The Hormone Jungle

by Robert Reed

  Now it’s evening in Brulé City, the sun down and the System emerging in the darkening sky. April is in bed in a hospital on the fringes of the Old Quarter. The doctor has left her alone. A mask is fastened to her face, its tiny elements mending the torn and bruised flesh and fighting any scars. She is awake, alert and even animated. She asks Toby what he might want to do.

  “Scare him. Really scare him.”

  She says that would be fun. Fun and right.

  He says, “Something deserved,” and a warm calm feeling comes into him. He licks his lips and looks past her, out at the sky. “What would scare that machine worse than anything else? Huh?”

  “I don’t know. Let me think,” she says.

  “We’ll teach him a lesson,” he says.

  Her masked face nods. Toby feels confident. Buoyant. He looks at her and thinks in clear certain terms about everything. It occurs to him that taking charge of someone else’s fate, like Gabbro’s, is maybe the best way there is to gain control of your own fate too.

  14

  Some say we would be better with fewer. Fewer people, I mean. They say two trillion is many too many. They want worlds empty of bodies, or nearly so—wilderness worlds where we are just visitors, maybe a few large nations instead of the rambling millions, and maybe more unity in the species. Of course none of them have the exact same opinion. Some stress one element, others another. But they are all wrong. I think the truth eludes them. We live in peace today—and here I must interject my own hard-won opinion—because of the sheer multitude we have become. Two trillion people owe their allegiance to a wide range of Nation-States. No one State can dominate. Even such wealthy places, like Kross or the Terran mega-cities, are merely rich. Crowded is good. Complexity is good. We have forced ourselves into becoming good neighbors, thus I feel free to sing the praises of the tangled Humanity, numberless and everlasting…

  —excerpt from a traveler’s notebook, available through System-Net

  The two of them are in the back room of his private suite, Minus having said something pleasant just now and taking a seat far from the window. Mayor Pyn looks at the pink eyes and feels uneasy in his belly. He never likes being alone with this man. He tries keeping a humor about it all, telling family and friends to call the police if he doesn’t reappear soon, he’s going to conference with a killer. But levity doesn’t make him digest his meals any better. “You’ve had some trouble,” he begins. “I heard something about some trouble last night.”

  “A little,” Minus admits. The eyes do not blink and the mouth gives nothing away.

  “A burglar?”

  “A fool.”

  “Indeed.” Pyn can feel two icy hands twisting his colon into a knot, and he shifts his weight and glances out at the skyline, trying to remember a day when being Mayor was a joy. Has it ever been? “I hope nothing of value was lost.”

  Minus has no response.

  “It’s funny. We have such a peaceful community—” he starts to say, thinking of Quito and diplomatically adding, “but no place is immune, is it? People are people, and all that.”

  Minus says, “Anyway,” with a bored voice, rolling his eyes, “since you’re aware of the incident, I guess I can get down to business. My employer is disappointed. He remains confident in our capacities to help one another—” The same tired promises of endless money, thinks Pyn. “—but for now what we need from you is a favor, if I might ask.”

  “Do.” Mayor Pyn’s nervousness increases. The backs of his hands are suddenly damp.

  “A measure of protection,” Minus begins.

  “Yes?”

  “From your own people.”

  “Oh.” He knows his answer but tries to mislead, giving the impression that he’s thinking hard. “Well, let’s consider this…”

  “Purely unofficial protection,” he adds. “We can’t expect uniformed officers. We realize your town can’t be put in the role of a bodyguard.”

  Isn’t that your role? Pyn thinks. Dirk’s brought in two more like you, hasn’t he? But that was days ago—

  “Any possibility?” asks Minus.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t think of any means,” Pyn admits. “Our charter is quite clear on these regards.” He knows how little Minus cares for being refused. Sometimes he’ll look into those cold eyes and feel…what? It’s so far beyond his experience that Pyn can’t even give it a name.

  Yet Minus surprises him. “I see,” he says, offering a little smile and shrug. “Well, it was worth asking.”

