Apprehensions and Other Delusions (28 page)

Your face is colder. You bring up your hand and find wetness.

She looks at you, her expression gentle and ironic. “I told you you’re not a cyborg.”

“A.F. model-4 cyborg group 722,” you say, as you have said for as long as you can remember.

“You’re a human being, as human as I am,” she says with an emotion you do not recognize. “They’ve done it to you, too, haven’t they? Probably the same way they get spies to confess and change sides. Sides! A. F., Them, it doesn’t matter.” She tightens her hold on you. “I am sick of it all.”

You feel too much to feel anything as you hold her. How can she be right? How is it possible that you are human and not a cyborg? It would make the A.F. as despicable as They are, and that would mean that you have been fighting for leaders as reprehensible as those They follow. “A.F. model-4 cyborg group 722,” you say as if the words will make it so, will bring back that sense of order you believed in.

“Human,” she insists. “Human, about twenty-five, with a sprained or broken ankle swelling in your boot. I don’t know how you endure the pain.” The last is embarrassed.

“It’s not pain; it’s the malfunction.” But as you say it, there is a sensation you have refused to acknowledge, as if fangs were digging into your leg. If you let yourself know what is there, you will have to accept the hurt.

“Pain,” she says. “How could they do this to you? How do they justify what they’re doing?”

“They don’t need justification,” you say, repeating what you have been told for so long.

“No, not Them, the A.F. forces—how can they condone what they’ve done to you?” She leans back but does not release you. “How do they explain what they’ve done?”

You start to speak and discover that you can say nothing. At last you tell her, “I can’t be human.”

“Yes,” she says. “There is solace in it, when the world isn’t too insane.”

“In what?” you ask her, another fear starting deep inside you, a growing dread at the massive lie you have believed.

“Being human,” she says. She kisses your cheek where the tears are, and it seems to you that there is sorrow and tenderness and that unknown emotion in the touch of her lips.

You tell yourself that you are numb, that there is no pain, not from your ankle, not from that deeper, festering hurt that she has caused. How you want to be angry with her, to accuse her of distortion and deception; you cannot. Your ankle aches. Your body aches. Your ... soul? aches. You roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling; your vision blurs.

She rests her head in the curve of your shoulder and chest. Her heartbeat is steadier than your own. She apologizes to you, but you are not able to listen. She falls silent, discouraged by your lack of response.

It is unendurable, the things you know. You will not let yourself know them. You close your eyes against the knowing, allowing nothing into your mind. In all the world, there is nothing and no one but the two of you. Then the world goes away.

You must have fallen asleep, because the sun has moved and is coloring the windows on the other side of the tower. You are alert suddenly, attentive to everything. You listen for the sounds outside. If there has been a change, you are not aware of it. You turn your head to study her sleeping face on your shoulder. The blanket is rough where it touches your face, but you decide the sensation is a friendly one.

She moves a little, still solidly asleep, the deep lines at last less incised on her features. You touch her face, memorizing it with your fingers.

“Um,” she murmurs.

“You awake?”

“No.”

Gently you ruffle her hair, gently, gently.

She opens her eyes. “What time is it?”

“Afternoon. I don’t know how late.” You wish again for a timer, knowing it harmless to make such a wish.

“We must have slept for hours,” she says. Slowly she sits up, stretching, her joints popping.

“Yes,” you say, not knowing how to tell her you feel restored by the sleep, by her company.

“I’m hungry,” she says to you. “But there’s no food up here.”

“Sorry,” you say, indicating you have nothing with you. “They don’t give field rations to—”

“Human beings,” she says.

There’s no point in debating that now. It is afternoon and the river is near and on the other side of that river are your lines. The A.F. forces are waiting. “We’d better get up,” you tell her, moving away from her, from the warmth of the blankets out into the chill of the afternoon.

She goes to the window, watching what They are doing in silence. She listens to the scraps of conversation that drift up to you. “We’d better plan to leave pretty soon. An hour before dusk, they’ll be starting their feint. They’ve trapped the bridge, mines and trips. We can disarm it and be free.” She looks at you, with an unspoken question in her eyes.

