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CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE,

wherein the boy sorcerer
gives old Achibol a soul.

This episode's Ksentos Venimentum heading must suffice for this chapter and the next, for Benadek has more than one gift to give, and not to Achibol alone.
(Kaledrin, Senior Editor)

Benadek's clear honch-vision made out a tiny figure standing beside the tent on the ice, but he could not tell who it was until he was halfway down the cliff face.

"Teress," he cried, but his honch-voice made it a booming call. The pure-human girl looked first at him, then away, then back, as if she wished to flee, and to run toward him—but both impulses negated each other, and she stood, waiting.

"Are you . . . are you . . ."

"Benadek. Yes, I'm Benadek."

He held out both arms to her, but she stood rigidly. "How can I be sure? All the hideous stories the refugees tell . . ."

He let his arms fall to his side. "I guess you'll have to wait and see," he said, then grinned. "If it walks like a duck, and talks like a duck . . ."

"What's a duck?"

He sighed. "Never mind. If I'm Benadek . . . I mean, I am, but you don't know it. . . . You'll just have to watch me, and listen to me, until you're sure."

"I guess so," she said. "Maybe Achibol will be able to tell."

"Where is he? He's all right?"

"He's alive. He's pretty much as he was the last time . . . you . . . saw him."

"Where? Take me to him."

 

The wagon camp seemed deserted. It was dusk, and people had eaten, and would be preparing to sleep. Many seekers had left with their returned loved ones or their confirmed dead, thus at peace, but the constant trickle of departees from Continental Defense Treaty Command Post Alpha continued, and filled the tents and makeshift shelters left behind.

Over Teress's shoulder, Benadek saw Ameling—and was the tiny man holding her hand Yasha? His white hair and beard were neatly trimmed; he looked almost . . . human. And there, wrapped in blankets, facing the small campfire, was Achibol. The sorcerer's dark eyes were bright as ever, and they tracked Benadek's approach like the mechanical scanners they truly were, but they looked like eyes, not metal orbs, and there was no telltale red glow.

"Master," Benadek said, and hunkered down on his haunches. "You've got to come inside the stronghold with me! I think I found—"

"He's not going anywhere until I'm sure you're Benadek!" Teress snapped.

"He is," Achibol said.

"How can you tell?"

"If it walks like a duck, and talks like a . . ."

"Will someone tell me what a duck is?" Teress's face was red. Benadek grinned.

"Maybe you're right," she said to Achibol. "No one but Benadek could make me so mad! That insufferable grin! That smug—"

"Later," Achibol said. "What have you found, boy?"

"Parts, Master! I won't know for sure until we open you up and look, but there's a whole lot down there, storerooms full of prosthetics—even hearts! The boffins think they may be able to replace yours."

"This isn't Gibraltar," Teress protested. "They won't be the same! And what will happen to him while they're replacing it?"

"It's all right, child," the old man said. "One pump's pretty much like another if the capacities and voltages match. And they can replace my original heart—I'll be using the backup, just as I am now."

"I'm afraid," she said, kneeling, putting her head on his shoulder.

"Me too," he said, "but I've been afraid so long it feels normal to me."

"We'll go in the morning," he said to Benadek. "Tonight, let's just sit by the fire and . . . get reacquainted."

 

Will it work? Benadek asked. Then he waited. Gorb and the others were part of him now, inseparable memories that he would not ordinarily call upon from day to day, stored chemically in out-of-the-way places. They took time to fetch.

Finally a thought crossed his mind: It will work. But it requires a permanent, full-time consciousness. Which of . . . of us . . . will it be? It was not really Paula Farr's thought, but it had a certain, recognizable "flavor."

Can we do that? Reconstitute one of your personalities then . . . then kick it out? Banishing it to . . . what?

Do you have ethical objections? Someone would have to volunteer.

But you're all me now. It would be me "volunteering" one of you.

