by Kage Baker
He doesn’t think much of his other selves, either.
He dismisses Nicholas as a medieval zealot, limited by ignorance and religious superstition. Cybergenius Alec is in his opinion a dunce, the inevitable product of a soft and degenerate age, and worse: for Alec had been naïve enough to smuggle weapons to a particularly foolhardy group of rebels, and the result had been the destruction of an entire colony on Mars. Hence Alec’s flight, with technology he’d stolen from Dr. Zeus, into the past.
Edward’s perception of these other selves has decided him that he alone is fit to inhabit Alec’s body. His effort to achieve this state of independence has been partly responsible for the accident that brought him, maimed and broken, to the regeneration tank, and Mendoza to her present state of impairment, and Alec and Nicholas to … well, to the place they now inhabit.
But even if the accident had not occurred, Edward’s efforts to kill Alec should have been in vain. Edward is, after all, only a recording, nothing more than a program Alec himself is running, in disassociation response to the psychic trauma of having two additional lifetimes thrust into his memory. Or is he? Why can’t Edward be shut off?
And what exactly has happened to Alec and Nicholas?
In the Library
The room has no windows and no doors.
No amount of cozy décor can make up for that fact, not the paneled walls, not the leather-upholstered chairs, not the antique lamp with its pool of yellow light, not the rows and rows of beautifully bound books. Not even the endlessly resupplied decanter of fine old brandy.
The two men in the room are identical in every respect to the man floating in the regeneration tank, except that they wear clothing: black subsuits, the last garments they donned before being trapped in this place. There is no clue to tell them how long they’ve been here. Neither hair nor nails have grown, and neither of them needs a shave. Despite the fact that they have emptied the decanter more times than they have bothered to count, no bodily functions have demanded their attention.
One of the men is sprawled on the floor, holding a glass of brandy on his chest. The other man sits in one of the chairs, holding a book from which he reads aloud. He has a beautiful voice, a smooth tenor like a well-tuned violin.
“… ‘The bar silver and the arms still lie, for all that I know, where Flint buried them; and certainly they shall lie there for me. Oxen and wain-ropes would not bring me back again to that accursed island; and the worst dreams that ever I have are when I hear the surf booming about its coasts, or start upright in bed, with the sharp voice of Captain Flint still ringing in my ears: “Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight!”‘“
He falls silent. Without a word Alec passes him the glass of brandy. He takes it and drinks; refills it from the decanter, and watches gloomily as the level in the decanter rises back as if by magic.
After a moment, Alec sits up and looks at him. “Is that it? That’s the end of the book?”
“Ay,” says Nicholas, taking a sip of brandy.
“But… but Jim doesn’t sound happy,” says Alec. “What’s he mean, he wouldn’t go back to Treasure Island? It’s the defining event of his whole life. He’d rather go back and serve drinks at the Admiral Benbow?”
“Belike he was wise enough to know when he was well off,” Nicholas replies. “Thou went’st adventuring, and see to what dismal end thou art brought.”
Alec shivers.
“It’s not the end,” he says quickly. “Edward’ll let us out. The Captain will make him let us out. We won’t be in here forever! It hasn’t even been nine months yet. Has it?”
In fact it has been longer than nine months, and both of them know that perfectly well. Nicholas sighs.
“No, surely not,” he lies. He is more resigned than Alec to the idea of being trapped here. He has been dead longer, after all.
“And when we get out, man … “Alec smacks his fist into the upholstery of the chair. “Edward’ll be sorry.”
Nicholas just nods, though he wonders uneasily whether Edward is not already sorry. For the—hundredth?—time, he looks over at the shelf where the broken brandy glass sits. Edward had provided them with a matched set when he trapped them here, but there had been something like an earthquake within a few minutes of their arrival. One of the glasses had been shattered, the very fabric of the room had flexed and seemed on the verge of tearing apart before sudden quiet had returned. It had taken them hours to pick up all the books from the floor.
