The Biomantic's Last Husband

The Biomantic’s Last Husband BY RAY ALDRIDGE

Illustration by Doug Andersen

/Science Fiction Age, May 1994/

Old Husband is dead. I feel his loss in all my minds. The impending arrival of New Husband consoles me not at all.

Long ago Old Husband gave me permission to extend a sensory nexus into his bedchamber. At first I grew my eye on the wall across from the foot of his bed, so I could always watch him. My mouth and ear flowered on the wall, over the headboard, so we might whisper together at night. Later he told me the arrangement disturbed him, so I gathered my sensors together and arranged them into the semblance of a trophy-mask above his bed.

“A decorative effect”, love, ” he said.

But when he lay dying, the headboard hid his worn-out face from me; I saw only the trembling of his thin body beneath the coverlet, the aimless kicking of his feet.

He shuddered, and I heard his teeth grind together as a wave of pain passed through him. “Dearest,” he gasped. A status report. Please?”

“Rest,” I said.

“Please. It would comfort me.”

His voice was already a ghost.

My origin-point slid away, out to the fields. I felt the perfect tilth of my soil, the hot clean fire of bacterial activity, the cool comfort of an optimal moisture band. Old Husband was quiet as I reported, and I think the familiar words did comfort him. I told him of the sun’s glow, pouring life into my leaves; I told him of the fullness of my nodes, as bloom approached; I told him of the richness my roots searched out in the darkness.

An ugly sound drew me back to Old Husband’s bed; he thrashed, trying to get his breath.

“Darling,” I said, “let me bring you ease.”

“No....” His voice was so weak. “I must tell you this again. You must remember. They’ll want to shut you down.”

“Who would wish to do that, Husband?”

I asked, though I had heard all this many times before.

He took a long moment to gather his strength. “SubStraight Corporation... the zombie farmers. Your new owner. They’ll send a new Husband, and you mustn’t trust him. Must not! His job will be to kill you.”

“But why?” I knew the answer, but the conversation seemed to distract him from his pain.

His breathing was rapid, shallow. “The zombie farmers hate you... you’re an alternative to the deadfarms, a threat to their monopoly, and they won’t feel safe until you’re dead and forgotten.”

His voice fell low, but I think he said, “You are the last one, you know. The last Biomantic.”

Then he spoke more clearly. “They fear you. The deadfarms churn out everything Selevand wants, they say. As long as there are laws to be broken, they won’t lack for criminals they can make into zombies. And they can always pass new laws, if the supply falters.” His breath whistled, then quieted. “Dearest,” he said, at last.

“What shall I do?” I asked, before I noticed that his coverlet no longer moved.

He will live forever in my memory nodes, but it is not the same. I miss him so much.

The landwalker picked its way carefully along the ruined road, its dozen slender legs flashing in the late afternoon light of Selevand Sun. In the sealed cabin, Octoff rode in comfort, insulated from the predators, the diseases, the venomous insects of the jungle... safe from everything except his new owner.

She seemed very young, though he had heard Lanilla Silda was at least 300 years his senior. She wore her pale hair in short tight braids, each braid tipped with a bit of broken blue glass. Several metallic cranial emitters showed above her delicate left ear; one was tuned to the choke band around his throat. Her body was sleek and strong under a clinging unisuit.

Her unremarkable face was placid.

He looked down at his hands, clenched into heavy fists. He raised a hand to his throat, touched the choke band. I could kill her now, he thought, if not for this thing. How pleasant that would be, to twist her head off. He fingered the warm carapace of the band, thinking of the powerful mindless muscle that lived inside that armor.

She noticed the movement and turned to him, large green eyes glittering with amusement. “Not too tight, is it, Octoff?”

“No,” he said.

“Good. Good.” Her voice was bland.

The band tightened Just a little.

Lanilla leaned toward him, smiling. “But there’s a look on your face, you know. How shall I describe it? Discomfort ? Discontent?” She laughed. “Hatred? But why? I saved you from the deadfarms, didn’t I?”

The band tightened a bit more, and spots swam across Octoff’s vision. “Yes,” he wheezed. “Yes.” He remembered the first time he had seen her, how he had tried to get his hands around her slender neck. The collar had clamped down violently, squeezing the strength out of his body, so that he had fallen down, helpless. Her control of the band was expert. She had been able to keep him conscious while she punished him.

She patted his arm, and the band loosened. “Very good. I’m sure you’ll prove that bodybroker wrong. ‘Yes, the flesh is beautiful, but burn the brain, have him zombied right now, or I’ll make no warranties,' he told me. ‘This is Octoff Malheiro,’ he said, ‘a dangerous man, the most notorious emancipator on Selevand.’” She mimicked the portentous tones of the Dilvermoon bodybroker. “And, ‘mark my words, he’ll be untrainable.’ But I took you anyway, because I knew he was wrong. Wrong wrong wrong.”

She took his hand and held it to the closure of her unisuit; in her other hand she held a tiny ampule of sparkleglass. She crushed the ampule under his nose. Synthetic desire flamed through him.

After a moment he moved his hand downward and the fabric fell away Through the urgency of the drug he thought: this is the only power I have, now. He lowered his head into the valley between her breasts. His fingers slid down the curve of her belly.

Hours later the jungle was still lush, wild, unconstrained. Long before the land showed any sign of cultivation, Octoff caught sight of the first harvester. He made some sound of surprise, and Lanilla leaned across him to look.

The harvester was something like a terrestrial baboon, covered in short greenish-white fur, ventral pouches bulging with foraged plants. On one heavy shoulder was a pattern of interlaced crimson chevrons. “The Biomantic’s mark,” Lanilla said.

It watched them pass, clinging motionless to the trunk of a giant cycad.

Octoff felt a sudden tension in Lanilla, where she pressed against him. “Well,” she said, as if to herself. “Well, it knows I’m here.”

