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
disappointed.Another thought occurs to me. "When you touched that bad bone,
you made a face.Why?"She shakes her head for a long moment, then says, "I
don't remember."I mean to press her, but suddenly Mollene is talking. "But
what does all thatmean?" she blurts out. "I'm sorry to be slow, but I don't
understand."The newborn smiles, and with an easy charm, he says, "Maybe what
I'm saying isthat everything is tiny. Even those wonders that we look at as
beingenormous...they're always small in comparison to something.., and never
quite sowondrous..."The words don't sound important, but they hit me like a
wall of tumbling bone.Due is talking about He who is our purpose.Without ever
breaking taboos, he tries to diminish our great and glorious Him.Old Nicka has
ruled the warehouse for my entire life, and he has always been OldNicka -- a
small man not meant for physical labor, clad in mock-flesh worntransparent by
the ages, his face patched and patched again, its original shapeirretrievably
lost. Yet despite time and wear, he can tell you exactly how manynine-gauge
buckybug wombs are in storage, and how many are on order, and whichof them
will most likely work once installed."How's my new expeditor?" I ask Old
Nicka.His response is nothing but honest. "He's smart in the worst ways, and
stupidwhere it hurts, and dreamy, and he talks too much, and he'll never be
any sortof expeditor. If you want to know what I think."I nod, then mention,
"You never thought I'd make much of one, either.""So where are you now?""I'm
the line foreman. You know that.""Because you couldn't cut it as an
expeditor." A crooked smile shines. "But sotell me, Jusk. Why ask about that
newborn? On his first shift...?""Curiosity," I offer.His eyes are mismatched
in color and size. The newer eye, brown and huge,regards me for a long moment.
"Do you want to speak with the boy? He's in theback, counting my stock of
D-grade smart-clamps.""Why? Did you lose track of your inventory?""No! He just
needs practice with his counting." The battered old face ismasterful when it
comes to scorn and outrage. "Next time you buy a newborn off awagon, make sure
that he can count." I nod."Is there anything else? Or do you want all of my
time?"Someday, Old Nicka will die from simple age -- the rarest of deaths
--and once Iforget how he was, I'll miss him, sentimentality winning out over
good sense."Due is dreamy and talks too much," I repeat. "Does he talk to
you?""Not anymore.""But when he did...did he talk about the universe, and
Him... ?""What about Him?" Old Nicka growls.I repeat what Due said, and what
it seemed to mean, and what Tannic claimed tohear when she was young."Some of
that sounds familiar," Old Nicka admits, thoroughly unimpressed. "Butthis piss
about calling Him small...that's just stupid...even for you, Jusk...!"I
bristle, but remain silent."We can't measure His size, or any other quality."
A tiny hand, more metal thanflesh, is driven into my chest. "Not His wisdom.
Not His goodness. None of thosethings are knowable -- !""I realize that," I
mutter."Child," Old Nicka replies, both eyes focusing on the highest shelves
of hisempire. "We are too small to know anything but this. What we can see,
what wecan count." He withdraws his hand, then promises, "If someone ever
tells me thatHe is small, I will kill him. Immediately, and gladly. And with
His blessing, ofcourse."THE SHIFT ENDS, FINALLY.With the blaring of the first
klaxon, each crew allows their line to run untilempty. The last of the new
bone is packed, then shipped. The freshly repairedbug ovens are placed into
sleeping modes. Trash and every tool are set in theopen. Then with a practiced
haste, we begin to climb the bright blue corundumstairs, zigzagging up and up
as the second, final klaxon roars, warning us thatthe janitors are being
released from their bunkers.I pause, just for an instant. A silvery wave of
frantic, nearly mindlessmachines are racing down the aisles, spraying their
spit and piss into everycorner, then working their way back again, licking up
their juices, and withthem, consuming every unwelcome molecule of grease, any
diamond grit, plussevered toes and the flesh of workers too foolish or too
feeble not to make thelong climb.The world beneath grows dark, and very
loud.One last set of stairs takes me to the roof. As always, my crew sits
together,in an orderly line. Umbilicals deploy from the aerogel sky, inserting
themselvesinto our feeding ports. What comes from Him tastes especially
delicious tonight;I think it, and others say it. Wagons race back and forth in
the main corridor.We talk among ourselves, discussing the past shift --
gossip, mostly-- and wemake plans for the next shift. I make our plans. But I
slowly realize thatnobody hears me, including me. Due is talking. Again.This
newborn is incapable of saying anything that isn't strange."What do we know
about Him?" he inquires. "What is His nature?"He is everything to us. He is
