The Artificial Kid

by Bruce Sterling

  But I’m a combat artist. I loved those old drone-builts. They’re built like forts. My home, for instance, was my literal castle. It had three stories, one of which was below ground. It looked completely anonymous from the outside, which pleased me. High ramparts surrounding the roof hid my terraria, Quade’s little garden, and the pergola, where we sunbathed. The house had only one door, but I had cut a few holes in the walls to get decent-sized windows, paned with tough crystal quartz and protected with heavy shutters and eye-traps. I had my own generator, my own well, my own recycler. I even had the building’s old ventilation system repaired, and could make the old place tight against even a gas attack.

  I had the place completely wired and my computer handled the alarms. I felt secure against attack and had taken, I thought, all the necessary precautions; even a few unnecessary ones, in homage to Old Dad’s paranoid spirit.

  But they had never been put into practice, until today.

  I smelled the tear-gas from the door-trap canisters a full block away from the house. I broke into a run, despite the smuffmuted whispers from my legs that should have been shouts of agonizing pain.

  Most of the gas had been dispersed by the night breeze, but my eyes still ran freely when I reached the door. It had been tampered with. There were scratches around the jamb and the door’s edge.

  I shut the cunningly hinged flaps that had hidden the blunt copper muzzles of the gas canisters. I put three fingers on the door’s pressure spots, muttered the password, and pushed my way in.

  Armitrage was already inside. He leapt up from the couch, but lowered his quarterstaff when he saw me. “You’re alive!” he said. “My death, you’re pulped! But you’re alive!”

  Whitcomb and Saint Anne came in; Armitrage raised his staff. “They’re with me, Armitrage,” I said.

  Armitrage pushed the door shut with the weighted end of his quarterstaff, then flung his arms wide, showing his embroidered shirt front and handsome green sleeves. “Arti, I swear I’d hug you to this bosom if you weren’t drenched in your own gore. From the way you’ve been savaged today, I was sure it meant blood feud. I’ve been sitting here, convinced that your precious self was in a ray’s belly.”

  “Hardly,” I said. “What’s going on here? Where’s Quade? And who tried to break into my house?”

  “One at a time.” Armitrage held up one hand and began counting off points on his fingers.

  “First, a group of men in colored bodysuits showed up in the Zone tonight and set your palanquin on fire. They soaked it in some kind of fluid first. It burned to the ground. That’s what the witnesses said. Second, your housekeeper was stolen by the Clone Brothers in the middle of a crowd of witnesses. They yelled challenges addressed to you while they dragged her off. And they caught up with you, didn’t they? I recognize the impact marks of their chains.”

  I held up my hand. “You warned me. I admit it. You warned me.”

  “Third, someone tried to break into your house, and your house alarms called me and woke me out of a sound sleep. That was the latest development. I got here as soon as I could, of course, but I didn’t see the assailants. In fact, I couldn’t see anything for your damned tear gas.”

  “Sorry, ’Trage.”

  “That’s all right,” he said winningly. “I lied about the sound sleep, anyway. I was worried.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Maybe an hour and a half. It’s been bizarre. Your Old Dad has been in, raving, on and off.”

  “Yes, he always does that when the computer alarms are triggered,” I said. “Even during drills. Damn, I’d hoped to find Quade here. Instead, I find I’ve been attacked on all fronts! This is a crisis!” I hesitated. “Obviously I’ll want to look my best. The three of you must chat while I get out of these bloody rags and into a hot bath. Armitrage, meet my friends, Saint Anne and Mr. Whitcomb. You know where everything is … drinks, drugs, snacks, tapes.…” I hesitated in the doorway, then stepped aside as my Old Dad paced alertly into the room, looking to either side with glittering, rapacious eyes. “A time of attack is no time for half measures!” he thundered.

  “Right,” I said facetiously. “Saint Anne, Mr. Whitcomb: my father, Rominuald Tanglin. Dad, keep them amused a while, won’t you?” I snickered mischievously when I saw Saint Anne turn white and grab the edge of the couch for support.

