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XII

Human Interlude

"Ah, no." Sam slid away from him, across the seat, until her back hit the door on the passenger's side.

Turner opened his eyes. "Eh?"

"Your legs."

He woke up fast, sitting up straight. "They're stronger, Sam. Better."

"They're metal." Made from bundled cables, they had more than one joint.

"Don't." He looked as if he were breaking inside. "This is no different from my arm."

"It is different. It's—it's too much."

"Sam—"

"No!" She felt lost. "I don't understand why you even want a lover."

"You think I stop feeling because my limbs change?"

"Do you?"

"No."

"How far will you change?"

"Listen." He stretched out his arm, but the truck was too wide for him to reach her, so he laid his hand on the seat. "When I've recharged, I'll change them into something that looks more human."

"Will you look like Turner?" She wondered if he realized what he had said. Recharge. Not sleep.

He tried to smile. "Don't I?"

"Your face does." That face she was coming to love, the way his mouth quirked on one side, the way his lashes lowered over his blue eyes, the way his hair stuck up over his right ear. "But for how long?"

"I won't change it."

"What happened to the tissues from your legs?"

"I consumed the material for fuel. To transform fast enough while running, I needed every resource I had."

Sam felt as if she were in an existential play where she had no script. She wanted to reach out to him, but her mind was whirling. How far would he go? She wasn't ready for this.

"How much longer will we be driving?" she asked.

"Sam, don't." When she didn't answer, he leaned his head back on the headrest and stared out the windshield. "Most of the night."

"They'll find us before then."

"I doubt it. I covered my tracks."

"Even you have limits."

"What do you want me to say? That I'll go back?"

"No." Sam felt torn in two directions. "If Granger's people can't capture us, they might destroy you. They can only see the danger in you, Turner, even more if you keep changing." She struggled to put into words the emotions she had so much trouble expressing. "It matters to me that they don't hurt you."

His posture eased and warmth came back into his voice. "We'll be safe with my friends." He spoke with reluctance. "If you want me to let you off somewhere, I will."

"I'll stay with you." They could both end up dead if this backfired, but she wouldn't desert him. She managed a smile. "Besides, if I turn away now, I'll never learn the truth about the Alley."

Turner held out his hand to her. "Come sit with me."

Sam knew if she went across that seat, she was making far more of a commitment than moving across a truck. But if she didn't go to him now, when he needed her acceptance, he might never give her another chance.

She slid over to him. He put his arm around her and bent his head, his cheek rubbing hers as if he were searching for something. When Sam turned her head toward him, he found her lips with his. He kissed like whiskey, intoxicating and warm. She closed her eyes, savoring his kiss, and tried to forget the rest.

* * *

Sam gradually surfaced from her doze. Her body ached, especially her bandaged arm, the price of sleeping while leaning against another person. She opened her eyes to see harvested fields rushing past, nothing but stumps of grain left, a few bales scattered here and there.

Turner shifted at her side, his arms around her.

"Awake?" she asked.

"I think so." He rubbed his eyes, looking so human it made her hurt. What had he been like before Charon changed him? As an EI, he had an intellect beyond what the original Turner Pascal had possessed. His alert, ever-changing mind was one reason she found him so attractive, but she doubted his basic personality had changed.

"What are you thinking?" he asked.

"You used to be a bellboy, yes?"

"That's right." He sounded pensive. "It seems like years ago."

"For an EI matrix, a few weeks are years."

"Why do you ask?"

"Back then, were your interests like now?"

"You mean, manipulating the meshes?" When she nodded, he said, "Not at all. I knew nothing about them." He spoke wistfully. "I played softball every Saturday with the guys from work. I liked to paint landscapes. I had this little cubbyhole in my apartment with a lot of windows that I used as a studio."

Sam wished she could have known him then. "Did you show your paintings at a gallery?"

"Lord, no." He reddened. "I never showed anyone."

She curled closer to his side. "I'll bet they're beautiful." In her experience, the most talented artists were often the least vocal about it. "I'd love to see your work, if you don't mind my looking."

"I—I don't know." He sounded self-conscious but then he laughed softly. "My cats appreciated it. They used to sleep in my studio."

"You like cats?" She had never had a pet, except the guinea pig that died when she was six. She had decided then that it hurt too much to lose those you loved. Perhaps that was why she had been afraid to care for anyone since Richard's death.

"I had two tabbies and a German shepard." His smile faded. "When I ran away from Charon, I had to leave them behind. No one knows, but I checked on them before I left. My friend Jake took them in. At least they're okay."

She heard what he didn't say. "You miss them."

"Yes. Everyone. My whole life." Moisture showed in his eyes. He had human tear ducts; he could cry tears as real as anyone else.

"I'm sorry," she murmured.

"Ah, well." His mood seemed to pick up. "If we ever get our lives back, I'd like to take up painting again."

Sam had always assumed the human mind would outdo an EI in creativity, but now she wasn't sure. The urge to create existed within Turner, and as an EI, his unpredictable jumps of thought showed more imagination than many humans. It sobered her; if formas could outdo them in so many ways, what did that leave the human race? She knew only that Turner was a miracle she didn't want to see hurt.