vast and vital, and we exist only to serve Him.Everyone born is born with that
knowledge."But how do we serve Him?" asks Due. "Tell me: Why does He need the
likes ofus?"Because something horrible has happened to Him. Unimaginable
violence has tomapart His body and His mind. We have been bom to do nothing
but repair what canbe repaired, and build the rest of Him from the soulless
atoms.But Due knows that already. He knows it, yet he can't give the answer
inordinary terms. "This bone plant, and the twenty million million plants
justlike it...they constitute a civilization...a civilization that arose just
toserve Him...!"The most noble of civilizations, I tell myself."Why is this
our shape?" he asks, regarding his naked self. "Two hands, twolegs, and one
two-eyed head...why are such things important...?"A long pause.More than my
crew are listening to him. His audience stretches across the roof;every line
crew maintains a respectful silence."By wearing this shape," I hear, "we are
honoring Him."The voice belongs to Mollene.With a stern patience, Due says,
"Honor is something given. But our shape wasgiven to us, not chosen by us.""So
why are we this way?" cries an irritable voice.My voice."This shape is
adaptable. And more important, it is familiar." Due waits for amoment, then
adds, "We resemble Him in many ways, of course. Intellectually andemotionally,
he once was much as we are now."I feel a weakness spreading through me. A deep
chill."Then He became more than us. The bugs made him stronger and immortal,
and theyrefashioned his mind, making it swift and powerful." A long pause. Or
does itjust seem long? "At first, the bugs didn't have us to help them. But of
courseeven tiny souls know the hazards of relying too much on nanoscopic
agents. Theseagents are industrious, and stupid. And dangerous. What if they
mutated andslipped free of their ovens, out of our plant and across our
civilization'sborders...spreading over the true world...?"Bugs are demons; I
know this better than I know the shape of my own hands."Between the very small
and very large stands us,' Due proclaims. "We have beenplaced here to control
the bugs, and in that sense, we are defending the world."A shudder and low
moan move through his audience. The words have an authenticitythat dispels
doubt and every question. Revelation, I'm thinking, is a substancemore real
than sapphires, more perfect than the purest diamond, and it's alwaystoo small
to be seen."That's why we exist. To protect the world...!""And to protect Him,
too," I add, by reflex.Due says nothing.Then after a long moment -- it is a
long moment, this time -- he asks, "Why doesHe make us wear these
faces?""Nobody makes us," I begin to say. It is our choice, our tradition"Out
of respect for his family and friends," Mollene declares, nearly gigglingat
what's obvious. "We are showing that we care!"Suddenly, too soon, the
umbilicals are pulled away.The new shift begins with the klaxon.Due is sitting
like everyone else, legs extended before him. He stares at me asif he has
always been staring at me, yet he says another's name. "Tannie? Why doyou
think He wants us to wear these faces?"The old woman is behind me, hiding
behind others.Quietly, with both conviction and genuine amazement, she says,
"We look like thepeople...the people He can trust...""Why should that matter,
Tannie?"She stands slowly, regarding her own hands and saying, "I don't know
why."Still, always, Due stares at me."If someone is so glorious, so
wondrous...why should He worry about the trustfrom such tiny things as us?"No
one speaks.A Memory wagon is sliding past us, delivering its cargo to the
growing mind.It's long and heavily armored, and a dozen Security troops sit in
alertpostures, front and aft, missing nothing as they gaze at the sky and at
us.So many troops, I'm thinking. Is this a new policy?And if not, why have I
never noticed them before?"Have you learned anything about him?""About who?"
asks the plant manager."My new expeditor," I remind her. "You were going to
ask about his origins. Ordid I misunderstand....?"She acts indifferent,
preoccupied."Nothing suspicious to find," she assures. "An uneventful
manufacturing cycle.Designed for heavy labor in a memory plant, which is where
he was being taken.And that's why he acts a little peculiar, I'm sure. Memory
workers needdifferent sorts of minds."I want to feel sure, like she does.
That's all I want."Here," she says, handing me the first order of the new
shift. It looks likesimple memory, but the red color means that it's a rush. I
place the orderagainst my forehead, the specifications flowing into me. I
barely hear the plantmanager warning, "We have to have it finished as soon as
possible, or sooner."Questions?" she asks, wanting none.I shake my head, then
hesitate. "What about his face?""Whose face?""Due's. I don't recognize it." I
notice something in her gaze, then ask, "Haveyou ever seen anyone with that
face?"A shrug, then a wistful grin."I wish more men wore it," she chimes.