We're you. So it would still be genuinely voluntary.

Who then? Which of me will go?

While this interim discussion went on, Achibol watched expressions dance across Benadek's face. It had been his idea, not the boy's, but he was far from sure that it was right, morally right.

Benadek had told him what had happened to Gorb and the once-frozen personalities, and he had immediately thought of . . . Yasha. His poor, deranged buddy had recovered somewhat, with care and kindness, but he would never get much better than he was right now. When the tiny scraps of endocrine tissue preserved within his mechanical self had died, his brain had been irreparably damaged.

Early cyborg experiments had interfaced brains and mechanisms. That worked fine as long as there was still a body attached to the brain. The "brain in a box" idea never panned out—people weren't brains, they were . . . people. Whole entities, brains, glands, bodies, in complex interaction. Saving enough glandular tissue, skin, muscle, and so forth to stimulate the boxed brain with the chemicals of stress, fear, elation, and even fatigue, kept it sane—after a fashion. Achibol was not entirely convinced he himself was sane, but he wasn't entirely nuts, like Yasha.

The essence of Benadek's other selves was chemical; endocrine secretions and byproducts . . . just what Yasha had lost when his internal tissue cultures had died. And they were—or had been—coherent personalities too, something Yasha wasn't.

But what right did Achibol have to decide whether Yasha was better off as he was now, or with an internal "partner" to regulate his flawed brain? Partner—or dictator? Who was to say? Who would speak with Yasha's voice once the transfer was made? What was the right thing to do?

He must have spoken aloud, because Benadek answered: "What was done to Yasha—and to you—was wrong. And what was done to . . . James Wold Bostwick . . . was also wrong. Two wrongs can't make a right, but maybe they can be . . . mitigated."

"Bostwick. The philosopher?"

"The ethicist. Who better to make the decision once he's inside Yasha, and can determine what's best—for Yasha, and for him too?"

"Indeed. And what about you?" Benadek's face told that tale: chemicals were chemicals. They could be duplicated, and in living bodies they were, continually. Personalities weren't static. They were constantly being recreated out of fresh materials. Only their patterns were relatively constant. And such patterns could be duplicated. Benadek would not lose his "conscience." His memories of James Wold Bostwick would remain.

"That's it, then." Achibol got to his feet. Sticking his head outside, he called to Ameling. "Get Yasha."

 

"We have to tell him what we intend," Achibol mused while they waited. "We have to give him the choice."

"But he's crazy! He doesn't know what's good for himself."

"We must make him understand." Benadek knew that tone of voice. Achibol's mind was made up. And there was no time for more discussion: Yasha had arrived.

"I won't go in that tent!" the little man protested.

"Your friend Archie's inside, waiting for you," Ameling said.

"Stuff Archie!"

"Yasha! I've got your new orders in here!"

"Orders? For me? You mean somebody's finally gotten through? Let me see!" He pushed the flap aside.

"Here," said Achibol, holding out his "talisman." The tiny screen of the universal interfaced glowed, and words marched down it. "Your orders."

Yasha snatched the device, peered at the screen. "What does it say? Read it to me."

"Read it yourself."

The little man's face twisted and reddened. Tears sprang into the corners of his eyes. "I can't!" he wailed. "I forgot how!"

"Poor fellow," Benadek said sympathetically, putting a hand on his shoulder. Already he felt the swarming essences of James Wold Bostwick readying themselves for transition . . . but it was not yet time. "Don't you want to remember?"

"Of course, you imbecile! My orders!"

"I can help you remember how to read again."

"You can?" The wistful look in Yasha's half-mad eyes reminded Benadek of Sylfie, struggling how to learn . . . but this was not Sylfie. "How?"

"Remember the little voice, Yasha—the one you listened for in the Tin Mule's heater? Would you like to have it inside your head—to read to you, and explain things?"

"I want it! Where is it?"

"You wouldn't mind sharing your head with the voice?"