You look out into the white sunlight, thinking.

“There’s the pioneers.”

You nod. You wonder again, remembering, forgetting. You could reach out your hand to her. But They are out there. If you listen you can hear Them. Who is this person, this woman beside you who talks of the pioneers, as if you could walk away from what is left of your squad. So you stare out the window, watching Them, hearing the sounds of mechanical thunder that announces the nearness of your forces, of battle, of safety, of death.

“It’s the noise,” she says after a while, her hands pressed over her ears. “They do it deliberately, make all that noise. It wears you down, disrupts your thoughts.”

“I don’t hear it any more,” you say, and know it for the lie it is.

“You’ve stopped listening is all,” she says, no more fooled than you are. Her voice is rueful; you turn to her.

“Let’s get out of here. While we can.”

She looks at you for a long moment. “I hate Them; I hate the A F., I wish I didn’t, but I pity you.” She changes her manner abruptly. “Let’s go disarm that bridge.”

This time you hesitate. In light of what she has said, you don’t understand. “Why?”

“It’s a game, a game for idiots. But if we disarm the bridge, they’ll be live idiots. Live human idiots.” This last is intended to demand your attention: it does.

“Suppose that’s not possible?” you ask.

“I’II find a way to set it off before the A.F. get here.”

“If you set it off, you’ll die,” you say, and have to stop yourself from adding that as a cyborg, you are the one who should take that risk, not her, since she’s human.

“That may be the price,” she says.

“But—” You do not know what else to say.

“Human life is cheap, as cheap as real cyborgs. Maybe cheaper, or why are they telling you and other men that you are modified machines?” She turns toward the door, not permitting you a chance to argue.

“If we stay here, I can use the beamer, aim right into the heart of the camp.” You offer this as a compromise, so that you can share her risk.

“How long does it take to fire one of those laser cannons? They have three within range,” she says. “And it won’t save anyone getting on to that bridge.”

“Point made,” you concede.

She laughs. “What point?”

You want to ask why she is willing to do this, since she is contemptuous of the war and the two sides fighting it. You wish you could find the right phrases to use to learn the truth about her. “Are you doing this because of me?”

For an answer she comes and stands in front of you. “It has nothing to do with you, or very little. The pioneers want that bridge saved, for our own purposes. After what was done to me, I knew that I had to do something to get back at Them, to have a little vengeance for what They did.” She opens her jacket, then takes your hand and guides it with her own until you touch raised, gnarled flesh that makes you recoil inside, that makes her cringe at your touch. “That’s part of it. I owe Them for that.”

“You were comforting one of Them when I found you,” you remind her.

“I shot him; why shouldn’t I comfort him?” She shakes her head and closes her jacket, turning toward the door.

Before there is a chance for you to say anything—if there were anything you could say—she is gone down the narrow stairway to the cellar. There is nothing to do but go down the stairs after her.

As she works the concealed cellar door, she says, not looking at you, “That promise—if I get caught.”

“Yes.”

“I still want you to keep it.” She is out the door, ducked, running to the long shadows at the end of the central hall.

You follow her, your beamer a suddenly unfamiliar weight in your arms.

Together you make a wide loop of the end of the town where They are. When you reach the fork in the road that takes you to the river, she gives you a positive sign with her hand. It is darkening, the clouds lower, heavier, oily-looking. There are about two hours of light left.

“How’s your ankle doing?” she asks when she has signaled you to stop so she can watch the road.

“It’s sore,” you say, finding the word strange.

“Go easy with it.”

“Sure,” you say, having no idea what she wants to hear from you.

She pats your arm once before she veers off through the brush, moving parallel to the road. You can hear the river now, and the advancing of men and equipment. Very soon you reach the bank of the river.

It is steep where you are, the bridge at a wider but more placid bend about forty meters away. Upstream.

You’re closer than you would like to be. You can see the guards patrolling the end of the bridge, near enough that if you spoke up, they would hear you.

