Too, Too Solid Flesh

by Nick O'Donohoe

  “That’s what your friend said. That’s what the body’s ID said, too. Where have you seen him before?”

  Horatio said, “He’s security personnel at the Globe.”

  Frank sighed loudly. “That tallies. His ID said he was FirstTek SecureTek.” He turned back to Horatio. “Sag and I got thrown out of the Globe, investigating a murder. That’s how your friend Billy knew to call us. He works there, too. Are we gonna get thrown off this murder, too?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Of course not.” Frank knelt, watching Horatio over the body. “What do you know about this?”

  “I’ll tell you what happened” Billy said from the doorway, holding himself up with difficulty. “We talked—”

  “Wait until you have a lawyer,” Sagamore said.

  Billy shook his head carefully, as though pieces of it might fall off. “I’m not hiding anything. We argued. He hit me. I cried out. He hit me again. I started to cry.” He said unashamedly to Horatio, “I never said I was brave.”

  “Then what?” Frank asked, ignoring a look from Sagamore.

  Billy said to Horatio, “I fought back. He threw me all around the room. He wasn’t angry or afraid. I think he broke one of my ribs—”

  “Two,” Sagamore said. “Police medscan’s coming.”

  “That’s very nice of you.” He turned back to Horatio. “I only struck him twice—once a blow to the chest that barely staggered him, and once in the head with a piece of the bentwood.” He looked around for the piece of chair.

  “We took it,” Sagamore said. “Between the genetic samples of your blood and his, we don’t need your confession.” He added, “If you hadn’t been the one standing up, I’d swear he was the one who killed you.”

  “That’s why I won,” Billy said simply. “He only wanted to hurt me, and I knew I had to kill him.”

  They stared at the angry dead face. Billy said, “I did the right thing, for once. I think I saved a life tonight.”

  “Would you care to explain that—” Sagamore said, but suddenly held up one finger and touched his ear with the other. “Sagamore here. Yes. No. I’ll be damned. Yes. Cancel the medscan. Thanks. Sagamore out.”

  He tapped his ear again. “New orders, Frank.”

  “Yes, sir?” Frank had politely left his own lobe untouched, not listening in on his superior.

  “We detain Billy without arrest. Valentin’s violent death is not for public record. The body’s been rerouted to the Globe.” He looked disdainfully down at the image of Eric. “It never happened.”

  “Just like Capek? No kidding, Sag.”

  “Valentin’s not officially dead, so he can’t be murdered. The Globe says Billy was involved in Capek’s death—which also wasn’t a murder.” He scuffed at the bloody carpet. “We hold him, then we lose him or he dies in custody.”

  Frank slumped beside the portajet. “A scan, a weapon that ties murderer to victim, a confession, and no charge.” He shut the projector off. “That’s real valid data.”

  “It is,” Sagamore said sharply. He looked sideways at Horatio. “This thing that walks like a man isn’t the only one who says what they’re told to say.”

  Frank repacked the projector. “Another night wasted.”

  “Mine wasn’t,” Billy said quietly. “Could I still see a med-scan after I disappear?” To Horatio he said, “You’d better go back now. Take care of yourself.”

  Sagamore and Frank followed Billy to the bathroom; Horatio left. Horatio was sure that they wouldn’t bother him once he got inside the Globe.

  He also wanted to leave before Billy said anything more about how worthwhile it was that he had killed Eric and ruined his own life—to protect the life of an android.

  * * * * *

  Hamlet leaped up when Horatio entered the lobby. “Are you all right? You left in a hurry.”

  “I’m not all right” Horatio told all he had learned about Mary, Eric, and Billy, including that the Globe had evidence tying Billy to Capek’s death. “My lord,” Horatio said worriedly, “what can we do to get Billy away from the police?”

  Hamlet looked sad. “Nothing. He was his own Abraham and Isaac, a self-sacrifice. Did you think before that he could be a hero?”

  “I couldn’t believe he could be a murderer, either.”

  Hamlet half-smiled. “Only a short while ago, you were the one who we thought might arrest him.”

  Horatio ignored that. “Can we at least help Mary?”

  Hamlet said quietly, “Billy has done that. Have you read Waiting for Godot? ‘Nothing to be done.’” He put an arm on Hamlet’s shoulder. “It isn’t tragic, but there is nothing sadder. He was your friend.”

