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Xavier went through the heats in the morning
and in the end all the competitors were eliminated apart from him and a
man. Prunella had discovered that he was sponsored by the League, like the
woman rider and the man in the water-event.
"Xavier, I am frightened," said Prunella, clutching his arm. "Your
opponent has probably been training for this one game for years, with all
the resources of the League behind him. And if you win there is going to
be trouble anyway."
"There is going to be trouble anyway," echoed Xavier pointedly.
He pulled up the long laces on his skating boots with a grunt.
The largest crowd yet had gathered for this event as it was going to be
the highlight of the year's Games. Xavier had increased his following this
year, and with the inhabitants of the Quarter was almost a hero. He entered
the rink to loud cheers and whistles and stood at the edge of the rink,
tall and erect. The costume he wore had been chosen by Prunella: it was
black with silver studs and sported a large steel breast plate in the shape
of a bird. Xavier wore the regulation helmet, strongly reinforced around
the ears and temples. He raised his fists in a salute to the crowd.
"Xa-vier, Xa-vier," they chanted.
He lowered his head in acknowledgement, and raised his fists again. As the
acclaim died down his adversary entered the rink from the opposite side.
It was a man, but so large that he could match the tallest droid. He was
dressed in red with a black breast plate and helmet. Xavier stared at him
fixedly. He had not seen him before, as they had been playing in simultaneous
heats. As was the custom the opponents bowed to each other and turned to
receive their sticks.
"This man is not here to win, he is here to destroy me," muttered
Xavier to Noel as he took the stick from another droid. Xavier closed the
visor on his helmet and gripped Noel's arm.
"If I lose, there won't be much left of me. Take care of Prunella,
huh?"
Noel could only see his eyes. They seemed to smile at him.
The adversaries turned to face each other across the ice. A gong sounded
and they started to circle around the rink. Xavier twirled his stick around
in a little display that brought cheers from the crowd. His opponent started
to spin round and round, at the same time bringing himself nearer and nearer
to Xavier. Xavier approached him and the gap between them closed rapidly.
He couldn't tell if the human was just putting on a show, or if the spinning
would develop into an attack. It was truly astonishing, the way the large
man controlled his stick as he span towards Xavier. As they closed, Xavier
made a last minute swerve with the intention of getting behind the man.
As he did so his opponent straightened out in his spin and drove his stick
with such strength under Xavier's that it was sent flying. Howls came from
the audience. By lucky chance however, the stick flew in the direction that
Xavier found himself travelling in, and away from his opponent. Xavier sped
towards the stick as it slid across the ice and in a deft movement scooped
it up and turned in a narrow arc. His opponent was nearly on him again,
but this time Xavier had the advantage of surprise. He caught the man a
glancing blow on the side of the head. The audience cried its approval:
"Xa-vier, Xa-vier"
The man kept up a ferocious attack however and Xavier found it hard to hit
him again, seeming to make little impression on the man with the few blows
that he did manage to land. Xavier's opponent was extraordinarily agile
on his skates, and would show off to the crowd with little jumps and spins
when he was clear of Xavier. Xavier had to content himself with a more solid
game, he could not take any risks to please the crowd now. The man landed
several blows on Xavier's body, without Xavier managing to return them.
An ominous chanting rose from the back of the crowd. It was a while before
Xavier could make out the word, "Centaur".
The man made another of his spinning attacks and again caught Xavier by
surprise, knocking him on the side of the helmet. Xavier staggered and nearly
lost his balance. He shook his head as though trying to clear his thinking
and circled well clear of his opponent.
The crowd were now beginning to take up the new chant:
"Cen-taur, Cen-taur."
"He's big enough to be a horse," said Prunella fretfully. Noel
took her hand.
Centaur came straight for Xavier, spinning his stick from wrist to wrist.
He had become too confident though and Xavier slipped a lightening blow
in to his shield. Centaur returned the blow, but Xavier parried. He was
playing very cautiously now.