They haven’t discussed the earthquake much since, because there is a real possibility that its occurrence meant something went terribly wrong with Edward’s plan and they are locked in here for eternity. Nicholas watches now as Alec leaps to his feet and punches the chair again.
“I wish that was him,” says Alec hoarsely. “I’d like to knock that superior smile off his face, like this—” He punches the chair once more, harder, and harder again, until it slams backward into the wall. He seizes it, ready to break the thing into kindling.
“Peace, thou!” Nicholas rises to his feet. Alec turns as if to fight, but Nicholas catches his fists.
“I want to kill him,” gasps Alec, shaking. “I never wanted to kill anybody in my life, but I’d like to kill him. One stupid mistake on Mars and I snuffed out three thousand people, but nothing, nothing ever gets rid of Edward Alton Bell-Fairfax. Hey, do you suppose we’re in Hell?” He pulls free, grinning bitterly at Nicholas. “Mr. Puritan Christian?”
“We might be,” says Nicholas, in a low voice.
“At least I’d finally be where I belonged, yeah?” says Alec. “Not quite what I’d expected, though. I should have got here in a fiery crash or, or a special state execution, and there ought to be demons queued up to eat my liver for all eternity or something, under flaming brass letters ten feet high spelling out ‘The Hangar Twelve Man Gets What He Deserves!’Instead, I got this shracking library. And you. I don’t know how you fit into the picture at all.”
“No more do I,” says Nicholas. He stares over Alec’s shoulder at the dark wall, and attempts to summon faith. He can’t. His time in this room has not reconciled him with his God.
“I used to think if I died, it’d make up for everything I’d done wrong,” says Alec, slumping into his chair. “But things just got worse, didn’t they? Because I failed Mendoza. Edward’s got her all to himself now, and he’ll do whatever he wants with her.”
“I have failed her twice,” says Nicholas. Alec looks up at his bleak face and regrets his words.
“Though he’d never actually hurt her,” he says. “Really. He’s a bastard, but Edward wouldn’t do that. He’d take care of her. Look, this isn’t helping either of us. Why don’t you read again?”
He hands Nicholas the brandy glass. Nicholas sighs, goes to the shelves and peers at the ranged titles a moment before selecting one. He returns to his chair and opens the book. Clearing his throat, he begins:
“The Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection, or, The Preservation of Favored Races in the Struggle for Life, by Charles Darwin …”
Outside the Library
The Captain lifts his hand from Mendoza’s brow and sighs. Where, in that wrecked storehouse of memories, is his boy? He extinguishes the lamps in the room. Its sole illumination now is the glowing blue tank and Mendoza’s blue fire, like the most outré of nursery lights, and he scans his systems to determine that all is well on board the Captain Morgan. Yes, everything’s shipshape; but satellite data is coming in to warn him of a storm approaching this part of what will one day be the Atlantic Ocean. He lets his visual image dissolve, and turns his attention to setting a course for safe anchorage.
The great ship claps on sail, tacks and glides away through the night.
Edward Triumphant
Night again. No storm now, in fact the Captain Morgan’s becalmed on a mirror of burning stars that move only slightly more than the stars overhead.
Encouraged by this extreme stability, the Captain has chosen this night for the
ultimate step in Edward’s immortality process.
He has prepared the modified 4/15 support package to insert in the brain. It will be a complicated surgery, requiring removal of preexisting hardware through the nasal fossa and installation of the support package the same way.
Once it’s in place, two things will happen: the process of augmentation of Edward’s mental powers will begin, and a small pulsing time transcendence field will be generated within the cavity of his skull. Blood will flow in and out; nothing else ever can, from that moment, and if the blood supply should be contaminated or cut off, the support package will substitute its own analogous fluid, which will, endlessly recycled, keep the brain alive in a fugue state until repair becomes possible.
