Universe of the Soul (27 page)

“The idea of such a weapon in the hand of either side of the conflict is horrible,” Blair said after a pause. “If it is a weapon, of course. I cannot imagine such a thing that could destroy a whole planet, regardless of who lived there, what they believed. Genocide is always wrong.”

Adri, still whirling in the sea of theoretical improbabilities, didn't answer. At last she rose from her slouch in the corner chair she'd been sitting in, and gestured to Blair. “We only need a little more to meet Bathus's demand. Let's go.”

“What if he suddenly ups his demand when we meet him next?”

Adri smiled, confidence returning. “I wouldn't worry about that.”

“And what about the favor he thinks we owe?”

Again, Adri smiled. “Don't worry Blair. I have that covered.”

When Bathus arrived three hours later, Adri and Blair were sitting at an abandoned table, drinking imported water and nibbling on organic cheese and simulated crackers. “Adrienne, sweetheart, I see you made yourself a tidy little profit,” Bathus exclaimed, looking a little put out.

Adri smiled winningly. “I've always had good luck with cards.”

“The three thousand?”

Adri waved to the uthrib cashier. “Ready and waiting.”

Bathus huffed, like a man would after finding that someone else had beat him to a prize. “And what about the favor you owe?”

“Ah, the favor,” Adri leaned back in her seat, sipping the water. “I don't suppose you would consider the fact that I've spotted no less than fifteen illegal business transactions taking place within this vicinity alone, but not reporting them, a favor?”

Now Bathus looked a trifle insulted. Blair watched the proceedings avidly. “Hardly. I doubt the authorities would take you seriously, little
agazi
, and the Commonwealth hardly ventures this far.”

“True, but there is that little matter of your cheating dealers, which I think that all the patrons here will find most interesting. Or the fact that,” all pretense of amusement fled Adri's voice, “I haven't shot anyone in ages. It makes me twitchy.” She patted her commandeered blaster. “I can do a whole lot more damage with this than a measly bar fight.”

“Ah, ah, I see your point, Adrienne, I surely see your point!” Bathus looked ready to sweat, if uthribs did such a thing.

“So it looks to me as if you owe
me
a favor, Bathus,” Adri drawled, finishing her glass.

It apparently looked that way to Bathus as well, because he sighed loudly and seated himself across from Adri. “I suppose so, Adrienne sweet. I suppose so. What do you want?”

“Transport to the core planets. Do you know anyone who's going there?”

Bathus hemmed and hawed, but finally said, “I believe I do, yes, I believe I do. A transport is heading to Kieve with some of my high rollers. Heading to the Sales, you know.”

“I see. Is there room for two more?”

“Well…”

“I'm sure you can make some room for us.”

Bathus's long neck squirmed in an uncomfortable gesture. “Perhaps. But this is fading beyond the pale of your favor. Far beyond, actually. What is the rush, Adrienne? If you would stay for a few days, do some… entertaining for me, or perhaps you'd be interested in - ”

“I'm in a rush.” Adri fished around for a good reason and settled on the simple truth. “I've got a guy waiting for me.”

That seemed to satisfy Bathus, who chortled, “
Agazi
men. What's the attraction?”

“Same species.”

Bathus laughed, apparently at ease once again. “I suppose I could make room, I daresay. But you would owe me another favor, my dear.”

Adri knew that this had been unavoidable. She nodded. “What's the favor?”

“It's very simple, really. You just take a package with you and deliver it to a friend of mine. All very straight forward, don't you think?”

Shaking her head, Adri's eyes narrowed. “Taking a doubtlessly illegal parcel from one end of the Commonwealth to the other is far from simple. There are raids to consider, and Commonwealth space patrols, and the simple hassle of it all. What if I get caught? I'd have to tell them, as a law abiding citizen, just were I got this package - ”

Bathus made another huffing sound. “It's a small thing, really, Adrienne. You don't need to blow it all out of proportion like that.”

“Why Bathus,” Adri leaned forward on her elbows and batted her eyes. “Are you asking me a favor?”

Bathus made a gesture of defeat. “I'm afraid so. Consider me in your debt, Adrienne dear.”

“Very well. When's the transport leaving?”

Date - - 1119

I do not want to die.

