The Machine's Child (Company) (6 page)

Budu’s shoulders twitched, the closest he could manage to a shrug. “The Mortals Who Owned That Cellar. I Had Killed Some Of Them. Only Justice. When The Earthquake Came It Buried Us All. I Went Into Fugue. Rotted In The Debris Layer Until You Found Me. Only Justice. I Should Have Known What Labienus Would Do. Did He Set Plagues Loose.”

“Yeah.” Joseph sighed. “I think he started right after that, in 1918. Influenza, that time. Over the years there’ve been outbreaks all over the world, stuff nobody ever finds a cure for. They kill thousands, hundreds of thousands, and then disappear.”

“The Company Has No Suspicion.”

“I think the Company knows, Father. There have even been some arrests, but Labienus is still walking around free. It’s my guess the Company’s deliberately looking the other way while he works.” Joseph gave a savage laugh. “After all, he licked the overpopulation problem, didn’t he? No more wars or famines. It’s a real nice uncrowded world now. One of these days Dr. Zeus will arrest him and publicly deplore what he did, and settle down to enjoy everything the rest of us have gathered over the centuries. Labienus will get shipped off to—what did you call it, Options Research?—and the Company will laugh last. Maybe that’s what happens in 2355.”

“No,” said Budu. “No. Judgment On Our Masters. They Betrayed Our Purpose. Judgment On Them All. May Their Heads Roll. May Their Blood Run In Fountains. May White Flame Blind Them. Rats Have Eaten Me And Worms Riddled My Flesh And That Was No More Than Justice, Because I Served Our Masters Willingly. Our Masters Will Burn In Lakes Of Fire And That Will Be Justice, Too.”

Joseph listened shivering to the calm electronic voice, no thunder in its inflection, no expression in the wrecked face above the Vocoder. He crouched at the base of the vault, hands pressed together as though in prayer.

“But who are our masters, Father?” he said. “Are they the mortals who
invented the immortality process? I know they’ve lied to us, but I don’t think they’re the ones really running things. The mortals are too stupid to have come up with all of those plots. I think some of us old ones have taken control, somewhere there at the top. How many of the betrayals and the disappearances were our own doing? You see what I’m saying? It’s not a simple call. “

“Guilt Is Always Simple.”

“Yes, Father, but how do we know who’s guilty?”

“We Will Find Out. We Have Thirty-Eight Years To Find Out. Then We Will Sentence Them, Mortal Or Immortal. Justice Perfect And Surgical, Each One According To His Fault.”

Joseph bent low, thinking of Lewis, whom he had heard screaming as he was taken away.

“Yes. I’ll help you, Father,” he said. “I’ll be a good son to you. Tell me what you want me to do.”

“I’ll Tell You When The Time Comes.”

“But you can trust me!”

“I Trust Your Heart. But You Are A Preserver, Son. You Fear Death. You Were Made To Fear It. We May Go Down With The Rest Of Them In 2355. We Are Guilty, Too. You Will Be Afraid.”

“I’ll be brave,” Joseph said. “I’ve lived a long time, father. It’s all gone to hell, everything I ever worked for, everything I ever believed in, not that I ever believed in much but you know what I mean? Death looks pretty good, lately. I don’t care which way the dice fall.”

“You Will Care,” Budu said. “You Will Have Questions. You Always Do. Before You Go On This Long March With Me You Must Answer Them.”

“I don’t have any questions left, Father.”

“Don’t You. My Son, Where Is Your Daughter.”

Joseph flinched.

“Some place the Company calls Site three-seventeen,” he said miserably. “And I don’t know where that is. I’ve searched, too.”

“I Know Where Site Three-Seventeen Is.”

Joseph looked up at Budu with terrified eyes.

“You’re going to tell me, aren’t you?”

“Don’t You Want To Know.”

“Yes,” said Joseph at last.

“Come Here, Son.”

Joseph climbed the ladder on the side of the tank, and Budu lifted his great raw hand, steaming from its blue immersion, up through the surface. He set the tip of his index finger between Joseph’s eyes. There was a moment of electric silence as information was downloaded.

Then Joseph lifted his head and howled. His cry echoed through the vast cavern and rolled back from the walls, though the other prisoners there slept on undisturbed.

Commander Bell-Fairfax, sir! Wake up.

