"Exposure means final dissolution," the Tegas warned. It was his most basic inhibition. "We must remain cryptic in color and behavior, impossible to separate from any background."
"We're already exposed!" It was a pure Joe Carmichael thought. "What'll we do?"
A sensation of flowing wetness radiated from the control capsule on the host's spine.
"All right," Vicentelli said. "They don't believe me. But we're alone now." He stared into Carmichael eyes. "And I can try whatever I want. What if your life isn't enjoyable, eh?"
The sensation of wetness reached the brain.
Immediate blackness!
The Tegas recoiled upward, fighting past the neural shock, regaining some awareness. Carmichael's neurosystem quivered and rolled, filtered out some sounds, let others through with a booming roar. The Tegas felt outraged by scraping tactility— harsh movements, rollings.
Vicentelli was doing something at a glittering console directly in front of him.
The rolling sensation went on and on and on—swaying, dipping, gliding... and pain.
Tegas, measuring out his attention, felt the shuttlecock entanglements of his being with that of Carmichael. Blank spots were Carmichael... fuzzy grayness... and tightly stretched threads that linked bulbs of ego-reserve. There! There! And there! Pieces of Carmichael, all quiescent.
The Bacit nudged his awareness, an inner touch like the prickling of cactus spines. Whisper-thoughts came: "Got to get out of here. Trapped. Got to get out of here. Trapped-trapped."
He was forming verbal concepts in thousands of languages simultaneously.
What was Vicentelli doing?
The Tegas felt a pulse from the control capsule. A leg twitched. He snapped a reflex block on to that neural region to resume control. One eye opened, rolled. The Tegas fought for control of the visual centers, saw a multi-faceted creation of wires and crystals directly above him, blurs of green movement. All focused on the control capsule. The host's flesh felt as though it had been encased in a tight skin.
Vicentelli swam into his range of vision.
"Now, let us see how long you can hide," Vicentelli said. "We call this the torture skin." He moved something on the control console.
Tegas felt alertness return. He moved a left foot. Pain slashed at knee and ankle.
He gasped. Pain raked his back and chest.
"Very good," Vicentelli said. "It's the movements you make, do you understand? Remain unmoving, no pain. Move—pain."
Tegas permitted his host to take a deep, quivering breath. Knives played with his chest and spine.
"To breathe, to flex a wrist, to walk—all equal pain," Vicentelli said. "The beauty of it is there's no bodily harm. But you'll pray for something simple as injury unless you give up."
"You're an animal!" the Tegas managed. Agony licked along his jaw and lips, flayed his temples.
"Give up," Vicentelli said.
"Animal," the Tegas whispered. He felt his Bacit half throwing pain blocks into the neural system, tried a shallow breath. Faint irritation rewarded the movement, but he simulated a pain reaction—closed his eyes. Fire crept along his brows. A swift block eased the pain.
"Why prolong it?" Vicentelli asked. "What are you?"
"You're insane," Tegas whispered. He waited, feeling the pain blocks click into place.
Darting lights glittered in Vicentelli's eyes. "Do you really feel the pain?" he asked. He moved a handle on the console.
The host was hurled to the floor by a flashing command from the control capsule.
Under Bacit guidance, he writhed with the proper pain reactions, allowed them to subside slowly.
"You feel it," Vicentelli said. "Good." He reached down, jerked his victim upright, steadied him.
The Bacit had almost all the pain under control, signalling proper concealment reactions. The host flesh grimaced, resisted movement, stood awkwardly.
"I have all the time I need," Vicentelli said. "You cannot outlast me. Surrender. Perhaps I may even find a use for you. I know you're there, whatever you are. You must realize this by now. You can speak candidly with me. Confess. Explain yourself. What are you? What use can I make of you?"
Moving his lips stiffly as though against great pain, Tegas said: "If I were what you suggest, what would I fear from such as you?"
"Very good!" Vicentelli crowed. "We progress. What should you fear from me? Hah! And what should I fear from you?"
"Madman," Tegas whispered.
