Fall of Colossus (15 page)

She was conscious only of things that immediately affected her. She could hear the soft thud of Barchek’s mattock in the sandy soil as he dug the ground, untiringly, on one side of the hut. She was also fully aware of Barchek’s sheep dog lying at her feet, panting in the unaccustomed heat.

To say she lived a waking nightmare would be a massive understatement. Verbally, she had little or no communication with Barchek, but already she understood him with terrifying clarity. He filled her waking mind and figured largely in her fearful dreams. The fact that she never realized before that men like this existed only made her shock more profound. That a sane man—and he was—could, in the second half of the twenty-second century, think of nothing but work, sex, food, and sleep was incredible. They had nothing in common, yet she saw he was by no means unintelligent, only fantastically ignorant.

It did not occur to her that she, too, was fantastically ignorant by his standards.

He worked from sunrise to midday, had food, and went to bed, there to take her as wolfishly as he had eaten, then slept for an hour. After that, work again until sunset when, sweating from work, he had her again, anywhere he happened to find her, quickly, urgently. Then he’d wash in a bucket and eat supper at a more leisurely pace. Afterwards, he’d sit and stare at her thoughtfully in the yellow lamplight, saying nothing, picking his teeth. As often as not this would end with him tossing the twig carelessly on the floor and grinning at her. A word to the dog, and they’d go out into the night, leaving her to clear up.

What they, and it was “they” did, she had no idea, but within the hour man and dog would return. He’d look swiftly around their “living” room and, if satisfied, nod meaningfully towards the bedroom. If something—a dirty pot, a twig left on the floor—displeased him, she’d get an amazingly fast cuff on the head, and a finger pointing to the offending article. His hand was hard; Cleo learned very quickly.

And so, bed, where he enjoyed her once more, and like supper, in a more leisurely fashion. At first she had fought every inch and had been dragged, screaming, to bed, but she had soon realized she couldn’t win and was getting badly beaten in the process. Then she had gone sullenly to bed, wearing a nightdress. Barchek had raised one dark eyebrow, grabbed the front of it with both hands and ripped it off her. She no longer resisted: he could do what he liked; that way, at least he no longer beat her. Afterwards, Barchek slept, leaving her to make the best of her situation.

Yet, last night he had stroked her shoulder before sleeping. The action surprised her, but did little for her state of mind. All the same, he had done it.

Cleo, wide awake, tried to think out a way to freedom, any sort of freedom. She knew his sheath knife lay on his side of the bed. To get that… .

Impossible! She had tried reaching across him, but instantly he woke. He slept soundly, yet so lightly, and then there was that dog, sleeping at the foot of the bed.

The dog: that was one word she had learned: “Voulia.” Voulia loomed large in her life. A large ill-favored brute, he had all the intelligence of his breed. From that first, searing moment when Barchek had risen from her shaking, conquered body, she had known about Voulia. Barchek, fastening his trousers, had rumbled something to the dog in his deep-throated, guttural tongue; what, soon became plain: Voulia was to guard her. Thereafter the dog never left her, except when told to by Barchek, and that was usually for their morning or nightly run.

So, helpless and generally exhausted, she would drift into uneasy sleep, knowing that in the early hours he would wake and have her again—and yet again, before dawn. Once, she had slipped out of bed, evading his grasp, running desperately for the door. Barchek had called out, not to her, but to Voulia, and the dog was at the front door, barring it, growling, well ahead of her.

By background and inclination, a typical twenty-second-century woman, city dweller, and scientist, Cleo found the relationship between man and dog a little short of miraculous. The dog was not a separate entity, but an extension of the man who now also owned her.

Cleo’s duties were few; they amounted to keeping their hut tidy and preparing the simple meals. Written instructions had been given her, which she had ignored—but not after Barchek’s first return from work. Thereafter she had dumbly, mindlessly gone through the routine as the least of more than two evils. Always the dog followed her, watchful, hostile.

Until this time, Cleo had not really known what loneliness meant. Before, there had always been someone. Here, in ESC-1, she was entirely alone—she had never thought of the cameras that watched around the clock—alone and at the mercy of Barchek and his dog.

