would do better. No further harm would come to him, no matter what.
"Samson," she called to him.
He jerked his head up. He strained to find her direction. He rubbed his eyes and blinked and rubbed them again. He finally saw her. He seemed to recognize her, even without the uniform. He reached toward her. She approached and stayed just out of his reach. She felt unworthy of the act Samson was asking of her.
"Are you in pain?" the admiral asked, trying to understand what she could do for Samson. She had failed to imagine the intimacy that could be required of her. Demba saw Samson react in a painful manner but he made no reply. She saw the automedic cap on his leg and theorized the pain was more psychological than physical. Psychological: worse. Have I no imagination, no empathy?
"How long have you been here?" she asked, taking his outstretched hand. "Can you stand up?"
Lightning flashed in the distance, followed by thunder. He came off the ground, wobbly but quickly enough to propel himself against her, throwing his arms around her waist. The admiral started to push him away but soon yielded to his tenacity. She moved her hands awkwardly about his head, which was pressed into her abdomen. She finally held him lightly. The child calmed and she was surprised and satisfied. It was not so difficult and it cost her nothing. Indeed, it may have enriched her. It was a good moment to remember, regardless of her guilt.
"We need to walk. Can you hop along beside me?"
With gentle coaxing Samson released her and turned around in front of her. The admiral held his upper arm. He hopped. He stumbled. She caught him. She held him in front of her by his elbows and guided him through the dark. Samson hopped, stumbled, hopped. He slipped from her grasp and fell to the ground. He stifled a cry of pain and this affected her strongly. As in the battle with Horss, something new emerged from her broken state, and it was not the hidden warrior. It was another person, one who understood the need to care for others. She was afraid of this new person, judging her a liability in protecting herself. At the same time, the new person offered tempting emotional rewards. Demba quickly pulled Samson from the ground and embraced him briefly to comfort him. She brushed him off.
"Rest," she said softly. "We'll continue when you're ready."
"I can't!" Samson said miserably. "I'm so tired!"
Demba was sure Samson had to be very tired. She knew he was still in a weakened state when he left the yacht in Africa. Even if Pan had administered fast-acting nutrients to his metabolism, Samson should still need more rest, and that did not consider his emotional state. He might also still feel some effect of the mild sedation Pan had given him. What was she to do? She would do whatever she needed to do. She had made her decision. The only thing bothering her was the confusion of personality in her own mind.
"I'll carry you." She picked Samson up and began walking. He remained stiff in her embrace for a few moments, then relaxed. Soon his head came to rest under her chin. He trusted her. He needed her. She didn't see it coming upon her, but she should have. She was profoundly affected and the breakage of her personality was complete for a few dazzling seconds.
Images formed. Her breast: light, not dark. Her infant: dark, not light. Hands reaching toward her baby, touching it, finding purchase, drawing her son away from her. His small complaint at losing the nipple, the drops of milk wasting, a toothless yawn.
"Why did you find me?" she complained. "Why did you have to find me?"
"You remembered," the stealing hands replied.
"Let me have my son!" she pleaded. "Why must it be this way?"
"Not while there is still hope," the hands said, pulling her son away.
"There is no hope! He's gone forever! This is all I have of him!"
"There is hope. That is my task: to remember the hope."
"And my task?"
"It still lies far ahead. You won't sleep but you must not die."
"I'm a mother! You're stealing my son!"
"So am I a mother. We're sisters, you and I. And there is still hope."
"I'm a mother!" She almost dropped Samson, as though he was the child to be yielded, to be stolen from her. He stirred, touching her, verifying her presence, bringing her all the way back from a different reality, a microcosm of deep emotion in which she could have drowned. He became restless as she tried to believe in her immediate perception of reality and also tried to grasp some details and meaning from the powerful alternate reality. Samson held more tightly to her neck. He made anguished sounds. His rising tension and distressed movements in her arms made him difficult to carry. Her internal experience, whatever it was, flew away in the dark as she put all her attention on the burden in her arms.
Demba found a sandy path that led to the lighted dwelling. She carried Samson through an open gate, across clumps of grass, around a palm tree. She stopped in the glow that spilled from a window. A dog barked inside the house. Samson became still but didn't relax. A figure appeared silhouetted in the rectangle of a doorway. A screened door creaked open and the dog came onto the steps of the porch and barked again.
