The Bohr Maker

by Linda Nagata

  “Of course,” he said dryly, leading her around the building and to the back entrance of his shop. He passed his hand across a white panel and the door popped open with a squeak. Using his foot, he nudged it open further and went inside. Phousita passed her own hand across the panel, but nothing happened. “Come in,” Zeke called. “The door will close behind you.”

  Phousita had never been in the shop’s back room before. She looked around curiously, but there was very little to see. Just the kit the doctor had brought to the warehouse, a small refrigerator, a telephone, a TV. On the TV, a picture of the shop’s public area.

  Zeke touched her arm. Startled, she turned. He had a rubber cord in his hand. “So you want to be a witch,” he said. “Well, I don’t know anything about witches, but I’m sure one of the charlatans in the market would be glad to find a talented apprentice.” He took her hand. “Turn your arm like this.” He tied the cord around her upper arm and picked up a syringe. “Make a fist. Good.”

  The needle slipped into a vein. She watched the dark red blood bubble into the syringe. “Witches practice deception, Phousita. They feed on hope and ignorance. Even the old woman, with her dried spiders and herbs, never cast a decent spell in her life.” He withdrew the needle and turned to his diagnostic kit.

  Phousita stared after him in utter confusion. “But a witch poisoned me when I was a child,” she said. “Only you could break the spell. And a witch transformed Arif into a clown.”

  “No,” he said, his back to her as he worked at the kit. “You were poisoned by a Maker, a tiny machine that tampered with your metabolism. Arif was poisoned by a different kind of Maker, one that wrote out a new genetic program for his face.” He sighed and turned around. “Never mind how it works. Just believe that there’s no magic involved. The witches in the marketplace don’t know any more about magic than you do. They just know the black market address where a good chemist can be reached—

  “Ah, I’m sorry. Of course you don’t understand.”

  She bowed her head. “I’m stupid, tuan.”

  “No you’re not, Phousita. You’ve just never had a chance to learn.” The diagnostic kit chimed. He studied it for a moment, a frown on his face. “Have you had any more symptoms besides the hunger?”

  “Yes, tuan,” she insisted. “I see many things I never saw before. The old woman visits me now. I know things.”

  “You’ve been infected with a Maker,” he said, as if he hadn’t heard her answer. “It’s very elusive. I haven’t been able to determine its structure yet.”

  “I know what it is.”

  “Now, now. We don’t know that it’s plague.”

  “It’s not plague, tuan. It’s the spirit of an evil sorcerer.”

  He sighed. Putting down the diagnostic kit, he turned to her, his arms crossed over his chest. “We’ll find a cure.”

  She shrugged. She didn’t want a cure. “There are some things you don’t understand, tuan, because you’re not from the city. You’re from the Commonwealth.” Her lips parted in dismay as she realized, “You used to be a cop!”

  Anger darkened Zeke’s face like a cloud across the moon. Phousita felt the cold draft of his bitterness, his fury, his venerable sense of betrayal. She’d offended him! Horrified, she bowed her head, hunched her shoulders, threw her hands before her face to hide her shame. “Forgive me, tuan!” she sobbed. “Forgive me! I have a stupid mouth. I don’t know what I say—”

  A harsh buzzer interrupted her. She jumped, her heart pounding.

  “Someone’s tampering with the front door,” the doctor growled. He turned to the TV.

  Phousita followed his gaze and hissed. “Police!”

  An officer wearing the deep blue uniform of the Commonwealth Police pounded on the door with the flat of his hand. Two huge hunting dogs stood panting behind him. Phousita whimpered and began backing toward the door.

  “Don’t be afraid,” the doctor said. “They won’t hurt you.”

  “They will!” she squealed. Zeke Choy was a great man, but there really were things he didn’t understand! Like the dogs. They were a sign of death; the old woman had said so. To see them twice in so short a time was a terrible omen.

  “Phousita!”

  She hid her face from his fury. “Forgive me, tuan. Forgive me. I will never disturb you a—”

  He grabbed her arm in a gesture so shockingly rude she almost cried out. “Is there something you’re not telling me?” he hissed, leaning over her. “Have you been working for the Commonwealth?”

