
"I'm a friend of Mozy's. I'm—my name's Hoshi."
Mardi's mouth opens. "I've heard of you. You work with Mozy, right?"
"I—yes—well, we did," Hoshi says, struggling, really trying hard to get it right. "What I mean is—"
"Is Mozy there? Did she ask you to call me?"
"She didn't ask, exactly. No, she's not here." Hoshi bites his lip. Careful, now. "There's been—there's been a sort of accident. Out at work, I mean."
Mardi's face turns rigid. "Dear God. Is she—I mean, is she all right? What happened?"
He swallows. "I can't tell you. Security and all. But it's not that serious, I mean, she isn't dead or anything. She's at the infirmary out at the institute, and she can't really commun—call you, I mean."
"But she's not—"
"No, not really." His words are tripping off his tongue now, and he's not sure what he's saying; maybe he shouldn't have told her, but somebody has to know. He clears his throat noisily. "Listen, I can't tell you any more, but the reason I called is because of her gerbils."
"I was wondering," Mardi says. "I thought she didn't want to talk to me, and I was kind of hurt."
"No, no—nothing like that. She can't call you, she would if she could, but this security stuff you can't imagine. But I want to talk to you about—"
"I'm glad. I'm really glad," Mardi says. She's suddenly flustered. "That sounds terrible. I'm not glad she got hurt,
I mean—of course not. But I wouldn't like to think she wasn't calling just because—"
"No, look," Hoshi says, and he's starting to get desperate, because Mardi won't shut up and let him talk. "It's not like that at all, and I have to talk to you about the gerbils!"
"What? Gerbils?"
"Right. Do you know anything about taking care of gerbils? I promised Mozy I'd take care of them, and—I have to go away for a few days, maybe longer, I was wondering—well, could you take it over while I'm gone?" He pauses. She looks at him. "I don't know who else to ask."
She shrugs. "I guess so."
"Do you have a key?"
"To her apartment? No."
He kneads his eyebrows for a moment. "All right. Here's what we'll do." He's going nonstop now, and as he talks, he's already furiously planning ahead. He really does have to get away, he didn't fully realize it until he said it to Mardi, but he can't hang around here, he has things to work out, things to do.
There's a pang of guilt he feels about leaving the gerbils, not taking care of them the way he promised, but what else can he do? In the eyes of Heaven, he has much to answer for, but the gerbils shouldn't be a major factor. The main thing is that they're okay. He has to feel absolutely sure that they're okay.
When he's off from talking to Mardi, he turns back to the cage and frowns. It smells, it's probably filthy—but what does he know about cleaning a gerbil cage? He never had a pet like that, or he'd know. They'll be okay. Just put in some food from the box here. They've got water. Good.
He leaves the lamp on, and locks the door carefully on his way out, then places the key out of sight on the molding ledge over the door. Hurries back along the corridor of shadows to the elevator. It's quiet in the hall now. He's halfway down in the elevator when he remembers the security tail that may have followed him.
He stabs the button for Floor Two. Gets off and takes the stairwell, all the way to the basement level, then out into a dingy corridor. Got to be a rear exit somewhere, he thinks. Dank here, probably a maintenance level. Probably cleaned about once a year. His footsteps echo alarmingly. There's an exit sign, down at the far end. Up five steps and there's the back door, a fire exit. Shove it open.
He's out in the night again, pulling his coat closed around him. He's behind the building. Unobserved. He cuts across to the next block and keeps walking. He has such a lot to do.
Chapter 20
(All that time, you lied to me . . .)
(No . . . Mozy . . . listen . . .)
(You lied to me!)
Her words hung like sculpted stone against the dark and the silence. She stared at him, astonishment still ringing in her thoughts, anger choking her.
The analytical frame of mind had fled. She was poised at a precipice—hysteria, rage, despair all echoing around her, pushing her one way and another, threatening to topple her over the edge. She gazed fearfully at Jonders. His face was etched against the dark, glowing with a perilous light. The face had lost its human quality, was transformed into a demonic puppet's head gaping at her from a black stage, illuminated by only a single invisible spotlight.
In the spotlight: the liar, at last speaking the truth.
The truth: David Kadin was no man. David Kadin was a cybernetic intelligence. He was a composite personality, synthesized from lifeless bits—an artificial creation designed to ride a robot probe into the deeps of interstellar space. Conceived and born in the Sandaran Link Laboratories, Kadin was a silicon pilot, a space commander bred of hologrammic memory cells: humankind's emissary to the stars.
