The transition from the autodrive lane onto Cossack's dirt road was a real pain in the ass. Because potholes. How could that uptight Cossack, who always wore socks that matched the color of his tie, tolerate those gargantuan potholes?
Think, Tom, thought Tom the moment before a dip of his front left tire reverse-bungee-jumped his stomach into his throat.
The answer came to him as it always did, as the last domino standing in a line of toppled possibilities. The toppling came first: not that, therefore also not that, and not that, or that. Then the last domino stood, tall and conspicuous: Ah. Because Cossack almost never leaves his compound, that's why.
Explanations usually put Tom at ease, but not this one. The potholes were slowing him down, just as he was almost there. When he couldn't endure the wait any longer.
His palms on the wheel were sweaty, and his foot on the gas trembled. He was in no condition to focus on the road. Because Cossack had his boy.
Cossack had Blues, and was going to give him back.
No. Not give back. Inaccurate. Let go. Yes. Blues wasn't Tom's; Blues could not be "given back." Tom had received that message again loud and clear the night Cossack had called to announce that "The White Lie" had worked. I want to live, but I don't want anything to do with you.
Tom let out a trembling sigh. That's all right, Blues. Just live. That's enough.
Wasn't it?
It would have to be. At least for now.
Because the "White Lie" plan was much more than the operation which was going to save Blues's life. Its success depended also on preserving the illusion that Tom had never been a part of it. Wasn't now swerving to avoid potholes after a sleepless night. Hadn't run out of the house at one a.m. after Cossack's call. Hadn't jumped onto the first available flight to Sakhalin. Hadn't worn a bowler hat and a pince-nez to the airport to disguise himself from journalists and techie bloggers intent on following his every public appearance. (Did Blues even look at the internet, ever? Maybe. Best not to take any chances. So, pince-nez it was.)
Okay. Perhaps the pince-nez had been a bit much.
Where was he? Oh, yes. "The White Lie" depended on preserving the illusion that Tom was not going to be the one to replace Blues's…
Now, wait just a minute. Something was wrong with that idea, something he hadn't noticed before. A domino was about to topple. But what? It bothered him. He felt his pulse quickening. Think, Tom...
And then something large and brown came flying out from the trees and stopped right in front of the car.
Move, move!...
The thing didn't move.
Tom slammed on the brakes, went hurtling forward into the steering wheel, then whipped back against his seat.
When he opened his eyes, the buck in his headlights was staring at him with a dazed look, pupils shining red. After a few tense silent seconds of mutual regard, the creature raised its great antlers and dashed off into the darkness.
Tom let his arms relax and took a deep breath, feeling his heart pounding behind his ears. God dammit. Another delay. Blues, whether he knew it or not, was waiting on him.
He stopped the car, leaned back in his seat, and let his hands come to rest in his lap. He took a deep breath.
"Thomas X. Light," he said, "feelings, disengage."
As a child, Tom had learned not to trust his feelings. They often seemed to sneak up on him when he least expected, and they made him explode with excitement, or anger, or grief, or whatever the hell it was. Sometimes he didn't even know which emotion it was, or what had roused it in the first place, only that it drove his brain to moments of distraction or incompetence and muddied up results. Like this near-collision with the deer, for instance.
What a relief it was each time to feel those emotions subside at last, and then to go back to the comfortable baseline state of thinking while feeling very little at all.
Tom had to get hold of the feelings swirling inside of him. So he closed his eyes and did what he usually did whenever he needed to relax. In his mind's eye he envisioned a string of source code, massively complex, yet elegant, snaking upward fully-formed out of the top of his head and into the starry sky, out into the universe.
Blues's source code.
That Blues had spent much of his existence unhappy was incidental to the soothing perfection of that code in moments like these. The code, all by itself, was beautiful, a thing of awe: invincible to Tom's mistakes, Albert's cruelty, and the vicissitudes of life. Just a few moments of contemplating the code was enough to bring Tom back to his senses.
He felt better. And he remembered that he ought to call home.
Roll's face peered out at him from the dashboard netscreen. "You're not driving now, Dr. Light, are you?" she said by way of greeting. "You know you shouldn't drive distracted."
"Not to worry," he said with a tired smile. "I've stopped. I just wanted to let you know I've almost arrived at the Cossacks.'"
"Okay, good."
Tom sat up a little in his seat. "By the way, Roll," he said, "why do deer freeze in headlights? Why don't they just flee?" He craved an explanation for what had just happened, and knew that Roll's collection of accumulated facts was more eclectic than his own.
"Why do you want to know?" she asked, her voice tinged with a slight tone of renewed concern. "You almost crashed into a deer, didn't you?"
Crap. Now he'd get a lecture on safety later.
"Well, it's because the headlights blind them. At night, once their eyes have adjusted to seeing in the dark, it takes a while for them to switch back to seeing in bright conditions. They don't flee in time, because they can't see where to flee to."
