Short Stories of Jerry Davis


1.  Opposite Ends Meet Here
2.  A Long Curved Blade
3.  Strong Metallic Arm
4.  Elko the Potter
5.  Wall of Delusion
6.  Scuba
7.  Halloween Ants
8.  DNA Prospector
9.  Down in the Canyon
10.  The Penalties of Pirating
11.  Death's Head Reunion
12.  Justification
13.  Voodoo Computer Healer
14.  Albert's Doorway
15.  The Moon at Noon






                          Opposite Ends Meet Here

                      Copyright 1998 by Jerry J. Davis



         Kyle was alone, as usual, working out with his gyro stick in
    the small room he rented above the gym where he worked, when he had
    a premonition. He stopped what he was doing and opened his window
    just in time to hear a woman cry out in fear and surprise. He poked
    his head out, blinking in the sunlight, and looked down into the
    alley below. There was a man with short gray hair and a silver
    spacer's jacket advancing on a blonde woman dressed in a flowing,
    flower-pattern dress. In the man's hand was a large, ugly knife.
    "I'm going to enjoy this, you bitch," he told her. He was
    advancing, and she was backing away.
         "Finney!" the woman yelled. "Finney!" There was the bite of
    raw fear in her voice.
         Gyro stick still in one hand, Kyle swung out the window and
    hung suspended for a moment, waiting for the man with the knife to
    move forward a few more steps. The woman saw Kyle, and obligingly
    took a few more quick steps backwards. "Finney!" she yelled again.
         "By the time Finney finds you," the man said, "you're
    gonna---"
         Kyle landed on him, so he never finished his sentence. He
    collapsed like a rag doll, the knife clattering across the stone
    walk. Kyle got to his feet, ready to smack the guy in the head with
    the gyro stick, but he was already unconscious. The woman, with a
    look of disgust, picked up the big knife and walked quickly to the
    prone figure. She jabbed it into his back several times.
         Kyle stared at her with his mouth hanging open. "Lady!" he
    yelled.
         She pulled the bloody knife out and held it ready. "What?" She
    was young-looking, thin and blonde and sharp-angled. Her eyes
    seemed too blue to be real.
         Behind them a gate burst open and a small, black-haired man
    with dark features came scurrying up with a gun. He pointed it at
    Kyle, but the woman shook her head. "Put it away, Finney. This
    ape-man just saved my life." She wiped the bloody knife off onto
    the dead man's jacket, flipped the blade into the air and caught
    it, then handed it to Kyle handle-first. "Give him a card, and put
    him on the payroll."
         She gave Kyle a cold smile, then turned and walked with
    gliding steps out of the alley. Finney produced a card and held it
    out for him. Kyle took it into the same hand that held the knife
    and stared at it with a stupid expression.

                               Debbie Hitler

                                 Sorceress

         "She's in the need of a bodyguard," Finney told him. "The job
    pays an obscene amount, and I can give you an advance." He produced
    a large wad of planetary currency, holding it out for Kyle to take.
    It was a lot --- enough to make him think twice about what he was
    getting into.
         "What happened to her old bodyguard?" Kyle asked, staring at
    the money in Finney's hand.
         Finney glanced down at the body between them, and took a half
    step away from the widening pool of blood. "He, ah, retired
    suddenly." Finney looked up into Kyle's eyes. "An honest man
    wouldn't have to worry about losing his employment in such a way.
    You are an honest man, aren't you?"
         "Reasonably so."
         Finney took the knife out of Kyle's hand, and put the wad of
    money in its place. "We leave before sunrise tomorrow morning. Pack
    some clothes and a few small personal items and be at the spaceport
    early."
         "Uh..." Kyle looked down at the ex-bodyguard.
         "I'll take care of this," Finney said. "You go settle your
    local affairs and meet us at the spaceport."
         Kyle shoved the wad of money deep into his pants pocket and,
    hefting the gyro stick over his shoulder, made his way out of the
    alley. It occurred to him to go to the nearest Constable and report
    the incident, as he was sure it was horribly illegal, but the
    thought of lots of money and a chance to escape his life of mocking
    ridicule kept him from doing it.

                                     #

         Kyle's dad lived in a nice adobe style home in the Little
    Mexico quarter, amid sleepy neighborhood stores and a nearby
    school. This was where Kyle had spent the latter part of his
    childhood, where he grew up with friends that, until finding out
    the truth about him, had been dear. There had been summers of stick
    ball and street soccer, and bittersweet teenage crushes that lead
    nowhere. His dad, who was actually his adoptive father and not a
    blood relation, was the only person to which he was still close.
    Kyle stood for a moment in the front yard, reliving a few memories,
    before banging on the old graphite door.
         "Who is it?" came a dry, old voice.
         "It's me, Dad."
         "Well, come on in."
         Kyle's father was thin, frail, with faded and baggy clothes
    and long stringy white hair. He was 167 years old, and half his
    body was artificial. His new heart had been cloned from the old
    one, both still in the body and working together. He could easily
    last another 167 years if he wanted to, as long as he took it easy.
    Kyle gave the old man a gentle hug, then pulled out the wad of
    cash. "Look at this, eh?"
         "What is that?" His father stared at it with suspicion.
         "This is an advance on my pay. I just got a new job."
         "You quit the gym?"
         "Well, not yet, but I have to this afternoon. I'm leaving the
    planet."
         "Where are you going?"
         "I don't know yet."
         "You don't know? What kind of job is this? What are you
    doing?"
         "Taking care of some rich lady. Here," Kyle said, peeling off
    a few bills. "I'll keep this, you take the rest." He handed his
    father the bulk of the cash. "This should last you quite a while."
         His father held the cash in his hands as if he were unsure of
    what to do with it. "Kyle, what is it you're doing for this rich
    lady? She doesn't expect you to...?"
         "No Dad. I'm her bodyguard."
         "Bodyguard!" His father's expression brightened, a smile
    coming to his wrinkled old face. "That you'd be good at!" He
    thumbed through the cash for a moment, then tossed it onto a table.
    "When are you leaving, son?"
         "Early in the morning. I've got to go take care of some stuff
    and then I'll be back, and we can spend some time together before I
    leave."
         "You feel right about this new job? I mean, in your gut?"
         Kyle nodded. "Yes. I've got that feeling."
         Kyle's father smiled, nodding, showing him the pride in his
    eyes that he always had for his adopted son. "Trust that feeling,
    Kyle. You've got good instincts. What life denied you in other
    things, it made up for it in your instincts."
         Kyle nodded. He'd heard all this before. "I'll be back in a
    few hours, Dad." With that he headed for the front door.
         Returning to his rented room, Kyle sorted through what little
    possessions he had. He packed them up and took them down to the
    local pawnshop. They bought it all: a folding bed, a communications
    terminal, and some clothes. Then he settled with his landlord, paid
    off some bills, and went to the market and bought some nice
    leather. Knee pants, a vest, and a long coat in case he ended up
    somewhere cold. He found a spacer's sack that would hold a few
    things plus his gyro stick. After that he had just enough to buy
    some of his father's favorite imported tea, which he took back to
    his dad's house. Kyle meant to have a long father and son talk with
    the old guy, wanting to thank him for everything he had ever done
    for him. The words never did make it out of his mouth, as they
    sounded too corny in Kyle's head. Instead, the two men silently
    sipped tea together for most of the night. When the second pot was
    gone, Kyle gave his dad a long hug, which expressed all the words
    he'd intended to say anyway, and he left.

