Blood Pact

hairline. "What are you doing down there besides sleeping?”

    "Well . . ." Catherine rubbed the top edge of the monitor with the ball of her thumb, her eyes on the screen.

    "Come on, Cathy, you can tell me.”

    "You won't mention it to Dr. Burke?”

    He traced an X across his chest. "Cross my heart and hope to die.”

    "I've got a small lab set up down there.”

    Rolling his eyes, Donald pulled out another candy. "Why am I not surprised? You've got yourself a secret hideout, a perfect opportunity for debauchery, and what do you do in it? You work." He dropped off the table and walked across the room to a clutter of microscopes and chemicals and a small centrifuge. "You work all the time, Cathy. That's not normal. I can't remember even being in this lab without you being here, too.”

    "Like you said, I have a sense of responsibility to my work.”

    "Like I said, you're looney tunes.”

    Her chin rose. "It's late. What are you doing here?”

    Instead of answering, he began to wander around the room, fidgeting with the laser array, peering at a readout, finally drumming his fingers down the length of one of the isolation boxes. "Hey! Hang on!" He jerked a thumb at the shadowed cubbyhole between the isolation box and the wall. "What's he doing out? Dr. Burke said . . .”

    "To remove them from their boxes only when absolutely necessary. To never leave them alone and unconfined. He isn't alone, I'm here with him. And I think that it's absolutely necessary for him to be out of his box as much as possible. He's got to have the stimulus. He's thinking , Donald.”

    "Yeah, right." But for all the bravado in his voice, Donald couldn't meet number nine's gaze. "So why don't you let them both out and they can play rummy or something. Look, Cathy," he came around the bank of monitors and threw himself down on the other chair at the computer station, legs straddling the back, arms folded across the top, "can we talk?”

    She swiveled her own chair around to face him, her expression confused. "We are talking.”

    "No, I mean talk ." Staring down at his hands, he picked at a hangnail beside his left thumb. "Talk about what we're really doing here. I've got to tell you, Cathy, I'm getting kind of concerned. This has gone way beyond the stuff Dr. Burke said we were going to be doing. I mean we're definitely doing more than just developing a repair and maintenance system.”

    "Is this about what happened last night?”

    "Sort of, but . . .”

    "It won't happen again. I'm going to be very careful to never leave them alone. We were so lucky they didn't damage themselves out walking around unsupervised.”

    Donald's gaze snapped up to meet hers. "Geez, Cathy, some guy died last night and all you can worry about is the effect of a little mileage on the Bobbsey Twins?”

    "I'm sorry that happened," she told him earnestly, "but worrying about it won't bring him back. Number nine made an amazing breakthrough last night and that's what we should be concentrating on.”

    "What if he was just reacting?”

    She smiled. "Then it wasn't a programmed reaction and he had to have learned it on his own.”

    "Yeah? From where?" Donald twisted around and stared at number nine sitting impassively against the wall. "Those are my brain wave patterns bouncing around in there and I certainly never strangled anyone.”

    "That's a very good point." Catherine considered it for a moment, brow furrowed. "Perhaps we should bring a psychologist in?”

    "Sure. Great." Donald faced her again, arms waving. Behind him, number nine tracked his movement.

    "Put him into therapy. The answer of the decade. Time for a reality break here, Cathy. This guy was dead and I don't think he is anymore. It's time to ask ourselves, what have we created?”

    "Life?”

    "Full points. Now then," his gestures grew broader as his voice rose, "what does that actually mean? Besides getting up and walking around and all that scientific bullshit about interfacing with the net, and ignoring for the moment whether it's an old life or a new one. It means we've got a person here. Just like you or me. Except," he flung a hand back in number nine's direction without turning, "he's rotting on his feet.”

    On his feet.

    It was almost the command. Slowly, number nine stood.

    He liked to hear her talk. Liked to listen to her voice. He didn't like the other one. The other one was loud.

    Moving carefully, a hand braced against the container he recognized as his, he walked