43 Aaagh. Why does my head ache so fucking much? I lift it up, keeping my eyes closed, and try to remember where I am and how I got here, but I don’t know where I am or how got here, much less where ‘here’ is. There’s nothing, no memory of motion or activity. Wait, cobwebs stir, clouds pass, there is a flicker of something. The shuttle was tilted, and there was smoke, and heat, and I was walking, and Arthur Chin was so empty, except for the police, running, and the pod. I was in the pod. I was shifting, moving, and he was there, the Terrax, and I followed him, and I remembered Joey’s knee. Oh, Joey. At first I stayed far away, but then I got close, too close, and E.C. was there. Why does my head hurt so much though, pounding, nauseating? E.C. piercing my senses, tearing away the final vestiges of shock, getting, no grabbing my attention, and there was a moment, where something made sense, that there are rules, but that I wasn’t following them, and then there was motion, and pain, and darkness, and yes, that’s it, the last memory, someone hit me in the head. I reach around to touch the back of my head. My hair is thick and matted, twisted and wet to the touch in spots and sticky, like molasses. I bring my finger to my nose and sniff it. It smells like death and even though I know what’s there, I stick my finger in my mouth and lick it—the taste of copper drifting across my tongue like a sluggish wave. It’s blood, of course it is. B E N TA N Z E R 153 I wonder how long I can keep my eyes closed. I also wonder if I keep them closed forever, if all of this, whatever this is, will go away, stop, and cease to exist, as I now want to cease to exist, becoming nothing, and nowhere at that. Still, somewhere Shalla and Joey are waiting for me, they have to be, and so I force my eyes open, and with that comes a fleeting image, previously buried until now. There wasn’t just the one blow to the head, it was the first of many as I lay there on the floor of the lobby, trying to cover my head, but failing as the barrage of blows blended together and merged with the reflection of the beating I was forced to watch in the ever shiny visage of the police officers’ gridlike masks. “He’s coming to,” someone says with a metallic burp from some faraway place. I am in the coffee room at the office, and even though the people in front of me start to come into focus, I am too scared to know what I’m facing and I turn away. “He looks sick,” someone says, also metallically, someone who may be the same guy, though maybe not. My ears are ringing, and for the first time I notice how sore they are as well. I look again at the people in front of me who are quickly coming into focus. There are two E.C.s, which initially strikes me as odd as I think about our E.C. and how warm and nonintimidating he is, but then seems much less odd as I recall what we’re talking about, robots who serve at our pleasure, and can be programmed to be anything we want them to be. Dr. Thanos is lurking on the periphery of the room. He looks uncomfortable, pale and nauseous himself. Maybe he’s uncomfortable with violence. And maybe he thinks [3.239.214.173] Project MUSE (2024-03-19 13:59 GMT) O R P H A N S 154 of himself as a man of science, and so being forced to participate in whatever is going on here, and whatever is to come, is more than he ever signed up for. Directly in front of me is Morg, his baby face fearsome, his smile malevolent. Morg’s hands are covered in beautiful leather gloves that have specks of dark, dried blood along the knuckles. “Morg,” I say trying to sound jovial. Morg doesn’t respond at first, instead choosing to motion his right hand, index and middle fingers extended , in my direction from somewhere in the vicinity of his shoulder. As I...