Outside, the moon had descended to the horizon. They were driving through the middle of nowhere, the stubbly remains of fields stretching in every direction, no town or road in sight.

Sam stretched her cramped arms. "Where are we?"

"Iowa."

"Good Lord."

He brushed her hair off her face. "You remind me of those characters in Japanese anime films."

"You like anime?" She had seen some of the animated movies, adventures in space done by Japanese filmmakers.

"I love it." He studied her face. "You look like a princess in one of the series. She has this mane of hair, huge eyes just like you, and a face like a kid."

Sam almost groaned. Her youthful face had plagued her entire adult life. Regardless of what she achieved, people who didn't know her assumed she was inexperienced because she looked young. That had advantages, though; competitors often underestimated her. Time after time she had won grants, positions, or status because she had been a step ahead and a level above where they expected to find her.

She glowered at Turner. "Are you saying I look like a child?"

His lips curved. "I'm saying you're pretty, you dolt."

"Oh." She reddened. "Uh . . . thanks."

"You're welcome."

"You're not so bad either." She loved to look at him. His changes disconcerted her, but he still attracted her. Admit it, Sam told herself. You're curious. She laid her palm on his thigh. The cables of his leg felt ridged through the cloth. She slid her hand along them. Most ran lengthwise, but a few wrapped around them, bundling the cables into joints.

"Can you feel my hand?" she asked.

His voice deepened. "Oh, yes."

"Do you like it?"

"Very much."

Her exploration turned into a caress. "The human brain creates pleasure for the body. How can a matrix do that?"

"Its neural tangles talk to my sensors."

"Tangles?"

"Ganglia." Perspiration sheened his forehead. "So the sensors, uh, sense. A lot."

"Good," she whispered. The cab had become hot.

Turner rubbed his hand across her abdomen, caressing her with cabled fingers. It flustered her that it felt good. She moved her hand up to his thigh until she found where the transformed leg ended at his human hip socket.

"You aren't metal here," she said.

He spoke huskily. "No, I'm not."

A flush spread through her. "So you're, umm, still human in certain . . ."

"Why don't you see?" He massaged her arm, the ridges of his hand making her skin tingle through her sleeve. Then he tugged the collar of her jumpsuit, and its seam opened halfway down her chest. She jerked as his cabled fingers slipped inside and over her bare skin. She had been fumbling with the clasp on his trousers, but now she stopped.

"Go ahead," he whispered.

Pressed against his side, Sam felt his pulse; a heart beat inside that beautiful body. It was one of his organs that survived the accident. It helped to know, somehow. She slipped her hand inside his trousers and held him. She should have just stayed that way, but her curiosity wouldn't rest. She let go of him and ran her fingers along the seam where his human hip met his biomech leg. The metal felt cold, unyielding. Inhuman.

She tried to pull away, but he wouldn't let go of her. He tightened his embrace, his metal hand cupped around her breast. "Sam, don't tease."

"I'm not. I—I don't know if I can handle this."

"Do you want me to stop?"

Did she? Would she react this way if his limbs were prosthetics? No. Except prosthetics didn't change. It distracted her the way she and Turner had steamed up the windows. She wanted to tell him, to draw his attention to it, but she stopped, forced herself to focus, to deal with this. If she cared for him, she had to accept him, and she wouldn't know if she could unless she tried.

"No." She laid her palm against his chest. "Don't stop."

He leaned close, bringing his lips to her ear. "All right." His exhalation tickled the sensitive ridges inside her ear, and his caresses slowed, lingering on her curves. His gaze took on that inward quality, and a light flashed on the dashboard. The seat moved back, enough to let him slide down and kneel on the floor between her legs. Then he leaned forward and took her breast into his mouth.

Sam let her head fall back on the seat, her hands tangling in his hair. He was driving her just as crazy as he had the first time they had made love. Gradually he eased off her clothes. His tenderness, the care he took when he touched her—it made a difference. He acted more human than people in the fast-paced biomech world she had fled six months ago.

Sam lifted her head. "I want to see you." She tugged at his sweater. "All of you."

He sat back on his heels. "Are you sure?"

"Yes." She felt too hot. "I'm sure."

"All right."

She helped pull off his shirt. As he undressed, the lights from the dash reflected off his legs. More supple than human limbs, they looked longer than before. With care, he stretched her across the seat. She was small enough to fit lengthwise, but just barely. He was too tall to stretch out, so he lay with his hips on hers, his legs bent up where the knees would have been. His thighs were cold, the metal pressing her. Sam felt confused, wanting him yet disquieted by his changes. When she tried to pull him close, she banged her knee on the steering wheel.

"Ow." She laughed, low and throaty. "We don't have room."

He gave her a sultry smile, then sat up and pulled her so she was sitting between his thighs with her legs around his hips. As they fitted themselves together, she wrapped her arms around his neck. They moved together, rocking back and forth, flesh on metal, one of his hands warm and alive, the other biomech. Sam finally let herself go, hazing with pleasure. Her last thought, before she submerged into that human deluge of sensation, was that she had crossed a threshold in her own conception of humanity and could never go back again.

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Framed