"My apologies, ma'am," the guard said.
"It's okay," Sam mumbled, her face burning.
Then they checked Turner.
He set off alarm after alarm. They spent twenty minutes examining him, at least ten of that on his altered arm, verifying it contained no weapons. Turner waited patiently, holding his arms out, turning around, removing his shoes when they asked, and otherwise cooperating.
"Holy shit," one of the guards suddenly said. "He's got fusion components in there."
Well, hell. It annoyed Sam that they had detected what she missed in her first exam. She wondered if they were about to be thrown into a cell after all.
However, the major just watched as the guards inspected Turner. Then she said, "Can I ask you a question?"
Turner answered warily. "Yes?"
"I was wondering if you were an android or a robot."
His voice turned chill. "I'm a man."
A long silence greeted him. Finally the major said, "Ah—okay." She spoke to the guards. "Can we take him through?"
"He's not carrying any weapons," one of the men said. "Unless you count the reactor."
That response told Sam a great deal. They were treating her and Turner with kid gloves, which meant Thomas must have spoken with someone here; either that or Granger hadn't heard from Thomas and was being careful. She hoped it was the former, because if Thomas had betrayed them, he might deny any knowledge of this mess. Then she and Turner would be in big trouble.
* * *
Colonel Granger was a lean man of average height, with buzz-cut hair and icy blue eyes. Sam tensed up the moment she met him. He initially separated her from Turner while the mech-techs examined them. Now they had finished with that, at least for the time being. She sat at a metal table painted institutional green, with Turner across from her, slouched in his chair. Armed soldiers stood around the perimeter of the room.
Granger was pacing behind Turner. "The manipulations to your DNA are more knotted than an Abilene mesquite. It took our people hours to untangle your ID. But the final results fit the man you named in Portland." He stopped at one end of the table and regarded Turner. "A dead man."
"I'm not dead," Turner said.
"My dog could have guessed that." Granger lifted his left hand, which was covered with a mesh glove, and flicked his right thumb through several menus on the palm screen. Then he glanced at Sam. "We have no record of this call you claim you made to General Wharington."
Sam wished Granger would sit down. His pacing was making her nervous. She suspected that was his intent, though, so she tried to ignore it. "My car must have a record of it. Even if someone erased it, surely you can get it back."
He lowered his arm. "That's right. And your car has no record of any chase or message to General Wharington."
"Ask Thomas," she said.
"We did. He never heard diddly from you."
Sam didn't believe him. "My car must have a record of that call."
"All right," he drawled. "Let's say someone erased it, someone smart enough to remove all record of the deletions." He turned a hard gaze on Turner. "It would be child's play for an android with your sophistication."
"Don't call me a goddamned android."
"Most humans," Granger said, "aren't more biomech than human."
Turner shifted in his seat. "What do you want from me?"
Granger didn't hesitate. "The people who made you. Cooperate with us and you'll go free."
Turner just looked at him. He had no need to say he didn't believe Granger; it was obvious in his expression.
"What about the Needle that attacked us?" Sam asked.
"We haven't identified it yet." Granger's face gave nothing away.
Sam studied the colonel. Although he was noncommittal on everything, she thought he knew more about the Needle. But he seemed genuinely unfamiliar with the name Charon, whereas she had been sure Thomas recognized it. Either Granger was a superb actor or else he wasn't privy to Thomas's sources. The colonel might not have clearance to know, but if so, she would have expected Thomas to send someone for her and Turner.
Sam had to admit Turner might be right. Thomas might have betrayed them. But it just didn't fit; he was one of the most dedicated officers she knew, and she had known him long enough to have a sense of the man and his principles that went beyond the surface. Also, she doubted Granger knew as little as he claimed; otherwise, he would have slapped her and Turner in cells. He claimed Thomas never heard "diddly" from her on her car phone; he hadn't actually said Thomas denied knowledge of their situation. She was convinced Granger knew more than he admitted. He was trying to rattle them and see what information fell out.
Could Giles be the one behind this business of Charon? She didn't want to believe it of him, either, but it made too much sense. He was one of the few people with the expertise to create Turner. When she put Giles and Charon in the same thought, her pulse leapt. She wanted to push the thoughts away and she didn't know why.
A knock came at the door. Granger motioned to a guard, who opened it. A mech-tech hurried in, a woman with a long braid of brown hair down her back. Dressed in jeans, a knit shirt, and a white lab coat, she looked like a civilian. Excitement flushed her cheeks.
Granger motioned her to a chair. "What do you have, Ms. Hernandez?"
She slid into her seat at the table and leaned forward eagerly. "We caught it, sir! We tricked it into a neural corral and closed the gate."
"It?" Sam looked from Hernandez to Granger. "What?"
Turner gripped the table with both hands. He had that hunted look again. "Whose neural corral?" His usually vibrant voice had gone flat.
"I've been chasing the part of your EI you copied into the Rex." Her face lit up. "You have an incredible network. I've never seen one so complex. You even have an unconscious mind, code that runs in the background. Do you know what I mean?"
"No." Turner might have turned into a glacier. "How could I, if it's unconscious?"
