Gorgon Child

by Steven Barnes

  DeLacourte took a small plastic tab and stripped the backing away. In the middle of an adhesive pad was an eyelash-thick needle. "Take off your shirt, and raise your arm."

  Shaking, Valdez did as requested. The flesh on his upper body sagged as if he had slipped into the wrong man's skin that morning. "I have heard of this . . . chemical. I am not a rich man, but I have wealthy friends. They tell me. They say that for a million dollars a year, I can stay young. Is this true?"

  DeLacourte smiled, and slipped the tab into place. Valdez started for a moment, and then relaxed. The tab, pale for the first few seconds, slowly took on Valdez's skin tones. Within a minute, it was all but invisible.

  "You'll feel the effects in a week. This tab will last for ten days. You'll want to visit me again."

  "What of . . ." Valdez groped for words. "My wife and I. I . . . haven't been a man for six years."

  "Believe in miracles," DeLacourte said quietly. "I do."

  Medusa-16 sat very quietly as the crowd filed out around him. His eyes were, as Killinger had noted, hazel brown, with a slight Asian cast to them. They blinked infrequently, never looked away, and were most unsettlingly direct.

  Medusa-16 could smile, when necessary, and could laugh, and cry, or any of another hundred programmed emotional responses. His true emotions were buried far, far below the surface, however.

  This was his first experience with so large a group. There were thousands and thousands of people here, and although he had received image inputs of crowds far larger than the present group, there was a difference. The smells. The touches. Strangeness. It would be good to return to the Nation for final programming.

  He felt the chemical responses to the changes, and knew that this was extraordinary. This was what he would have considered, in a target, to be an "emotional response."

  Curiosity. That had been programmed. That was a good

  feeling, within limits. He wondered how many of his siblings felt the same. Or was he alone, even in this?

  There had been, in fact, only one time when he had felt this way. It had been in Oregon, during the obedience test. His body still ached from the memory, despite the hormonal nutrient baths.

  The Man had been different. He had not responded as Medusa-16's trainers had responded. Not as strong or quick as Quint, but there had been something extraordinary about the encounter, and in a secret part of Medusa-16's mind, he was glad that the encounter had not been terminal. He .. . wanted to meet that one again.

  Why? That question wouldn't form. So many wouldn't. He knew that an abyss gaped for those who asked the wrong questions.

  So Medusa-16 concentrated on DeLacourte again. Watched the man's movement, his facial expressions.

  Listened to his speech patterns.

  DeLacourte was important.

  DeLacourte was Target.

  It was bad to be programmed, and prepared, and trained to perform a function at a very high level of efficiency, and never fulfill that function.

  Fulfilling one's function was good. Quint said so.

  It would be good to kill.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  NewMan Nations

  Now I walk with Talking God With Goodness and Beauty in all things

  around me I see. With Goodness and Beauty I follow

  Immortality. Thus being, I go . . .

  —Navajo Song of the Talking God

  Wednesday, June 21

  The ground beneath them opened like a raw, ancient wound. It was discolored and ragged and the plane's shadow dove and skipped around the slashed rock like a dark fish diving through a coral reef.

  The plane itself was an ultralight structure, barely more than a synthetic skin strung over a framework of hollow tubes. The engine driving the single prop was a miracle of efficiency, smaller than the typical twentieth-century auto engine. It purred along without complaint, carrying Aubry Knight and Miles Bloodeagle farther north into Arizona with each passing minute.

  Miles swept down lower, giving Aubry a better look at the Grand Canyon. "Never seen it before?"

  "Just pictures."

  "Nothing like it. When I was a kid, I used to crawl mound in the gorge, camp there overnight. Just crunch up Into the rocks, and listen to the wind come whistling through the gorge. It was a way of purifying myself. It was a clean time."

  "Never been anything ..." Aubry paused, considering. "I like to climb buildings," he said in a surprisingly mall voice.