"Ahh, now," Vicentelli said. "Hear if this is mad: My profile on you says I should fear you only if you die. Therefore, I will not kill you. You may wish to die, but I will not permit you to die. I can keep the body alive indefinitely. It will not be an enjoyable life, but it will be life. I can make you breathe. I can make your heart work. Do you wish a full demonstration?"
The inner whispers resumed and the Tegas fought against them. "We can't escape. Trapped."
The Bacit radiated hesitant uncertainty.
A Bailey thought: "It's a nightmare! That's what!"
Tegas stood in wonder: a Bailey thought!
Bacit admonitions intruded: "Be still. We must work together. Serenity... serenity... serenity..."
The Tegas felt himself drifting off on waves of tranquility, was shocked by a Bacit thought-scream: "NOT YOU!"
Vicentelli moved one of his console controls.
Tegas let out a muffled scream as both his arms jerked upward.
Another Vicentelli adjustment and Tegas bent double, whipped upright.
Bacit-prompted whimpering sounds escaped his lips.
"What are you?" Vicentelli asked in his softest voice.
Tegas sensed the frantic inner probings as the Bacit searched out the neural linkages, blocked them. Perspiration bathed the host flesh.
"Very well," Vicentelli said. "Let us go for a long hike."
The host's legs began pumping up and down in a stationary march. Tegas stared straight ahead, pop-eyed with simulation of agony.
"This will end when you answer my questions," Vicentelli said. "What are you? Hup-two-three-four. Who are you? Hup- two-three-four..."
The host flesh jerked with obedience to the commands.
Tegas again felt the thousands of old languages taking place within him—a babble. With an odd detachment, he realized he must be a museum of beings and remembered energies.
"Ask yourself how long you can stand this," Vicentelli said.
"I'm Joe Carmichael," he gasped.
Vicentelli stepped close, studied the evidences of agony. "Hup- two-three-four.. ."
Still, the babble persisted. He was a flow of energy, Tegas realized. Energy... energy... energy. Energy was the only solid in the universe. He was wisdom seated in a bed of languages.
But wisdom chastised the wise and spit upon those who came to pay homage. Wisdom was for copyists and clerks.
Power, then, he thought.
But power, when exercised, fragmented.
How simple to attack Vicentelli now, Tegas thought. We're alone. No one is watching. I could strike him down in an instant.
The habits of all that aeons-long history inhibited action. Inevitably, he had picked up some of the desires, hopes and fears—especially the fears—of his uncounted hosts. Their symbols sucked at him now.
A pure Bailey thought: "We can't keep this up forever."
The Tegas felt Bailey's sharings, the Carmichael's, the mysterious coupling of selves, the never-before engagement with the captive.
"One clean punch," Carmichael insisted.
"Hup-two-three-four," Vicentelli said, peering closely at his victim.
Abruptly, the Tegas felt himself looking inward from the far end of his being. He saw all his habits of thought contained in the shapes of every action he'd ever contemplated. The thoughts took form to control flesh, a blaze of energy, a solid. In that flaring instant, he became pure performance. All the violent killers the Tegas had overwhelmed rose up in him, struck outward, and he was the experience??
?overpoweringly single with it, not limited by any description... without symbols.
Vicentelli lay unconscious on the floor.
Tegas stared at his own right hand. The thing had taken on a life of its own. Its movement had been unique to the moment, a flashing jab with fingers extended, a crushing impact against a nerve bundle in Vicentelli's neck.
Have I killed him? he wondered.
Vicentelli stirred, groaned.
So there'd been Tegas inhibitions on the blow, an exquisite control that could overpower but not kill, the Tegas thought.
Tegas moved to Vicentelli's head, stooped to examine him. Moving, he felt the torture skin relax, glanced up at the green- glowing construction, realized the thing's field was limited.
Again, Vicentelli groaned.
Tegas pressed the nerve bundle in the man's neck. Vicentelli subsided, went limp.
Pure Tegas thoughts rose up in the Carmichael neural system.
