“Then load the information on your system, assemble the personality from the original, and download it into a body.” Hamlet absently rubbed his wrist where, not long ago, it had been cut open. “Except for the plastic bones and wire tendons, it would be the same as a human.”
“To make him, you’d need the top password. It’d be better with his private files.” Horatio stared at the screen. “I’ll bet we’re only one password from the top.”
Hamlet said, “That last password hides a lot.”
“Probably it even hides the key to making a simula—or else it’s done through exec thinkware that reads the files and does the work without saying what it’s doing.” Horatio frowned. “But there’s no thinkware exec except for that bland one, and he’s not bright enough.”
“That’s true.” Hamlet sighed. “We’re done here, then.”
After a moment, Horatio said, “I’ll be going.”
“Good night, then.” Hamlet said abruptly, “Please put Billy’s dance chip and dematrix in my quarters.” He added simply, “If I’m killed for having them, I can be resurrected. You can’t.”
Watching Horatio leave, Hamlet added to himself, “And wish me luck.” He typed,
“ACCESS CAPEK AUTOPSY.”
“PUBLIC RELEASE ONLY. TEXT, OR SCAN?”
Hamlet typed quickly,
“SCAN. THEATER SYSTEM, LIFE SIZE”
Onstage, Theater Access said flatly, “Capek’s death now replaying. Public release. Death is in three minutes.”
The lab onstage had that three-in-the-morning feel that even windowless rooms get late at night. Capek sat at a coral table, his gloves on. An Erlenmeyer flask and a Petri dish with a biochip in it lay in front of him.
Capek looked as Hamlet remembered him: completely silver-haired (he refused to DNAlter it), bent, muttering to himself as he thought. There was one change: Capek, alone, seemed cold and unsmiling.
Capek looked at Hamlet. Hamlet stretched his arms out, but Capek didn’t notice.
Capek pulled a wrapped chip from his coat, laying the chip in the half-filled Petri dish. His gloves were moist. He held his fingers poised in midair to dry.
“You’re so careful,” Hamlet said. “So cautious.”
There was a stray sound. Capek turned his head briefly. “Wait,” Hamlet said to the image. “What did you hear? Access, could you go back to the noise?”
Capek disappeared, then reappeared. There was a soft, muted sound. Capek looked up, then turned back.
Hamlet closed his eyes. “What does that sound like?”
“Are you asking me?” Access said dully.
“Yes. What is that sound?”
“I don’t know.”
This personality, Hamlet reflected, was not bright enough to run a system. “What does it sound like?”
“An autodoor opening. However, the sound cuts off before the door opens completely.”
Hamlet opened his eyes. Capek was working, still alone. His gloves were dry. He poured dematrix down a glass rod into the Petri dish and laid the rod down carefully. His gloves were still dry.
His right ear twitched. He moved his hand slightly.
“No,” Hamlet said, trembling.
The ear twitched again. He raised his glove again.
“No!” Hamlet shouted, running forward. “Don’t!” But Capek’s hand flashed up to his ear and scratched, then poked inside—a casual, silly, private gesture.
Then he stared in horror at his wet glove.
“No,” Capek said. “My God, no.”
“No,” Hamlet whispered. “Your glove wasn’t wet before.”
He watched as Capek stood and said shakily, “Medical emer—” and trailed off into gargling, losing speech. He stumbled toward the door and dropped to his knees, swaying. He looked from side to side in terror.
“Someone entered, poisoned you, then altered the scan—”
Capek fell heavily forward. Saliva dripped from his mouth. His eyes still looked frightened. His limbs moved spastically, driving his cheek against the floor.
Hamlet was shouting now. “And they erased the killer’s presence, but didn’t tell the thinkware to get rid of the door sound. They didn’t make your gloves wet before you were poisoned and never scanned it life size to double-check. You’re a fake, aren’t you? Aren’t you?”
The light of consciousness died in Capek’s eyes.
Hamlet faced the seats triumphantly. “Are you scanning me? I know that Capek was murdered. I’m coming for you.” He paused for breath and turned around.
Capek lay quite still, looking impossibly old. His right cheek was scraped, his eyes open and empty.