Achibol added, "For the rest of your life?"

"As long as it's not your scratchy old voice, Archie!"

Benadek raised an eyebrow toward Achibol. Was that enough? Was that "permission" to go ahead? Achibol nodded. Benadek's heartbeat quickened. The palm of his hand tingled, and dampened. Unseen fluids penetrated Yasha's jacket and shirt, then entered the pores of his skin . . .

He stiffened. "What are you doing?" He tried to pull away, but could not. "Let go of me!"

Ameling pushed into the tent. "Everything's fine, Yasha," she murmured, grasping his other arm firmly. "Soon you'll be well again."

"I'm not sick! I'm just . . . I'm just . . ." His face wrinkled. "I don't know what I am," he howled. "I've forgotten!"

"Just hold still, dear," Ameling urged, "and you'll soon remember."

Benedict felt the flow of complex chemicals, the departure of James Wold Bostwick—of a part of himself. It went on and on. He felt Yasha's trembling, and grew angry. The little madman couldn't understand what he was getting—what Benadek was losing.

At last it was over. The last traces of Bostwick had crossed over, and Benadek was left only with the memory of him.

Yasha stood rigidly, his eyes wild as ever. "It's done," Benadek said. "How do you feel?"

"I have a headache! My stomach hurts and I'm cold! I'm tired!"

"Here's a blanket, Yasha," Ameling said. She and Achibol wrapped him up, and settled him at the rear of the tent.

"How long?" Achibol asked

"I don't know," Benadek replied. "I didn't time things before. Just let him sleep. He'll . . . they'll sort things out." His eyes drooped. Ameling saw, brought another blanket, then guided him to a soft bed of spruce branches.

 

The next morning Benadek led Achibol, Ameling, and Teress up the cleft to the so-called "empty" cave, and hauled the old man's two trunks up by rope, without assistance from anyone.

Yasha alone stayed behind. "I'm remembering," he said, tossing a dry branch on the fire. "By the time you get back, I'll remember everything!"

Was it so? Were the "original" Yasha's memories intact, and no longer inaccessible? Or would the essences of James Wold Bostwick merely "fill in" where necessary? Benedict suspected he would never see an obvious trace of the philosopher in Yasha's speech or manner; true to his principles, Bostwick would remain in the background, a tiny voice even Yasha might not consciously "hear."

Teress insisted upon preceding all of them into the underground stronghold, and returning, before she let Achibol or Ameling do so—the honch spoke with Benadek's words but his voice was not a boy's, nor were his stance and strength, and she knew no more about "ducks" than the night before.

The reprogrammed matter-transmitter did not balk at Achibol's metal parts. The hallway leading to the prosthetics lab and storerooms went left, then down an elevator, but Benadek led them right, to a different place. They understood nothing of the great, transparent tubes of colored fluids, the complex piping and instrumentation, but all sensed the horror, pain, and spiritual agony that lay like oily dust over every surface.

"If this works," Benadek said in a low, anxious baritone, "this place won't feel quite so horrible." He turned to Ameling.

"There?" she asked, nodding toward the wheeled hospital stretcher at the center of the maze of tubes, pipes, and wires. Benadek nodded. He helped her to lie on the fresh, crisp sheets, and gently drew straps snug at her wrists, chest, knees, and ankles.

The ghost of Dr. Paula Race Farr, M.D. rose up to take over Benadek's big honch hands, to guide the I.V. needles smoothly, painlessly, into Ameling's shrunken veins. Whoever then controlled the hands that switched on the multitude of mysterious pumps and devices, when those hands squeezed Ameling's shoulders reassuringly, they were Benadek's.

"Soon you'll doze," he said. "I don't think you'll dream."

"If I do, I'll dream of something quite strange," she responded.

"What?"

"The future," she said. "My future. There was none to dream of, before." Her eyelids drooped. Somewhere a monitor that had chirped busily slowed, then steadied—a quiet, regular, musical tone once every second or so.

