"I've done what I can, Shih Ward, but it's in danger of damaging itself. Some of the chemicals it's throwing down—"
"I know," Kim said, anxious now that he'd seen how agitated the creature was. Something had pushed it over the edge. Something or someone . . .
"Ravachol!" he called, walking toward it. "Come, now, you've got to stop that!"
The android stopped and turned, staring at him, the knife held out threateningly. Kim made to take a further step, but the Captain grabbed his arm and pulled him back.
"No, sir. I can't let you. Director Reiss—"
Kim shrugged himself free, but the Captain took his arm again, more firmly this time. "I've orders, Shih Ward. It's too dangerous. If you should be hurt—"
"He's right," Curval said, coming up beside him. "Look at it. It's gone. Look at its eyes. It doesn't even recognize you. It's what we feared. Its neural matrix has destabilized completely."
Kim stared at it. It had been stable this past week, but Curval was right; it had degenerated badly. Even so, he wanted to go to it—to try and reason with it.
"It's dangerous," the Captain said. "I've already got two men in the hospital. If it comes at us my men have orders to stun it, but that may not be enough. It's very strong and its nervous system may not respond the same way as a human's."
Kim nodded, understanding what the Captain was really saying. He didn't want to take any risks. He wanted to kill it, before it did any further damage.
"What else did the Director say?"
"Reiss will be here within the hour," Curval answered. "Let him sort this one out."
Kim shook his head. "No. I can't do that." He sighed, then turned to the duty officer. "Give me your gun, Captain. I made it, I'll destroy it."
The Captain stared at Curval a moment, then, shrugging, unhol-stered his pistol and handed it to him. Kim weighed it in his hand a moment, then, looking directly at the creature, began to walk toward it.
"Ravachol? Do you know who I am?"
It stood there, perfectly still, watching him approach. When Kim was only ten ch'i or so from it, it raised a hand, shielding its eyes, as if it were staring into brilliant sunlight.
"Kim? Is that you?"
"It's me."
It opened its mouth, hesitated, then shook its head. Looking down, it frowned, as if it didn't understand what had caused the mess that surrounded it. Its feet were leaking blood and there was a faint sparking down one side, the slightest hint of burning.
"It's . . . growing dark," it said, looking back at Kim, bewildered. "I can't . . ."
It seemed to freeze, then, with a tiny jerk, began to move again. Its eyes blinked violently, its left hand juddered, dropping the knife.
"You're not well," Kim said quietly. "You keep forgetting."
It nodded, but it was as if it only half understood. Curval was right. It had gone. There was nothing they could do for it now. Nothing but end its misery. He raised the gun.
"What are you doing?" it asked. "What is that?"
Release, Kim thought, and pulled the trigger.
The detonation shocked him. It was much louder than he'd imagined. He stared at his hand, then traced a line to where Ravachol had been standing. He was gone . . . no, he was down, there, beside the bench. Kim stepped closer, then stood over the creature, setting the gun down beside it.
Where the bullet had hit its chest was a jagged hole through which a strange amalgam of wiring and organic matter could be glimpsed, silver and red. Locked into some obsolete program, its left leg made climbing movements in the air, while its eyes stared straight ahead. The smell was stronger now—the scent of burnt plastic mixed with burning flesh.
Kim crouched over it, pained by the sight, wanting to hold the thing and comfort it in its final moments, but something stopped him. It wasn't dying. You couldn't say that it was dying, for it had never really been alive. It had only seemed alive. But for once that distinction seemed meaningless. Ravachol had been more than a machine—more than a simple thing of wires and flesh. Kim hesitated, then, conscious that others were watching him, put his hand out and brushed the hair back from the android's forehead.
It was warm, just as a dying man was warm. And all its memories . . .
Even as the thought formed, Ravachol's eyes blinked and snapped shut. There was a tiny tremor through the body, then it was still.
Gone, he thought. It's gone. . . .
But where? Where did the soul of a machine depart to?
The thought disturbed him, darkening his thoughts, for just as he was conscious of having made Ravachol, he was conscious also that something—some force or creature greater than himself—had fashioned him. For the first time he had a strong, clear sense of it.
Copies, he thought, nodding to himself. We are all copies of some greater thing.
He stood, then walked back to where Curval was waiting.
"Are you all right?"
Kim shrugged. "I don't know. I'm not even sure I want to think about it."
Curval smiled sadly at him. "Maybe you should take the day off.
Have a break from it."
"No. We have to begin again. This morning. I want the body in the autopsy room by seven. We can take scans, slices . . . find out what went wrong. And next time"—Kim took a long, shivering breath— "next time we get it right."
Curval nodded, then touched his arm. "Okay. I'll get things moving straight away."
AT FIRST LIGHT Emily went down to the market on Fifty-one, walking through the echoing openness of Main as stallholders set up their barrows and old men sat on benches listening to the caged birds sing.
It was the time of day she liked best; the time when anything seemed possible. Each day was new, filled with possibility, and no matter how many times she had been disappointed, she had always welcomed the dawn.
At the Blue Pagoda tea house she took a seat at an empty table. Within an hour the place would be packed, but just now there were scarcely more than a dozen people there. Yu I, the proprietor, saw her and came across, smiling his gap-toothed smile and bowing to her, as if she were a princess, his hands tucked into his voluminous sleeves.
"Ra-chel," he said, his old eyes twinkling playfully. "Is a long time since you come."
"I've been busy, Lao Jen. I came back only last night. But I've missed this place. Your ch'a is renowned for fifty stacks."
He bowed again, delighted by her compliment. "And what will you have, Nu Shih? A Sparrow Tongue, perhaps? Or a Water Fairy?"
She smiled broadly. "A T'ieh Lo'han would be nice, Yu I. A large chung. And some chiao tzu if you have any."
"Nu Shih . . ." He nodded, then backed away, hurrying off to fill her order.
From rails overhead more cages hung—elaborate things of painted wire. She looked up at them, listening to the birds, watching a tiny chaffinch puff out his chest. How he sang! So full of joy ... or was it avian pride? She smiled, then looked about her. At a nearby table a young, shaven-headed boy sat beside his grandfather. He was staring at her in that pure, unembarrassed way children have, his dark eyes big and round. Emily smiled at him then looked away.
Pockets of normality . . . that was what it was all reduced to these days. Brief moments—like this—of sanity before the mayhem began again.
A young waiter came across, setting a pale lavender chung beside her. He produced a rounded bowl and polished it on his sleeve before setting it before her.