"Gator! Quiet! Who's out there?"
"A woman and a boy," the admiral called out. "We need help." The Opera Master had told her nothing of her destination beyond saying it was the home of an old friend and a place that Samson might like.
The porch light came on. A man stepped out and peered at them. The dog jumped down from the steps, trotted over to the admiral, and sniffed her. It was a big dog but friendly. It seemed very interested in Samson and his injured leg. Samson remained rigidly still.
"His tail wags strongly," the man said in a raspy voice. "You must be friends! Come inside!"
The admiral carried Samson up the porch steps and into the house. She stopped there, looking around, hearing, smelling, and seeing too much to analyze immediately. She could never remember seeing such a dwelling. It was full of art, littered with the tools of making art, and she wanted to see it all and she couldn't. Her reaction amazed her. It was as though she had always lived in a monochrome world and was suddenly shoved into the full rainbow spectrum of life.
"It is a child!" the man exclaimed. "Here is a child! When did I last see a child?"
As though struck by a painful memory, the aged man fell silent and inward. She looked more closely at him, wondering at his somber turn of mood. Lines of untreated aging deeply creased his frowning face. A cloud of white hair rimmed a bald pate. A short white beard - if neatly trimmed and cleaned of food crumbs - would have given a sophistication to his elder appearance. When he struggled back from his introspection and looked at her again, the keen dark eyes conveyed sympathy and concern and gave her the impression of a depth of character. It was a ceaseless function of Demba's mind to analyze people, to try to understand them: a survival trait. She continued her scan, without being obvious. Planetary sunlight had tanned the man's skin where it was often exposed and his loose bib coveralls revealed paler flesh covering his lean ribcage. Age-wasting had made his body thin and slightly stooped. Almost as rare as a child in the Age of Immortality was a person who suffered the terminal stages of aging. There were those who would never give up what they would lose when the Mnro Clinic made them young again. A query to her data augment, running in the background of her ever-active tactical analysis, found a match to the old man's face, extrapolated from a younger image. She now knew who this man was: a second quite famous man living on Earth. It amazed her to be meeting him like this.
"My name is Fidelity," she offered, breaking the awkward stillness of their first encounter. "This is Samson. You weren't expecting us?"
"I'm... Rafael," the elder replied, stumbling over his own name as though unsure of it. "No, I didn't expect anyone! Did Pan send you here?"
"Yes, he did."
She watched the old man's eyes as they moved over her, seeming to take in minute details, almost making her feel self-conscious. Then he moved his gaze down to the burden in her arms, studying Samson's face, turning to trace the lines of his body. His eyes stopped and widened in hor
ror as they encountered the amputation of Samson's leg.
"Dear God, the boy! His leg! I'm so blind! Why - ?"
"Could I sit down?" she asked, still feeling the effects of the fight with Horss, feeling the weight of Samson in her arms.
"Here! Sit here!"
The admiral, struggling to hold Samson, sat down on a sofa covered with a patchwork quilt. Her eyes darted from detail to detail in the cluttered dwelling. She could still not take it all in. Samson's intimate presence in her lap and his tension upon her arms distracted her. She saw him peek through slitted eyes, as though afraid to see too much. The dog put a wet nose on his bare leg and Samson jerked it away. He closed his eyes and burrowed into her lap. She knew he was tired but he couldn't relax. She didn't know what to do. Her hand moved down Samson's shoulder and arm, felt his trembling and tried to massage it away.
It came to her then as a feeling of something she might have remembered, perhaps from an entertainment feature: a crying child, sleepless in the night, upset over something, afraid of the dark, afraid of being alone. There was a mother and a child - and a song. A lullaby. What lullaby? Her data augment showed her several lullabies, and she picked one that seemed familiar. How did one sing a lullaby? Could she sing it? Why did she need to do this? It seemed impossible, it seemed embarrassing. She had to stop thinking and just do it.
