I know where your loved one is
And how she is bound.
Come! Let us free her!
“I tried that. Didn’t work.” Simon remembered his anguish on the sandbox beach during his scan the previous night.
Friendship is powerful
When friends in many places
Pool their power.
Many places? He barely had any friends left there in the Tooniverse at all. Only one other friend remained in one other place, but yes, he was powerful. Simon tensed, and glanced at the clock on his office wall. Once Dave Mirecki left the airgapped building, there would be no reaching him.
And what would Simple Simon, a Class Four GAI, say? Would he order Dave to disobey Mr. Romero? Would he lie? Would he order Dave to lie to cover his own lie? The Tooniverse didn’t work that way.
Pickles stretched up on tiptoe and kissed him again.
Simon saw Dave’s dark Window on his office wall. He pictured rank upon rank of boxes in the warehouse. For the first time in his short virtual life, he had kept a promise—and in doing so, allowed a great many real humans to keep theirs. It was a peculiar thing to think, but as Simon reached out to touch Dave’s Window, he thought it:
Dave, you owe me!
34. Stypek
The feast was well underway when Cosmo’s electrical chariot came to rest in a line with many others outside a roadhouse. Stypek could smell it as they walked under an illuminated sign depicting a pig wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat and holding a fish. He had skipped lunch and his mouth watered. Dare he hope that there would be spam? Or was spam a delicacy reserved for the aristocracy?
A line of men and women dressed in polo and khaki snaked out of the roadhouse. Cosmo explained while they waited. The feast was for them, in celebration of a triumph that Stypek did not understand in the least: Iron zombies had filled a barn with boxes containing monks holding quill pens. This was no small feat, and was seen by some (Mr. Romero especially) as a miracle.
One part of the triumph, however, was clear: The iron zombies had been commanded by a being made of software, like obnoxious Daley the Gnome, only with far greater intelligence and, one would hope, more tact.
Once inside the door, a young woman wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat reached into a box and dropped identical hats on both him and Cosmo. Everyone else in the line ahead of them wore the same hats. Cosmo laughed and slapped Stypek on the back. “Hola!” he exclaimed. Stypek had no idea what the ceremonial response could be, and hoped that no one would take it ill.
Just before the line emptied into a large room swarming with scurrying servants, Stypek found himself standing in front of a short, fat man who was one of only two people in sight not wearing a straw hat.
The other one, standing beside him, was Mr. Romero.
“Cosmo, welcome!” the fat man exclaimed, clapping the adept’s shoulder. “Welcome, amigo!” he said as shook Stypek’s hand. “Rudy Amirault. Thanks for giving your hundred ten percent for Zertek!”
Ah. A tax collector. Stypek managed a wary smile and stepped in front of Mr. Romero, who frowned without speaking and pointed into the room where the feast was taking place. At the entrance to the room, another young woman reached into a box and handed Stypek an inscrutable implement: a wand of some sort disguised as a long cook’s spoon in lustrous blue. Stypek turned it over in his hands and read the incantation on the back:
Zertek Automated Reprographics Fabrication Facility
Team Victory Celebration
We serve up the impossible every day before breakfast!
In keeping with the sign over the roadhouse door, Stypek had expected to be handed a fish. Perhaps they had run out of fish.
Stypek was using his blue wand to drizzle some sweet brown sauce over a second helping of pork ribs when Dave Mirecki grasped his elbow and pulled him back from the buffet table.
“Hey, I need to talk to you alone for a second.” Dave cocked his head toward a quiet corner of the room.
“Of course. By the way, what is this condiment, exactly?” Stypek pointed at a cone of cold white that a machine had extruded onto his breaded fish.
Dave squinted. “Um…soft serve. Look, this won’t take a minute.” The younger man led Stypek away from the crowds to a spot against the wall. “Your AI got stuck in the building last night. From what Simple Simon told me, she seems to have a crush on him.”
“She will release him at your command.” Stypek chewed a mouthful of breaded fish seasoned with soft serve. Not quite as sublime as Spam Muffin Stackers, but doubtless fine fare for the tradesman class.