  I left the room and went downstairs to bathe, emptying the tub and running in new water until it no longer turned crusty red at the touch of my body. I cleaned my hair, put on new skinseal, examined the wounds and found them all squirming with mites. I put a few temporary stitches in the larger wounds. Then I put on a second set of my full combat garb and slipped on a thin overrobe. I returned to my friends.

  Armitrage was talking intently to Saint Anne, who kept looking sidelong at Tanglin’s hologram. Whitcomb was standing in the corner listening to Tanglin’s lecture and sipping a glass of water. It struck me suddenly that Whitcomb didn’t realize that Tanglin was on tape.

  “Now I’m prepared to take action,” I said briskly. Anne looked puzzled. “Style is a weapon,” I explained. “I could never allow my enemies to blunt my style. I’d be two-thirds defeated already. That’s what my Old Dad always told me. Isn’t that so, Old Dad?” I walked up to the holo and put my hand through his torso. He vanished. Whitcomb raised his eyebrows.

  “Anne has told me how you were betrayed by Brains,” Armitrage said. “Let’s go into your tape room for a minute and discuss some private strategy.”

  “All right,” I said. We left Anne and Whitcomb and went into the soundproofed tape room. Armitrage shut the door unobtrusively.

  “Who are those two spooks?” he said.

  “You mean Anne and Whitcomb? They’re harmless.” I laughed. “They’re both sort of borderline crazies. Anne’s a Niwlindid, and Whitcomb is … hmm … come to think of it, I don’t know what Whitcomb is. I like him, though. Don’t you?”

  “I like the woman,” Armitrage said. “What does she have to do with your Old Dad?”

  “She knew him on Niwlind. He was her patron, or whatever they call them there. Do you really think she’s attractive, ’Trage?”

  “Anyone who can wear clothes that ugly and look that good has to be more than just attractive,” he said. “She’s a real heartbreaker. A blind man couldn’t miss the way she looked at Tanglin, though. As for this Whitcomb character … you know, I have a suspicion that he may be behind all your troubles.”

  “Him? You think he is Red? Well, what grudge could he have? I’ve never even seen him before.”

  “Are you sure, Kid? He looks awfully familiar, somehow. I could swear I’ve seen him on tape.”

  “Well … at least we have him where we can watch him. This has gone far enough. I look better now—haggard enough to be dramatic, but not absolutely demolished. I’m going to call Money Manies and Chill Factor. I’ll try to hire some of the Cogs as my agents in a bruise feud against Red. Manies can provide the financial backing, so I can meet Red on his own terms.”

  “Let me in on this,” Armitrage said. “I see this as the first major art event of the year. And you’ll need my help.”

  “Do you work cheap?”

  “No, but you can trust me.”

  “Good point.” We went back into the living room and opened up my communiqué line. I tried to put a call through to Manies. There was a blur of static, and an image appeared on the screen.

  It was a circular rainbow, surrounding a cluster of six directional arrows.

  “What in death’s name is that?” said Armitrage. “Looks like a test pattern.”

  I touched my selector. “It’s on every channel,” I said, amazed. “Someone’s been at my wiring! What an insult! Great sweating death, I wouldn’t have believed there’d be a Reverid alive who’d stoop so low!” I looked sidelong at Whitcomb, but he looked as surprised as the rest of us.

  “Well, that tears it,” I said. “Now I’ll have to walk over to Many Mansions and have a
long heart-to-heart with my patron.” My hair was up; I glared fiercely at my companions.

  “I’ll go with you,” Armitrage said. “The noncombatants will be safe enough here.” He opened the door.

  There were four men and a woman across the street in an alleyway. The men were all wearing simple skintight masks and bodytights. One was in red, one in yellow, one in orange, and one in blue. The woman was Quade Altman. She was gagged. Two of the men were holding her arms.

  “Those must be the people who burned the palanquin,” said Armitrage calmly. He shut the door.

  “And they have my housekeeper hostage,” I said. “Armitrage, do you remember where I keep my rifle? You were always better with it than I was.”

  “I can’t just gun them down,” Armitrage protested. “It just isn’t done!”

  “Never mind that! Just go up on the roof and keep an eye on them while I see what they want!”

  Armitrage left. “Let me talk to them,” Anne said. “I’ll be your mediator; they won’t hurt me.”