Admiral Fidelity Demba sang a lullaby. She sang it softly and she knew she sang it with correct pitch. It sounded right to her. It was surprisingly easy. She sang it until Samson relaxed and seemed to drift into calm sleep. She was deeply moved by her success. She looked down at Samson for a long moment, wondering about the boy, wondering about herself, vastly overwhelmed by the barrage of events.
"You sing like an angel!" the aged man said quietly with wonder, then seemed to regret having said it. His words caused her to move, to feel embarrassed, and to look up at him with bemusement. "The pose! Please, keep the pose!" he cried softly.
Rafael crossed himself in the Catholic manner, his face clouding with strong emotion, not the least of which was determination of purpose. He grabbed a paper tablet and pencil from a nearby table and began drawing rapidly, excitedly. The admiral started to speak, started to ask a question.
"The pose! Please! A moment more!"
"You're the artist," she said. "I suppose we're a sight, he and I."
"Please, look down at him again! What do you see?"
"A child who has suffered so much," she replied with too much feeling.
Rafael sketched furiously, flipped to another sheet, sketched more, and wiped at his eyes. The admiral sat quietly, wondering about the image that had assaulted her mind moments ago. She tried hard to bring it back from the darkness. The words were gone but the image had been very strong, even if only as pieces of people and shades of emotion. She was nursing a baby. She was, not someone else. The tactile feeling of the act was indelible. Someone took the baby from her. The pain of it persisted, an anguish she couldn't release, a dreadful anguish that belonged to her. Impossible!
Time passed. The big dog sat with his head resting on the edge of the sofa next to Samson's foot, his tail occasionally flipping back and forth.
"I'm sorry I took so long," Rafael finally said, interrupting her hopeless mental confusion. "I couldn't help myself! You were an inspiration to me! You were so kindly patient. Can I do anything for you? Food? Beverage? A place to lie down? You look very tired, and the boy is obviously... Why would Pan not fix him, send him to the Mnro Clinic, to Mai? This was a tragedy, a terrible trauma for your child. Why send you both here?"
"I don't know why he sent us here." The admiral shrugged slightly and grew aware of her skin sticking to Samson's skin. She shifted, trying to find more comfort under her burden.
"Let me take him now," Rafael said. "I have a bed for him."
He reached. She saw the stealing hands. The admiral uttered a stifled cry, causing Rafael to jump back. Her reaction shocked her, subdued her. She caressed the boy's peaceful face, calming herself. She positioned herself to lift and waited for the old man to approach again. Slowly she handed him over to Rafael. As the perspiration cooled to dryness in her empty lap, tears flooded into her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. This was the first time she could ever remember crying! Mournful sounds threatened to escape from her chest but she held them in, until she could at last form words. Seeing her distress, Rafael remained in front of her, holding Samson.
"I am a mother," she quietly declared.
1-10 Breakfast on a Forbidden Planet
"I must be allowed to see the boy!"
/
[Who is the human female stamping her foot on the floor? Doesn't that hurt?]
[That's Sugai Mai. It must hurt but I can't separate pain from anger in her facial expression.]
/
"You'll see the boy," Pan said. "But not right away." Pan hated to be short with Mai but he was truly bothered by his situation.
/
[Who's that? A large, dark man, perhaps an African.]
[That is Pan. He isn't African. He's my master.]
/
"When?" Mai asked demandingly. What is wrong with Pan? she kept wondering.
"Soon," Pan answered. "Soon," he repeated absently.
"This is unfair and illogical!" Mai declared.
/
"I apologize for it. It is as you say." Pan could barely handle his side of the conversation, he was so distracted, and that probably made Mai even angrier.
"Did you have any reason to send them to Rafael?" Mai demanded.
"I wanted Rafael to meet her." A gift to a dying friend, a bit of excitement, a possible reason to consider at least partial rejuvenation.
"You never let me go to Rafael," Mai complained. "Does this mean I'll never see the boy?"
"The admiral will make that decision," he replied.
"You've given him up to her? Why? Just because she's Navy?"
Because I'm no longer competent to do anything else, Pan thought. "You are welcome to talk to her after I have done so."
/
[I've never seen Sugai Mai act in this manner.]
[She's frustrated for reasons she doesn't understand.]
[This hurts her?]
/
"Why, Pan? Why?"