As soon as tonight’s work is completed, the biomechanicals within Edward’s body will finish the process of transforming his mortal skull to ferroceramic and he will be, to all intents and purposes, as immortal as Mendoza. Indeed, he’ll be superior; she was made from an ordinary human child. Edward, like Alec and Nicholas, is not human. His brain has greater capacity, better connections, and a host of other engineered improvements. His body, likewise, surpasses the human model in a dozen subtle ways.
Mendoza is fast asleep in her bed in the infirmary, mildly sedated with a theobromine derivative. The Captain would prefer she sleep through the operation, for a variety of reasons.
This is the night on which the Captain would have fulfilled his program to the greatest extent possible, and perhaps only a machine could appreciate the sense of frustration he is experiencing. But for Edward’s treachery his boy would have been, finally and forever, safe.
He still has one shot left in his locker, one hope to restore Alec’s consciousness to its own body. He materializes, now, before the blue-glowing tank in the infirmary, but his form is shifting and indistinct, a screen of woven fire with a vague man-shape. What will intimidate Edward? After a moment’s thought he solidifies into his usual appearance, but wearing the uniform of the mid-nineteenth-century Royal Navy, an admiral’s rig, with the added touch that his beard and hair are wilder, blacker, coiling like poisonous snakes.
Wake up, you bastard.
Edward’s eyes open, so pale a blue that through the cerulean bioregenerant they look colorless as glass. They attempt to focus; squeeze shut as disorientation overwhelms, open again. He bares his formidable teeth.
Mendoza! Edward sees through the glass the sleeping figure in the white bed, and flails an arm in an attempt to reach her.
I salvaged Mendoza. She’s a strong little girl; she’ll mend even after what you done to her. You’d best save yer worries for yer own damned hide.
Edward turns his face, sees the Captain, and the image has its intended effect: for a split second he looks terrified. He moves defensively and the motion sets him turning gently through the blue fluid. As he turns he stares about him, realizing where he must be. By the time he completes his revolution and faces the Captain, he is smiling, narrow-eyed.
Why, Captain, whatever could you mean? transmits Edward.
I mean you got exactly five minutes to bring my Alec back from that site you got him stowed in, or I’ll make it so damned hot for you you’ll wish you was still dead.
Hmm. You can’t mean that literally; you won’t damage this body you’ve taken such pains to keep alive. And what a job you’ve done! I feel quite fit. Is that my missing leg, reattached? My compliments, Captain. You’ve worked wonders for me. I must be very nearly immortal by now.
That’s Alec’s leg, damn you! And you ain’t immortal yet, laddie. I ain’t going ahead with the last step until I get what I’m after. Give me the code to access that site. Let me rescue my boy, and you’ll get yer bloody immortality.
But brother Alec’s quite safe where he is, Captain. Likewise brother Nicholas. Edward’s smile widens as he looks out at Mendoza. What file location could be safer? My own true love bears them, as it were, in the womb of her memory. However, even she doesn’t know how to set them free. My safety precaution, of course.
Give me that code, you lying son of a whore, or you’ll be sorry.
I doubt that very much. Checkmate, Captain, old man! Now, why don’t you get on with the business at hand?
The Captain has hoped to avoid this moment, but is driven to a last, untested resort. He glares at Edward, who is shaken by a sudden spasm. Edward’s right hand clenches, rises to his face, strikes his chin lightly.
What—
You been in that tank months, my lad. Don’t you think I might have had the chance to install a little extra subroutine, whilst I was a-mending you, in all that time? Something to control yer motor reflexes, like? Just as a bargaining point?
Edward’s eyes blaze at him. Slowly, with tremendous effort, the hand unclenches, the arm lowers.
Oh, bugger. Well, it was worth a shot.
Don’t think you can trifle with me! I want life again, Captain, and I’ll have it, Edward transmits sharply. I’ve work to do in this weary world. You have my word as a gentleman I’ll release Alec and Nicholas … as soon as we’ve made flesh to house them.
Mendoza turns and murmurs uneasily in her sleep.
Come now, Captain. We don’t want to wake my dear wife. Get on with it!