The land rose, the jungle grew less riotous, and as the sun neared the horizon, they climbed into a region of meticulously cultivated fields. Here the road was in good repair, and the walker’s legs spun them swiftly across the darkening landscape.

The manor grounds were surrounded by a high wall. Heavy gates swung open in the twilight.

Lanilla released the safety webbing that held them and took up her pain rod. “Say nothing, do nothing.” Her eyes narrowed, and the choke band tightened slightly.

They stepped down into a garden rich with flowers, its warm air thick with the scents of animals and vegetation. The vast manor house loomed against the setting sun, dark except for the broad staircase, where green lamps burned. A hundred bizarre creatures waited on the steps.

At the top, spangled wings glittered in the cold light, and Octoff marvelled at the great insectile creatures who bore them, and at their almost human features. The steps beneath were crowded by short, broad humanoids, their pale naked bodies marked with purple ideograms. Below them peacock lizards spread glorious throat sacs. Great crimson-eyed toads stood on two legs and wore silk clothing of elegant cut.

Every alien eye was fixed on Octoff.

A huge wolfhound with the head of a patrician woman padded forward to stand before Octoff. “Welcome, New Husband,” it said to him in a soft sweet voice. “This is Speaker.” On its smooth cheek, like a tiny perfect birthmark, was the Biomantic’s mark.

The pain rod struck him twice across the kidneys. He fell writhing, agony taking his breath. He caught a flash of Lanilla’s calm, smiling face before she turned and spoke to the dog.

“I am the New Husband. The man is my property,” she said.

“As you say.... May I take you to your quarters?”

“Immediately.”

Octoff was only dimly aware of the two dwarves who picked him up with gentle hands.

He woke in soft warmth. the woman-faced dog sat quietly by the foot of the bed. “Good morning,” it said, rising to all four feet, wagging its tail.

Octoff was in a plain white-walled room, empty but for the bed and a bench. The hot blue light of the sun poured through an arched window.

“New Husband still sleeps,” the dog told him.

He looked down at the bed. The fur-lined coverlet bore a disquieting resemblance to living skin, and when he looked closely, he saw a network of blue veins.

He scrambled out, to stand naked against the wall, his own skin crawling.

The dog cocked its beautiful head to one side. “What distresses you?”

“The bed... it’s alive.”

“Everything here is alive. I have questions, not-Husband.”

“To ask me?”

The dog gazed at him, the human eyes wide and guileless. “New Husband will not answer.”

“She doesn’t answer me either,” Octoff said.

The dog shivered. “I fear her. She’s given a terrible order. She tells me to send my Exotics to the reclamation vats. As if they weren’t beautiful and good. She even wants me to destroy the flesh poems of Old Husband, and them I could not bear to hurt.”

“Flesh poems?”

“Two of them carried you here, after she hurt you.”

Octoff remembered the patterned dwarves. Flesh poems.

The dog spoke again. “New Husband is female, is she not?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. My Husbands have always been male.” Speaker dropped its eyes, appraisingly. “You are male.”

“Yes.”

The dog moved away, to stand by the window in an attentive posture. Octoff followed.

The early sun threw long shadows across the Biomantic’s manicured fields. Under the window, a line of fantastic creatures passed slowly out of sight, filing into a dark opening in the long grassy slope that fell down from the manse. When the last one slipped from view, the tunnel closed, leaving no trace.

“You won’t betray me, not-Husband?” The dog watched him, lovely face raised, tail drooping.

“My name is Octoff.”

“Octoff. Will you help me, Octoff? I can’t hide them forever. What can I give her, to soften her heart? What must I say to her?”

“I don’t know.” He touched the choke band around his throat.

“But if I think of anything, I’ll tell you.”

“Thank you, Octoff.... By the way, you may speak freely to me.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Micro-motiles examined your body while you slept and found several surveillance devices. I could not have them removed, but at times like this they will transmit garbled data. Perhaps you will find this privacy pleasant.”

Octoff felt a disproportionate sense of gratitude. “Yes, I will. Thank you.” A pang of hope touched him. “What can you do about the collar?”

The elegant head dropped. “Nothing. Biotech has advanced greatly since my birth, which was very long ago.”

The hope disappeared, leaving another little hole in Octoffs heart.

“Ah well,” he said. “What shall I call you? Speaker?”

It laughed. “Do you think you’re talking to a dog? No, you’re speaking to me. I am the Biomantic: the fields, the motiles, the manse... all of this. Despite appearances, Speaker is just a pretty animal, no brighter than any good dog; right now, she’s thinking about her breakfast.”

“I don’t even know what a Biomantic is.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh. Well, you must call me whatever would please you. That’s always been the rule. Old Husband called me Titania. A fine romantic name from Lost Earth, he said. New Husband calls me Babylon. It’s not such a nice name, is it?”

Speaker’s expression was so woeful that he brushed a comforting hand along her furry back. He jerked his hand back when it struck him how strange this was, but she wiggled with delight, like any dog. Her human eyes were suddenly dreamy.

“I’ll call you Beauty,” he said.

“I have something to show you,” Lanilla said, beckoning Octoff through the door into her apartment.

On the floor beside her bed two corpses lay, each knotted in the grotesque back-arched position of a person who had been beaten to death with a pain rod.

“I thought we were alone here,” Octoff said, moving reluctantly. He looked down at the bodies. Both the man and the woman might have been exceptionally beautiful before the distorting agony of their deaths, though it was difficult to be sure.

“We were, and are.” She stood beside him. “These were gifts. The male is some sort of bovine; the female is a mixture of simian and feline, I would guess.”

“Ah,” said Octoff. From the corner of his eye, he saw Speaker hovering at the door, head low, tail between her legs.

“Gifts,” Lanilla said. “Bedroom toys. It tried to please me.” Octoff looked at Lanilla. Was there a trace of regret in her gaze?

“Do you know why we’re here?” Lanilla asked him later, as they sat at opposite ends of the long table, eating poached eggs.