  The color of the sand beneath them began to change as they crested the far side of the gorge. Less reddish now, ."id then more golden, as if with vast brush strokes laid down from a titan's paintbox. The colors mingled and ran together, and were wholly beautiful.

  "We're about ten minutes away now," Miles said. The silver wings of their aircraft glinted in the sunlight so that even through the tinted sunscreen Aubry had to shield his eyes.

  Aubry listened to the slow and steady roar of his breathing. Unbidden, Promise's image rose into his mind.

  Where was she? How was she? And could she ever understand, or forgive him, for doing what it was that he had to do?

  Perhaps not. But it was what was right for him, nevertheless. When it was over, perhaps they could be together again. . . .

  A flash of panic coursed through him at the thought that they might not be able to be together. She seemed a natural extension of him. . . .

  But that was wrong. As much as he hated the thought, in that, DeLacourte's holo ravings were quite right. For a chemical to create that bond was unholy. It could blind you, bond you to a monster. Where you had no choice in the matter, there was nothing good, could be nothing good.

  No real understanding, no real feelings. Only an unholy chemical substitute. He had to break those bonds, or he could never be free.

  He had to break them—any way that he could.

  There was a starburst-shaped network of buildings stretched out on the desert beneath him, near the edge of a range of mountains.

  "The Nation?"

  "That's it." The light through the window seemed to split as Miles wheeled the plane around, putting one-hall of his face almost violently in sun, the other deep in shadow. In some ways the layout seemed like an army camp, with rows and rows of barrack buildings at the southernmost edge, and other structures spiderwebbed out in a fan. It was actually a decent-sized city, covering about three square kilometers.

  Land was irrigated down there, and some sort of farming was going on.

  "There are communal farms, but the cost of irrigation is I very high. There are a few mineral subleases operated on a time-sharing basis, profits split with the Navajos. We have virtual autonomy from outside jurisdiction."

  "The Indian Lands Independence Act?"

  "Yeah. 2010 was a very good year."

  "But that was just an excuse to sell off more of your land, wasn't it? That's how the Spider camp at Hoopa got started."

  "True. The upshot was that the Navajos won total control of the land they had left. Leasing it to the NewMen was a brilliant piece of nose-thumbing. A lot of the inhabitants earn their money in the outside world six months of the year, and then retreat here to be free."

  "What about the permanent residents?"

  "Mostly hardcore NewMen. Not many of them—the physical requirements are too high. Those who aren't do everything you can think of—curiously, there are a lot of architects and chemical engineers. Disproportionate to the general population. Aside from those groups, there are doctors, and lawyers, and teachers—well, not so many public schoolteachers. There's been a lot of pressure on."

  "Many straight men?"

  Miles laughed. "Some of them think they are, at first."

  "Ha ha. Let me get this straight . . . ah, let me be sure I understand you. You and I are supposed to be lovers."

  "And you want into the NewMen. I think that you'd have no trouble passing the tests. They'll want you. Show you around. That will give you a lot more freedom than , most of the new prospects ever get—remember.
They've got a lot to be paranoid about since Ephesus."

  "Got you."

  The plane circled in for a landing on a wide, paved runway, and Aubry gritted his teeth. He preferred floaters, but in a pinch was willing to take whatever he could get.

  "Remember," Miles said quickly, "I can't guarantee you'll find what you're looking for here. But what you experienced sounds like a project I heard of once. And if it has anything to do with combat, you'll find information on it here."

  The glider bumped down, rolled to a stop. "But do not—do not allow anyone to suspect that you are an outside agent. Don't let them know that you are looking for something in particular. It could cost us both our lives."

  "Miles—I really appreciate this. I don't know—"

  Bloodeagle touched his forearm. "I told you that you'd need a friend one day. I meant what I said."

  The outer hatch of the plane opened. The young man standing there was all blinding yellow hair and white smile. "Miles! Good to see you! Long time. How are things in Diego?"

  "Most of the straights are so busy buzzing the border that they leave us alone. Hell, they've even recruited us to help their cocaine patrols."