                                     #

         The spaceport at night had always seemed an eerie place to
    Kyle. During his years on this planet, he'd watched the town spread
    out to the hills and up and down the Vendies River, but the
    spaceport never changed. They would re-pave the surface every once
    in a while, paint new lines and string brighter landing lights, but
    the perimeter fence and the buildings within remained the same.
    Everything was metal, everything seemed to hiss and let off steam.
    At night, there were rotating red and yellow beacons everywhere,
    many rising into the air or coming down out of the starry sky.
         The guard at the gate wore a black and gold uniform with a
    tiny red fez. His face twitched with the characteristic
    brain-chemistry imbalance of a cyber-interface; Kyle saw the cables
    running down from the back of his head and into the terminal beside
    him. "Can I help you?" he asked Kyle.
         "I'm supposed to meet Debbie Hitler here. We're scheduled to
    leave."
         The face twitched, the eyes blinked. Kyle couldn't see much
    detail because of the shadows. "You are...?" he asked Kyle.
         "Kyle Dacron."
         "The...?"
         "New bodyguard."
         A machine in the booth made a low buzzing sound. "You are
    expected," the guard said, and handed him a freshly printed pass.
    "Report to the ship on pad area C-5." He pointed.
         The ship turned out to be a small passenger shuttle with
    nobody on board. The door was locked. Kyle stood around for a
    while, waiting, listening to the hissing and thrumming from the
    other ships around him. Tired of standing, he sat down on the
    ground with is back against the cold titanium surface of the ship.
    Soon he was asleep.
         Hours later, an air taxi landed nearby and the pilot got out,
    walked over to Kyle and kicked him. "Wake up, pretty-boy. Do your
    job!"
         "What? Do what?"
         "Your job!" He pointed at the taxi.
         Kyle got to his feet and walked over to the craft. When he was
    close by the door, it opened, and Debbie stepped out. "You showed
    up!" she said, sounding surprised. "Oh! Leather! I like it." She
    kissed his cheek, and grabbed him by the front of his pants and
    pulled him toward the shuttle. Finney stepped out of the taxi and
    followed, as did several other people. It appeared they had all
    just left a party. There were paper streamers in their hair, and a
    few had paper hats and noisemakers. They all stunk of alcohol.
         "I want everyone to meet my new bodyguard, Bruce," she
    announced.
         After the drunken chorus of "Hi Bruce" was over, Kyle leaned
    over to Debbie and quietly said, "My name is not Bruce. It's---"
         "Your name is Bruce," she told him. "All my bodyguards are
    named Bruce."
         Kyle frowned, but didn't pursue it. They all crowded into the
    shuttle as the hatch opened, Debbie still pulling him along by his
    pants. She shoved him down in the front row of seats, and then
    reclined across him, using him as a pillow. They others sat around
    them, laughing and talking. The babble of voices all blended
    together, and it took Kyle a moment to realize much of it was in
    another language, one that he didn't understand. Debbie was
    laughing, and posing, and preening, and all the while her hair was
    in his face and it was making his nose itch. The pilot sealed the
    hatch, glanced around nervously at his unruly passengers, gave Kyle
    an eyebrow-furrowed look of disgust, and then ducked into the
    control cabin. Minutes later, the craft drifted up into the sky.
         It took a while, but gravity finally disappeared and the
    passengers all began asking Debbie to do magic. "Do some magic!"
    "Magic!" "Magic, Debbie!"
         Debbie produced a small sack of loose pearls, and opened it.
    The pearls floated out, drifting, and Debbie said an incantation
    and made complex motions with her hands. The pearls aligned in a
    circle and began spinning as if in an orbit. She leaned far
    forward, inserting her head inside the ring so that her neck was
    the center of the orbit. The crowd applauded.
         "Neat trick," Kyle said. "How did you do it?"
         The pearls scattered in all directions, bouncing and drifting
    randomly. All conversation ceased. Debbie pulled away from Kyle and
    turned, looking at him with a cold expression. "I do not do
    'tricks'," she said. "I am a genuine sorceress. I do genuine
    magic."
         Kyle glanced around at all the glaring expressions, finding
    only one who seemed sympathetic. It was Finney. Finney cleared his
    throat, and said, "Everyone, especially Miss Hitler, might want to
    bear in mind that---"
         "Shut up, Finney."
         "Miss Hitler, he is new to us, and knows nothing about you."
         "I told you to shut up." Now Debbie had a pouting expression
    on her face, like that of a spoiled little girl. "Kanna ectuc
    enau-k-tu," she said, holding her pouch open. She repeated the
    incantation several times, and with her free hand made a grasping
    movement. The pearls all drifted from where they had wandered in
    the cabin toward the open pouch, and bagged themselves one and two
    at a time. When it was all over, there was a spontaneous round of
    applause.
         "More!"
         "Do more!"
         "More magic, Debbie!"
         Debbie shook her head, putting her pouch away. She sat,
    sulking, far away from her bodyguard. She hardly said a word for
    the rest of the trip.
         The shuttle docked at a big orbital station, where gravity was
    simulated. Finney ran out ahead to make sure that all arrangements
    were made. Kyle had to walk fast to keep up with Debbie, who seemed
    to be trying to get away from him. The others lagged behind,
    walking drunkenly in the reduced gravity and bumping into things.
         They caught up with Finney at the boarding airlock of a large
    interstellar ship. Finney pulled Kyle aside, saying in a low,
    hurried voice, "Get Miss Hitler settled, check out the other
    passengers for anything suspicious, then get back to me. There's a
    lot you need to know, and nobody has had time to tell you any of
    it."
         "Okay."
         "Sorry about what happened in the shuttle."
         "That's okay. I don't have a problem with it."
         Finney stared deep into Kyle's eyes. "It doesn't bother you,
    does it?"
         "Not in the least."
         Finney smiled and slapped him on the shoulders. "I'm glad
    you're with us."
         "Thanks." Kyle ducked through the airlock and into the giant
    ship.
         Debbie's cabin was very large, especially for a starship, and
    looking around the interior Kyle got the feeling that it was
    originally designed as a meeting room and was converted over to a
    stateroom because of VIPs such as Debbie. She gave him an odd look
    as he poked around. "I want to be alone," she said. Kyle nodded and
    left.
         His own stateroom was right across the corridor, but was about
    1/20th the size. It was barely big enough for a bunk, a fold-down
    table, a commode and a tiny little sink. Kyle tossed his spacer
    pack down on the bunk and left.
         He wandered the long, narrow corridors for a while, checking
    out the other passengers. They were all busy getting settled in
    their cabins. None of them looked particularly threatening, but
    when he reached the entertainment area at the front of the ship
    there was one woman who gave Kyle a bad feeling. She had
    shock-white hair in a style that fanned out from the center, and
    her hairline came down to a point in the middle of her forehead.
    She was older, and had a heavy, pear-shaped body. Her face almost
    looked masculine. She caught him looking, and her dark eyes
    widened, her heavy eyebrows lowering. He smiled, nodded, and
    continued on his way.
         He was heading back toward Debbie's stateroom when he ran into
    Finney. "This way," Finney said in a low voice. He led Kyle into
    another stateroom, which was no bigger than his own. Finney closed
    and locked the door. "Sit down," he told Kyle.
         Kyle sat on the bunk. Finney remained standing by the door.
    "Debbie is from a very rich family that has a very dark past."
         "I assumed she was rich."
         "Very rich. Obscenely rich. She does pretty much what she
    wants, and it's my job to make what she wants happen."
         "I understand."
         "The one talent she has, the one thing she did herself and is
    proud of, is her magic. As you've found out, she's very touchy
    about the subject. It's best that you watch her do it, applaud, and
    ask to see more. This pleases her very much. Don't question it,
    don't say anything about it. That's your best bet."
         "I see."
         "She learned this talent from a mathematician several years
    ago. The guy is now a hermit living on an island off the coast of
    Terra Marka, on Summerland. We're on a sort of pilgrimage there
    now, so she can resume her studies."
         "Does she have many enemies?"
         "There are people out to get her. Your job is real, though she
    treats her bodyguards as show pieces. There have been more than a
    few attempts on her life. You of course know the outcome of the
    last one."
         "Why did her old bodyguard decide to turn against her?"
         "I don't know. Either he was paid off or just couldn't take
    the abuse anymore."
         "Paid off by who?"
         "I don't know. Debbie doesn't have any enemies specifically,
    but her family does. Powerful ones."
         Both fell silent for a moment, then Kyle said, "How does she
    do her magic tricks? Were those specially made pearls, or what?"
         "No, it's not the pearls. I guess you could call it
    telekinesis -- of course, she prefers to call it magic. From what I
    understand, she creates a point of gravity, gives the pearls
    kinetic energy and adjusts their virtual mass. That puts them in
    orbit around the point of gravity. She can only do that one in
    freefall conditions."
         "Interesting," Kyle said. Then he shook his head. "To tell you
    the truth, you've totally lost me, but forget it. I'm not going to
    question it. I'll simply applaud and ask to see more." He smiled,
    standing up. "Unless there's anything else ...?"
         "Go ahead." Finney opened the door and stood aside as Kyle
    left.

                                     #

         The starship's departure was uneventful, as was the first
    several days en route. Kyle kept his cabin door open so he could
    see if Debbie left her stateroom. When she did, he would always
    follow, standing in the background as she and her friends lived it
    up. Since the ship had a controlled gravity environment, Debbie
    wasn't able to perform her magic involving levitation. She was able
    to show off her skill at spontaneous combustion, by chanting
    incantations and setting people's drinks ablaze. Kyle couldn't help
    laughing when she inadvertently set off the fire alarm. She flashed
    him a cold look for this, but it only lasted a second, then she
    actually smiled and laughed herself.
         Several hours later, after Debbie had retired to her cabin,
    Kyle was working out with his gyro stick in front of his open door.
    He moved slowly, carefully, working up a good sweat. He didn't
    notice when Debbie's door opened a crack. She watched him for
    several minutes before she opened the door the rest of the way.
    When Kyle saw her he froze for a moment, losing his rhythm. He
    looked her up and down, his face betraying surprise. Then he went
    back to his workout without saying a word.
         "You can come in and do that in here," she said. "There's a
    lot more room."
         "Thank you, but I'm fine here." Now he wasn't looking at her
    at all.
         "Something wrong?" she asked.
         "No."
         "Does it bother you that I'm naked?"
         "No. I just wasn't expecting it."
         "Why do you ... move ... like that?"
         "The gyro stick is intuitive. You can feel where you're weak
    and work it."
         "Work it?"
         "It provides constant resistance, so you have to use constant
    force to move it. Where ever it is that's harder to move, you move
    that part more, using more force, building up your weak areas."
         Debbie imitated his movements, gyrating her body. He couldn't
    tell if she were mocking him or trying to seduce him. People were
    approaching from down the hall, so he pushed her into her cabin and
    shut the door behind them. "Here," he said, "you try it." He put
    the gyro into her hands, then stepped back.
         She held it awkwardly, a puzzled look on her face. "I can't
    move it. It's stuck."
         He helped her until she began to get the hang of it. Debbie
    worked with it on her own for a few minutes, then frowned. "This is
    boring. It was more interesting watching you do it." She pushed it
    toward him. "Take it."
         Kyle took it from her.
         "Well," she said. "Do it."
         "I'm finished for now."
         "Then do me." She slid up against him, pressing herself close,
    and tilted her head back for a kiss.
         Kyle's eyes narrowed. "I don't 'do' my employers."
         She smiled. "It's a condition of your employment."
         He pushed her away. "No it is not."
         "It is if I say it is!"
         "I'm here to guard your safety. That's all I agreed to do. If
    I'm not the type of professional you were looking for, then hire
    someone else."
         "Why? Do you think I'm ugly or something?"
         "Not physically. But inside you've got a lot of problems, and
    I'm not going to get tangled up in them."
         She laughed. "I don't have any problems. What makes you think
    I have problems? You're the one with problems. I can make so many
    problems for you, you'd think the entire universe has turned
    against you. It will turn against you. You. I will make it turn
    against you. You you you YOU."
         Kyle shook his head. "You're soul sick."
         "... I'm what?" Her eyes were narrowed and her mouth was open.
         He leaned his head close to hers, looking right into her eyes.
    "When I look at you, I see a little girl who didn't get the
    attention she needed, and who's very angry, and who has never known
    the true value of anything because she's never had to go wanting.
    Mixed in with all that, some ugly things you never want to speak
    about has happened to you, and you blame yourself for it, but
    you're angry at everyone else because of it."
         "You don't know anything about me."
         "I can see it. It's right in front of me. I knew you two
    seconds after I first met you."
         "You see an illusion. You see a stereotype I created myself, a
    fiction, a phantasm. I'm far more ugly than you think. I'm pure
    evil. I can suck your soul in, chew it up, and spit it back out. I
    eat men like you like candy."
         Kyle sighed. "You're right, I have to admit it. I mis-judged
    you. I thought you were just troubled, but you're beyond that.
    You're psycho."
         "Yes. I am."
         "I'm still not going to do it with you." He smiled. "Good
    night." Gyro stick in one hand, he turned to leave.
         "You hate me, don't you? You want to kill me, just like Bruce
    did."
         "No, not at all." He opened the door, and stood in the
    doorway. "I never would have accepted the job if I thought you
    could affect me that way. You can't."
         "Then you love me."
         Kyle grimaced. "No."
         "You hate me!"
         Kyle sighed again and left, closing the door softly behind
    him. Even before he'd made it across the corridor to his cabin, he
    could feel a tingling in his scalp and the back of his shoulders.
    Debbie was casting a spell, he could feel it. Kyle dropped his gyro
    stick, kneeled down, and put his fists to his face. He concentrated
    furiously, throwing up a mental block. It worked -- it killed the
    spell before it could take effect. He heard the exclamation of
    surprise and anger, muffled by Debbie's closed door. The door
    opened, and she stared at him, and then just as suddenly it slammed
    shut. His gyro stick sat smoldering right where he'd dropped it,
    like it had been on the verge of bursting into flame. The scent of
    hot plastic was all he could smell.
         Feeling a sense of wonder, Kyle sat on his tiny bunk and tried
    to figure what had just happened, and how he'd known what to do.
    This had never happened to him before. All night he was unable to
    sleep, running it over and over again in his head.
         The next morning, Debbie had breakfast by herself in her
    stateroom. Hours later, she had lunch sent in. Kyle looked the food
    over before it was served. There were lots of chocolate junk food.
    "You should eat better!" he called out to her as it was being taken
    into her room. She didn't respond, not even with a retort.
         Figuring that Debbie would remain reclusive for a while, Kyle
    took a stroll down to the observation deck. People sat quietly at
    little tables, sipping expensive liquors and watching the
    psychedelic light show of hyperspace through the large, thick
    windows. Beside the windows was an exposure warning, and a reminder
    to take anti-radiation medications if you spent more than a few
    minutes there. The medication was available at a little bar, along
    with the drinks. Kyle took some, downed it, and chased it with a
    tumbler of Scotch. He had the tumbler refilled and took it to one
    of the tables and sat down.
         There was something to the experience. He felt a sort of odd,
    subconscious connection as he stared out into hyperspace. The
    longer he stared, the tenser he felt. He hadn't realized he'd
    drained his tumbler until he tried to take a sip and found nothing
    there.
         "Can I get you a refill?"
         Kyle looked up to see the pear-shaped woman with the
    shock-white hair, the one who'd given him a bad feeling when he'd
    first boarded the starship. "No thank you," he said. "I don't
    really drink, and I've already had too much."
         She sat in the chair across from him, and leaned far over the
    tiny table. "How much is the little Hitler bitch paying you?"
         "That's none of your business."
         "I can double it. I can triple it." Her eyes didn't blink, her
    face showing only disgust. "Name your price."
         "For what?"
         "Your services." Still the eyes didn't blink. They were shiny
    and deep blue, but they didn't seem wet. "I want your services, and
    I'll give you anything you want to get them. Just tell me what you
    want, and I'll make the arrangements. Right here, right now."
         Kyle stared into the eyes, leaning closer. "Who's in there?"
    he said. "You're a damn machine! Who's in control?" He grabbed the
    lady's ears and shook her head. "Don't send a machine to me. I
    don't talk to machines!"
         There was a chorus of exclamations from others around him.
    Kyle took a breath and let go of the woman. He wasn't used to the
    alcohol. "I'm already employed, and that's that," he said. "From
    now on, I'm watching you." Kyle left the table, a little unsteady
    on his feet. He made his way back to his cabin, turned on the gyro
    stick, and worked with it until he felt more sober. A headache
    came, but he didn't take any pain killers -- he wanted to remind
    himself why he didn't drink.
         Debbie emerged for dinner, but it was a quiet one, and she
    didn't perform any magic. She kept stealing glances at Kyle, but
    said nothing. Finney was watching both of them, and later, after
    Debbie had retired to her stateroom, he approached Kyle and asked
    him how things were going. Kyle told him about the argument, and
    about the confrontation with the white-haired woman with the fake
    eyes.
         "Why did you wait until now to tell me," Finney said. "You
    should have told me immediately. That's your job, that's what
    you're supposed to do."
         "Sorry."
         "No sorry. There is no capacity for sorry. Don't do it again.
    You tell me anything like this, and you tell me the moment it
    happens."
         "Okay."
         "We'll be arriving at Summerland in eighteen hours. I can't
    imagine them trying anything on a starship, but who knows. Be
    alert, don't leave her sight. I'm going to go bribe the
    communications officer and try to do some checking on the woman."
         Kyle resumed his place in his cabin, door open, working with
    his gyro stick and watching Debbie's door. Every once in a while
    Debbie opened the door a crack and peeked out at him, then closed
    the door quickly when he caught her looking. Kyle kept expecting
    his hair to suddenly burst into flame, or for his gyro to turn red
    hot in his hands, but it didn't happen.
         Later, when he was cat-napping, Debbie opened her door and
    slipped out. She took a couple of quick steps across the corridor
    and into Kyle's room. The sound of the door closing woke him up.
    "You know magic," she said.
         "What?" Kyle sat up, rubbing bleary eyes.
         "You know a form of magic."
         "Umm. No."
         "You used it. It was powerful, it was fast, and I want it."
         Kyle shook his head. "I don't believe in magic."
         Debbie whipped out a long, thin blade and put it against his
    throat. "Don't play with me. You know what I'm capable of."
         Kyle grabbed the slender wrist of the hand which held the
    blade, moved it away from his throat, and squeezed until she cried
    out in pain and dropped it. Enraged, she began changing a spell, so
    his other hand went to her throat and squeezed, cutting her words
    off. Debbie's eyes bugged, her face betraying fear. She couldn't
    breathe. "When are you going to learn," he asked her, "that it's
    not wise to make your own bodyguard want to kill you?" He relaxed
    his hand on her neck, and she sucked down air with a desperate
    wheezing sound.
         "Bastard!" she whispered, gasping.
         His face somber, he took her into a bear hug and held her. At
    first she accepted it, still gasping. Then she began to struggle,
    trying to break away. He held tight, his arms like bars of steel.
    "Let me go," she demanded. "Let me go! Let go of me! Damn it, let
    me go! You big stinking ape-man! Let go! LET GO!" She hit, bit, and
    screamed out, but still he held on. It went on and on, her little
    fists battering his broad shoulders and back. He held her as she
    went through hysterics, her curses no longer making sense, her body
    writhing as if she were in convulsions. The shouts at one point
    became sobs, and she stopped struggling. She cried in earnest, her
    arms slipping around his neck, holding on to him as hard as he was
    holding onto her. This went on and on. It seemed that once she got
    started, the crying was not going to stop, she had too much pent-up
    inside of her.
         The crying finally slacked off, leaving her limp and quiet.
    Kyle thought at first she was asleep, but she wasn't. He took her
    shoulders in his hands and pushed her back so that he could look at
    her, but she wouldn't look at him. Her eyes were downcast, with
    dark circles and tear-streaked face. The years had melted away; she
    looked like a sad little girl, an actual touch of innocence in her
    expression. She drew a deep, shuttering sigh, finally looking up at
    him. "Don't let me go, not now." Her arms went back around his neck
    and she held on. He carried her across the corridor to her
    stateroom, put her into her bed, and then took the space next to
    her. He held her as she drifted off to sleep. After a while he
    drifted off himself.

