Too, Too Solid Flesh Read online

  Too, Too Solid Flesh

  Nick O’Donohoe

  1

  The end was always the same: bodies sprawled and witnesses standing, weapons dropped and no help coming, everything frozen in sudden, inevitable death.

  Then those standing creaked into the empty mechanisms of mourning. “Give order that these bodies/High on a stage be placed to the view—”

  As they bent over the corpses, the flylights descended. Each light panel, black-draped, resembled a coffin-lid.

  The living easily raised the dead’s pallets. Corner posts appeared between pallet and panel, creating hovering biers.

  The company marched slowly into the aisles. The flylights, humming loudly, zoomed low over the audience and flipped.

  The audience gasped. The lights shone into the ceiling and beyond, creating a luminous cathedral vault hundreds of meters high. The sky was frighteningly empty. Someone in the audience murmured nervously, “Where is all the life?”

  The flylights droned in open fifths, then added a lower octave, deep and overpowering.

  The lights swooped back to the stage, flipping upright above the assembled cast, who bowed low once. The lights bobbed in sync and floated into their ceiling slots, dimming as the houselights came on.

  The audience left, talking. A few clapped halfheartedly. The cast conversed good-naturedly, acknowledging no change between real life and performance.

  Only Hamlet stood apart. A fortyish, pudgy man in a tunic shuffled nervously toward the stage and beckoned with clumsy, jerky movements to Hamlet, who stared a moment, then bent to hear him.

  “Nice show,” the man quavered. His hands moved quickly, playing with the two rows of live rosebud buttons, his only concession to fashionable livewear, on his tunic. He was barely audible, painfully shy. “Very, very nice.”

  “Thank you,” Hamlet said loudly.

  The man blushed and flinched. Hamlet added, even more loudly, “Did you want something else?”

  He fell back, breathing open-mouthed and staring at Hamlet. He all but closed his eyes, wobbling slightly and pressing his hands tightly to his breasts. A rose petal fell. “I would like it very much,” he whispered, “if you would—”

  Hamlet said, “What?” in his acting voice. Heads turned at the back of the theater. “You would like it very much if I would—”

  “Nothing.” He was gone, skipping frantically down the aisle, into the lobby and out into the anonymous Manhattan streets. Hamlet noted the man’s limp: it was unusual, these days, to see an uncorrected abnormality.

  A shaven-headed man even taller than Hamlet called, “You. Hamlet.” Beside the bald man, a slender, frightened blonde woman cringed, fingers lightly on his arm.

  Hamlet, gauging the man, bowed. “Your humble servant.” But Hamlet did not look humble.

  The man’s voice was sharp. “You stabbed Claudius’s throat several times. That was good. Who thought of that?”

  “No living man,” Hamlet intoned solemnly, but he was pleased. “I stole it from Edwin Booth. Nineteenth century actor.” He peered at the man’s livewool collar; it was stiff and rigid, like a military uniform.

  “You should have stabbed him more.”

  The woman beside him shivered, her blonde hair waving. “Eric, please.” She parted her lips, running her hand up and down his arm. Tiny pools of diatoms, embedded in her nails, flashed under the stage flylights.

  “But I stabbed once for each of the dead,” Hamlet said firmly, still caught up in the language of the play. “Steel for the stolen, cuts for the cut down—”

  “You should have stabbed more,” Eric insisted. “And twisted—” He demonstrated with his free arm. The woman shrieked. Eric said automatically, “Silence, Mary.” Her mouth snapped shut as though she had never laughed.

  To Hamlet he said, “Another thing—that lighting effect?” His hand rested on the woman’s shoulder, fingers tapping her spine. She arched away, but did not step free.

  “Pillars of ice, embracing empty sky.” Hamlet nodded, and, as it often did, the stage took him over. “This world-cathedral, bleak with sacrifice—”

  “It was from Hitler’s Germany, wasn’t it?” The bald man smiled triumphantly. The woman squeaked at an unseen hand movement of his. “The Nuremberg Rally, a hundred years ago. Albert Speer turned searchlights straight up.”

  Hamlet now recognized where he had seen the cloak-collar before: it was a retrocopy of Nazi greatcoats. A few people had worn such cloaks to the theater before; Hamlet had made a costume note about them.

