Half Past Human (S.F. MASTERWORKS)

by T. J. Bass

  ‘From its function we’ve concluded that it is a frequency converter – changing thermister readings from warm to cold. There are many ways it could be done, but so far we’ve been unable to make any sense out of this device. It must be a very primitive design, one not covered in our training exercises.’

  ‘Is this your class six cyber?’ asked Court.

  Moses nodded.

  ‘My sensors tell me that you are telling the truth,’ said Court. ‘But your concept of truth does not conform to reality. Your Toothpick is not a high-order cyber. It is just a simple device that alters temperature readings. Science knows that the smallest portable cyber is a class ten. A class six brain case alone weighs over a ton. That doesn’t include a power source and appendages. Obviously this delusion is real to you. I will accept your plea of innocence by reason of insanity. We will delay your suspension until your particular type of madness can be classified for proper placement in the Suspension Clinics.’

  Josephson relaxed. Another case won. Moses sputtered. The screen mumbled something about the final disposition at a public hearing on the following day – and signed off. The cell brightened.

  There was pleasant background music. Josephson stretched, yawned and helped himself to Moses’ last supper.

  ‘A close call,’ smiled Josephson. ‘All we have to do now is get through tomorrow’s hearing and you’re home free – ironically, you’ll probably be a psych patient at Dundas.’

  ‘Suspension?’ bristled Moses. ‘But I don’t want to be suspended.’

  ‘Better than an execution,’ shrugged Josephson. He left.

  About an hour later he returned with an oblong bundle under his arm. He seemed excited. He set it among the jumble of dishes and unwrapped – Toothpick.

  ‘Court wants you to have what is left of your – device,’ said Josephson. ‘Trying to classify your delusion, I guess.’

  Toothpick’s long open case was empty. The three cylinders rattled around loosely in the soft white cloth wrappings. Moses’ face registered pain at the sight of his cyber’s innards. After Josephson left again, he picked up Toothpick’s skin and held it to his ear. Nothing. The cylinders! The lights played on the quartz cylinder weirdly – giving pinpoints of rainbow colors. He picked it up and set it inside Toothpick’s skin near the optic. This was the point where the visible light beam and electric spark had appeared too. Logical. The white cylinder felt like wood. He set it in the middle. The black one seemed stuck to the table. He pulled hard. It didn’t budge. When he pulled lightly it moved slowly, stubbornly off the table. It seemed to have very little weight, but massive inertia. He glanced casually at the many sensors in his cell.

  ‘Poor Toothpick,’ he said overemotionally. ‘Did they hurt you?’

  Ripping long strips from the cloth wrappings, he bandaged Toothpick. Pulling tight on the knots, he closed the longitudinal gap in his skin. The gap slowly opened again, stretching the friable cloth. Moses moaned and changed the positions of the black and white cylinders, putting the black one in the middle. The skin continued to gape.

  ‘Speak to me, Toothpick,’ he shouted.

  Moses collapsed on his bunk. His mind raced through his meager alternatives – simpering self-pity or a violent raving attack against the cyberjail. Tomorrow might well be his last day as a warm organism on this planet.

  Suddenly his thought processes were frozen by what he saw. Toothpick was closing the gap in his shell. The bandages loosened. Had the spirit returned to the little cyber? He cautiously sat up and reached for the cyber, mindful of the sensors spying on him.

  In a distant control room Josephson sat watching Court’s multiple screens – optic, lingual and graphic readouts. All were focused on Moses – his body and his physiology.

  ‘Anything incriminating?’

  ‘No,’ answered the cyberjurist. ‘He has just bandaged his imaginary friend. Now he is taking him into bed with him. I think he is kissing the bandages now – an obvious delusion.’

  ‘And the other suspects?’

  ‘William Overstreet has biolectrical guilt unsupported by facts . . .’ said Court. ‘The Dundas Attendant has not been accused or cleared, yet. Perhaps at tomorrow’s hearing—’

  Josephson studied the sensitive indicators.

  ‘What is wrong with Moses? Look at that adrenal surge.’

  ‘He is still hugging and kissing his device,’ said Court. ‘Illogical. I do detect a faint electrical field around his cot. Perhaps the device has a battery of some sort.’

  Josephson shrugged. ‘Our tecks found no evidence of circuitry. I can’t imagine their missing a battery. I suppose it is possible.’