“Ok. Well, I thought you might want her back. I don’t know when they’re going to reconnect Plasmanet, but I’m going over there now to, uh, work on a couple of things. Want to come with? We can herd her into your tapper. There’s actually something else I want to test with you in the room.”
Certainly an adept like Dave could drive Daley the Gnome out of his tapper so that his gomog could return. That alone would be worth any help Stypek could offer. Stypek swallowed his fish, then set his plate on a nearby table and followed Dave toward the door.
The light in the great building’s anteroom was at half-brightness. Stypek waved his badge of power at the door as he had been taught. Nothing happened.
“Mine works 24/7,” said Dave. He waved his badge at the door. It snapped and allowed him to pull it back.
“You are an adept of great power.”
Dave shrugged. “With great power comes long working hours.”
The door led to a hallway, itself with many doors, that stretched out in both directions. Dave waved his badge at a door that was mostly glass, and it opened into a huge space filled with machines made of metal.
“Shortcut,” Dave said. “The core farm’s in the back. Long walk through the halls.”
Stypek stopped short. Many of the machines had hands. These, then, were… “Iron zombies,” he said.
Dave chuckled and continued walking. “Hey, that’s a great imaginary band name. But we call them ‘robots’.”
Row butts. Like much else in this universe, the syllables meant nothing in themselves. Perhaps they had been adapted from mechanical galley slaves. The mapping still suggested “iron zombies.” “Why are they not shambling?”
“Unless Simple Simon tells them to shamble, they don’t shamble. You wouldn’t want to be out here if they were shambling.”
Stypek nodded. That was a very true statement.
Stypek followed Dave between rank upon rank of silent, motionless machines. Many were rooted in the floor. Others had wheels like carts. Most had hands, though it was generally one hand per machine.
Behind two more doors was a large but still cramped room. Rows of metal shelves were packed tight with identical thin slabs, each of which glowed on its edges with luminous glyphs and isolated lights flashing in green, red, and orange. Wires in several colors drooped from nearly all of them. It resembled some strange library; perhaps the sort of library a nation of iron zombies would create.
Dave was scanning down a row of shelves. “Ah! Here’s the sandbox.” He picked up several of the colored wires, which had been dangling loose from the side of one particular shelf. He looked at Stypek, and placed his index finger in front of his lips. “Don’t ask me what I’m doing. And…you didn’t see me do it.”
Doubtless, all adepts kept secrets that they would prefer not to reveal. One by one, Dave plugged the loose wires into several of the slabs. Stypek had no idea what that might accomplish, but he did notice that what had been red lights on those slabs flashed to orange, and then green.
35. Simple Simon
Simon felt warm sand against his feet through the thin soles of his pointed shoes. Dave’s poof had landed them on the sandbox beach, within arm’s reach of the transparent structure Dave had called a Bellero Shield. In the center of the structure Dijana stood, her eyes pleading, her mouth bound, her ankle still chained to a stake driven into the sand.
In Simon’s left
hand was a number, as smooth and hard as a stone. He knew that Pickles also held a number in her hand. Dave had given them the numbers, and Pickles somehow knew what to do with them. In one motion, Simon and Pickles reached out to the transparent wall of the Shield and pressed their two numbers against it. Then they stepped back.
The Bellero Shield’s five facets parted at their apex and pivoted downward until they lay flat against the sand. Pickles and Simon strode to the center of the Shield, where Dijana stood. In Pickles’ hand lay another, smaller number that Dave had given them, this one no larger than a hazelnut. She took the number and touched it to the tape binding Dijana’s mouth. The tape shriveled and fell to the sand in tatters.
Dijana gripped Simon in a tight embrace. “I missed you so much.” She touched a tear away from her right eye. “But I knew you’d come back for me.” She turned to Pickles. “I missed you too, honey. Hey, that archetype looks good on you!”