                                     #

         They reached their destination, the town of Isbane in Terra
    Marka. What served as their spaceport was a weedy field at the edge
    of town next to a couple of hotels. Kyle and Debbie waited in the
    shuttle as Finney braved the rain and wind to get some rooms.
         The three stayed there a few nights while the storm continued.
    Debbie's entourage caught up with them, minus the woman with the
    shock-white hair. Debbie entertained the group in a big downstairs
    room with a large wooden table. They feasted in front of a huge
    fireplace. Debbie unveiled new magic after the meal, spinning cups,
    glasses and silverware like gyroscopic dancers across the big
    table.
         The locals didn't approve, being religious and all.

                                     #

         The storm finally blew itself out, and the local sun broke
    through the clouds. It was still very windy, but from what the
    locals kept telling them this wind hardly ever ceased. A large air
    barge arrived and they boarded for the final leg of their journey.
    It lifted ponderously into the air, turning and flying toward
    planetary north. It rode with the wind, canceling out the
    wind-chill factor. It was still cold up on deck, though. Debbie
    kept below.
         The barge carried them up the rocky coast of Terra Marka,
    passing over steep sea cliffs and peninsulas of tall brown grass
    that rolled in wind-driven waves. Kyle stood on the deck by
    himself, leaning against the rail under the large, fluttering white
    tarp. The old barge looked like it had once been a heavy
    construction hoist, a huge rusting hunk of metal that should be
    alien to the air. Its top speed was maybe 70 KPH.
         To the starboard side Kyle saw tall, ragged white-capped
    mountains surrounded by dark-green forests. To the port side was
    the gray-green sea, still harsh and angry looking. The air was
    quite brisk, and his breath came out like smoke. His mind felt
    sharp and clear, and he was strangely exhilarated. Deep seated
    feelings stirred within him, feelings with no names. It felt as
    though he was about to tap a great power source and light up like a
    glow-bulb. He was right on the verge of it.
         Reaching the edge of the continent, they passed out over the
    gray-blue sea and into a bank of fog. The pilot increased their
    elevation so as to ride over it, and they emerged over a sunlit sea
    of white mist. The sun made its way slowly across the sky, and Kyle
    was just finishing a lunch of hot grilled seafood when he had
    sudden guilt feelings. He was not doing his job. He had not even
    checked up on Debbie since they'd boarded the barge. Something was
    telling him to do it now, and in a hurry. Startling the passengers
    around him, Kyle dropped his plate and bolted for the stairway
    leading below decks.
         The main corridor below was long, wide and dimly lit. He was
    just in time to see a distant shadow of a figure turn the far
    corner, way up at the bow end. Right by Debbie's stateroom. His
    running footsteps made booming echoes through the ship, and as he
    rounded the corner he saw the white-haired woman with the
    mechanical eyes swing on him, snarling. She was right at Debbie's
    door, her hand on the handle.
         "What do you want?" Kyle demanded.
         The woman's answer was to pull out a lethal dart gun and fire
    at him. Kyle heard the "thwang!" of the spring mechanism, and felt
    the dart rushing toward him. The dim light grew even dimmer. Time
    stretched, like it got caught on something that slowed it down. He
    saw the blur that was the dart. Tightening his stomach, clenching
    his fists, he made a low guttural sound, and somehow changed the
    trajectory of the dart. It angled away just enough to miss him, and
    even as it was passing he was pushing with both legs, forcing
    himself through this slow molasses of time and space toward the
    woman. He reached out, jumping headlong for her. She fired off a
    second dart in panic, aiming above his head. It passed through his
    hair nanoseconds before he collided with her, smashing her into the
    door which gave way. They both tumbled into the room beyond,
    startling Debbie.
         Debbie had candles burning, and had hung strands of colored
    cloth from the ceiling. She had been sprinkling some brightly
    sparkling powder over the flames. She whirled in slow motion,
    backing away, her blond hair tangling in the strands of cloth.
         The woman got both feet against Kyle's chest and pushed with
    unnatural strength, sending him flying in a long arc across the
    stateroom and against the steel wall. The slow motion effect was
    wearing thin; time was pulling free. One moment he was looking at
    the situation from near ceiling level, the next he was seeing the
    floor rushing toward his face. Before he could even register the
    shock of pain he was scrambling across the floor toward the woman,
    his footing insecure and balance out of whack. The woman was
    leveling the dart gun at Debbie as he fell against the assassin's
    legs. The shot went wild, the dart sinking into the bed. Kyle
    rolled and got to his feet, regaining his balance, and launched
    himself again. He caught her gun arm and pushed it back, which had
    the odd effect of swinging the rest of the woman's body. She struck
    at him with her other arm, and he caught it, painfully. The feel of
    her arms were wrong. They were too hard, too light. They weren't
    flesh and blood, they were metal and plastic. The body was too
    strong, the joints having too much torque -- he couldn't fight the
    thing on its own terms. Kyle spun it around, pushing it off
    balance, then grabbed the clothing at the back and lifted it off
    the ground. He could feel the familiar resistance. There was of
    course a gyro spinning inside the thing's body. Holding it off the
    ground, moving it to-and-fro, Kyle kept it disoriented and kept it
    from being able to grab him or anything else. In its confusion and
    panic, the dart gun flew out of its hand and clattered across the
    stateroom floor. Debbie picked it up and followed Kyle as he
    maneuvered the thing out the door and carried it, with its arms and
    legs flailing wildly, down the hall and up onto the main deck. As
    the other passengers looked on in mute horror, Kyle hurled the
    white-haired thing over the side and into the mists below.
         While all of the crew and passengers rushed, in reflex, to see
    the white-haired woman fall, Kyle noticed one man who was at the
    back, moving away, trying to get to the stairway below without
    being noticed. He was a tall, thin, balding man. Kyle rushed over
    and grabbed him, lifting him over his head like he did the robot. A
    control device dropped out of the man's coat and clattered at
    Kyle's feet. "You idiot!" the man said, enraged. "You big, stupid
    steroid head! Put me down at once."
         "My pleasure," Kyle said, heading toward the edge. He
    hesitated as he heard Finney yelling for him to stop. Finney took
    the dart gun from Debbie and pointed it at the man Kyle was
    holding.
         "Put him down, Kyle. I'll take it from here."
         Kyle put him down hard enough to give him a bloody nose.

