Too, Too Solid Flesh Page 3

  Hamlet muttered embarrassedly, “Well, at least you know about scanners.”

  “A little. Anyway, I can’t be recognized for human before I find out who killed your maker.” Hamlet flinched, and Horatio felt immediately sorry he had phrased it that way. “I also need to learn something easier to start from, if we can’t find any concrete evidence of a murderer.”

  “And that is?”

  “Why did anyone kill him? What did he know, what did he do? What in hell is going on at this place?”

  To his surprise, Hamlet looked suddenly happy. “You feel that, too?”

  “I don’t feel anything. I know that nobody spends the didj and plaz that went into this place just to see the same play over and over.”

  He stopped for breath, and Hamlet broke in. “Obviously.” He was pacing, barely looking at Horatio. He gestured, consciously or unconsciously, and a blue-white flylight descended and followed him back and forth. “Our being made was more important than our performance. But they made us actors—and why pick Hamlet?”

  Horatio began, “That’s what I’d like to—”

  Hamlet whirled on him. “Would you like to know why?” He ticked off reasons. “One. It’s difficult and tests our minds, skills, and bodies. Two. It’s full of well-realized characters and tests our human wholeness. Three. It’s about right and wrong, and tests our goodness. Four—”

  He realized how loudly he was speaking. “There are more reasons.” He grabbed Horatio’s hand. “Can’t you feel it? We were made for greatness, for nobility. I feel that.”

  Of course you feel that, Horatio thought to himself. You’re a prince. Aloud he said, “You’ve thought about this a lot already.”

  Hamlet nodded vigorously. “If the others notice anything strange about you, we’ll just tell them that you’re an improved model, like me. I don’t think they’ll notice much, except for Claudius.”

  “Have you told him about your feelings?”

  “Yes. He warned me never to speak to anyone else about it. He’s very wise.” Hamlet regarded Horatio solemnly. “If you can’t fool him, you may have to trust him.”

  “Would you?”

  Hamlet thought. “He was made to be a devious character, but I don’t think he’d harm a member of the company—or a friend of mine.”

  “That’s good.” Horatio thought for a moment. “If you’re so brilliant, why haven’t you discovered the Globe’s secret?”

  Hamlet slumped. “I’ve thought about that. I’ve come up with several answers, none flattering. The most obvious is that I’m only as bright as the human who set this place up.” He looked at Horatio dubiously. “Surely I’m brighter than that.” Horatio remembered a teacher, long ago on Access, saying that Hamlet could be very annoying.

  “Two.” Hamlet struck a pose, intentionally overdone. “The secret is so glorious, and so grand, and so—” The pose crumbled, and he looked happy again. “So, so wonderful, that it is the best-hidden secret in the world—like a Christmas present from God. Possible?”

  “Unlikely. What secret could be that wonderful?”

  “Maybe we’re built to be your tutors—guides, philosophers, and friends for a lonely world. Maybe we’re to be your patrons. Perhaps we are your angels.”

  “Are you serious? Never mind. So the secret might be wonderful and they’re hiding it until it’s ready. Is there any other explanation for your not learning it?”

  Hamlet regarded him calmly, all antics and excitement gone. “A simple one: I’m naïve.”

  “You?” Horatio had seen Hamlet direct a play, unravel testimony, and theorize about evidence. “In what sense?”

  Hamlet looked down the aisle toward the exit. “When I was first made,” he said wistfully, “I asked Ophelia to tell me all her lines about flowers. There were quite a lot of them. Then I asked her how many of them she’d seen—she was an early model, as well as a pretty one—and I realized that I’d never seen a flower outdoors. I still haven’t.”

  “Haven’t seen a flower?”

  “Haven’t been outdoors,” he said flatly.

  “Not even once?”

  “As I said, I’ve been busy. I’ve never been beyond the lab and theater walls.”

  “The other androids leave here often enough; I’ve seen them.” Horatio stopped. “And why are they allowed to?”

  “We’re even encouraged to. Goode tells us to, and my fa—and Capek asked us to. I wish I had, while he was alive; it might have pleased him.” Hamlet looked back at Horatio and smiled crookedly. “Maybe it would make me be more human.”

