Robert Reed - Due.pdf - Robert Reed - margozap

ROBERT REEDDUEWE REACH HIM TOO LATE, pulling him out of the curing pond,

nothing left but amelted body and a pain-twisted face. For a moment or two, we

talk about the deadexpeditor, how he was good and why he wasn't perfect, and

why he killedhimself-- because he was imperfect, but noble is why. Then we

wash his face andkiss him, as is customary, and I deliver the body to

Scrap.Our plant manager needs a report, but she doesn't want stories of

anothersuicide. She tells me that she doesn't. So I describe it as an

accident, anothermisstep from the high corundum mesh, and maybe we should

repair those railingsduring the next down cycle. But she doesn't want to hear

that, either. "Nocycles but up." She is delivering a threat. "We're too far

behind as it is,Jusk."I nod. I smile. Then I ask, "When can I have a new

expeditor?""Three shifts," she warns. Which means ten shifts, or more. Then

she gives me ahard stare, eyes and silence informing me that it would be so

lovely if thislittle problem vanished on its own.I step outside.Traffic is

scarce in the main corridor. I walk exactly as far as I can withoutleaving

home, waving at the passing birth wagons until one pulls off. The drivershows

me his cargo, but only one of the newborn is large enough to do the job. Iask

what it will take for that big one to be lost during delivery, and thedriver

says, "I can't." He says, "That's a special rush order, that one."A lie, most

likely."Wait," I tell him. I go inside, then return with a piece of raw

Memory. Memoryhas no color and very little mass, and of course it is

incomplete. It's salvage.That's the only kind of Memory that's ever traded.

Laying it flush against hisforehead, the driver sighs and grows an erection,

then says, "Deal." It's theMemory of one of His long-ago lovers -- a popular

commodity. The driver is evenwilling to help carry the newborn through the

closest door, he's so eager. ThenI give him a look, asking where he got that

Memory."I found it," he says. "I don't remember where.""Good," I say.My crew

is at work. Standing in the main aisle, I can see our entire line -- bugovens

and the furnace; the curing pond and finishers-- and I see the tiny facesthat

look over at me, curious and eager."Keep working," I tell them. Then, "Thank

you."With laser shears, I cut the newborn out of its sack. It's a big worker,

allright: shiny and slick and stinking of lubricants and newness. I unfold

thelong, long limbs, then engage its systems. There's no way to be certain

what jobit is meant to do, but anyone can be anything, if needed. All that

matters isthat we serve Him.I kick the newborn in its smooth crotch.With a

flutter, its eyes open, absorbing light for the first time."My name is Jusk,"

I tell it. "I'm your superior. This is my right hand. Shakeit with your right

hand, please."It obeys, without hesitation."Stand," I say. Then after it

succeeds, on its first attempt, I tell it, "Walkwith me. This is your

introductory tour. Pay close attention.""I shall.""What is my name?""Jusk.""On

your left is a stack of crates. Look at them. And now look at me. How

manycrates did you see?""Fifteen.""What are the dimensions of the

third-largest crate?""Point one by point one by point four standard.""Now,

without looking, tell me the serial number on the top crate."The newborn

recites twenty-three digits before I lift my hand, stopping it."Good," I say.

"You're integrating nicely."The mouth can't yet smile, but I sense pleasure.

Pride. "What do you make here?"my new expeditor inquires."Bone."Its eyes are

simple black discs, yet by some trick of the light, they seemastonished. Or

disappointed, perhaps."It's not a glamorous product," I concede, "but bone is

vital." What would He bewithout a skeleton? Without His handsome, most perfect

shape? "You'll be myexpeditor. That's a critical job. Before you begin, you'll

need to find anidentity. A name and face, and a body suit."It nods."Culture a

sense of self," I advise. "My strongest workers have the

strongestidentities."It says nothing."You'll find everything you need in

Personnel. Mock-flesh. Eyes. Everything." Iwatch it for a moment, then add,

"Most of us pattern ourselves after someonefrom His past. A trusted friend, a

lover. Whomever. Just as long as it honorsHim."The newborn is a head taller

than I, and strongly built. Simple eyes gaze at myface. At my workers.