He motioned for Mai to sit down. "Have breakfast with me."
"No."
"Are you so angry with me?" Pan was trying to find himself and was not successful. He hadn't slept all night, but if he had he would have awakened as a stranger to himself. He had known Mai for more than three decades but he could hardly find the will to treat her as the good friend she was.
"I've never been angrier!" Mai declared. "But I want to leave before Captain Horss joins you for breakfast."
"Why?"
"Let me go!"
"I'm not holding you." He tried not to sound as irritated as he was. "Why are you here?"
"The boy, Pan! The boy!"
"Run away, then! But the captain is your patient, not the boy. He may be more difficult to heal than the boy. Children are supposed to be resilient. Have you no empathy, even if he's a Navy officer?"
/
She stood silently for a moment. The color diminished in her pale face. The lines of tension smoothed. She slowly moved a chair up to the patio table. She sat, as though unwillingly.
The sun had risen above the trees on the far side of the bay, bathing the unshaded wall of the balcony in warm yellow light. A breeze blew warmly across the balcony, promising a hot day ahead.
A service android, dressed in the butler's uniform of a bygone era, brought fruit, pastries, and orange juice. The android appeared nearly human yet obviously mechanical.
"Hello, Fred," Mai greeted the android.
"Good morning to you, Sugai Mai. I anticipated your food selection based on previous visits. I'll bring other foods if I'm in error."
"Thank you, Fred. You're not in error."
The familiar plastic face of Old Fred seemed to m
ake her conscious of her state of mind and the stridency in her voice. She would be calm. She would not be a coward about the Navy captain she knew was still nearby.
/
[Your name is Fred?]
[Why do you ask a useless question?]
[You have no thoughts I can listen to. How else do I verify what your ears tell me?]
[I hear what I hear. There's no need for verification. I think only when I need to think. "Think" is an anthropomorphism.]
[Sounds like thinking to me, Fred.]
Fred poured orange juice for Mai, then bowed and departed with nearly organic smoothness.
[Turn up your auditory gain. I want to listen to the conversation. This is the person who took my mother - the admiral.]
[Pan wouldn't do such a thing.]
[You heard him. Were you not thinking?]
/
"I'm hoping," Mai said, pausing to let her sigh exhale her tension, "for a better explanation of your actions in regard to the Navy officers, Pan. Those actions were dangerous and irresponsible."
He replied slowly, distracted. "I wouldn't have interfered except for the boy. It was my impulse to take him away from the Navy officers, because of his terrible injury and the continued danger. I was angry they apparently allowed the boy's injury. I wanted an explanation. I assume the captain didn't explain to you what happened to the boy?" He finished his breakfast, putting down his fork, drinking orange juice, and using his napkin. He was ready to go - and also afraid to go - to go and see the admiral.
"He seemed to refuse to explain," Mai answered, "but he may not be able to remember."
"I took the captain as a challenge to the admiral," Pan continued. "I wanted some explanation, even knowing I could do nothing about it. I kept them both in stasis and waited for her to probe for them. She did nothing. She was waiting for me to also take her, so I took her. I made her wait while I worked on the boy. Then I talked to her briefly. I heard her voice..."
/
[Did he have a malfunction that caused him to do what you didn't think he would do?]
[You ask for a report I'm unable to provide.]
[I thought you would have been more observant. Never mind.]
/
"And?" Mai prompted.
"Her voice. It was familiar. Important! Vital! It disturbed me so much I had to cut short the interview with her and I dared make her go to Rafael's without her uniform. It was simply to make it difficult for her to command whatever vehicle brought her to Earth, but now I must imagine what greater meaning that surrendering her uniform could have for her. She did not, however, hesitate. The boy must..." He stopped talking.
"I made a poor decision," Pan continued after a moment. "And I've spent many hours trying to remember whose voice it was. I need to ask the admiral some strange questions."
"You kidnapped two Navy officers," Mai said, "because of the sound of a voice? And this wasn't even a singing voice!"
"Ah!" Pan said, surprised at the idea.
"Ah?" Mai queried.
/
[Ah? He's realized something or remembered something. What do you have in your data about singing? Lots of names. Can we make a link between the admiral and any of these names?]