The game went on like this for a while. Xavier played on in his wary manner,
making what use he could of his opponent's rare mistakes. Centaur kept pressing
Xavier hard. After some time Centaur managed two heavy blows to Xavier's
body in succession. Another violent blow to his head sent Xavier reeling
across the ice. Centaur followed swiftly, and before Xavier could turn properly,
had brought his stick down with full force onto one of Xavier's hands. One
of his digits shattered and broke off, spinning across the ice. The audience
gasped. Prunella hid her face. Xavier, in great pain, managed to parry the
next blow as they sped towards the edge of the rink. The audience shouted
in excitement. Xavier was skating backwards shakily, with Centaur pressing
home his advantage. The gap between them closed, as did the gap between
Xavier and the concrete wall at the edge of the rink. Xavier glanced behind
him in desperation. Any change of course would give Centaur the last little
advantage that he needed. Xavier narrowed his eyes. The audience screamed.
Prunella and Noel were motionless, their eyes riveted on Xavier. In one
last desperate action, Xavier brought his stick up so that it pointed at
his adversary, and shifted his body so that he was side-on to him. Centaur,
convinced that he had Xavier now, understood the manoeuvre too late. At
the last second Xavier, holding his stick up with both hands, ducked. The
stick shattered against the wall, and with the same impact the other end
embedded itself in Centaur's throat. Xavier himself slammed into the wall
and fell unconscious. His opponent crumpled to the ground in the brief instant
before he too collided with the wall. A spray of blood marked the concrete
above the still body. There was silence in the arena.
Petrified, Prunella and Noel watched as Xavier's droids and Centaur's men,
along with the medics, all rushed over to the motionless bodies. Prunella
gripped Noel's hand so hard that it hurt him. From amongst the small crowd
gathered on the ice they finally made out that one of the players was moving.
It was Xavier. Unsteadily he rose to his feet, supported by his droids.
"My God," whispered Prunella, bursting into tears. "He's
alive."
She sobbed on Noel's shoulder as Xavier raised his fists in salute to the
audience. He could not close his left hand properly; one finger was missing
and others hung loosely. There was silence. Xavier looked round and shook
his fists again. Slowly the chant rose and gathered strength:
"Xa-vier, Xa-vier, Xa-vier, Xa-vier."
The crowd wanted to forget the bloodied corpse. That was how it went: it
was by no means the first time they had seen death in the rink.
Prunella and Noel went with Xavier to the droid medical unit. He was injured
from colliding with the wall at such speed, quite apart from the damage
to his left hand.
"He would have killed me," said Xavier faintly. "From the
start it was no game, simply an assassination attempt. I was just lucky
that my aim with the stick was good. If I had missed he would have quietly
finished me off before we had got out of that corner."
Prunella could hardly speak. She would not leave him all night, though the
others eventually went home.
The next day Xavier and Prunella returned home. They had replaced the lost
finger and repaired various major lesions throughout Xavier's body. The
minor injuries would be taken care of by the android's own capacity for
self-repair.
Noel was actually more shaken than Xavier was. He understood that both deaths,
the woman rider's and Centaur's, were part of the Games, and that any participant
risked the same. He couldn't shake the feeling however that their deaths
at the hands of an android meant much more than that. The deaths, and the
droids' behaviour in the brickfalls troubled Noel: there was such a gulf
between the life in the Quarter and his old existence in the factories and
homes of masters he had served. During his stay in Poets Quarter he was
oscillating between a kind of exhilaration at new-found freedoms and friendships,
and feelings of growing unease and dread. His dreams reflected this, and
the nightmares returned in increasing frequency. The figure of the burning
droid began to appear in his dreams as regularly as the other strange elements
in the recurring mish-mash of portentous symbols.
Prunella and Xavier, after sleeping late, woke in the early afternoon. Xavier
was very tired still and rather stiff. They sat in the large room that served
as a kitchen and mess-room and discussed the Games.
"In a way, I wish that I had not done so well, despite the money,"
said Xavier thoughtfully.
"Why not?" asked Noel.
"It makes me and our operation that much more likely to become a future
target for the A.D. League. They are not fading away, as I had hoped at
one time. They continue to grow stronger. I can see now that they had a
deliberate strategy in the Games. They had no all-rounder who they could
be sure would win, so they trained people for individual events, to bring
my score down. As a last resort they had Centaur."
Friends started to drop round in the afternoon to congratulate Xavier. Some
drinks were passed round and gradually even Noel became enthusiastic over
their success. The end of the Games was always celebrated with extravagant
parties and gatherings. Xavier, as the overall winner of the Games, was
invited with his friends to the Mayor's reception later that evening, where
honours and prize money would be handed out.