"You sound annoyed." The tech seemed fascinated with him. Sam scowled at her.
"I am annoyed," Turner said. "What are you going to do with the copy of my EI that you stole?"
"It was in the Rex," Granger said. "Y'all stole our Rex. For all we know, you stole the EI, too." When Turner made an incredulous noise, Granger held up his hand. "Okay, we don't know yet who took what." He turned to Sam. "Maybe you stole an android from this man you call Charon."
If he was trying to shake her up, it wasn't working. "Then you admit the Rex is yours."
"No. But you see my dilemma." Granger braced his hands on the back of a chair and leaned forward. "No one admits to knowing a damn thing about how you got here, yet we have this incredible machine out on our field and this incredible construct who swears to high heaven he's human."
His phrasing caught Sam's attention. No one admits rather than No one knows. She would bet the original Monet painting she had hanging in her house he had been told to keep this under wraps.
"I want to know what you're going to do with my EI," Turner said.
"Study it," Granger told him.
"No. It's part of me. A self-aware part."
"What do you suggest we do?" Granger asked.
"Erase it."
"Son, you must know we can't."
"Damn it!" Turner hit the table. "How would you feel if someone copied your brain and fooled with it?"
"How would someone copy my brain?" Granger asked.
Turner started to answer, then closed his mouth, looking confused. "That isn't the point."
"But it is," Granger said. "You can do something the rest of us can't—download yourself to another machine."
"It isn't a complete copy of his brain," Hernandez said. "Just a few mods, enough to fly the Rex. It doesn't even have full evolutionary capability."
"It's still part of me," Turner said.
His distress on the subject continued to puzzle Sam. EIs downloaded themselves all the time. It was one advantage of being one
. She had never known another to react this way. Then again, Turner was unique in many ways. No other EI she knew could have dealt this well with the flood of unpredictable input these past few days. Even a matured EI might have frozen up, and he had only been operating for a couple of weeks.
Turner had to analyze immense amounts of data just to deal with processes she took for granted, like laughing at a joke. It wasn't enough for him to remember what Turner Pascal thought was funny; he had to respond to new stimuli in a consistent manner. He might have to examine millions of possible reactions. He could manage within microseconds, but that was for one "common sense" response. Saints only knew how many he handled each day. Ideally, he would build a library of emotional reactions he could draw on without going through similar calculations every time. But if even a few of his analyses branched into unstable pathways, the effects could rapidly accumulate; given long enough, his personality could disintegrate.
What would help him now? Obviously, taking him out of stressful situations. Given their limited options, that wasn't likely. People had to sleep, though. Turner could use that time to integrate new input, clean up his matrix, fix errors.
"Maybe we could take a break?" Sam asked. It took no acting ability for her to look weary; her exhaustion was real.
Granger finally sat at the table. "It's about time for supper. Do y'all need to eat?"
Relief washed over Sam. "That would be wonderful."
Turner waited. "Does that include me?"
"Do you eat?" Granger asked.
Turner crossed his arms. "Yes."
"Incredible," Hernandez murmured.
"Well." Granger straightened up. "We've quarters on the base for both of you tonight. Tomorrow we'll be flying you to a more secure installation."
Sam was fine until his last sentence. Then her mental alarms went off. If Granger locked them away, it could be months before anyone realized she was gone. And Turner was dead. The only person looking for him was Charon, who might have links to Thomas. Or he might not. The "more secure installation" might be one of the only safe places for them. She didn't know what to think, and right now her brain felt like mush.
Sam stood up, rubbing the small of her back. Turner also rose, with that hunched look. The last time she had seen it, he had smashed their guards in the elevator and stolen the Rex. Charon's base had been relatively small and isolated, but Hockman was a different story. They had little chance of making a break from here. Even if it had been possible, she wasn't sure she wanted to "escape."
That was the worst of this, not knowing whom to trust.
IX
Connors
Sam's "quarters" consisted of a deluxe suite reserved for VIP guests who came to watch Hockman space launches. A doctor checked her arm and rewound it with bio-gauze that dispensed pain killers as well as medicine.
A female lieutenant showed up with a box of clothes. After she left, Sam opened the package and found a blue jumpsuit. She expected something functional and plain for undergarments, which would have suited her fine, but the lieutenant had put in lacy white underwear. Sam never wore such stuff, but she had to admit it felt good against her skin. When she found herself wondering if Turner would like it, she flushed and tried to think about something else. The jumpsuit fit well, snug to her curves.
Another officer came with dinner, meat and potatoes, which Sam ate alone, grateful for a chance to gather her thoughts. She sat at the table, staring into space, trying to make sense out of everything that had happened. Their escape perplexed her. If Charon created Turner, he should know how to confine him. It was possible Turner had evolved past what Charon expected; even in just the few days Sam had known him, he had changed a great deal. But it still strained her belief.
Maybe Charon let them escape. But why? Nor did that explain the Needle that tried to blow them up. She could understand Charon wanting to destroy Turner rather than risk his falling into the "wrong" hands, but if that was the case, it seemed unlikely he would let them go. The only saving grace about all this was the immense resources it took to create a Turner or build a Rex. Charon couldn't make many. She doubted he could have done even this much on his own. The group backing him might have sent up the Needle, to destroy evidence of their involvement.
