“They’re on their way,” Doctor Obsidian said.
“And... action!” Chrysoprase said, with a dramatic flourish.
Ruby moved her human as a human might move a dolclass="underline" not by inhabiting it, and seeing the world from its perspective, but by imposing motion on it from outside. Her intentions were translated into signals fed directly into the passenger’s motor cortex, and the passenger responded accordingly. Countess Mavrille settled a hand on the window railing, and turned—with a certain stiff yet regal elegance—to survey the other ninety-three humans. The promenade deck was now abuzz with conversation, movement, and lively string music. Chandelier light glinted off brocades, pearls and precious metals.
Did it look real, Ruby wondered? It did not look unreal, which she supposed was a start. If she squinted—if she dropped her image resolution—it was almost enough to persuade her that this was a real gathering. The conversation rose and fell in familiar surges; there were exclamations, awkward silences and outbreaks of strained but otherwise credible laughter. The humans formed into groups and broke away from those groups in ways that seemed natural. Someone dropped a glass: a nice, if attention-grabbing touch. She resisted the urge to bustle out and attend to the breakage.
A man sidled over to Countess Mavrille and extended a hand. She recognised him from the biographical file: her consort, Count Mavrille.
“A dance, my dear?”
“I thought I would enjoy the view a little longer.”
The Count pressed his mouth close to the ear of her passenger. “Well, don’t enjoy it too closely: it’s meant to fool them, but not us.”
She made her passenger smile. The initial effect was a fractionally too feral, so she hastily modified the expression. She had observed that humans rarely showed all their teeth at once. “Is it... you?”
“Who else, Rube?” Carnelian answered, speaking through her consort. Then he nodded over his shoulder. “Here they are. Look natural, and—remember—no scene-stealing!”
The elevator doors opened and three people came out. Two appeared to be a couple; the third must have been a solo passenger who had joined them on the way up from the revival suites. Ruby studied their faces and mouths, easily achieved without having Countess Mavrille face them directly. Even without audio-pickup it was evident from their clipped interactions that they were engaged in reserved small talk. Abruptly, the lone passenger broke off, dashed to a tall table set with drinks, and came back with three full goblets. The couple accepted the drinks with politeness rather than enthusiasm, perhaps realising that their companion was going to be harder to shake off than initially assumed.
So far, though, Ruby thought, and so good. The three were sufficiently preoccupied with themselves not to be paying more than passing attention to the other guests, and that was exactly as it ought to be. Around them the conversation went on, and the three newcomers seemed to melt into the throng as if they had always belonged. Presently, the elevator doors opened again, and the remaining three humans arrived from their suites. The lone passenger gestured to these newcomers, inviting them to join the initial party, while paying no particular heed to the ninety-four puppets.
“Why aren’t they mingling?” Ruby asked, speaking directly from the mouth of Countess Mavrille, for Carnelian’s benefit alone.
“You tell me, Rube: you’re a better observer of human nature than any of the rest of us. I suppose we just have to give them time: let these six get fed up with each other’s witticisms and anecdotes, then start looking for pastures new. What we won’t want to do is rush the process...” Carnelian—who had been speaking from the mouth of the Count—trailed off. “Oh, that’s not good.” He switched to the robots-only channel. “Chrysoprase: are you sure you don’t want to give them just a little...”
“I shall be the judge of such matters, Carnelian. These humans must be persuaded to interact with the ninety-four, or we shall learn nothing of our readiness.”
One of the puppets had grabbed a glass and was striding intently towards the six newcomers. Ruby knew that stride very well. Chrysoprase could not help but impose his own gait on the puppet.
“Give them time,” Carnelian urged.
“Confine your anxieties to matters related to the propulsion system, Carnelian: leave these weightier concerns to those of us with the necessary sentience. You’ve been a little too ready with your opinions ever since I allowed you onto the board of critics.”
“That’s you told,” Ruby said.
Chrysoprase’s puppet had arrived at the six. He swaggered into their conversation, leaning an elbow onto their table. Thrown by this crass intrusion, the six drew back. Chrysoprase carried on with his blustering performance, babbling away and staring at each of them.
Ruby watched and waited, expecting the act to falter.
It held, and continued to hold.
Chrysoprase was pointing to the window now, declaiming loudly as he indicated this or that feature of the view. Perhaps it was more a guarded tolerance, the tacit understanding that the six might have some fun at the expense of their boorish gatecrasher, but his hosts seemed to be willing to take him at face value: just another tipsy passenger, celebrating the success of the crossing.
Now one of them was even pouring some of their own drink into his puppet’s glass.
“The brazen fool... is nearly getting away with it,” Carnelian said. “He’s right, Rube: it was all or nothing. And if he can keep this up for a few more minutes I might even start...”
“He’s forgotten to blink,” Ruby said.
“He’s forgotten to what?”
“It’s a maintenance sub-routine they do.” She blinked Countess Mavrille’s eyes. “If they don’t do it, their visual system stops working properly. We don’t need to do it because we’re not using their eyes. But Chrysoprase has forgotten to do it at all. Any moment now, one of them’s going to notice, and...”
“Oh dear.”
The humans were all looking at Chrysoprase now. He had no idea what had gone adrift with his performance. He was still babbling away, wide-eyed and uncomprehending. One of the humans pinched at his cheek, as if to test its reality. Another tousled his hair, a little too roughly. Another flicked a finger-full of wine into his face, then an entire glass, then the glass itself.
Chrysoprase looked back, the first hints of confusion beginning to break through his sodden and bloodied mask.
Now the voices of the six were taking on a rising, hysterical edge. One of them grabbed Chrysoprase’s head and tried to force him down onto the table. Another picked up a bar stool and began swinging it against him.
“Help me!” Chrysoprase said. “I am being damaged!”
All but one of the ninety-three other puppets turned in unison and made a coordinated move in the direction of offering assistance. Ruby did not move herself, content to observe, and she took the additional step of restraining Carnelian before he had taken a further step.
“This will not end well,” she whispered. “And you and I won’t make any difference whatsoever.”
She was correct in her prediction: it did not end well at all. Not for the six, and not particularly well for many of the puppets either.
There were two redeeming aspects to the whole affair, nonetheless. It was clear that they were going to have to do a much better job than merely puppeting the humans. If Chrysoprase had been wearing his human, seeing the world through its eyes, he might at least have remembered that it was useful to blink.