Forever Robot

      Ding.
      Stork's soul sailed over the forest. Beneath clouds he hovered above the green expanse that arced with the planet and hazed into blue. He had chosen the most pristine part of the Amazon to test the lecturer's statement about rare butterflies, arriving from the classroom almost before he'd thought of it, in timeless travel through other dimensions.
      Ding.
      Even as he flew, Stork heard the bell, a spectral sound, less real than—there! He saw the blue iridescent flash and was immediately among the vines, beside the butterfly as it uncoiled its tongue to probe the depths of a red, tubular blossom. Hand-sized, hand-shaped wings were seemingly stained by a colorful coral sea. Shimmering and—
      Ding-ding-ding-ding-ding.
      Stork snapped into his body with the haste of a child narrowly escaping mischief. His body was wheeling squeakily among the aquaria, checking and adjusting nutrient and waste tubes. My children, I'm back. The clones drifted in their fluids. They were replicas of Master, who had taken to calling himself Ambrose Roi, eternal king. Stork lovingly patted the tanks as he worked, sending mental bouquets. How are you doing, son? Here is your food. Ages ago, Master had named Stork after the bird who supposedly brought renewed life to families. He was Stork, the regenerator, the creator, the slave.
      Ding-ding-ding-ding-ding.
      "Coming, Master," Stork croaked in a metal voice. "I must go, my dears."
      The robot left behind the bubbling pumps, his wheels complaining over the marble floor, then whimpering over the carpet that flowed into Ambrose's inner sanctum. The ebony paneling, Persian carpets, ivory and jade carvings, and gold leaf illuminations he passed drew from him only a cursory check for dust. In the study Stork found Ambrose frowning up at him from the stuffed leather easy chair, pipe clutched in yellowed teeth, white-streaked black hair curling against the red of his kimono. The Tiffany lamp created a chiaroscuro of deep-set eyes and cheek hollows, so fashionable then.
      Ambrose hacked and spat into a tissue he held in his other hand. "Why did you not come when I rang?"
      Stork considered telling Ambrose he'd been Traveling, then thought better of it. "I came when I could, Master."
      Stork collected the tissues that blossomed on the desk and the floor, and straightened books and papers. Carefully he avoided the waist-high stack of die-sized cubes on the carpet and the carved figurine of a woman on the book cabinet. They were reminders of things best forgotten. "Would you wish a hot toddy?"
      "I would wish for you to come when I ring."
      "I was tending the clones, at a point where I couldn't be interrupted."
      "You could have answered."
      "And I was dreaming." Stork realized his mistake before the last word was out. Vainly he said, "Surely, Master, you know that even though my body doesn't sleep, my mind must, if I'm to remain healthy and serve you." He only made it worse.
      Ambrose cleared his throat at length, spat into a tissue and tossed it aside. Stork hoped he would ignore the last remark.
      Ambrose tugged thoughtfully at a lock of hair. "We need to extend the auto on your program, so you'll come whenever I call, even when you're dreaming." He raised his arm so his elbow rested on the arm of his chair. The crystal controls of his ring glinted in the lamp light.
      Stork gazed steadily at Master. "I am content the way I am."
      Ambrose sucked on his pipe and blinked wetly through a puff of smoke. He dabbed his lips with a fresh tissue and dropped it on the floor. "Your wheels squeak most irritatingly, and that voice of yours positively grates. I would think that anyone who can grow clones from buds, anyone who can handle all my finances and cook and clean should be able to oil his wheels or adjust that voice to a more pleasant tone."
      "I do not have human senses. How can I know from hearing whether my wheels need oiling or my voice needs refining?"
      Ambrose chewed on his pipe and narrowed his eyes at the robot. His gaze shifted to the book cabinet and the figurine. The carving's features were worn smooth and denuded of paint from handling. It dated from the Great Civilization, when Master had inhabited his original body. Ambrose tapped his ring, and a piping and drumming began. Stork tried not to see the holographic image that burst from the statue. A nude woman grew to one meter tall and danced, undulating her hips and torso.
      Stork pivoted and counted the marble blocks in the fireplace across the room and the shadows cast by the wood and kindling he had laid in it. To see the fireplace, he had to peer over the top of the cubes artfully balanced one upon the other. Their ages dated from across the centuries, beginning with the Great Civilization. As the music groaned and tapped, he found his gaze lowering to the cubes, a thousand of them, each one unique. Bas-relief designs, intricately painted, covered them.
      "Get me my ice cream," Ambrose said.
