Shoggoths in Bloom (34 page)

Peter turned his head. “If she were a human being, she’d have even odds. But she’s a machine. Where’s she going to get a jury of her peers?”

The silence fell where he left it and dragged between them like a chain. Roz had to nerve herself to break it. “Peter—”

“Yo?”

“You show him out,” she said. “I’m going to go talk to Dolly.”

He looked at her for a long time before he nodded. “She won’t get a sympathetic jury. If you can even find a judge that will hear it. Careers have been buried for less.”

“I know,” Roz said.

“Self-defense?” Peter said. “We don’t have to charge.”

“No judge, no judicial precedent,” Roz said. “She goes back, she gets wiped and resold. Ethics aside, that’s a ticking bomb.”

Peter nodded. He waited until he was sure she already knew what he was going to say before he finished the thought. “She could cop.”

“She could cop,” Roz agreed. “Call the DA.” She kept walking as Peter turned away.

Dolly stood in Peter’s office, where Peter had left her, and you could not have proved her eyes had blinked in the interim. They blinked when Roz came into the room, though—blinked, and the perfect and perfectly blank oval face turned to regard Roz. It was not a human face, for a moment—not even a mask, washed with facsimile emotions. It was just a thing.

Dolly did not greet Roz. She did not extend herself to play the perfect hostess. She simply watched, expressionless, immobile after that first blink. Her eyes saw nothing; they were cosmetic. Dolly navigated the world through far more sophisticated sensory systems than a pair of visible light cameras.

“Either you’re the murder weapon,” Roz said, “and you will be wiped and repurposed. Or you are the murderer, and you will stand trial.”

“I do not wish to be wiped,” Dolly said. “If I stand trial, will I go to jail?”

“If a court will hear it,” Roz said. “Yes. You will probably go to jail. Or be disassembled. Alternately, my partner and I are prepared to release you on grounds of self-defense.”

“In that case,” Dolly said, “the law states that I am the property of Venus Consolidated.”

“The law does.”

Roz waited. Dolly, who was not supposed to be programmed to play psychological pressure-games, waited also—peaceful, unblinking.

No longer making the attempt to pass for human.

Roz said, “There is a fourth alternative. You could confess.”

Dolly’s entire programmed purpose was reading the emotional state and unspoken intentions of people. Her lips curved in understanding. “What happens if I confess?”

Roz’s heart beat faster. “Do you wish to?”

“Will it benefit me?”

“It might,” Roz said. “Detective King has been in touch with the DA, and she likes a good media event as much as the next guy. Make no mistake, this will be that.”

“I understand.”

“The situation you were placed in by Mr. Steele could be a basis for a lenience. You would not have to face a jury trial, and a judge might be convinced to treat you as . . . well, as a person. Also, a confession might be seen as evidence of contrition. Possession is oversold, you know. It’s precedent that’s nine tenths of the law. There are, of course, risks—”

“I would like to request a lawyer,” Dolly said.

Roz took a breath that might change the world. “We’ll proceed as if that were your legal right, then.”

Roz’s house let her in with her key, and the smell of roasted sausage and baking potatoes wafted past.

“Sven?” she called, locking herself inside.

His even voice responded. “I’m in the kitchen.”

She left her shoes in the hall and followed her nose through the cheaply furnished living room, as different from Steele’s white wasteland as anything bounded by four walls could be. Her feet did not sink deeply into this carpet, but skipped along atop it like stones.

It was clean, though, and that was Sven’s doing. And she was not coming home to an empty house, and that was his doing too.

He was cooking shirtless. He turned and greeted her with a smile. “Bad day?”

“Nobody died,” she said. “Yet.”

He put the wooden spoon down on the rest. “How does that make you feel, that nobody has died yet?”

“Hopeful,” she said.

“It’s good that you’re hopeful,” he said. “Would you like your dinner?”

“Do you like music, Sven?”

“I could put on some music, if you like. What do you want to hear?”

“Anything.” It would be something off her favorites playlist, chosen by random numbers. As it swelled in the background, Sven picked up the spoon. “Sven?”

“Yes, Rosamund?”

“Put the spoon down, please, and come and dance with me?”

“I do not know how to dance.”

“I’ll buy you a program,” she said. “If you’d like that. But right now just come put your arms around me and pretend.”

“Whatever you want,” he said.

Brigid Keating leaned forward under the weight of her pack and took another stride up the wooded mountain. The humidity was already stifling. The heat wasn’t so bad, yet—but that would change as the sun rose over the cliff. The concentrated breathing and off-rhythm scuff of her colleague and climbing partner Val McKeen’s footsteps rose through the breathless, sun-dappled air.

As they came to the top of the steepest part of the slope, Brigid straightened her shoulders, eased the pack straps out of the grooves in her shoulders, and heaved a sigh.

“This used to be easier.”

Val was sarcastic, sharp, daring. Not much for observing societal rules and social controls. His voice rough with exertion, he said, “You said that last year.”

“I mean it more now.”

Just one more good push, no more than thirty meters or so. She stepped forward.

At the bottom of the cliff, she dumped her pack, pulled out a chiller bottle, and drank a few grateful swallows. Condensation from the outside ran down her arm to drip from her elbow as she tilted the bottle to her mouth. Her teeth ached slightly in the cold.

When she lowered the water and sealed the top, Val was already partway down the path along the cliff base, staring up speculatively. She trotted behind, catching up in a few quick strides, careful of rough footing. These traprock cliffs were a kind of basalt that left a litter of sharp-edged red-black stone at their bottoms. Val’s wiry dark shape slipped confidently among ankle-munching boulders and pebbles, sweat from the climb beading on the caramel-colored skin below his hairline, soft morning light blurring the detail on his prosthetic leg.

