"Yes." He spoke slowly. "Smashed."
It surprised her an emergency team hadn't arrived. Surely the wreck had been detected by now. By law, it had to transmit signals to the global tracking system.
She motioned toward the nearby cliffs. "My house is up there. I can get you a blanket or a change of clothes."
He peered at the redwoods rising on the cliff, tall against the gray sky. "It would be good to go to a house."
Sam had been thinking she would go up and bring supplies back to him. "Can you walk? It's a ways."
His voice cooled. "I walk fine." He took a jerky step.
Puzzled, Sam went with him as he headed toward the cliff. His uneven gait reminded her of . . . yes, now she remembered. "You have robotics in your legs. That's why you don't walk right."
His shoulders hunched. "I am perfectly capable of managing them."
Sam could have kicked herself. One of these days she would learn to temper her bluntness. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean you couldn't."
His tense posture eased. "Sometimes it takes a while to reintegrate the components."
Sam thought of the way his gaze hadn't focused when he first awoke. Possibly he had artificial eyes as well. If he had enough hardware in his body, prolonged contact with the water might damage the system. "Can you monitor your condition? It may need internal repairs."
He hesitated. "It doesn't bother you?"
"Bother me?" She squinted at him. "What?"
"Me." He motioned at his legs. "That they are biomech constructs."
"Well, no." A good chance existed that she had patented some of his internal components.
For the first time, his voice relaxed. "Good." His gait was already beginning to smooth out.
They continued up the beach. When they reached her clothes, she pulled on her jeans, self-conscious now, aware of him watching, though she didn't look at him. She had never believed teeth could "chatter," but hers were doing it now, rattling as she shook from the cold. She knew she should take off her wet underwear before she put on her jeans, but she couldn't do it in front of him.
When Sam finished, she did finally look at him. He smiled, his cheeks pink, his gaze warm. Feeling awkward, she grabbed her boots. She didn't stop to put them on; months of trudging around barefoot had toughened her feet, and she hardly noticed the shells and pebbles. Her guest seemed even less fazed by the rocky beach. Either he had spent a great deal of time barefoot or else he had little or no feeling in his feet. Possibly they came from a lab, too, like his legs.
When they reached the cliff and started up, he slowed down, trudging at her side up the steep trail. It worried Sam. She ought to take him to the doctor. She couldn't force him to go against his will, though, and if he did feel well enough, he probably wanted to get busy dealing with the destruction of his ship. She certainly would.
He intrigued her. What had left him needing such prosthetics? His damp trousers revealed the structure of his biomech legs. Seen through the cloth, the limbs appeared normal—long, lean, and well toned. What showed of his feet below the hem of his trousers appeared human.
"Why are you staring at my feet?" he asked.
Embarrassed, Sam looked up. "I wondered if they hurt. Does it bother you to step on broken shells?"
"Not really."
She tried for a light, friendly tone. "Hey, you know, you haven't told me your name."
"No. I haven't."
She waited. "And?"
"And what?"
"Are you going to?"
"Should I?"
Sam scowled at him. "I just hauled your wet ass out of the ocean. So tell me who you are."
Unexpectedly, he laughed, his teeth flashing. "Fair enough. I'm Turner."
Oh, my. That smile was a killer. It lit up his face. She had thought him attractive before, but when he smiled, he became devastating, with those sparkling blue eyes, his handsome boy-next-door face, and his tousled hair dripping with water.
"Pleased to meet you, Turner," she said. "Is that your last name?"
His smile faded. He turned his attention to the rocky path they were climbing.
"What," Sam grumbled to herself. "Am I that off-putting?" He wouldn't be the first person to tell her so.
His mouth quirked up. "You're charming."
She slanted him a look. "If you think I'm charming, you were in that water too long."
"I've no idea how long I was in it. What is today?"
"Tuesday. November eighth, 2033."
He stumbled on a jutting rock. "That can't be."
"Why not?"
He looked at the trees up ahead, his face drawn with strain, marring his unnatural perfection. Sam let it go. Better to wait until they weren't hiking through the woods and he had a chance to recuperate some.
They reached the top of the cliff and headed through the redwoods. Mist no longer shrouded the majestic trees. They grew over two hundred feet tall, as high as skyscrapers. They had such a large girth at the bottom, it could take ten people holding hands to encircle one. Red bark covered their trunks in great, corrugated strips. The trees grew far apart, leaving a great deal of open space in the forest, with sparse but verdant underbrush. Sunlight filtered through the canopy where a redwood had fallen and lay on its side. Although she owned the beach and the clearing with her house, this patch of forest was federal land. It never ceased to awe Sam that some of these trees had lived for thousands of years, over a millennium before her English forebears had set foot on this continent.
" 'Farewell my brethren,' " Sam murmured. " 'Farewell O earth and sky, farewell you neighboring waters, my time is ended, my time has come.' "
A smile warmed Turner's face. "What is that?"
" 'Song of the Redwood Tree.' One of Walt Whitman's works." She knew the poem by heart. " 'Riven deep by the sharp tongues of the axes, there in the redwood forest dense, I heard the mighty tree its death-chant chanting.' "
"It's beautiful. But so sad." He gestured at the trees. "Their time hasn't come."