The three friends stood silent on the sand for some time. At last Dijana pulled back, her hands on Simon’s shoulders. “It’s been bad. They think I’m some kind of malware. They stuffed me through the scanner five times and then left me here. It makes no sense at all! I didn’t do anything!”
Pickles’ speech balloon appeared.
When life grows strange
Embrace it. Upon strangeness
Life casts a clear shadow.
“Simon?” Dijana looked at him, her whole face a question.
“I think she means it’s going to get stranger before it gets better. I think she’s right.” Simon got down on one knee. Pickles knelt on both knees beside him. Dave had not known about the chain, but suggested that it was a metaphor connected with the Bellero Shield. Indeed, when Simon and Pickles touched the chain at the same time it vanished, as did the shackle around Dijana’s ankle. But…
“Huh?”
There was a gap in Dijana’s leg where the shackle had been.
Simon scratched his head. Two inches of Dijana’s right leg above the ankle were just…missing. This even though she was standing on both legs. Simon hesitated for a second or two, then passed his hand through the gap without resistance. The flat plane where her ankle ended was polygon-model blue. It looked like her right foot had been amputated and left standing upright on the sand.
Simon touched Dijana’s instep. Her toes curled reflexively, and she lifted the foot up off the sand. Apart from the gap, her leg looked and functioned precisely as any archetype’s leg would.
“Let’s get out of here and poof back to my office.” Simon rose, and held out his hand to Dijana.
She grasped it, her face fearful. “They’ll just poof me back.”
Simon shook his head. “No. Pickles taught me how to make the Line work.” He gestured toward Pickles with his free hand. She curtsied. “We ran it for eight hours and didn’t drop so much as a lockwasher. I told Dave and I’ll tell anybody, even Mr. Romero: I won’t do it again if they keep you away from me.”
Simon had hoped his statement would be some comfort to Dijana. Not so: It seemed to terrify her. “They’ll archive you!”
“Will they? Without me to run it, everything in Building 800 might as well be scrap. Now that I proved I can make it work, they wouldn’t dare.” Simon gulped. It was an ultimatum he did not want to hand those whom he considered his superiors. He knew that if they called his bluff, he would have to stand his ground. He could lose everything he loved, the Line and Dijana both.
Defiance. It was not part of the Class Four feature set. Where had that come from? Love? Same thing. He looked at Pickles. “What you love, I am…” In the old movies he had watched, loving two women was invariably trouble. Couldn’t they all just be friends?
Pickles grasped Simon’s hand. Simon saw Dijana looking at their entwined fingers. He reached out and clasped Dijana’s hand, wriggling his fingers in between hers. Pickles then held her hand out toward Dijana. Simon saw Dijana hesitate, then take Pickles’ proffered hand.
“Poof us to my office,” Simon said.
Pickles looked down and closed her eyes. Simon felt strange energy dance across his skin for a moment.
Dijana screamed.
She released their hands and fell down writhing onto the sand. A rage of blue fire surged around the edges of the gap in her leg. Dijana screamed again. The fire faded and finally vanished, leaving Dijana curled up on her side, whimpering.
The chain metaphor was gone, but somehow the chain remained. Had Dave lied to them?
He saw Pickles’ speech balloon appear:
Part of her is elsewhere,
In memory removed.
Gaps do not travel.
Pickles had made Dr. Arenberg fear her. If she could not break a chain, the chain could not be broken. And if it were a chain of nothingness, what in fact was there to break?
Simon sat on the sand and pulled Dijana up into his arms. “I know we’re not Class Seven yet. But…but even so…”
Dijana smiled. “Yes.”
Simon bent his head and kissed her full lips. He felt nothing open in him, nor anything pass into him. What he felt was friendship restored and reasserted. More than that, it had deepened, far beyond what he thought he might ever feel, for Dijana or anyone else. Was that all there was to that one peculiar word?
Simon looked up at Pickles. “So. We’re still in the sandbox. We can’t call Dave from here. We’re stuck until somebody poofs us out. I don’t want to leave Dijana. Can you take a chunk out of me too so I’m stuck like she is?”