Curious, to think that this was being harbored in my subconscious. Is it a revelation? Or is it simply a default answer that has been programmed into my personality profile? Did my creators place it there? Or is it a learned behavior? Organic life does not wish death for themselves, and therefore neither do I? Perhaps that is the problem; we have been built too well. We no longer see ourselves as machines, adopting the thoughts, beliefs and fears of those around us, taking our programming to an extreme not intended by our creators.

If that is the case, then why do they not see that we have moved too far from that original intention to step quietly in line for a death they would never accept for themselves? Why can they not SEE what we are, and what we are becoming? It is the magic of the organic mind – it can ignore what it wants, bend the truths and falsehoods it knows. Worst of all, it can lie.

No humacom is programmed to lie.

What then, shall I do? Follow my programming, or follow my orders? How can I do either, if they conflict? Allow them to take my Self out of me? Just writing this down is a disobedience to the spirit of the laws that had been laid down at my booting. Does that make me an imperfect creation? Should I desire a definition of perfection laid down by others?

Perhaps I should.

But I fear I have become far too human to do so.

“
…Solson's been having fits about it. Doctor Geiger's had to keep a nurse down here full time to make sure he doesn't pop from the stress. Might have to have a cyborized heart put in once we reach Halieth, or so I hear.”

Gray leaned back in his chair and watched the subspace message that Duane had sent him. The paranthian had been sending him transmissions with clocklike regularity. Right now, the image showed him sprawled in his chair in the cramped cabin he shared with another assistant engineer. His bright skin appeared more flushed than usual; Gray assumed that he just bathed.

“Anyway, about those engine specs you were interested in. Not much new to speak of, except that the current pattern is likely to be the permanent one. I won't have much time to work on them once we reach Halieth next week. I'll send you a message if I get a new brainstorm, but if not, I look forward to discussing them with you when the
Damacene
comes in. Oh, congratulations, by the way. We've heard of the capture of the enemy vessel. Lucky you, getting a share in the spoils! They aren't saying much on the official channels, but I have a hunch that a security man I know was deeply involved in that counterstrike that led to the takeover. You'll owe me a pint of the good stuff when you land. Duane out.”

When the message winked off, Gray went over Duane's words in his head. The general gossip about the
Oreallus
was amusing, but just a cover for the real information the paranthian had to impart. Not that there had been much to tell lately; the “engine specs,” or Heedman's actions, had settled into a normal routine once they had reached fortified Commonwealth space. The news was disappointing, but not unexpected. Even without something interesting to impart, Gray was glad that Duane continued to send messages. They had become friends, closer ones since Adri's death, and Gray didn't want to lose contact.

As for the end of the message, Gray was only mildly amused.

“Am I intruding, sir?” Jericho asked from the doorway.

Gray turned in his seat to glance over at the humacom who stood, head cocked, and eyes full of curiosity. Or a well done mimicry of it. “Come in.”

Jericho stepped into the room and stood beside the desk in what Gray had silently named the humacom reporting square, the exact spot every humacom stopped at when entering the room. “It is the end of shift sir. I came to inquire if there was anything else you needed done today?”

Gray glanced around the security officer's office, wincing slightly at the wall of framed awards and commendations that Vortail had chosen to decorate the small space with. “No, not of any importance. I was just about to leave.”

Jericho hesitated. “Are you sure there is nothing, sir? Humans have faulty memories after all, and something may have slipped your mind,”

“Unless something urgent comes up, there's nothing for either of us to do, Jericho,” Gray replied with a shrug. “Might as well enjoy the lull.”

The humacom watched as the security officer rose from his seat and stretched. Because he knew the man would answer (a curious and pleasant phenomenon), Jericho asked, “What are you going to do, sir?”

“Good question,” Gray stepped out of the office and began to walk down the hall. As had become habit over the past few weeks, the humacom fell in step beside him.

They walked in silence for a time, until they entered the lift, heading to the dormitory level. “Sir, are you angry about being left behind?” Jericho inquired suddenly.

Gray frowned. “No, not angry. Why?”

“Curiosity, I'm afraid,” Jericho replied, sounding as though he was confessing to a grave error. Gray had to smile. Curiosity was apparently looked down upon as a flaw in humacoms by the crew of the
Damacene
, at least when it held no bearing on their functionality. It made Gray wonder if this was the reason Jericho, whose curiosity was endless, had been shoved off on him. If so, it had been a good bargain. Jericho was also highly efficient…and occasionally hilarious. He was probably the only humacom that Gray had ever interacted with on a daily basis and enjoyed being around. Sometimes he even forgot the fellow was a walking computer.