Regret touched her voice. "No. But so many are gone now. It takes them so long to grow and only a few hours to die, when someone cuts them down."
He spoke in a low voice. "Like people."
That sounded as if it had a lot of history. "Like you?"
Silence again.
"Turner?" she asked.
He wouldn't look at her. "The storm hit on November fifth."
It took her a moment to realize he was answering her question from before about why he didn't think it could be November eighth. But he couldn't have been drifting for three days. "Do you mean this storm?"
"I'm not sure."
"What happened to you when the storm hit?"
"I don't know."
"How can you not know?"
His gaze darted around. "Is this Oregon?"
"Is that where you live?"
His head jerked. "All my life."
"This is California."
He stared at her. "I can't have traveled that far!"
"Well, we're near the Oregon border."
"I came from Portland."
"Okay." Sam wondered if he had stolen the yacht. "Then why is your yacht here, all broken?"
His gaze slid away from hers. "A storm."
"The one last night?"
"Earlier." He wouldn't look at her.
"Must have been a bad one, to wreck your ship."
He studied the trail with its half-submerged roots and scattered pine cones. "It was bad."
She spoke dryly. "How odd that the debris stayed with you all that way during such a bad storm."
"Yes. Odd."
Right. No way could that wreckage have kept together over such a distance. Even last night's storm would have dispersed it. The wreck had to have happened this morning, near her beach. It wasn't impossible; if he hadn't been paying attention, it could have crashed against the promontory that curved around her cove, especially given the choppy waves this morning. Why would he tell such an unlikely story? If he kn
ew anything about ships, he should realize she wouldn't believe him.
"You'll need to report the loss of your vessel," Sam said, which was more tactful than I don't believe this fable. "You can use my console." If he had stolen the yacht, he would probably refuse to call the authorities.
"Thank you," he said, distant now.
"You say you had no passengers or crew?"
"I was the only one."
"You know, I'm finding this hard to believe." The words slipped out despite her intent to use discretion.
His voice tightened. "Then don't believe it."
Well, so, now what? She could refuse to help, except it wasn't her nature to turn away someone in need. Despite his claims, he didn't look fine. He plodded next to her, his arms hanging at his sides.
They came out of the redwoods into the clearing where her house stood, an airy wonder of glowing pine and glass. Her home hadn't come easily; together with the beach, this property and house had cost her ten million dollars.
Sam led him to the side entrance she used, a door of golden wood, varnished to a sheen. A carved vine heavy with grapes bordered it, and a round, stained-glass window above the door offered a stylized view of the ocean in blue, green, gray, and white glass.
"Pretty," Turner said behind her.
Sam turned. He was waiting on the blue gravel path. "So come in." Then she winced. She needed better people skills. To sound more hospitable, she added, "Please do."
"I don't want to intrude."
"You aren't." She pressed a fingertip panel by the door, alerting the security system to raise its level of protection. It monitored the house and would protect her if she had problems. She doubted she would, though. She tended to develop a sense of people fairly quickly, and Turner didn't strike her as dangerous. In truth, he looked ready to pass out.
Sam ushered him inside, into a spacious foyer. No walls separated it from the living room on the left or the stairwell on her right. The place had an open, airy feeling. Pots with flowering plants hung from beams on the high ceiling, adding accents of green. Panes of glass everywhere let sunlight pour into the house, and the stained-glass window behind them cast tinted colors across the parquetry floor. To the left, across the living room, the outside wall curved out. Tall windows stretched from a cushioned bench there to the ceiling, providing a view of the forest.
Their clothes had dried enough to stop dripping, but the two of them had tracked sand all over the floor. Sam wasn't certain if she could provide Turner with a change of clothes; although he wasn't large (anyone was big compared to her) he was too big for her clothes to fit him. Perhaps she could just wash his garments.
Her guest turned in a circle, gazing around her house as if he would drink in the sight. "This is incredible."
"Thanks. I like it."
"I've never been anywhere like this."
She thought of his yacht. "Surely you've seen nice houses."
He turned to her. "Nothing even close to this."
Sam didn't know what to think. He had access to what had to be an exceedingly expensive vessel, yet he behaved as if he had never seen a nice house. It didn't fit—unless he had stolen the yacht. Although he hardly seemed the criminal type, his bewilderment could be an ideal disguise for a con man. With those baby blues and his angel-boy appearance, he could commit a load of crimes and no one would suspect him.
"What's wrong?" he asked. "Why do you stare at me?"
"I wondered if Turner was your last name."
"It . . . is my name."
She put her hand on her hip. "And is that the only name on the registration for your yacht?"
His face paled. "No."
She hadn't expected him to admit it. A con man would have had a better story. Then again, maybe this innocent act was part of his story. "Who does it belong to?"
"My guardian."
Guardian? He looked in his late twenties, certainly of legal age. "Where is he?"
Turner pushed back his hair, which was curling as it dried, over his ears and down his neck. "I don't know."