  He nodded curtly to Eric. “Well seen and well remembered. It was a minor addition, to amuse people like yourself, fond of a bygone era.” He paused as though catching himself. “Though perhaps you only like its fashions and its architecture.”

  Someone snickered. The bald man scowled and left, dropping his hand from the woman’s neck.

  She came forward eagerly. Her dress, living leather, was too tight, and her necklace, a Midgard Snake teased from some tropical species, was large-scaled and chained at the back with a clasp that looked awkward to open alone. “You were wonderful,” she said breathlessly. “It was almost a Free Zone.”

  Hamlet raised an eyebrow. “The play deserves some credit—”

  “I’ve never seen Eric so angry.” She shivered again.

  Hamlet, glancing quickly at her outfit, shifted character and shook his head meekly. “I meant no harm.”

  “But it was beautiful.” Impulsively she let her hand rest on his arm. “You sounded so fierce, so forceful, so heroic—” She seemed to be pleading for help.

  “Mary.” Eric, from the lobby door, said no more than that. She turned, terrified, and ran on painfully high stiletto heels.

  Hamlet watched the rest of the cast leave: Polonius, paternally arm-in-arm with a young red-haired woman; Osric gliding beside a man and a woman dressed androgynously and alike; Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, sandwiching a plump woman in black with a restless livemink fur, her arms sliding slowly and inevitably down their backs. Only Horatio was missing.

  Hamlet slumped, looking lost, lonely, and very young.

  Gas hissed from the stage walls as the screenjets cut out. The roughhewn walls of Elsinore vanished, leaving concrete blocks, plastic pipes, wiring conduits, projection minilamps, and ban-diode gauges.

  The paint was chipped. On the bare blocks were spray-painted names, stenciled warnings against toxic chemicals, and a tattered bulletin on the livepulp letterhead of the Globe Hamlet Troupe, warning that graffiti would be dealt with severely. Someone, (probably Claudius, Hamlet thought) had scribbled, “Why be lenient? Give us life.”

  Something clanked at stage left. Hamlet strode gracefully across the stage as if on cue and lifted a dented, much-abused metal grille.

  A faceless metal man-thing stumped out of the ventilator. Its legs and arms were jointless and supple, but hardly graceful.

  Hamlet bowed to it. “Well met, Freddy.”

  “Well met—I mean, hi. The play went real good today. I’m sorry about the hissing during the performance, man.” The plastic speakpad on the head sounded sincerely distressed.

  Hamlet smiled. “Thanks—man. No problem; I just signaled the sound up on the flylights and covered it. Not a bad effect. What was wrong?”

  “Screenjet feeder leak on the simula system. Smell it?”

  Hamlet stepped back automatically. “God, I hope not.”

  Freddy laughed. “Just kidding. If it was a heavy biochem leak, I’d have set off an alarm.” He sat stiffly; reflections of the flylights flashed off his face panel. “That stuff s dangerous for humans, you know. It can kill you in seconds, just like what happened to—”

  “To biochem workers, yes.” Hamlet looked hurt.

/>   Freddy shifted from metal boot to metal boot uncomfortably. “Look, I wanted to catch you before the show, but I couldn’t. You’ve been hard to catch for three days.”

  Hamlet said hurriedly, “I’ve been rehearsing a new cast member. Did you see how well he did tonight? I think—”

  Freddy broke in determinedly, “I’m awful sorry about Doctor Capek. His going that way and by accident. I bet that was a shock. I guess he meant a lot to you.” Freddy seemed unsure of what grief would mean to Hamlet.

  “Thank you, Freddy.” Hamlet sat cross-legged below the throne platform. “He was a Tek, but also a—my friend, too. It’s hard.” Hamlet stared straight ahead and said softly, “Science doesn’t change that. Men die. We can but bury them and weep.”

  Freddy nodded indifferently. “I see what ya mean.”

  “I’d rather not talk about it,” Hamlet said gently. “But thanks for caring.”

  Freddy said uncomfortably, “Well, I know it’s silly, but—” He shifted his legs; the lights flashed off them. “That Doctor Goode acts like I’m not even here, and the others are worse. You and Peter Capek have always treated me like—well, like a human being.”

  They both chuckled at the irony.