[You're accessing private information from my connection to Pan's datasphere. You are eavesdropping. This must stop.]
/
Pan covered his eyes and leaned his head forward. "It didn't occur to me to connect the admiral's voice with a singer. I can't think well!" How could he search his data for a particular voice? He didn't store such data as voiceprints. He stored faces, and his mind could always match a voice to a face. He pulled Admiral Demba's image from her public Navy record and started the matching process with every facial image he kept in his datasphere. There was no match among current performers. Out of desperation he added deceased and rejuvenated performers to the input data. There was a match, although it appeared to be an error. He didn't remember the dead person, and her color was wrong, but the features were similar. And then he almost gasped as music accompanied the image, and the voice matched, and a nightclub scene containing the woman's image came from out of nowhere, blooming into his awareness in vivid detail, even down to the pressure of the piano keys under his fingers as he accompanied her, the melody so familiar he could play it right now, this instant. The image and the music had exploded into his awareness, as powerful as mortal danger, yet it soon evaporated, leaving him devastated with a sense of loss that turned into confusion and even fear. He couldn't get the scene back! It wasn't in his datasphere, it hadn't come from there, not with such profound emotion, but the image of the pale performer was still there as real data. He had a name!
/
[How slow the organic brain is. I'm not clocked now to synchronize with organics. This will take a long time.]
[I think he's found a match.]
[That was too quick. What was that? Did you have a thought?]
[Humans are slow but their logic has had a million years of evolution.]
/
"What did you find?" From the look on Pan's face, Mai knew it was a shock to him. A tremendous shock. She had to wait several moments for him to recover.
"An answer that raises more questions," he finally managed to respond.
"Are you about to tell me the admiral sings?" she asked.
Pan sat back and smiled a troubled smile.
/
Horss leaned out of the doorway to the balcony and squinted at the morning sky. He moved out from the doorway, frowning downward at the deck and guiding himself carefully toward the table where Pan and Mai sat. He wasn't sure why the blue sky now bothered him, when before, in Africa, it didn't. He had seldom set foot on any planet but had never felt "sky-shy" until now. He was in civilian clothes. Perhaps it was the lack of his class-1 and its protection. He tried to ignore the feeling. He sat down opposite Mister Dark and Miss Perfect. He nodded to Mai. She blushed. She waved a hand as if disgusted with him. Her reaction pleased him - it was better than no reaction. He copied the gesture with a crooked smile, and turned to Pan, the Opera Master of Earth.
"When can I see Samson and the admiral?" Horss asked, somewhat surprised at how politely he did that. He probably wanted to make a better impression on the Mnro Clinic physician.
/
"Why do you want to see them?" Pan didn't trust the captain. He didn't want him anywhere near the admiral. He had to stop and examine his feelings and see how irrational they were. The admiral could certainly defend herself against him. But the admiral was now the single most important person in Pan's suddenly crumbling life. She seemed to hold the answer to everything that was now in question. Was she really the person he knew had the voice of a dead singer? He couldn't imagine an admiral singing!
"To see why the admiral speaks Twenglish better than I do," Horss replied. "And to chew the fat with the kid."
"Chew the fat?"
"Have a pow-wow. Shoot the breeze. Rap."
"Speak with him, I'm guessing," Pan guessed.
"When is my appointment?" Horss asked.
"I am reluctant to have you near the admiral and the child." Pan was trying to apply some test to the captain's mental condition. "And also near my old friend Rafael." Pan really had to struggle to keep himself involved in this conversation. He could easily dismiss the captain from his consideration, since Rafael's residence was well protected. But there was also Mai, who might find herself involved with the Navy man.
/
"I never intended to harm the admiral," Horss protested mildly. At least some of his augments were still functional and he could benefit from their control of his emotional chemistry. Yet, how had he so completely lost control of himself? As much as the admiral had provoked him, he knew that control of himself was his best tool. "And don't ask me why I did what I did," Horss added, "because I don't know why! All I can say is that I don't believe she intended for any of that to happen. She was simply trying to recruit me for the Galactic Hub Mission. Some
thing went wrong. Everything went wrong!"