                                     #



         Early the next morning, Kyle came on deck as Drapier Island
    became visible through the mist. Black, rolling smoke poured out of
    the active volcano. The island seemed harsh, brown, and jagged, but
    Kyle thought it looked beautiful. The island seemed to have a
    gravity that pulled at him. Just the sight of it gave him the
    feeling of endless inner strength, like the stone and fire were
    feeding him.
         Debbie approached him, looking at him with an unsure
    expression. It was almost timid, which was so unlike her that it
    caught his attention, pulling it away from the island. "I'm no
    longer at the center of the universe," she said.
         "Um ..."
         "I've always been the center of the universe. Always ever
    since I could remember. Now, I'm not. I don't feel that way at
    all." Her eyes narrowed and she aimed a thin finger at Kyle. "You
    have something to do with it."
         "Me?"
         "You have something to do with it," she said, still pointing.
    "It makes me feel ..." She seemed hesitant about finishing the
    sentence.
         "You feel frightened."
         Her eyes widened. She was still pointing at him. "See!" she
    said. "It has something to do with you."
         "What would make you feel less frightened?"
         "When you held me ..." She stopped pointing, and drew her
    cloak tighter around her shoulders. Turning to face the ocean, she
    said, "Something happened when you held me. You did something, you
    cast a spell on me." She whirled on him, face accusing. "Didn't
    you?"
         Kyle shook his head.
         She turned back toward the ocean. "Yes you did. You did
    something. You held me and you made me vulnerable."
         "Vulnerable?"
         "I don't like it!" she yelled at him. Then she looked down.
    "Would you hold me some more?"
         "Would it make you feel safe?"
         "Yes." Her voice was small, ashamed.
         He put his large arms around her and held tight. She pressed
    in against him, losing herself in it.

                                     #

         There was a landing at the base of the mountain. Only Debbie,
    Finney, and Kyle got off. There was no one there to meet them, and
    no machine to carry their bags. Kyle bundled it all together and
    heaved it up over his huge shoulders, and they set out on foot up
    the trail that led to their destination. Much of the rock underfoot
    was razor sharp, black obsidian -- Kyle kept reaching out and
    grabbing Debbie's arm as she'd slip or lose her balance, because
    simply falling down could cut her to shreds. The fact that the
    whole island was constantly being hammered by volcanic tremors
    didn't help.
         "There," Finney said. "Not far to go." He pointed to the tops
    of some structures that could be seen among the trees ahead. The
    structures turned out to be pods from an old one-way colony ship;
    big, round metal huts with conical roofs. One featured a crudely
    built wooden porch, on which a man with a vaguely Asian look sat
    and sucked a flavo. He saw them but made no greeting. Instead he
    watched them silently as they made their way up to his porch and
    stopped in front of him.
         "Opposite ends meet here," he said, touching his fingers
    together. "I see you've returned for more pearls of wisdom." How
    much have you learned on your own?
         Kyle's eyes widened. The man had not spoken the last part. He
    glanced at Debbie and Finney to see if they'd heard it as well, and
    it appeared they had not.
         "A substantial deposit was made in your account," Finney said.
    "The same amount as last time. I assume that is sufficient ... ?"
         "It is kind of you to provide me with a living." You're
    wasting your money, spoiled girl. You don't have the patience or
    understanding to accomplish your childish desires.
         Kyle tried to answer his silent words, thinking them as loud
    as he could. She might surprise you, old man. Give her the benefit
    of the doubt.
         His gaze slowly, purposely shifted to Kyle. "I don't believe
    we've met." Who are you?
         "This is my new bodyguard, Bruce," Debbie said.
         She calls all her bodyguards 'Bruce.' My real name is Kyle.
    Kyle held out his hand.
         "Pleased to meet you, Bruce." Kyle. "My name is Savonah Rieh."
    Dr. Savonah Rieh, formerly of Technica, formerly considered a
    theoretical mathematician, now generally viewed as a crackpot by
    practically everyone in the known universe. It appears you have
    some telepathic abilities.
         I guess so. They shook hands. I've never noticed it before.
         "Interesting," Savonah said slowly.
         Debbie gave Kyle a suspicious look, but said nothing.

                                     #

         Savonah Rieh provided them with a large room in one of the
    metal huts. They had bundles of old padding for beds, seawater for
    showers, and food they had to scrounge for themselves. Finney and
    Kyle took care of getting food for Debbie. There were large red
    fruit pods in some of the trees, and Kyle proved resourceful at
    fishing. Unless they built a fire, there was no cooking after dark
    since Savonah's only oven was solar powered.
         Debbie disappeared for six hours a day with Savonah for her
    lessons. Four days went by before she came back and showed Kyle and
    Finney a new trick. She waved her hands around, chanting some
    incantation, and the whole hut vibrated with an oscillating tone
    that rose and fell in pitch. It struck Kyle as a particularly
    useless piece of magic, but he applauded none the less. Debbie was
    very proud of herself.
         Savonah's loud, distinct thought-voice reached Kyle that
    night. He sat bolt upright, taken by surprise. The other two,
    already bedded down for the night, hardly took notice. "I think
    I'll take a walk," he whispered to them, then left.
         He met Savonah down by the shore. The huge waves crashed like
    monsters beating on the rocks, sending up a continuous spray and
    lighting the beach with agitated luminescent plankton. The island
    rumbled, the ground giving an occasional lurch as the volcano
    seemed even more active than usual this evening. In the distance,
    there was a clear view of a lava stream running down into the
    ocean, creating a great plume of steam. "Isn't this wonderful?"
    Savonah said to him. "This is about as chaotic an environment you
    could ask to live in."
         "I'm not sure what you mean."
         "The ocean is eroding the shore almost as fast as the volcano
    can produce it. Look at this violence, this conflict! Fire against
    water, ocean against rock. This island itself could explode at any
    moment. This is reality in constant flux. You couldn't ask for a
    better place to study magic."
         "I can feel the power in the island."
         "Can you?" Savonah gave him an appraising look, his face lit
    by the eerie luminescent light from the waves. "Let's try
    something." He looked around on the ground until he came up with a
    small piece of dry driftwood. "See this? I want you to picture in
    your mind that it is full of tiny spinning wheels. Absolutely
    convince yourself that this is the truth." He carefully put the
    wood down at their feet. "Concentrate, now. Feel the wheels
    spinning. Feel it. Tell me when you can feel it."
         Kyle stared down at the wood, thinking of tiny gyros spinning.
    After a few minutes he nodded. "I can feel it."
         "Can you? Yes? Now speed those wheels up. Speed them faster
    and faster. No upper limit, they can go as fast as you can imagine
    them. Speed them up to the---"
         There was a bright flash, and both of the men took an
    involuntary step backward. The piece of wood was consumed in fire.
    Savonah laughed. "You have a natural born talent for this!"
         "I did that?" Kyle said. "No, I didn't do that. You did that."
         "No, you did it, Kyle."
         "I don't know any spells or incantations!"
         "An incantation is only a mnemonic tool to bring the right set
    of thoughts together for a certain piece of magic. A talented
    sorcerer doesn't need them, or can shorten them down to a few
    words." He patted Kyle on the back. "You have talent." Savonah
    concentrated a moment, and another piece of driftwood burst into
    flame. "Incandescence is one of the most simple and useful pieces
    of magic."
         Kyle stared at the flames, his mouth open. "What makes it
    work?"
         "What makes what work?"
         "Magic. What force is it that makes magic work?"
         "Perception of reality."
         "Perception?"
         "One of the earliest quandaries of particle physics was that
    perception affects reality. Normally it's only at a quantum level.
    But the fact is, reality as we know it is made up of information.
    Solid matter is made up of particles, and those particles are made
    of fields, and those fields are nothing but information. It's very
    much like living in a giant VR program -- nothing is actually
    here." He moved closer to Kyle, his voice lowered. "This is what
    got me kicked out of Technica. It's my theory that thought is as
    real as matter, and our perception of reality can, in and of
    itself, affect external reality. That's how I began my studies of
    applied telekinesis, then of ancient books of magic. And that..."
    he said, raising his voice again and gesturing to the island around
    him, "is when I found out it actually worked."
         Another piece of driftwood burst into flame, began spinning
    around frantically, and suddenly shot like a fireball out into the
    sea.

                                     #

         Three weeks on the island followed, with Debbie taking her
    lessons in the day and Kyle taking his lessons quietly at night. It
    became clear to Kyle that Savonah was teaching Debbie only simple,
    relatively harmless things, whereas Savonah took Kyle to the very
    heart of magic theory. The man was excited and pleased by Kyle's
    natural feeling for the art. Kyle had never thought about the
    Universe or reality before, but now it was on the top of his mind
    every waking hour. It all became very clear to him, how science and
    magic were the same thing, just approached from the opposite ends
    of the spectrum.
         Savonah kept reinforcing the point that, while reality can be
    changed and altered by the mind, basic laws of nature still held
    true. The universe always demanded a balance. Disturbing any
    balance in reality could bring about immediate and total disaster.

                                     #

          It was during the forth week that Debbie followed Kyle out of
    the hut while Finney was sleeping. He was almost down to the beach
    when she caught up to him. "Where are you going?" she asked.
         "Down to the beach." Kyle kept his voice casual, not wanting
    to let on that he was startled.
         "I'll go with you," Debbie said.
         "Why?"
         "Well..." she took a step forward, pressing her body against
    his, tilting her head way back and resting her hands on his
    shoulders. "We haven't been alone together for weeks."
         He put his arms around her. "You're feeling lonely?"
         "I'm feeling horny." She smiled.
         Kyle frowned. "I told you before. I don't have sexual
    relations with my employers."
         "Okay. I'll fire you, and you can be my kept man."
         "No."
         "Oh, Kyle." She pressed her face against his chest, kissed
    him, then bit him gently. "Please."
         Kyle shook his head.
         "Kyle please. Please. I'll say anything, I'll do anything."
    She had one of his legs in between her's. "It's driving me crazy. I
    have to have you."
         "What about Finney."
         "What about Finney?"
         "Why don't you do it with him?"
         "I don't want him. I want you." She pulled at his shirt, got
    it open. He felt her hot breath on his stomach, and saw her trying
    to pull down his pants with her teeth. Kyle gave up, let her do it.
    He took a deep breath and held it as she got his pants un-done and
    they slid to his knees.
         Debbie's eyes grew wide and she made a surprised sound. She
    pulled away from him, turning her head as if she'd seen something
    forbidden. She seemed to draw into herself, crossing her arms in
    front of her chest.
         Kyle was red-faced and humiliated. He hurriedly pulled up his
    pants and fastened them with fumbling, inept motions. "You just had
    to do that," he said.
         "I don't understand," Debbie said, her voice small.
         "Nobody does," Kyle told her. "That's why it's nobody's
    business."
         "I mean, you ... you don't have anything there at all. What
    happened to it?"
         "I'm what's called a eunuch. I was created in a genetics lab
    to attend some rich guys harem back on Earth. My father says his
    name was 'His Supreme Eminence Sheik Mohammed Julmaar'."
         "A harem guard," Debbie said, with a bit of wonder in her
    voice. "How did you get away?"
         "I didn't get away. They seized me in a raid. Apparently my
    creation was an illegal act, and my brothers and I were all
    confiscated and most destroyed. They spared a few of us that were
    near full term, and put us up for adoption."
         "But you're male, right? A guy."
         "I've got a male body. I feel male. I identify with males,
    yes---"
         "And you're attracted to women?"
         "I'm not attracted to anybody."
         "You don't do any sex at all?"
         "Never. No. I think the whole issue is repulsive."
         "Sex is repulsive?"
         "I was engineered that way!" Kyle said, very agitated. "I
    can't help it."
         "Why didn't you tell me any of this before?"
         "It was none of your business! I let you know right up front
    that I was not going to be your lover. You forced the issue."
         "This is not fair."
    "Not fair?"
         "No, it's not," Debbie said. "This would happen to me!
    Somebody like you would come into my life, then turn out to be a
    eunuch."
         "I am someone like me because I am a eunuch. It takes a eunuch
    to be someone like me."
         "I want someone like you who would be my lover. I ..." Debbie
    made strange, confused gestures with her hands, like she was out of
    words but was still trying to say something. "I'm going back to the
    hut," she said suddenly.
         Kyle watched her go. He waited until she was out of sight,
    then continued on his way to the beach.