The Mayors of the Quarter were elected every three years. They always pronounced
marvellous plans for the Quarter, attacked the incumbent Mayor for completely
failing to prevent the brickfalls, and promised new transport systems. No
one paid attention to all this; what mattered was the flamboyancy of their
personality, the shows and the parties - and the intellect. The Mayors were
traditionally poets and philosophers, and their opinions and manners had
to be original, outspoken, and acerbic. The celebrations after the Games
was one affair where the Mayor could not spare any expense. The visiting
tycoons and Mayors from other outlawed quarters and the underworld business
people had to be impressed.
As usual the party was held in an ornate, crumbling auditorium which had
once been a theatre at the centre of the Quarter. The official business
of honouring the winning competitors was carried out rather hastily, in
keeping with the Quarter's lack of interest in pomp and ceremony. The only
exception was the Mayor's speech which was very long and elaborate and was
designed to illustrate its author's depth of culture. As usual it got booed
and jeered at; such speeches were rated a success in proportion to their
received disapprobation. Once this was over the party got under way.
This year one of the Continent's most famous underground singers, a droid,
was to play for them. It was late into the evening by the time the band
started to play. The atmosphere was already thick with intoxicants of various
natures, and Noel and Xavier were in very fine spirits. Prunella tugged
at Noel's arm.
"You won't often get a chance to hear this guy. He really is fantastic."
"I've never heard of him. Comes from living in the country I suppose,"
said Noel. "What did you say his name was?"
"He calls himself Zero. Look, they are starting to play."
Noel smiled. Androids before the New Constitution were always known by their
numbers (starting from one), but after emancipation they were allowed to
take names. In some cases they would take their owner's name, and it also
became popular for a while to take names with a rather human connotation;
Chaplain, Newman, Heartfelt, and Kindman were examples. These were not used
much in present times, but 'Zero' certainly was a strange choice.
The first tones boomed out over the auditorium. The instruments were all
electronic, and produced a piercing fluid harmony that soared and wailed
at them - simple lines across complex rhythms characterised the music. Zero
started to sing. His voice had a curious mixture of the human and the droid
to it; he sang of machines and the creators of machines, and somehow made
the listener soar with him into incomprehensible flight. Undoubtedly his
power was to capture the mood and fears of the Continent in its schizophrenic,
almost catatonic state. His energy moved across the room like the locked-up
energy of the Continent, power that tried to soar away, but was doomed to
consume itself. His songs were bleak in their vision, devoid of warmth and
romance, yet they touched the nerve of one's heart.
Noel could make out the band's logo, hanging over them in colours that changed
with the rhythm of the music. It said Zero Aimless and the Alien Nations,
and he just caught a refrain from a song:
Why do they build buildings from rusty metal, metal?
Noel smiled at the image.
More people came to congratulate Xavier. Prunella stayed by his side all
evening, and half a dozen of his droids hovered near. One of the droids,
called Steven, beckoned to Noel.
"See those guys?" he asked Noel.
"Yes?"
"Droid slave-owners."
"You're joking."
Steven shook his head.
"Its the first time that I have seen them in the Quarter. They capture
and modify droids."
"Modify?"
"Yes, with drugs usually. It is a bad sign that they are here. The
old mayors would have nothing to do with them."
At that point Noel looked up and saw Xavier talking to the present Mayor.
Noel moved closer to where he could overhear the conversation.
"Fingers replaced?" the Mayor was asking.
"Yeah, they're fine now," said Xavier, wiggling his fingers in
front of his face, albeit a little stiffly. At that moment the Mayor's wife
interrupted the conversation to tell him that she had to get back to her
young baby, to which the Mayor nodded. He leaned over to kiss her goodbye
and continued talking to Xavier
"You know it often puzzles me," said the Mayor launching into
one of his philosophical enquiries: "If you had all your bits and pieces
replaced over the years, what part of you would still be Xavier?"
Those present, always looking forward to any discussion that might have
some of the outrageous qualities Mayors were elected for, looked up. Xavier
grimaced at the thought of continuous operations, but rose to the challenge
and said wryly:
"My memories."
"Ah now, that's very true. They would be unique to you." The mayor
leaned over to him to emphasise his next point.