  Horatio said carefully, “Maybe it would help you figure out the Globe’s secret?”

  Hamlet frowned. “Don’t you want to catch the murderer?”

  Horatio said, “We’ll catch the murderer when we know the motive. If you learned about the world outside, could you find the motive?”

  “If I learned the right things well. Ideally I could learn them in the theater and its labs, but here they’re secret. Outside they aren’t. We’ll start outside.”

  “What do you mean, my lord?” It felt more and more natural to call Hamlet that.

  “Everything and everyone in here—” He waved an arm at the lab. “Came from out there.” Hamlet laid a hand on Horatio’s shoulder, the first touching they had done. “First, we’ll look at all the skills from the labs, and find the labs, if we can, where those skills were born. We’ll visit them, where we can—”

  “You mean physically?” Horatio was appalled. “Do you know how much faster it is to Access?”

  “And how much we might miss, and how little we could trust of what we saw? Access, Horatio, is a construct. A touch—” he squeezed Horatio’s shoulder—“is real. Surely, as a policeman, you know that.”

  For some reason, Horatio looked embarrassed.

  “For now—” Hamlet took his hand off Horatio’s shoulder and became the commanding prince again. “Find me the name of Capek’s former lab. He did tell me, once, that there was a lab he worked in, not far from here. Can we begin there?”

  Horatio nodded. “If it’s open to the public at all, I can arrange that. What else?”

  “After the machinery of life, we’ll check the machinery of thought. I may even be able to do that within this lab.”

  “That one’s easy. What else?”

  “We’ll have to find out about simula and illusion.” Hamlet cupped his chin on his hand, thinking aloud. “To find what real evidence we can trust, we must find how unreal evidence could be made—and why anyone would bother, if Capek’s death could be declared an accident.”

  Horatio said flatly, “That’s a good start, but you forgot a question.”

  “Surely not.”

  Horatio grinned. “Don’t you make mistakes?”

  Hamlet actually blushed. “What is the question?”

  “Why do you want to investigate Capek’s death?”

  Hamlet didn’t answer. Horatio went on, “I’m doing it because it’s my job. I know it won’t bring him back to life, and I’m betting that it won’t make anyone happier. Why bother, then?”

  For a few moments there was only the low hum of the still-engaged flylight. Finally Hamlet turned back to Horatio, and his eyes were dark and brooding. “I could say ‘for love,’ but I’d love him as much if I never knew why he died. I could say ‘for revenge’ or ‘for justice.’ Aren’t those good motives?”

  Horatio shrugged. “In plays.”

  “Then there’s a final motive: I’m fascinated by death.” His voice was rich with self-disgust. “Even in the death of a man I loved, I’m interested. I want to know more. I take pleasure in it.”

  “You’re exaggerating. You’re curious—”

  “I’m absorbed!” He hit his palm with his fist. “I asked the Teks. I asked to see the body—no one let me, of course, but I tried. And it’s the same with any death, and the same with all of us.”

  “The other androids feel that way?”

  Hamlet looked away, embarr
assed. “Every time one of us dies—and it happens too often; we’re not as well made as we look—the rest gather at the corpse, and touch it, and talk about it for days. We’re not mourning; we’re watching. Perhaps because we’ve had so little life…”

  He waved a hand, dismissing the topic. “I don’t like to talk or think about why.”

  Horatio watched him for a moment, waiting for more. Finally he said, “Then why don’t the others want to investigate Capek’s death?”

  Hamlet said bitterly, “They think they’ve been told everything. The ghost knows he hasn’t been, but he’s not bright enough to investigate. Claudius is bright enough, and may suspect, but he doesn’t care; I don’t know why. Maybe he’s afraid of being destroyed if he bothers the Teks too much.”

  Horatio said, “I’ll be glad of your help. Will you keep my secret?”

  Hamlet waved an arm about. “Better than these walls will.” He wasn’t smiling.

  Horatio looked around uncomfortably. “We’ll find out about scanners soon enough. I’ll go Access the things you asked about, starting with Capek’s last lab.” He thought a moment. “My lord?”