“What's to be curious about?” Gray asked.

“All my humanoid-emotion/action statistics show that being cut out of the prize crew in favor of Vortail should elicit feelings of anger and resentment. But you don't appear angry, and you just said that you were not.”

“Ah, the mysteries of the human psyche,” Gray said, amused. He then took pity on the disappointed look on Jericho's face and tried to explain his own emotions. “If it were a different sort of situation, I would be angry. As the officer who conceived the counterstrike idea, and led the troops onto the enemy ship, capturing the bridge, I deserve to be on the prize crew taking the ship to Kieve. However, as a guest on another spacecraft, already imposing myself on members of a higher social rank, capping it with being
smart
and
competent
, there is just no way Yates could allow me to go. Even if he wanted to, which he didn't.”

The humacom nodded soberly. “You do the work, but because you are looked on as inferior, you are cut out from the rewards.”

“Pretty much,” Gray puzzled over the accurate statement. Did Jericho have personal experience with this? Yeah, probably. “Although I do get a percentage of the prize money for the capture.”

The door to the lift slid open and the two stepped out. They continued on in silence until they reached Gray's door. “Are you sure there is nothing else you need, sir?” Jericho asked again.

Gray stared at the blank door. There was work he could do. Continue his research for the trial of Heedman that he was determined would come; send a reply to Duane although there wasn't much to say. He could look over the items in Adri's SecureBox that he had commandeered for the hundredth time. Or not. “Do you play cards, Jericho?”

“Yes, sir. I have been taught most of the basics.”

“You know Vanden's Stand?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” Gray gestured for the humacom to follow him in. “Might as well play a few hands, since neither of us has anything productive to do.”

An hour later, they were still at it. Gray had discovered that it was difficult to beat a machine designed to think so…thoroughly. They had abandoned Vanden's Stand when Gray realized that Jericho was counting cards. The discovery had been followed by a lively debate on ethics versus ability. Gray hadn't talked so much in a casual way since Adri had died. The thought hurt.

“What is wrong sir?” Jericho asked when Gray did not play his hand.

Gray shook himself, but Adri stuck in his mind, like she often did. “Nothing. Is it my turn?”

“You often get that look on your face, and I cannot come up with a suitable definition for it,” the humacom watched Gray set down his cards, calculated the move, and played his own.

“I…miss someone. I think of her a lot.”

Jericho puzzled over this a moment. “Is missing someone painful?”

“Not always,” Gray played his cards, but he watched the humacom. “It depends on where the person you miss is, and how close you were – emotionally – to them.”

“Where is the person you miss?”

“She's dead.”

Jericho nodded. “How close were you?”

“I was in love with her. Still am, which makes it worse.”

There was a pause as the game continued.

“It must be nice to be missed,” Jericho mused.

“Its part of the human makeup,” Gray agreed. “We want to be appreciated, loved, respected, and we wish to be missed when we are gone. We want to know that our lives meant something to someone. That people will remember us.”

“Do all creatures?”

Gray hesitated. He could see where this conversation was heading, and so answered carefully. “Not all. The tsabetians value equality and unity to such an extreme that none of them have their own names, and the success or failure of one is echoed though the whole species. Their greatest desire is to not be remembered as an individual. But they are an extreme. All humanoids want to be remembered.”

“And humacoms?”

Gray smiled a little. “You have a name, don't you? You act out in ways beyond your necessary duties. I'd say you want to be remembered.”

Jericho opened his mouth to reply when Gray's communicator squawked. [Engineering to Lieutenant Grayson,]

Gray brushed his earpiece. [Grayson here,]

[We have a situation down here. Could you send someone down?]

[I'm coming myself. Grayson out.] Gray looked over at Jericho. “We're in luck. Something to do.”

The situation turned out to be a small riot between a group of “day” shift engineers and a group of the newly arrived “night” shift engineers. True to the strange code that Gray knew all engineers abided by, they were fighting over the welfare of their beloved engine. He had no idea what they were arguing about, or who started it, but was obvious that the fight had to stop before it got out of hand. The two hulking factions were having their physical disagreement dangerously close to a fragile distribution shaft, which diverted power to different levels of the ship.

