The Artificial Kid Read online

  “Quade, you’re spoiling me,” I said. “But get me an apron. I don’t like eating hot food without clothes.” I lifted the cover of the tray; steam curled upward. It was diced roast ray with stirfried marshgrass; none of your corporate-issue oneill-imported proteins for me. I like an idiosyncratic taste, even when it’s far short of synthesized perfection. Some fanatics might blame me for eating wild game; but since we humans have already taken this island, why not enjoy it to the full? To do otherwise is to insult Reverie; we should partake of her bounty, with the appreciation she deserves.

  Quade left the room with three incredibly long strides. I was about to dig in when I heard the ping-ping-ping of a personal communiqué. I cut into my personal channel to see the genial, froglike face of Mr. Richer Money Manies, my friend and patron.

  “Hello, Money Manies,” I said. “Nice to see you.”

  “So, Kid,” said Manies, licking his everted lips. “Trying to tempt me with your atrophied, hairless link, are you? You’ve missed your true calling, dear fellow. You should have been in pornotapes.”

  “Sorry,” I said, pulling a pillow over my loins. “I didn’t intend to pander to your depraved tastes.” Quade returned with an apron; I threw it over my body. “Quade, doll, stay and rub my feet,” I told her, more to get to Manies than for any other reason. As she knelt at the end of the couch to adoringly rub my feet, I picked up a mouthful of crisp marshgrass on my chopsticks and offered it to her. She ate it gratefully. I checked my camera with one eye to make sure all this was registering on Manies. “Lovely sunset today, wasn’t it, Money Manies? I was up in time to see it.”

  “Yes, lovely, lovely,” agreed Manies distractedly, his blue eyes goggling a little. “I would have put in a trace more scarlet, myself. Listen, my dear. I intend to have another of my breakfasts in twelve hours. Shall we make it three hours before dawn? I really need a combat artist to round out the group, and you know you’re my prize of prizes, Kid.”

  “I bet you tell that to all the fighters you can’t seduce,” I said. “Of course I’ll be there. It would be futile to offer this shattered leg as an excuse.” I lifted the leg in question, showing the transparent cast and the electrodes that were helping to regrow the bone. “It’ll hold my weight already; I’ll walk over.”

  Manies sniffed. “How mundane! Is this the Artificial Kid, my star of stars? Let me send over a quartet of my most luscious pornostars to transport you in a scented, canopied litter. Why risk meeting some brainless belligerent not fit to kiss the hem of your nunchuck? No, allow me to deal with transportation.” He waved his pudgy fingers, dismissing the topic. “How have you been occupying your convalescence, dear Kid? Viewing?”

  “Exactly.”

  “What channel?”

  “Nothing special; a drone taping from the wilderness. Done by some floater; the computer work’s excellent. Channel 85. One thing interests me; she’s using a manipulative drone. She doesn’t just passively observe—she picks things up and looks at them. She’s an innovator.” We cut off our visual and put on Channel 85 with our audio as voiceover. “Oh, I recognize this woman’s work,” Manies said. “That’s Cewaynie Wetlock. She’s very new—no older than you are.”

  I’d never heard of her. We proceeded to a minute criticism. We spent two hours on it. Manies got me to promise to do a tape for him for his critical broadcast (a broadcast that was eventually to reach the eyes and ears of Cewaynie Wetlock herself). Time means nothing to a three-hundred-year-old Reverid, but it was decent of the ugly old antique to make the effort to amuse me.

  2

  The third hour before dawn found me at the northern tip of the island, at Many Mansions, the sprawling, limestone, colonnaded dwelling place of my friend and patron, Mr. Manies. I marveled at my friend’s stamina, his continued gusto for life amid such demanding surroundings. As usual, his beautiful seaside villa was stuffed with servants, clients, house guests, flatterers and sycophants, rising pornostars, and ambitious tape craftsmen, not to mention the usual unclassifiable oddities: Manies’ surgically altered pets, the mutant and hybrid products of his huge, flourishing terraria and aquaria, grotesque wandering holograms, and at least one actual resident alien. Amid all this even his far-famed breakfasts must have been a relief to him. Certainly he seemed relaxed and completely at ease as he performed his hostly duties.