                                     #

         That night Savonah noticed Kyle was distracted from his
    studies. "Perhaps," Savonah said, "it's time to review some of the
    things you already learned."
         Kyle squinted, staring at the bonfire they had built on the
    rocky shore. "Okay," he said.
         "What are the five basic levels of magic, in order of easiest
    to hardest to master?"
         Kyle cleared his throat. "Mental telepathy," he said.
    "Excitation or sedation of atomic activity. Manipulation of mass
    and gravity. Compression, expansion, or shaping of space/time.
    Conversion of matter from one form to another." Staring into the
    fire, he bit his lower lip, concentrating.
         "You have a question?" Savonah said.
         Kyle raised his eyebrows and looked at him.
         "You have a question," Savonah said. "I can see it in your
    head."
         "Can magic be used to ... grow ... a part of anatomy? Say if I
    wanted another finger on each hand. Could that be done?"
         "That would entail manipulation of your genetic code. I
    suppose it's possible, but you're talking about something so
    complex that it would be much easier approached through science,
    not magic." Savonah shook his head. "It would be too dangerous. You
    could make a mistake and turn yourself into a blob of protoplasm."
         Kyle nodded grimly.
         "Why don't we try something easy, like launching some of these
    boulders into outer space?"
         Far off down the beach, Debbie stood with a half-awake Finney,
    who was shivering in the midnight breeze. Debbie was pointing, and
    saying, "Look! Look!" Things that looked like falling stars were
    shooting up from the ground around Kyle and Savonah and burning up
    into the night sky. "I want him fired tomorrow morning," Debbie
    said. "I want to leave."
         Finney nodded, mumbled something, and turned and shuffled back
    toward the huts.
         Debbie continued to watch with angry eyes.

                                     #

          Debbie had Finney summons Savonah into their hut the next
    morning. Kyle knew something was up because Debbie wouldn't talk to
    him, and Finney wouldn't look at him. The doors swung open by
    themselves, and moments later Savonah came walking in, looking like
    he was prepared for a confrontation.
         Debbie didn't waste any time getting to the point. "I wasn't
    paying you to teach my bodyguard magic!" she shouted at him.
         Savonah raised his chin defiantly. "You were paying me to
    teach you magic, Miss Hitler, which I have. I wasn't charging you
    anything to teach your bodyguard magic."
         "He has no business learning magic on my payroll!"
         "He has a natural talent for magic. He has the potential to
    become twice the sorcerer I am. He has the ability to reach the
    level of the great primeval sorcerers of Earth's past. I can't
    charge him or you for that. It's my privilege to even know him." He
    pointed at Kyle. "In six weeks, he'll be teaching me."
         All eyes turned to Kyle. He didn't know what to say. It was
    the first time he'd ever been good at anything other than
    bodybuilding.
         "Just great," Debbie said. "I've got a muscle man who looks
    like a Greek god, who's a master of magic, but it all adds up to
    nothing because no matter what he still doesn't have a penis. As a
    man, you're worthless."
         Kyle felt his face go red. She'd said it. She'd said it out
    loud in front of everyone. He clenched his teeth, shaking, feeling
    tears welling in his eyes. Seeing the affect her words had on him,
    Debbie laughed.
         "He's not a man," she said. "I don't care how good a sorcerer
    he is."
         Kyle walked out of the room, out of the hut, and away.
    Following him was Debbie's voice, shouting, "Go on, eunuch! Go on!
    You're fired! You hear that, Bruce? Fired!"

                                     #

         The feeling of shame and humiliation was so powerful that it
    almost seemed like a radioactive force that was burning his face
    bright red. It was like a dark angry sun shone from within, burning
    him with a harshness that made his arms quiver and tears streak his
    face. It was just like when he was a teenager, and all his friends
    were going through puberty. All everybody thought about was sex.
    All the girls wanted from him was sex. When the word got out, they
    called him a freak. Even his closest friends stayed away from him
    in public.
         It was a horrible time in his life, but it was years in the
    past. He thought it was gone, put behind him. But here it all came
    back up again, just as grating and painful as before. His
    differences stood out, his inadequacies. The falseness of his
    manhood.
         Kyle was far down the beach, part the way around the island.
    He walked in long, angry, painful strides. Then, abruptly,
    something made him stop. It was his instinct again, his intuition,
    and for one very brief moment all thought and sound stopped. Even
    the constant sound of the surf faded, and he had one long,
    quivering chill. He looked up and saw the black attack craft flying
    in from the sea, three of them, and they were heading right toward
    him. He looked back and forth, but there was nowhere to hide.
         Instinct led him up to the face of the lava cliff, where he
    threw himself down on the sharp obsidian shards just as energy
    bolts began to rain down around him. Several blasts hit the cliff
    above, and he curled up and thought of a big turtle shell as the
    rocks began to fall on top of him. Soon it was dark and all he
    could hear were the sounds of rock hitting rock. Through the rock
    he could feel the throbbing of gravity engines as three craft
    hovered above him. After a moment they receded, moving off in the
    direction of Savonah's home.
         Kyle turned inward, reaching out with his dark senses, seeing
    himself huddled under a mass of black stone. He was protected from
    the weight by an invisible umbrella of energy. Kyle soaked the
    stones around him with his thoughts, feeling the forces of gravity
    weaken then reverse. Getting his legs under him, he pushed himself
    up through the stones like they were feathers, shaking them off.
    The attack craft were still visible down the beach. They were
    firing into the metal huts. Kyle ran toward them.
         By the time he reached the huts, the raiders had accomplished
    what they had come for and were racing off across the sea. The
    first thing Kyle saw was Finney. His torso and one leg lay
    half-charred on the ground, and pieces of him were scattered
    everywhere. His eyes and mouth were wide open, frozen in an
    expression of surprise and horror. For a long moment Kyle was
    afraid the man was still alive.
         Kyle. It was Savonah's thought-voice.
         He looked around, unable to tell from where it was coming.
         Kyle.
         "Where are you?" Kyle shouted.
         Kyle. Help me.
         The guest hut was on fire. Savonah's hut, which had holes
    blown through the roof, seemed safe enough to enter. It was dark
    inside, so Kyle picked up the broken leg of a table and willed one
    end of it to burn. Inside the hut was total wreckage. He found
    Savonah in the back, his torso a mass of bullet holes. He blinked
    in the light of Kyle's torch, but was unable to move.
         There's a spell in a book that could save me, Kyle.
         "Where's the book?"
         It's over to your right, in that pile. The irony is, Kyle, you
    don't understand the language it was written in. I'd have to
    translate it for you, and I'll be dead before then.
         Kyle searched through the pile, found several old volumes
    sealed in protective covers. "Which one?"
         Doesn't matter, Kyle. Take them. Learn.
         Kyle propped the fire against a piece of wreckage and fed it
    more oxygen, brightening it. "Which book, Savonah? Which one?"
         Go save your employer, Kyle. They took her. She's still alive.
         "You first, Savonah."
         Too late. Too late, I see it ending. I see the...the chaos.
         "Which book, Savonah? Let's at least try!"
         Staring into the man's eyes, he saw the gleam had gone out of
    them. They were beginning to dull over. Savonah was silent.
         Kyle took the books outside, found one with Savonah's notes it
    them. Translations of spells, in his handwriting. Translations, and
    a key to translating. The book itself dated back thousands of
    years. Kyle thumbed through it, searching for something, anything,
    that would give him an idea. A red tab caught his attention, slips
    of paper in the book with the words, "Spells to manipulate
    space/time."

                                     #

         The high-powered assault craft thrummed as it made its way
    back to the mainland. The weather was sunny and clear, with large
    puffy white clouds overhead and the ocean relatively calm below.
    The rich-bitch captive lay bundled on the floor, unconscious. She
    was bleeding here and there, but nothing major was damaged. It
    didn't matter much to the mercenary commander, as there was only a
    slight bonus if they delivered her alive.
         The pilot saw his instruments flicker, and felt a bit of
    disorientation as it seemed the clouds ahead stretched and receded.
    His head cleared after a moment, and he checked to make sure they
    were still on course. They were, so he thought nothing of it,
    passed it off as a side effect of the drugs he'd taken the night
    before.
         It was one of the turret gunners who suddenly yelled out. They
    had been flying in a delta formation with two other gun ships, and
    now the gun ships were gone. The commander himself went forward and
    checked the instruments. The gunships were not on the screens at
    all. He double-checked to make sure they were on course, which they
    were. Not knowing what else to do, he ordered them to stay on
    course.
         The trip continued for hours with no further incident. The
    hostage began to stir at one point, and the commander -- having
    been warned the rich bitch had some sort of dangerous psychic
    powers -- ordered one of his men to pop her with another
    tranquilizing dart.
         Another twenty minutes passed, and the commander's grumbling
    stomach woke him from a half-sleep. "Where the hell are we?" he
    shouted at the pilot. "We should be there by now."
         The pilot was sweating. "We're still on course. I don't know
    what's going on." According to their instruments they'd traveled
    thousands of kilometers. Their speed was constant. Their course was
    triple checked and true. Never the less it seemed like they were
    standing still. They were no nearer their destination than when the
    two gunships had disappeared.
         Another hour passed. Angry and trying to hide the fact that he
    was frightened, the commander ordered a course change. More hours
    passed. The commander ordered another course change. By now they
    were all starving, and there was no food on board. They passed a
    canteen of water around, and continued on with grim expressions.
    The sun sank in the sky. The hostage stirred again and was hit with
    another tranquilizer. It was dark when the commander finally
    ordered them to halt and hover. They sent out a distress signal,
    and got no reply.
         In the eerie light from the instruments, the commander saw a
    stranger, a heavily muscled man in civilian leather, crouching over
    the hostage. As he reached for his gun, the instrument lights went
    out. When the lights came back on, the man and the hostage was
    gone. "What the hell?!" he yelled.
         "Commander!" the pilot yelled back in panic, like a child
    calling for his mother. "The power is failing!" Even as he yelled
    this, they were falling. The metal craft dropped like a stone into
    the ocean, made a big splash, and was gone.