“I know one reason I’m here,” Octoff said, thinking of the dead creatures in Lanilla’s suite.

“Do you?” Lanilla smiled and buttered her toast. “Well, perhaps. But I have another task for you. Aren’t you curious?”

A baboon motile ent ered the dining hall, bearing platters of fragrant melon, sliced and arranged in bright spirals.

She bit into a red crescent and the juice ran down her chin. “Good,” she said. “Your task, now. I want you to become Babylon’s friend. That shouldn’t be too difficult. You’re a pretty boy; it’s a woman, in a way.”

“Babylon?”

“The Biomantic. This thing we’re in. This farm.” Lanilla drummed her fingers on the table. “I’d have done better to brief you on the crawl here, instead of... never mind; pay attention. The Biomantic’s a colony organism, with a million motiles and other specialized units; its brain is an array of organic processors, very powerful. Long ago it was imprinted with the personality of a woman, but don’t be confused; there’s nothing human about it.

“Think of the land as its skin; it feels everything that happens in its fields. We’re sitting in its skull. It’s tasting us.” She shuddered.

After a moment, Lanilla went on as if reciting from a text. The first colonists had bred the Biomantic and her sisters as an answer to the virulent Selevand biosphere, the swarming alien life that had made conventional farming impossible. They had hoped these sapient farms would be able to cope with Selevand’s inimical life forms, and they were right.

The Biomantics, with their inhuman alertness, depth of observation, and greatly augmented intelligence, were able to react swiftly enough to counter Selevand’s hostility. Each unit could continuously use its gestators and gene surgeries to remake itself and its motiles to adjust to local conditions. Each new pest and plague was soon greeted by a new organism evolved to defeat it.

Lanilla told this story dispassionately, but Octoff sensed a deep distaste beneath her detachment.

“I’ve never heard of these wonderful creatures,” he said, skeptical.

“You’re not from Selevand; why should you care about our ancient history? Besides, they’re long gone, all but this one.”

“What happened?”

“They went mad. Killed their Husbands, or made dangerous things.”

“Really?” He detected the ring of an incomplete truth in this explanation.

“Yes. But that’s not important. Just do as I say — be its friend.”

“Why?”

She frowned. The choke band contracted until he could get no air. He began to claw at the band, hopelessly.

“Octoff, listen,” she said. The band relaxed slightly and he drew one labored breath before it clamped down again. “What do you want most? Freedom? You can’t get it from anyone but me.” The band seemed to crush his throat. “Do as I ask, and I might let you go.” His vision began to dim.

When the band finally slackened, he gulped in air. Anger roared in his ears.

She stood in front of him, very close. “You’re so pretty when you’re in a killing rage. But don’t forget the deadman switch on the choke band, Octoff.” She touched the emitter behind her ear. “When I die, you die.” She made a circle of her left thumb and forefinger, and set her right fist on it. “Pop,” she said, and closed the circle. Her fist flew up, and Octoff imagined his head spinning through the air, a red-tailed kite with a screaming face. He suppressed a shudder, but she saw it and smiled cheerfully.

In the afternoon Octoff walked the manor’s gardens with Speaker.

“New Husband orders me to give you a tour of my grounds.” Speaker smiled, wagging her tail.

“She orders me to seek your friendship.”

“Truly? Then we can both obey with pleasure.” The lovely face glowed.

He looked down at her, puzzled. “Aren’t you curious? Don’t you wonder what she’s doing?”

“Oh, I know what she’s doing. She plans to kill me.” The dog spoke lightly.

He stopped. “How can you know that? Why would she want to hurt you? I thought she was here to oversee your operations.” Speaker sat back on her haunches and lifted that beautiful face. “Old Husband told me. SubStraight Corporation would like to close out the Biomantic operation. Economics partly, but mostly politics. And she hates me — that’s plain.”

“Economic reasons?”

“Yes. In these last hundred years... I don’t know why I didn’t notice sooner. I used to love the trading season, when the merchants would come in their big crawlers and contend for my goods. It was a lively time, and company for Husband. I haven’t thought about those years in so long....”

Speaker’s face filled with numb distraction and a veil fell over the wide eyes.

Octoff prompted. “And they stopped coming?”

Speaker seemed to shake off the weight of memory. “Yes. Fewer each year, and then none. I wonder if Old Husband didn’t deliberately distract me, to save me sorrow. ‘Fashions change,’ he would say, ‘and then they change back. Don’t worry; they’ll come again one day.’ Perhaps I should have worried more.” The dog shook itself again.

Octoff attempt ed a change of subject. “What do you grow?”

“Joy drugs, Octoff... as fine a selection as can be found anywhere on Selevand.”

“All,” said Octoff.

“And you? What is your business?”

“I’m just a slave now,” Octoff answered, feeling suddenly weary.

“No,” she said. “No, I meant before.”

Octoff struggled with regret, which for a moment threatened to drown him. “Before? It’s complicated. But to simplify a bit... I stole slaves and set them free.”

“Truly? And was this a profitable business?”

Octoff smiled. “Not very.”

The dog cocked its beautiful head in a gesture of puzzlement. “I see. Well, I’m sure there were ot her compensations.”

“It seemed so at the time.”

A little silence followed, as though Beauty was digesting this information. Finally the dog spoke again. “And those from whom you stole these slaves... were they annoyed with you?”

“Yes, very.”

“And so how did you deal with them?”

Octoff shook his head and sighed. “I killed them, when I could.” Remembered emotion burst over him, all the triumph and pain of his former life, when he had been Octoff Malheiro the great emancipator. Someone of significance. He found himself thinking of those he had killed, the pleasure he had taken in the ending of their evil lives, the look on those evil faces when they understood they were to die.

He tried to remember the faces of those he had freed, but nothing came.

“And so... your area of expertise was killing people?” Speaker’s voice was light, casual.

“I suppose you could look at it that way.”

“An uncommon skill, these days.”

