11
Annewas waiting for him, at the riverside—amid the stumps of trees, mud, cleared earth. Trees dammed the river, water spilling over them, between them, flooding up over the banks and changing the land into a shallow, sandy lake.
He stopped there, leaned against the last standing tree on that margin and shivered, slow tremors which robbed him of strength and sense. She stood placidly in the ruin; he called her on the com, heard her voice, saw her face, then her body, orient toward him. He began to cross the bridge of tumbled trees, clinging to branches, walking tilted trunks.
"Damn you," he shouted at her. Tears ran down his face. " Damn you!" She met him at the other side, silver slimed with mud and soot from the burning she had done. Her sensors blinked. "Assistance?"
He found his self-control, shifted his attack. "You've damaged yourself."
"I'm functioning normally. Assistance?"
He started to push past her, slipped on the unstable log. She reached to save him, her arm rock-solid, stable. He clung to it, his only point of balance. Her facelights blinked at him. Her other hand came up to rest on his shoulder. Contact. She offered contact. He had meant to shove at her. He touched her gently, patted her plastic-sheathed shoulder, fought back the tears.
"You've killed, Annie. Don't you understand?"
"Vegetation."
He shoved past her, limped up the devastated shore, among the stumps of trees. His head throbbed. His stomach felt hollow.
The crawler still waited on the bank. Anneovertook him as he reached it; she offered him her hand as he climbed in. He slid into the seat, slipped the brake, started the motor and threw it full throttle, leaving her behind.
"Warren." Her voice pursued him.
He kept driving, wildly, swerving this way and that over the jolts, past the brush.
" Anne," he said, standing at the airlock. "Open the lock." Silence.
" Anne. Open the lock, please."
It hissed wide. He walked in, unsteady as he was, onto the cargo platform. "Engage lift, Anne." Gears crashed. It started up, huge and ponderous that it was. "Warren," the disembodied voice said, from the speakers, everywhere, echoing. "What's your status, Warren?"
"Good, thank you."
"Your voice indicates stress."
"Hoarseness. Minor dysfunction in my speaking apparatus. It's self-repairing." A silence. "Recorded." The lift stopped on nether-deck. He walked out, calmly, to the lower weapons locker, put his card in.
Dead. "I've got a lock malfunction here, Anne. Number 13/546. Would you clear it up?"
"Emergency locks are still engaged."
"Disengage."
Silence.
"There is no emergency." He fought the anger from his voice. "Disengage emergency locks and cancel all emergency procedures."
"This vocal dysfunction is not repaired."
He leaned against the wall, stared down the corridor.
"Warren, please confirm your status."
"Normal, I tell you." He went to the lift. It worked. It brought him up to the level of the laboratories. He walked down to Bio, walked in, tried the cabinets.
" Anne, I need medicines. Disengage the locks. I need medicines for repair." The lock clicked. It opened.
He took out the things he needed, washed his torn hands, prepared a stimulant. He was filthy. He saw himself like a specter in a reflecting glass, gaunt, stubbled; looked down and saw his clothes unrecognizable in color. He washed an area of his arm and fired the injection, rummaged through the cabinet for medicines to cure the hoarseness. He found some lozenges, ripped one from the foil and sucked on it, then headed off for the showers, undressing as he went. A quick wash. He had forgotten clean clothes; he belted on the bathrobe he had left in the showers, on a body gone gaunt. His hands shook. The stim hummed in his veins. He could not afford the shakes. He had visions of the pseudosome walking back toward the ship; she would be here soon. He had to make normal moves. Had to do everything in accustomed order. He went to the galley next, opened the box and downed fruit juice from its container; it hit his stomach in a wave of cold.
He hauled out other things. Dried food. Stacked it there. He took out one frozen dinner and put it in the microwave.
It turned on without his touching it.
"Time, please."
"Fifteen minutes," he told it. He walked out. He took the dried food with him to the lift. He punched buttons. It took him up. He walked out into the corridor; lights came on for him. Lights came on in the living quarters, in his own quarters, as he entered. He dumped the dried stores on the bed, opened the locker and pulled out all his clothing— dressed, short of breath, having to stop and rest in the act of putting his boots on.
The lock crashed and boomed in the bowels of the ship.
She was back. He pulled the second boot on. He could hear the lift working. He folded his remaining clothes. He heard the next lift work. He arranged everything on his bed. He heard footsteps approach.
He looked round. Annestood there, muddy, streaked with soot.
"Assistance? Please confirm your status, Warren."
He thought a moment. "Fine. You're dirty, Anne. Decontaminate." Sensors flickered, one and then the others. "You're packing. This program is preparatory to going to the river. Please reconsider this program."
"I'm just cleaning up. Why don't you get me dinner?"
"You fixed dinner, Warren."
"I didn't like it. You fix it. I'll have dinner up here at the table. Fifteen minutes. I need it, Anne. I'm hungry."
"Yes, Warren."
"And clean up."
"Yes, Warren."
The pseudosome left. He dropped his head into his hands, caught his breath. Best to rest a bit. Have dinner. See what he could do about a program and get her to take it. He went to the desk where he had left the programming microfilm, got it and fed it into the viewer. He scanned through the emergency programs, the E sequences, hoping to distract her into one of those. There was nothing that offered a way to seize control. Nothing that would lock her up. It was feeding into her, even now; she had library access. The viewer was part of her systems. The thought made him nervous. He scanned through harmless areas, to confound her.
"Dinner's ready," the speaker told him.
He wiped his face, shut down the viewer and walked out, hearing the lift in function. Annearrived, carrying a tray. She set things on the table, arranged them. He sat down. She poured him coffee, walked to her end of the table and sat facing him. He ate a few bites. The food nauseated him. He shoved the plate away.
Her lights flickered. "Chess?"
"Thank you, no, Anne. I've got other things to do."
"Do. Yes. Activity. What activity do you choose, Warren?"
He stared at her. Observation and question. Subsequent question. "Your assimilation's really made a lot of progress, hasn't it? Lateral activity."
"The lateral patterning is efficient in forecast. Question posed: what activity do you choose, Warren?"
"I'm going down below. You stay here. Clean up the dinner."
"Yes, Warren."
He pushed back from the table, walked out and down the corridor to the lift. He decided on routine, on normalcy, on time to think.
He rode the lift back to the lab level, walked out.
She turned the lights on for him, turned them off behind as he walked, always conservative. He pushed the nearest door button. Botany, it was. The door stayed shut.