He touched the stud at his throat and winced. One of them had hit him there and twisted the delicate implant. If it was broken . . .
If it was broken, then no signal was being sent. And if no signal was being sent, no one would come. And even if they did, they would not be able to find him.
Lost, he thought. I am lost.
He sighed, then spoke. "Are you afraid, Scaf?"
There was silence, then. "Yes, Master. And sad."
"Sad?"
"That it has to end now. I was . . . hopeful."
"Ah . . ." In the darkness Ben frowned; but for once there was nothing he could do. This, then, was how it felt. To be fated. To be without control. He nodded slowly, understanding. This was how it felt.
"Scaf?"
"Yes, Master?"
"Thank you. And, sorry. This was my fault."
Unexpectedly, Scaf laughed. "You didn't plan it very well, did you, Master?"
"No, I ..." He laughed, suddenly feeling much better.
"In fact," Scaf said, his voice dark with intelligence, "you fucked up pretty badly. The Mistress will be very angry with you."
"She will, won't she?"
"But she won't give up. She's like you in that."
In the darkness Ben nodded. It was true. Maybe the signal wasn't damaged. Maybe someone was coming for him, even now. He had only to hold on; to buy himself some time until they came.
Maybes and ifs, he thought, then, angry with himself for being so negative, began to sing.
"In diesen heil'gen Hallen Kennt man die Roche nicht, - . Und ist einMensch gefalien, • . Fuhrt Liebe ihn zur Pflicht.
Dann wandelt er an Freundes Hand Vergnugt und froh ins bess're Land"
"What is that?" Scaf asked.
"Mozart," he answered, hearing the glorious music in his head. "It's from The Magic Flute."
"I ... I seem to know it."
"Yes," Ben said. "I gave it to you."
Again there was silence. Then: "Did you really make me, Master?"
Ben took a breath. "No. You were born, Scaf, like other men."
"And the memories?"
"Some are real, some implants. The poetry and music . . . those things I gave you."
"I see." There was no anger in the words.
"Scaf?"
"Yes, Master."
"You were the best of them. You know that, don't you? I could have made you something . . . well, something special."
Scaf sighed, hearing the door clank open at the far end of the corridor and footsteps approach. "And now it ends."
Bear up, brave Scaf, Ben thought, but could not say the words. It was not the moment to say something so trite, so ...
The door eased back, light filling the cell. Scaf looked up at him and smiled.
"It's okay," he said. "You gave me life, Master. And a chance." Ben swallowed, watching as the jailer crouched over Scaf, then, not knowing what else to do, began to sing again.
The big man turned, glaring at Ben, and swung his arm, the back of his hand connecting with Ben's cheek. Yet even as he did, Scaf, free now, pulled himself up and, taking a single, agonizing step on his broken leg, launched himself at Ben. The jailer roared and pulled him off, but in that brief instant Scaf had passed something to Ben.
The cell door slammed, the blackness once more enclosed him. His cheek stung like it was on fire. But now he had hope. Hope like a beacon blazing in him.
He turned the object Scaf had given him between the fingers of his right hand, recognizing it and blessing the dayman for his foresight. It was a remote control unit. The unit that operated his artificial hand.
Slowly, careful not to drop the unit, he began, moving his hands as close together as the chains permitted, so that he could unfasten the flesh clips just below the raised line of his left wrist. And as he worked, he softly sang the last two lines of Sarastro's song:
"Wen sokhe Lehren nicht erfreun, Verdienet nicht ein Mensch zu sein."
THE WORST thing was the waiting, the feeling of impotence as he stood there in the dark behind the door, listening to Scaf s screams.
He had tried to think of other things—to think forward and plan what he would do—but that dreadful sound destroyed the very thread of thought. And then silence—a silence more awful than any he had known.
Was Scaf dead?
He waited, listening, then heard the door clank open and the two men come out. There was a brief exchange, then footsteps—away this time, climbing the steps up to the street. Then, after a pause, the heavy footsteps of the jailer came toward him.
He stepped back, prepared now, the loose chains at his feet clinking softly against the stone floor.
There was the sound of the bolt being drawn; slowly the door eased back. Ben watched the jailer move past him, into the cell, then gasp, astonished to find him gone. He began to turn, but it was too late. Even as he made to lunge at Ben, Ben's hand—detached, floating in the air above the jailer—fastened itself about the man's neck with the force of a vise.
Slowly, his eyes bulging, the man went down onto his knees, his hands struggling vainly to pull away Ben's hand. Ben watched, his eyes taking in everything, his mind burning with a hatred he had never thought possible.
Slowly he increased the pressure, his real hand aching with the effort, until, with a resounding crack, the bones of the jailer's neck popped and shattered and he fell.
Ben shuddered, then released the tension in his fingers. At once the hand released and floated slowly up. He watched it, then looked back at the jailer's dark, distorted face. His tongue was thick in his mouth, his eyes like tiny marble spheres.
Time. Time was of the essence now. Quickly he stooped and took the keys from the man's belt, then, letting the hand float on before him, he went out into the corridor, his chains clanking.
His luck held. There were no guards. Setting the control box down, he sorted through the keys, trying them one by one until he found the one that turned the lock.
He pushed the door back, his reluctance for once greater than his curiosity, then groaned. Scaf lay there on the bench, his chest pinned open, his eyes burned from their sockets. Ben stepped up to him and winced. His testicles had been mutilated and his legs and arms burned a dozen or twenty times. His fingernails had been pulled off and there were tiny cuts all along his inner thighs.
Ben shuddered and made to turn away, then heard the faintest groan from the dayman.
Alive? Was he still alive?
He clanked over to the top of the bench and leaned close, putting his hand above Scaf s mouth to feel for a breath.
Yes! But it was the faintest trace. He turned, looking about him, then realized. Of course, he had the keys! Fumbling through them, he found one tiny key that clearly matched the locks at each corner of the bench. He moved around, unfastening them, hearing Scaf groan again, as if he were coming back to consciousness, but listening all the while for the return of footsteps.
How long did he have? How long before someone came to check?
He stared at his own chains, wondering if he should take the time to unfasten them and cast them off, then decided he didn't have the time. Lifting Scaf, he balanced him on his shoulder, then went out into the corridor again.
The steps . . . they were the only way out. But what if there was a guard at the top? He took a calming breath, then began to climb the steps.
At the top step he paused, listening again, but he could hear nothing through the door. Slowly, expecting the worst, he put his shoulder to the door and pushed.
Outside a row of ancient gas-lamps punctuated the darkness of the street. Ben hesitated, looking about him, then realized where he was— recognizing it from the probes he'd sent in earlier.
He turned, heading left toward the New Bridge, surprised by how heavy Scaf was. If he didn't find shelter soon—somewhere to hide Scaf s body while he worked out how to get out of there—they were done for. Besides, their escape would be noticed before long, and then . . .