Iris

by William Barton

  The behemoth nodded. "Right. You must be Tabari, the artist." He stood aside from the doorway that he blocked, moving with a lithe grace that somehow fitted in with his otherwise megalithic appearance.

  "Come on in. I've been waiting for you."

  Demogorgon followed him into the apartment, watching the muscles of his buttocks bulge inside his shorts, following the rolling movements of the sinews in his back and legs. The man's arms swung lightly at his sides, fingers slightly flexed, a delicate-looking posture. Good God! he thought. I'm in love. Somehow he found himself sitting in a soft chair, sipping from a tall, cold, mildly alcoholic drink the man had made him. The glass helped to cover up the difficulty he was having, giving him something innocuous to do with his hands as they talked. This was going to be more difficult than he'd thought. Sealock sat down opposite him, swilling foamy red ale from a glass mug.

  "You know," said Sealock, "that's a pretty interesting idea you've got. You realize no one's ever called for user/program interactivity on that level before?"

  Demogorgon shook his head. "I had no idea what I was asking. I just know what I wanted it to do." The man grinned. "Which was quite a lot! This thing is really beyond the reach of the public-access Comnet levels. We're going to have to work with Tri-vesigesimal, at least! And that may disappoint you. But, look, I have to tell you— the ultimate barriers we will run into are legal, not technological. If we ... Is something wrong?"

  Demogorgon realized with a start that he'd been staring fixedly at Sealock's face, fascinated by the complex interplay of the savage features as they were animated by speech and thought. "I'm sorry. I, uh .

  . . excuse me, but why do you have all those scars and muscles?"

  "Huh?" The man burst out laughing, a thrilling resonance from deep within his chest. "It's from my hobby."

  "Your hobby?" Allah! Why am I acting so stupid? He felt as if he were totally out of control.

  "I'm a boxer."

  Shit! A boxer? This was ridiculous! The man must be likesome kind of comic-opera hero, all the muscles and brains a human body could hold gathered into one place. And he probably had the manners and wit of a nineteenth-century fictional nobleman. "I see." Oh, witty reply!

  They got to work, laying out the initial questions and problems that would finally lead to the creation of Bright Illimit. Later, far into the night, they were sitting side by side, poring over a preliminary flow diagram, when he got up the courage to make his move at last.

  He put his hand on the man's thigh and let it drift around to the sensitive skin of the inner side. The action seemed to go unnoticed, but the contact of the flesh under his hand made his finger tingle, egging him on. He ran his hand up the thigh, touching the place where a thick tendon ran into Sealock's trunk. Still nothing? No.

  The man stopped talking and stared at him, then leaned back on the couch, grinning wryly. Demogorgon gazed into his eyes for a moment, searching for some kind of acceptance. There seemed to be nothing there, no movement in the soul. He sighed. For the moment, maybe this would be enough. These things often took time. He gripped Sealock's waistband and gently slid the shorts down, then buried his face in a hair-tangled crotch, greeted by the exciting start of an erection. When it was over, he rubbed his face against the man's side, feeling the power enclosed beneath his skin, and softly said, "That was nice. Want to do something for me now?" He still ached with desire. The man opened his eyes and looked down, then seemed to smirk, an ugly expression. "No," he said. Demogorgon felt a vague surprise dawning. "But . . . I ..." Sealock grinned. "Your choice, asshole. I didn't ask for that." But when Demogorgon burst into tears the man held him close, stroking his long dark hair and murmuring softly, trying to comfort him in some strange way.

  Centrum felt the awaited attack in three stages. It was nursing itself in the darkness the battle had made, trying to reassemble its tattered subroutines, to repair the damage that had been wrought among its circuitry. So far, it was not too bad, but the humans were far stronger than it had suspected. It had known what they could do from what it had seen in the first captive, but the others were far weaker. How had they done so much? Something was helping them, but what? It felt like the captive, but that was impossible. Everything was there, the captive secured, dismantled and soaked into the circuitry, part of Centrum, adding to its strength. What have they done to me? Another thought surfaced. What have I done to myself? It was disquieting. . . .

  The first event occurred. Suddenly, Centrum felt the Seedee subroutines stripping away, popping from its grasp one by one. The little programs came to life as they left, bubbling gleefully, bright surges within their electronic pheromones. Centrum screamed mournfully within itself and began frantically patching up its shredded defenses, stopping the gaping rents that had been left behind. This was impossible! How could the suborned consciousnesses act independently of its will? The answer awaited it in the renewed darkness: I gave them back life. Not all, but enough. Apparently. How could it turn the tide against them all? It must go on the attack!

  Centrum prepared itself carefully, getting ready to strike out at its enemies, to defeat them, but there was not enough time. In the nanosecond world of the artificial mind, the attack was renewed. Centrum squalled with terror.

  Sudden probes thrust in from all sides, opening it to the sudden harsh light of the burgeoning stars without. It went from dark blindness to an incandescence that showed no detail. Pain tore at it. What is happening? cried its terror. Some great ravening beast was tearing its way in, gnawing through the delicate vitals of an age-old circuitry, a mad, hungry thing clad in the visage of the captive, a thing which sought out itself.