  What does he want? Pyn asks himself. He’s come here with something in mind—Dirk sent him here for a reason—and now he’s acting cagey. What’s this about?

  “How about this,” says Minus. “I’m guessing, but there should be private agencies and individuals who can be employed by us.” He pauses, watching Pyn and freshening his own smile. Then he says, “Maybe you can lead us to some.”

  “Agencies?”

  “Or a talented individual.”

  “I guess I don’t understand—”

  Minus breathes and begins to explain. “Some months ago, my employer and I were walking in one of your parks. A wild place. A lot of jungle and sun,” and he laughs without humor, gesturing at one pale hand. “We saw a little roodeer in the jungle. Some kind of wildcat was chasing it. I don’t know the kind—”

  “We have many species.”

  “—but it took a funny turn. I was watching. Professional interest, you might call it.” He laughs again. “It took a funny turn and went down to a little river and the roodeer bounced slower when it knew the cat was gone. I don’t know, maybe it forgot about the cat. But I remember hearing a yelp later, and a thrashing sound down near the water, and I knew what happened. The cat understood the roodeer’s mind and the lay of the land, you see?” He pauses again, smiles again, and asks, “Is my point clear?”

  “You want someone who knows Brulé.”

  “It would help. Yes.”

  “I guess that makes complete sense.”

  “Doesn’t it?” He waits, then says, “In Quito, and I assume it’s the same here, the very best people do not advertise in an open fashion. They rely on referrals from their other clients.”

  “You want a freelancer.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Of course I don’t know just who we use. Or who is best.” Pyn says, “I’ll need some time arriving at names, and I don’t know if I can promise the means to find them.”

  “I understand.” He nods. “Very private people.” He says, “Perhaps you can contact the proper authorities and get back to me,” and the smile seems terribly wrong all at once. It makes Pyn nervous to see the bleached man’s teeth, so he glances out the window and studies the city. This is what Dirk intends, his nervousness. “Would that be too much trouble?” asks Minus. This is why he sent his bodyguard, he thinks, and he tells Minus:

  “No. It’s no trouble.”

  “Good.” Minus rises, saying, “You must be busy. I’ll leave you now,” only he goes nowhere.

  Pyn has no choice but to look at him, the familiar hands around his poor colon, squeezing. He stands now too and offers his hand. They shake. His hand is drenched with sweat. He-says, “I’ll get a list.”

  “And maybe some background on each of them. Origins. Skills. That sort of thing,” Minus adds. “Soon, if possible.”

  “Of course.”

  Then the Quito man is gone. The distant door opens for him and wishes him a pleasant evening, and Mayor Pyn walks to the window and sits on the narrow shelf, pressing his face to the glass. He thinks about a tangled mass of things, nothing clear or easy. He knows how small and scared he must seem to someone like Minus. He can guess what Minus and Dirk say about him in private. And what they say about Brulé too. Then he shifts gears, remembering that through most of human history Brulé City would have dominated this world with ease. It’s a thought he uses to defend this place from creatures like Minus and Dirk. Brulé City would have been a magical place known to all Mankind
. A legend. He imagines simple tribesmen herding their bison across empty plains, telling the dumb beasts about the great Brulé, wondrous Brulé, towers and bright lights and millions of people living under the care of their great wise noble ruler, the good Mayor Pyn.

  It makes him laugh to himself, imagining the scene.

  For an instant some small part of himself believes his silly dream. I need to act like a king, he tells himself. A great king would know what to do. The situation is that Minus wants to find a local wildcat, only he isn’t interested in hiring the beast. No. He wants me to supply a list of potential burglars. He and Dirk must think they’re one and the same.

  “Huh,” he mutters to himself.

  His Chief of Police can learn the particulars of the break-in. He will contact her tomorrow, and maybe he can learn about the possible wildcats. Of course they won’t give away any genuine names. Stall and stall and stall for now. Not until they know what’s happening; then they’ll help only for something substantial in return.

  Pyn has lived his entire life inside Brulé.