The Captain indulges in some language that would blister the paint off a warship’s hull. He growls assent, an ominous noise that seems to come from everywhere within the ship. A pair of padded clamps emerge from the wall of the tank and seize Edward’s head in a secure grip, and cables snake out through the fluid and secure his limbs.
The specialized servounit descends into the tank and moves straight toward his face, extending its sharp-edged probe. Edward struggles, but is held fast.
So it’s a checkmate, is it? Sure you don’t want to give me that code, Commander Bell-Fairfax, sir?
Edward closes his eyes tight. The Captain urges the probe nearer. It whirrs and Edward’s eyes open to regard the little razor edges turning, each in its own clever pivot.
It’s a bluff, damn you. You don’t dare injure me.
Did I say I was going to injure you, Commander? Not I; though if I took it into my head to do that, I could repair any damage I done good as new, so I reckon you’d better not tempt me.
But it might come to just that, mightn’t it, Captain? Be certain you know exactly when to pull back. Perhaps you can repair anything you do to my body, but what if you damage my mind? Suppose I go mad and forget how to retrieve Alec? It might happen that way, you know.
Bloody hell, boy. If I was a kindly old pirate like Long John Silver, I’d admire the nerve of you. But I’m a machine, Edward, ain’t you forgetting? I got programming tells me what to do, not feelings. I’m supposed to protect my boy. I want that code! And if I have to hurt you to get it, there ain’t nothing will stop me once I start. You see?
Edward controls his panic. Why, Captain. The minute I gave it up you’d lock me away somewhere unpleasant and give this body back to Alec. Consider my choices: eternal life at the cost of a little discomfort versus whatever you’d do to me once I’d lost my tactical advantage. He masters himself enough to widen his eyes and, in a fair approximation of Alec’s voice, transmits: Please, Captain sir, I’m still your boy! Even if you did let Edward kill me. You wouldn’t really let him lose me forever, would you?
It is a moment before the Captain responds.
You little bastard. You won’t give an inch, will you? Yer going to force my hand. Well, I’ll just follow orders, like the honest seaman I am. I’ll get on with the immortality process, by thunder. But unless you want to go through it fully conscious, you’ll give me that code now.
Do your worst; it won’t be enough.
I reckon we’ve struck, then, says the Captain grimly. Here’s yer immortality, damn you.
He activates the probe. Edward stiffens in horror as it seeks tentatively and then cuts deftly into its target. After a moment he is unable to keep silent, and altogether it is a good thing that Mendoza is sedated and c
an’t hear him.
Three times, the Captain pauses in the procedure to inquire whether Edward will give him the code. Edward is unable to reply coherently, but he will not yield.
By the third time his voice, which has lost its dignity and its control, so much resembles young Alec’s that the Captain would be weeping if he were not a machine. Still, not until the probe has traveled halfway to the brain does the Captain concede, grant Edward victory and merciful unconsciousness.
CHAPTER 7
Extract from the Journal of the Botanist Mendoza:
Furiously, in the Bedroom
I just broke a table in half.
Clearly I am not quite myself yet.
There are, for example, surgically tidy holes in my memory. I know certain unspeakable things happened to me, at a place called—no, can’t remember it. Can’t remember anything about that. It might have happened to someone else, as far as my memory is concerned.
Yet other memories have returned with disgusting clarity: I know that I’m a Crome generator, burdened with freakish precognition. Look at me, blazing like a damned dish of cherries jubilee. Or the Ghost of Christmas Past.
What happened?
I remember staring, fascinated, at the Indian maize analysis. The eternal quest, for fields stretching to far horizons, kernels bright-striped in all possible colors, gritstone meal feeding multitudes that thrive …
Unbidden before my sight came an image: the figure of a man woven together out of grain stalks, bound with bright ribbon, his featureless face an enigma.
I rubbed my eyes. The image meant nothing to me.
Abruptly, Sir Henry was standing at my side. He looked somber. “I’ve work for you, dearie,” he said. “Come with me.”