      Immediately Stork headed for the door. He trundled up the hall, through the living room, through a breeze way, and into a small kitchen where he could no longer hear the music. It was replaced by the neutral hum of the refrigerator, from which he set out the ingredients and a chilled frosted-glass dish. He washed and sliced up strawberries and layered the bottom of the dish with them. He spooned two dollops of green mint ice cream onto the bed of strawberries. He microwaved chocolate sauce until it steamed, and he drizzled this over the ice cream.
      Stork hoped that by the time he returned to the study the holographic dance would be finished. He had never known the dancer personally. She was a sacrifice to technology, the first soul Ambrose had captured in an inanimate object. It happened when Stork was barely old enough to walk.
      Stork entered a blessedly quiet study. All that remained of the dancer was her soul inside the figurine. He wondered if she was aware of the image that played in her memory. Probably not.
      "You're slow. Yes, we'll have to completely automate you."
      Half rising from his chair, Ambrose lifted a bean-stuffed ball and hurled it across the room, neatly knocking the top cube off the stack without disturbing the others. The cube clattered against the marble fireplace.
      Master sagged from the effort, his breath rasping through his pipe.
      Stork set the dish before Master, and Master set his pipe aside and coughed behind closed lips. He jerked and his lips flew open, releasing a series of barks.
      He flung a hand out and whispered, "Pick it up and bring me the ball."
      With the dread of touching something diseased, Stork slowly retrieved the cube from the fireplace. Delicately, he replaced the cube on top of the stack, careful not to topple it. Slowly he carried the ball to Ambrose and deposited it on the desk beside the dish of ice cream.
      Ambrose held the spoon in his mouth and drew it out slowly and ran his tongue over it. "Ah, just what I needed."
      Stork watched. He was a boy when Ambrose had transferred his soul. It had been to save his life from radiation poisoning, and the receiving body had been android. He tried to remember what it was like to taste, and failed.
      Ambrose dipped his spoon in the green ice cream, a red sliver of strawberry poking out and the chocolate dripping. Ambrose drew it back and forth in front of his nose, inhaling slowly, deeply. He held it poised before his lips, eyeing Stork coyly. "Would you like a bite?"
      Stork gave no reply.
      "You would, wouldn't you? But you have no mouth." Ambrose chuckled, stifled a cough, and shoved the spoon far into his mouth, sighing over it, eyes closed.
      He sighed over each bite, licked the spoon in between, and finally licked the dish.
      He set it aside and relit his pipe. Lips trembling, eyes bright, he gazed at Stork for a moment, then slapped his knee and bent over, paroxysms of glee bucking into spasms of hacking and gagging. Stork felt no pity. After retching and spitting into more tissues, Ambrose wiped his eyes and sat up.
      "You look so funny," he sputtered. "So funny. Ah, what would I do without you, my treasure? My funny little treasure, who keeps all our little secrets."
      Ambrose tapped the robot's chest, right where the built-in computer and modem rested, which Stork controlled with his mind. And which Ambrose controlled in part with his ring. Ambrose lifted his pipe and eyed it as he blew smoke rings.
      Stork wanted to Travel so he wouldn't have to watch, but even in his travels, he saw people and animals indulge in fleshly pleasures that were denied him. Earth was filled with sensations. He had tried to enter different beings and feel what they feel, only to pass through them, just as he passed through walls and rocks. He was locked out, forever. At least he had the function of metal arms and pincers. A thousand souls at Master's mercy didn't have even that.
      The cubes and the figurine weighed on Stork's mind. Stork was glad for the flatness of his voice. "Master, I will oil the wheels and refine the voice." He started to leave.
      Ambrose raised a hand. "I haven't dismissed you yet."
      He reached and tapped the lamp to a brighter luminescence. "Look at me and tell me honestly, how do I look?"
      Stork's vision, though not human, fed him accurate information.
      Every clone had seen hard usage. This one was no exception. The bones pressed against gray skin. The cheeks resembled a field plowed by time or abuse. White glinted in hair that rose like a dark halo.
      Stork was glad he could not bow or even nod his head. In the age of masters and slaves, he had worshiped this man. However, times change, and so do people.
      "You are yet handsome, Master. You would seem around forty-five, except for the illness. How soon do you wish to transfer?"
      The dark brows puckered. The eyes peered, unseeing, into the distance.
      "Master?"
      "Leave me." Ambrose waggled his fingers.