  He had invited five of us—about the usual number. And, as usual, we were a markedly heterogeneous group. Alruddin Spinney, the poet, and “Ruffian Jack” Nimrod, the explorer, were already known to me; they were two of Manies’ closest friends. But I had never before seen Professor Angeluce of the Academy or Saint Anne Twiceborn, a Niwlindid political refugee. Both had only recently made planetfall, after the long and painful decontamination process in an orbiting oneill.

  Spinney was a small, scrawny man, with a prominent adam’s apple and a thick shock of kinky red hair. With an air of quiet melancholy, he pulled a fist-sized gobbet of raw meat from his pocket and offered it to his pet mantis, a green, arm-long, chitinous monster that followed him everywhere. It accepted the gift with a gentleness and restraint that matched Spinney’s own and began to nibble it, breathing audibly through spiracles as big around as my little finger.

  “The Morning Star’s beautifully bright tonight, isn’t it?” said Ruffian Jack, looking off the airy balcony across the slow surf of the reef. “Did I ever tell you about the time I went there?”

  “Come now, Ruffian,” laughed Money Manies. Conversation was his element. “We mined the Morning Star four hundred years ago. We’re all intelligent people here. Surely you won’t try to hoodwink us with some grotesque and impossible brag about your longevity?”

  “Who said anything about four hundred years?” demanded Jack. “I was there not fifty years back. My floater days, you know. The final detonations melted its entire crust; that’s what gives it its high albedo.” I liked Ruffian Jack; he could have been a good combat artist. I forgave him his constant habit of lying.

  “Mr. Spinney,” said Professor Angeluce in his penetrating, pedantic voice, “are you sure that that arthropod has been properly decontaminated? Might I ask its area of origin? Could it be the continental area known colloquially as the Mass?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” said Spinney politely, patting his pet on the hard transparent case over one huge compound eye. “I found him washed up on the reef, half-drowned. I assure you that I have never probed his guts for protozoa, if that is your concern.”

  “What is your concern with the Mass, Professor?” asked Manies, his every syllable packed full of interest.

  “My concern? My concern?” grated Angeluce. He gestured irritably and one of his three cameras zoomed in for a close-up of his pale, pinched face. “I am a Scholar, sir. My doctorate is in the field of taxonomic microbiology, but I have a more than slight acquaintance with epidemiology. The Mass is this world’s most fertile area for microorganisms, many of them potentially hostile to man. Insects often serve as vectors for such forms of life.”

  Annoyed and frightened, Spinney put one protective arm over his pet’s narrow green shoulders. The mantis, its jaws ceaselessly working, twisted its sinewy neck to turn one jaundiced compound eye on Angeluce. Manies and Ruffian Jack laughed heartily; even Saint Anne Twiceborn allowed herself a smile. “No cause for worry, Professor,” Ruffian Jack said. “My researches show that this particular species of mantis is native only to the eastern arm of Aeo. You notice the peculiar mottling on his inner forearms? We’re quite safe.”

  “Indeed, sir,” said Angeluce, visibly annoyed at their laughter. “You hold an Academic degree?”

  Ruffian Jack scowled. “I’m an explorer,” he said gruffly. “Even the Academy needs its legmen.”

  “Really, Professor,” Manies said smoothly. “It’s true that we are all laymen, but I think you underestimate us. My good friend Mr. Nimrod here has classified as many specimens as any Reverid alive, often at considerable risk to himself.” All six of Manies’ cameras flatteringly
zoomed in on Ruffian Jack, and Jack immediately recovered his good humor. “Mr. Spinney is a noted historian as well as a distinguished poet. Even my very young friend the Artificial Kid has written several remarkable articles on chainlink weapons for the Reverid Journal of Hoplology, and is one of our planet’s most accomplished camera programmers. It would be immodest of me to chronicle my own accomplishments, but I might mention in passing that I am the author of the Chemical Analogue Theory of the Body Politic. Saint Twiceborn is as yet a stranger to our shores, but I am sure she is as talented and intelligent as she is lovely. And here comes breakfast.”