"What if you transferred all your memories to someone, say your friend
here?" he said, pointing at Noel.
This set off a discussion to which contributions were made from many of
the present company, all in various stages of intoxication. Xavier finally
said to the Mayor.
"What if we transferred your memories to me? That would make me a man
according to your theories."
"Don't be ridiculous," said the Mayor, obviously taken aback by
the idea.
"Rubbish," contributed one of his aides.
"Nonsense," said another.
"It's not possible," said the Mayor finally settling it in the
tones of one speaking to an intellectual inferior. "Human memories
are not electronic patterns stored in metal and silicon networks. Its a
proven fact that human memories and experiences can be quite independent
of physical or biological material."
"So what?" said Xavier, becoming a little nettled.
"So human memories and experience are quite different to those of your
kind," the Mayor said condescendingly.
"How, different?" asked Xavier coldly. The mayor drew himself
up erect in his seat.
"They are what makes us human," he said with affected dignity.
Xavier became quite angry.
"Is that why you tolerate droid slavery?" he asked belligerently.
"Does your remarkable humanity, conferred on you by your special memories,
excuse you from protesting at the abuse of androids, and other practices
long outlawed by the New Constitution?"
"What do you mean?" protested the Mayor. "What droid slavery?"
"I mean droid slavery as perpetrated by characters like those,"
said Xavier, waving his hand at the men that Steven had pointed out to Noel.
"I don't know what you are talking about," said the Mayor, going
red.
"You should be more careful about wild accusation like that,"
said one of his aides to Xavier, with more than a hint of a threat in his
voice.
Xavier got up.
"Xavier, please," said Prunella.
"You don't frighten me, any of you." said Xavier to the Mayor
and his aides, paying no attention to Prunella. "I can see that you
are as bad as the rest of them; you pay lip-service to the Constitution
while you continue to exploit us. Bah!"
"Xavier, Xavier, that's enough," pleaded Prunella, dragging him
away. Xavier went with her grumbling, and Noel and Steven followed.
They were calming Xavier down when Zero started singing again. Noel, despite
his preoccupation with the quarrel between Xavier and the Mayor, was captivated
by the music. Against the unsettling feeling of living in the Quarter with
its pleasant and unpleasant unpredictabilities, the music took his spirits
up. Zero was singing:
Here I am at last,
I never started it nor stopped,
I leave that to the humans.
Here I go again,
I feel the end; I don't know when,
I leave that to the humans.
I'm in love again,
But really I've no heart for it,
I leave it to the humans.
Noel was puzzled by the words, but at the same time there was a naked presence
in them, and in the painted droid who sang them. The evening went on; they
danced and drank and smoked, and in the dark corners men, women, and droids
propositioned each other.
Not far away from the party Zebulun looked down on the Mayor's home, a small
block with an inner courtyard like many of the more elegant old buildings
in the area. This was why Zebulun had been moved to the Capital: their dead
brother had been born in the Quarter of this particular city, attracted
by the Mayor's unusual intelligence and vivacity, and above all by the virility
of his love-making. Zebulun had been chosen to oversee the kidnap mission.
At a few months the child was old enough now to withstand the shock of the
kidnap, but not too old to be placed with new parents who would bring him
up in the Way. As he hung suspended above the Quarter Zebulun realised that
he had the perfect means to dispose of Althea, a need that was growing daily
more urgent. What a despicable place though! He looked around at the lights
of the Quarter and felt a sense of revulsion: androids and people mixing
together, young men coming for NuSense fixes, chemical stimulants, and the
disreputable Games. Ha! How puerile the organised Games with their mindless
goals and occasional fatalities.
At last the band of initiate Brothers detailed to the kidnap showed up,
disguised as typical ADL supporters, and he guided them with his radio towards
a side window.
"Hold it," he said suddenly, for he had seen the Mayor's wife
and armed escort turning up at the front of the building. The Brothers shrank
back into a dark corner while Zebulun moved for a better view of the arrivals
- aah, he thought, like a bird, with a mere flexing of the tendons in hand
and foot he could place himself anew in space, or blissfully glide to where
his yearnings took him. For the moment there was business to attend to,
but the almost animal pleasure he felt in his movements persisted. With
a pair of high-power binoculars he watched - as best he could through various
windows - the party disperse about the building. The Mayor's wife had checked
on her child in the nursery and conversed with the droid nurse, after which
the lights went out along the corridor leading to Zebulun's kidnap target.