"Whoever's it is."I deliver the rush order to my line, giving it to the feed
crew who use it toprogram the bug oven. This particular bone is full of
diamond andsuperconductive fibers, which is unusual. But not remarkable. What
catches myeye is the pallet of barium ready to be fed into the oven. Why is it
alreadyhere?"He said we'd need it," my feed chief replies."Who said
that?""Due."I shake my head, complaining, "I didn't have the order till
now.""I don't know. Maybe the boy heard something." The giant man scratches
his broadround face, then adds, "Or maybe he's a good expeditor after all."Old
Nicka might have heard about the order, then told Due to bring the barium;
Itell myself that's what must have happened. Starting down the line,
I'mpreoccupied, my eyes watching my naked toes. Suddenly someone is walking
besideme, and I wheel and take a clumsy step backward, as does my companion.
He has myshape, my face, but a rich golden color to his bare flesh. I stare
into thegold-embossed oven, and the strangest notion occurs to me. Reflections
areinfinitely thin, and frail beyond measure. If I step away from the oven,
myreflection dies. Which, I think, helps explain its desperate expression.In
the distance, loudly, a woman cries out, "No, no...!"I blink a few times, then
turn."Someone stop her...no, Tannic...!"Mollene is screaming. I break into a
run, finding her at her station, but Tannicmissing. The big woman tugs at her
false hair, looking up, and following hereyes, I find her partner sitting on
the high catwalk, in a gap in the oldrailing. It takes forever to understand
what Tannic is doing up there. It takestoo long."Get her," Mollene begs me.
"Save her, Jusk."Without hope, I start up the zigzagging stairs. Tannic is
already above thecuring pond. Suicides are usually swift; she can jump fifty
times before I'llreach her. Yet this isn't a normal suicide. She seems to be
waiting for me,rocking nervously back and forth, the corundum mesh leaving its
mark in her thinrump.Glancing at me, the little woman manages an odd smile.I
stop short, asking, "Why are you even thinking this, Tannie? You've
donenothing wrong.""Haven't I?" The smile is enormous, and joyless. "Oh,
Jusk...you can'tunderstand what I'm thinking..."The curing pond is directly
below us, waiting for new bone."He's not what we think he is," she tells me.
"He lies to us. All the time...""Who's that! Due?"She shivers, saying, "Not
the expeditor, no.""Then who --?"But I know who she means. Interrupting
myself, I shake my head, telling her,"That's ridiculous. Stupid. How can you
know that?""When that first bone went bad, and I touched it...I saw what's
real..."I want Tannie to jump. Now."I saw the Memories we aren't suppose to
see." Her steady voice doesn't matchher soft forlorn face. "The terrible
things that He has done with his hands. Theawful orders that He's made others
carry out --""Shut up," I tell her."How else can he rule the world
--?""Tannie!" I shout. "You're talking about bone. Bone doesn't have memories.
Butyou could easily, easily be insane. Have you thought that -- ?"A
contemptuous look nearly slices me in two."Come here," I say, offering a hand.