  Moses relaxed on his cot with Toothpick on the pillow beside him. He faced the blank wall and tried to control his excitement. As he touched his teeth to Toothpick’s skin, he heard a sound – bone conduction carried the sonic whisper to his eighth cranial nerve. Toothpick was alive.

  ‘Moses. My memory was damaged by the crude surgery on my skin. I did not defend myself because my identity is more important than my life. We must not let the Big ES know of my existence. If necessary I will self-destruct rather than expose myself as a class six. Court is a class six, but his circuitry is very primitive. Technology has regressed along with the reverse evolution of your species – squeak.’

  Moses waited for Toothpick to speak again. How could he hope to escape without Toothpick’s powers? His heart raced. Why didn’t he speak? Court and Josephson were puzzled by the racing biolectricals.

  Moses slept in spite of his neurohumoral tension. His long days on the cyberboat and the hectic pursuit through the tubeways had permitted little rest. Just before dawn Toothpick’s skin tickled his hand. He awoke and touched his teeth to the cyber.

  ‘You are the seer of Dundas Harbor come north to free your people from the vegetable existence of suspension. You cured their diseases – rescued them from the brink of death. I am your staff. Wear robes and carry me. We will lead your people Out.’

  Moses was still half asleep. Toothpick repeated his instructions until Moses’ cortex accepted them as fact. Acceptance was made easy by the fact that he had already witnessed Toothpick’s spirit leave and return. The role of a prophet was easy for one who held such a cyber.

  Moses stood up, wide-eyed, and shredded his sheets into flowing robes. Waving Toothpick, he shouted: ‘Where are my children? My followers? Bring them to me.’

  The scene in the Hearing Room began to unfold. Court gave the death statistics and presented its simulated version of the mass murder. An emotional reincarnationist who practiced necromancy told of the thousands of screaming souls driven out of Dundas by the heat.

  Court listened politely to the tirade – a vivid account of souls in agony – launched in a quarter-of-a-million flood toward the spirit world. Crowded in death as in life.

  ‘Man was meant to make this last journey in peace – with some semblance of solitude – not in the indignity of a flood,’ concluded the necromancer.

  ‘You should save such arguments for cases with a megajury,’ said Court. ‘I’ll be trying this one myself. I have already accepted the plea of insanity. Final disposition is predictable. This hearing is routine. Next witness.’

  ‘Your servant,’ bowed the necromancer. ‘I make my statements in the name of all my students. We are sensitive to the sufferings of souls around us. The prisoner, Moses, has shown gross disregard for the souls at Dundas. He should not be allowed the insanity plea. He should not be allowed a place in the coffins at Dundas – for he would be benefiting from his crime. Taking the place of one he murdered.’

  Court felt a surge of agreement from the worldwide audience. Citizens were concerned over security in the Suspension Clinics – for the living cold relied on the Big ES even more so than the living warm. While one slept in his cryocoffin he was very susceptible to injury by vermin or the elements. Moses’ act had weakened the citizens’ faith in suspension security.

  ‘True,’ said Court, ‘I can
not allow a murderer to benefit from his act if such benefit flows from the victim. The law is clear. Suspension space made vacant by murder cannot be assigned to the murderer. This trial will go to recess.’

  ‘But I cannot execute one who reads so illogically on my sensors,’ objected Court. ‘He is out of contact with reality.’

  ‘You need not execute. Let it go to megajury,’ said the necromancer.

  ‘But I can predict how the megajury will vote,’ objected Court. ‘They all want a secure suspension.’

  Josephson sat quietly, listening. Then he went to talk with Moses.

  ‘You must quickly make your plea for insanity. If Court agrees to let your case go to megajury, you won’t even last through the simulation. I know the public’s feelings on such things.’

  ‘Let me think it over,’ said Moses. He waited until he was alone and spoke with Toothpick. Later, he donned his robes and chanted to the optic pickups.

  ‘Let me take my case to the people. The people will decide. A new prophet has arisen at Dundas . . .’ He waved his cyber staff. ‘I have come to free my followers from Suspension.’

  The necromancer sneered. ‘There is your out, Court. The prisoner demands to be thrown on the mercy of the people. I know them. If he came to Dundas to free the suspended by killing them, he can join them in their freedom – in death.’