Tom nodded. "Right. Thanks."
"You're welcome. And be careful. Now go hit it out of the park. Er… not the deer, I mean."
"Got it."
Roll with her mild self-effacing smirk disappeared and the netscreen went black.
The it that Tom was going to hit out of the park was, of course, Blues's core replacement operation. Tom smiled. Anyway...
Before he'd almost hit the deer, he'd been thinking about "The White Lie" plan. The plan had worked, but Tom now realized he'd had the rationale all wrong. Blues had to know that Tom would be the one to replace his core. And Tom knew this because Blues, early in his life, had listened to a long and painful series of talks between himself and Albert about the operation being such a monumental task that only one of Blues's creators could ever hope to get it right. Tom had forgotten about those conversations until just now, but Blues would not have forgotten.
Blues had to know it would be Tom. And if he knew, and agreed to the procedure anyway… well, that meant...
The domino Blues doesn't trust me toppled over.
Oh. This changed everything, didn't it? Tom drew in a sharp breath.
Blues trusts me.
Fireworks and cannon blasts exploded in Tom's brain. He looked down, and saw his white-knuckled hands squeezing the steering wheel.
Blues trusts me. But...
But Blues hadn't been able to come directly to Tom for help. Why not?
A new mystery. Think, Tom...
No. Later. Blues was waiting for him.
He turned the key in the ignition and he was off again. Dawn was breaking through the canopy of trees over the dirt road. He turned off his headlights and focused single-mindedly on avoiding the remaining potholes. Within minutes he emerged, parked the car hurriedly at the side of Cossack's house, and bounded toward the door.
The door flew open before he even reached it, a flash of copper hair came at him, and in the next instant Kalinka had thrown her arms around his middle.
"Oh, thank you," she said. "Thank you, thank you, thank you, thaaaaank youuuuuu…."
He returned her hug, dazed but happy. "I'm the one who should be thanking you."
"Steampunk, Light?" said Cossack, and tugged at the strap of Tom's pince-nez with a quizzical stare.
"Huh?" Tom reached up and discovered the pince-nez still resting on his nose. "Oh, this?"
He tucked the thing into his shirt pocket. His cheeks went hot. Roll should have told him. Noticing it during their netscreen chat but not mentioning it to him would indeed be her idea of a joke… then again, there was also a chance that she hadn't noticed it at all. Like him, she sometimes failed to see things that were right in front of her nose.
Then he chuckled to himself, remembering that he'd just learned the pince-nez had been unnecessary all along. Blues trusts me.
"Well, come in," said Cossack. "Of course, you can have a rest if you like… or coffee…"
"No," said Tom. "Just take me to my son."
Tom was barely aware of his feet walking through the house, what corridor they'd turned down, and which door they'd stopped in front of. Whether they were upstairs or downstairs. Whether he, Cossack, and Kalinka had spoken or not. Now the door was opening before Tom, now a shock of panic made Tom tremble - how unprepared he was! - and now…
A quiet room. Kalinka's tidy bed under the window. A patch of sunlight spread across the bed, and within the patch of sunlight, Blues, asleep. Blues, in his plain clothes, armor-less, bare-faced, for the first time Tom had seen in years.
How long had it been? Ten years. Ten! How had Tom survived those ten years?
He crept toward the figure on the bed - silently, because he couldn't speak. His knees buckled under him, and slowly he sank into a chair... Where had the chair come from? Cossack was standing behind him with a look saying, don't mention it. Ah, you're a good man, Cossack.
Blues was so small. Why was Tom surprised?
He looked back without knowing why. Kalinka was looking at him, smiling through tears. Love welled up in him.
"Kalinka, I…"
"Yes, Dr. Light?"
"I… can't thank you enough… for being Blues's friend."
She nodded, and Tom turned away. He didn't have the strength just now for more words.
When Blues had first made his break with Albert years ago, Tom had busied himself with cheerful preparations for his homecoming: the upright Bosendorfer he bought to entice him, and his insistence that Rock and Roll share a room so that Blues could have his old bedroom back—or at least, insofar as the house was similar to the one Blues had burned to the ground, the closest approximation to it.
But the Bosendorfer—beside which Tom had sat for hours with a glazed look wondering which piece Blues would play on it first—still languished under a layer of dust, and the reclaimed bedroom, formerly Rock's, remained an empty echo chamber.
Instead of the opportunity to welcome Blues home, what Tom got was "the Dance."
"The Dance" was the set of unspoken rules Tom had to follow on the rare occasions Blues came around. Absolutely no asking Blues about his feelings. No inviting Blues into the house - he wouldn't step foot inside. No attempts to come near him. Three meters was the acceptable minimum distance, although recently (progress!) it had decreased to about two and a half. Whenever Tom by chance took one step forward, Blues took one step back. And if Tom flagrantly broke any of the rules, Blues would simply disappear.