"I'll take you straight to Maintenance.We'll get you back to normal. Before
our next shift...all right... ?"The odd smile returns. "That newborn's right
about one thing.""What's that, Tannie?""We exist for a purpose. We're supposed
to protect the world."I don't know what to say.She sighs, rocking forward and
gazing over the brink.I move, not even thinking first. I drive suddenly with
my legs and grab withboth arms, trying to sweep up that little body before the
insanity takes her.My arms close on air.Suddenly I'm lying on the corundum,
watching Tannie shrink away, vanishing evenbefore she strikes the pond. Then a
furious storm of bubbles erupts, pullingwhat I can't see even further out of
sight."Where's the newborn?"Old Nicka looks up from a supply wagon's manifest,
discounting me with a glance.Only when his face drops again does he say, "In
the back. Counting."The warehouse always feels enormous, mysterious. In that,
nothing is new. Whatworks on me is a powerful sense that I don't know where I
am going, and when Imake my next turn, I'll become lost. It has happened more
than once. A workerloses his bearings, and the shift ends without him. Then
the lost man is founddead in a nameless corner, starved of power and picked
bare of mock-flesh by therelentless janitors. I shout for Due; no one
responds.A whispering voice is counting. I follow its rhythm, coming upon him
sittingbehind a stockpile of assorted rare earths. His back is to me, long
legsstretched out before him and a pair of giant diamond-hulled bugs balancing
hishands. "One, two," he says. "One, two. One, two. One, two."I stop short,
and wait.Due doesn't look at me. He simply pauses, regarding the bugs as he
says, "I wastold to count. I'm counting."Even the back of his head is
handsome."You want me?" he inquires.I step closer, admitting, "Something awful
has happened."Due turns, finally. His gray eyes are warm, but their black
centers radiate awithering heat. "Does it involve me?""No."He seems surprised,
if only for a moment."One of my line workers is dead. A bone handler...."Eyes
flicker. "That fat woman?""Her partner. Tannie."I can't read any emotion. It's
unfair to expect grief from newborns, but thisface seems more than adult. It's
almost ancient. I'm the newborn here, and howcan I hope to outsmart this
bizarre, supremely gifted monster?"I need your help on the line," I tell
him.Again, the eyes flicker. "You want me to handle the bone -- ?""Until we
find another newborn.""Who expedites?""No one," I promise. "You've delivered
enough raw material to do the order, andwe won't finish till the end of the
shift."A curt nod, then he rises, bugs glittering in his hands."What kind of
bugs are those?" I ask."Five-gauge knitters," he lies, setting them on an
obscure shelf.I step back."Besides," he comments, "if I'm working with you,
you'll be able to keep youreyes on me. Right?"I say nothing, knowing it isn't
necessary.THE NEW BONE is meant for His skull. That's why it's been reinforced
withdiamond, and that's why it carries superconductive fibers: This bone
mustprotect His vast mind, and it needs to be porous to His great thoughts.I
watch that bone come out of the oven, pure white sheets punctuated
withgray-black veins. Mollene is educating her new partner about how to check
theproduct, then carry it. Grieving for Tannic, she makes no small talk.
Shedoesn't flirt, much less try to seduce. And to her credit, when Due
sayssomething about the reinforced skull -- "Why does someone so loved need so
muchprotection?" -- Mollene responds with a disinterested shrug and sharp
words:"Love drags other emotions along with it. Envy and jealousy, and
worse...fromwhat I can see.... "The belt carries the new bone down to the
curing pond, and after its bath, it ishoisted into the air, cleaned and dried,
then given a final measurement withlasers and eyes. Then the sheets are
wrapped in aerogel and stacked. One hundredsheets at a time are inserted into
armored boxes, then those boxes are sealedand loaded into a parked wagon. It's
the third box that I have pulled aside, onmy own authority. "Open it," I say.
My packing crew obey. "Now pull out the topsheet," I tell them. They do it,
but grudgingly. "Now, the next." Why? they ask.Not answering, I tell them to
stack the second sheet on the first, just as theywill lay in His skull. The
superconductive materials are aligned, then the thirdsheet is added. And the
fourth. My crew doesn't balk until the thirtieth sheet,but that's enough. I
hope. Ignoring their complaints, I place my foreheadagainst the gray-black
material, and nothing happens. The electric surgecoursing through me is my
embarrassment. In front of everyone, I'm actinginsane.I start to rise,
slowly.And I pause.Faint gray marks have been left on the edges of the bone
sheets. Alone, they'resenseless. But stacked together, they become a word. A
faint but unmistakablesignature. Jusk, I read. A hundred times.I kneel down,
pressing my forehead against my name.Laughter blossoms behind me, then
vanishes.Beneath a brilliant blue sky...people are running, shouting. And I'm
runningwith them, more excited than afraid, trying to remember what is
happening..,what I'm doing here..."...five times.., with rocket slugs...!" His
bodyguard steps up beside me, atall, strong, and very pale man walking fast
despite a gaping hole in his armor,a healing crater in his chest. I smell
blood and pain killers on his breath, andsmoke hangs thick in the air. "The
assholes got past us. Not me, I mean...l didmy job...." He hesitates,
measuring his words. "Dropped two of those assholesmyself. Took a round for
Him, too. lust wish I could have taken more, ofcourse...!""Of course," I
mutter, my voice brittle. Unfamiliar to me."But He'll be all right. No
problem." The bodyguard wobbles, then straightenshimself. "How in hell did
they get past us, sir?"I shrug, not answering. Instead I ask my own question.