      Stork finished mowing the lawn. He was sweeping the walk when a labored rumble caught his attention. The delivery van pulled up by the loading dock. Two men emerged, Eric, and a new man. They deposited boxes with a hand truck on the deck and were finished by the time Stork mounted the platform.
      "There, see?" Eric tilted his head at Stork.
      "Wow." The other ogled. "An honest to goodness robot."
      "And it's an intercom." Clipboard and pen in hand, Eric extended them toward Stork. "Mr. Roi, we've delivered your groceries, scientific chemicals, and rose fertilizer. Anything else?"
      "No," Stork croaked.
      "Sign here, please."
      "Wow, not much for looks, but the machine works."
      I am human, like you. Stork returned the pen and pivoted, so he wouldn't see them drive off.
      He caught his reflection in the window, a tin box on wheels with a gallon can for a head.
      Every day, he'd seen that image. When did it start to bother him? Just recently? Or was it a phase he went through every century, thinking new thoughts, feeling new feelings, only to realize they were simply the old, rediscovered. Was there anything new any more?
      He mused as he carried the groceries in through the lab and down the back way through tile-lined halls into the kitchen.
      He'd grown used to Ambrose, just as one grows used to a shriveled hand. Perhaps he'd even taken a certain comfort in the familiarity. After all, down through the ages their relationship had been the sole constant, the anchor they'd needed to keep from losing themselves in the changing mores.
      Or had it only seemed they needed each other? Maybe what they needed was to adapt to the times. Ambrose would seem to change, only to start over with each new body. Stork, however, recalled almost nothing of the humanoid body he'd once occupied. In fact he recalled almost nothing of his fleshly body before it was destroyed during the catastrophe, and he no longer recalled what it was that had annihilated their civilization. However, he did recall worshipping Ambrose as a god. Sometimes an illusive memory skipped through his mind, of a little girl, laughing.
      Stork put the last of the vegetables in the refrigerator and wheeled out to carry in the lab chemicals.

      Ambrose sank back, shook his head, and cleared his throat at length over the unfinished lunch tray. The artistically prepared pheasant, asparagus, potatoes and leeks had been stirred into a mess, now cold. Only the wine glass stood empty. "Get this slop out of my sight."
      Stork set the tray aside on a cart.
      "Give me a tissue. I'm tired, physically, mentally. And bored—don't leave yet."
      Stork returned from pushing the cart to the door and watched Ambrose blow his nose, toss the tissue over his shoulder, and pluck another from the box.
      "Your wheels still squeak. Your voice is abominable."
      "It takes time, Master."
      "Until you drive me to distraction by the exhibition of your discontent?"
      Ambrose tugged at a lock of hair, squinting, thinking, ending in a huff.
      "You may yearn to experience life in the mainstream, but I assure you, you would suffer great disappointment. People are treacherous. Bring my hassock."
      The hassock was pulled up, and Ambrose stretched his legs on it and slouched back. "Ah, you are so innocent. Really, I envy you. Here, you have a sanctuary. You can be yourself. You never have to deal with the herd mentality, with trying to make a good impression, with fading in and out of people's lives so they'll never know who you really are. Yes, you're the lucky one, even if you don't see it that way."
      "I do not complain, Master."
      Ambrose snickered and shook his finger. "Oh, but I know you."
      The finger landed on a furrow between Ambrose's brows, tracing it, seemingly intent on resculpting the face. He sighed, and his hand dropped away. "Destroy the clones."
      Destroy the clones? What did Master mean?
      "All of them."
      For a moment Stork could not answer.
      Ambrose picked at his nose through the tissue.
      "What do you mean, Master?"
      "Destroy...the...clones."
      "The things most precious? This is rash, Master. Perhaps if you slept on it "
      "No!" Ambrose pounded the arm of his chair, then folded into a fit of coughing.
      It felt as if a fist squeezed Stork's mind until it bled. He'd nurtured the innocents and watched them grow over the years until they were properly developed for habitation. Without personality, they were still the closest thing to a family he had. Yet to Ambrose they were nothing but garments. "Master, they are sacred "
      "I'm tired of living on and on and on. I'll keep this body and die a natural death. That should please you, shouldn't it?"
      "No."
      "Well, it should. There was a time you begged to die, do you recall? All because I made you a robot. At last you get your wish. Program yourself to die when I do. Now oil your wheels, fix your voice, and destroy all the clones."
      Mind feeling as cold as snow, Stork trundled away.