  He genuinely desires only the best for his city. All of his life he has served her and her people to the best of his ability. He’s made mistakes, yes, and he has mistakenly forgotten too many of them through the course of time. Ego breeds that dishonesty. But there’s one hard fact that he won’t let out of his grasp—even if he were king of the world’s greatest city, the grand Mayor Pyn, there would always be this nagging sense of helplessness, of inadequacy, that comes whenever you rule something less than infinite for any time shorter than forever.

  She sits alone, watching a strange bird circling, watching it hunt for something among the long living buildings. This isn’t the first time she has noticed a nocturnal bird of prey in Brulé. But then its eyes aren’t tracking like they should track—the hawk-shaped thing, gray-black and large, is too concerned with windows and balcony doors. It makes her wonder. Something from Dirk perhaps? She can’t know for certain. So she keeps watching it, waiting and trying to will the thing away.

  Steward left for his office a little while ago.

  They had slept hard for a few hours after his raid on Dirk, him needing more sleep but insisting he’d had plenty. There were plans to be put into action. They had talked the plans through this time, at least so far as was possible. Chiffon thought of Dirk being killed, knowing not to mention such a thing. The simplest suggestion might spook Steward. And she watched him go and told herself to be very careful handling the man. Particularly now. Particularly with everything so fluid.

  She sits in the dark and watches the circling bird.

  It can’t see me, she tells herself. Even if it wants me. The AI is feeding it an empty room, nothing more.

  She has a book opened on her lap. The plastic pages are glowing with a soft white light, illuminating the cramped text and some simple drawings. Several hundred years ago, according to the text, there was a similar type of hawk tailored for surveillance work. She wishes she could access World-Net, checking it against a modern listing. But that might alert a watchful AI, wouldn’t it? She can’t risk that chance. Interest means she is spooked. Means she is vulnerable and momentarily visible. What’s it doing out here? she asks herself. Have they traced Gabbro to the diversion? Maybe. But it won’t find anything, and that’s fine. That’s what she wants. Let it look at every window, then grow bored and go.

  If it doesn’t, she thinks, she’ll call Steward.

  He gave her his safe number, and he drew a map showing her how to find his office in the country. Emergencies only. The map delineates the Farmstead’s defenses and how she can circumvent them through a certain underground stream. In case of desperate emergencies. If they are on to her. If there’s no other choice…Chiffon feeling like some panicky quail with that hawk still circling, still so deadly curious about everything below.

  She blinks and looks outside. The neighborhood seems quiet, almost restful. She can see Gabbro in his front room, no April. The cyborg is dressed for the mines and sitting on the oversized couch, his plate as big as a platter and balanced on his lap. The size is for ease of handling. Each portion is quite small. He’s like some enormous shellfish with a nugget of meat and guts inside the shell, requiring precious little in the way of sustenance. She is telling herself that one emergency option isn’t enough. No, she needs some other safe avenues. Not involving Steward. New allies. Other places to hide. And of course her thoughts turn toward the big cyborgs, powerful and durable and rumored to be fully human in every meaningful sense. She allows herself a few minutes of wondering…how to make it work and not let Steward know, or even suspect…and then she quits thinking it. Just quits. It’s too dangerous to even consider, she decides, and so she won’t. She stops herself. Don’t, she tells herself. Don’t!

  “So why do I feel guilty?” she mutters. “Damn it all. Why feel this?”

  She shuts the book. She leans back in the chair. “What I’m going to do is,” she informs herself with cold deliberation, “I’m going to get free, I am, and buy a little world, I am, and I’ll build a paradise. That’s what I’m going to do.”

  She does nothing for a long while, trying to think.

  When she looks outside again, the hawk has vanished. Gabbro has vanished. She can see his food half eaten and his lights forgetfully left on, and the one-time woman, the one-time Ghost, shuts her eyes and drifts into sleep—as hard and dreamless as a little snatch of death itself.

  She loves him.

