"Sure.”
"There is aggression in you. There is-what you would call that dark side; secrets you keep partitioned. So you understand a little of what I do when I occupy a mind. I partition off those parts of me that would be incompatible. But you don't have as fine a control on that partitioning; Jillan uses hers; Rafe operates in simplicity: his secrets are all little ones, excepting one. Excepting one. But you-You deliberately disorganize yourself, destroying connections-like now, like this mind's trying to do, and I won't press it. Remember that one thing. Remember what I told you was important to
remember. That's how the first Paul Gaines went wrong.”
"What-went wrong?”
"Mad. From your viewpoint, he's quite mad. Pull out everything you hold behind those barriers and you'll know in what respect. I know you, Paul. There's no aspect of this mind I haven't been through, nothing I haven't handled. I've killed several of you doing it, at some cost to me.”
"What do you want from me?”
"I want you to deal with Paul One. It's very likely that you're the only one that can both reach and affect him.”
"You can't?" Wit started working again, and seized on that hint of limitation. Learn something bring it back to them-
-prove myself The truth of it jarred.
"I'll be-otherwise occupied. I know that I will be. And if you break down, Paul-if you do break down, it's very likely I'll have to wipe the templates out. That's death. For Rafe, and you, and Jillan. Real death, not a power-down. There are several worse things that could happen. Remote, but possible.”
"What's that?”
"One, that you'd become his. The other Paul's. That he'd have all of you, and the templates, to do with as he pleases. That could happen-if I should go under. And it's possible I could. It's always possible. Believe me, destroying the templates against that event-would be charity.”
He clenched hands that felt cold in the absence of all cold, swallowed against a knot that was not
there. "And if you're lying, all the way-what then, Kepta?
"You might take the chance and assume that I'm lying. But you've seen that first version of yourself. Did you like it? Did it look healthy?”
"No," he said. "No.”
"Do you want to fight this thing? Or had you rather go now? Which will you choose? To get back, to go to sleep? I can arrange that. Or I can tell you what you have to do, to avoid catastrophe.”
"What's that?" he asked. It did not seem himself asking, as if he watched from some great distance where he had gone for safety. "What am I supposed to do?”
"Understand it. Understand what that first version, what every version of you has behind every partition of its mind. Understand yourself. If there's one weakness it will find it; if there's one doubt, it's going to discover it. Think of those partitioned things. Think through all your mind until it has no seams, no joining-places, no contradictions at all. Did you know you enjoy giving pain? That you fear the dark? Do you know that Rafe uses you, even while he loves you? That you want Jillan to be less than she is? That you want to be feared?”
"That's a lie.”
"Not a lie. It's the obverse, the wellspring of all the strengths you have. You come from a place, from Fargone; I remember. Hundreds of thousands of your kind are crowded together there. You exist in stress and refrain from every hostile thought and violence. You partition off these things. You live by active denial of them. That other Paul, that you ran-has no partitions. The moment you meet him-neither will you.”
He stared into eyes the like of his, feeling ice lodged in his gut.
"Let's talk about sex, Paul.”
"What about it?”
"Defensive," Kepta said. "You wish most of all you had clothes. That really bothers you.”
"I haven't got the urge. Haven't. Won't." He felt a sweat break out that could not possibly exist. "I don't think I'm likely to.”
"Rafe feels these reactions, but generalized and rarely in this place. Worry-fear-kinship-these suppress the drive.”
"So does dying.”
"Does it?" Kepta asked.
He stared at Kepta, recalling what it knew, what it remembered.
"The clothes," Kepta said, "the clothes. An inconvenience in the templates, but a very important protection to you. Jillan's bothered least. Rafe-inconvenienced. You're terrified. Aren't you, Paul?”
He said nothing, only looked it in the eyes.
"Physiology betrays you," Kepta said. "This body can react-in many ways. It will. You fear it will . . . and Rafe-has stopped being . . . brother ...”
"Damn you.”
"... become-rival, in this dark aspect. In several senses. So has she.”
"They're better," he said at last, between the two of them. "They're better than I am. Aren't they?”
"I can't judge." "Can't you?”
"I won't be there. You will. In this-it's not better, Paul. It's what survives.”
"It can't all rest on me. Dammit, give me-give me more than that. ...”
Kepta rose, straightened, unfolding in midair so that he stood. He held out his hand. "I can't. Take my hand. I'll send you back to familiar referents . . . after I've made a copy. This is a valuable point with you, this moment. If you disintegrate hereafter, I might try-perhaps once more with you. Only perhaps. I won't risk the ship. You mustn't depend on anything but yourself. Remember what I told you is important.”
He thought back, and another thought came, far colder. "You know my mind inside and out. More than lying-isn't it possible you know how to manipulate us? You know just what strings to pull, and when. You're not learning things from this. You're moving us-to do the things you want.”