“My God,” Hamlet said and knelt by the image. Part of him was fascinated, as always, by death. The rest of him wanted to cry. “My God. You really did die.”
27
It was nearly midnight. Horatio sat in a bar in the Greenhouse Pools, trying to figure his life out.
Since the Bio Boom, bars had been miracles. He’d read Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Hogeboom, and the other great drinker /writers; all of them had lived too early. He settled on boysenberry with a shot of yam. The boysenberry was sweet, the yam unsophisticated. It came in a square glass. He’d been mistaken for a Tek.
He downed half of it. A woman at the next table stared at him. He stared back indifferently. She was smoking—he couldn’t see the brand; it could have been anything from tobacco to NutraFodder, “The Vice That Feeds You.” All vices fed you. He sipped the square shooter, thinking about Mary a little, Billy more, Paulette far too much.
None of them had been at the play. Madame Dernier had appeared, sniffling, and the usually giggly David had seemed subdued. Outside the theater, Horatio had Accessed Billy (“occupant in custody”), Eric (no answer), and Paulette (her simula mocked him and took a message).
He rode into the Pools. After futilely knocking at Paulette’s, he wandered around the square below her apartment, stopping under a simsign of a filling glass.
The others around him—Poolsiders, merchants’ kids, unobtrusive slummers—drank rapidly, talked loudly, and left. When the speaker panels worked, some of them danced. Mostly they drank and waited to be sleepy.
Next to him, a kid in deadleathers hunched over a Peat Bog Special: potheen whiskey, herbals, and a whiff of cordite for romance. He set his glass down, bumping Horatio’s elbow. “S’cuse me, mister.”
“S’all right.”
“No, I’m a mannery guy. Buy for the bump?”
“I don’t get it. I’m sorry, I’m not from here.”
“You mean it?” He laughed. He’d had too many drinks already, and his eyes were shining. “Everybody buys for the bump. Life’s crowded, right? So you bump somebody, you buy for the bump.”
“So you buy for the bump.” He took Horatio’s glass.
“Thanks. Potheen and herb.” Horatio dredged up his memories of Irish accents. “You’re a good lad.”
He grinned. “I’m a hell of a man.”
The boy’s hair was falling in his eyes, which were bloodshot. “You need a drink or anything?” He hadn’t seen the barten-dro, an antique vendromechanism, track unsteadily over and fill Horatio’s glass.
“Thanks, I’m all right.”
“Jesus, you seen the women in here tonight?” He looked around happily, not tracking well himself. “I mean, you seen ’em? I mean, Jesus. You ever seen better women?”
He thought of Paulette’s jerky false confidence, her brassy put-downs, the half-arrogant way she walked and gestured. “Once in my wildest dreams.”
The kid laughed too much and looked around again. He stuck a hand out. “Brady Xi Sorrento.”
“Horatio Wilson.” Which was true, he supposed. Horatio was Will’s son. They shook. “There was this woman—”
“Hey, don’t all stories start that way?”
“Don’t all of yours?”
Brady punched Horatio’s arm. “Damn right.” He threw an arm around Horatio. “You’re God damn right.�
�
“So what do you do for work?” Horatio felt like he was shouting through fog—or through the drinks.
“I lay floodboards.” Brady looked cautious. “Damn, doesn’t everybody? Too many floodboards.”
Horatio remembered seeing Brady one morning in the square. Horatio raised his glass. “To many floodboards.”
Brady raised his. “Hell, I’ve seen the Pools with surf to your knees, everybody moving their junk to the second floor.” He burped. “All the living’s on the second floor.”
Horatio thought, in pity fueled by drinks, No. The comfort is on the second floor. Below that people still eat, drink, love standing up, salt water to their knees. Aloud he said, “Drives the women to the second floor.”
“To the second floor.” They finished their drinks. “T’hell with the seventh floor.” Brady was louder. The whole place was. “What about the god damn penthouse? The higher, the drier. What about the penthouse, huh? Everything you’ve ever dreamed of.” Brady looked suddenly depressed.
“Everything, huh?” Horatio,knocked Brady’s elbow deliberately. “Buy for the bump.” He waved an arm before Brady could protest. “Bartendro. Hey, Bar.”