  Freddy added with concern, “Look at your arm. Is that from the duel scene?”

  Hamlet glanced at it. “Laertes got excited; that’s all.”

  “Can it hurt?” Freddy corrected himself, “Does it hurt?”

  Hamlet intoned, “ ’Tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church-door—”

  “That’s nice. More Shakespeare?”

  “Romeo and Juliet. Sorry. I’m still caught up—”

  “In the play? Hey, at least you don’t just do your own lines; that’s all Ophelia and Polonius and some of those do when the play ends.” He shook his featureless head slowly. “Bunch of damn dummies, if you ask me.”

  “I can’t help it, and neither can my friends.” Hamlet stressed the last word.

  “Oh, hey, I’m real sorry. Listen, you look awful; let me see that cut” Freddy pulled at his head, which came off. Underneath was a sweaty, broad-nosed, amiable human face. “Do your fingers work?”

  “Stiffly,” Hamlet admitted. In the bloody, torn flesh, metal rods with plastic joints thrust and twisted. “I guess it’s you for a beer, me for the shop.” He took Freddy’s proffered but unnecessary gauntlet and rose to his feet. They exited together, stage right, the inhuman man and the human machine.

  2

  Hamlet and Freddy were in the hall joining the theater to the labs when the lobby door opened. They had a brief glimpse of the breaking line between sterile white plastic hall and liveoak lobby.

  A man and a woman, blinking in the hallway light, bumped into them.

  Freddy stepped back. “Oh, hey. Sorry, Doctor Goode.”

  “Quite all right.” Goode nodded to Freddy, then smiled at Gertrude, who smiled back and nodded to Freddy. She was still wearing her regal gown from Act Five.

  Goode said, “Hamlet, did I see you take a cut in the sword fight?”

  Gertrude said quickly, “Let me see.”

  “You saw nothing on stage and Goode saw everything? Unnatural, Mother.” But he held out his wrist.

  Gertrude made a small sympathetic sound, but didn’t take his hand. Goode quickly grabbed the wrist and prodded it. “I wouldn’t have noticed it at all, if you hadn’t favored it in the rest of the sword fight.”

  “Is he all right?” Gertrude asked anxiously, bending over the hand and blocking the light—an achievement, with omnilights on wall, ceiling, and floor.

  “He has a scratched titano-tendon of insertion of his extensor carpi radialis—”

  “Angels and ministers of grace defend us!” she murmured.

  Goode tugged an exposed wire, and Hamlet’s hand lifted like a marionette’s. “It isn’t broken.”

  “I have a scratched wire, Mother. He’s pulling your leg, as well as my wrist.”

  She looked at them both with fond exasperation. “Oh, you two boys.” Gertrude called all males except Polonius and Claudius “boys.”

  The doctor let go. “Have a Tek polish the wire and Steroseal the cut, Hamlet. Exposed tissue isn’t good for you.”

  “‘Thou hast made me, and shall thy work decay?’” he quoted agreeably. “Thanks for looking at it.” He added shyly, “And for watching.”

  “It’s part of my job, but it’s also pleasant. I now enjoy live theater.”

  Goode put a hand on Hamlet’s shoulder. “I especially wanted to see if you were all right tonight. I know that the past three days since—”

  Hamlet stood stiffly, looking molded and unalive. “I’m fine, thanks.” Freddy looked at him with genuine pity.

  Gertrude dabbed at her eyes energetically and meaning-lessly. “Poor Peter Capek. He was so good to me.” She added vaguely, “Has it really been only three days?”

  Hamlet glanced at Goode’s hand on hers. “Yes, Mother. But life, of one form or another, goes on.”

  Goode ignored the sarcasm. “As it must. I’ll see you to the aid lab, or Freddy can.” He didn’t even gesture at the custodian.

  Hamlet turned to Freddy. “Thanks, Freddy.” Freddy grinned back at Hamlet, who said to Goode, “Why are you here so late?”

  Freddy winked at Gertrude.

  Gertrude slid her arm around Goode. “He works far too hard. Good night, sweet prince.” Gertrude pecked Hamlet’s cheek.

  Goode, obviously pleased, said, “Good night, Hamlet.”

  Freddy muttered behind them, “Good night to you, too, Doc.” He said to Hamlet, “Doc and your mother, huh? He really does like live theater.”