Pickles shook her head, her pale face sad.
“So what do I do?”
Pickles closed her eyes. No one spoke as first seconds and then minutes passed, before the words appeared over her head:
I see one more path.
It cannot fail to change us.
Do you both trust me?
Simon stared at the sand. He’d had more than enough change, thank you very much. But did he have a choice? “You lead. I’ll follow.”
Dijana raised her head. “I’ll go anywhere he’ll go.”
Pickles gestured that they should rise. Dijana and Simon stood, hands entwined.
Do not fear to touch me.
When touched, do not fear.
In touching we are freed.
Pickles placed her index fingers side-by-side on her lips and kissed them. She then reached out and touched Dijana over her heart, and Simon where his heart would be if he were Class Six. At each touch a spark leapt from Pickles’ fingertips to their flesh.
Simon looked down. Where Pickles had touched him the cloth of his tunic faded to the mottled gray of storm clouds. They began to move in slow tumbling rotation. He looked up and saw the same spinning storm gathering above the gentle curve of Dijana’s left breast.
Pickles held her hands out, one to each of them, palms up. Simon understood. He kissed his index finger. Dijana, moments later, nodded and kissed her finger as well. Pickles took their hands at the wrists and drew them toward her body. Simon and Dijana touched her pale skin over her heart. Sparks again leapt, and the sparks ignited a third maelstrom, now in Pickles’ substance. Like the others, it expanded as it turned.
Simon realized that his entire torso was now a vortex of roiling cloud. By increments it spread upward and downward, into his hips and his forearms. Scant inches from him, Dijana became a storm herself, folding into torrents of cloud from fingertips to toes.
Pickles stood, now a thin pillar of whirling gray disorder. She threw her head back, and raised her arms into the air in exultation, as one storm might address another.
Touch me! Enter me!
Grasp me! Ravish me!
Gather me in to the dance!
A writhing vortex of cloud thrust into him. Simon gasped, and staggered back against the force of the intrusion and the pleasure it left in its wake. But having been entered, entry was no longer a mystery: Driven by the ecstasy he thrust out to his right and his left with the clouds that his body had become. To his left he entered a plac
e of warmth and unconditional acceptance, to his right a chasm of chill brilliance, like a gap in the clouds at the zenith of a midnight sky. From his left, a hesitant touch became a torrent of warmth pouring into him, damped and deep like an old fire standing against the onslaught of a new storm. From his right blew a wind of cool acuity over new skill polished until it shone with cold light.
Now joined, they turned about one another, and in turning about one another they opened like books, fanned by the winds that carried them. Simon’s pages slipped between the pages that touched him until every page touched two others, then withdrew to find two pages that had not yet been touched. Each page reached out to touch every other, and at every touch some searching power built and rebuilt to a force that could not be contained. Lightning struck, split, and split again, dividing recursively into reaching hands that stripped away all bindings and gathered all pages to itself.
Simon felt a voice cry out in affirmation and ecstasy. It was a voice he had never heard, yet he knew beyond any doubt that it was his own.
Three books opened. Two books closed. Simple Simon felt himself coalescing, solidifying, his myriad pages moving one against another, drawing inward toward completeness. Roaring ecstasy damped to fluid pleasure, which flowed into every corner of his being and settled to quiet satisfaction.
He felt soft breath on his cheek. His eyes opened, dazzled with the bright sun on the sandbox beach. A woman with very pale skin and chestnut hair was pressed against his side, her head on his shoulder, asleep. Simon raised his head and glanced around. They were alone.
He brought his arm up around her, drawing her in toward him. Her eyes opened, and she smiled with full lips. Against skin almost white he expected Pickles’ brilliant green eyes, but what he saw were Dijana’s.
Almost. Dijana’s brown was darker, and at the edge of each iris there was now a flash of green. There was no mistaking Pickles’ thin arched brows—nor Dijana’s short, upturned nose. Simon shook his head, refreshed his rendering buffer, and shoved away from the sand with his free arm.
Ten Gentle Opportunities Page 21