It was gray and early, with night draining away into morning. Edward was awake before the voice had finished speaking. Beside him, Alec and Nicholas slept on.

What is it, Machine?

Lady Luck just spread her knees, son. Appears Dr. Zeus had a little trouble running down some of the Enforcer commanding officers when they was demobilized. Somebody named Labienus had a bug devised to knock ’em out during a fight. Won’t kill ’em, of course, but it’ll send ’em into fugue. I’ve just managed to copy it!

How is it administered?

In yer murdering days, did you ever use a blowpipe and poisoned darts?

Yes.

Because I’ve made the neatest—You did? Well. So much the better, then. No circuitry he can detect, y’see? And it gets better. I got the frequency and the hailing codes Dr. Zeus uses to send him messages. We just tell him Dr. Zeus has decided to transfer a prisoner, and yer the bailiff!

Edward flexed his hands.
Clever. But I’d gathered the impression Dr. Zeus never brought anyone back from this damned place.

To be sure, sir, he never does. But you ought to be able to keep the lie going long enough for this Marco to turn his back on you, and then all
you got to do is shoot him with a dart and run like hell. The harder he chases you, the faster it’ll knock him out. Then you get the girl out of her cell, and make off with her. We clap on sail and leave any pursuers awash in our wake.

Edward nodded.
All very satisfactory.

Now, we want to be damned careful piloting in. The Company’s charts is confusing. It looks like the girl was sent back in time twice on 24 March, 1863; leastways there’s two transit entries for her on that date. They might be a few seconds apart or a few hours or any amount of time, and I ain’t got any way of knowing which one to reckon from.

Then take your best guess,
Edward told him impatiently.
Now, in the event that anyone’s injured . . . or should Mendoza require medical attention after her ordeal . . .

Bless you, sir, I got a full infirmary belowdecks. Had time to make certain improvements in it whilst our Alec was getting better after his suicide attempt, so it’s got features even he don’t know about; and that’s something I’d beg the liberty to discuss with you at a more convenient time, private-like, if you catch my meaning, sir.

Do I? Perhaps I do. You’re a conniving old devil, aren’t you, Machine?

Aye, sir, and I reckon we’re two birds of a feather, ain’t we? All I want is what’s best for Alec; and he don’t, always. But I reckon getting the girl is the first step to making him see things my way. You and me can row along together, later, eh, and sign articles?

Perhaps. When we’ve rescued the girl.

Edward woke the others. Tersely, he told them the plan and something of what they might expect.

“A hospital’s not so bad,” said Alec. “Maybe they just keep her there, on drugs. That’s what happens when ordinary people get arrested.”

Edward considered him. He looked at Nicholas.

“Not quite,” he said. “I’m afraid this will be very bad indeed. Perhaps as bad as the Inquisition.”

Nicholas blanched. Alec looked from one to the other of them, until he remembered what the word meant from Mendoza’s journal. He
opened his mouth in horror but Edward continued, not giving him time to speak:

“I think it’s best if I take control for the job. Neither of you have much experience in this sort of thing.”

“Do what thou must,” said Nicholas. Alec nodded. It took an effort of will for him to relinquish control, and wait as Bully Hayes and Flint brought out a suit of body armor, to be worn under the Company-issue coveralls the Captain had fabricated during the night. Edward dressed, swiftly and efficiently. Billy Bones crept forward, offering on a tray an assortment of clever little knives and a length of flexible pipe. Edward inspected the knives briefly, and made them disappear into Alec’s clothing. He took up the pipe next and examined it.

“Where’s the dart, Captain?” he said.

Hooked into the pipe, so it can’t fall out. See in there? When yer ready to use it, twist the pipe. The dart will unlock. It’s loaded with enough of the stuff to drop him in his tracks.

Edward nodded in satisfaction. The pipe disappeared, too.

“Shall we go?” he said. The others rose and followed him. He mixed a time transcendence cocktail and gulped it down, grimacing; then fastened himself into the storm harness. Alec and Nicholas linked arms with him and held on. Clear calm day was breaking over the sea, as clouds fled away with the rags of the night.

“Cast off, Captain, if you please,” said Edward.

Aye aye sir!

The air filled with yellow stasis gas, the masts retracted and the storm canopy closed down. The
Captain Morgan
hurtled through time.