Zebulun waited for about ten minutes before regaining his previous vantage
point and, in a low voice, he guided his Brothers to the window again, following
their equally sotto voce reports as they made their way to the courtyard
and up the old inward-facing balconies to the child's room. He heard the
muffled thump as they dealt with the droid child-minder, and their hurried
whispers as they gagged the baby and retraced their steps. The alarm rang
as soon as they had moved the infant, and Zebulun watched anxiously as the
expected rush of guards was marked by lights appearing along the many corridors
and landings near to the scene of the abduction. The Brothers' route had
been carefully planned to give them time to get out. They ran to a side-street
with their precious bundle where a vehicle was waiting for them. This was
where Zebulun's task became critical: the Quarter had its own forms of security,
and each organisation would have been immediately alerted by the kidnap
attempt, but typically would be poorly coordinated. The Mayor's own guards
were in hot pursuit, and were only a block behind as Zebulun guided them
via a circuitous route to the Quarter's perimeter. As other security forces
took up the chase Zebulun directed his team to alternately lead them off
in a new direction, or to hide in old car parks or darkened underpasses
while the pursuers drove on in confusion. Eventually the Quarter's protection
contractors were all chasing each other towards one end of the Quarter,
while the Brothers were quietly directed out of the Quarter by an exit almost
diametrically opposite.
The following day Zebulun had an interview with Roger Badcock again, and
examined the notes on Roger's treatment.
"It looks like you have made some progress with the regression therapy.
How do you feel about the treatment?"
"Have you had it done to you?"
"Of course not. I am the doctor."
"Then you have no right to ask me about it."
Zebulun looked closely at Roger. There was a definite improvement in his
appearance, in his skin colour and in the condition of his hair, and there
was a new softness in his tone, despite the apparent lack of cooperation.
"We have found some problems between you and your father in your childhood."
"We?"
Zebulun ignored this.
"He seems to have been very critical of your abilities. Didn't think
that you would make anything of your life. Yet you did."
"So what," said Roger wearily.
Zebulun leaned closer to Roger.
"Your unconscious mind retained the imprint of negativity and criticism
from your childhood relationship with your father. Its positive impact on
you resulted in your early ambitiousness, which brought you success, but
its negative impact on you broke out as a form of nihilism and led you to
addiction."
Roger looked up at Zebulun with a resignation in his eyes.
"Congratulations. You have reduced my life to being a, a.." Roger
searched for words. "Puppet. You sit there, with no interest in me
at all, other than as a machine. Such and such an input produces such and
such an output, that's all you psychologists believe in."
Zebulun permitted himself a small smile, and then suddenly brought his face
right up to Roger's and narrowed his eyes.
"Don't you long to take control of your life? To have a purpose that
makes you more than a machine? Have you any idea what this takes?"
Roger was quite taken aback by the intensity of Zebulun's plea, and recoiled
from him. Zebulun sat back in his chair, aware that his face had taken on
a quite inappropriate animation, and recited a mantra to himself to calm
himself down.
"You're mad," whispered Roger to himself.
"Sorry?" said Zebulun, regaining his composure.
"Nothing, nothing."
Over the following weeks a relationship built up between the two men, where
Roger would let Zebulun analyse his unconscious motivations, apparently
in agreement with the conclusions drawn, and then suddenly deny the whole
validity of the process. This would often bring Zebulun to confront him
with fragments of his Brotherhood philosophy. Zebulun could sense that Roger
was drawn to and repelled from his ideas in equal parts. At times he was
unsure of how far to go, as he felt that their relationship was slipping
from the purely professional, but he could not resist attacking Roger's
incoherent and weak-minded outlook on life. After a particularly passionate
tirade Roger seemed to be very confused, and then angry. Zebulun resolved
to return their sessions to the more formal interchanges of doctor and patient,
but on arriving at his office on the day of their next appointment, he was
informed that Roger had not turned up at his hostel the previous evening.
This amounted to a breach of Health System-client contract, and would be
treated very seriously. Several days passed with no sign of Roger, and in
due course the police were informed.
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