      Over the days, the robot oiled his wheels. He worked on his voice until the tone, though still flat, was dulcet.
      "Have you destroyed the clones?"
      Stork was running the sweeper over the carpet when Ambrose, in a polo shirt and white pants, accosted him.
      Had he changed his mind, or was he testing Stork's obedience? "Didn't you want me to destroy them?"
      "Of course."
      Ambrose swept by, the air heavy with his anger.
      Stork finished the carpet and wheeled to the lab. Master may have paid a rare visit and found the clones still afloat in their tanks. That might explain his anger. Stork couldn't bring himself to destroy them, particularly since he was sure Ambrose would regret the decision and punish him for carrying it out. Or Ambrose may be angry at his own fear. Detesting cowardice, he'd feel all the more determined to stick by his decision. The eternal king would know death, and like all ancient kings, his servant would accompany him in death as he had in life.
      Or would he?
      Yes, Stork vaguely recalled begging to die when Master had tricked him into a robot body. He'd been made helpless, having his legs taken away, among other things. Why? Had Master feared he would rebel?
      But times change. Kings and presidents die, they have great funerals, and they are buried, alone. Ambrose wouldn't need him in death. It was Stork's opportunity to be free at last. To have an organic body and to live as most people live. To taste, to smell, to feel, to see and hear as humans see and hear.
      How long would it take Ambrose to destroy himself? Years, perhaps. Would he fail quickly, or linger as a bed-ridden invalid? Would Stork's role change much?
      Probably not. Ambrose had played at many games, many hobbies. His scientific and financial interests had died, and he had forgotten most of what he had known, relying on Stork to handle everything. Ambrose had degenerated into a playboy.
      Deterioration always occurred over the generations as the clones were replicated. To solve this problem, periodically a new line of clones would be started, and this last batch was a new line. Stork couldn't lose them. He wouldn't.
      Stork dumped acid in every tank but one. Corrosive fumes rose and killed whatever spiders, earwigs, or flies lurked in secret places. Hours later, when the clones had dissolved, he drained the tanks and shoved them together so they hid one occupied container. In that one the pump worked silently.

      Mentally trembling at the audacity of his deed, Stork bulled through those feelings to a higher plane, and found that his spirits soared. He wanted to laugh and sing. Well, laughter and song would become part of his repertoire, once he transferred. And taste and true sight and touch and smell. Perhaps he would meet a woman, get married and raise a family. He had shunned socializing online, whereas the more private Traveling seemed a perfectly acceptable way to escape boredom.
      Would he be able to Travel, after he transferred? If not, losing the ability would be worth the price of being clothed again in flesh.
      Stork's Traveling took him to a theater where he listened to The Phantom of the Opera. He floated over a lawn party, where couples sampled canapes and played croquet. He sailed over salt water and heard the gulls laugh and was reminded again of the laughter of a girl he couldn't place. He noticed a yacht. Aboard, a couple sat holding hands, gazing over a crinkled sea. The woman leaned her head against the man's shoulder, against Master's shoulder.
      "Ruby, get me a drink. There should be some brandy down below."
      She stood and reached for a pitcher on the nearby table and filled a tall glass. "Lemonade, my sweet. So refreshing, and look how the moisture beads on the glass. I guarantee it's as good as it looks, even if I do say so, myself."
      He took a sip. "I'm dying and you'd still fill me with vitamins."
      He looked around. "Where's my pipe?"
      "Now, now. Why not enjoy the fragrance of the sea? Or I could give you a stick of cinnamon gum."
      "So, you would hold me to my promise."
      "It could save your life, my sweet. Forgive me for mentioning Jerry, but he was the picture of health until an accident killed him. And you said, yourself, how lovely my two kids and their families are." She kissed him on the forehead and said, "Let me show you the joys of healthy living."
      His chuckle rattled into a cough. "And what do you know of my way of living?"
      "The results, my dear."
      She moved around behind him and massaged his shoulders. "Mm, such a handsome man."