"Who were they?""Don't know, "he says. "Separatists, or free-thinkers, I'd
guess. . . unlessit's something closer to home...!"From inside His own
government, he means.I say nothing."Out of our way!" the bodyguard shouts.
"The deputy wants to see Him....!"I am the deputy. Among the hundreds, perhaps
thousands of grieving sycophants, Isee the maintenance man who installed my
new arms. And my feed crew chief. AndOld Nicka, as well as a weepy,
pain-wracked Tannie. Except these aren't thepeople whom l know, just as I'm
not Jusk anymore."Look what they did to Him!" Tannic screams, in anguish. "How
could they...?!"The crowd parts for me -- out of respect, and fear A and He is
revealed. Fiverounds punctured His defensive array and His body armor,
entering His flesh,then exploding with a brutal force. The body has been
shredded. Composite boneis scattered, useless. One round even managed to
puncture His skull, the warheadshaping its blast to obliterate His soul. But
what is intact is what startlesme. Beneath the shredded brain is a bloody but
whole face -- Due's face -- grayeyes opened to the blue sky, staring down
Death itself.The man with Old Nicka's face kneels, a hand pressed against my
back. "Don'tworry, sir," he mutters. "I've called for His full catalog. It'll
be on site intwo minutes."The catalog is His memory, saved for emergencies."An
hour, tops," he promises. "Then He'll be conscious again. In charge."I nod,
saying nothing."I wish we could have captured one of those assassins," he
says, giving thebodyguard a reproachful glance. "Apparently they weren't using
even the simplestnano-system. A pure suicide attack."I reach for the
corpse."You shouldn't, sir," says the bodyguard. "It might muddy up the
healing cycle,ii your little friends get mixed in with His..."My hand stops
short, then drops, touching a fragment of freshly killed bone.Hopefully that
will be enough...."Sir," I hear. "Step on back, please. We've got to let him
heal on his own sir."I rise, nodding.And for the first time in years, I feel
the smallest beginnings of hope....The plant manager invites me into her
office. Set on a medium-high catwalk, itaffords an impressive view of the
entire plant. But all I can see is thestranger sitting behind her desk. He
wears the bodyguard's face and body, andover his flesh is diamond mail of the
sort used by Security troops. Suspiciouseyes look at me, then move about the
office. Even the most benign object seemsworth a hard glare."You've been
checking the bone," says the manager. She makes no attempt tointroduce our
guest. "Find anything?"I shake my head. "No, nothing.""Neither have we," says
the bodyguard, or whatever he is. Then he grins, adding"We don't need to
unpack bone to make sure that it's all right."I look at the manager. "What's
going on?""Ask me," says the bodyguard.I turn to him, saying nothing."You
purchased a newborn. Due is his chosen name. Is that right?""Yes.""And you're
suspicious of him?"I nod."There's no reason to be. He has a simple defect,
something that happens on rareoccasions." The lie is well-practiced, seamless.
"He's responsible for some ofyour troubles, but they aren't very serious
troubles. Believe me."Even now, after everything I want to believe him.With a
careful voice, I ask, "If you're familiar with the problem, why don't youjust
take him out of here?"My manager says, "Jusk...""We are getting him. Don't
worry." The bodyguard smiles, casually scratching hiscrotch. "I'm here as a
formality. As I understand it, you've had severalconversations with the
newborn. Correct?""I am his boss --""The warehouse manager claims that you've
spoken to Due at length. Do youremember the subjects?"I hesitate.The
bodyguard's suspicions are focused squarely on me.Through the crystal walls of
the office, I can see my line stretching out belowme. Due and Mollene are
handling the latest bone, working together smoothly.Perfectly. The bodyguard's
associates are stalking Due. They creep along thenarrow aisles, each wearing
diamond mail and carrying an electric saber. In afew moments, everything is
going to end. Whatever everything is..."Jusk?" says my manager, in pain. "Can
you answer his question, please?"I look at the bodyguard, and smile.The ovens
and belts stop in place and every light suddenly goes out, an instantof
shocked silence followed by the rattling charge of janitors, and then,
byhundreds of distant, white-hot screams.I bolt downstairs, pushing against
the panicked flow of bodies.A limping figure slams against me, and I know
those pendulous breasts. "Where ishe?" I shout at Mollene. "Where's
Due?""Jusk....?" she squeals. "Are you all right?"She isn't. The janitors have
plucked the meat off one of her legs, then tried totake the leg, too. But all
I can think about is my expeditor. "Is he with you?Did he say anything to