  "That's a switch." The young man at the door was of average height, with premature crow's feet at the corners of his eyes, skin leathery from long exposure to desert sun. "Hi! I'm Kevin."

  "Aubry." Their palms met, and Kevin gave it a good hard shake.

  He glanced from Bloodeagle to Aubry, and shook his head admiringly. "So you're the friend Miles called about. He's always had great taste."

  Aubry tried not to roll his eyes. "Uh—thanks."

  He turned, and whispered through gritted teeth. "I don't know how much of this I can take."

  "You'll survive. If not, we'll bury you with honors."

  "Face up, I hope."

  "Nasty, nasty."

  Aubry pulled his duffel sack out of the back of the plane, and threw it into the waiting Jeep. The ground was baking hot, the sun still high. In the distance, a row of adobe-brown buildings shimmered in a heat mirage.

  Aubry swung into the car. "I've never been here before. What can you tell me about operations, Kev?"

  "Well—you might want to go out for Gorgon—jeeze, you're a big one. Hey, Miles, just how big is he?"

  "You'll never know."

  "Hah. You wait. Anyway, NewMen and the Gorgons on one hand, and the rest of us on the other. Both groups interface at the tribal council."

  "Navajo?"

  "No—the Navajos just lease us the land. There are a few Indians—like Miles—but mostly they leave us alone. The council calls itself a tribal largely as a joke."

  "Who's on this council?"

  "It rotates."

  The Jeep moved out, heading across the cracked flats toward the buildings wavering in the heat mirage. Now Aubry could make out more figures, and hear the sound of machinery. There was construction going on around them. Buildings were being erected, and one being torn down. There was a helicopter overhead, carrying a girder, and men beneath it riveting and gluing and searing steel beams into place.

  There were hundreds of men on the jobs, in the streets, many of them stripped to the waist in the sunlight.

  Aubry had never seen such a mass of healthy male bodies in all his life! They seemed spectacularly healthy, and as they drove between the buildings, there was a part of him that understood the camaraderie, yearned for it. He shut that part down with brutal speed.

  The Jeep pulled into a two-story textured clay ranch building labeled administration.

  "Register here," Kevin said. He grinned at Aubry openly admiring the swell of his chest. "Well, I hope I'll see y later."

  "I'm sure."

  Aubry pulled his sack out of the Jeep, and over on shoulder. As tall as he was, he still felt lost in the crowd

  A group of men came down the way, all of them over six feet in height. They laughed easily, holding hands, arms about each other's waists.

  Aubry gritted his teeth.

  Oh, God—

  Miles laughed at him. "You're a man, you can take it."

  "Right."

  "Walk this way."

  "If I could walk that way, I wouldn't need the talcum."

  "Hah hah."

  Aubry stood on the lip of his balcony, looking out over the camp, out over the hundreds of small and large buildings that made up the Monument Valley colony. His primary impression was noise. There was continuous sound, continuous movement, almost as if silence was to be dreaded.

  Everywhere in the streets below him, men walked together, moved together, their arms around each other as if to disguise the Siamese-twin flesh bridges joining them at the hip.

  Something in Aubry was torn in three different directions at the same moment—faint revulsion, amusement, and something else that he didn't want to identify.

  "Where do we start?" Bloodeagle said.

  Miles sat on the edge of the bed. Of course, there was only one bed. Anything else would engender suspicion. Aubry sighed. The floor looked hard.

  "We start by understanding each other—"

  Miles laughed. "You know something, Aubry? You're not as tough as you think you are. I'm not going to rape you. We can hang a sheet over a clothesline if that would make you feel more comfortable."

  Aubry plopped down into a chair, miserable. "I . . . don't want to offend you. Right now, you're the only friend that I have."

  "Then let's leave it at that."

  Aubry sat, silent for a long while, fingers templed. "How do I get to this Quint?"