  They had it now! Centrum felt powerful forces grasping inon every side, tendrils reaching throughout its complex organism. It had time for one soft cry, a desperate plea for mercy, then the powers of the universe pulled it apart, fragmenting it into its separate subunits, and a consciousness that had endured for twenty billion years was extinguished.

  Afterward, Centrum's castle had been reduced to a flattened pile of smoking rubble. Sheets of color drifted across the sky, mostly hues of gray and pale yellow, and the horizon seemed shrunken. Bright Illimit still maintained its illusion, but it was working near its capacities now and was having difficulty keeping the various facets in order. The Seedees circled overhead, still alive by the external program's power, flying winged work vacuoles, and the eight stood in the middle of the carnage, accompanied by 7red and Cooloil. Not far from them, a small, ancient stone tower rose from the earth. Krzakwa turned to face the two Seedees. "It's done," he said.

  "It had to be," said 7red, nodding slowly. "How long will we last now?"

  "I don't know. Probably for as long as Bright Illimit can hold its grip on you as a subroutine. After we're gone . . ."

  "Isn't there anything we can do for them?" asked Cornwell, gazing about at the wreckage of this complex inner world. "Seems like a shitty reward for the help they gave us." The Selenite shrugged.

  Demogorgon was staring steadfastly at the tower. "We can leave them with the program, I suppose, but I don't know how much good it will do. This is an alien place. . . . When we close off the connection with Shipnet, it may not survive."

  "Something will survive," said Ariane, "but it may not be the individually conscious Seedee routines." Cooloil sighed. "If that is all we can hope for, it is all we must ask. If we survive in any form as a free people, then it will be better than anything we ever had before."

  "Why do we have to close them off from Shipnet?" asked Harmon. "As long as we leave it open, they'll still be alive."

  "You're all forgetting one important fact," said Krzakwa. "We aren't really out here in isolation, permanently separated from the rest of the Solar System. In just a few weeks Formis Fusionwill arrive, with its cargo of USEC scientists, who'll take all this away from us, by force of arms if necessary. . . . And after them, vessels of the Contract Police will arrive, bringing with them all the force of the Pansolar Union."
>
  "To put it succinctly," said Axie, "we're fucked."

  "Yeah."

  "Let's worry about all that when the time comes," said Demogorgon. "We didn't come down here to destroy Centrum or rescue the Seedees from a fate worse than death. We came to get Brendan back. Now let's see if we can pry him out of this mess."

  "We have to find him first," said Vana. "Where is he?" Ariane gestured toward the tower. They began to walk, Demogorgon in the lead, and the Seedees followed them. The interior of the small building was simple, a spiral staircase that led upward through the wan near darkness to a small, roofless room, its crenellated walls open to the sky. Brendan Sealock lay on a small pallet in the middle of the floor, his eyes closed, his face peaceful. His skin was waxen, almost translucent, and his chest was still.

  Demogorgon knelt beside him and reached out to touch the cold features. He peeled back the eyelids and then recoiled briefly. The eyes were spheres of transparent glass, lightless and dull.

  "He's all apart," said Krzakwa. "I don't know what we can do."

  "Weren't we going to use Bright Illimit to find and reassemble his components?" asked Ariane. The Selenite nodded. "We were. But if we take it away from the functions it's maintaining now, all the Seedees die."

  "Do it then," said Seven Red Anchorelles. "Don't fail your friend for our sake."

  "No," said Demogorgon. He looked up at them all. "You told me what I could do before we came in here, Tem, and you told me what it might mean. I know how to do it and I'm willing to take the chance." He didn't wait. Demogorgon turned and threw himself onto the body. There was a moment of electric tension in the air, then he seemed to melt into the dead flesh.

  Brendan Sealock was strolling through Ronkonkoma Megapark out on Long Island, hand in hand with a young woman. Maraia Manderville was tall and blond, slender, with narrow hips and a bright, open face. Her eyes were a pale sea green and she seemed to be always smiling. He put his arm around her as they walked, one hand resting on her buttock, feeling the aliveness of her flesh flow into him. They stopped beneath a carefully sculpted weeping willow tree, burying themselves in the cathedral of its branches, and embraced. Brendan felt a surge of warmth as he crushed her to his chest. They kissed and then broke apart, holding each other at arm's length, smiling. Her breath had tasted faintly of some unidentifiable ketone.

  They walked on, looking at the sky and the park's attractions, isolated from each other but together. They went on the Sunburst ride, a sort of magnetic-field roller coaster in which the flying cars soared on unique, randomly programmed paths. She sat on his lap, facing him, looking steadfastly into his eyes as the ride threw them around. Her breasts brushed against his chest and he held his hands clamped around her waist. The motion of the car moved them against each other and they felt a hot tension forming between them. The ride ended and they walked on.