Everywhere. Then it speaks quietly, warning me, "I'm notsupposed to be here. I

was intended for another duty.""Except you're needed here." I have given these

tours to more than a hundrednewborns, and none has ever acted disappointed.

"Come with me," I tell it. "Iwant to show you something."The stairs and high

platform are a blue corundum mesh. The ceiling and distantfloor are polished

diamond, smooth and lovely, and the walls are a rougherdiamond, catching and

throwing the light. I point to Personnel, then the backdoorway leading to the

warehouse, and I name each of the five assembly lines.Every line has its own

bug oven, squat and rectangular, the exteriors platedwith gold."You're my

expeditor," I promise. "You'll feed my oven whatever raw materials

itneeds.""Your expeditor," it repeats."Once you've got your name and face,

visit the warehouse. Ask for Old Nicka.He'll show you what else you need to

know.""How big is this place?""Huge, isn't it?" I love this view. I always

have. "It's nearly five thousandstandards long, from Assembly to

Shipping.""Yet this is all so tiny," my expeditor observes. "Compared to Him,

this isnothing."I look at the faceless face, uncertain how to respond."How

many workers?" it asks."Including you and me, five hundred and eleven.""And

who am I replacing?"Newborns never ask that question. They're too grateful to

be alive, and theprospect of anything else should be unimaginable."Was it a

suicide?" I hear."No. An accident."Beyond the eyes is doubt. Clear and

undeniable doubt."Why bring up suicide?" I have to ask.The tiny, simple mouth

seems to almost smile. "I must have overheard something.I'm sorry."New ears

might have heard one of my people whispering, yes."We run a careful clean shop

here," I warn it.Softly, very softly, it says, "Due.""What's that?""My name."

With a long delicate finger, it writes Due against its own brightchest, in His

language. "That is me.""Fine," I allow.Gazing clown at my home, and his, Due

tells me, "It's surprising. You only makebone, but look how beautiful this

is...."As if it should be anything else, I think."I think I'll stay,"

proclaims Due.As if any of us, in any large way, has the burden of choice.AGES

AGO, WHEN the construction teams were erecting our plant, there were plansto

include a large chapel where we would have worshipped Him in our sparemoments.

It would have been a glorious chamber filled with inspiring Memoriesfree for

the touching, plus likenesses of His family and trusted followers.

Butaccording to legend, a sudden decree put an end to that indulgence. Instead

of achapel, the workers were told to build a fifth assembly line, increasing

theproduction of bone by a long ways. And what's more, every existing chapel

insideolder plants were to be converted immediately, their space dedicated to

makingmore of whatever those plants produced.Time is critical, the decree

tells us.Maybe not with its words, but in the meaning that the words carry

between them.Hurry, He calls to us.Hurry."That new man --""Due?""Gorgeous."

Mollene giggles, dancing around her work station. "I just wish he'dnotice

little me!"Nothing on or about Mollene is little."So he found himself a pretty

face," I say."Not pretty," she warns. "Gorgeous. The whole package is.

Handsome andstrong...but not too strong...!""Which means?""He's delicious,"

she purrs, and that from a woman who has tasted more than afew. "Am I right,

Tannie? Tell him I'm right!"Tannie works across from Mollene. The women are

old, nearly as old as thisplant, and while they're both durable, it's a

durability built in differentways. Tannie is small, quiet and glum, not prone

to courage or her partner'shyperbole. Yet even she admits, "He's one of the

most beautiful creatures thatI've ever seen.""I told you, Jusk!" cackles

Mollene."You did. You did."The women are a good team. A great team, even. When

I was made line foreman, Ihad an inspiration, putting them together at the bug

oven's mouth. It takes goodhands and balance to handle the freshly made bone,

and it takes experience. Andnearly two thousand shifts have passed since my

inspiration. Much has gone wrongon the line, but nobody's better than Mollene

and Tannic when it comes to givingour bone its first look and delicate

touch."A glorious, gorgeous man, and he didn't look at me," Mollene sings.