  “No, no! Of course not, tuan.”

  “Who told you I was from the Commonwealth? Who told you I used to be a cop?”

  “No one! I think—maybe you did?” She had only a vague notion of what the Commonwealth was: a magic place in an undefinable direction where food was so plentiful it could be fed to dogs and every child lived to grow up. “Tuan, you must have told me.”

  “No! I’ve never mentioned it to anyone.” He stared at her, suspicion sharp in his eyes. “I won’t go back with them. Tell them that. I resigned and I’m not going to change my mind.” He pushed her away.

  “Tell who, tuan?” she whispered, as she edged toward the door. Her hand touched it. It opened with a soft click. What could he be thinking? What work could she possibly do for the Commonwealth?

  But he didn’t answer. He was looking at the TV again. On its screen she saw the officer bending over to examine the front door. One of the dogs had disappeared. “I have to go,” Zeke said. He started toward the front room.

  “Don’t go out there,” Phousita cried. “They’ll arrest you. Run away. Come with me. I can hide you.”

  “Nobody can hide from the dogs once they have your scent. If they’re looking for you, Phousita, you might as well come with me.”

  She shook her head. Was he crazy? With one last backward glance she slipped out the door, into the street. Instantly, a hand clapped over her arm. She was yanked down behind some cardboard boxes stacked against the building. She started to scream but another hand fell like a clamp across her mouth. A voice hissed in her ear. “Quiet, you stupid country girl!”

  Arif!

  When she relaxed, he uncovered her mouth. “We’ve been burned out,” he growled. “The dogs came this morning and cleared out the warehouse before the ’Surgence torched it. It’s all gone. There’s nothing left but charcoal.”

  She sat for a moment, stunned. “The dogs were there? But they’re here now.” She twisted around to look at him. “Do they follow you?”

  His lip twisted. “Nothing followed me. Maybe it’s Zeke Choy they’re after. Come on. Let’s go.”

  Obediently, she rose to her feet and followed him as he ducked into the steady stream of foot traffic moving through the crowded alley. The sun stood high overhead. Its heat steamed in her lungs and burned into her muscles. She trailed Arif, darting through the crowd with practiced ease. A side street opened. Arif followed it. A few vendors had spread mats at the base of stucco buildings. The scent of charcoal filled the air, and the music of a gamelan. Behind them Phousita heard startled cries. She turned to look. “The dog’s coming!” she cried. “Where can we hide?” She saw no shelter in this street, no open door.

  “Stay close!” Arif ordered. He cut through the crowd with the grace of a practiced thief. She started to follow, but a fat merchant cut her off. They collided. He cursed and swung at her, striking her across the face with the back of his hand. She stumbled back, hunched over and tasting blood. When she looked up, Arif was gone. Behind her, a woman was screaming. Phousita hesitated in confusion. Then she caught Arif’s scent, actually tasted it. It hung in the air, a thin, broken trail that blazed incandescent in her mind.

  She plunged ahead, following it, picking it out of the thousand other scents of other people who’d passed through this street. At last the stucco buildings ended. A cross street ahead. She hurried past it, then stopped abruptly. The trail had disappeared. She backtracked. Swung her head. Caught the trace and cut rig
ht.

  “Phousita!” He waited for her, crouching behind the wheel of a dilapidated becak while the driver fidgeted nervously. “You see that?” Arif pointed down the street. A truck rumbled toward them, its sides marked with faded government insignia. The funeral truck. When the destitute died, its crew gathered up their bodies and hauled them off. Phousita did not know where. “Follow me!” Arif cried.

  As the truck approached, he started cutting through traffic. The press of people parted slowly as it advanced. The truck driver sounded his horn at another becak, but the bum had waited too long to get out of the way. The truck’s worn brakes engaged with a tremendous squeal. The two crewmen clinging to the back of the truck swung forward. One fell. The becak driver cursed and pedaled his rig to the side.