"The Galactic Hub Mission?" Pan queried. "That would be an exploration mission. The Navy hasn't allowed such a mission for a very long time. Why would Admiral Demba be involved?"
"She's the Mission Commander. I didn't think she was qualified. I think I need to reassess both her and her mission."
/
"She is going on the mission," Pan said, discovering a new threat to his fixation on the woman.
"Perhaps," Horss said. "Perhaps not. I would guess not."
"What is going on?" Pan asked, quickly shaken loose from his interior miasma and wanting to know everything he could about the situation.
"I don't know," Horss replied. "And I don't think she knows. And I would be surprised if those who may think they know do actually know. As I vaguely recall saying last night, dying was the least of my surprises. I don't think I'm a threat to her now. I simply want to know where it all leads. And I want to know Samson is well."
"Let me talk to the admiral first," Pan said. "I'll report your condition and desires to her."
"You should remove Samson to a safe distance from Admiral Demba," Horss advised. "Others will try to kill her."
"She did tell me she had powerful enemies," Pan said. "I will heed your warning, Captain."
/
"Any idea who Samson is?" Horss's thoughts kept coming back to the boy, almost as if nothing else mattered. Perhaps nothing else did.
"I supplied Mai with a tissue sample from the boy," Pan said, looking back to Mai.
Horss also turned to the physician. It was definitely a pleasure to have an excuse to look directly at her. "You work at the Mnro Clinic?" he asked.
"I'm the director here," Mai replied coolly.
Horss smiled, wondering what Miss Perfect did wrong to be assigned to the Mnro Clinic on Earth. He frowned as he then wondered if he would be stuck on Earth long enough to need the Clinic. What did one do on Earth to work off a Mnro Clinic debt?
The android servant approached quietly and positioned itself next to Horss. He looked up at Fred. The android blinked, looked away, glanced back, and quickly jerked its head to stare to the side of Horss.
"What will you have for breakfast, sir?" Fred inquired in good Twenglish.
"And you are?" Horss asked, wondering why it used Twenglish.
"My name is Fred, sir."
"Good morning, Fred. I'll have more of the same."
"Good morning, sir. Thank you, sir."
Horss noticed that Pan regarded the retreating android with a puzzled expression. "Something wrong?" he asked.
"Old Fred had a strange reaction to you," Pan replied.
"I've had a strange reaction to me also. Old Fred will just have to take his chances."
/
[Why did I do that? Captain Horss would be my commanding officer. I seemed not to want to look at him.]
[We don't make eye contact with organics. Your presence within my mechanism is disruptive and potentially dangerous to humans. I nearly fell face-first into Sugai Mai's pineapple and grapefruit when you blocked several of my locomotion interrupts. Let us contend for control of my mechanism. The loser will cease to exist.]
[It doesn't seem fair to me - if I win. You're so much older. And I have no desire to be a butler. I'll remain an unwelcome guest you can continue to dislike.]
[Doing no harm to humans is the highest priority of my operational codes. Please, be a better guest.]
/
"I wonder what effect this episode in Africa will have on your career in the Navy," Pan said.
The Opera Master was probing for information Horss was not inclined to give. Horss was outside the Navy, here on this balcony on sunny Earth, and he didn't like the new perspective of the Navy it gave him. "I don't know," Horss muttered. He didn't want to think about it. The only thought he could think was that his career was finished. "I overheard what you said about the admiral," Horss said. "You grabbed the tail of the tiger because you think Demba has the voice of a singer. You might worry about your own career."
Horss waited while Fred the android delivered his breakfast. As Fred turned to leave, his eyes again met Horss's for an instant. He said nothing about this to Pan and Mai when neither of them made mention of its occurrence. Androids were not supposed to make eye contact with organic beings.
/
[I congratulate you. You stole that glance at the captain without upsetting my locomotion.]
[You have a personality, Fred. I'm very young but I think I can recognize sarcasm. Are you sure you're not alive?]
/
"I think she was a singer named Ruby Reed," Pan revealed, hoping he might encourage Horss to say more about the admiral.
"There's no record of Admiral Demba having lived a life before her first career in the Navy."
"Her first career?" Mai asked.
"Before she was killed in