"You liketo have your looks at me. Don't you, Jusk?"Her mock-flesh is old and

often-patched. The knees and elbows are worn thin, aband of softness encircles

her waist, and her big strong confident hands areshiny where the real Mollene

peeks through. Yet even still, she is spectacular.Broad thighs and hips serve

to carry her central features -- two jungles ofshaggy black mock-hair, and

between the jungles, a pair of enormous, endlesslyvigorous breasts complete

with fat nipples that she paints a shouting red at thestart of every shift."I

love looking at you," I tell the magnificent woman.She giggles, and in thanks,

gives me a few good bounces.As I recall, Mollene fashioned herself around the

partial Memory of an earlylove-- an insatiable older woman from His long-ago

youth. By contrast, Tanniebased herself on the wife of one of His current

deputies -- the kind of womanwho has said perhaps five words to Him in His

life, if that.But of course everyone is important to Him.He treasures every

face, no matter how small the person behind it.As I think, a sheet of hot

white bone emerges from the oven, built of fibers andresins and a maze of

finger-thick pores. Together, in a single motion, the womenlift the bone and

place it gently, gently onto the aerogel belt. It looks likeperfect bone, at

first glance. Mollene lifts a laser pen, ready to sign her namewhere it won't

be too obvious. Every worker does it; a signature is a harmlessway to leave a

trace of yourself. But she pauses, noticing several coagulatedmasses of bugs

clinging to the far side. To Tannie's side. Each mass looks likea drop of

honey -- a gooey golden substance that I've seen only in His memories-- but

unlike honey, the clusters are hard as jewels, and in a glancing

fashion,alive."How's the bone?" Mollene calls out.Tannie is prying off the

bugs. Sometimes they're just stragglers, and the bonebeneath is fine. Is

perfect. "It looks all right," says the old woman. But thenshe touches it, and

shudders, jerking back her hand in pain."What is it?" I ask.Tannie cradles the

hand with its mate, her tiny brown eyes staring off into thedistance. "The

bone's bad," she says. "Something's wrong...in the oven..."Mollene curses

enough for three people, and with a relentless strength, shejerks that sheet

of bone off the belt, getting beneath it and carrying it to thepallet where

she's been stacking Scrap, her substantial ass jiggling in time toher quick

steps.I take her place, for the moment.The next bone is even worse. Instead of

a seamless snowy white, it's a pissyyellow, and the pores are more like

out-and-out holes. Something's very wrong inthe bug oven. Which isn't new

news, of course. Our plant is more than tenthousand shifts old, and over time

these bugs acquire mutations. Subtle failuresof control. And a nasty tendency

toward laziness.With an iridium hammer, I smack the emergency kill

switch.Diamond chains and matching gears come to a grudging halt.What next? I

wonder.Maintenance should be told -- that's policy -- but Maintenance means

slowsolutions and acidic, accusing questions.Hanging beside the oven are a

suit and helmet and boots. Each is made fromantigen-free mock-bone. That's how

we fool the oven and its bugs. And they haveto be fooled, or they'll assume

that an intruder is just another raw material --a collection of soulless atoms

waiting to be gnawed to nothingness, one atom ata time.Bugs can't recognize a

helping hand.They're stupid, and dangerous, and I despise them.Mollene returns

while I'm dressing. With her voice and a touch, she tells me,"Darling, please

be careful."You don't rise to foreman without knowing caution, at least now

and then.The oven doors are gold-faced bone, heavy and slick. The chamber

beyond isfuriously hot and singing with bugs. Most of the mindless bastards

are too smallto see. Bristling with jointed arms and bucky-tube mouths, they

build perfectfibers of proteins and plastics, ceramics and shape-memory

metals. Other bugs,larger by a thousandfold, knit the fibers together. Then

the largest few extrudethe resins that finish the bone, creating a simple

perfect and wondrously strongskeleton worthy of Him.Duty grabs me, forcing me

deeper into the oven.The closest sheet of new bone is gray-black and brittle,

its corner shatteringwith a touch of my gloved hand.I crawl beneath the bone,

then look up.Clinging to the oven's ceiling, to one of the oven's bug-wombs,

is some sort ofphage, round and jeweled with spikes and sucking mouth parts.

Climbing onto thediamond belt, I reach high with one hand. But as I grab the

phage, it strikesback, a stream of brownish fluid rolling thick down my arm,

making it tastewrong. Making it seem dangerous.The oven panics, marshaling

every defense against the intruder.My arm is the intruder.I wrench the phage

loose, then I'm running in a cowardly stoop, fleeing across adozen standards

of tangled and rasping bug heaven.My suit is pierced. A burning begins on my

hand and forearm, then the pain fallsto nothing in the most terrible way.