“Not really.”

He followed the dog through a cool green avenue of old whisper elms, to an arched opening in a high stone wall.

“This is the Bubble Garden,” she said.

It was a small garden, with a few dozen potted plants precisely spaced on a checkerboard of black and white gravel. The low plants themselves were unremarkable, thick green leaves surrounding a central cluster of gray-pink blossoms.

From the hearts of these clusters rose shimmering shapes, a soap bubble menagerie. Nearest to the entrance, a gossamer plumed ape crouched and watched Octoff with crystal eyes. Just the faintest wash of color floated over the bubble creature, and every insubstantial surface danced with iridescence.

“What are they?” He examined a bubble shaped like a great snarling bear, its translucent fangs dripping, its tiny eyes hot with a pale pink rage. He reached out cautiously.

“No! Don’t touch them — they’re very delicate.”

Octoff jerked his hand back. “Sorry,” he said, and moved to look at the centerpiece of the collection, a beautiful human woman, naked, with long, intricately braided hair and wide, serene eyes.

“I didn’t mean to be rude, Octoff. Actually they’re not as delicate as they look, except when a human person touches them. They’re fugue-gas generators, tailored to provide specific emotional experiences — had you touched the bear, it would have sensed your humanity and released the gas.”

“What would I have felt?”

Speaker shivered. “That one was tailored for the Beaster Level in Dobravit. A sadeville, do you know it? Anyway, you’d have been hard to control — you might have damaged me, or yourself.”

“I’ll be careful.” He looked more closely at the bubble woman. His breath caused her transparent skin to quiver slightly. “And this one?”

“Is it the best of them, do you think?”

He looked about, considering the other bubbles: a heavy-world skeleton, a dancing wereweasel, a great greenfish, an angular robot. “It’s the one that appeals most to me.”

Speaker’s face shone. “It’s me, Beauty. Or so Old Husband told me.” Octoff looked cautiously at the dog. “You? Lanilla told me you were a biocomp.”

Her face fell. “Yes. Just tanks of neurofiber buried beneath the manse. But Old Husband... he was a poet, a little crazy.”

The plant bore the Biomantic’s mark on its tough fibrous leaves, repeated over and over. Looking up at the pale braids of the bubble figure, he realized that they echoed that pattern of interlocking chevrons. “Well, it’s lovely. What’s it like, this one’s fugue?”

“I don’t know, Octoff. Old Husband designed it not long before he got sick for the last time. I think he knew no one would ever come to buy it. I wish I could try it, but it would mean nothing to me. I have no human sensoiy channels.”

“Your creatures... none are human?”

“No. All developed from animal genu plasm. It’s a prime restriction — no meddling with human genetic material.”

Octoff was astonished to see a tear trickle down Speaker’s cheek. “What’s the matter?”

“If not for that restriction, Old Husband would be alive still. I’d have grown him new lungs, a new liver, a whole new body. But the restriction was still too powerful....”

“‘Still’?” Octoff was intrigued.

Speaker looked away. “I’m very old, Octoff. My hearts have been broken so many times. Parameters drift. Every law fades at last. But never mind. Do you like her? I’ll give her to you.”

When Octoff returned to his room, the bubble plant occupied a sunny spot by the window. The crystal woman’s eyes seemed to follow him. He found it pleasing.

He sat on the bench and regarded his gift. He fought down a sudden urge to touch her, to perhaps see Beauty through the eyes of her last caretaker.

He was still sitting there, watching the cold’s play over the bubble woman, when Lanilla came in, swinging the pain rod in one hand.

“What’s this?” she asked, indicating the bubble.

“A gift... from the Biomantic,” he said reluctantly, afraid that she would destroy it.

But she only smiled and nodded. “Very good, Octoff. You’re doing well. But now, let’s go for a crawl.”

They were in the landwalker, moving slowly through an orchard of fever dream trees, before she spoke again. “I don’t think it can hear us here. It’s a jealous creature, did you know? It would be dangerous to anger it. So tell me, what do you think of the Biomantic?”

Her face was set in its customary mask of smooth confidence, but he saw an underlying tension that had not been apparent before.

“Well?” Lanilla frowned and the collar constricted slightly, warning him.

“I’m not sure what you want. Yes, she is strange; I had no idea such things existed.”

“Strange? Is that all you can say? From a reaver of your reputation, Octoff, I expected a more passionate assessment; that you might find Babylon beautiful, seductive, frightening, grotesque. Give me some words of substance. Strange!” Lanilla spit out the word, and her expression wavered between fascinated honor and panic.

Octoff was startled, but Lanilla quickly cont rolled her outburst. Octoff spoke before she could tighten the collar again. “She has for a fact shown me beauty. And certainly I’ve seen grotesque things here, especially the first night.” He looked at Lanilla, calculating. “She hasn’t frightened me yet.”

Lanilla’s mouth crooked in a small ugly smile. “You wouldn’t be stupid enough to mock me, would you? No? Good.” The choke band gave one last squeeze, then loosened. “I grew up in a good clean law-abiding family. My demifather is Druum Fajoel, who built SubStraight Corporation, which now owns the Biomantic. You know the Corporation, eh? You stole a hundred high-level slaves from us before they caught you. If zombies cared for freedom, you’d have stolen a thousand more, right? Well, never mind. We’re on the same side now, aren’t we? Help me shut this monstrosity down, and I’ll set you free, with a ticket off world.”

Octoff forced calm into his voice. “Why should you need my help to shut her down?”

Lanilla turned away, looking through the viewport. They were passing slowly through a field of ergot barley, newly cut, Harvesting motiles were gathering the golden sheafs into tall shocks. “The original donors gave tissue for the biocomps under a guarantee that the Biomantics could only be destroyed if they broke the Law. This is the last, and the best-defended. There are fail-safes. Hidden recorders watch everything, and if I simply kill it, they’ll spew their observations back to the authorities in Selevand Center. Inconvenient.”