"She's asleep," Benadek murmured. "There's nothing more we can do, until the process is finished."

"I'm not leaving," Teress said abruptly. "Not until—" she almost said "Only if"—"she wakes up."

"I thought we could start getting Achibol ready . . ."

"Not until she's awake," Teress snapped, settling stiffly to the floor and folding her arms across her chest.

Benadek caught Achibol's eye.

"There's no rush," the old man said. "I feel just fine." At least he understood the source of Benadek's anxiety—not that the "experiment" upon Ameling wasn't reason enough.

 

Benadek sat. Achibol squatted. Teress remained as she was, arms still folded. Occasionally one of the big flagons "glugged" or "blupped," and all three of them twitched anxiously. Benadek wanted to get up, to peer closely at Ameling, looking for . . . changes, but he refused to give Teress the satisfaction of knowing how afraid he was. Besides, she'd probably think he was going to do something to her . . .

Teress allowed herself no expression. Only her eyes moved—from Benadek to Ameling to Achibol. She was thinking about . . . ducks.

Whenever Benadek looked at her, he thought about ducks too—though he had never seen one, except in pictures. "The cow says `moo,' " he quoted from the stained, tattered book of ABC's he had left behind in his hidey-hole beneath the tailor shop. "The duck says `quack, quack, quack,' and the rooster says `cock-a-doodle-do.' "

It seemed years since Benadek the urchin had read those words. What had happened to that urchin-child? He must be inside me, Benadek thought, along with all the others. Maybe I'll find him again, someday . . .

Achibol squatted stoically. If he had any thoughts at all, they remained hidden behind a weathered, unreadable brown mask.

 

"Cheep, cheep, cheep cheep cheepcheep . . ." The heart monitor's beat quickened with Ameling's waking pulse.

Benadek leaped to his feet—with Teress only a heartbeat behind. They rushed to the stretcher. Ameling's halo of short blond hair was unstreaked by gray, and her eyes were chicory-blue, like the horizon on a bright, clear day. The angry red blotches that had marred her skin were gone: her forehead was smooth, pale, creamy, and her cheeks had just the slightest rosy blush.

"Are you okay?" Benadek asked softly, his vision blurring as he fumbled with her restraints.

"I'd forgotten how it felt to be well," Ameling said in soft, smooth tones without a hint of scratchiness. "I feel . . . young."

"You are," Teress said. "It worked. Benadek's plan worked."

Benadek hardly noticed Teress's admission of his identity. He turned aside, and his broad honch-shoulders shook with the intensity of his weeping. His throat ached with the effort to stifle sobs that nonetheless pushed forth. Teress's eyes darted from Ameling to Benadek to Ameling . . . "Go to him," the lovely blond poot commanded her. "He needs you."

Benadek sank to his knees when Teress reached out to him. He buried his face in her midriff. She held his head there, her fingers in his hair, so different from the soft, black locks she remembered—yet not so different, not really.

"Sylfie," he moaned, no longer trying to stifle his sobs. "Sylfie is . . . "

"I know," Teress murmured. "I know. It's all right. Sylfie wanted this. She wanted you to succeed, to fix what was wrong with her world—and now you have. She's happy now."

"She's dead!" Benadek wailed. "That's Ameling over there, not Sylfie."

Now he knew what Teress had known all along; after all, there were only a limited number of poot templates, and he was bound to run across someone made in Sylfie's mold sooner or later. Teress was just glad Benadek hadn't recognized Ameling before he had saved the world, and redeemed Sylfie's death—which he, stupid, selfish brat, had caused.

But her anger was gone. Tears wet her cheeks: tears for Sylfie, for Benadek, for Ameling's suffering. Such tears didn't have to be for anyone in particular. She thought of her parents, her village, pure-humans everywhere who had been slain, simples whose human potential had been denied them. Such tears just had to be.

 

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