The machine floated over only after the shout. Horatio wondered if anyone had noticed that the bartendro was making drunks louder, more aggressive.
Brady gulped his drink. “You got to yell here.”
Horatio looked at the regulars, up at the bar, glasses within an inch of the metal strip on the glass. None of them had yelled. “Bang your glass against the metal.”
Brady stared down at the bar, at the glass where most places had coral or mother-of-pearl or another cheap organic. The glass was beveled with a steel strip clinging to it. In a few places, a recent bracket held it up. He banged his glass. Nothing happened.
Horatio thought, wishing his head were clearer, Got it. It took him a while to find metal in his pocket. He had only plaz. He found his lucky piece: a souvenir bolt from the dismantled Old Vic in London, purchased in a shop. It looked barely worn; nothing in his pocket could scratch it.
He tapped the strip sharply. The bartendro floated over, filled their half-empty glasses, and took plaz.
Brady looked frightened and hostile. “How’d you know? You never been in here before; I woulda seen you. I never even seen you in the Pools before.”
“Keep it down.” He looked around. “It made sense. The bartendro’s an old vendro, somebody bothered fixing up the conducting strips around the bar and the tables. I’ll bet there used to be a metal-rim glasses. After enough breakage or theft, they quit replacing the metal glasses. Now you have to shout loud enough to vibrate the metal strip, unless you bring some metal. The regulars probably carry a piece of steel or copper.”
“That makes sense.” Brady’s voice was loud enough that the bartendro wavered. “How come you make sense down here where nothing does?”
Horatio said in a voice as acid as Hamlet’s, “Damn, I’ve never made sense before. People don’t like you when you make sense.” He stared into his empty glass drunkenly.
Brady thumped his arm. “Fooled me. I thought you were a damn Tek. Know that? The square glass fooled me.”
“Fooled me, too. I guess I sounded pretty smart there.”
“Nah, nah. Maybe a little.” He dropped his arm heavily across Horatio’s shoulders. “I should buy for the bump, even if I only bumped you with my mouth, huh?”
Horatio stared at the door.
A man had just walked in dressed in living leather, clearly slumming. Chances were he’d be thrown out within ten minutes, victim of a fight and maybe a robbery. Beside him , a narrow, rat-faced man smirked in all directions, Pooling for a partner and feeling superior.
Paulette, hands on hips, swaggered behind them.
She looked disappointed when nobody stared at her. She watched the men in the bar, lingering over the younger ones. She looked at Horatio a moment—his heart stopped—before eyeing a thirty-year-old two stools down.
The rat-faced man cruised in easily and put an arm around a pinched, dark-haired woman who was laughing too loudly, her blouse undone. “Time for drinks,” he said.
Paulette waved one arm, trying to look festive but mostly looking drunk. Even the cat’s-eye drug couldn’t keep her from looking unfocused. “Time for fun.” She patted the thirty-year-old’s hair. “Are you my fun? If you are, I’ll be your drinks, darling.”
“Come on, hey,” Brady said and poked Horatio’s side. “I didn’t mean nothing when I called you a Tek.”
Paulette said to the thirty-year-old, “I’m having a dull night. Be fun.” He put a tentative arm around her.
Brady said, “Want me to buy for the bump? Huh?”
Horatio looked away from Paulette, back to Brady. “Let’s buy as many as we can.”
* * * * *
Hamlet was in the hall when Horatio stumbled back. Hamlet patiently watched him slide down the hall, his shoulder against the wall.
Horatio sagged into the wall below the second exit arrow. Horatio staggered on without noticing and spun around as he hit the other side of the invisible door. Hamlet caught him. “You tripped,” he said firmly. “Are you hurt?”
“Dead. Broken,” Horatio said loudly. Hamlet dragged him into Horatio’s cubicle and laid him gently on the bed.
Horatio slept late and performed badly the next day. Hamlet tactfully said nothing, though perhaps that was because the prince was too busy acting, directing, and coaching Ophelia, who could barely learn blocking now.
At day’s end, Hamlet went to bed, and Horatio, holding his forehead, tiptoed out of the theater.