  Horatio said distractedly, “The damn cops should have let him have a medscan.”

  Hamlet said, “But aren’t you—” and stopped, looking sharply at Horatio. “I’m sure they’ll take care of him,” the prince went on. “Now get some rest.”

  After Horatio fell asleep, Hamlet sat up thinking for some time. Twice, quite tired himself, he spoke out loud. Once he burst out, “He was my friend!”

  The second time he asked, more thoughtfully, “If he isn’t a policeman, what is he?”

  26

  The tunnel floor, stony and bare, made even Elsinore look comfortable by comparison. Ophelia sat on a bed of straw, a word in Hebrew written on her forehead.

  Hamlet, dressed as a rabbi (Gertrude’s work), stood behind her, rehearsing a short scene from The Golem. Hamlet was the Maharal, the rabbi who created a servant of clay to save the Jews of Prague.

  Ophelia looked about her in blind distress, looking for Hamlet. She said distraughtly, “Oh, stay with me, or else—drive me away.” The others made pitying noises. Claudius sat apart from them, his eyes vacant with misery as he watched her.

  Hamlet turned away from her, but said over his shoulder, “Get up. I see your grief, and I forgive you.”

  Ophelia cried, “Do not leave me!” and caught his robe, making inarticulate cries of sorrow and longing.

  Even Osric wept.

  Hamlet threw down his hat, whisked off his beard and swept Ophelia up as though she were a small child. “Most excellent love. You did wonderfully indeed.” He said, half into her hair, “The part suits you.”

  He kissed her nose. She laughed, her tears and trauma forgotten. Hamlet gestured; the portajets cut out. They were in the ruined Bethesda Fountain plaza in front of the lake in Central Park.

  Horatio had run up the tunnel stairs to the mall. He dashed back down, panting, and threw a rose. “Bravo.”

  Hamlet set Ophelia down. She blew a kiss to Horatio and’ blushed, standing by the broken railing at the lake.

  Fortinbras said, “You still didn’t clap.”

  Hamlet stared at him. Fortinbras added, “My lord.”

  “I had my hands full.” He stepped upstage and ruffled Ophelia’s hair. “Shall we meet back at the Globe?”

  Fortinbras scowled and left, followed by everyone but Ophelia, Horatio, and Hamlet, who sighed. “It’s amazing how difficult even simple-minded people can be.”

  Horatio lay on the ledge of the plaza fountain, looking upside-down at Ophelia, who smiled as she looked back. “Soldiers are always difficult for others.”

  “And your world loves warriors. No wonder it’s always difficult.” Hamlet stuck his tongue out at Ophelia, who laughed and stuck hers back. “Didn’t she do well?”

  “She did.” Horatio stuck his own tongue out at her, and she laughed harder. “How long did it take her?”

  “Almost all morning.” Hamlet closed his eyes and said bitterly, “A few new words, and they’re harder for her now than learning an entire scene was, once.”

  Ophelia skipped to the stairs back to the mall and ran up and down them, humming her mad song from Hamlet. Horatio watched her. “She’s becoming more childlike.”

  Hamlet watched her, grieving. “Is that a side effect of dematrix, or was it intentional?”

  Horatio frowned. �
�He probably didn’t care about side effects, so long as she forgot what she saw. Why teach her lines about a golem; what’s the point?”

  Hamlet said, “I was teaching myself. The golem is a clay monster, manmade. It weeps to be one with the rabbi. But the golem,” he added thoughtfully, “is violent.”

  Horatio said, “You aren’t violent.”

  Hamlet’s lips tightened. “And Ophelia’s barely anything, now. I cast her in that part to remind myself—” His eyes were moist. “How blindly she wanted to be with me. And I was always too busy, even for kissing.” He brooded. “All that love, and we were never lovers.”

  “You could be now.”

  “Could I?” Hamlet leaped up and kissed her quickly on the lips. She laughed and kissed him back. He tightened his arms around her. She struggled and complained until he let her go, then promptly forgot about it, laughing and running to the lake.

  He returned to Horatio. “Who would force her into bed?”

  “Has anyone tried?”

  “A few.” Hamlet looked darkly at the dry fountain. “Sarcasm sends them away, so far. That won’t last.”

  “Can’t she say no?”