      Master had been gone a month this time, and as usual, hadn't told Stork his plans. As usual, Stork relied on Traveling to check on him.
      Ambrose and his new playmate shared dreamy expressions. Ambrose, the lion with a thorn in his paw, and Ruby, the lion tamer.
      How would it end? Stork became part of the air where they ate, joked, shared anecdotes, and laid plans, playing each other like violins. Ambrose the Gypsy, Ruby the Stradivarius.
      One day, Ruby was reading to Ambrose when he placed a hand on her book, lowering it to her lap.
      "It's been a long time since I've met such a wonderful woman."
      "I know only how to be myself. If that's wonderful, well, that's . . . wonderful." Her smile ran into her voice.
      He took her hand and kissed it. "There is no one like you."
      "I love it when you say that. I never realized how much I missed having a man to love me."
      "Your bed or mine?" he said.
      "You're feeling better then?"
      "Much better."
      "And how much do you love me? Enough to make a commitment?" Her voice softened, reminding Stork of a firm pillow. "Enough to become my husband?"
      "Ah, you would burden yourself with a dying man?"
      "Love is no burden. We are all of us dying. And who's to say you might not live many years yet? We're both alone. Why not share those years? In sickness, in health, in old age, there is still joy to be had."
      "Ah, Ruby. You don't know how happy it makes me to hear you say that. My Ruby, my wife."

      Stork shot back into his body so hard, he skidded on his wheels and slammed against the furniture, yanking the vacuum cleaner onto its side. He righted the machine and realized he was in Master's study. He gazed at the many cubes, still balanced one on the other. Each cube contained one soul, of a slave, a wife, or a man whose body began a new series of clones for Master when the old series weakened from too much replication. Master had forgotten the names of most of the imprisoned souls, just as one forgets what they eat from one day to the next. To Stork, the incidents, connected to the cubes, were like a series of mirrors, reflecting endless images of pain. The program in his computer brain was responsible for sending each to their eternal exile. For a long time fear had prevented him from trying to enter the thousands of little prisons to access the souls. By the time he had built up his nerve and ability to soul travel, he had found madness in each cube and in the figurine. Unlike Stork, none of them had the ability to drift out of their prisons on a silver thread that could stretch to eternity. Their only escape lay in death.
      The thought that he might be forced to add another to the collection ignited a rage he thought had died centuries ago. And with it came memories of the laughing girl.
      He scanned the stack until he saw it, the cube that held Plover's soul.
      Carefully he slipped the cube free, replacing it with another from the rear of the stack.
      Plover. He held the cube delicately. Plover would have been his wife. They were children when Ambrose had saved them. She had grown into a beauty while he remained a boy in an android body. So he begged Master to give him a real body that matched his proper age. Master had seemed to agree. But Stork awoke as robot, subject to the controls on Master's ring, and Plover's soul had disappeared into this cube.
      He almost trembled.
      "Ruby. My wife." Indeed!
      Stork decided to act quickly before his anger faded and his nerve failed. He turned off the vacuum cleaner and picked up the fire starter from the mantel. The wood and kindling were already laid in the fireplace. It took little to ignite them. Flames leaped up and undulated to their own music, which sounded to him like static. He tossed Plover's cube in.
      "May you find release in death."
      The cube took only a few minutes to burn to ashes. While they still glowed, he plucked another from the pile and tossed it into the fireplace. It kicked up a flare of sparks and lay in gathering smoke. When it burst into flames, he added another cube. How many souls could he free without Master noticing?

by Barry Munden © 1998. All rights reserved.

