She was an error.
‘Why would we want to go and do that, Becks?’
‘The male support frame is eighty-seven per cent more effective than the female frame as a combat unit.’
‘Well now, I really don’t see why we can’t have one of each of you, you know? A Bob and a Becks. There’re no agency rules, are there, you know, against us having two support units in a team?’
‘Negative. I am not aware of any agency rules on that.’
‘So, well, there you are … why not? We’ll have two of you instead of one.’
The ‘memory’ now nothing more than a compressed low-resolution media clip to allow for more efficient data storage on her hard drive. The image pixellated, the audio flat and tinny. But there was another data file that had been created in that moment: a file that recorded the neuron response in the one small part of her mind that was organic. A file she had no meaningful name for yet — just a useful categorization ident: EmoteResponse-57739929.
‘Have I functioned as efficiently as the Bob unit?’
‘Yes, of course. I don’t know what we’d have done without you so far, Becks.’
The file was a recording of how her mind had reacted in that moment, several thousand synapses in her simple animal mind firing off minute electrical impulses. Perhaps the closest she’d ever come to a genuine emotional response.
As she stared out in perfect stillness and silence at Oxford below — a medieval town in slumber, lit only by the faint and occasional stab of moonlight — she analysed the file, unpacked the data and pored through it, wondering what human emotion the data file EmoteResponse-57739929 most closely approximated.
[Gratitude?]
No, not that. It seemed more than that. Not just a response to a sentence of praise … there was something else. Another factor involved. She ran the figures in her head, played the data on a digital simulation of her organic mind to try and replay that fleeting moment of ‘emotion’.
More than gratitude. It was the recognition of her worth. She amounted to more than an error now.
But that wasn’t it. There remained numbers in the file that were unaccounted for.
She replayed the file, the moment, the memory again and her perfectly still face flickered ever so slightly in response. A hand muscle twitched. This time around she understood the relevant factor. It wasn’t just that her contribution had been praised. It wasn’t that she’d just heard she was going to be allowed to carry on functioning as a support unit after they returned. It was the fact that a particular person had said that to her.
[Liam O’Connor]
In the darkness of her chamber, as a fresh breeze played with the drapes either side of her small window, she slowly cocked her head, unsure what that conclusion meant.
Further processing was halted. She heard the creak of the door to her room and silently turned to observe it easing open and the dark silhouette of a figure step lightly into the room.
The figure crossed the stone floor, with the light tap of leather soles on stone. ‘Lady Rebecca?’ She recognized the soft singsong voice as John’s. ‘’Tis I … do you sleep?’
He wandered over to the bed and started patting the mattress. ‘Lady Rebecca?’
‘I am here!’ Becks replied.
She saw John’s outline lurch in surprise. ‘Good Lord!’ he gasped in the dark. She saw the outline of his head turn one way then the other, then finally settle on her standing beside the window. ‘There you are! Can you not sleep?’
‘Neg- … no, I do not sleep.’
‘Neither can I,’ he confessed, stepping around the end of the bed towards her. ‘I … My mind races with all manner of things. I am deeply troubled.’
He drew up in front of her. Very close. Closer, she noticed, than humans normally stood when in conversation. ‘My mind … it needs soothing. Distracting from these troubles,’ he whispered softly. ‘And you … you, Lady Rebecca, I … I find myself drawn to you …’
She felt the soft touch of a hand on her neck.
[Proximity threat]
She reached up and grasped his wrist firmly.
‘Oooh!’ John chuckled. ‘And this is what I find so alluring about you, my dear! You … you are so wilful!’
[Analysis: subject responding favourably to threat response behaviour]
‘I … liked the way …’ She felt John’s breath on her cheek. Fluttering puffs of hot air. ‘I … loved the way you took care of yourself with that soldier, my dear.’
She realized he was referring to her nearly snapping the neck of one of the guards yesterday. ‘You approve?’
He nodded. ‘Oh, yes! Yes! So … so rare is it to find a woman … a woman like you. So … so …’
‘Strong?’
‘Strong … yes! Lord, yes! A woman who can fight back!’
With one graceful movement, she lifted his feet off the ground and flipped him on to his back. He landed on the hard floor with a percussive grunt and she dropped down heavily on to his chest, knocking the wind out of him. She put a hand round his throat, but at the last moment held back from throttling him.
John struggled on the floor, gurgling, his eyes drawn wide and glinting in the fleeting moonlight. ‘Googh G-Goghhh! Urghhhrhbghady … R-Rebeghhaa!’
Her mind processed the shrill tone of his gurgling voice and the accelerated pulse in his neck and determined that she may just have misinterpreted his meaning.
She released her grip on his throat. ‘I apologize, Sire,’ she said.
John stared up at her in silence, his ragged breath filling the air between them. His thick tawny brows seemed to knit together into an intense mono-brow, an expression she wasn’t familiar enough with him yet to understand.
‘Have I angered you?’ she asked finally.
CHAPTER 42
1194, Nottingham Castle, Nottingham
‘Ye understand this is a fool’s errand?’ said Cabot. ‘The king’s forests are thick with the Hooded Man’s followers! And they fight in a way that suits the forests.’
Liam sighed. A night of sleeping on the matter hadn’t helped. In the cold light of the January morning their situation seemed no better. Coils of smoke from last night’s riot snaked up into the tumbling sky, and the subdued town of Nottingham below seemed to glare back at Liam with malevolence.
‘You understand, Mr Cabot, Bob and me aren’t here to play policemen! The sheriff will have to deal with this on his own!’ He turned to Bob, sitting on an oak bench beside the window and gazing out at the town. ‘Bob? Tell him!’
‘Mission priority is retrieving the artefact called The Grail,’ he rumbled, his eyes remaining on the rooftops of Nottingham.
‘William De Wendenal is nothing but a wastrel, a drunkard! His men are deserting!’ Cabot shook his head. ‘I had no idea the authority of John was this far gone! I had no idea how bad — ’
‘I’m sorry! But we can’t stay here. We have to go find the Grail!’
‘Do ye not understand, Liam? If law and order falls in this country; if chaos reigns … it is an invitation for civil war! The barons will tear this country into pieces for themselves. Worse still, it is an invitation to France to invade, to plunder England. And by God they will, if they catch wind of this!’
‘Maybe … maybe,’ Liam said, rubbing at tired eyes, ‘but that’s a whole other mission, so it is.’ He turned away from the window. ‘We need the men out there patrolling the forests. We need to find this Hood!’
‘Patrolling the forests! There be barely enough soldiers here to hold the castle! And out there — out in the forests, they would be cut down!’
Liam suspected Cabot was right. The few men left in the castle were either frightened old men or even more frightened boys. Getting them to even consider patrolling the town around the castle would be an endeavour beyond him, let alone organizing a systematic sweep of Sherwood Forest.