‘I will not be quiet,’ said Gearheart, bitterly. ‘You take the credit, but it is Kavan who drives our forces north into emptier and emptier territories. And all the while there are decreasing amounts of metal flowing back into this city, and you know it. Kavan will break himself on those empty hills, and then you will claim the credit for the conquest he has made.’
‘I do what is best for Artemis,’ said Spoole simply.
‘You do what is best for yourself,’ replied Gearheart. ‘The same is true of this whole city now. We hide here in safety and send other robots to do our work for us. We have forgotten Nyro’s way.’
‘What we are doing is successful, Gearheart. How can what you say be true whilst Artemis still grows?’
‘We both know I speak the truth, Spoole. Look at me – what use am I now, in this broken body? If we were true to Nyro then this body would be taken away and melted. The metal of my mind broken down so that it could be spawned anew, and a new robot could walk on Penrose.’
‘Your mind is your mind, Gearheart. It is a unique and beautiful thing. I realize that now -’
‘The beauty of my mind was expressed in the metal that I could shape. Look at my body now.’
She waved the bent metal of her hooked arm in despair at the dented and scratched shell in which she sat.
‘My mind was made to twist metal, but what metal can I twist now? I missed my opportunity, Spoole. I should have made a mind with you, and I never did, through foolish pride. What a child we could have made together, Spoole! What a way to serve Nyro that would have been. And now that chance has passed.’
Spoole gazed at the growing map at the far end of the room. ‘It is not Nyro’s way to mourn at what might have been,’ he said.
‘I was a fool,’ said Gearheart bitterly. ‘I remain a fool. I taunt you constantly, Spoole, and you allow me to. You’re a better servant of Nyro than I shall ever be. You have achieved so much. Leave me, Spoole. Your metal should not go untwisted.‘
‘I won’t leave you, Gearheart,’ said Spoole softly.
‘But that’s not Nyro’s way!’
Spoole didn’t answer.
‘Find another woman. Make a child with her. Your metal is strong.’
Spoole gazed at Gearheart, so upset, and he himself felt so guilty. Guilty at what he had done to her, guilty that he really was betraying Nyro by thus keeping her alive.
‘Make a child,’ repeated Gearheart.
‘But I did once make a child,’ replied Spoole.
The Story of Spoole’s Child
Spoole was young and ambitious and going nowhere.
Artemis was growing by the day, leaping across the continent, snapping up all in its way, and Spoole seemed doomed to spend his time trotting along behind, making do with what scraps were left for him, and this filled him with such a cold, aching jealousy that he was scarcely able to remain civil to those around him.
Spoole had been bred for greatness, his mind had been woven for leadership. Surely it was his purpose to command Artemisian divisions to the greater glory of Artemis, yet it was his destiny to always arrive too late, to see the choicest posts and promotions going to the less intelligent, to see the best opportunities offered to the less deserving.
Tonight had been the nadir of his progress. Finally put in charge of a division, Spoole had commanded with diligence and flair, sending his troops forwards again and again against the Bethe defences, only to see them cut down. Too late he had realized what his part in the grand assault was intended to be: a diversion and nothing more. The main force had attacked further to the north, and whilst Spoole and his remaining troops had languished on the plain, the rest of Artemis had poured into Bethe, claiming honour and glory and spoils for themselves.
This realization was too much for Spoole. He had abandoned his command and walked off into the night, feeling lost and alone. Lightning arced across the sky, gravel and stones skittered across the plain, kicked by his metal feet.
‘Nyro,’ he called out, ‘what would you have me do? Why have you had me built like this only to deny me my purpose?’
As if in answer, a tearing noise began in the east, white light spreading across the night like a curtain, waves of photons washing across the continent, pummelling him, pummelling his eyes, pummelling his olive body. Suddenly Spoole was very frightened. He had called out to Nyro, and it seemed as if she was answering.
‘Nyro,’ he said again. ‘Nyro, I know you are long dead. I know that you cannot be speaking to me.’
Who was he speaking to? wondered Spoole. He didn’t believe that Nyro could hear him, and yet he continued to shout into the night. ‘Why weave my mind and not put it to use? What is the point of that? I was made to lead, to command, to strive for the honour and glory of the great state of Artemis and yet, at every turning, Artemis denies me this. Why make me, then?’
The tearing noise became louder and louder, Spoole’s fear increased. What was Nyro trying to say? And then an answer came.
‘If we were Artemisians…’
The words were faint, on the edge of hearing, distorted by the crackle of the electrical storm. Spoole’s fear was a thing so great it set up a standing wave in his mind, it resonated around his body, taking control of his arms and legs. Nyro had answered him!
But that couldn’t really be Nyro speaking! Nyro was long dead. And then realization dawned, and Spoole felt incredibly foolish. His ears were still turned up to their full extent. He placed a hand to the side of his head, felt the overlarge housings that he had built there, the better to keep track of the battle he had commanded. The words he had heard were not intended for his ears, but he had taken them as a reply nonetheless. He scanned the night as the white light faded from the sky. And then he saw who had spoken, who he could still hear speaking now.
Two robots were making love in the middle of an electrical storm.
Spoole was gripped with such jealousy and hatred that he felt quite weak. Their happiness threw fresh light onto his near-despair, making it seem all the blacker. He had nothing to look forward to but a return to Artemis and obscurity, and yet there they both crouched, twisting wire, secure in their own future. What about his future? And then he realized what they were saying. They were discussing how to make their child, whether it should be woven according to the philosophy of Artemis, or Turing City.
Artemis! What did they know about Artemis? The man’s whingeing voice cut through Spoole. What did he know about Artemis, what did he know about Artemisian philosophy? Look what it had done to him, Spoole! The woman’s reply was more measured, but still they argued. How would they make the child? The woman was giving the man the choice, and Spoole was gripped by fury. How dare they? How dare they! At that moment it seemed as if they were mocking him. He raised his rifle to his shoulder, took aim along it, and waited for the man to speak his answer.
And Spoole realized at that point that he didn’t care what answer the man was going to give. He was angry, he just wanted to destroy. The two robots weren’t Artemisians, they were the enemy, and they deserved to die. He fired, and the man died.
Susan was now a fully trained mother, and in Artemis that job brought a certain respect. Okay, she was led every night into the making room, where she knelt at the feet of yet another grey infantryman, but the attitude those men displayed had changed subtly. The contempt had gone to be replaced by something like respect, an acknowledgement that both of them were, in their way, advancing the Artemisian cause.
Or maybe that was just the way that Susan wanted to see it, a way for her to try and make her new existence bearable. Something she needed to believe in as she sought to forget her old life – to put Axel and Karel and their old forge finally out of her mind.
Not that the other women would let her do that. Though they were all, technically, Artemisians now, as they moved from the making rooms to the lecture theatre and back again there were still the looks, the silences, the intimations that she was receiving preferential treatment. It was there in their days spent in evaluating and refreshing and discussing the Artemisian mind; it was there in their nights spent in twisting it anew.