Thomas, are you involved? The thought made Sam miserable. Thomas was the closest she would ever have to an uncle.
A buzz came behind her. Startled, she glanced around the living room. The buzz came again, and a blue light flashed on an inner door of the suite. Sam scratched her chin. Then she got up and went to the door.
"Yes?" she asked. She felt silly speaking to the air, but she didn't intend to open her suite without knowing who had come to call.
"You have a visitor," the door informed her. "He calls himself Turner."
Sam was suddenly warm. "Let him in."
The door slid open and there stood Turner, a living room much like her own behind him.
"Hello," she said.
"Hi." He had washed and brushed his hair and wore new clothes, a button-down dress shirt and gray slacks. He looked spiffy, handsome, and nervous.
Sam felt shy. "Would you like to come in?"
"Okay." His smile was lopsided. "Thanks."
She moved aside, discreetly glancing at his metal arm. Although his sleeve hid most of it, the hand was visible. At least it hadn't changed anymore.
He came into her living room, and the door closed behind him. "How are you feeling?" he asked.
"Okay." She stood awkwardly. "And you?"
"Good."
"That's good."
"Did you have dinner?" he asked.
"Yes. And you?"
"Yes."
Sam couldn't help but laugh. "We sound as stiff as two kids going to the prom."
Turner smiled, his posture easing. "How about this? You look gorgeous tonight."
Her cheeks heated. "So do you."
"Well, hey." He seemed pleased, but at a loss for words. So they stood regarding each other.
Finally Sam said, "Turner, I'm not sure what to do."
He touched her face with one of his eight fingers. "What feels right?"
She was hyperaware of the metal against her skin. "I need to figure out some things."
He lowered his hand. "If I had a prosthetic, would that matter to you?"
"Of course not."
He pushed up his sleeve, uncovering his arm. "Then why does this?"
It was a good question, and she wasn't sure she had a good answer. She spoke slowly, thinking through emotions she could only partially define. "You're more than a man. You've a brain no unaugmented human could ever match, even if you don't yet know how to use its full extent. You seem to feel like anyone else, to love and care and hurt. But part of me is afraid it's simulated, that if you and I—that if I were to—" She stuttered, unable to say the word "love," not yet, not here. "That I'll end up caring for someone who will never truly return how I feel."
"It's real, Sam, as real as I've ever felt." He gently closed his hand around her uninjured arm, but then waited, giving her a chance to pull away. She looked up at him, afraid, but glad to have him here. When she stayed put, he drew her into an embrace and leaned his head against hers.
Sam put her arms around his waist. The pleasant soapy smell of his shampoo made her nose tingle. She savored his warmth, the comfort of holding him. His arm felt corrugated against her back, but it bothered her less than she expected. It wasn't frightening so much as different. He held her with as much tenderness as if the limb had been human, perhaps more because he could crush with a power no unaltered human possessed, but he contained it, made it caring instead.
She leaned her head on his shoulder. "We shouldn't do this."
"Why not?"
She drew back to look at his handsome face. "I don't know what to do with liking you."
He caressed her cheek with his eight cabled knuckles. "I do."
A flush spread through Sam, starting in her face and spreading thro
ughout her body. She felt the tickling sensation at the back of her throat that came when she was nervous. Turner bent his head, his lashes closing halfway. With a sigh, she leaned in to him and let her own eyes close. He kissed her then, his lips full and sensuous.
It was a long time before they paused for air. Sam folded her hand around his eight fingers, then stepped away from him and tugged on his arm. "Come on."
He went with her, holding her human hand in his metal one. She paused at the doorway to the bedroom. Light from the living room filtered inside, enough so they would be able to see each other but not so much that she would feel exposed or raw with him. She took him to the bed then and drew him down to sit with her.
Turner held her hands in both of his. "Are you sure?"
Sam gave him a shaky smile. "If you are."
He brushed back tendrils of hair that curled around her face. "You're so pretty. Like some wild forest spirit." He drew her down to lie on the bed. "I've never known anyone like you."
Sam stretched out with him, her hands sliding along his side, her curves fitting against his angles. She brushed her lips across his, then pulled him into a deeper kiss. They took their time with each other, no rushing, no fumbling. The first time he moved his biomech hand over her bare skin, she tensed, but her unease faded when he gave only gentleness. For the first time since her husband's death Sam let herself be vulnerable again.
So they came together, in a sensuous, purely human night.
* * *
Fire blossomed in heat and crackles. An ember landed on her leg and made her pajamas smolder. She slapped it out before it broke into flame. Then she knelt in the rubble, tears running down her face.
His voice rasped. "Good-bye—"
No, she pleaded. No. Stay.
Good-bye . . .
Panicked, Sam opened her eyes into darkness eased by a light from the living room. She searched frantically for Turner—and her hand hit his shoulder. He lay sprawled next to her in bed, sleeping peacefully, his human arm thrown across her waist. No fires, no one dying. Her pulse gradually calmed. It had been the nightmare. Only a nightmare.
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