  “Can any of us?” Hamlet spread his hands.

  Horatio said flatly, “Let me have her for a night.” Hamlet froze, and Horatio went on, “Life’s lonely, my bed’s empty, and she’s lovely.” He hunched his shoulders. “She might scream—”

  Hamlet, without seeming to move, grabbed Horatio’s shoulder and pressed until Horatio dropped off the fountain ledge onto the stones. “No. Try it and I will—”

  Hamlet finished wonderingly, “Say ‘no’ to you.”

  Horatio stood up, rubbing his shoulder. “See how easy it is? Is that because you knew I was pretending?”

  “No, no.” Hamlet added something that Horatio treasured: “How could I be sure? You’re a good actor.” He looked Horatio full in the face. “There’s something else.”

  “What’s that, my lord?”

  “I was ready to kill you.”

  * * * * *

  After an awkward silence, Horatio said, “Was the golem violent in all the stories?”

  “No.” Hamlet put a hand clumsily on Horatio’s other shoulder. Horatio put his own hand on Hamlet’s while the Dane continued, “Another writer, Elie Weisel, wrote that the golem tirelessly saved the lives he could never share.” Hamlet squinted. “That’s why I love the golem, I think. He’s a hero even when he has no reason to be.”

  Hamlet’s brow puckered. “But he also kills, and I like that, too. Sometimes I think I have a subconscious. I do things for no reason, and I’m afraid to dream.”

  Horatio said flatly, “We all have bad dreams.”

  Hamlet looked away from him. “I dream of machines,” he said softly. “They’re metal and gears, but they’re Gertrude, and Polonius, and Claudius, and myself. And men take us apart and put us back together again, endlessly. It happens all night, whenever I have this dream.”

  His voice was trembling. “And then I wake up, and I wonder: were we built for something? Or were we only built so that people could take us apart? Am I a killer or a hero?”

  Horatio said slowly, “The ghost in the machine.”

  “What?” Hamlet looked around for the ghost.

  “Billy told me his nightmare of Capek and the lab. I wonder if thinkware doesn’t leave a mental residue—memories or ghost desires. I think you have an unconscious, and it’s trying to talk to you. Why do you think you were built to be taken apart?”

  Hamlet shivered. “No reason. Forget I said it.” He looked earnestly at Horatio. “Please forget.”

  “I’ll try, but it reminds me of something I’ve been thinking about.”

  Hamlet said, “What’s that?”

  “The Teks say that Capek’s death and Ophelia’s memory loss are accidental.” He hesitated, then went ahead. “Isn’t that what they say about the androids’ deaths? Isn’t it possible—”

  Hamlet’s jaw dropped. “No,” he whispered. “No. Never say that.”

  Horatio looked at Hamlet’s trembling hands. “Forget it. This place makes me morbid. We should go back to the lab and investigate.”

  Hamlet, with a great effort, said, “That’s right. You’re still a cop, aren’t you?”

  Horatio said uncomfortably, “Sure.”

  Hamlet pretended not to notice the lie. “Then I’d better be some help. Come back with me,” he said, but this time he didn’t smile as he added, “I know a secret.”

  But they watched each other on the walk back to the Globe—Hamlet knowing that Horatio was lying, Horatio aware that Hamlet, like the golem, was becoming violent.

  * * * * *

  Hamlet arrived before Horatio at the terminal. “I have the next password,” he said with little interest.

  Horatio said, “Forget it.”

  “We can’t quit while there’s more to learn.”

  “Hell, what have we learned? That Capek was probably murdered by Billy, with a chip loaded in Billy’s head—probably by Eric. Mary could have done the murder for Eric, but they’re setting Billy up for it, so I’d bet on him. And we don’t know why it was done, and we don’t know why anybody’s building us.” He stopped. “Building you.”

  Hamlet said softly, “So we leave Capek dead and Ophelia mindless, and say we’ve learned enough?”

  Horatio sighed. “What’s the God damned password?”

  “Think.” Even now, Hamlet couldn’t resist showing off. “How many characters will it have?”

  “Fifteen. Are you sure you know the password?”

  “Very sure.” He tapped the edge of the terminal for emphasis. “The first password was a theater name and showed the world. The second was a man’s name and showed combat. What else is part of a fight? A world, a warrior, and—”

  “Weapons.”