  I glared at her. “If you try to upstage me one more time, I’ll rip your lungs out! Go sit on that couch and shut up!”

  I pushed the door half open and let two of my cameras out. “How did you like a taste of my tear gas, you kidnapping miscreants?”

  The figure in red put a small, compact bullhorn to his lips. “Do not seek to irritate us further,” he said, in a conversational tone that rang through the empty night streets like the voice of a god. “Resistance is useless. We have the power of the entire planet marshaled behind us!”

  I drew back from the door while the others looked out. “What is he talking about?” I said. “Am I dealing with a megalomaniac?”

  “Why are they dressed like that?” Whitcomb asked. “Red, orange, yellow, and blue? Isn’t that awfully conspicuous, such bright colors?”

  Saint Anne said, “Mr. Nimrod told us that the members of the Cabal were named after colors. Do you remember, Kid?”

  “I remember,” I said. “But what would the Cabal want with me? I’m not political. I’m not even rich, not by plutocrat standards.”

  Saint Anne said, “They can’t like you very much. After all, you did call them a pack of bloody-handed murderers. You said that they were a fishbone in the throat of human enlightenment.”

  “I said nothing of the kind,” I said. “That was the Academy I was insulting, not the Cabal. Wait! The Academy!” I grabbed my head and felt a dull throb of pain; it was time for another dose of smuff.

  I leaned out the door again. “You there! The impotent old geezer in red! I offer you two choices! Release my client at once and go your way; or tell me your name so that I can declare formal blood feud!”

  “You are in no position to name terms,” said the calm, magnified voice. “However, since your impudence has been properly punished, we are prepared to be lenient. We will exchange your client for the man you hold, the old man in black!”

  “I thought it might come to this,” Whitcomb said quietly.

  “I don’t trust you!” I shouted. “Release my client first.”

  “Not likely!” said Red. “Send us the old man, or we will destroy your house at once with explosives!”

  “You’re bluffing!” I yelled. “An explosion would bring every artist in the Zone! They’d rip you to shreds!”

  “You stubborn child! You force this action on us!” Red hopped up into the air and ripped the gag out of Quade’s mouth. At once, a thin, hideous wailing poured out of her. It was wordless, and mindless, like the cry of an animal. I had never heard such frantic pain from a human throat. Shocked fury galvanized me. I jumped through the door and ran toward them, snarling.

  Suddenly, from nowhere, the man in blue produced a pistol. I didn’t even see it. It was blind luck that made my swollen knee give way; I fell, and a bullet thwacked into the door behind me, jolting it farther open.

  My enemies then unwisely decided to rush the house. Armitrage shot the man in blue, who was holding onto Quade Altman with his left arm; he fell down with a scream and the others scattered as he crawled for cover. I scrambled back to my feet, grabbed Quade’s arm as she stood there dazed and howling, and hustled her into the house. There was the crack of another shot from the rooftop and a second scream.

  Once inside the house, Quade suddenly lost her voice in a fit of convulsive choking. The tormented look in her yellowed eyes filled me with insane fury. I burst through the door, whipped my nunchuck around and prepared to kill one of the wounded men, but they had already been dragged away into the maze of the Zone. I went inside, slammed the door, and stood wheezing and snarling with rage.

  Armitrage clattered down the stairs, half-dancing with exultation. “Was that shooting, or was that shooting?” He threw the rifle aside and embraced Quade. “You’re rescued, my elegant, elongated friend! Why no smiles, no tears of joy.…” His voice trailed off vacantly and he suddenly released her as if he had been embracing a corpse. “My God, look at her head! Look at her arms and legs!”

  With an effort, we got Quade to sit woodenly on the couch. There were half-a-dozen ugly gouges in her scalp, and puckered red sear-marks on her thin arms and legs. “Those are burn marks,” I said stupidly. “My God, she’s been tortured.” I shook her gently. “Who could have done this to you? You, my harmless innocent?”

  Something in my tone seemed to reach her. Her eyes opened wide, showing eye-whites stained with yellow film, and she screamed again. Then she started thrashing, without co-ordination. Armitrage and I held her down and slipped smuff into her mouth. Soon her cries declined to whimpering and silence.

  “She must be in shock,” I said.