  Olivia has loved him from the first time she saw him, Steward coming to her to ask for help with some odd forgotten problem. Given the choice of working for him for free and not seeing him at all, she would pick the former. Or maybe even pay him. But she knows that he’s a good person, not perfect, and a Ghost’s romantic advances would scare him away. Thus she keeps accepting his gracious payments. And thus she persists with her flagrant flirting, oversized and silly and impossible to take at all seriously.

  “I got in,” he says. “You made the difference, and thanks.”

  “I’m glad.”

  He is sitting in that tiny windowless room he maintains somewhere outside Brulé, his marvelous long legs crossed and the ruddy hair matted with sweat and a face that will never be confused for pretty nodding, saying, “The trouble’s that I didn’t get what I wanted done.”

  “No?”

  “And now I need to do more.”

  “You want to visit the criminal again?”

  “I doubt if he’d let me in the door this time.” He isn’t smiling. Steward would normally show a shy smile, confident and laughing, taking nothing lightly but wanting to keep things loose and easy. Lately he’s been so different. For the umpteenth time she wonders who or what is this girl in his life. She has a cold feeling.

  “Olivia?”

  “What can I do?”

  “Help me get this man out of town.”

  “Gladly.” Olivia is inside her enormous front room. Like always, she wishes there were some way for him to come visit for a night. Wouldn’t that be splendid? she thinks. A single blessed night where she could touch his long legs and the rugged face and ease her weight down on his hips…the image making her sigh and shift in her seat, trying to contain herself. “What tricks do you need from me?”

  “I’ve got a plan. It’s got two parts.” She has never known him to be so self-possessed. Not in years and years. He says, “I need to make one more run at him. Like last night. I need him to believe that I’ve tried my best and he’s held out and there’s nowhere for me to turn. That’s the first part.”

  “But he won’t let you inside. You said—”

  “Dirk has something. I’ve never seen it before.” He describes a panel with tactile and scent functions. Very modern. Very sophisticated. Olivia has heard about them. They utilize certain Ghost technologies to produce the illusion of being there. And he nods, saying, “I guessed as much,” and gives a little smile. “Tell me. I want to know if something is possible. It seems like it sho
uld be possible.”

  She listens to his idea. “I think maybe so. Yes.” She knows half a dozen Ghosts with the proper training. She starts writing their names and access codes on a slip of paper—an archaic method suitable to dusty old Ghosts—and she presses the paper against the wall, showing him, asking, “What else? What’s this second part?”

  “Another illusion. More involved, I’m afraid.” She doesn’t like the sound of his voice or the way he sits or the lines on his face. He explains it in brief, and again she thinks of Ghosts with the knowledge and imagination. She admits:

  “They’ll cost you a small fortune. Any one of them. If they give you too much trouble, contact me. I’ll put the old psychic bite on them,” and she giggles.

  He says, “Thank you.” Then he remembers to smile and compliment her for her trouble. “I knew you’d have it all at your fingertips.” He looks as if he is proving he can smile, the expression wrong for his tired face. He concludes by saying, “I’ll call you later. Soon. And thank you—”

  “Steward?”

  He vanishes. Olivia Jade stares into the blank white wall, feeling ill and sad and a little lost. She stands. She walks around the big room and breathes hard to clear her head. When was the last time Steward was in love? She can’t remember. Did it amount to anything? They never do, she reminds herself. For some reason they never do. She remembers one time, ages ago, when she thought she would lose him and so hired several AIs to do nothing but replicate him. The AIs managed to catch his looks and the spry walk, his voice and expressions and even some of his presence. For several weeks this artificial Steward lived here with Olivia, sharing her meals and bed and her insatiable need for talk. And then she had him erased. There was little choice in the matter, and no sadness. The entity was no more Steward than the rug under her hand now is a rug. All illusion. Crisp and clean, thoroughly professional and yet absolutely false. A pure first-class phony. And a little afterward, thankfully, the real Steward’s woman left him for reasons still unclear. Again Olivia Jade was free to flirt with the man, dream the impossible, and pretty well muddle through her days.