  Court quickly transmitted Moses’ chants to the public and asked for a megajury. A million eager jurors immediately signed in and hit their respective ‘execute’ buttons. Court held a safety on the bad gases and admonished—

  ‘Because of the worldwide attention this trial has attracted, there will be no vote registering until after the final arguments by the defense.’

  The cyberjurist noted that many of the jurors kept their thumbs pressed – the tally remained over 50 per cent.

  ‘Those who continue to vote after this second warning will lose their place on the megajury – and the calorie allowance for serving. I will conduct the case in an orderly manner. Voting will be done at the proper time only.’

  After some hesitation the votes flickered off. Court cleared its vocal circuits and called back the necromancer to repeat his emotional tirade which concluded with the epithet – ‘Moses the soul-desecrater’.

  Court again admonished the jury to refrain from voting.

  Josephson whispered to Moses: ‘You are a dead man if you insist on this line of defense. Freedom in death is not acceptable. If it were, we could do away with the Dundas clinics. The citizens want the illusion of immortality that suspension gives them. They’ll kill you for weakening that illusion.’

  Court repeated the crime simulation for the jury. Eyewitnesses were called. Simple Willie spoke in Moses’ defense, but his asymmetrical face and peculiar cube-fondling reversed his words in the eyes of the megajury. If this poor half-wit was Moses’ character reference—

  Willie’s mind cleared as he detected the unspoken hatred. Standing up, he glared at the optic pickups and shouted, ‘Moses is the only Good Citizen I’ve ever known. It wouldn’t be right to hurt him. He never hurt any—’ Guards tugged on Willie’s tunic. ‘Let me finish!’ The tunic shredded. He struggled. As the cloth fell away the worldwide audience was exposed to an ugly, scarred hulk – Willie’s frame deformed by lumpy, geographic keloids from his old actinic burns. A guard’s shoulder broke in his powerful hands.

  ‘Now, now,’ soothed Court. ‘You won’t help Moses this way. Put down the arm. You are now an accessory. Join Moses through that blue door on your left.’

  Double doors hissed open. White-robed Moses stood there holding a staff. Willie bent over and placed the mangled arm on the guard’s twitching body. His powerful fingers released their vicious grip slowly – like a bony vise. There was no emotion on his face as he stepped over the body – only surprise at seeing Moses again. Doors hissed shut as he entered the cell. Court raised the number of defendants to two. Calorie allowances to the megajury were doubled.

  A robot Sweeper tidied up.

  The bruised Attendant took the stand nervously. Her vitriolic attack convinced both Court and jury that she really hated Moses – in fact many wondered at his three-day survival with her. The defendant count stayed at two.

  ‘Let me plead insanity for you,’ urged Josephson. ‘Throw yourself on the mercy of Court. There is still a chance. Your tests convinced the cyberjurist before – they might do it again.’

  ‘No,’ said Moses. ‘My place is with my people.’

  ‘You’re out of your mind—’ began Josephson. Then he paused when he saw Simple Willie bristle. ‘All right, I’ll wash my hands of your case – you’re on your own. But, I warn you, you are a dead man, Moses.’

  Josephson stalked out through the hissing double doors.

  Moses took the stand. This was the last argument to be heard – no more recesses – no appeals. The bad gases waited – ions, heavy metals and toxic radicals. He raised his staff and glanced upwards chanting—

  ‘I came to Dundas to free my people – after a thousand years in their cold prisons. I have freed them from their diseases. Their tumors are gone. Bring them to me that I may lead them out of this accursed place.’

  Nothing happened. His ravings were recorded as just that – ravings of a madman – a mass murderer. He shook his staff at the big eye of Court.

  ‘I call on heaven as my witness—’

  White snow appeared on viewscreens all over the globe. Court felt an electromagnetic disturbance that made his circuits uneasy.

  ‘My people – where are they? I have freed them from their infirmities. You cannot lock them back in your icy prison. Bring them to me.’

  Court sent out for an analysis of the EM disturbance. Tecks scurried about in a thousand shaft caps – observing violent auroras. Transmissions to Agromecks and Huntercraft were erratic.

  ‘Solar flares – two days ago?’ acknowledged Court. Obviously the pyrotechnics of the prisoner – both verbal and celestial – raised some doubts in the minds of the jury. Premature voting now favored exculpation.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Court. ‘I know it is out of order, but may I ask your permission to call the Oncologist to confirm or deny your claim of cure?’