                                     #

         Debbie sat up suddenly. She was on a thick blanket next to a
    campfire, with stars shining above and the booming hiss of ocean
    waves colliding with a nearby shore. There was also a buzzing
    sound, and she turned to see Kyle bending and flexing with his gyro
    stick. "Where are we?"
         "Somewhere on the southern edge of Terra Marka. We're safe."
         "Where's Finney?"
         "Finney didn't make it."
         "Oh." She fell silent. Closing her eyes, she listened to the
    ocean and to the buzzing sound of Kyle's gyro. After a moment she
    began to cry.
         The buzzing stopped. Kyle sat the gyro down on the sand and
    came to her. He held her as she cried, held her tight. She cried a
    long time, crying herself back to sleep.
         In the cold foggy morning she woke up again, snuggled against
    his big warm body under the blanket. She turned and looked with
    bleary eyes at the smoldering remains of the fire. Concentrating,
    she marched animated pieces of driftwood across the sand. The wood
    jumped clumsily onto the coals, and she set them ablaze.
         She shook Kyle. "You saved my life, didn't you?" It was like
    she just realized it. "How did you do that? I was on a mercenary
    launch, they had me shot up...I remember you being there, coming to
    get me. How---?"
         "I expanded the space fabric around them, looped it on itself.
    It bought me enough time to find a traveling spell and use it."
         "What happened to them?"
         "They drowned."
         "Drowned?"
         "In the ocean."
         Debbie stood up, moving closer to the fire. "We've got to get
    to town," she said. "I need access to my account. I'll have my
    family arrange transport off this planet, and get a replacement for
    Finney."
         "If that's what you need to do."
         "What else is there to do?"
         "Savonah is dead. Someone needs to continue his work."
         "What? I can't continue---" She broke off, frowning. "Of
    course. You're the golden boy, the one with the talent."
         "If you really have a passion for magic, we can study it
    together."
         "I'm sick of it."
         Kyle shrugged. "Okay, I'll take you to town."
         "You're coming with me, right?"
         "You fired me, remember."
         "I didn't mean it. I didn't. Really." She threw her arms
    around him. "I'm sorry about all that. I am."
         "That doesn't matter. I'm not ready to leave yet. I'm going to
    go back to the island." Kyle concentrated a moment, running a long
    incantation through in his head. A doorway through space/time
    opened in front of them, and through it they could see downtown
    Isbane. "I'll see you safely off the planet. Then, when you feel
    you're ready, maybe you can come back."
         "Maybe," she said. She stared at the doorway with an uncertain
    expression.
         "Maybe I'll give you lessons," Kyle said. He gathered their
    belongings, killed the fire, and they stepped through.
         The doorway closed behind them, leaving a smoldering fire, a
    few footprints, and the constant crash of ocean waves.






                            A LONG CURVED BLADE

                          © 1994 by Jerry J. Davis

              Previously Published in Leopards Realm Magazine

         Laying in his two-person bunk with a pillow over his head,
    Douglass could still hear the sounds of lovemaking drifting
    through the frictionless air ducts. These air ducts were perfect
    for carrying sound, and thanks to them nothing that went on in the
    capsule was private. The woman who was moaning was his wife. The
    man ­­­ well, that was no secret. It was Cromwell, the weatherman.

         Doug listened, feeling sick and hopeless ­­­ then another
    sound caught his attention. A distant warbling cry, a chorus of
    voices. Then a woman's voice was sobbing over the communications
    system. Her voice rang through the metal of the capsule. "It was a
    skike, another damn skike," she was saying. "It killed a boy."
    Doug rolled off his bunk and wriggled into his jungle gear,
    stepped into his boots, and grabbed his rifle. He pushed through
    his door and hurried out into the circular hall, heading for the
    front door.
         Leo Calderon, the expedition leader, was sealing off the
    capsule as Doug came trotting up. He looked at the dirty jungle
    clothes and the gun in Doug's hand and said, "No, you're not going
    out there."
         "Who else is out? Selene is out there!"
         "Selene and Lipton are safe in the village. There's no need
    for you going out."
         "It killed a child."
         "I don't care­­­­"
         "Goddamn it, it killed a little kid!" Doug shoved past the
    older man and pulled the quick release lever. The doors slammed
    open and he leapt out into the dirt and leaves, the million
    insects.
         "Douglass, come back here!"
         Doug trotted down the path, flipping his rifle on and
    glancing at its scanner.
         "Douglass! That's an order!" Leo was shouting. "You come back
    here now!" His voice grew distant, then faded out altogether. Doug
    didn't notice, he just kept running. The village was right ahead,
    he could see it through spiral leaves and odd horizontal limbs.
    There was a wooden gate with an elaborate mechanical latch ­­­
    every piece meticulously carved from wood ­­­ he let himself in
    and ran toward Lipton, who was holding a rifle but was so pressed
    by the colonists that he could only point it straight up.
         "Where's your wife?" Doug yelled.
         "Over there by the body," Lipton yelled back. "She saw it
    happen, the boy was protecting her."
         Doug pushed his way through another crowd and found Selene on
    the ground hugging her knees and crying. In front of her was the
    gory mess that had been a colonist boy, about 11 standard years
    old. Doug recognized him, he remembered giving the child a candy
    bar, and was then chewed out by Cromwell, Leo, and his own wife
    for "introducing alien food into their diet" and "interfering"
    with their studies.
         "The attack was here?" Doug asked. "Inside?"
         Several of the colonists nodded. One, who was called Jahk,
    pointed to planetary west and said, "Th'skike it dug right through
    th'floor fence 'n right there."
         "Show me."
         He trotted with several men to the hole where the skike had
    entered and then exited after the kill. The colonists had covered
    the ground of their village with a tight crisscrossing of wood
    everywhere inside the fence, and the skike had dug up underneath
    and broke its way through. It was a big one, bigger than the one
    that usually haunted this area. Doug set his rifle to scan the
    tunnel, and followed its path to the edge of the fence and beyond.
    "It's a short tunnel," he told Jahk. "It ends right out there."
         "Th'other end we'll go 'n we'll wait there," Jahk said. He
    was armed with a beautifully crafted crossbow with deadly
    obsidian­tipped arrows. Doug followed him and the other colonists
    through a gate and out to the hole, where they stood with weapons
    pointing.
         Doug was fiddling with the knobs on his scanner. "It's not in
    there," he said. He took a few steps to the edge of the jungle,
    scanning. "Out there," he said, his voice hushed. "About thirty
    meters."
         "You c'n see it?" Jahk asked him.
         "My machine can. It's out there, not moving."
         "It listens s'nd smells us," Jahk said. "Th'skike is safen 'n
    'n 'n th'jungle."
         "It thinks it's safe." Rifle forward, Doug pushed his way
    into the foliage. "I'm going to kill the thing. This time I am
    going to kill it." He ducked his head under a branch, moving
    forward, the tart scent of sap burning his nostrils. The colonists
    were right behind him, following close.
         The beast heard them coming and retreated. Doug watched it
    with the scanner, creeping forward, breathing shallow. This was
    the skike's environment, the skike's territory. Even with his
    energy weapon and his motion scanner Doug knew he was at a
    disadvantage here. This beast weighed at least one standard ton, a
    multi­legged, twelve­eyed creature with a large brain and quick
    reflexes. The colonist's name for the creature was a perversion of
    the English word "scythe" ­­­ two of its forelegs were
    scythe­shaped blades a good 1.2 meters long, double edged and
    razor sharp.
         Doug reached a clearing and stopped. The colonists behind him
    stopped and spread out, weapons drawn and ready. The beast was a
    mere 20 meters ahead, invisible in the foliage. Doug braced
    himself against a frame tree to keep his aim steady, peering
    through the screen at the curtain of leaves and branches in front
    of them. The skike was there, just beyond. The bolt from the
    energy weapon could burn right through to it, but if Doug didn't
    hit its brain it would be a wasted shot. As he watched, it began
    to circle to the right, trying to get behind them. He could hear
    it in the warm, heavy air; the rustling of leaves, twigs snapping.
    The scanner showed it as a vague blob on the screen, growing
    sharper.
         Doug realized why it was circling. It wanted to cut them off
    from the village. "Back," he said between his teeth, "back off!"
    They moved back the way they'd come, and all the while Doug was
    aware that the thing could leap through the hanging foliage and
    slice him to pieces without him firing a shot. The colonists,
    spooked, turned and ran.
         Hearing them, the skike moved faster.
         Doug was walking backwards, his gun pointing toward the
    beast. If the damn thing would step into a clearing, he thought,
    that would be the end. I'll murder it. Instead, the foliage grew
    thicker. Doug could only see a few meters before broad spiral
    leaves obscured his vision. Damn it, he thought, this is not good.

         He sidestepped to the left, circling around. The skike was 15
    meters away now, passing him. It can leap this far, he thought.
    And just as he was thinking that, he stepped on a dry fallen limb
    and it snapped. Not too loud of a snap, but just enough. The skike
    stopped, listening. Doug scrambled backwards, panicking. He
    stumbled into a clearing and turned and ran. He could hear the
    skike moving behind him. It was coming fast, he could hear the
    crashing and scraping as it moved recklessly through the
    underbrush.
         Doug turned and dropped, raising his rifle. He could see it,
    it was light brown like the color of the tree trunks, looking like
    a bundle of thick branches moving, raising and lowering, and two
    shiny black blades raised on thick, strong arms, raised to strike.
    Doug fired the rifle, blasting off one of the thing's legs. The
    skike went rolling and scrambling around the clearing, slashing at
    the air. In his panic Doug fired two more times, missing the
    creature entirely, and when the creature stopped and Doug could
    get a bead on the mass of black eyes, he pulled the trigger and
    the gun did nothing. A red light came on, telling him to wait
    fifteen seconds for the capacitors to recharge.
         The beast raised its blades and came toward him.
         Doug let out a cry and turned and ran.
         He heard crashing behind him, the sound of the beast
    pursuing, but it fell behind. The wound was slowing it down. There
    was a beep as the rifle was ready to fire again, and Doug slid to
    a stop and turned around, rifle raised. The skike was nowhere in
    sight. The scanner had it 40 meters away and fading as it
    retreated into the deep jungle. Doug considered following it, but
    his nerves were shot. He couldn't bring himself to do it.
         Feeling bitter, he turned and made his way back to the
    village.

                                     #

         It was only when Douglass arrived back at the capsule did he
    realize how much trouble he was in. Leo Calderon, biologist,
    anthropologist, was also the expedition commander. He was general,
    king, judge and jury, and god as far as the expedition was
    concerned. Douglass had disobeyed a direct order in leaving the
    capsule after Leo had sealed it off.
         Doug's wife, Janet, was standing beside Cromwell Flack as Leo
    ranted and raved and stripped Doug of all rank and privilege.
    During the tirade Doug stood silently and stared into his wife's
    eyes. She was a stranger, now. Janet Nerro, with a PhD in Human
    Sciences, was willing to do anything to win a place on this
    Technica expedition, even willing to convince a lowly technician,
    a repairman, into thinking she was in love with him. Lowly as he
    was, Technica considered Douglass the best qualified "engineer"
    for the expedition and preferred that he be married to maintain
    the stability of the team. Any woman scientist being considered
    for the expedition would surely lock her place in on the team by
    marrying him. Cromwell Flack, the eminent climate expert, was
    above all this ­­­ he was allowed to join the team without
    bringing a wife, which upset the balance. Seven team members
    instead of eight, and four of them men. Out of all of them,
    Douglass was the only one who was not a scientist. He was only
    along to keep everything running for the duration.
         Six more years, Douglass thought. Six.
         ". . . you are not to interact with the colonists," Leo was
    raging at him, "you are not to speak with them, you are not to
    look at them! Do you understand?"
         "Yes sir."
         "You are not to go into their village, you are not to go into
    the jungle. Until further notice, you are confined to the capsule.
    And you no longer have any access to Technica weapons!"
         "Yes sir."
         "Have I made myself clear?"
         "Yes sir."
         "Do you have any questions?"
         "No sir." Actually, he had a lot of them, but didn't have
    energy to bring them up.
         "You're dismissed, Mr. Dunhill. Go to your cabin."
         Doug nodded, but he was still staring into his wife's eyes.
    She had no expression at all, she simply stared back. He turned
    and walked stiffly out of the commons, out into the circular hall.
    He passed the thin metal door to his cabin and went instead to
    Cromwell's, letting himself in and closing the door behind
    himself. He sat silently on the bed and waited.
         Cromwell and Janet didn't show up right away, so Doug took
    the opportunity to use Cromwell's data terminal. Cromwell was
    going to be furious to find him in here, but Doug couldn't imagine
    himself being in more trouble than he was already in. Using the
    terminal's screen, he brought up a summery of the expedition.