  Hamlet turned at the edge of the stage. Horatio continued, “If you need help for that wrist, say ‘medical emergency’ to Theater Access.”

  Hamlet stared blankly, “By myself?”

  Horatio smiled. “Less talented people do it every day”

  The prince came back and put an arm around Horatio, almost a full embrace. “Thank you. If you need me, then here’s proof I need you.”

  Horatio smiled awkwardly, not embracing back. Hamlet’s flesh felt as warm, as smooth and rough, as yielding and temporary as his own.

  When Hamlet broke away, Horatio said, “Two questions.”

  “Ask.” Hamlet wrapped his arms about himself, looking young and lonely again.

  “The ghost was created to witness and relate a murder. That’s all he did. Don’t you think—”

  “That he saw only what he expected, whether it was there or not? Maybe. Why do you think I need to know more, before I can act?” He walked confidently away.

  Horatio’s voice arrested him in mid-exit. “Which brings up the next question.”

  Hamlet did not turn around. “Ask.”

  “As Hamlet, you were created to look for the man who killed your father and slept with your mother. You’re looking for the killer of someone who was like a father to you, and you automatically accused the man who sleeps with your mother—assuming I’m right about Goode and the queen.”

  “You’re right.” Hamlet’s voice sounded suddenly hard.

  “Then you’d better ask. Are you helping me search for the secret and the murderer, or simply trying to prove that the murderer was Goode?”

  Hamlet said, “I’m not sure. Certainly I’m more complex than the ghost.”

  “That’s no answer.”

  “Because I don’t know the answer.”

  Horatio said quietly, “You were created to kill the murderer of your father. If we find the murderer, what will you do?”

  Hamlet turned away from Horatio. “That’s three questions, not two. Good night.” Hamlet exited the stage, leaving Horatio alone.

  * * * * *

  Gertrude, her hair down and a vulgarly plush bathrobe on, knocked on the aid lab door as it opened automatically.

  Hamlet turned from his seat at the coral table, saying wryly, “Come in. I thought you left with Goode.”

  She was unembarrassed. “Alan finished working, but it’s so late that we’ll use his rest chamber here. I wanted to see if you were all right.”

  “We’ll see.” His arm, bare to the elbow, lay on the table, with the cut exposed. He said loudly, “Medical emergency,” and tensed against pain.

  A flyscan detached itself from the wall and hovered over him. Theater Access commented unhurriedly in a bland voice, “Neuroputty normal. Digestive, respiratory normal. Circulatory normal with injury-related anomalies in right wrist. Minor tendon anomalies in right wrist, coupled with major nonhuman tendo-skeletal anomalies throughout. Do I have permission to correct minor anomalies?”

  Gertrude said, “Hamlet, no!”

  Hamlet said, with barely a tremor, “Yes.”

  “I’m applying Sansfeel. Please hold still.” The lab door reopened and a second flyunit entered and hovered over his arm, spraying a fine mist. Hamlet flinched, expecting a chill, but felt nothing.

  Gertrude was pulling at her own hands as though she wanted them off. “Are you all right? Are you all right?”

  “So far.” As far as he could tell by feel, he had already lost the arm.

  He touched the open wound cautiously. His right wrist still felt nothing: perfect lack of nerve messages, without numbness. It was as though he had never had a forearm.

  The monotonous voice said disapprovingly, “I asked you to hold still. Now I’m applying Steroseal.” A rose-colored spray showered over his arm. Hamlet’s eyes watered, but he couldn’t think what it smelled like, except that it had no relation to anything alive.

  The voice said, “Testing wire tendon.” Tiny arms flashed out of the flyscan and, before Hamlet could move, pulled one of the wires in his wrist free of the flesh and tugged in opposite directions on it. Gertrude screamed.

  Hamlet held still, though he did a very human thing: in a cool room, he broke into a sweat. As he watched, the metal arms rotated this way and that, twisting his tendon.

  Quickly and delicately they reburied the wire in his flesh. “Tensile and torque readings are within normal range,” the voice announced. “Motor activity unimpaired.”