He realized he'd been living for more than a century immersed in a culture which had regressed. They had invented a new thing—almost absolute control—but it held an old pattern. The Egyptians had tried it, and many before them, and a few since. The Tegas thought of the phenomenon as the man-machine. Pain controlled it—and food... pleasure, ritual.
The control capsule irritated his senses. He felt the aborted action message, a faint echo, Bacit-repressed: "Hup-two-three- four..." With the action message went the emotional inhibitions deadly to Tegas survival.
The Tegas felt sensually subdued. He thought of a world where no concentrated emotions remained, no beacons upon which he could home his short-burst transfer of identity.
The Carmichael flesh shuddered to a Tegas response. The Bacit stirred, transmitting sensations of urgency.
Yes, there was urgency. Androids might return. Vicentelli's fellow rulers might take it upon themselves to check the activity of this room.
He reached around to his back, felt the control capsule: a flat, tapered package... cold, faintly pulsing. He tried to insert a finger beneath it, felt the flesh rebel. Ahhh, the linkage was mortal. The diabolic thing joined the spine. He explored the connections internally, realized the thing could be removed, given time and the proper facilities.
But he had not the time.
Vicentelli's lips made feeble writhings—a baby's mouth searching for the nipple.
Tegas concentrated on Vicentelli. A ruler. Tegas rightly avoided such as this. Vicentelli's kind knew how to resist the mind- swarm. They had ego power.
Perhaps the Vicentellis had provided the key to their own destruction, though. Whatever happened, the Tegas knew he could never return into the human mass. The new man-machine provided no hiding place. In this day of new things, another new thing had to be tried.
Tegas reached for the control capsule on his back, inserted three fingers beneath it. With the Bacit blocking off the pain, he wrenched the capsule free.
All sensation left his lower limbs. He collapsed across Vicentelli, brought the capsule around to study it. The removal had dealt a mortal blow to the Carmichael host, but there were no protests in their shared awareness, only a deep curiosity about the capsule.
Simple, deadly thing—operation obvious. Barbed needles protruded along its inner surface. He cleaned shreds of flesh from them, working fast. The host was dying rapidly, blood pumping onto the floor—and spinal fluid. He levered himself onto one elbow, rolled Vicentelli onto one side, pulled away the man's jacket and shirt. A bit of fleshly geography, a ridge of spine lay exposed.
Tegas knew this landscape from the inward examination of the capsule. He gauged the position required, slapped the capsule home.
Vicentelli screamed.
He jerked away, scrabbled across the floor, leaped upright.
"Hup-two-three-four..."
His legs jerked up and down in terrible rhythm. Sounds of agony escaped his lips. His eyes rolled.
The Carmichael body slumped to the floor, and Tegas waited for the host to die. Too bad about this host—a promising one— but he was committed now. No turning back.
Death came as always, a wink-out, and after the flicker of blankness, he centered on the emotional scream which was Vicentelli. The Tegas divided from dead flesh, bore away with that always-new sensation of supreme discovery—a particular thing, relevant to nothing else in the universe except himself.
He was pain.
But it was pain he had known, analyzed, understood and could isolate. The pain contained all there was of Vicentelli's identity. Encapsulated that way, it could be absorbed piecemeal, shredded off at will. And the new host's flesh was grateful. With the Tegas came surcease from pain.
Slowly, the marching subsided.
The Tegas blocked off control circuits, adjusted Vicentelli's tunic to conceal the capsule on his back, paused to contemplate how easy this capture had been. It required a dangerous change of pattern, yes: a Tegas must dominate, risk notice—not blend with his surroundings.
With an abrupt sense of panic, William Bailey came alive in his awareness. "We made it!"
In that instant, the Tegas was hanging by the hook of his being, momentarily lost in the host he'd just captured. The intermittency of mingled egos terrified and enthralled. As he had inhabited others, now he was inhabited.
Even the new host—silent, captivated—became part of a changed universe, one that threatened in a different way: all maw. He realized he'd lost contact with the intellectual centers. His path touched only nerve ends. He had no home for his breath, couldn't find the flesh to wear it.