      Ding-ding-ding-ding-ding.
      Ambrose had returned. He sat erect in his stuffed chair, a filament, threatening to burn out. Exhaustion tugged at him, but he refused momentarily to acknowledge it.
      "Stork, a big pot of tea. And oh, those clones, did you destroy them?" His dark eyes glittered feverishly.
      Stork searched for a safe answer. Behind him stood the stack of cubes, reconstructed to hide those that were missing.
      Master leaned forward, as if poised to leap out of his skin.
      "The clones are gone."
      His fingers like claws gripped the arms of the chair. "All?" A storm gathered in Master's face, pulling his lips into a rictus.
      Heaviness pressed upon Stork's mind. "Ex-except one." Centuries of habit asserted itself, as if to prove that the born slave remains a slave.
      The sun redawned in Ambrose's face. "Ah, I knew you wouldn't let me down. You knew I was depleted. You knew all I needed was change. I found a woman. She wants to marry me." He smiled. "It's made my heart young again. I could live forever now. So, yes, bud more clones. Keep the supply growing. Ah, a fresh start. To think I could ever have forgotten the joys of love."
      Had Ruby accomplished what others could never do? Had she changed Master? Truly, here was a woman for Master to spend his life with, provided he didn't collapse in the next second. He seemed dangerously close to it. Ruby said he could mend, and she was the woman to do it.
      Stork's mind trembled with frail hope. Ambrose had squandered forty years in wild living, making him sickly. Healed, his body was capable of a hundred and fifty years of robust health. Stork would have time to decide what to do. "What is it you would like, Master?"
      "To be transferred. Now."
      Hope guttered like a dying flame. "I had thought you would want to marry—"
      Master gave a wave of his hand. "Why should I remain old and threatened by an ordinary existence, with its obligations and restrictions and time running out, and being bossed around by used baggage. I intend to play."
      "I would think a friend and companion—"
      Stork's voice broke off, silenced when Ambrose touched the mute button on his ring.
      "I will not be controlled by anyone. It is I who do the controlling. I."

      Ambrose lay comfortably on the couch, the Source Headset hiding his hair. Nearby on another couch lay the clone, dressed and wearing the Install Headset. The robot stood between, mentally accessing his internal computer and the program that directed the process. Once begun, it proceeded automatically and Stork became an observer. Ambrose would lose consciousness just before transfer. When he awoke, he would have a new body and it would be Stork's responsibility to destroy the old.
      The robot eyed the clone. What if, at the last minute, he switched the Source Headpiece to himself? Could he do it? Could he betray a master he had served for millennia? What kind of person would he be if he began in the flesh as a murderer?
      Suppose he left Master unharmed in the old body while Stork inhabited the new. What would happen? Master regarded people who annoyed him as cockroaches, to be crushed. Stork would have to hide.
      Stork could stop the process by ripping the Install Headset off, and claiming the clone wasn't viable, thereby forcing Ambrose to return to Ruby and be restored to health. She'd probably leave, once he revealed his true character, providing he didn't make Stork capture her soul in a cube, the ultimate amputation.
      What if Stork transferred Ambrose into the robot body, while Stork moved into the clone? A double transfer, was it possible?
      Stork watched an internal brain chart. The clone's brain wave lay flat while Ambrose's leisurely peaked and dipped, showing he was awake and resting.
      It would be easy to do nothing, just as Stork had done nothing repeatedly over the centuries while Ambrose transferred into the new clone. Or while Ambrose made Stork transfer another victim into the cube. And there would be more victims. And more. And more.
      Stork regarded the resting Ambrose, scrawny and gray. Ambrose could heal and live many productive years with a loving woman. As long as he no longer had access to a clone or Stork's services, Ruby might be safe. Stuck with this last body, Ambrose might realize its value and take care of it.
      Stork needn't feel guilty. He wouldn't be killing the man, only forcing him to be more responsible. Yes, it was the better choice. All it took was courage to step away from the servant mold.
      Ambrose's brain chart eased into a new pattern approaching sleep. He would only touch unconsciousness, and during that touch Stork must act, before the brain of the clone vivified and the waves of the old Ambrose flattened. Stork had never seen how souls transfer. He could imagine a filmy soul rising out of the body and stretching like an amoeba and entering the clone and attaching a silver cord while releasing the old silver cord and pulling it into its soul body.
      The mountains and valleys in Ambrose's brain pattern suddenly shortened. The clone's pattern trembled.
      Stork snatched the headset off Ambrose and pressed it against his chest where his mind controlled the computer. The brain waves jerked, like the seizures of an epileptic—or two minds colliding.
      Stork tried to leap into the clone, and met something dark and powerful. Ambrose's soul, made dense with rage.
      They swirled and collided. Stork dodged and Ambrose pursued him in a circle. Stork could not escape, for he was outnumbered by his own guilt and centuries' old custom. He was surrounded by his own weaknesses.