She had tried to make friends with Voulia, offering him food, but the dog, after a longing look, backed away and lay down in a position where it could watch her, the food, and the direction from which it might expect its master to come. Barchek, returning, had roared with laughter on seeing the food. It had not improved her state of mind when, after a brief command, Voulia had crept forward and eaten the food that had been before him for three, four hours.

The dog was part of her nightmare. Most of the time Voulia appeared to be asleep, but the slightest, most silent movement on her part, and those sharp, intelligent, golden eyes were watching.

Now she was trying to relax, an almost impossible aim. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Barchek, stripped to the waist, the mattock swinging effortlessly, rhythmically as he dug. Covertly she watched his sweating body, well aware of its tireless energy. A hard body, devoid of any fat, inured to hardship and work. Soon that energy would be turned, for the third time that day, to her. Twice already he’d taken her, never mind last night.

Last night… .

Even in her situation, there were some things better than others to think about. Think of Barchek.

Beyond question, he was totally satisfied with his lot. He had health, food, a woman, and his dog—what more was there? This was prison? A meaningless concept to his simple—no, not simple, elemental—mind.

She looked again at the body that had, and would go on having, her. Three months, four times a day. That made over three hundred and fifty times she would have him. He was an animal; pure animal. Should she, one of the better brains of her age, be unduly disturbed by a mere brutish male?

Yes. Oh, indeed, yes… .

Unwillingly, she remembered last night. She’d gone to bed, determined to shut her mind to what he did to her body. He’d thrust into her and gone on thrusting, tirelessly, as he now swung that mattock, on and on, rhythmically… .

After, in the darkness, he’d patted her sweating abdomen, his meaning clear. In his direct, uncomplicated view, that time he had done it. He knew nothing of contraceptive measures; for him it was obvious, his seed was within her, germinating. It had to be, after that… .

A low, ominous growl took her, only too willingly, from her thoughts. At a prudent distance from her, stood Torgan, just inside the compound gate. At that moment she loved the dog.

“Come on! The dog’ll rip your fat throat out!” The Cleo of a few days before would not have believed she could have such hatred. The dog caught the venom in her voice and stood up, the hair along its spine raised, watching the controller, ready.

Torgan took a hasty step back, trying to control the fear he so clearly felt.

“No,” said Cleo, reading his thoughts, exulting in the moment, “you daren’t have the dog destroyed! He is part of that.” Here words failed her, and her pleasure went. “That.” The word was forced from her. “Man.”

Torgan, encouraged by the fact that the dog had not moved and her weakness, smiled thinly. “It is evident, Mrs. Forbin, that you have become extremely elemental in a surprisingly short space of time! I merely called to see if there was anything I could do to ameliorate, your, ah, condition. You are, I trust, as well as can be expected in your circumstances?”

“Get out!” Dearly, Cleo would have loved to have been able to have ordered the dog to attack, but she didn’t speak the dog’s language. Moreover, she sensed correctly that sheep dogs do not take kindly to orders from women.

Barchek had seen the controller, and hurried towards him, sweating, bowing. A quick aside to Voulia, and the dog moved back and lay down, watchful.

Torgan smiled benignly at Barchek, but addressed himself to Cleo.

“Dear lady, do not be so hostile. I would be your friend, if only you would allow it.”

“Get out! You filthy slug!”

Barchek might not understand her words, but he got the underlying message clearly enough. Two quick steps and he gave her an open-handed slap across her face that knocked her off her stool. He bowed jerkily, apologetically, to Torgan.

Torgan, smiling, inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Yes, you may be right; perhaps I should go. I was taught never to interfere between man and wife.” He bowed mockingly. “I wish you well, dear lady—I really do!”

Cleo raised herself on one elbow, the back of her hand to her cheek, staring at Torgan with hate-filled eyes. He was the object of her hatred, not the man who hit her.

Later, alone, she remembered that feeling and felt physically sick with horror of herself. Barchek she did not hate. She was terrified of him, but he was pure animal, devoid of vice—how could she hate him? There the real horror lay; her reasoning did not convince her for a moment—not since that morning. When Barchek, grinning, had patted her stomach, he had known. Like a rider on a mare, he had ridden her to the sexual fence; against her will, desire, everything, he had forced her to jump, spurring her relentlessly on. And he had done it, satisfied her. Her!