She has taken a monocular out of her pocket and is scanning the bridge. “Clever,” she breathes as she studies something.

“How?” You are afraid to raise your voice above the lowest whisper, afraid that you will be heard by Their guards.

“Look.” She hands you the monocular. “There’s a dummy mine in the middle of the bridge, clinging to the side. It’s hidden, but you can find it if you’re looking for it.”

You look, and you do see it. “So?”

“Two things: it isn’t a real mine. It’s a trigger for a couple of traps—there’s light readers installed in its side and if you set them off, you probably bring half the artillery on this side of the river into play. The mines are probably directly under the roadway, and I won’t find them until I get there, if none of the light readers pick up on my movement. They may even have the foundations of the supports set to go up.”

“Like you said: clever.” There is a tightening coil inside you, colder than the day.

“I’ve set smaller devices myself,” she says, unaware of your reaction. “Sometimes they’ve worked—most people wouldn’t bother looking for the light readers.” She takes a deep breath. “I hate cold water.”

“Isn’t there some way—” you begin.

“Where?” she asks sensibly. She is pulling off her jacket, handing it to you, along with her shotgun. “Now, if you can, cross the river here, staying as far down the bend as you can. That will lessen the risk of you being seen. The guards will be looking across the river or upstream. When you get across, go find the A.F. lines. If that bridge goes, there’s going to be a lot of rock falling.”

“I’ll wait for you on the other side,” you tell her.

“Don’t be foolish.”

“I’ll be on the other side. In case I have to keep my promise,” you say, letting the harsh words settle the matter.

Her expression is puzzled; then she slides down the bank to disappear into the water. She is only a dark speck in the sinuous river. You watch the sentries on the bridge, but, as she indicated, they are looking upstream and toward the opposite bank.

In a while, you can see her hanging onto the foundation support.

It’s time for you to cross now.

There are colds that are colder than freezing. The river is that kind of cold. You ease down the bank and into the water, and the breath is forced out of you. It’s too deep and too fast to keep the beamer and the shotgun dry. You let the shotgun go. The cold gnaws at your bones, and for once your ankle does not hurt you. You do not want to give into the lure of the cold, and so you use more strength than you want to keep moving across, so that you will not succumb to the lassitude of the cold.

Eventually you make it to the other bank, to pull yourself dripping onto the shore. And the icy wind takes up where the water leaves off. You huddle in the bushes, your teeth clattering, uncertain that you can pull the trigger on the beamer if you have to.

The guns at your back are louder now, and closer. The sound of an army moving is stronger. Where are they? Two kilometers? Three? More?

You can’t see her, she’s hidden by the dark under the bridge. You aren’t even sure she is there still; she might have fallen into the water and been swept downstream. You do not let yourself dwell on that.

Off to the right there is a flash and a thud and three of Their sentries collapse on the other side of the bridge. Two of Their lasers sprout from the trees near the road to Craoi-Venduru, hissing defiance at whatever is coming down the road. And all you can do is huddle in the cover of the bushes, colder than death, and watch.

There is more and heavier firing from the A.F. troops on this side.

Where is she? What’s happened to her?

One of Their lasers is silent. A fine spray of 90-pellets bites into the bank about two meters away. You jump, then retreat into the brush. Then you realize, as the 90-pellets spatter again, that they were not aimed at you.

You look: she’s in the river about four, five meters away, coming toward the bank. You move down as close as the cover will allow, calling “Pioneer!”

She hears you over the increasing racket; a hail of 90-pellets comes much too close. You leave the brush, coming as far down the bank as you dare, your hand stretched out to her. You almost reach her when a 90-pellet shatters your hand.

Blood, bone, flesh shatter. Your arm goes heavy, and you stare at what is left, seeing nothing of the internal armor you had been assured you possess. Blood, bone, flesh.

You feel her hands close around your leg. Automatically you start back toward the brush, dragging her behind you, over the trail of blood from the destruction of your hand.

You pause in the brush, your body slicked with cold sweat, nausea sinking into your vitals. You pull her toward you as you press your arm to your side.