LATER SOME SAME EVENING IN 300,000
BCE

When the gas cleared, when the ship had righted itself, Edward unfastened the harness and they got to their feet.

“Where are we?” said Alec. There was darkness beyond the portholes.

By thunder, that took some navigating! 300,000
BCE
, lying off an island what ain’t there in our time. See that light to starboard? That’s the facility. It’s about eight bells in the second dog-watch, if time had
any meaning here, which it don’t, but a night raid’s better. I’ve just sent the communication to the guard. He’ll be expecting you, but not so soon. Best for our purposes if you take him by surprise.

“Very good,” said Edward. With a gesture something like an elaborate stretch he assured himself that all his hidden weapons were where they ought to be. “The air-boat travels fairly swiftly, doesn’t it? We’ll take that ashore.”

Already powering up, sir.

“I will say this once.” Edward turned to the others. “I’m in command on this mission. Do not, at any time, attempt to wrest control from me. If what you see dismays you, avert your eyes. Is that understood?”

The other two nodded.

“Then we’re off, gentlemen,” Edward said. He gave a bleak smile. “God and Saint George!”

“For Mendoza,” said Alec. They clasped hands and went out on deck.

It was a short journey across black water, toward a blur of sulphur-colored light that flickered. Nicholas, half expecting the fires of Hell, was thoroughly unnerved by the time they arrived there. The agboat settled just above the tideline and Edward leaped out, Alec and Nicholas following. They found they had to run as he ran, in silence, through the night toward the illumination they now saw was steady, occluded only by the silhouette of a turning wheel, some kind of gear mechanism throwing strange shadows along the approach to the building.

When they came close enough to see the scurrying legs and working arms, they froze for a moment. Alec gave a nervous chuckle. Then he realized what he was seeing and doubled over, retching. Nicholas nearly followed suit. Edward waited, watching them; when he judged they had recovered enough he strode on, and the others had no choice but to scramble after him.

They came around the corner and saw the old couch, the refrigeration unit, and the doorway. There was a waggish sign tacked up above the door, hand-lettered:
THE BUREAU OF PUNITIVE MEDICINE
, it read.

Edward set his shoulders and strode through the doorway.

He was struck at once by a suffocating wave of smell. It was compounded of chemicals and some kind of animal musk, of blood, and charred tissue, and ozone. Invisible behind him, Alec retched again,
clutching at the doorway. Nicholas looked into that great room with its gleaming instruments and bright lights. No brazier of coals, no fearful rusted iron to grow red-hot there; tidily bottled acids instead, powered drills, marvels of technology that would have made the hooded monks envious. Still, Nicholas recognized what he was seeing.

Eloi, Eloi, lama sabancthani—

Shut your mouth,
Edward told him, and continued forward.

They saw a vast back, bending over a table. As they drew closer, Marco rose and turned.

“You’re early,” he observed.

The Captain prompted, and Edward said:

“Penal Specialist Marco? I’m here for the transfer of the prisoner Mendoza.”

He was doing his best not to stare, as Alec and Nicholas were staring transfixed, at the shuddering thing on the table, or the fluids that were daubed liberally across the front of Marco’s black rubberized raincoat.

But Marco was looking at Edward, fascinated. He set down the tool he had been using and stepped closer, sniffing the air carefully. His eyes began to glow with a certain humor.

“It’s here. But what are you? You’re something new, aren’t you?” He put his head on one side, considering.

“Yes, I am,” Edward said, flexing his hands slowly. “And that’s no business of yours, I’m afraid.”

“Right, right; I don’t need to know,” agreed Marco. He came closer still. “All the same . . . I’m intrigued. You’re mortal, but not
Homo sapiens sapiens
! And you’re a cyborg, aren’t you? In a limited kind of way.”

“You’ve been here a long time, haven’t you?” Edward smiled at him. “They haven’t kept you informed. Yes, I’m the latest fashion in security technicals. But I’m not general knowledge, you see. Just like you.”

“A lot like me,” Marco said, sidling just a bit closer, sniffing the air again. There was something unnervingly familiar about the giant. Deep-set palest blue eyes, dun-colored hair, fair skin, and a general strangeness in the articulation of his upper body . . . and very broad, very high cheekbones.