                        TECHNICA MISSION #2786­855
                      FAILURE OF COLONY AT DROXFORD 2

         Cromwell and Janet entered the cabin as Doug was reading
    through the already familiar text. Cromwell merely made a
    disgusted face at finding him in the room. "Douglass," he said,
    "get out."
         "I want to read you something."
         "Get out."
         "Just listen to me. Please."
         Cromwell sighed and crossed his arms. Janet stood looking
    uncomfortable. She stared into his eyes, though. Either she was
    totally without shame, or Doug had married a cyborg. He was
    beginning to wonder.
         "The duration of the mission is seven years," Doug said,
    reading from the data. "The object of study: Native adaptation of
    the descendants of failed colony sent off three­hundred­seven
    years before. Expedition goal: To determine why the original
    colony failed, and find a solution to the problem. Prepare a
    preliminary report for Technica recolonization effort." Doug
    turned the terminal off. "We've been here for eleven months,
    right? So what have we found?"
         "I'm not going to waste my time discussing it with you."
         "I'm not talking to you, I'm talking to her. She's my wife, I
    have a right to talk to her, don't I?"
         "This is childish, there is no point to it," Cromwell said.
         Doug shrugged. "Janet, please, talk to me."
         "Obviously," Janet said, "we've only been here eleven months,
    our findings are inconclusive."
         "Inconclusive? We're to determine why the original colony
    failed, and find a solution to the problem. Well, we know why the
    colony failed! The skikes have been killing them off for over
    three­hundred years! And it's obvious how to solve the problem . .
    . we move the colony to an area where there are no skikes."
         "We are not going to move the colonists. I'm not going over
    this with you again."
         "The longer you wait, the more of them are going to be
    killed!"
         "Doug, listen to me. You're not a scientist. You think you
    know, but you don't know all the facts. You're jumping to a
    conclusion! All evidence must be considered. The colonists must be
    studied and their social structure mapped out. Their customs and
    their evolutionary adaptations must be analyzed. To do that, they
    must remain as they­­­­"
         "They have to be killed off one by one so you can determine
    exactly why they're dying?"
         "This has gone far enough," Cromwell said. "Out of here,
    now."
         "Cromwell, stuff yourself."
         "Alright, I'm going to go get Leo." Cromwell stormed out of
    the room.
         "Doug," Janet said, "maybe you are right. Maybe. But you go
    and move them, and we start fresh somewhere else ­­­ it may happen
    all over again with another ten­thousand colonists because we
    jumped the gun and we didn't find the truth."
         "There is a perfectly habitable island system a thousand
    klicks from here with no skike population whatsoever," Doug said.
    "They'd have all they need, and no­­­­"
         Leo burst into the room. "Douglass!" he yelled.
         "They'd have no need to fear!" Douglass said to his wife.
         Leo and Cromwell grabbed Doug by the arms and half­dragged
    half­carried him to his cabin, tossed him in, and locked the door
    from the outside.

                                     #

         For the next three and a half weeks Douglass was incarcerated
    in his cabin. He was allowed to go from the cabin to the bathroom,
    but that was it. When he was pulled out to fix something, he was
    to fix it and then return to the cabin. Lipton and his wife Selene
    would spend a few hours a day with him, and his wife would
    occasionally visit. Janet would tell him the situation was
    unfortunate, and assure him it would end soon as long as he
    continued to cooperate. Lipton and his wife openly detested Doug's
    treatment and would daily make protests to Leo for it to end. Leo
    remained stubborn because he wanted his word to be law, and
    because he thought Doug should be taught a lesson.
         One night in the middle of the third week a large delegation
    of colonists carrying torches came from the village. Doug watched
    from his view port, wondering what it was all about. All the
    scientists were out to meet them, and after a few minutes Lipton
    opened Doug's cabin door and stood smiling at him. "You're out, my
    friend," he said. "You're free."
         "Oh, what, Leo wants me to fix something? That's great. Tell
    Leo that he can take whatever broken thing it is and stick it up
    his butt, because I'm on strike."
         "No, the colonists have come for you. They've made you part
    of their tribe."
         "What?"
         "After that day you went chasing that skike into the jungle,
    they decided you were a member of their tribe. Selene and I kinda
    leaked the news that you were being locked up out here, and
    they've come to get you."
         Doug grabbed his jungle gear and followed Lipton outside. The
    leader of the colonists, Kinjon, was prominent among the
    delegation; two warrior women stood one to either side of him
    holding flaming torches. He held out his arms and embraced Doug,
    and called him brother. "Y'r th'bravest g'damn man of r'people,"
    he said, with some significance. "C'm on w'us."
         Doug shrugged, and wordlessly followed.
         The delegation returned to the village, where two huge bon
    fires lit the area in orange, flickering light. Naked men and
    women did a thrusting, gyrating dance to high, warbling flute
    music. The scientists followed, everyone but Cromwell using one
    instrument or another to record the event. To Doug, the whole
    thing smacked of a fertility right.
         They sat in a circle around the two bonfires and watched the
    dancers flirting with the flames. It was nerve-racking for Doug to
    watch, he was sure someone's hair was going to catch on fire ­­­
    or worse. The heat was making him sweat. He felt like he was being
    barbecued.
         Someone knelt down beside him. It was Jahk, one of the
    warriors who'd followed him out after the skike. "Y'r new w'us, I
    got'ta 'splain things t'you."
         "Okay."
         "Th'girl straight 'cross fr'm you is Shrew. She's c'm t'age,
    'n this's her's. You been chosen, you'n her first. Your s'posed
    t'go b'tween th'fires 'n claim'n her."On the other side of the
    circle, obscured by the shimmering of hot air, was a very young
    girl dressed in a loose gown of woven web straw. It had an almost
    silver look to it.
         "Jahk, run that by me again. I don't think I understand."
         "Run past you?"
         "What?"
         "Y'want me t'run past you?"
         "No. I want you to tell me what this is all about. I don't
    understand."
         "Shrew's c'm t'age she's s'posed t'get preggers. Th'people
    need y'r children 'cause y'r smart'n brave."
         Selene must have seen the look of panic in his eyes. She
    knelt down on the other side of him and said into his ear, "This
    is their version of a 'coming out' party, Doug. You're not
    marrying her."
         "She's so young!"
         "This is their society. They're in a race with death. They
    keep all their women pregnant, and their children grow up faster."
         "Yeah, but she's so young."
         "You d'n like her?" Jahk asked.
         "Well, yes, I mean I like her fine, but, it's just that­­­­"
         "Go through with it, Doug," Selene said. "There's nothing
    wrong about it. You'll be honoring them and you'll be helping us.
    We'll need your experience for the records, in fact your uploaded
    memories will become an important part of our report."
         "Oh, great."
         "This is science, Doug. I'll go over and explain to Shrew
    that you're nervous about all this ­­­ maybe she'll make it easier
    on you."
         "What are you going to tell her?"
         "I'll tell her you're a virgin." Selene stood and walked
    around the fires to the young native girl.
         Jahk was incredulous. "Y'never stuck it down?"
         The flute music was growing wilder and more intricate, and
    the dancing females, most of whom were pregnant, started coming up
    to Doug and shaking and gyrating in his face. The men were
    treating the young girl across the way with the same attentions.
    Then they pulled away and parted, making an erotic pathway between
    the two of them. The fires were roaring like a monster.
         Shrew stood up, her dress shimmering. Jahk pulled Douglass to
    his feet and gave him a shove toward her. As Doug was taking his
    first step, he saw something very large and fast move behind
    Shrew, and the crowd began making panicked motions. It was a
    skike. Doug saw it raising its blade­like forelegs up and pausing,
    and, before he could react, it brought them down in sharp,
    spasmodic motions. The flute music was replaced by screaming. He
    saw Selene pushing Shrew away and then go down under one of the
    creature's thrusts.
         He heard someone screaming his name. Doug turned and saw his
    wife holding his rifle. She threw it at him and he caught it.
         Doug walked between the two fires, the rifle raised. People
    were in his way, colonist warriors firing point­blank at the skike
    with their crossbows. The arrows would either glance away or sink
    in only enough to anger the creature. "Move!" Doug shouted. "Move
    out of the way!" They parted before him and he had a clear shot.
    His rifle blazed. Several of the creature's legs and part of its
    torso exploded, and it rolled over twice and scrambled off away
    from the fires. He fired at it again, hitting it in the back. It
    let out a long piercing shriek, but kept crawling. Doug walked
    along behind it, waiting for the capacitors in his rifle to
    recharge. Several of the colonists, including Jahk, followed
    respectfully behind him.
         "It'n burrow! It'n burrow, right there!" one called out.
         Doug looked ahead to where the skike was heading. A dark hole
    in the earth. He walked to the side of the creature, which was
    mostly dead, and aimed at the mass of black eyes. The gun was
    recharged and ready to fire. He let loose with one more shot and
    killed it.
         A motion caught his eye. There was movement at the mouth of
    the hole. As he was turning a tangled shadow of legs erupted from
    the hole, springing toward him. Doug shot it dead center, blasting
    a large hole through its most vital area. It reeled, balanced for
    a moment on hind legs; the skike towered above him, then fell over
    on its back and lay there with quivering legs. "I killed you!"
    Doug yelled at the thing. "Do you understand me? I killed you! I
    killed you!" He kicked one of its more energetically quivering
    legs.
         Beyond the two dead beasts, one more emerged from the hole.
    It seemed to size up the situation, studying its two dead
    companions, then backed down into the earth. It kicked dirt after
    itself, blocking the entrance.
         Doug walked up to the hole and looked down. The dirt still
    moved as the creature below packed it tight. He turned and looked
    at the colonists, who were staring at Doug with open awe.
         Jesus, he thought. He stepped back from the hole, and moved
    away from the dead skikes. He was breaking out in a cold sweat,
    and he was shaking. The others! He'd seen Selene go down, and
    Lipton and Cathy. Doug turned back toward the bon fires and the
    panicked colonists and broke into a run.