Horatio said as quietly as possible, “Access.”
Access, perceiving Horatio’s distress, quietly accepted the codes and Accessed Thibodeaux.
Thibodeaux sat stiffly at the table of the oriental room. “Say your piece and go away, boy.”
Horatio said in his normal voice, “I quit.”
Thibodeaux thundered, “You what?”
Horatio said easily, “You heard me.” The shout hit him like a slap, but he refused to let Thibodeaux see him being weak. “I’m not working for you—if that’s really you.”
Thibodeaux’s right hand, tracing furiously on the tabletop, betrayed his anger. “A worldwide search, and all we came up with was you. Anything else?”
Horatio said, holding himself steady, “Don’t change the codes. I’ll sell you something, if I learn anything,” and cut off. He doubled over as Access let in the sounds of Manhattan. He felt terrible, but he had one more thing to do.
The ride seemed long, the walk through the square longer. When he arrived and did it, it was so brief that he could almost pretend afterward that it hadn’t happened and that everything was still all right.
Paulette looked up as he entered. “How’d you do that?”
Horatio was glad to see that she was alone. “I’ve watched you open it.” He imitated her hand motions.
“Anyone might think you were the talented one.” She stretched lazily. “Do you have another surprise?”
“Yes.” He stared at her longingly, hesitating.
She said eagerly, “Another play?”
“No.” He shut his eyes and tried to relax his muscles.
She wrapped her arms around him. “Is it about acting?” He felt better, or told himself that he did.
“No.”
She kissed him. “Then it can wait.”
And it did, and it never should have.
* * * * *
Afterward he rolled off of Fugit Amor. “Paulette?”
She rolled over. “Is it time for the surprise?”
“Two surprises.” He said awkwardly, “I love you.”
“Hardly surprising.” She smiled sleepily. “The other?”
Horatio hesitated, then said, “I’m human.”
“What?” The bed still moved, but she was motionless.
“I’m human. Non-laboratory tissue. Like you.”
“No.” Sh
e crammed her fist into her mouth and shut her eyes. Shielding senses instead of hiding nudity.
“Look, it shouldn’t matter—”
“Get out.” She crawled to the corner and wrapped herself in a livewool wall hanging, not looking at him.
“I know I’ve learned very private things about you—I won’t tell anyone—I love you, and I—”
She threw her bracelet; it laughed at them. “Get out.”
He went.
* * * * *
Hamlet and Ophelia were on the floor of the empty breakfast room when Horatio returned. Ophelia wore pajamas. Hamlet was playing jacks with her, toys Osric had given her.
He looked at Horatio. “She had a nightmare.” His face was dark with anger. “She couldn’t sleep.”
“Me neither.” Horatio slumped at the table, looking at the prince and at Ophelia, but seeing neither.
“No more will I, tonight. Sit and we’ll marvel at you.”
“At me?” Horatio said dully.
“At your superior intellect.” Hamlet was feeling all the rage and frustration of his stage role. “Surely you, who know so much intuitively, know why.”
Horatio barely listened. “Tell me.”
Hamlet raised his forefinger. “This is all androids know: binary storage—one and zero. If we had a god, it would be three. Two is barely beyond the knowable. But three—”
Hamlet swept three jacks from the pile at Ophelia’s side and laid them in a row on the floor. Ophelia looked up from the ball. “You see three.” Hamlet said to Horatio. “For us—” he waved a hand to include Ophelia, who waved back shyly—“it’s made of one and one and one.”
Ophelia pointed to empty spaces between each jack and said chidingly, “And nothing and nothing.”
“So clever and so right.” The light caught Hamlet’s eyes strangely, and they glistened. “Sweet nothing.” He kissed her cheek and pointed at Horatio. “He can see ideas and things. I can see things and tears. But now you can see nothing.”
Horatio rubbed his eyes. “You’re talking like the play. What’s bothering you?”
Ophelia took the ball and the jacks back. Hamlet said quietly, “She is now seven, perhaps younger. Soon she’ll be helpless. If you see Alan Goode, thank him for prodding me and tell him I’m ready to take my revenge now.”
Too, Too Solid Flesh Page 25