Kepta's brows lifted slowly; as slowly, the mouth assumed a grudging smile. "Of all of you-you're the first to challenge me on that. Of course I am. I see why the others value you, Paul Gaines. You do have surprises. And now you have a choice. Your hand ... if you will.”
He held it out, repulsed as Kepta's closed on his in a dry, temperatureless grip. Kepta's clasp was strong, like living metal, perilous in its potentiality.
"Don't close down," he said. "Let go!" as the air around them dissolved and whirled in a blur of his own glowing limbs. "No!" he cried.
It let go.
Pain shot through him then.
It was worse than he had expected, and longer. Far longer.
"Kepta!" he cried, over and over again, "Jillan, Rafe! O God, God, God-!" thinking he was dying. He remembered death.
But he awoke in tranquility, in Rafe's nest of Lindy's parts.
"You all right?" Rafe Two was leaning over him. Jillan wiped his brow and for a moment he lay there.
He stopped breathing for a moment, experimentally; started it up again, not for air: for the comfort of it.
"Paul, are you all right?”
He let Rafe help him sit, hugged Jillan to him, her head against his shoulder. There was light. Light all about him. He cherished it, looking about him. He saw Rafe One standing there, helpless-looking in his solidity.
"It got its copy," he said to them all. "That was what it wanted. A lot better than the last, I think.”
No, he had screamed. He remembered that suddenly.
Remembered other things.
He had taken terror into the experience. That, along with his self-knowledge and self-disgust.
That was his backup. Flawed.
Chapter Eight
There was silence in the corridor, among Lindy's pieces, the silence of waiting, when everything had been said, when the only needs were his own, and Rafe moved about those when he must; under the eyes of those whose remaining necessity was breathing, and that only because they could not forget to do it.
To eat, to drink-these things seemed cruel to do while they witnessed; to sleep-Rafe did sleep as he sat against the wall, a nodding of his head, a panicked look to see whether they were still there.
"All accounted for," said Rafe Two, who read all his body language with more skill
than Jillan ever could. "None of us have been anywhere." Meaning they were all intact, and as much themselves as they had been when he went to sleep.
"I'd think," said Jillan, "it could have gotten its business together by now.”
"It's waiting for something else," Rafe said.
"What would it be waiting for?" asked Paul.
Rafe shrugged.
"You know something we don't?" asked Rafe Two.
He shrugged again, wiped his face, got up and went about his toilet-shaved, because he needed it.
"Not sorry to miss that." Rafe Two perched on the counter edge, transparent and only partly phasing with it. In the mirror, Jillan and Paul leaned against the console of Lindy's dead panel, watching him with proprietary interest.
"I wish you wouldn't stare," he said.
"Sorry," Jillan said. "It's the only action going.”
Rafe-nothing crept along in the dark, blind as he had become. At times he thought he wept; but maybe that was illusion like the dark, for his hands felt nothing when he touched his face.
He had seen horror. Some of it still lived inside, and consciousness came and went; but he had seen his chance and slipped away, crawling in the dark.
He had had many limbs. And few. Now he had no understanding what shape was his. He only traveled as he could, as far as he could, and he supposed that limbs took him there.
Then something began to move beside him in the void, shadowy at first, with the outlines of some leggy, rippling beast. It brushed against him and the touch of it sent a shock through all his nerves.
He screamed. "Aii! Aiii!" it shrieked back at him, which so unnerved him he rolled aside from it and sat staring at this nest of coils and legs that swayed closer and closer, towering above him in black-glistening segments outlined in yellow light.
"Help," it cried, "help, help” It was not himself which understood this, but one of those ruptured areas of his mind, one of those places that hung in painful ruin, like threads that went into the dark, into inside-out perspectives.
He stared at it, and it oozed from its heap and surrounded him with its coils. He heard it sobbing, felt the shock of its nibbling up these stray threads, and the tears ran on his face.
"Come, come, come," it wished him. He understood it through these threads. He recalled in horror what he was, and what pursued. "Get up and run," the worm-thing wailed. "It will take you. Run!”
He wished to run. He tried to. A murkish glow came about them and the worm-thing fled.
"No," said Paul's chill voice above him, and a firm grasp gathered him up again.
He wept, having again more than several limbs, being in pain, while that monstrous shape enfolded all of them, in a welter of disturbed perspective. It swallowed up the threads, and he was blind.
"Paul," he tried to say, "Paul, that isn't right.”
"Rafael Murray," the tall man said, taking him by the hand, bending down to their level. "Jillan”-taking hers, so they knew something bad would come: nothing good ever came of Welfare strangers, not especially official ones in expensive suits, and he wished this man away with the horror of foreknowledge. "There's been an accident," the man would say next. "Out in the belt”
That was what Paul did to him for revenge. It used his memories, put him back in that time until he had no more recollection of any worm-thing.