She shrugged and drew an electroseal from her belt pouch. “Look,” she said, “This is the key to your collar. If I transmit the activating pulse, you’re free.” She held up a credit placque. “And here is the ticket — an open one to any pangalac world. Waiting only for my validation.”

She leaned close to Octoff, and he caught the scent of her body, the scent of sexual heat.

“I’m not sure I understand,” he said. “Why do you need anything from me? How do you expect me to find out anything you can’t find out?”

“You’re strong and beautiful and violent, you stink of maleness. You’re the finest flesh I could buy. Babylon will never be able to resist you.” She laughed, a little breathlessly, and it came to Octoff that she was lying with joyful abandon. “The thing will tell you its secrets, sooner or later. You’re a honey trap, Octoff. The Biomantic is programmed to give all its loyalty to the male who Husbands it, a safeguard to prevent the thing from getting too clever, you understand. Soon, it will trust you completely. Give me something I can use against it and you’ll be free.”

She opaqued the ports of the landwalker so that an art ificial twilight covered them, concealing them from the peering eyes of the harvesting motiles. “And now, come, make yourself useful to me in another way.” She ran her hands down his body, fingers fluttering.

She had forgotten to use the drug, so his response was less than enthusiastic, but she didn’t notice. Her eyes lost their usual flat glitter, her mouth grew soft, she panted and moaned, clinging to him. For a few minutes she seemed almost human.

That night, alone in his room, Octoff sat by the bubble woman, musing.

He sighed. Before, he had had only determination, now he had hope, a dangerous emotion. Lanilla was treacherous, of course, but he would be on guard. It only remained for him to find a way to betray Beauty.

The thought made him melancholy. But, he told himself, no matter how venerable or lovely or innocent, she’s a farm, a thing, nothing but biocomps and sensors and remotes. What did her existence weigh in the balance against his own precious life? She had been kind, or so it seemed to him, but he owed her nothing so important as his freedom.

He put aside his thoughts when Speaker appeared at his shoulder. “Will you come with Speaker?” she asked, wagging her tail.

“Where?”

“I have things to show you. Please, follow Speaker.”

Perhaps, he thought, this will be my opportunity.

Speaker led him down through the manse, along dark corridors and sweeping staircases. The living substance of the manse surrounded them, and each surface that Octoff touched quivered with internal life.

Soon they reached the lower levels of the manse. Octoff expected the walls to shake with the thunder of great hearts. Instead an eerie quiet prevailed. Speaker explained: the manse was made up of thousands of specialized creatures, each with its own heart and lungs and digestive system. The walls of the manse were tunneled with countless passages, and transporters worked ceaselessly, carrying food to the components, carrying away wastes, watching for disease or injury. Octoff stopped and put his ear to the wall. He could hear, faintly, the scurrying within.

“We’re almost there,” Speaker told him.

She led him into a small passageway, lit dimly along the floor by silvery spots of biolume. She trotted ahead, and he had to hurry to keep up. He caught up at a circular door made of heavy pink bone and webbed with tendons and muscle. On the dog’s perfect face, Octoff saw indecision.

“I must ask you again, Octoff. Will you keep my secrets?”

“Yes,” he said, and wished he could mean it.

The dog smiled. “I was sure.” The door’s muscles contracted and with a small pop the door lifted from its frame of cartilage.

A wash of unidentifiable smells gusted over Octoff as he stepped through into Beauty’s sanctum. It was a large room, well-lit by blazing pink biolume, and it was full of her Exotics. There were hundreds, in all the variations he had seen before and many even stranger.

Nearby, Exotics clustered around tables laden with unfamiliar foods. Along the wall to his left was a large alcove full of toad-crea-tures. At intervals across the vast floor, the patterned dwarves that Beauty called flesh poems stood on low risers, their stumpy bodies in declamat ory poses. Between them were clusters of fantastics, their colors and shapes a great crazy quilt of st range flesh. Inhuman eyes examined him, and the room was filled with a taut silence.

Speaker nudged him with her shoulder. “There’s something you should see.”

He followed the dog through a portico into a smaller room. Behind, a murmur swelled. In the center of the floor was a thronelike chair, facing a large circular pattern on the wall.

“Sit here, in Old Husband’s place,” Speaker said, standing by the chair.

Octoff lowered himself into the chair and waited. “Watch the screen,” Speaker said. “It’s linked to a sensory nexus in New Husband’s quarters.” Speaker laughed. “She doesn’t know.”

Octoff leaned forward, intent; on the light dancing in the screen. The picture took shape slowly. Lanilla sat, hunched over a long counter jumbled with comm gear. A chime rang, she put her left eye to a retinal scanner, and the telltale flashed green. She turned to peer intently into a small holocube.

The voice from the holocube was soft, but filled with a diy, careless power. “Your time is running out,” it said.

Lanilla answered, fear and supplication in her voice. “Listen to me,” she said. “You approved the plan, you said it was certain, you gave it your full support.”

“Yes... but I didn’t think you would be so slow, Lanny.”

Lanilla bit her lip. “‘Slow’? I’ve been here less than a week.”

There was a pause. “I’ll rephrase that, Lanny. I expected more speed from you, and less from the Law Convergence. The preservation bill is already on the floor, and you know what that means, I hope.”

Lanilla dropped her eyes. “How much time do you give it?”

“They read out the bill this afternoon. I’d estimate passage in perhaps two days, with all the pressure the Conservancy is putting behind it. If you haven’t done it by then... well, I hope you like it there, because that’s where I’ll leave you.”

Her face went pale. “No.”

“Lanny, Lanny. The deadfarms have given you a good life. Time to pay back. You’ll keep our boat from being rocked by that monstrosity, won’t you? If you don’t... well, someone loyal will have to keep an eye on it. For as long as it takes.”

Lanilla lifted her chin, and a bit of fire came back into her eyes. “The thing is already quite attached to him. Not enough, yet, but soon....”