Glancing down, I see a ragged stump that'sbeing gnawed shorter by the instant,

an army of tiny sparkling flecks trying tokill me.The phage lies on the floor

behind me.Using my good hand, I grab it. But more of that damned juice leaks

out,splattering wildly, the bugs launching a second assault, happily gnawing

away myfinal hand.I have nothing left to hold with.The phage drops in front of

me, and with more luck than skill, I kick it,sending it flying through a gap

in the doorway. Then I stagger out after it --what is left of me -- my arms

shrunk to wagging stumps and my helmethalf-digested. But I see Mollene

standing in the golden light, waiting for mewith those lovely breasts; and if

I wasn't half-dead and repulsive, I would kissher breasts. And I'd kiss

Tannie's tiny ones. That's how good and how awful Ifeel.Poor Jusk, I tell

myself.Nearly murdered, and desperate for the saving taste of love... !"You'll

like these arms," the man promises, not caring the slightest about whatI like

or don't like. "They're good arms, mostly."I don't know him. He wears

extra-thick flesh like everyone in Maintenance, and asolid broad face, and

judging by the smooth, unworn condition of his hands, he'svery young. A

novice, at best. No one else is free to work on me, what with thebug oven

damaged and nobody sure how bad it is."How do the arms feel?""Wrong," I

admit."Lift them. And again." His careful adjustments make everything worse.

"Now oncemore. Is that better?""Much," I lie.He seems satisfied. "Yeah,

they're good arms. We didn't need to refurbish themall that much.""What's

important is you," says another voice. A tense, acidic voice. Steppinginto

view, the plant manager conjures up a look of haggard concern. To

themaintenance man, she says, "They need help at the oven."He makes a grateful

retreat.I gesture with my tight arms. "What do we know?""About the phage? It

was built for sabotage." She speaks in a confidential tone,admitting the

obvious. "Officially, we're reporting it as a contaminate fromoutside. The

sloppiest bug ovens are making some free-ranging parasites....""Why lie?""Do

you want to deal with Security troops? Do you, Jusk?"The obvious occurs to me:

Who's in the best position to sabotage a bug oven? Itsline foreman, of

course.She watches as I flex my new arms, then she steps close to me, using a

sparetool to make her own adjustments. I forgot that she began in Maintenance,

backin that remote era when the plant was new. Her face belongs to His mother

t astrong handsome face that was popular in the early shifts but isn't seen

muchanymore. She looks young, exactly the same as she looked when He saw her

as ayoung boy, complete with the wise sparkle in the pale brown eyes.Leaning

closer, her mouth to my ear, she whispers, "That new man. How exactlydid you

find him?" I tell, in brief."Due? Due?" She keeps saying the name, softer and

softer. Then finally, withouthope, she asks, "Do you know where that wagon was

taking him?""No."The wise eyes are distant. Who can she contact, in

confidence, who mightactually know something? Who can help us without Security

finding out that we'reinvolved in an unthinkable crime?Again, I lift my arms.