'Wo," the shining girl said, the star-jumper who had come to Far gone docks in her wealth and security. "No." And he could see in her eyes the longhauler's prejudice against insystemers, that he would ever approach the likes of her and offer to sleepover with her, in this place longhaulers frequented and insystemers dared not come. She looked him up and down. She was all of, maybe, seventeen at most, unsure and offended in her inexperience. "Better get out of here," she said.
And he: "My name's Murray.”
"There a ship that name?”
"There was," he said, realizing it had been so small, so long ago, even spacers had forgotten. "Lindy was her name.”
Dead ship. He saw the pity. "Buy me a drink," she said with fortitude. And maybe because she knew he had so little: "No, you have one on me.”
"No thanks," he said. Desire had cooled in him. It was the first approach he had ever made to a woman of spacer-kind, after weeks of nerving himself. He guessed he might be her first, and even pitied her courage. She wanted her first with someone better. Someone memorable. She was good-hearted and would take him and never talk about it. Ever. The wound in both of them would live for years . . . whatever he did now. "No. Give it to someone else," he said. And he walked away.
was, at depth, dismayed at the near escape
of Rafe-mind, <> detected it clear across the ship.
"Good for you," <> sent the damaged Rafe mind in a pulse transcending boundaries. "Good for you,"-in terms Rafe-mind might understand.
And a part of Oself, that portion which had several times participated in Rafe-mind-stirred.
"Good for me," it said.
And foreseeing crisis, <> raised a simulacrum, and pushed it to the light.
The pain stopped. Rafe caught his breath, lying on the floor among Lindy's ruins-seing himself in duplicate beside Jillan and Paul "O God," he said, third of his kind, and gathering himself shakily to his feet, stood dazed in the shock of too many changes, far too fast.
"Damn you," his brighter image shouted, and he thought he was intended, that the outrage was aimed at him.
"Damn you," Rafe shouted at the walls, "-Kepta!”
"He's real," said Rafe Two. "Don't frighten him worse than he is.”
Another duplication happened, another Jillan, another Paul, wide-eyed and terrified, who confronted their startled selves in voiceless shock.
"What are you up to?" Rafe screamed, himself, original, fists clenched. "Kepta-They're not toys! They're alive, you hear me, Kepta? They don't just turn off. It's not a bloody game! Stop-stop it, hear?”
There was riot among the passengers. "Stop!" <•> wailed. "Stop, stop, stop”
<> did more than that. The pulse went through the ship in no uncertain strength.
Paul One flinched, dropped his tormenting of the Rafe-simulacrum and turned fierce attention
toward the duplicates and the corridor <> protected.
"Diversions," said . "Don't regard them. <> means to lure you into reach.”
"I know," Paul said, having gotten / back wider than it had been. / was wide as all the universe. / was unstoppable, having tendrils in Rafe-shape, and in his own; and extensions into . He pulled at another memory, warped it out of shape, and Rafe-mind writhed in agony.
gained another section of the ship by complete default, for = = = = realigned = = = == self: the Cannibal had ambitions, and <>'s indirection and 's aggressiveness advised = = = = which allegiance was, at the moment, the better choice.
<> sent out another pulse which resounded painfully through the ship.
But it did not deter desertions.
There was silence, dreadful silence, among Lindy's ruin. Rafe recovered himself, wiped at his eyes, ashamed of the terror he had created. He was theirs, in common, their stability, the one thing impossible to counterfeit. He sensed their dependency. He sniffed, unheroically wiped his nose, sat down in the command chair and wiped his eyes again. None of them could touch him, none lay the least substance of a comforting finger on him, his sad-faced, devoted ghosts. They only waited in a half-ring about the console, two of everyone, even of himself.
"I'm sorry," he said to them. "Really sorry." Another wipe at his eyes with the heel of his hand.
"That's all right," said one of his doppelgangers he did not even know which one. They had a right to be ashamed, he thought; and upset; and they looked to be.
"Someone want to fill me in?" the other of his doppelgangers said. "I'm lost. I think several of us are. I think” with a frightened glance at the one transparent as himself: "I was here; and talked to Rafe-about leaving the ship. Then it got me-in the dark. Am I far off? How lost
am I?”
"Hours," Rafe said, himself. "No farther.”
"You're still hoarse.”
"Yes," he said, looking at the two Jillans. He could not tell them apart. There was no difference. That, more than anything, hurt him. He wanted there to be a difference. He wanted one to be real, an original, his sister; and there were two, both hurting, both claiming the right to existence and to him.
"We're all right," said the leftmost Paul, who had the rightmost's steadying hand on his shoulder. The speaker's voice was thin. "We understand. I think we've got the drill down pat. It's just the shock. . . .”