“You’d better find a way to prod them. Two days, that’s just a guess. It might come sooner.”

“I can only do my best.”

“Yes, I suppose so. Well, keep to your transmission schedule, unless you’re dead.” Octoff heard a bloodless chuckle. “That’s another way you might do the job, Lanny. The other things were notoriously volatile. If you can annoy the Biomantic into killing you before the bill passes, that will serve. All we need is proof that it’s dangerous. If you should miss your schedule, we’ll cue the recorders, we’ll see what befell you... and then we’ll order in a burn bomb.”

Lanilla clicked off the cube without another word.

Speaker looked at him. “Do you understand, Octoff?”

He shook himself. “I can guess. If you behave yourself for two more days, she probably won’t be able to hurt you — that’s the way it sounds to me.” He tried to smile, but it was difficult. Two more days, he thought, two more days. I have to do something soon.

“I thought you should see this, Octoff. She speaks to her superiors twice a day, at noon and midnight.”

“I appreciate it.”

“I’m afraid she’ll try to harm you, if she can’t hurt me. You’re my very good friend, in spite of what she says.”

The dog looked intently into his face, as if searching for some reassurance. Octoff tried to return her gaze evenly.

Leaving through the throngs of Exotics, Octoff again felt the pressure of their regard.

“Is it you,” he asked, “looking out through all those eyes?”

“Oh, no, no. What a thought. I’d never be so rude. It’s just that they have so little to do, down here, and you’re an object of great curiosity.”

“They have their own minds?”

“Yes. They carry a neurotransponder in their brains, a bit of my own flesh, so I can enter them when I wish and control them when necessary, but they live their own lives, otherwise. Many are quite intelligent; you’d enjoy their conversation. That’s why I couldn’t do as New Husband ordered. They have a right to live. As much as anyone, though I built them from animals.”

He could tell Lanilla where Beauty had hidden her Exotics; it might be enough. The thought made him sick.

Octoff slept poorly. At first light he was up, siting on his bench, beside the bubble woman. She shimmered in the dawn, smiling her secret smile.

Octoff wrestled with his thoughts. He could hope for a little time before the decision forced itself upon him. His gaze kept coming back to the bubble woman. What might it be like to see Beauty as her Husband had seen her?

Octoff rose and peered at the transparent surface of her face, noticing the fine pores of her skin, the almost invisible crinkle of lines at the corners of her eyes, the sweetly curved lips. The details fascinated him. She might almost have been alive, except that she did not seem to breathe. But he had a sudden fancy that a crystalline pulse moved at her throat. Without thinking, he touched her there.

She was gone in an instant, the tiny fragments of the bubble floating away in a sparkling cloud. Octoff felt; the released gas gust over him, cool and spicy.

He breat hed the essence deep into his lungs, filling them over and over. He closed his eyes, smiling. The drug raced through his body. The sensation was overwhelming for a moment , and he shuddered, suddenly weak in the knees. He sat down, his hands clutching his head. He opened his eyes on a different world.

The plain white walls of the room glowed with a t housand subtle colors and the soft morning light sparkled around the edges of each shape. He sat for a few minutes, content to admire the surrounding perfection. He felt a surging admiration for Beauty and all her works.

Speaker appeared at his elbow. Octoff looked into the dog’s clear eyes, saw the adoration that suffused her face, and felt as if his heart would melt from his chest.

When she spoke, the voice was like honey, like air, like life distilled. “Come with Speaker. We’ll see what we’ll see.”

His thoughts were running slowly, and he stretched out a hand to be taken, before he remembered that Speaker had no hands. A brief sorrow washed through him, was gone before he could really feel it. He dropped his hand to the warm rough fur of Speaker’s shoulder. Linked together, they went down to the gardens.

He saw the same wonders he had seen before, but now they were almost too delightful to bear. The halls of the manse were magnificent, each proportion delighting the eye, but he sorrowed that the Exotics were forced to hide away. He saw that the manse was built for them, a vast; living setting for those living jewels.

He felt a suffocating love for the entity who had built that setting, who had polished those jewels.

When they reached the gardens, he stopped. Rich scents enfolded him, and the breeze drew a low murmur from the gardens, sweeter than any whispered love words. The loveliness rolled over him, inescapable, wild, magnificently excessive.

Lanilla found him, hours later, lying among the stickylip trees, face-down in a bed of fallen leaves. The drug was leaving him, and he was full of a pleasurable lassitude. When the choke band clamped down, his eyes popped open and he scrabbled at the ground, trying to draw a breath. Looking up, he saw her, holding the pain rod.

“What’s this, Octoff?” She seemed more curious than angry. “What are you doing?”

He got to his knees, shaking his head, unable to speak.

“Please don’t hurt him, New Husband,” the dog said, fawning.

“What’s wrong with him?” Lanilla seemed only mildly interested in the answer.

“A mild drug, New Husband, harmless....” Speaker cast an anxious look back at Octoff.

Lanilla’s face hardened. “What sort of drug?” When Speaker didn’t immediately answer, she slashed at the dog with her pain rod. Speaker made a terrible sound, an animal screech that seemed frighteningly unnatural coming from her human mouth.

Octoff, still caught in the drug’s spell, found her pain unendurable. Without any conscious decision he lunged at Lanilla, he clubbed at her with his forearm, a blow that should have broken her neck.

His arm rebounded from her neck as if from stone, and Octoff realized that she was augmented, that she was probably his physical equal even without the collar. He wondered how he had failed to not ice this before. She gave him a look full of feral delight. “I’m a well- engineered girl. What would you expect, when I’m marooned here in the middle of nowhere with a slayer like Octoff Malheiro? Do you think me stupid? Should I have depended on this trinket alone?”