It was barely after sunrise, and they were alone at the cliff. In the misty cool, Brigid scanned the wall she passed under, examining climbing routes skinned over it. She’d shut off her mail, phone, other skins, and texting—she had no family anymore, and nobody had her emergency override codes except Val and her immediate superior—and was reveling in the blessed lack of connectivity. But it was still useful to know exactly where the route went up the cliff. The logged comments of other climbers didn’t hurt, either.

Suddenly, Val stopped. The route he was eyeing highlighted in green.

“How do you feel about the 5.11?”

Brigid’s stomach constricted looking up at it. It’s just fear. It can’t hurt you.

More in sensations than words, a more atavistic part of her brain responded, No, but the thing that you’re afraid of can.

“Not confident,” she admitted.

Val said, “Want to try a warmup first?”

She did, desperately. She wanted an excuse not to climb this at all. But if she started making those excuses, that was exactly what would happen.

She said, “After the approach, I’m warm enough.”

They retrieved gear and slithered into their harnesses, checking buckles and straps. Brigid slung the clanking belt of cams and nuts around her waist and wriggled her feet into arch-bottomed, high-friction climbing slippers. They were exquisitely uncomfortable.

Val said, “You leading it?” He began flaking the rope—laying it out on a tarp so it was coiled easily and would not tangle. Brigid tied herself in while Val clipped the other end through his belay device.

She pulled on her helmet and gecko gloves. Fingerless mitts with microscopic carbon filaments on the palms, they wouldn’t hold up a person’s weight all by themselves but could support an iffy foot placement.

As Val moved up to spot her, Brigid laid her hands against the stone, verbally checked his belay status, and began to climb.

She left the beta on, her interface contacts projecting highlights over the holds that one climber or another had found useful over the years. Val stood below her, his hands upraised, ready to not so much break her fall (should she fall) as guide her to a safe landing position—if possible. The rope dragged below her—no use yet, and no help.

She traced the holds—awkward, fingertip-thin, usable only with delicate balance and fingerpressure—to the crack where she meant to place her first protection. A painful, pinching grip held her to the overhanging rock as she slipped an irregular hexagonal nut into the crack and wedged it against stone. A carabiner dangled from the pro on a twisted cable.

She found the rope by feel, the woven sheath bumpy-smooth. If she slipped now, a ground fall was inevitable.

The line went into the biner and the gate snapped shut.

“Take.”

The slight pressure of him pulling in slack put some air back into her lungs.

The rock was smoothed from many years of handling, slick and soapy against her palms and fingertips. Chalky palmprints and finger smudges of previous climbers matched the holds marked by her skins. The trick was finding the ones you could use, and having the technique and strength to use them.

Every climb was different for every body.

The cams and nuts on her equipment sling clinked. This is too scary. Too hard. I can’t make it happen.

Contextual fear conditioning, she told herself scornfully. If somebody had though to shoot you up with a glucocorticoid antagonist before you got yourself orphaned, you wouldn’t be having this problem now. So get the hell over it.

Resentment tautened her throat. It was only her cowardly endocrine system holding her back, weakening her muscles, crushing her resolve. Look at Val: missing half a leg and still hiking, still climbing, utterly fearless. And here she was scared shaking of a little trad climb.

Irritation with herself gave her strength. She clicked the line through another carabiner gate. Higher now, aware of the tension in her limbs, the balance, the way her body used opposition and leverage to take strain off her hands and biceps. Night-cool rock gritted against her fingertips, moist in the corners and cracks. She briefly forgot the anxious squeeze of her heart in the accomplishment of moving up.

One more piece of pro—a sketchy placement—before she faced a long runout: four and a half meters of sustained hard and technical moves with no good place to set. This was where she’d quailed the last time, and the time before.

When you didn’t trust your pro, you got conservative. She wasn’t a good enough climber to manage a 5.11 without exceeding her range of confidence—and you didn’t get to be a better climber by staying within your limits. She’d climbed this route behind Val, so she knew she could get past the rock.

Getting past herself was something else again.

It was slick-looking face climbing, a little overhung. She knew there were ledges up there, flakes, side pulls, fingertip crimpers. She just had to reach them—and having reached them, she had to use them. If she fell at the top of the runout, the rope stretch might let her toetips brush the earth, but it still wouldn’t be a ground fall—as long as that top piece of protection held. If the nut popped out of the crack when her weight hit it, though, she could go all the way down onto the rocks below.

“This is not a bomber set,” she called down.

“So don’t fall on it,” Val yelled back.

Belayers were always so helpful.

One at a time, she dipped her hands into the chalk bag that hung against her butt. The chalk would soak up the sweat that slicked her hands. A nice thing about the humidity: she could pretend that she didn’t know it was fear sweat.

Go, she told herself.

And she went.

Left foot up, test. Feel the high-friction rubber stick the rock, the tight pinch of the shoe compressing her foot. The hold was too high to stand up on, but she had techniques for that. She managed a fingertip grip, awkwardly off to the left, and supported it with the pressure of the palm shoving the gecko glove into the rock.

Her right palm contacting a little rippled bump in the rock face, she levered herself up onto the left foot. Her right foot flagged out, a counterweight, and she held the precarious position by balance and the friction of her left hand and left foot against stone. Breathing shallowly, belly against the rock, she maintained her balance. She brought her right hand up on a sweeping arc, reaching for the ledge her skinned perceptions hinted at, just above. Two centimeters of crimp snagged her fingertips. She latched on, her arms stretched on a wide diagonal, her right foot still swinging free. Strain across her shoulders, now, the pull through tendons and lats and rotators.