  "I've arranged an interview this afternoon. Remember, though—-you're playing with fire. If they had anything to I do with the raid on Ephesus, and you ask the wrong I questions, you're dead."

  "It wasn't Gorgon, that I'm pretty sure of. Hell, I went right through three of those men. One of the fighters, just one, was freak fast. Impossible reflexes. Small—under s eighty pounds. It doesn't quite sound human to me. I've heard rumors—how much of Gorgon is natural, and how much is accelerated? Mechanical?"

  "Probably no more than a lot of professional athletes."*

  "Which is to say, a hell of a lot."

  "What you need is the tactical resource computer sys- 1 tem, or the people familiar with it. If anything can analyze the patterns of attack and defense, or identify any weapons 1 used, that would be it. But once again: if Gorgon was involved, and they consider you an enemy, you're dead. I Quint and Ibumi . . ." He shook his head. "They can't I be reasoned with, Aubry. They can't be stopped."

  Firedance Plaza was busy, the painting and drilling and carrying making the quad look like an ant colony struggling to repair its nest.

  Activity. Activity. The feminist colony of Ephesus seemed less frantic but accomplished as much.

  A statue was erected in the central plaza, of a slender, graceful youth draped in a robe that fell open almost to the crotch. His eyes gazed on some distant point. His arm was I outstretched, lips slightly parted as if caught in the moment before pronouncing sentence, or reciting a couplet.

  It wasn't beautiful, as Aubry understood beauty. But it was strong, and, in its way, powerful. It spoke to a part of him that was direct, and pure. The outstretched hand might have touched his brow.

  Miles touched his shoulder. "It has that influence on a lot of people. The artist donated it. Like I said—most of the land here is owned in rotation. People pay in different ways."

  "How am I supposed to pay?"

  "However you can."

  The interior of administration was quieter, but richly paneled, almost lavishly, and the same earth colors of brown and gold predominated.

  The visual line of the hall was punctuated with paintings and busts. All were of men: men thinking, men studying, men speaking intently. Aubry didn't really notice them at lust. What was far more obvious to him were the vibrant bodies passing him in the halls, surrounding him, and lounging in the foyers.

  These were men! They were as tall as he, as firm-bodied. They watched
him with cautious appraisal. They lounged around waiting for appointments with doctors and strategists, and men who understood the dark mysteries of their craft.

  NewMen. Perhaps even Gorgons.

  Miles paused outside a door, and turned to Aubry.

  You wait here. I'll get you in as soon as I can."

  Aubry nodded, and found a chair in the foyer. He sat quietly, listening, observing. After the first flutter of interest in him, there was an almost palpable retraction of feelers. What he was, he was, and there was no overt prying.

  After a few minutes, the door to the inner office opened again, and Miles exited. "All right."

  Aubry rolled his newsfax into a tube, straightened it out again, and then smoothed it down atop a pile of magazines.

  The office within was extremely spare, almost Spartan in its simplicity. A young man worked at the speech-sensitive console of a computer. He enunciated clearly, occasionally correcting with a blur of flying fingers at the keyboard.

  He sat bolt upright as Aubry entered the room. "Right this way, please." The young man was thin, and of average height: he looked like a midget in these surroundings. Clearly, he was overwhelmed by hero worship. He worked with NewMen! More, he was privy to the offices of the dreaded Gorgon itself!

  When he stood, Aubry was startled to note the maternity robes, and the obvious swell at the belly. The young man noted Aubry's stare.

  "Oh . . . people take some time to get used to it. I' still not totally used to the idea myself.''

  "Ah . . . when's the happy day?"

  "November. The artificial womb is a pain, but it's balanced like the real thing, and I don't have to worry about natural childbirth."

  "I guess not."

  Aubry was still staring as Bloodeagle hustled him past a closed, bolted door to one labeled office of Newman admissions.

  The man behind the desk was extraordinarily broad across the shoulders, but seemed heavy, as if the concerns of the entire camp weighed upon him. His left eye seemed dull, lifeless.