you./What do you know...?"Pressing her mouth to my ear, she says, "I'm tired,
Jusk...so tired..."I slip past her, reaching the floor just as the dim
emergency lights come on. Asingle janitor is calmly dismantling one of the
security troops. Simple eyesregard and dismiss me, then the machine returns to
its task, removing anotherlimb, inflicting careful misery on its victim.An
electric saber lies forgotten against a pallet.It accepts my hand, which it
shouldn't do. And it slices into the pallet on myfirst attempt, beads of pure
calcium bouncing frantically across the diamondfloor.I run with the quickest
beads, making for the back of the plant."Due," I call out. "Show yourself,
Due!"Silence.When everything works normally, the warehouse is dimly lit. The
indifferent glowof the emergency lights are nearly useless inside that
cavernous place,accomplishing nothing but to make the shadows darker, more
ominous.Softer this time, I say, "Due."Someone moves in the shadows."You're
going to run out of tricks," I tell him, dropping my saber to my
side."Eventually Security is going to catch you and kill you, and
what'saccomplished? A single bone plant is a shift behind in its work, which
isnothing. Some or most of its workers have to be replaced, but that won't
takelong. And He ends up being reborn just the same."Is that what you want,
Due?"In the blackest shadow, flesh brushes against a pallet.I step closer,
saying, "I'm sorry. That I stole you away from your mission. ThatI doubted
what you were telling us. And now that I know better, I'm very, verysorry that
He's going to live again..."If there's anyway that I can help --"A figure
charges out of the darkness, arms lifting what looks like an iridiumhammer.
Because it is a hammer, I realize finally. Then I look at the patchedface,
realizing that it's Old Nicka, not Due, and too late by a long ways, Istart to
lift my saber, backing up, my sputtering voice saying, "No, wait...!"A sharp,
clean noise comes from nowhere. Everywhere.Old Nicks collapses at my feet, the
hammer missing my head by nothing, thenbanging its way to the floor. "You are
mistaken," I hear. "But it's an easilyforgiven mistake." Due appears on my
left, the handsome face offering a smiletinged with sadness. "I've never
wanted Him to stay dead. Even if that waspossible, it would be dangerous.
There would be a terrible civil war afterward,then someone would replace Him.
Who knows who? And would that person be a morebenign leader? You can't tell me
yes, Jusk, and you can't tell me no."I nod, conceding the point."We're here to
protect the world," he promises. "And the best way to do that isto rebuild
Him, but improve Him, too. To give Him insights so far lacking inHim, and a
spirit worthy of His station..."With a flourish, Due hands me that pair of
five-gauge knitters."But about the rest of it, you're right," he tells me. No
more smiles, justsadness. "I'm about to be caught, and I'll be killed. Which
leaves you with adebt to pay ...."He says. "The best of luck. Now, and
always."Due has already cut a hole in the back wall of the warehouse, and when
I climbthrough, in an instant, I've left the only home that I've ever
known.The birth wagon waits.Its driver wears Mollene's face and body, but her
voice is different. Slower,more thoughtful. She tells me to climb into the
back end, and whatever happens,I shouldn't talk. Then she climbs in after me
and shuts the gate, hesitatingbriefly when the sound of fighting comes from
the warehouse.A bomb detonates somewhere close, shaking us.The wagon drives
itself, and this new Mollene gets me to lie on my back, thenchecks to make
sure that I have both of the knitters."What are these things supposed to do?"
I inquire."When it's time, they'll explain themselves." Then she warns me
firmly, "Youmust stay quiet."I nod.The woman has a knife with the thinnest of
blades, and leaning over me, shesays, "Now I need to remove your flesh. To
make you look like a newborn again."I nod again, compliant as a newborn.More
bombs detonate. We're a long way from the plant, but the blasts seem
evenlarger than before. Erasing evidence as well as the Security troops.With a
practiced surety, the woman cuts at my legs.Then, higher.I can't help myself.
I reach up with both hands, grabbing one of the enormousbreasts, sucking on
the brownish red nipple exactly as He must have done in Hisyouth. Desperately.
Gratefully. Wishing the moment will never end."Stop that," she tells me,
pushing my face down again.But I can't. I need the touch of flesh. Any flesh.
So I grab hold of her again,and eventually she stops fighting me. I cling
tight until nothing's left of Juskbut a shiny body and his familiar face, and
even then I won't let go easily,sucking with a metal mouth when my fleshy one
lies in the pile with the rest ofthe Scrap.