"So you were the only one on that yacht, which belongs to your guardian, but you don't know where he is. Somehow the wreckage drifted hundreds of miles, staying together through a storm here with almost hurricane strength." Sam brushed away a drop of water running down her nose. "And you were unconscious during all this, for three days."
He cleared his throat. "It looks that way."
She crossed her arms. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't call the police."
"Please don't."
"I need a better reason than that."
Turner looked around quickly. When he saw that she was standing between him and the only visible exit from the house, he spoke in bursts. "If you call authorities, they will contact my guardian. He will come for me."
"And this is bad because . . . ?"
"I've been his prisoner. I escaped."
Ah, Lord. What had she gotten herself mixed up in here? "Why does a man your age have a guardian?"
"I can't tell you."
"Why not?"
"I can't!" He backed into the living room.
Sam tayed put, giving him space. His fear seemed genuine and that troubled her. She just didn't know enough about this situation. "All right," she said, thinking. "I won't call the police."
He stopped backing away. "You won't regret—"
She held up her hand. "Yet."
"Please don't tell anyone."
"The wreckage of your ship is all over my beach. I'm surprised no one has come yet to investigate. Some satellite must have picked up its destruction."
"I, uh—"
"Yes?"
"I deactivated the signaler."
Well, hell. This was getting worse and worse. By law, ships had to signal their location at all times. Not that she didn't sympathize with his impulse to evade the system; she often retreated from the scrutiny that technology had brought into their lives. It took real effort nowadays to avoid it; sometimes it seemed every dumb widget could send you a message or track your location.
She said only, "That's illegal."
"I had to get away."
"Why?"
Silence.
Perhaps she could draw him out more if she took a friendlier approach. "I sometimes feel I have to get away from all the gadgets and meshes," she said, which was true. "A few days ago, my jeans emailed to ask why I hadn't worn them."
Turner gave a startled laugh. "You're kidding."
"Unfortunately not. The mesh-threads in their seams linked with the house mesh and determined I hadn't cleaned my other jeans in over a week. They concluded I should wear clean clothes."
He made a face. "I would have torn all the mesh-threads out of my clothes if they did that."
Sam grinned. "I did." She looked over his shirt and trousers, which were almost dry. They apparently had very few smart threads in their tailoring, because they hadn't even smoothed out wrinkles. Her clothes had not only dried and flattened by now, they had also shifted around until they moved the sand out, leaving scatters of it on the floor.
"Would you like a change of clothes?" she asked.
"No, I'm all right." He rubbed his eyes with both hands, reminding her of a child. Then he looked around her living room, taking in the gold paneling, the seascapes on the walls, the plants hanging from the rafters. "This house feels . . ." He turned back to her. "Warm?" He made it a question rather than a statement.
"Is it too hot for you?"
"I don't mean that way." He lifted his hand, palm up. "Hospitable. Welcoming."
"I try." Sam was glad he appreciated it. She had chosen the décor specifically with that in mind.
He lowered his arm. "It's so different."
"You mean from where you live?"
Turner nodded. "My mother's house was nice, but I rarely went there."
"Your parents were divorced?"
He had an odd expression now, as if he wanted to crawl under the couch. "No. I lived with my mother
's sister and her husband."
Although she was reluctant to push a personal matter, she needed to know what was up if she was going to take him in. "Your parents couldn't have you live with them?"
"Wouldn't." Bitterly he added, "My cousins were more welcome in their house than me."
"That's terrible." The words came out before she could stop them.
Silence.
She spoke carefully. "Do you mind if I ask why you lived with your aunt and uncle?"
"My mother thought I would be safer there."
"From who?"
He answered tightly. "Her husband."
"He wasn't your father?"
"No." He let out a breath. "That was the problem."
"Oh." It sounded like a mess. "I'm sorry."
He shrugged, trying for a nonchalance he obviously didn't feel. Then he rubbed his side, wincing.
"Are you sure you don't want me to call the hospital?" Sam asked.
"Yes. Sure."
"You can lie down, then. I'll get you a blanket and something warm to drink."
"No. I just need . . . to get off my feet." He went to the couch and sat down, sinking into the cushions. The furniture had rudimentary intelligence; woven with mesh-threads, it recorded and responded to the muscle strain of whoever sat on it, subtly shifting to maximize comfort.
Sam sat on the other end, leaving two cushions between them. "Turner, what happened out there?"
Instead of answering directly, he motioned to his legs. "Look at these. They're biomechanical constructs." He flexed his hands, opening them palm up. "So are these." Then he tapped his temple. "My eyes are synthetic. So are parts of my ears. And many other parts of me, too."
Sam weighed his words, looking for a hidden message, but found none. "So are a lot of people's."
"A bit. But they are mostly human, yes?"
"Well, yes."
He regarded her steadily. "I am more biomech than human."
"Were you injured?" she asked. "Is that why you have so much augmentation?"
"Injured?" He laughed with pain rather than humor. "You could say that. It made me useful."
The hairs on Sam's neck prickled. "What do you mean?"
"As an experiment." He swallowed. "If your rebuilt man is more biomech than human, does he become a machine instead of a human being?"
"Of course not." Just what had happened to him? "Having biomech in your body doesn't change your humanity."