  Arif picked that moment to jump. He landed on the tiny platform occupied by the remaining crewman. Finding a handhold, he crouched down and reached back for Phousita, ignoring the curses, threats, and blows rained down on him from the crewman. Phousita scrambled up beside him. He took her elbow and shoved her, sending her tumbling into the loading bin. Then he turned like a snake on his tormentor. He struck, catching the man’s free hand in his. Phousita lay dazed in the bin, sickened by the stench. She stared up at him. He looked like a magic figure from a wayang vid. He moved his wrist and a purse appeared in his hand, the straps neatly cut. Phousita stared at it. Where had it come from? The crewman stared at it too, then turned a questioning eye to Arif. Arif nodded. “Let us ride to the river,” he said. The man’s hand closed over the purse. He nodded in turn. Arif dropped into the bin beside Phousita and a moment later the truck lurched forward.

  “The dog comes,” Phousita moaned. “Smell it on the air?”

  Arif scowled at her. But he peered over the edge of the bin to survey the street. A moment later he dropped back down, cursing. “It’s at the crossroad.”

  “It’s following you,” Phousita accused. “Your scent’s as bright as the sun! Anybody could pick it out. We have to change it.”

  “Huh. This stink should cover us.”

  She shook her head. “Not hide it. That won’t work. We need to change it. I must change too.” Her tongue darted out of her mouth, sampling his scent. His odor was a byproduct of the living processes of his body, the stamp of his metabolism. To change it much would destroy him. But the change needn’t be extraordinary. A subtle adjustment would confuse the pursuing beast and give them time to escape. Her tongue darted out again, then she leaned forward, pressing her mouth against his wide clown’s lips. He pulled away, startled. But the job was done. She lay back and closed her eyes.

  Her body had a signature of its own, just as bright, just as unique as Arif’s scent trail. She reached into her cells, into the metabolic pathways that nurtured them. She made adjustments. At her command tiny hands pulled at the molecules, making subtle changes. Then the hands turned to one another, adjusting their own structure too.

  She opened her eyes. Arif was watching her with a suspicious scowl. “We must bathe in the river,” she said. “When we have cleansed ourselves, the dogs will no longer know us.”

  Arif’s scowl deepened. “Are you a witch, Phousita?”

  She smiled. “Will we make it to the river?”

  Chapter

  10

  The transmission time between Summer House and Earth averaged three minutes. Nikko stayed on the tether, clinging to a silvery tree branch with his long, prehensile toes, because the continuous tremor in his fingers had grown so bad he no longer trusted his hands to maintain a grip. He waited out the time that would have to pass before his ghost reached Sandor; before it could arrive on its emergency beacon and deliver its warning; before an acknowledgment could be composed and sent back to him.

  He switched on his camera pack and directed the lens to focus on him as he tried to summarize what had happened. He sensed the scope of his documentary expanding as he spoke. “I learned today that I almost owned the Bohr Maker. Love and Nature! It hurts to watch a chance like this slip away. It’ll never come again. Maybe that’s why I tried so hard to salvage the situation. Tried too hard. The debts are still coming in. . . .”

  Summer House moved through its long, slow spin. The silver trees that sprouted on the outer walls of the tether turned their leaves to follow the light. The distant gold sparkle of the magnetic launch tube moved in a swift arc overhead. Three minutes passed. Then four, then five. Nikko felt his heart begin to beat faster, harder, as the critical moment approached. He stumbled over his words. He couldn’t seem to focus on a coherent thread of thought. His breathing quickened.

  The count passed six minutes and his atrium’s emergency signal resounded through his skull, again, for the second time in his life, the second time in an hour. Moments later a form coalesced into existence beside him. Tall, blue, manly figure; exaggerated fingers afflicted with a grotesque, insectile twitch; exaggerated toes curled securely over black branches; an emotionless face, like a mask. He gazed at himself.

  For a moment neither himself nor his ghost spoke. Then Nikko felt the fiery heat of understanding grow with the relentlessness of ticking seconds, of passing time. If a destination address were unavailable, a ghost would automatically return to its origin.

  So Sandor’s atrium was unavailable.

  Panic squeezed his throat. He felt mildly nauseous as his heart rate doubled. Maybe Sandor was only crippled. Or maybe he was dead. “Go to Marevic,” he croaked at the ghost.