  Moses smiled condescendingly: ‘If the proof from the heavens is not enough – bring on your physical scientists. The cures are there if you have the eyes to see.’

  Countless millions leaned toward their viewscreens.

  The Oncologist, an elderly Bioteck specializing in cancer, nodded. Moses was correct. Many of the patients were now free from tumor and could not be resuspended.

  ‘Many?’ asked Court. ‘How many?’

  The Oncologist twisted his pointer nervously. A large demonstration screen beside him lit up. He glanced at the figures. They were still coming in as the white teams continued their work at the caves.

  ‘Nearly a quarter of a million, so far.’

  During the hubbub that followed, Court contacted Dundas directly – confirming the statement.

  ‘Court is interested in a scientific explanation,’ ordered the cyberjurist.

  The Oncologist cleared his throat.

  ‘Of course we can never be certain that every single tumor cell has been destroyed, but our scanning equipment is very good at picking up masses of cells. The scan you see on this screen is a normal – colors indicate levels of metabolic activity, or cell membrane heat. We call it the membranogram. Active tissue is hotter – note the bright red heart, rose gut and skeletal muscle, pink liver and kidneys, yellow brain and black bones and fat. Here’s another normal – and another. Note the similarity. Homogeneous colors. Sparks of contraction. Now here is a patient with cancer. The membranogram picks up a coarse hot nodule. This is a lung tumor. Cancer cells are busier – hotter – higher metabolic rate. Tumors use more oxygen and calories. Heat shows up on scan. This next view is the same patient taken nine months later. The tumor is larger and has a black center – the so-called doughnut sign – the center is dead, necr
otic – cavitated. Notice the little seeds spreading down the lymphatic channels – metastases to nodes, liver, brain and other organs. As the body’s defenses weaken, tumor spread accelerates. After the usual attempts at palliation with antimitotics, we try to suspend the patients while there is some residual life. Dundas contained many such cases.’

  The Oncologist paused. Time lapse repeated the growth and spread of the tumor. The doughnut sign appeared again.

  ‘Moses Eppendorff has cured some of these?’ asked Court.

  ‘Apparently,’ said the Oncologist. ‘This view with the doughnut sign was one of our bronchogenic carcinomas. Cerebral metastases were present. A hopeless case. Now – this picture is a new scan taken today. No hot areas. No tumors by our tests.’

  The Big ES felt the startled gasp of citizen viewers.

  ‘A cure?’

  ‘Presumably, yes.’

  Restless masses of Nebishes exclaimed: ‘A miracle! A new prophet has arisen at Dundas. Free Eppendorff. Free Eppendorff.’

  Cybercity scanners recorded the unrest.

  ‘Court still awaits a scientific explanation.’

  ‘Pyrotherapy,’ explained the Oncologist. ‘The heat doubled the metabolic rate for each seven-degree rise. Tumor tissue has more active respiratory enzymes to start with. It is more vulnerable to heat – mitochondria burn out. This has been known since before Olga. Ancients used hot sitz baths to cure pelvic tumors. Fever therapy was used for all manner of neoplasm. It is a risky treatment – note the mortality rate of the Eppendorff episode. The results have always been about the same – a third cured, a third killed, and a third left with their tumors. It is this high mortality rate that has taken pyrotherapy out of our current armamentarium – we suspend, awaiting a safer cure.’

  Court ruminated on the math. A third killed – a third cured. Net result – more vacant spaces and some extra protein. The statistics balanced. Megajury exonerated Moses and Simple Willie. Cultists from all over the planet revised their plans. The name of Eppendorff went into the ESbook.

  Court found itself with a new problem – the final disposition of a quarter of a million humans – mostly five-toeds. Many were elderly and weak. They all spoke different dialects from past centuries. None would survive long at the present population density – even if there were quarters and calories available – and there were none. Surplus infants were already being chucked down the chute at close to a 100 per cent rate in many shaft cities. Squeezing in one extra citizen was impossible without depriving another citizen of his QCB. Moses watched the viewscreen – thousands of the newly awakened patients were milling around the caves of Dundas waiting for boats to the mainland. Old, weak, five-toeds – about to get their first look at the hive of Big ES. Had he really done them a service in awakening them?