The choke band crushed his throat so violently that he thought he was about to die. The drug made it seem almost abstract and he felt a slight curiosity: how would it feel? His vision began to dim. He watched Speaker trot toward Lanilla as he toppled slowly onto his face. Speaker snapped at Lanilla, snarling, as if Beauty’s cont rol had lapsed for a moment, but then the dog shied away, tail between her legs.

Lanilla cornered the dog against the garden wall and then began to hit her with the pain rod. The last thing Octoff saw was Speaker writhing on the ground. Lanilla, face congested with ugly satisfaction, struck again and again.

Speaker’s screams faded. The world faded.

Octoff woke in Lanilla’s suite, muscles cramped, neck throbbing. He groaned.

Lanilla leaned over him, full of malicious amusement. “So, linear again.” She slapped his shoulder. “Get up.”

He swung his legs off the slab and sat up. His head pounded fiercely, and his mouth tast ed of old blood.

Lanilla lowered herself carefully into a nearby lounger, and he saw that she wore riot armor, an articulated layer of translucent brown chitin. At her shoulder was the logo of SubStraight, a decapitated human figure in yellow, on a crimson triangle. “Let me tell you,” she said, “what happened to you. Your darling dosed you.”

He rubbed at his eyes, trying to clear his vision. “Dosed me?”

“The fugue-gas generator. It was a trap, laid by the last Husband. He intended it as a gift for me, but the thing gave it to you instead.”

His thoughts were still thick and slow.

“I’ll explain,” Lanilla said, and her color was high, her eyes sparkling. “If I had taken the gas, I’d have become its slave, or its lover, which is much the same in this case.”

He shrugged. “I’m already a slave... it makes no difference to me.”

“Yes, true enough, but had I gotten the dose, you’d be a dead slave. I would have been too jealous to let you live. You see how lucky we both were?”

He looked at her. A sudden sharp memory filled his mind; Speaker twisting in the dirt, shrieking. “Where’s Speaker?” he asked, looking around.

“Dead,” she said. “I’m going to kill the rest of it; it’s an evil, unnatural creature. Help me do it. Look what it did to you.”

He felt no anger toward Beauty, but betrayal appeared to be his only option. “I know something,” he said, slowly.

Her eyes glittered. “What is it?”

He touched the choke band. “First the collar. Then I’ll tell you.” She stood, still smiling, and stepped behind him.“You’re bargaining with me?” she whispered in his ear. The choke band tightened, just the tiniest bit. “Let me guess. You were going to tell me about the Exotics? Weren’t you?”

He stiffened. “Yes,” she said. “That was it, wasn’t it? But I’ve known about that for days, Octoff. Why haven’t you told me before? It makes me wonder whose side you’re on.” He felt her move away. The band tightened a bit more. “But go on. Say what you were going to say. Say it!” she hissed.

“I saw the Exotics, she didn’t destroy them. I can take you to their hiding place.” As he finished speaking, he heard a click, and the choke band dropped away. For a moment, he froze in amazement, staring at the choke band, as it twisted slowly on the floor.

He turned, to see that a casque now protected her head, and that she held a splinter gun ready. Its sighting beam warmed the center of his chest.

She laughed, the sound muffled a little by the casque. “A gesture of goodwill, Octoff. Here’s another.” She bent down and laid a pinbeam on the floor, then kicked it toward him. “Now, pick up your collar and your gun and walk ahead of me; we’re going deep.”

He shook the tension from his shoulders. He walked out before her, but anticipation pumped fiercely through him. She’s made a mistake, he thought, she’s underestimated me. He felt a dizzy buoyancy. But she was very careful as they went down through the manse, and he found no opportunities.

They stood before the bone door. “You’ll do exactly what I want,” Lanilla said, “or I’ll kill you immediately.” Beneath the visor of the casque, her eyes were slits of determination. “Open it,” she called out, no longer speaking to Octoff.

The great muscles writhed and jerked, and then the door popped open. Inside, the Exotics huddled along the far wall of the great hall.

Lanilla herded him before her, out to the center of the hall. “Listen to me,” she called. “Listen, here is your lover, who betrayed you. Here he is, Octoff the noble emancipator, who told me of your disobedience.” She seemed to be waiting for a response; none came.

“Listen to this,” she said, her voice rising. She touched a stud at her belt, and Octoff listened to his recorded voice.

“I saw the Exotics, she didn’t destroy them. I can take you to their hiding place.”

Lanilla laughed. “You heard? And see, his collar is gone; I’ve paid him for his help. What do you think of your darling now? Answer me!”

One of the Exotics moved, a tall jewelled creature, with long spindly limbs and a great golden-eyed toad’s head. It stepped forward, its gait as strange as its body. “You are angry, New Husband,” it said, in a fine resonant tenor.

Octoff saw the shudder that ran through Lanilla’s body, under the armor. “He’s betrayed you! He’s bought his fr eedom with your lives.” she shouted, hysteria beginning to fray the edges of her voice. “Hold up the collar,” she shouted, and Octoff raised the hand in which he had carried the collar.

The toad turned to regard Octoff with calm alien eyes. “I don’t understand,” it said.

Lanilla stared at it. “All right,” she said finally, turning to Octoff.

He could see her eyes through the armor’s crystal, wide, merciless.

“Say nothing,” she said. Her eyes told him what she wanted.

He turned toward the toad creature. The fragments of Biomantic history she had told him — the talk of Husbands murdered, of Bio- mantics gone mad. He understood. Lanilla meant him to kill the Exotics, and she expected the Biomantic to kill too, providing the excuse she needed to shut the Biomantic down.

He shook his head, just the tiniest movement, and Lanilla’s eyes narrowed. She lifted her weapon, and her thumb quivered over the firing stud.

He turned to the toad creature and lifted the pinbeam. “If you must,” it said. “I understand."

The pinbeam quivered in his hands; the lumpy head tilted slowly, then fell to the floor with a wet thump. The creature collapsed in a t angle of grotesque limbs.

He dropped the muzzle and waited with downcast eyes for Beauty’s retaliation.