Bacit signals darted around him: a frantic, searching clamor. The flesh—the flesh—the flesh...
He'd worn the flesh too gently, he realized. He'd been lulled by its natural laws and his own. He'd put aside all reaching questions about the organism, had peered out of the flesh unconcerned, leaving all worries to the Bacit.
One axiom had soothed him: The Bacit knows.
But the Bacit was loosed around him and he no longer held the flesh. The flesh held him, a grip so close it threatened to choke him.
The flesh cannot choke me, he thought. It cannot. I love the flesh.
Love—there was a toehold, a germ of contact. The flesh remembered how he had eased its agony. Memories of other flesh intruded. Tendrils of association accumulated. He thought of all the flesh he'd loved on this world: the creatures with their big eyes, their ears flat against their heads, smooth caps of hair, beautiful mouths and cheeks. The Tegas always noticed mouths. The mouth betrayed an infinite variety of things about the flesh around it.
A Vicentelli self-image came into his awareness, swimming like a ghost in a mirror. The Tegas thought about the verseless record, the stone-cut mouth. No notion of fun—that was the thing about Vicentelli's mouth.
He’ll have to learn fun now, the Tegas thought.
He felt the feet then, hard against the floor, and the Bacit was with him. But the Bacit had a voice that touched the auditory centers from within. It was the voice of William Bailey and countless others.
"Remove the signs of struggle before the androids return," the voice said.
He obeyed, looked down at the empty flesh which had been Joe Carmichael. But Joe Carmichael was with him in this flesh, Vicentelli's flesh, which still twitched faintly to the broadcast commands transmitted through the capsule on his spine.
"Have to remove the capsule as soon as possible" the Bacit voice reminded. "You know the way to do it."
The Tegas marveled at the Vicentelli overtones suddenly noticeable in the voice. Abruptly, he glimpsed the dark side of his being through Vicentelli, and he saw an aspect of the Bacit he'd never suspected. He realized he was a net of beings who enjoyed their captivity, were strong in their captivity, would not exchange it for any other existence.
They were Tegas in a real sense, moving him by habits of thought, shaping actions out of uncounted mediations. The Bacit half had accumulated more than forty centuries of mediations on this one world. And there were uncount
ed worlds before this one.
Language and thought.
Language was the instrument of the sentient being—yet, the being was the instrument of language as Tegas was the instrument of the Bacit. He searched for significant content in this new awareness, was chided by the Bacit's sneer. To search for content was to search for limits where there were no limits. Content was logic and classification. It was a word sieve through which to judge experience. It was nothing in itself, could never satisfy.
Experience, that was the thing. Action. The infinite reenactment of life accompanied by its endless procession of images.
There are things to be done, the Tegas thought.
The control capsule pulsed on his spine.
The capsule, yes—and many more things.
They have bugged the soul, he thought. They've mechanized the soul and are forever damned. Well, I must join them for a while.
He passed a hand through a call beam, summoned the androids to clear away the discarded host that had been Carmichael.
A door opened at the far end of the lab. Three androids entered, marching in line towards him. They were suddenly an amusing six-armed figure, their arms moving that way in obedient cadence.
The Vicentelli mouth formed an unfamiliar smile.
Briefly he set the androids to the task of cleaning up the mess in the lab. Then, the Tegas began the quiet exploration of his new host, a task he found remarkably easy with his new understanding. The host cooperated. He explored Vicentelli slowly—strong, lovely, healthy flesh—explored as one might explore a strange land, swimming across coasts of awareness that loomed and receded.
A host had behavior that must be learned. It was not well to dramatize the Tegas difference. There would be changes, of course—but slow ones; nothing dramatic in its immediacy.
While he explored he thought of the mischief he could do in this new role. There were so many ways to disrupt the man- machine, to revive individualism, to have fun. Lovely mischief.
Intermittently, he wondered what had become of the Bailey ego and the Joe Carmichael ego. Only the Bacit remained in the host with him, and the Bacit transmitted a sensation of laughter.
PASSAGE FOR PIANO