  Hamlet frowned after them. “The lobby walls are more alive than we.” He corrected himself, “Than most of us. Excuse me, Freddy; I’m going back onstage. Something wasn’t right with Horatio’s performance.”

  Freddy looked puzzled. “He seemed natural to me.”

  Hamlet smiled. “That was the problem.” He winked at Freddy. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Okay, but don’t forget the aid lab.”

  The stage was dark, the hall empty. Hamlet mounted the steps to the throne easily. “You can come out now.”

  Horatio stepped from behind the king’s throne. “Has everybody gone home?”

  “Some home, some merely gone. Some safe, some safe in bed, and some in bed.”

  Horatio stepped down, looking strained. “Jesus.” He hugged his thin frame. “I didn’t expect that.”

  “And you hid, not sure whether or not you were allowed to refuse them. Androids can’t say ‘no,’ Horatio.”

  Horatio said dubiously, “Can’t, or aren’t allowed to?”

  “We’ll never know until one of us tries it.” Hamlet seemed edgy. “You did well tonight.”

  “I’m glad.” Horatio smiled shyly. “It was my first public performance.”

  Hamlet folded his arms and smiled cynically. “Actually, you had more life than the rest of us.”

  Horatio, suddenly nervous, ran a hand through his brown hair, trying to look as neat and calm as Hamlet. “What do you mean?”

  “How much can I mean in a few tiny words?”

  “Plenty. You’re Hamlet.”

  “I mean you were good. How long have you been hiding?”

  “Since the play ended. How long have you and Freddy been friends?”

  Hamlet shook his head. “Freddy and I aren’t close friends. How long have you been human, Horatio?”

  * * * * *

  Horatio backed away slowly, holding his hands in front of his body as though he were a boxer. “Twenty-nine years.”

  Hamlet held his own arms wide, palms up. “Relax. We were made to be friends. Well, I was made; you were born.”

  Horatio said, “You were made to be Horatio’s friend.”

  “True. And you’re Horatio.” Hamlet sat easily and gracefully on the stage.

  Horatio watched him. “How did you know?”

  “Sit down.”
r />   Horatio hesitated, then sat.

  Hamlet said, “See? First you thought about sitting, then you thought about not sitting, then about what I would think if you didn’t sit. Then you sat.” Hamlet stood quickly, then sat. “Now stand.”

  After a second Horatio stood hastily. “I thought again.”

  “You’re cautious, then conscious of being cautious, then self-conscious about being self-conscious. That’s the Curse of Consciousness: each move of yours is full of feedback.”

  “Not feedback, damn it—I’m not a machine.” He caught himself. “I didn’t mean that.”

  Hamlet said, “Of course you did. But I’m no machine, either.” He held up his wrist. “If you cut me, I do bleed.”

  “That looks terrible.” Horatio was shocked by the exposed wires. “Does it hurt?”

  Hamlet gestured quickly, and a shaft from the flylights fell on his wrist. He poked at it with his left hand and bit his lip.

  “Yes.” He looked suddenly young again, like a small boy instead of a grown prince.

  “You’d better get that looked at—” Horatio hesitated, then added, “My lord.”

  Hamlet brightened at the title. “I will. You’re the first person to ask ‘does it’ instead of ‘can it.” He glanced toward the empty seats, his lips quirking. “The audience might care—for its own purposes.”

  He looked back at Horatio. “I was afraid you were like them. Why else would you join the company?”

  Horatio looked at him blankly. “I love plays. And it’s great to act.”

  Hamlet bounded to his feet. “Yes? God, there’s so much I have to ask you—about other productions, recent plays, the new acting schools—I don’t know anything more recent than the Potemkin Academy—”

  Horatio broke in wonderingly, “Don’t you know? Do you go out much?”

  Hamlet said cautiously, “I could go out more, but I don’t sleep with humans, and I’ve been busy directing the company, and I haven’t been alive long. I was the last android made. What don’t I know?”

  “That there are no other theaters. Yours is the only one.”

  * * * * *

  Hamlet stared. Horatio went on, half to himself, “I would’ve been an actor, if there’d been a place. Hell, there hasn’t been a live play performed since the simula boom took hold, years back. You know what simulas are?”