  We left the railing of the balcony and moved to the oval wooden table. Manies’ food programmer, Mr. Quizein, rolled through the door in his servochair, carrying the first course. Quizein was confined to his chair while he awaited the clone growth of a new pair of legs. He had recently lost both his legs to the attack of a ray while swimming on the reef. “Hello, Quizein,” I said. “Haven’t seen much of you lately.”

  Quizein pretended not to hear and served the first course, finger-sized breaded nerve clams with red sauce. I grabbed my chopsticks and dug in. They were delicious.

  Saint Anne Twiceborn, her chopsticks idle, was staring at me, a bemused expression on her wide, freckled face. I had a camera follow her. Money Manies, whose alert, bulging eyes missed nothing, said: “My dear Saint Anne—do I detect the signs of homesickness on your lovely face? Even after two years in an oneill, the tug of one’s homeland can be strong. Tell us, what brings you here? What force on Niwlind provoked your exile?”

  Saint Anne reached up with an automatic gesture and smoothed a flat cluster of dark feathers pinned to her hair. She said softly, “I follow the path of righteousness wherever it leads. If to Reverie, so much the better. On Niwlind I was told that Reverie is a paradise—that no one has to work, and that the government is an invisible plutocracy. But I find that there is much work for me here. And it’s true, Mr. Manies—I miss my poor flock. By now my government must have completed its policy of genocide, and my poor flock has been scattered and killed. I wish I would have done more for them. That’s what makes me melancholy.”

  Said Manies, “You consider yourself, then, a force for good in our universe?” She nodded. Manies continued, “I have always found such doctrines very interesting. Tell us more about your work. It was with an alien species, am I right? The so-called moor moas—giant flightless birds, yes? And you consider them intelligent—you are convinced that they possess an intangible soul, essence, animus?”

  Saint Anne touched the feathers in her hair again. “My heart tells me so,” she said. “I freely admit that they are by no means as intelligent as humans, but they have their place in the cosmic scheme. That was why I organized demonstrations to protect their native moors from exploitation. Our government was callous and brutal, and many of my followers were driven to desperate, violent tactics. I was arrested and held to blame. The courts exiled me, so here I am.”

  Manies said, “Fascinating! I take it that the majority of your fellow Niwlindids did not concur with your estimation of the moas.”

  “Yes,” said Saint Anne. “The moas have no language, they said. They have no hands, no tools, no history, no art. They devour their sick—they are given to mob stampedes—they attack and kill domestic animals as well as wild prey. They are irascible, warty-faced, ugly. Oh, they said many uncomplimentary things.”

  “All true, I take it,” said Alruddin Spinney, pausing to tempt his mantis with a clam.

  “Yes,” said Saint Anne. “But they never lived with them on the moors. They never saw them dance.”

  “Can you tell me what inclined you to this friendship with the moas?” asked Manies. “Why did you do such an atypical thing?”

  “All forms of life are sacred,” said Saint Anne. “I felt the call, so I went.”

  “How did you prepare for this call? Was it prefaced by a long period of celibacy?” Again, she nodded. Manies’ eyes lit up. “And I assume that you possess a fully functional reproductive system?” Another nod, this one rather hesitant.

  “Such is my usual experience with such cases,” said Manies with an airy gesture. “I suggest to you, dear Saint Anne, that your altruism and your repression of sexuality are intimately linked. I congratulate you on your adroit self-manipulation.” He ate another clam.

  “That’s not so,” Saint Anne said. “It’s true that I have tried to purify myself with ascetic trials, but my innate goodness existed before that time.”

  “Really?” said Manies. “I suggest a trial. Let us determine how much of your goodness is natural, and how much cultural; how much you grow green and good from the heart, and how much you are twisted into predetermined shape like a human bonsai. Let us erase all traces of your sexual discipline. My Reverid pornostars are among the most accomplished sexualists in humanity. We could destroy your painful inhibitions with drugs, dear Saint Anne; and then you may fly with fiery wings into their embraces. I assure you that you would find your linkage entirely delightful. Many women would swear themselves into servitude for such an experience, but I offer it to you freely, in a spirit of liberating hedonism. Afterwards, we could see how many of your tenets you still held, and with what degree of firmness. Would you be willing to embark on such a voyage of self-discovery?”