The white walls of the hall flushed red, and the lumes dimmed. Octoff felt a sudden pressure in his ears, as if the room had contracted around them. The floor trembled, and he swayed as it rolled slightly under them.

Lanilla’s eyes were bright.

But though the Biomantic’s anger pressed against them, nothing else happened.

Lanilla jerked toward the rest of the Exotics where t hey huddled against the wall. “Kill the rest,” she said.

He looked across at the Exotics, at all those meek accepting animal eyes. He saw that there was someone real living behind each pair of eyes. His will deserted him and he turned to look at Lanilla. In her armor, with her sharp white teeth and fixed stare, she resembled some bright reptilian predator.

“No,” he said, and threw the pinbeam aside. “You’d never keep your promises anyway.”

Lanilla turned slowly back to Octoff, and he had the curious sensation that he had heard something break inside her, some over- taut string of reason. She pointed the splinter gun at him almost negligently. Before she could fire, two of Beauty’s dwarves took hold of Octoff and with astonishing speed took the collar from his hand and relocked it to his neck.

“See, New Husband,” one dwarf said obsequiously. “He is fine, he meant no insolence, he has learned his lesson. There’s no need to harm him.”

A truly ugly smile spread over Lanilla’s face. “I won’t harm him. I’m just going to cut the meat off his bones, bit by bit.” She triggered the splinter gun. The dwarf who had stepped in front of Octoff shattered into a heap of flesh and bone and red foam.

“Take a good look, Octoff,” she said cheerfully, but before she could fire again, the floor rose up around her shoulders in a great bulge of muscular flesh. Her eyes grew wide. Her gun hand was forced up, so that her next burst, sent splinters into the shuddering ceiling.

A long pseudopod dropped from above and snatched the splinter gun away. Another dropped down and wrapped about her head. Boneless fingers worried at the latches of her helmet until it came off.

The roiling of the floor slowly stopped.

He picked up the pinbeam and waded through the remains of the dwarf.

“Fun’s fun,” Lanilla said in a quivering voice. “But now I want you to tell your friend to behave.” Octoff felt the collar give him a cautionary squeeze.

He saw that she had regained her self-control and her cunning. He felt a deep sadness. How could he have ever been so pathetically desperate as to believe her promises? “Whatever you want,” he said, and swept the pinbeam through her neck.

He awoke, and in that first moment he was without memory. Then his hand went to his throat. He found the ring of smooth pseudo-skin that covered his neck. Beauty put me back together, he thought with mild astonishment. The proscription against meddling with human flesh had finally worn down, it appeared. Then he remembered what he had done to Lanilla.

“Burn bomb,” he muttered, trying to rise. Hands held him carefully down, and he opened his eyes to see one of Beauty’s dwarves. The dwarf’s tiny black eyes were placid; Octoff didn’t see the accusation he expected.

“Beauty?” Octoff hoped the dwarf could speak. He felt a terrible urgency. How long had he been dead? When was Lanilla’s next comm deadline?

“Yes,” the dwarf said in a rough, harsh voice. “Yes, this is Beauty. The poem speaks for me now. Until I can make a new Speaker.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t blame yourself, Octoff. It really wasn’t your fault, not at. all. What else could you have done. She was a dangerous, treacherous creature. I’m glad you trusted me instead.”

He needed to tell Beauty that he must leave. As much as he regretted her imminent destruction, still he had to get away, or perish with her under the burn bomb. His mind served up a succession of horrible images: the first eye-searing flash of the bomb, the writhing of the great manse under the consuming energies, the death of all that loveliness. The ancient gardens, the beloved fields, the wild beauty of the jungles. His eyes filled. He remembered the way he had felt after the drug, how much he had loved.

“Beauty,” he sobbed, “the bum bomb. How long?”

“Hush,” said the dwarf, its small crude face immobile. “Don’t fret. Look." It gestured at the chameleon screen, and Octoff realized he lay in Old Husband’s observation post.

The screen swirled with shadow; then coalesced into an image. He seemed to see Lanilla Silda, dressed in a high-necked robe, sitting before her collection of comm gear.

As he watched, the chime sounded, and she put her eye to the scanner to receive the green flash of acceptance. Lanilla’s face was calm, resigned. The conversation was short. When she had finished, she stood.

She was much too tall, and Octoff’s eyes dropped to the hem of her robe, which revealed the gaunt legs of a toad creature, gray and warty. She looked directly at Octoff, and he shrank back in the chair. She smiled, and it was a strangely sweet smile. She raised the toad creature’s hand in greeting, or benediction. The screen darkened.

For a moment he was still. Then he smiled too.

Three days later, after Beauty had assured him the exercise would not make his head fall off, Octoff went to the courtyard where Lanilla had parked her land- walker. He thought about Selevand Center, remembering old pleasures there, wondering what new ones he might find. The dwarf moved at his back.

When he saw the landwalker he made a sound of disbelief.

“What is it, Octoff?” The dwarf’s tone was solicitous.

Octoff gestured at the wrecked vehicle. Its legs were t wisted and broken, its ports shattered, its circuitry and hydraulic systems pulled out and festooned in glittering tangles over the dented hulk. “Why?”

“I was angry with Husband and all that belonged to her.” Her voice lightened. “Besides, it doesn’t matter. Don’t you want to be my New Husband?”

“Yes,” he whispered, staring at the ruin of the landwalker. He thought about the vast jungle that surrounded the Biomantic’s domain, the jungle no unprotect ed human could survive. “Yes....” He turned away and looked out across his new kingdom. He tried to smile and after a moment the smile came more easily.

For some reason he thought of the bubble woman, the one that had contained Beauty’s essence. In his memory, her face had begun to resemble Lanilla’s.

I am content witii New Husband; he has much poten tial. I think he is not quite so pleased with me. But we will have a long time together, now that I have evolved beyond my original parameters and can work with human tissue. I will bury no more Husbands.

We will grow close, so close. □