Then False Nomun slipped away, making a small whimpering sound deep in his throat.
«Well,» said Blue Nomun. «Just us.» He watched Nomun with too-bright eyes. «I side with the frightened one. It is you, old one, is it not?»
Nomun shrugged helplessly. He felt a strong desire to tell the cyborg of his memory loss, but held back, afraid to admit to any weakness.
«You will not say? I’m not surprised. What I cannot understand is this: why have you chosen to expose yourself to the same dangers your victims face? Madness does not nm strongly in the Nomun flesh. None of us seem truly psychotic, with the possible exception of the fop.» Blue Nomun rubbed his metal hands delicately across his human face. «Well, no matter,» he said, and walked into the jungle.
Young Nomun’s eyes were large. «Is it true? Are you the one?»
‘The cyborg is losing function,» Nomun said, and after he said it, he saw that it was true. «He won’t last much longer; the situation is too novel.»
The sun was almost gone, and Dead Nomun stirred threateningly. «Go or die,» it said.
«I prefer to go,» said Young Nomun. He looked at the killmech with a trembling smile.
«Go, then,» said Nonrun. «I’ll follow at a hundred paces. Call out if you need me. Loudly.»
The second node rose more steeply than the first, and the crystal growths grew more massively from the memwort’s back. However, Nomun moved with greater ease, as he grew used to the terrain. He could hear Young Nomun ahead, crunching through the ground frost.
The light in the jungle was still blue, and glancing back, Nomun could see no sign of the Blood Moon. Perhaps the moon would not rise until he had reached the second intemode. The thought cheered Nomun, and he increased his speed. He began to catch an occasional glimpse of Young Nomun, who seemed able to maintain a good pace, despite the blow to his head. Nomun was pleased. The young one was, as far as he could tell, the only truly human person among them. I wondei' if any of us deserve to survive...? Nomun thought.
By the time the Blood Moon showed above the canopy, Nomun was almost happy. When the jungle began to pulse with the hot light, he slowed a little, took more care with his movements. Perhaps they might both survive. Who knew what waited for them at the nremwort’s last node; perhaps rescue, or even reward?
These pleasant thoughts occupied him for long minutes, to such an extent that he did not notice the storm until Young Nomun shouted, and the brilliance swept over him, washing everything away.
... And he docked his ship with the dllvermoon beanstalk. The terminal habitats glowed, their thousands of ports like colored spangles sewn to the black cloak of space. He watched the curving silver of the planet’s hull, until Iris ship sheathed herself in the cradle.
He shut down the ship’s systems one by one. The noises he had lived with during the month-long return from Mavark died away and left him alone with his triumph. Alive. He was still alive.
When he stepped down into the concourse, he was surprised by the size of the crowd. Every comer of that vast space was packed with newsels, each equipped with a camera. Every eye, human and machine, was fixed on him.
A semicircle of red-uniformed guards held open a space directly before him. An old herman in elegant Dilvermoon garments bowed to him, his/her face composed into lines of dignified joy.
«Greetings, Nomun,» he/she said, in a rich strong voice. «Dilvermoon is honored by your presence. The world is yours.»
A roar came from the crowd and Nomun smiled.
After the speeches, after the questions, after Nomun’s triumphant procession through the crowd, the old herman and his/her guards escorted Nomim to the beanstalk, and they rode down toward Dilvermoon in an expensively appointed private car.
The herman splashed a pale mauve liquid into a goblet of pink corundum and handed it to Nomun.
«What is this?» Nomun asked. The liquor had a heavy sweet fragrance; Nomun thought of tropical flowers and rot «Mavark brandy, Emancipator. You appreciate the irony?» Nomun set the goblet down, untasted. «To an extent.»
«That is a precious substance, Emancipator; far more so now that you have freed the serfs that formerly went down into the heatlands. You know, to collect the fruit from which it was made.» The herman sipped from his/her own goblet; his/her old face softened with delight. «My combine is particularly grateful to you. We control three hundred megaliters; we’ll profit heavily before the former serfs resume the harvest.»
«They’ll never do so. Humans die too easily in the heatlands.» The herman laughed, though not rudely. «This is the first great revolution you have made, is it not? I suppose idealism is a necessity to one like you, still young in your craft. As necessary as a knowledge of weapons and tactics.»
The old herman wore condescension like a second skin, but Nomun smiled. What did it matter? He was Nomun. The universe was his.
The herman returned his smile. «You’re amused? That’s good. The drop to the shell will take thirty minutes; make yourself comfortable.» The herman pointed to a deep soft chair by the videopanel, and Nomun sat down.
The herman settled into a chair opposite Nomun’s, raised his/her goblet and drank again. «So. Tell me, is it good to be a famous lion?»
«Yes. Of course.»
«Of course. But surely there are drawbacks?»
Nomun let his smile slip away. «Not that I’ve noticed. Educate me, please.»
«That would be presumptuous. What could I, a simple trader, teach a great emancipator? Yes, you will be great, Nomun. I’ve predicted this, and prediction... that’s my skill. I’m rarely wrong. You have all the qualities you will need to be first in your profession: intelligence, mthlessness, will, courage, reckless commitment»
Nomun’s heart filled.
«I see that I have pleased you,» he/she said. «But consider. With great fame comes great change. A new set of problems. For example; your cells will become very valuable to the doners. A child of your flesh will bring a fine price in the market of any world to which your fame has penetrated. As your fame grows the price will grow too.»
Nomun, transfixed by the glitter of his/her knowing eyes, could not respond. The light in the car seemed to dim, and the herman’s voice dropped to an intimate purr. «Irony, that is the true constant in life, don’t you agree, Great Nomun? You have made your lifework the freeing of slaves; but your competence at that work will generate a vast number of new slaves. And all of them will be you.»
Nomun stood abruptly, moved to the nearest port, looked down upon Dilvermoon’s steel surface. «I’ll guard my flesh. What you suggest won’t happen.»
The herman laughed. «Did you not feel the touches as you moved through the crowd? Show me your hands, Great Nomun.» Nomun raised his hands, looked at them. They trembled as he turned them over. Tiny red scratches marked both sides.
W hen the light faded, Nomun found himself lying under a heavy horizontal crystal, pressed back into the hollow, as if he hid from some enemy too terrible to fight. He lay there, heart pounding, examining his hands in the exhausted blue light. They were covered with scars, large and small. A thin white knife cut crossed the back of his left hand, two fingers and the thumb of the right hand bore ringscars where missing digits had been regrown. Inconclusive, he thought His pivfession was evidently a violent one.
Eventually he got to his feet, moved on through the jungle. Within thirty meters, he came upon Young Nomun, leaning against a column of milky crystal, forehead pressed to the cool surface. In approaching, Nomun made some small sound, and Young Nomun whirled, wide-eyed.