He was a deliberately tailored personality, built upon the world's most advanced artificial intelligence programs, woven and stitched with selected personality traits of dozens of project subjects (including Mozy), equipped with extensive knowledge in all fields of endeavor, and imbued with carefully crafted qualities of rationality, intuition, and judgment.
Kadin was to be the spokesman of the human race, the manager and diplomat of "first contact," should the Father Sky spacecraft ever encounter intelligent life from the stars.
Why hadn't they told her? Why hadn't they told her? She had fallen in love with a man who existed only in the memory of a computer.
(Stolen,) she snapped finally, when she was able to speak again.
Jonders's puppet head gaped at her. (What do you mean?) he said. (What do you mean, stolen?)
(You know damn well what I mean.) There was a part of her in Kadin, a part of her own personality, traces of her knowledge and memory and feeling. (Did you tell me what you were doing? Did you ask my permission to take a part of me and turn it into a monster, a damn tin man?)
(Mozy, don't—)
(Don't Mozy me. You told me you were doing studies.)
(Which we were.)
(You didn't say you were raping my mind for a part of my personality!)
(Mozy, I've explained—)
(Oh yes, you've explained.) Indeed, he had. But the explanation fell somewhat short of satisfying her.
The subjects had been, as Jonders had so delicately put it, misled. Told that the personality and memory-mapping study they were employed in was dedicated to human tachyonic teleportation, they were in fact participating in carefully designed role-playing tests aimed at the perfection of the composite personality, Kadin. The subjects' roles were twofold: to allow selected elements of their own personalities to be analyzed, profiled, and used as templates in the construction of Kadin's personality; and to train Kadin—to stimulate his growth in role-playing scenarios, and to speed the development of his diplomatic and interpersonal skills.
(Matter transmission,) Mozy said. (That was what you said we were working on.)
Jonders's jaw hung slack with dismay. (We were, Mozy. We really were,) he said finally. (Before this project even came up—but it's nowhere near—)
(But that's not what you cared about,) she shouted. (That's not why you were using us, lying—)
(Mozy, please try to understand,) said the puppet face, not moving its mouth.
(Oh, I understand.) Her mind reverberated with anger. (We were less important than your goddamned project. And what was so secret, that you couldn't tell us about it? Was this another one of your, "We couldn't tell you because it would have frightened you" pieces of bull?)
Jonders stared at her in something like astonishment, and for a moment, he looked like himself again. (I—honestly—can't answer that,) he said, in a strained voice. (That's a question I asked over and over. But it wasn't something I was given any choice in.)
(Oh, no?) she asked sarcastically.
(Mozy—please listen. There is more I have to tell you. I don't know if we'll have time in this cycle, but it's vitally important that I do—)
(Is it, now?) she thundered. (What makes you think I want to listen to anything more?)
He stared at her questioningly, and said, (Mozy, are you angry because we deceived you, or because you're disappointed to know what Kadin really is?)
This time it was she who was astonished. (How dare you—) she began, but her protest died in a reddish amber haze of dismay, a haze that grew out of empty space to obscure her view of Jonders and her surroundings, a haze that she was dimly aware was embarrassment. Damn him, damn them all. Well, what of it, suppose she was—didn't she have a right to be angry about Kadin?
She had loved him. Damn them. She had loved him as she had never loved in her life, and now they tell her he isn't real. She had loved a wraith, a man who was no man at all. She had loved a wraith and become one herself.
(God damn you, Jonders!) she screamed.
Her voice echoed in space, died in the clouds. There was no answer, and for a time that was all right with her; she wanted no answer.
Then she called to him, darkly, scorchingly. She wanted to know what else he had to say. She wanted to nail him, make him squirm. She wanted to draw blood.
Still there was no answer. The link was silent. The transmission cycle had ended.
* * *
Jo
nders eased himself out of the link slowly. He felt drained, and yet at the same time he was still keyed up, his mind racing to plan the next few hours. He touched the intercom and said to control, "The minute you have full signal back, I want her in the link again. All right?"
He waited for only the barest acknowledgment before cutting the circuit. He had too much to think about to waste time with banter. He had overstepped his bounds just now, and he wasn't done, either; he intended to tell Mozy more, much more. That meant he had to work quickly. Fortunately the control engineers were mostly isolated from what was actually spoken between Mozy and him. If anyone discovered what he was doing . . . .
The Infinity Link Page 18