Metallic Love

have been charming.”

“Are you saying that they still have the impression I think you could be”—she got the name out now with a stammer—“Sil-ver?”

“It’s ambivalent. But they can take it that way, if they want.”

“Then you’re hiding your identity, whatever it is, from them,” she said.

“Remember, I don’t know who I am. That is what I’m hiding.”

“Why?” Her eyes were wide. There was a sort of dull terror in them now.

“Wouldn’t you?” he said to her.

“I don’t think I’d be able to.”

“No, but I can.”

She turned from him, turned her back to him in one abrupt movement, and began almost to run towards the doors. Her face had, in the instant she turned, shown actual fear. He’d seen it. He said to her, “Jane, don’t ever be afraid of me—” and so, spun her back to face him.

“He said that.”

“Naturally, I recall he did so. As I said, I have his memories. I remember all the words you both exchanged. I remember making love to you”—her pale face flushed—“I remember his ‘death,’ if that’s what I should call it.”

Jane put her hands to her mouth. “Stop it,” she said.

Silence. Then the doors swung open behind her, and in a parody of spying yet generous parents, a couple of the META people sidled, smiling, into the room, and after them others, and the trays of drinks, the whole bloody circus.

The white wall he’d used as a screen for me, blanked, and now it showed only the shadow of the rain. Curious, in its way, this rain-reflection three times so altered—on his skin, in the floor, on the wall. Like truth, or the “facts.” The same. Not the same.

I went on looking at the wall, and Verlis said to me, “That, then, was what took place in the private sitting room at the concert venue.”

“Please. I know what you’ve shown me, but you can change things. You’ve told me that. You just told her that, too.”

“I could have changed the scenario, but I didn’t. Maybe you’ll take my word for it.”

“Maybe I can’t.”

“You must like me a lot, then,” he said, “to be so jealous.” When I didn’t speak, he said, “She would have answered me.”

“I’m not—her.”

“No. You’re mine.”

Here it was again. Black Chess had said it. Now Verlis did, and it stayed neither consoling nor romantic. It carried the brisk clank of the shackles of the most casual possession. Yet I’d lie if I said the statement didn’t excite me. I wanted to be his. I wanted him. But also, like Jane, I was afraid. For this wasn’t Silver. And whoever this was, so magnificent, so beautiful, his charisma like electricity charging the air of any space he paused to inhabit, whoever, he was of another kind. The robot kind. The soulless and godlike—the tigers burning bright.

Sheena had killed Sharffe. Goldhawk and Kix had killed the people on the train.

They were all capable of such acts, and perhaps had all committed murder already, a type of exercise, the way the first models had practiced sex. Even he could be a killer. Especially he.

When I saw him properly again, he wasn’t any longer paying attention to me. He seemed to be listening. It lasted about two seconds. Then he said, “B.C. says we should go. He’s been monitoring for me.”

“Monitoring what?”

“META,” Verlis said, “other things.” Still on the leash? Still pretending to be? He bent his head and kissed the top of my hair, startling me despite everything. “What you should do, Loren, is rest up here for now. There’s a room across the lobby, it’s not too uncomfortable.”

“Why should I stay here?”

“Just for now,” he said.

“I asked why?”

“I know. I didn’t answer.”

He was at the door, which opened for him when he was about five feet away. He stood, then, as if waiting, holding the door politely open for me, so I could go out into the lobby.

I obeyed him. I was partly concerned, if he went out and the door shut, I might not get it to open for me.

“This house—” I said.

“One of META’s domiciles for First Unit members. Currently unoccupied. Look, that’s the room. There’s a bed, a bath. The kitchen-hatch downstairs works. You’ll find most of what you might need. I’ll be with you soon. I promise.”

He swung past me and down the stair. He moved so fast, like fire in the corkscrew of the staircase, my heart stumbled. I heard the front door to the veranda also undo itself, then close. Presumably, all three of them had gone. After a bit I went down, and the open-plan area was empty of everything but for that tearful glimmer of reflected rain.

• 5 •

Her conversation with him, and mine, was a double helix, and he was the axis.

I thought about that through the afternoon. The “comfortable” room was makeshift, the bed a mattress on the floor which, though clean, had already been slept in, and the bathroom gave only cold water. The kitchen-hatch downstairs had tea-making facilities. I drank mug after mug of Prittea.

When the rain ended, the sun went, too. It was a sulky red sunset, but in the noiselessness after the rain, I heard the usual city noises—distant traffic, police sirens, the whistle of the flyer wires.

The front door would open. I tried it, although I had to operate it manually. From the veranda I could see the far-off lights of the city like floating islands, between the blackness of the pines.

I felt stupid. I should get out. After all, there was a flyer platform only about half a mile back along the track and the highway.

I fell asleep on the mattress, and when I woke, it was pitch-dark and I heard someone moving in the house.

He had said he’d come back: I promise. But I could tell it wasn’t Verlis, the one who was in the house now—none of them could sound like this. This, was human.

All along I’d had the feeling META was out to get me, perhaps only so they could really study me for some patronizing analysis. Then I’d seen that they might be, too, the robots-who-were-gods. Really, I was nothing and didn’t matter, but maybe both humans and unhumans like to tidy up any potential little danger—like conscientiously stubbing out your cigarine in case it scorches a table.

I’d slept clothed. I stood up and moved behind the door, and I had the mug half-filled with tepid tea in my hand. It was better than no weapon at all, and the room didn’t offer anything else that was quickly available.

Yeah, they were coming up the corkscrew stair. Of course they were. And now I heard the crisp steps in the lobby. A small guy, it sounded like, neatly shod. Oh, good. The door opened and someone hit the light switch.

We glassily glared at each other, like a pair of rabbits caught by the headlamps of each other’s eyes. Hers were green.

“You’re Jane,” I informed her.

She nodded stiffly. “And who are you?”

(So much conversation lately had been composed of those words who? why?)