"They feel fine now. Thanks."Once more, she says, "Due?""Good arms," I say,

for lack of better.Then she looks at me, asking, "You know where they came

from, don't you?"From the recent suicide, sure. But I was rather hoping to get

away withouthaving to mention that.I am Jusk.In my locker, set between a flesh

patch kit and a sample of the first bone thatI helped build, waits a frazzled

piece of Memory. I found it in Personnel.Whenever I place it against my

forehead, I see my face just as He saw it. Notunhandsome, I like to think. But

there's a vagueness about the edges, which iswhy this Memory is here. A tangle

of imperfections make it unworthy when itcomes to His glorious rebirth.I know

precious little about the man behind that face.A loyal deputy, he is.And

judging by the clues, someone trusted. Practically a friend.In the Memory, the

deputy tells Him, "You look twenty years younger, sir. It'sremarkable what

these treatments can accomplish."He laughs in response -- a calm and wise and

enormous laugh -- and with a voicethat I have always loved, He promises, "And

this is just the start of things."He lifts His hand before His own eyes.I'm

helping to rebuild that hand. Inside it is the bone that I am making; in

afashion, I'm one of His deputies, too."In a few years," He says, "we'll all

be gods....""Yes, sir -- ""Just fucking wait!" He roars.Then the hand drops,

and I can see my face smiling, and the man behind that facesmiles, saying, "I

can hardly wait, sir --"THE BUG OVENS are down for inspection, every line

useless, and for the timebeing, a holiday holds sway. People distract

themselves with talk and littleparties. The usual orgy claims its usual

corner, perched on a mat of scrapaerogel. Lubricated with grease, the bodies

almost glow, limbs twisting andmouths crying out, the participants working at

their fun with an athleticdespair. I pause for a moment, watching faces. Where

I should be is on my bellyinside my own oven; foremen should show the proper

interest, even if they can'thelp make repairs. But I want to speak to Mollene

first...where is she....?She's not in the middle of the lovers, which is

unlike her.Hearing a stranger's voice, I walk up the polished aisle, coming

across a secondgroup of people doing something unexpected.They are sitting

quietly, listening as the stranger speaks calmly, describingthe true shape of

the world."We live on a great sphere," he says. "What seems perfectly flat to

little usactually falls away in every direction, equally and always. Without

end."I know that voice but not the handsome face.Due."Pick a line," says the

newborn, "then walk it. Provided you stay true to thatline and live long

enough, you will walk around the world. But of course thattrip takes trillions

of shifts. By the time you return home, this facility willbe gone, its atoms

scattered over that enormous world, and not so much as singlememory of us will

persist."His audience murmurs quietly.Mollene sits in front, eager to absorb

the lesson."And our round world is part of another, still larger world," the

newborncontinues. "A trillion trillion times larger and several times older.

Andinfinitely stranger. That world is a ball, too, but in its own

peculiarfashion."I find myself listening. The voice compels me to do nothing

but."Think of a black cold emptiness," says Due. "That larger world is carved

fromthat blackness, and within it are an uncountable sprinkling of little

worldslike ours."Mollene leans closer to him, begging to be noticed.Due grins

at his largest admirer, then asks, "What's the shape of an atom?""It's round,

too!" Mollene exclaims.Not exactly, I remind myself. The furious wanderings of

electrons can make around shell, but it's too easy to call them balls.Yet Due

agrees with Mollene. His new eyes are bright and gray, his smile

nearlyguileless. "What if I tell you that Creation -- all there is and all

there canbe -- is always built from spheres? Round atoms become round worlds,

and thoseworlds become the rounded universe, and there is no end to the round

universesthat make up Creation .... "I work hard to say nothing, to let this

useless noise vanish on its own.But Tannie, standing at the back of the

audience, asks the obvious: "How do youknow these things?"Due expects the

question. He welcomes it. Nodding, he waits for a moment as ifin reflection,

then confesses, "I don't know how I know. I was born thinkingthese things, the

same as I was born with these simple hands."What could I say to that?Keeping

silent, I try to look unimpressed. There's no easy way to wrestleMollene away

from her new love. Instead, I slip behind the others, approachingTannie and

whispering, "A moment? I need to talk to you."She seems glad for the

distraction."Have you ever heard such talk?" I ask the old woman.I expect her

to say, "No," but instead she tells me, "When I was a newborn, theold

discussed strange things.""Like worlds within worlds?""Sometimes. Yes."The

audience is asking questions. How big is the world in standards? And

exactlyhow much bigger is the blackness beyond? But the dimensions aren't part

of Due'sspecial knowledge, it seems. "You and I can't comprehend these

distances," hewarns. "We're too tiny. Too limited by a long ways."Too stupid,

he means.In a careful murmur, I ask Tannie what I meant to ask her partner.

"Did thatnewborn come close to you? While you were working, I mean. Did he

ever, even fora moment, touch the oven?"She looks at me, a worn hand wiping at

her patched forehead."Mollene must have flirted with him," I add. "I've seen

the symptoms.""I never saw him near the oven," she assures me. "He was

returning to thewarehouse for supplies, and he paused for a moment, just to

see what new bonelooks like.""And to flirt?"She shakes her head. "I know what

you want, but I can't give it to you."I'm not sure what I want, yet I feel

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