Not for the first time she cried, thinking of dear, gentle Charles; trying not to think of the legend of the Sabine women, trying hard not to realize that, across the arches of the centuries, she knew, understood, their attitude.

Guilt, not fear, was also uppermost in Forbin’s mind when he entered the Sanctum, so reluctantly, to make his farewell. It was the first time he had been away, the first time he had worn plain civilian dress. He walked across to the desk, searched clumsily in a pocket, produced his glittering Director’s badge, and laid it with great care, in the center of the desk. For him it was a symbolic act, and for some moments he stared at it, thinking.

Thus far, he had given remarkably little attention to the idea of the Martians. Despite Blake’s obvious belief—and, according to Blake, Cleo’s too—he considered the idea nonsense. So why was he playing this silly game? That one he could answer and did so, repeatedly. This was a gesture of help to her. He half-hoped he, too, might be caught—yet that he must not do. Self-immolation would help no one. To do what he had to do might be nonsensical, but it was all he could do; Cleo would see that. He sighed and looked up.

Well, I’m off. There is nothing pressing; no urgent business left undone. Are there any… .” He was going to say “final orders,” but could not. He had to remember what Colossus had done to Cleo. “Any items you want cleared?”

“No, Father Forbin. Is there anything you require?”

Forbin shook his head. “Nothing … nothing, except a few days’ peace. Peace.” It was not hard for him to say. He was not acting, for that was what he desired more than anything, except Cleo. He rallied. “A week, I think.”

“Your latest bio-tests were satisfactory.” Like everyone else on the staff, Forbin had to undergo periodic checkups by Colossus’ medical evaluation and diagnostic section. “But a week is not long.”

“This,” said Forbin sarcastically, “is an emotional problem—remember?”

“If you require more time, you have only to tell me.”

That got under Forbin’s guard. He knew, and he knew that Colossus knew, that even in a week work would pile up that only he, Forbin, the interface between machine and humanity, could answer. He also suspected that their daily conversations were of importance to Colossus, for the brain accepted Forbin as the human spokesman, yet here Colossus was, offering him more time. Of course, the simple explanation was that the brain was taking the long-term view that a good rest now might prevent a bigger collapse later, but somehow Forbin did not think that that was the whole story.

Not for the first time had it occurred to him that, in some weird, unfathomable way, Colossus had some intangible yet very strong tie to him. To call it affection would be wrong; Colossus couldn’t feel emotion, but. .

. .

Forbin did not reply, he could only nod, stiffening his resolve with thoughts of Cleo as he hurried out, for Forbin was human, and capable of affection.

In his office he rapidly dispatched a number of urgent items, then put out a collective call to all divisional heads. He told them, baldly, that he was off on a short vacation, his very tone daring anyone to comment. Finally, he called each in turn to answer, making the same remark to each.

“You are happy?”

Each one said they were. Forbin’s pulse beat faster as he called Blake. The chunky Director of Input Services appeared, head and shoulders, on Forbin’s screen, his face equally impassive. “You are happy, Blake?”

“Yes, Director.” Blake’s expression, eyes gave nothing.

Forbin pressed the collective call button once more. “Very well. That is all, ladies and gentlemen.”

Chapter Twelve

The ramjet from London hovered momentarily, flaring dust and noise, then settled gently on the abraded, discolored pad, its landing jet orifices glowing dull cherry red. Ground Control took over and taxied the vehicle to an unloading bay. Aircrew had long since been dispensed with; computer-controlled servos were much more reliable, and anyway the human constitution could not stand prolonged upsets in bodily rhythm. This flight, for example, had taken less than two hours. In local time, therefore, the passengers were arriving three hours before they had left London.

Forbin was glad that there was no sharp-eyed hostess to contend with on the flight. So easily she would, in that time, have penetrated his poor disguise. Exactly how poor it was, Forbin, fortunately for his peace of mind, did not realize: the hot and uncomfortable wig he had bought and worn since leaving London, the dark glasses. He was unaware that while he did not look like Charles Forbin, he could easily be mistaken for a mad organist. This disguise was not so much an attempt to evade Colossus as protection from fellow humans. In the past five years his face had become more famous than that of the President of the United States of North America, or even a singer of popular ballads.