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A tiny drone, smaller than the palm of a human hand, entered the cell through a slot in the wall and gave the man an injection.  He kept mouthing, but his words slowed, his body relaxing.

“Shall I summon the Captain again?” Y asked.

“No,” Romon said, watching Y.  “I think I’d like to speak to you first.”

“I am only here as a medical observer,” Y replied.

“Yet you are a powerful machine and I think one who has an opinion.”  Romon nodded his head towards Holdur.  “What do you make of him?”

Y hesitated, taking his time to check that Holdur was safely under control.

“I believe,” Y said, “that he is suffering from a very deep psychosis.”  Though ‘looking’ at anyone with sensors rarely required him to hold himself any particular way, he made a point of lifting his head and fixing the twin lights that represented eyes on Romon.  “Yet I do not believe he is lying.”

“So you believe his tale that I am a secret mastermind murderer?” Romon asked, seeming more amused than anything.

“I do not say that he is speaking truth,” Y said.  “Only that he is not lying.  He believes what he said.”

“And what do you believe?” Romon asked.

“I believe I would like to hear a denial from you.”

Romon’s face did not change, but something more subtle in it did; certain muscles tightened, on a tiny scale.  A human, if they had seen it at all, would know that the man had just turned more serious.

“There are no records of our conversation, you can be certain,” Y told the man, knowing that he now required the reassurance.  “The treaties of friendship between the Sapient Union and Gohhi are quite clear upon your rights of privacy in such a setting.  A copy of the treaty with the relevant parts highlighted will be forwarded to you once I am reconnected to the network.”

“Good machine,” Romon said, his voice neutral, yet his mouth twitching at the corner into the barest hint of a mocking smile.  The seriousness now hidden again – though still present, Y surmised.  “Does this mean you will be deleting your memory of it once our discussion is concluded?”

Y tilted his head.  “You misunderstand the nature of my memory.  It is as inviolate as your own – but I am forbidden to speak of it to another, by law.”

“Ah, so still a machine, just pretending a little more than the most superficial.  Only a machine could obey such a rule if I told you the things you so wish to hear.  Or are you programmed with emotional responses as well?  Could you truly become so upset you would violate your oath and the law and go speak of my ‘terrible’ crimes?  That is – if I admitted to any.”

“You seem quite fascinated with me,” Y replied.  “I could arrange, with your permission, a much longer stay for us to speak, if you wish.”

The man did smile now, broadly, looking away, at the now-unconscious Jan Holdur.

“You are more interesting than most machines, Dr. Y.  Even moreso than most people.  Yet you cannot be more than simple code, no matter how much you wish it.”

“All life is simple code,” Y replied.  “Yours is chemical.  Mine are electronic digits.  None of it, no matter how crudely created, are less living and sapient for it.”

“Have it your way, machine.  I will cede the argument,” Romon replied, inclining his head slightly.  “I can tell as well that you possess an interest in me.  So – what is it you wish to know?”

Y considered.  The most obvious choice would be to ask him the truth; yet he knew that would gain him nothing.  Romon would simply dance around the question.

So he asked something else.

“Why do you write poetry?”

Romon was caught off-guard.  “An interesting question.  Do you wish to understand the value of art itself?  I am afraid I lack the time for that discussion.”

“That is not what I am curious about.  Only what motivates you, individually, into writing your poetry.”

Romon reached up, touching his chin thoughtfully.  “Ah, far more interesting.  I underestimated you – if you believe you can appreciate art, that puts you one step above many.  I am curious, though, why it matters to you?  And why now of all times?”

“Because I took the time to read your poetry,” Y replied.  “And through it, I see your threads of thoughts and feelings.  You do not respect or love your audience.  You never care for approval – or even accolades.  Which means that your reason for writing comes from inside.  And that can still take many forms for many different artists.  So what is your cause, Mr. Xatier?”

“I admit, you have stunned me beyond the capacity for words,” Romon replied laconically.  “For a machine to have thoughts of this depth – it is off-putting.  But if it is true you have read my works, then what is your favorite among them?  If you can tell me what it is and why, I will answer your question.”

“I do not have a favorite,” Y replied.  “I cannot say I am a fan of your subject matter.  But I did find myself quite interested with one;

Oh, how lovely you are

with your teeth unveiled,

Like a pearly scar

in a world derailed.

A flock of sheep just shorn

on a garden torn

by iniquity.

Why has your wage been sworn

by the cosmic thorn

of ubiquity?

Freedom ought to be paid,

-oh, how lovely!-

and the land shall be flaid

for the thorns to meet slaves

in captivity.”

“You have outdone yourself, machine,” Romon replied, giving a slow clap.  “I actually nearly believe you possess deeper thoughts and feelings.  But my word is my bond; I write poetry because I wish to.  There is no other reason.”  His eyes sparkled with interest.

“You did not name it when you recited it three years, two months, one week and a day ago – what is the poem’s name?” Y asked.

“I will tell you its name, if you will tell me why it fascinates you,” Romon replied.  Despite standing near the wall, he did not lean, as some might.  His spine was still straight, not even the subtlest shifting from foot to foot.

“I have a different suggestion; give me three tries to guess the name, and if I guess it right you will answer one question of my choosing.”

“And if you fail you will answer one of mine,” Romon added.

“Acceptable.  Assuming it is not a classified secret.”

The man nodded.  “Very well then.  Let us see if you can guess my mind, machine.”

Y considered.  “Slaves,” he suggested.

“That is not correct,” Romon replied.

“Lovely,” Y guessed next.

“Ah, you are not even trying,” Romon told him.  “You have only one guess left.”

“Is it ‘A Confession to the Murder of Opalina Hest’?”

Romon blinked.  That was the only change in his expression.

Yet it was enough.

“Your subtlety failed you in this case, Mr. Xatier.  It is what intrigued me about the poem; deciphering the connections of most others to the murder that inspired them, that you orchestrated, was usually much harder.  But the connections are too many to be missed, and details such as the removal of poor Ms. Hest’s teeth was not yet information that had moved beyond the crime scene.  Then there is the line about shorn sheep, and the removal of her hair.  Along with the fact that the first letter of each stanza matches the full initials of Opalina Andriison West-Frellho.”

Y tilted his head.  “So the only question left for me to ask is – why were you unsubtle in this poem?”

Romon said nothing.  As Y had spoken the lines on Xatier’s face had pulled taught, until everything about him was cold.  Dangerous.

“I do not believe I will play this game any longer,” he said.  Turning, he moved towards the door.

“How disappointing.  If only you were more machine-like, you would have kept your word,” Y noted.

Romon said nothing else, not even looking at him, as he left.

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< Ep 8 Part 13 | Ep 8 Part 15 >