But there would be no "dance" today. Tom pulled his chair closer and craned his head over the body - reduced the distance between himself and Blues to nearly zero - and the body, inert and unaware, remained where it was. Damn your rules… I'm not sorry for what I'm about to do...
Tom reached down and clasped the hand in his. He half-expected it to jerk itself away, but it didn't. He squeezed. He let go, caressed the palm with his thumb, and ran his fingers over the artificial veins and bones in the wrist. Then he picked the hand up, held it close to his face, and with fondness looked over the fingerprints, the loops and arches he'd sculpted years ago one line at a time.
He moved up to the face. The cheeks were slightly pink, an evocation of carefree boyhood. With gently closed eyes and a blank expression, the face looked as innocent as it had the morning before Blues's activation—no visible record of a lifetime of disappointment and fear. Tom cupped one of the cheeks in his right hand. He placed his other hand on the forehead, and ran his fingers through the black hair. There were 111,478 strands of it—he could still remember the exact number—most of which he'd painstakingly attached by hand.
He blinked back a few tears. My boy...
He was aware of Kalinka and Cossack watching him, and he cleared his throat. "I need a few moments to… You know… It's been a long time..." They nodded without comment.
Then Tom's blood boiled at the sight of the inside of Blues's left arm, which from elbow to wrist was marred by a jagged, flesh-colored scar. A permanent remnant of Albert's outfitting of the buster which weaponized Blues, it meant that Albert either hadn't bothered, or hadn't been able to figure out how, to boot up Blues's self-repair subroutine while he was in sleep mode—leaving Blues to do it himself, too late, when he woke.
Shoddy work, Albert... you pissant, amateur...
Then there was the cylindrical conversion unit, squeezed crudely between Blues's "lungs," which allowed Blues to transfigure into his fighting form. On Rock the unit was a symbol of courage and free will, but on Blues, who'd only ever wanted to be left alone, it was oppressive, ugly, a tremendous burden on a power core already strained beyond its capacity. Tom had half a mind to take it out right then and there, if only because it was Albert's… but he stopped himself. Although Blues had never asked for it, he surely wouldn't want it removed now.
In the first few years after it had been imbued with life, this little body had been transported to places it didn't want to go, poked and prodded, frozen, starved, and hunted to exhaustion. The brightest business minds of the decade filled boardrooms to discuss how best to replicate it and profit from it. Later, under Albert's yoke, it was modified without consent, struck, shot at, and threatened with increasing violence. And all the while, it was tortured from within by that damned core flaw.
I'm sorry. Tom's face was getting hot. How much you've suffered… And I wasn't there... Well, I'm here now. I'm here...
He took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. If he wasn't careful, he'd lose control of himself, get lost in his own shame. He couldn't do that. He'd come here to save Blues's life. This wasn't about his own feelings.
It was time to get to work. With slightly shaking fingers he unbuttoned the grey shirt from top to bottom, and pushed the two halves apart. He placed his hands on the chest. It was cold. There was no pulse, nor any gentle rise and fall of expanding and contracting lungs—but of course Tom knew better. There was life inside, dormant, waiting. He took a deep breath.
Blues, why couldn't you face me today? Tom was troubled, more troubled than he had felt for a long time. I know you trust me. You've saved Rock more times than I can remember. You've saved Kalinka. You've saved me. You've done good. I'm proud of you. Why do you hide from me? You've got nothing to be ashamed of… I'm the one who ought to be ashamed...
Suddenly Thomas leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. He felt his brow tie itself in knots. His heart was thumping in his chest.
Was that it? Was Blues ashamed?
What reason did he have to suspect that Blues was ashamed? This wasn't how Tom usually arrived at his ideas. There were no dominos to topple over, no evidence, only a feeling which he wasn't sure he could trust.
He looked at the face again. It was damnably serene. Blues was so inscrutable that he didn't even need a mask in order to hide himself. Well, was he concealing a dark secret in there? Tom had long ago accepted the fact that his creations were separate from him, but he couldn't suppress the thought that since Blues was his invention, the fruit of his life's toil, he ought at least to have some clue what made him tick. But here he had to concede defeat. He had nothing, nothing except that odd persistent feeling...
For the next eighteen hours, Tom worked. He neither ate nor slept. His eyes burned with exhaustion. Once in a while he glanced at the face half-hoping it would somehow look different from before, would do something to help him to understand... but it didn't. He was blind in this new world of feelings and hunches. He felt his impairment more and more keenly. As Tom worked, he tried very hard to bask in his triumph. At last he was replacing Blues's power core, and the operation was going well. Blues would live. This was a happy day.
Meanwhile, he remained troubled at heart, and the face refused to give up its secrets.