  Darkness fell, and they strolled along the beach, watching the meaningless stars and listening to the surf hissing across the sand, breaking in cool surges around their ankles, excavating the ground from beneath their feet. As they walked, Maraia pressed close against his side, her shoulder under his arm and her head nestled at the base of his throat. He felt the wisps of her hair, stirring in the gentle, fresh sea breezes, tickling on his bare skin. They stopped, wrapping their arms about each other, and kissed for a long time, and a heavier wave burst over them, throwing foamy water up onto their thighs. They went up into the higher dunes and lay down, squirming together to make a pocket in the sand. They touched and stroked each other and Brendan felt her breath like a hot little furnace on the side of his face. They were ready to make love, but this was too exquisite. Thescraps of cloth that were their scant pieces of apparel held them apart just long enough, prolonging their excitement, bringing them to levels of anticipation from which the act itself could only be a denouement. They lay still for a while, letting the matter subside. Their hearts slowed and their skins cooled with the evaporation of drying sweat.

  After a while they got up and walked on, holding hands again. Their hips bumped together as they moved up the beach, renewing a touch of their excitement. They came to a long, dark wooden pier, a carefully preserved relic of a former era, and walked out on it. They sat at the end of the structure, sides touching, and let their feet dangle down into an infinite-seeming darkness. Sealock put his arm around her side, reaching under her arm to toy with the firmness of a small breast. He felt her nipple stiffening and enlarging under the movement of his fingers. She nuzzled her head against his chest, rubbing her face against his skin, and her breath snarled softly in her throat, a faint, desire-driven purr. She lay down along the edge of the pier, putting her head in his lap, facing upward to gaze at his face, her eyes pools of glinting moisture in the starlight. She reached her hand up and drew her fingernails softly across his chest, making long trails in his dense hair. He shivered and ran his hand down across her stomach and onto the outside of her thin shorts, drawing his fingers softly between her legs. Her hips rocked back and forth once and she sighed, closing her eyes. She turned her head and bit gently at the ridged flesh of his stomach, then turned on her side and ran one hand up the inside of his thigh. The spell of apartness, of waiting, seemed broken then and they clutched at each other hungrily.

  I'm going to Montevideo in the morning, he thought with a small pang of regret. They made love at last, slowly and far into the night, and the quiet sea breezes sighed a steady accompaniment to awaken their senses.

  Stereotaxis.

  Brendan and Demogorgon lay together on the roof garden of Tupamaro Arcology, cooling slowly as the night progressed and the southern stars wheeled above them. The

  Arab lay sprawled across his chest, hand grappling low, following the development of a slow detumescence. Another episode, another bit of disagreeability. It wasn't all that different from his relationship with Ariane. Where did all these things come from?

  "You know," said Demo, "I can always taste the woman on you." Brendan snorted softly. "You're imagining things again."

  "It doesn't matter. I know she's there and what I taste is the bitterness of that knowledge."

  "What do you expect me to do?"

  Demogorgon sat up and let his head drop forward onto his knees, long black hair flowing over his forearms. "I don't know. A little something for me, I suppose. It'd be nice."

  "I'm submitting to your desires; letting you do things to me. That's the best I can manage."

  "I know." The man got up suddenly and walked off into the darkness. Brendan called after him, but he didn't turn back, disappearing swiftly into the night, a phantasm that quickly wasted away. Brendan lay there for a while longer, his mind deliberately kept blank, feeling the warm summer wind rush over him. The upper atmosphere seemed to be heavily disturbed at the moment and the stars were twinkling violently. He got up and walked through the damp grass, feeling the rough edges of the blades clutch at his bare feet and stroke the tender spaces between his toes. He shook his head angrily and went below, looking for Ariane.

  He was back in New York again and an MCD board meeting was breaking up, the nine members rising to their feet, chairs making hollow sounds as they scraped across the floor. Cass Mitchell had been his usual raucous, giggling self, a miasma of seeming senility interspersed with flashes of the old brilliance. Sealock started to follow Gina Redden out the door, his eyes fixed on the delicate, 2/4 twitching of her jeans-clad buttocks, but the chairman stopped him.

  "Boy, I wish I could still fuck!" he said, grinning up at him, his face a mass of leathery, cancerous-looking wrinkles. "Youknow what? It hurts to get a hard-on when you're as old as me. Sometimes it even hurts to pee. I haven't gotten laid in almost forty years. Do yourself a favor, kid: live gloriously and die young!" He stalked off like a baggy insect, shaking his head and muttering angrily to himself.

  Brendan stood motionless for a moment, then drew his hand across his face like an old-time comedian, stretching his features downward. Jesus! What next? He walked out t
he door, intent on catching up with the woman. She was waiting for him by the elevator.

  "Is he nutty, or what?" Gina Redden was not a particularly attractive woman. She had long brown hair which she wore in a high ponytail, with wings of hair hanging down beside her narrow, triangular face. Her nose was large, aquiline, and her eyes were dark brown and looked watery all the time. She was grinning and he noticed that her lips were getting chapped again.

  She was thick-waisted, not fat but muscular-seeming. She had a mannish stride; "Walks like a farmer," someone had said; and had considerable strength in her shoulders and arms. For some reason a lot of men were excited by her appearance and masculine habits. He grinned at her. "Who knows? I can't imagine what it must be like to get that old."

  "Who would want to?" The elevator let them off on the ground floor and they were standing in the foyer, beneath its famous caveman poster.

  "Want to go out to dinner with me?"