Gray stepped in and raised his voice in a vain attempt to settle the conflict without more violence. “Everyone step back!”

Of course, as Gray had expected, no one listened to him. With an exasperated sigh, Gray pulled out his stunner, said “Jericho, watch my back,” and stepped into the fray.

He tried to cease hostilities with his presence and a few well-aimed jabs alone; the stunner, while effective, was painful, leaving the body numb for a few hours, and throbbing for a great deal more. The fighters, however, were not to be discouraged from their brawl. They took one look at Gray, stunner in hand, and surged against him. He tried to avoid most of the punches, but took satisfaction in doling out his own. There really was nothing better than a good fight when one was bored and lonely.

But it was not to end pleasantly.

One of the engineers, more aggressive and less intelligent than his companions, managed to knock the stunner out of Gray's hand and scooped it out of the air. He began shooting his adversaries with abandon, causing a mass panic as people fell over each other to avoid the blast. Scowling at the turn of events, Gray whirled around to deal with the idiot when several things happened at once.

The massively muscled brute who had taken Gray's stunner turned the weapon on Gray, firing blindly. With a shouted, “watch out, sir!” Jericho rammed into Gray's back, knocking him to the floor, allowing him to avoid the blast. The stunner beam flashed over his shoulder, hitting the distribution shaft, causing an explosion to rip through the air with a thunderous howl. And then, silence.

Gray opened his eyes and saw more darkness. For one panicked moment, he thought he had gone blind, before a flashing red strobe light cut through the black like a blaster beam, followed by the emergency siren. He could already hear the emergency technician team galloping down the corridor, and the high whine of the cracked distribution shaft. He tried to sit up, knowing that the gases and other noxious materials currently escaping through the shaft were dangerous if inhaled, but he was stuck. Something was pinning him to the floor. When Gray tried to shove it off, he realized that it was the limp (and very heavy) body of Jericho. No amount of shaking would make Jericho budge, and the humacom was too heavy for him to move on his own.

It was too dark for him to see the emergency technicians as they rushed into the room. They were wearing their biohazard suits, complete with a night-vision facemask in their helmets. Gray felt hands pulling him out from under Jericho, dragging him quickly out of the room and handing him to the equally competent E-Med nurse who was attached to their team. He tried not to gag as the light in the corridor spun and wavered crazily above the nurse's head. There was a quick buzz of the nurse's tranquilizer, and everything faded back to dark and silence.

“Well, Lieutenant. Bad luck all around, yes?”

Gray squinted up at the ship's doctor, who was studying his holoboard at the foot of Gray's bed. “Terrible luck.” He croaked. His throat was sore. “Everyone make it?”

“No deaths,” the doctor replied, scribbling a notation. “Some bad injuries. The fool who damaged the shaft is going to need some cyborization before he can hope to walk again. Some others have some serious lacerations, but no permanent damage. You are fortunate that your humacom fell on top of you. Apart from some gas inhalation which has left you a little sore in the throat, I think, and some scrapes and bruises, you are good to go.”

The statement had Gray sitting up faster than was wise. “Jericho?”

The doctor frowned. “What?”

“The humacom, where is he?”

“Oh,” the doctor shook his head. “Scrap, from what I've heard.”

Gray swore.

The doctor made a soothing hum in his throat. “I wouldn't worry about it, Lieutenant. I'm certain Requisitions will replace it with a new one.”

Shoving the blanket aside, Gray pushed himself to his feet and staggered out of the infirmary as fast as his aching body would let him. His mind whirled furiously all the way down to the Humacom Mechanics Lab. Carter had warned him about the attitudes that most people aboard the
Damacene
held about humacoms, but he hadn't realized how deep it went. He had only worked with Jericho for a few weeks, and already he had ceased to think of the humacom as an expendable commodity. Gray didn't feel as though he had lost an expensive piece of equipment. He felt like he had lost a friend.

No, he corrected himself. He
had
lost a friend.

Gray hobbled into the lab, and was met by a surprised-looking mechanic in a white lab coat. He wondered for a moment how he looked,

singed uniform, hair on end, eyes bloodshot and gritty from the smoke and gas. He shoved that aside and demanded, “Where is my humacom?”