  Hamlet shrugged, irked. “You need an enemy first.”

  “That narrows it down? The play is filled with enemies: you and Claudius, you and Laertes, even you and Polonius—”

  “Tactless of you. And who is Denmark’s enemy?”

  Horatio wrinkled his forehead. “Claudius, but he’s king. Norway, but Claudius patches that up.”

  “Before the play begins, Old Hamlet—”

  “Smote the sledded Polacks on the ice. That was during a parle—well, a parley. Does that make them his enemy?”

  “Possibly not. But the Poles are your enemies now—”

  “Not ‘mine.’ My government makes enemies. I don’t.”

  “You voted for your government. The Poles are Lefties, and that’s enough.” Hamlet typed quickly.

  The picture on the screen showed a full-bearded man in a fur hat and fur-trimmed coat, driving a horse-drawn sled. The horse’s hooves disappeared in deep snow.

  “He looks like a Russian,” Horatio commented.

  “He is a Russian,” Hamlet said interestedly. “From a wood-cut. I have the book. That’s odd…”

  A flash of cannon-fire blasted the sled to fragments. When the smoke cleared, a lone, bloody, clenched fist lay in in the wreckage.

  Hamlet said, “Even more realistic than last time.” He looked thoughtful. “Let’s check the directory.”

  Horatio punched it up. “We were right. There is another level of biodata, with three main divisions.”

  “Bring that division back. I saw a name.”

  They read the file title:

  “Data on Prince Hamlet and Thanatos. Personal research file, V. Chandra.”

  The abstract they read echoed with Chandra’s cultured, often amused voice. Probably he had dictated the report to personal-style thinkware. The abstract was succinct:

  “Since Hamlet’s current project confronts him with death and pain in laboratory surroundings, I have observed Hamlet watching simula and android fatalities, as well as comforting the cast at the gravedigger’s death. While he disliked suffering, he was, in Keats’s phrase, ‘Half in love with easeful death.’ This may come from his ch
aracter, but it suggests the success of Thanatos in providing normal responses, at least normality, in deadly surroundings.”

  * * * * *

  Hamlet and Horatio scanned several screens of observations made about their lab visits. There were two editorial notes with the text. A recent one was testy:

  “Security monitoring should provide heart and brainscan ‘ data, but current records are unsorted. In addition, the new Horatio unit scans badly, offering no biodata at all. Horatio is remarkably useless. We have either too small or too inefficient a security staff.”

  “If Eric had read that, he’d have killed Chandra for it,” Horatio said flatly.

  “Eric was preoccupied. Chandra may have been right; think how much we have gotten away with.”

  Hamlet read through the data. “‘Aggressive wit?’ ‘Anger that springs from a fear of suffering, not death?’“

  “Chandra’s pretty good,” Horatio said.

  Hamlet said, “Is Thanatos an acronym or a code name?”

  “No idea. Look for other authors.”

  Hamlet typed,

  “ACCESS MULVANEY.”

  Data entries by and about Claire Mulvaney came up, Hamlet downloaded them and typed,

  “ACCESS GOODE.”

  Files about Goode came up. Hamlet typed,

  “AUTHOR GOODE.”

  “ENTER PASSWORD.”

  Hamlet canceled the search and typed,

  “ACCESS CAPEK.”

  The machine responded simply,

  “AT THIS LEVEL, ONLY HIS INSTRUCTIONAL SIMULA AND A LIMITED VERSION OF HIS AUTOPSY IS AVAILABLE. SINCE DOCTOR CAPEK’S DEATH, MANY OF HIS PRIVATE FILES ARE UNAVAILABLE UNTIL HIS PASSWORD IS DISCOVERED.”

  Horatio stared at the response. “That’s why no one else knows I’m human. It’s in his private files.”

  The screen continued:

  “CURRENT SCANS OF DOCTOR CAPEK, ADJUSTED WITH OLD SIMULAS, WILL BE LOADED INTO A NEUROPUTTY ANDROID IN HOPES THE ANDROID CAN RELEASE CAPEK’S FILES.”

  Hamlet said softly, “They’re bringing him back.”

  “They’re not bringing him back. They’re simulating him.” Horatio considered that. “If he had a biochip slot, they could bring him back. Chips can copy data from a brain—”