      He tried to shrink and hide in smallness. Ambrose found him and would not be fooled.
      The robot rammed out of control against one couch and the other. Its metal clattered like tin cans as the arms continued to grip the Install Headset.
      Ambrose's rage became visible to Stork's soul as a muddy red. It rushed at him with the energy of a tornado. It slammed at him with a force meant to launch him, perhaps into an ethereal realm. Stork bounded to the side.
      Ambrose rushed at his silver thread and tried to grab it. Stork's emotion had made it dense enough that Ambrose whirled with it, winding it like a twister, and then screamed because it stretched. Stork realized that Ambrose was trying to break it, to sever his connection with life.
      Stork needed to make himself less dense so Ambrose couldn't touch him. To relax.
      He couldn't. Fear wouldn't let him.
      He grabbed at Ambrose's silver thread, not knowing if it was still attached to the old Ambrose or in transit to the clone. Barely able to keep from passing through it, he managed to yank on it.
      Ambrose released Stork's thread. Stork rushed again toward the clone. Ambrose again met him and their souls clashed. The robot almost capsized. Stork didn't know if the computer transfer program was still working or had hung. He sought only to survive. Ambrose seemed everywhere, giving Stork the feeling of entering a wind tunnel. A roar filled Stork's mind.
      It must be too late. Ambrose's silver cord may already be attached to the new clone.
      Stork tried to enter but passed through. Ambrose rammed him and again grabbed for his silver cord.
      Stork must make himself less dense. The only way, was to quit fighting, to quit trying to protect himself.
      He flung himself out into the universe, away from his robot body, away from Ambrose's body, away from the clone. For a moment he feared Ambrose would follow. He didn't. For a moment he feared Ambrose would sever his cord.
      Well, what if he did?
      Stork relaxed and expanded and felt peace.
      The battle had ended. Silence inhabited the lab.

      Something rustled.
      The new body opened its eyes. It sat up. It gazed at the old body and the motionless robot.
      "Ah, well. I always was stronger, Stork. A shame to lose you, but there was a time you begged to die."
      He gazed at the shell of what he had been. "I suppose I should dispose of this, after I get some buds started." He frowned. It had been centuries since he had done it. "The old records should be in the library somewhere." He shrugged. Oh well, there was plenty of time for that. His new body could provide buds. Meanwhile, he would play. With resources at several places and access to several bank accounts, he wouldn't need the robot computer right away.

      As the red Porsche hummed onto the highway, Stork floated back into the lab.
      Was he dead or Traveling? He would know soon.
      Stork funneled back.
      Odd.
      He detected an odor of, what was it, ozone? The air held a certain coolness. Silence roared. No, it wasn't silence. It was the shoosh, shoosh, shoosh of something internal. What? Pulsing. That was it. Blood pulsing. Blood. It tingled through him, or was it the energy of life? There was pressure. Of his back against the couch. Of something firm and rubbery against something hard...tongue against teeth; yes, that was it. And a more delicate pressure enveloping him. Clothes on skin. Some musty smell from them. What? He'd have to learn smells all over again. A vile taste brought attention back to his mouth. He moved his tongue and noticed a soreness where Ambrose had bitten the inside of his cheek.
      Stork flexed stiff fingers, stroked the smoothness of the couch, its resilient texture. Squeezed it. Sensuous. He made a fist, relaxed it, wiggled his fingers. Wiggled his toes. Toes. He had toes. And feet. And legs. The realization quickened the pulse within his body, and he marveled at the response. And he placed his hand over his chest to feel the heart beat. And felt his hand rise and fall with each breath.
      He opened gritty eyes and saw with clarity the pale ceiling and gray walls. He stared at the miracle of his hand, the solidarity of it and how the thumb could touch the tip of each finger, one by one. He stared beyond it at the robot that had housed his soul. It still gripped the headset against its chest.
      A gurgle came from his gut. So much was happening within him. He tried to separate the different sensations and couldn't. He rose to sitting against the pull of gravity and snuffled to clear his nose and dabbed at its wet soreness. He hummed a few bars, chuckled, and coughed. He touched wetness on his cheeks.
      "Wonderful. Wonderful."