  Armitrage shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Arti. Look at those eyes of hers. Are they often like that?”

  “Yellow, you mean? Sometimes. I don’t know why.”

  “Well, I do. She’s a syncophine addict, and she’s in withdrawal. I wonder where she keeps her stores. Syncophine’s not on the market any more. She may have her own supply somewhere, but she’ll have to go cold turkey now.”

  “Why? Why can’t we ask her where she keeps her drug, and give her some?”

  “Look. Look at those gouge-marks in her scalp. She’s been memory-wiped. You’ve been talking to a new personality.”

  “But that’s murder!” I hugged the unresisting, unresponsive Quade to me; she was like wood. Tears scalded my eyes. “I promised to protect her. I gave her shelter. She was mine! How dare they rob me of her life? This is it! Blood feud! I declare blood feud! Professor Angeluce, you are a dead man!”

  Anne looked up, startled, from where she was pillowing Quade’s head. “Professor Angeluce?”

  “Yes,” I said bitterly. “I’m certain that was him in the red costume. I recognized his voice and the way he moved. Now I’m going to kill him. Armitrage, will you help me?”

  “Sure. Who is he?” After we had explained, Armitrage said, “Unless he’s with the Cabal, then where did he get those hired bullies? Men like that don’t work for a smile and a thank-you. But the Cabal has plenty of money. They must be backing him at least; otherwise, he wouldn’t dare wear their livery. I don’t like this, Kid. I’d be happy to spill the Professor’s brains, whoever he is. But the planetary government … they’re a little beyond the sticks and chains stage. They blew up the Chairman’s Building. They killed the Board of Directors. They killed Moses Moses.”

  Whitcomb said, “The Cabal is the planetary government?” Amazed at his ignorance, we nodded. “They killed Moses Moses?” We nodded again. “This is all news to me,” Whitcomb said. “I am Moses Moses.”

  Moses Moses took advantage of our dumbstruck silence to explain himself. His ornamental cryocrypt in the Chairman’s Building had contained a dummy; the canny Moses had hidden his true cryocrypt beneath the building in a secret, heavily armored and completely automatic sanctum sanctorum. At precisely the stated date, he had been warmed up, stretched the stiffness out of his muscles, dressed himself, and come up through the rubb
le. That explained the cleared patch in the rubble at the base of the statue. “It’s a good thing they didn’t build the statue twenty feet further over,” he said.

  “You’re Moses Moses?” I said at last. “Somehow I had always imagined you to be … well … larger. More mythic, somehow.”

  “Sorry, I’m flesh and blood,” said Moses with a wry smile. “I expected a different world when I awoke, but I assure you I never expected this. I thought there would at least be someone to greet me. I never suspected that the center of my city would become a wasteland.” He sighed. “It was a shock. I didn’t know where to turn. And now it seems I’ve been recognized. I was recorded on the cameras of the men who beat you up, Artificial Kid. Their master must have recognized me and panicked. He tried to track you down to find me, even tortured your housekeeper to get her to help them break into your home. But she must have kept faith. Otherwise we would all be dead, I’m sure. They are obviously ruthless men. No doubt they wanted to wait here to ambush us.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “The Cabal could hardly allow you to live. You must be the worst threat they could possibly face. You’re a hero, you’re the Founder of the Corporation. Holy Death, on Reverie you’re the closest thing to God.”

  “I thought you looked familiar,” Armitrage said wonderingly. “Excuse me, but … well … could I shake your hand? You’ve always been an idol of mine.” Solemnly, they shook hands. Armitrage looked at the palm of his hand as if he expected it to glow with a sacred aura. “Wau,” he said. “This is truly an unexpected privilege.”

  Except for poor Quade, we all shook his hand. Somehow the old ritual made us feel better.

  “We’d better leave here,” Armitrage said. “They’re sure to return, and if they find us we’ll be killed or brainwiped. Those portable brainwipers are terrible. You saw what it did to Quade. The Cabal protects its secrets.”

  “Yes, we’ve got to care for Quade somehow,” I said. I looked at Armitrage. “You’re the only one of us they haven’t seen yet. You take Quade to the Cognitive Dissonants. Chill Factor can take care of her. Besides, he’s the only one I can trust.”