  Saint Anne hesitated. Finally she said, “I feel that you mean me no harm, Mr. Manies; so I control my disgust and repulsion. I must ask you not to make such an offer again.”

  Surprised, Manies said, “I meant no offense; my offer was quite sincere and grounded in a spirit of anthropological inquiry. Isn’t that so, Jack?”

  “Quite, quite,” said Ruffian Jack, tugging playfully on the ends of his long drooping mustache. “The sexual attitudes of Niwlindids are endlessly fascinating. Take for instance the following case-history, which I can vouch for personally,” and he told us a long and exceedingly improbable lie that lasted until Quizein came back in, took our plates, and left us with heaped bowls of saltgrass rice tastily fried with the savory meat of sand-crabs. From far away came the bright flash of a flying island detonating somewhere over the continent; we heard its hollow boom.

  “It was our outrage at such decadence that gave our church its moral power,” said Saint Anne. “I have always struggled against it; and I can see that this world, too, could use a thorough cleaning.”

  “You’ll need a base for such an endeavor,” said Manies hospitably. “Might I offer my home? I am willing to warn my many friends and guests about your predilections; I am sure they will make every effort not to offend you.”

  “No, thank you,” said the saint. “I intend to see this planet’s worst sink of depravity—the Decriminalized Zone. I saw tapes of the activities there while I was in decontamination. I think my efforts are most needed there.”

  “You’re joking!” I said. “Why, you little ninny, you’ll be beaten up and raped before you get twenty feet into the Zone. The Zone is the Zone—it’s not a playground for crackbrained fanatics.”

  “Now I know where I’ve seen you before,” she said. “I recognize your voice. You’re that small spiky-headed fellow who beat up that great gross bellowing woman!”

  “You saw my fight with Screamer?” I said. “Then you saw me win. My shin was fractured, but nowhere near as badly as her tapes showed. It’s almost healed. Look at this cast.” I swung my leg up onto the table and pulled up the loose leg of my fuzz-plastic formal pajamas. I was out of my fighting clothes, which may have accounted for her slowness to recognize me.

  “And that weapon around your neck,” she said. “It’s just like the exercise device Secretary Tanglin used to carry. You even look like him!”

  I was surprised at this reference to Tanglin. Put on my guard, I frowned. “I’m his son,” I said slowly, telling my usual lie. “He came to Reverie thirty years ago.”

  “How horrible!” she said sadly. “To think of Rominuald Tanglin’s blood and bone reduced to this! What a pity he’s dead, and
was unable to raise you, to give you some trace of his moral excellence!” She shook her head. “I pity you.”

  This made me angry. A small device on the back of my neck sensed this and sent a crackling rush of static electricity into my plasticized hair. It leapt up into bristling life. Money Manies, Spinney, and Ruffian Jack immediately pushed their chairs back from the table and got ready to retreat; my cameras took the cue and floated into combat formation around me. “What do you know about Rominuald Tanglin?” I said.

  “Secretary Tanglin was my idol!” she said. “He was a great leader, a great man! At least, he was until his wife destroyed him and deliberately drove him mad. Why, he did more for the moas than any man alive!”

  Suddenly Professor Angeluce, who had been placidly stuffing himself with rice, looked up angrily. “Rominuald Tanglin?” he demanded. “The Rominuald Tanglin? Tanglin, the demagogue, the enemy of science? The man who backed that neuter charlatan Crossbow in the Gestalt Dispute? Are you related to Rominuald Tanglin, young man?”

  “Yes,” I said. I put both hands on my nunchuck and pulled the chain down taut against the back of my neck. “Did I hear you call Professor Crossbow a ‘neuter charlatan’? Surely my ears deceived me.”

  Angeluce went into a huff. “Are you attempting to threaten me, youngster?” (I heard Jack groan, “Oh, God, now he’s done it.”) “I am a Scholar, sir! I am here with the full backing of the Cabal and I warn you that they will severely punish aggression! My cameras are recording your every movement for a full report to the Academy as well as your own planetary government!”