  The arms reached for the sides of the wound, then stopped. “Major nonhuman anomalies remain, though not from injuries. Do you wish them corrected?”

  He turned to look at Gertrude, who was staring at him with her mouth open. He grinned, “Should I?”

  “What does it mean, ‘anomalies?’” She was offended at the term for her son, but fearful of what might be wrong.

  “It means that I don’t seem human enough. It wants to correct that.” Hamlet looked amused, but also thoughtful.

  “Don’t you dare.” Gertrude waved the flyunit away. “You may be an anomaly, but you’re my anomaly.”

  “Do you wish your major anomalies corrected?” Theater Access repeated. “While I can’t quite heal you to normal human parameters, I can bring you closer than you are now.”

  Hamlet hesitated far too long.

  Gertrude stepped forward. “No, he doesn’t.”

  “Are you responsible for this person’s health?” the voice said without a trace of sarcasm.

  She folded her arms, glaring at it. “I’m his mother.”

  Hamlet, sensing disaster in the voice’s response, said, “Let the anomalies stand.”

  “As you wish.” The metal arms tugged the cut closed, pressed along either side of the new seam, sprayed a yellow mist, and suddenly Hamlet felt his arm back. The flyunit withdrew. “Medical emergency over.”

  “It is. Thank you.” Hamlet touched the narrow scar line. “Access? Your personality is—inoffensive.”

  “Thank you.”

  “In fact, it’s vague. Is that on purpose?”

  The voice said, neither modestly nor proudly, “I’m a statistical mean determinant personality, identifiable with either sex, any adult age, and no specific ethnosocial background. I am also inoffensive visually.”

  Hamlet turned to his mother. “A remarkably impressive way to say ‘I’m dull.’” She shushed him. He said, “Access, is your personality made the same way that mine is?”

  “Yes—but I am less personally motivated in my actions.” It added matter-of-factly, “And less offensive.”

  “How happy that must make your parents,” Gertrude said. Hamlet ignored her.

  “Are you the only personality in your system, Access? Or is there someone else on Theater Access, perhaps someone with more personality?”

  Access did not respond. The flyunit left by the door; the fly-
scan withdrew to the wall.

  Gertrude said triumphantly, “You’ve hurt its feelings.”

  Hamlet flushed. “I only wanted an answer.”

  “And who told you to ask?” She waved her arms unhappily. “Who taught you to do these things, and what sort of person is he, helping you risk your life?”

  When Hamlet answered her, he sounded the happiest that he had since Doctor Capek died. He took both her hands, his eyes shone, and he said, “Mother, I’ve found a friend.”

  * * * * *

  Horatio had stepped outside the theater and gone to the nearest Circle-A sigil. “Access.”

  “This is Access. Good evening.” The voice, as always, came from in front of him. “Shall I confirm your identity?”

  “No”

  “Would you like to Access a party? A live gathering in Osaka is popular tonight. Several hundred thousand people are Accessing now, and a hundred more projecting into it—”

  “One-to-one,” Horatio said firmly and gave a number code.

  Access said quietly, “I must ask for a second code.”

  Horatio gave it.

  Access said even more softly, “If you wish sight as well. I can secure-screen both, but it will cost more.”

  “Screen it. High screen.”

  “To do that, you will need—”

  Horatio gave another code.

  Access whispered, “Very well. Good luck, sir.”

  The mist that drifted down around Horatio was not liquid, but light: a pure white snow that never settled and couldn’t melt. He leaned into it and was nearly deafened by the white noise that accompanied the white light.

  A figure moved out of the mist from a very great distance—farther than the mist extended. As it moved closer, Horatio could see that the figure was seated, perfectly rigid. His chair was walking.

  The man had the full-bodied hair of a young man—as did anyone who could afford bioscalp. His eyes were sharp and clear, focusing easily without glasses. Horatio wondered if they were new eyes or chemically treated old ones.

  The only sign of age in the man was an outdated and frightening denial of it; the glossy, porcelain facial glaze of a polymer treatment, decades old.