  Marevic Chun was his mentor. She was also the regional president of Summer House at Earth. She was a fossil—almost as ancient as Kirstin—a sly old dinosaur who’d fed off the entrails of police kills for a hundred years. Marevic would be able to find Sandor.

  The ghost nodded agreement. It was himself. He didn’t have to explain his intent. It downloaded without uttering a word.

  Nikko’s face had always been a lie, an emotionless mask. But now he wore it deliberately, hiding from even himself as he dropped back down through the forest to the nearest transit node and returned to his apartment. Fox came up the corridor from the other direction and met him at the door, his ruddy face creased with anger, his red hair wild. He followed Nikko silently through the door. When it closed, sealing them off from the corridor, Nikko turned. The camera lens floated on its tentacle, focused on Fox. “Something’s happened to Sandor. The police may have him. I don’t know.”

  Fox blanched. Into the shocked silence Nikko poured his explanation. He held nothing back, not even the theft of the Bohr Maker. There was no point now. Fox would still be here when Nikko was gone. Perhaps he could help Sandor. The camera recorded everything.

  Nikko listened to himself speak as if he were a detached observer, a silent third person in the room. Now his voice wore the mask.

  “Who was it?” Fox asked.

  The question hung in the room, detached from all reference. Nikko cocked his head, then realized: Fox wanted to know who had attacked him. “I don’t know. But he wasn’t a cop.”

  That angered Fox further. “A civilian got past my defensive Makers? A civilian?”

  Nikko almost laughed. Professional pride, even in a moment of crisis.

  “I’ll need tissue samples,” Fox snapped. “Maybe I can identify the foreign Maker; get it out of your system.” He stomped to the door. “I’ll get my things. I’ll be back.” Tears glistened in his eyes. He hesitated at the door. Nikko braced himself for a gush of apologies; guilt-laden expressions of regret for his hubris in creating a son outside the human norm. But Fox was still working on his anger. “We think we can plan our lives,” he muttered. “We think we can model reality. But chaos is an intrusive, inconsiderate bitch.”

  The door closed behind Fox.

  Nikko stood frozen in place for a moment, at a loss for what to do next. His neck twitched a few times. The camera lens snaked around his shoulder, as the Dull Intelligence guiding it decided to record his deteriorating condition. He roared in rage, stripped the pack off his shoulders and hurled it into
a corner of the room.

  His blue hide began to itch intensely. That was the influence of the foreign Maker, he decided: a pollution in his body that his mind could not forget. He found himself acutely conscious of its presence, of the fact that he’d been colonized; controlled. It outraged him. He wanted to strike out at something, but the room offered no ready targets so he simply stood in place, while heat began building up inside him.

  He felt feverish. He knew he had to calm himself, or take a sedative. He closed his eyes. Arms twitching at his sides, he ran through a breathing exercise, deep cleansing breaths.

  Thoughts of Sandor licked at his conscience. He tried to turn away from them. He’d sent a ghost Earth-side. There was nothing more he could do now.

  Cleansing breath.

  He could feel the heat pouring off his kisheer. He needed to take a sedative. He could die of overheating. That would be funny. Yes. But bad policy.

  Cleansing breath.

  He must confess to the police. Exonerate Sandor.

  Cleansing breath.

  Sandor was innocent.

  He tried to coil his hands into fists, but his rebellious fingers would not close! His breath ran out in an angry hiss. Love and Nature, there had to be a way out of this mess!

  He remembered what Fox had said about the biogenesis function. Could he really retreat into hidden code? But how was that different from dying?

  The apartment door opened. He turned eagerly, expecting Fox. But it was Kirstin who stood in the doorway, dressed in police uniform, a hungry half-smile on her plain face. She looked heavier than she had on Castle, as if this incarnation were more strongly muscled.

  At first Nikko was only amazed. Then he ran a check on his atrium, but no, she wasn’t resident there as a ghost. “You’ve come,” he whispered, his words afloat in a vapor of disbelief.

  For a moment, hope surged through him. Had she reconsidered? Had she come to make amends? A warning voice whispered in the back of his mind: This is Kirstin.