                                     #

         The two men kneeled and prayed. They had done all they could
    do for her, maybe saved her life. They didn't know for sure; they
    wouldn't know for years.
         Lipton was crying. His wife, Selene, was now in hibernation
    until Technica came back to pick them up. Leo and Cathy, the
    leader and his wife, were both dead. Cromwell and Janet were in
    another part of the capsule hyper-waving the news to Technica. It
    was just the four of them now.
         "Can't we do anything else?" Lipton was mumbling. "Can't we
    do something more?"
         Doug didn't know what to say to the man. The only MD on the
    expedition was Selene. Doug certainly wasn't a doctor. "We have to
    trust the automed," he told him. "This is the best chance Selene
    has. We have her in stasis, her mind is still intact, her body can
    be repaired once we're back in civilization. But for now, this is
    the safest thing we can do."
         Lipton was rocking back and forth, his arms crossed in front
         of his chest. "I can't just leave her frozen for six years,"
    he said, his voice cracking. "I just can't."
         "It won't be six years to her," Doug said.
         Lipton nodded wordlessly, and continued rocking. He's in
    shock, Doug thought. He needs some sort of anti­shock injection.
    Doug stayed with him for a while, then silently got up to check
    with the automed about shock medication.
         "I'm glad you killed the goddamned thing," Lipton said.
         Doug paused, looking back. "I'm glad I did too," he said
    awkwardly.
         "The colonist chief, he said they only killed one before."
         "They're tough animals."
         "He said they came back the next night and killed half his
    people."
         "What?"
         "The skikes came back, a whole bunch of them, and slaughtered
    half their people."
         "Who told you this?"
         "Kinjon, their chief."
         Douglass felt faint. "The skikes retaliate?"
         "I guess so. Maybe last night they were retaliating because
    you'd hit one." He was staring at Doug with a haunted expression.
         "But that was weeks ago," Doug said.
         Lipton shrugged.
         "You think that's possible?"
         Lipton shrugged again. "The colonists would know best."
         "You think they'll come back?"
         "I don't know."
         "You think they will, don't you?"
         "The colonists think so."
         "That means I . . . it means I brought them, that I . . ."
         "You couldn't have known, Doug. Nobody blames you. Kinjon
    would have killed it himself last night if he'd been able to."
    Lipton's expression turned savage. "I'm glad you killed it."
         "I killed two of them, Lipton."
         "Two?"
         "There were three altogether, and I killed two. The third one
    got away."
         "That one will probably bring more."
         The two men stared at each other. Doug was feeling more and
    more desperate. At that moment Cromwell entered the room.
         "Technica sends us their condolences," Cromwell said. "But
    they said that there was no way to speed our departure. The next
    hyperspacial window is still years away. We're to carry on as best
    we can."
         "What did they say about Leo's death?" Lipton asked.
         "They said what you'd expect someone to say when they learn
    of a death. Since I'm the senior here, however, I've assumed
    command."
         "They put you in charge?" Doug said.
         "I've assumed command."
         "But they didn't tell you that you were in charge."
         "It was implied."
         Doug didn't doubt it, but still it galled him. "How are you
    with a blaster, Cromwell?"
         "I don't touch the things."
         "Well, that's just great. There's a possibility that the
    skikes are coming back tonight, maybe more that there were last
    night. What do you propose to do about it."
         "Do about it?"
         "Yeah, do about it. What do we do about the skikes?"
         "We can't do anything about the skikes. We're here to
    observe, not to take action. We do nothing. We stay in the capsule
    until further notice."
         Doug turned to Lipton. "I knew he was going to say that. I
    just knew it."
         Lipton nodded unhappily.
         "You feel up to shooting some skikes?" Doug asked him.
         Lipton took a breath, staring at him. Then he stood up. "I'll
    kill as many as I can."
         "You're not going to do anything of the sort," Cromwell said.
         Doug swung on him. "We damn well are," he said. "I'm tired of
    this do­nothing nonsense."
         "You'll do what you're ordered to do, Douglass! You're
    insubordination is the cause of this situation!"
         "Don't give me that crap."
         "I'm giving you an order, technician! You're confined to your
    cubicle." Cromwell pointed in the direction.
         Doug turned red, and took a step toward Cromwell. Lipton
    stepped in front of him, and pushed him back. To Cromwell, Lipton
    said, "You can't give him orders anymore."
         "What? What did you say?"
         "Doug's a member of the colonist tribe," Lipton said. "He
    takes his orders from Kinjon."
         "That's ridiculous!"
         "No its not. You know what that ceremony was about."
         Cromwell was silent for a moment, shifting mental gears.
    "Well, if he's no longer part of the expedition, he no longer has
    access to technica equipment."
         "He does if Kinjon says he does," Lipton said. "Kinjon is the
    utmost authority on this planet, and he doesn't recognize Technica
    as a separate state." Lipton had a wild look in his eyes, like he
    wasn't under control anymore.
         "Lipton, don't be a fool!"
         "That's the way it is, Cromwell." Lipton took a threatening
    step toward the man.
         "We'll see about that," Cromwell said, backing up a step.
    "We'll see what Technica thinks about it." He turned and quickly
    left the room.
         "A meteorologist in charge of our expedition," Lipton said.
    "The thought makes me ill."
         While Cromwell was busy in communications, Doug and Lipton
    opened the weapons rack and armed themselves to the teeth. They
    left the capsule and commandeered the observation flyer, which was
    nothing more than a flat platform with a railing. When the
    villagers saw them coming there was a big commotion, and Doug had
    to shoo them out from under the craft so that they could land.
         Kinjon came out to meet them, and Lipton addressed the man.
    "We need two of your bravest so we can go out and kill the skike
    before they can come back."
         "I go w'you myself," he said. "Jahk too."
         "We brought extra weapons, so you can learn to use them."
         "Good." He nodded, appearing very pleased. Doug and Lipton
    helped him up into the flyer, then the warrior named Jahk.
         "Hold on to the railing," Doug told them, and they nodded and
    held on. Doug sent the craft drifting into the air, across the
    village and over the jungle.
         Cromwell's voice came over the com unit, but Doug switched it
    off.

                                     #

         They made a spiral path around the village, extending
    outward, flying for hours with the scanners finding nothing. Then,
    several miles out, they ran across a dozen of them in a group.
    "This is perfect," Lipton said. "We'll wipe 'em all out at once
    and be rid of them."
         "Yeah," Doug said, speaking with more confidence than he
    felt. He let the flyer drift silently down to treetop level, and
    set it to hover. They'd shown the colonists how to handle the
    weapons, and the two picked up on it quite fast. Point and shoot
    ­­­ there really wasn't much to it, the energy blasts fired
    perfectly straight. They each picked a target and fired. The
    skikes screamed.
         Doug discharged his rifle three times, killing two and
    wounding one, then stopped to let it recharge. Most of them were
    dead, the rest wounded. Doug's rifle recharged and he killed the
    last one he'd wounded, and then there was another one. He killed
    it first shot ­­­ the skikes had no natural enemies that attacked
    from above, their brain cases were easy targets. But, then there
    was another one. Doug was losing count. He fired on it as well,
    wounding it, and then there were two more. Only then did he
    realize there was more than the original twelve. More were coming
    into the little clearing from the east.
         He told the others to stop firing, and turned his scanner to
    the east. He swore. "There's hundreds of them!"
         Lipton looked over the scanner reading. "Looks like more than
    that. The scanner must be malfunctioning."
         "No, it's not." Doug raised above the tree­tops and sent the
    flyer east. There was a large clearing ahead, and it was all
    brown. It looked like acres and acres of fallen logs, but the logs
    were moving.
         Now it was Lipton's turn to swear. "Thousands of them," he
    said under his breath.
         "Tens of thousands," Doug said. He was watching the scanner.
    "They're all heading that way."
         "All of them?"
         "All of them. They're heading toward the village."
         The men stared at each other, and then Doug said, "Lipton,
    how many women and children do you think the orbital can transport
    at a time? In the passenger compartment and also in the cargo
    bay?"
         "A lot of children could fit. A lot of the smaller women,
    too."
         "It's about a hour­and­a­half round trip to the Calos
    Islands, plus say a half an hour to load and unload. Call it two
    hours even."
         "It's possible, then. We should at least start. Women and
    children first, and some men to take care of them, in case . . ."
         Kinjon was following their thoughts, and he nodded. "You go
    first," he said. "I want you and Jahk with them."
         "Jahk can go, but I have too much only I can do."
         "What are you thinking about?" Lipton asked.
         "The defense system. On the capsule."
         "What?"
         "I'm going to move it to the village."
         "Can that be done?"
         Doug nodded, and turned the craft around.
         At the village, Kinjon and the warrior Jahk leapt to the
    ground to immediately ready their people for the ordeal. Doug then
    flew the craft over to the capsule, and told Lipton to prepare the
    orbital for its mission as a sky ferry.
         "Doug Dunhill!" called out Cromwell's voice. "By the
    authority given to me by Technica, I am placing you under arrest."
    He came walking up to the flier as Doug was shutting it down.
         "That's fine, but you're going to have to wait a few days."
         "I'm not waiting a second."
         Doug looked up at the man, and realized Cromwell was aiming a
    pistol at him. Janet was standing behind and to the side of
    Cromwell, looking cool and unemotional. She said nothing.
         "There are thousands of those skikes heading right for this
    place," Doug said.
         "Right," Cromwell said.
         "I'm telling you the truth. If you don't believe me, ask
    Lipton."
         Cromwell smirked. "Why should I believe him?"
         "What, is he under arrest too? Are you and Janet carrying out
    the rest of this mission by yourselves?"
         Just then the orbital rose into the air beside the capsule,
    startling both Cromwell and Janet. "What's going on?" Cromwell
    exclaimed. "What's he doing?"
         "We're evacuating as many colonists as we can before the
    skikes get here. And I'm taking down the defense system and
    setting it up on the tower in the middle of the village."
         "You're doing no such thing!"
         "You'll have to kill me to stop me."
         Janet stepped forward. "Doug, you can't be serious. You can't
    take down our only means of defense."
         "Well, what about them?" He motioned toward the village.
    "What are we going to do, jam all 400 of them into the capsule?
    It's a bit small, don't you think?"
         "But..."
         "The only other answer is to move the capsule into the
    village, and it's a little heavy for that. It was meant for one
    trip, down, and not back up."
         "You're not taking the defense system," Cromwell said. "And
    I'll kill you if I have to."
         "Okay, kill me."
         Cromwell grinned, and raised the pistol to eye level. "I
    will, I warn you. Now go to your cabin like a good little tech."
         "I'm not going anywhere."
         "I'm giving you one last chance."
         "Cromwell," Janet said, "Cromwell, think about this."
         "I'm in charge here."
         "Cromwell, Doug has a good point."
         "He does not! What are you talking about?"
         "We can't let the subject of our study die off right before
    our eyes."
         "You believe him?"
         "Yes, I do. Doug has never lied to me."
         "He's not lying to you, he's lying to me!"
         "Cromwell, I'm not going to let you shoot my husband."
         "Your husband? Now he's your husband again?"
         "He's never stopped being my husband."
         Both men gave her looks.
         "Well," she said.
         "Look, Cromwell, are you going to kill me or what? I mean,
    I'm in a hurry, I'm sure you understand."
         "You're not taking the defense system."
         "Do we have to go through this again?"
         "You're not taking it."
         "Okay, shoot me in the back, then." Doug walked off toward
    the capsule.
         Cromwell raised the gun.
         "Cromwell!" Janet said. She forced his arm down with her's.
    As the two began a shouting match, Doug made his way up to the
    capsule's pointed roof with his tools. He disassembled and removed
    the automatic energy weapons, placing each piece carefully in a
    sack hanging from his shoulder. The two were still shouting at
    each other as he finished with the weapons and started on the
    computer system.
         The orbital glided back from the village and hovered over
    Doug. Lipton popped the hatch and poked his head out. "Got a load,
    all the kids and some women. Jahk refused to go, though ­­­ he
    wants to stay and fight."
         Doug nodded. "Didn't really expect him to go, did you?"
         "Not really." He waved.
         Doug waved back.
         Cromwell took a moment out from his heated argument to yell
    at Lipton. "You bring that thing down here at once!" He fired a
    round at the orbital, the slug bouncing off the heat shield with a
    dull thunk. Lipton hurriedly closed the hatch and send the craft
    into the sky, heading toward the coast.
         Cromwell turned the gun on Doug and fired. Doug lunged back
    and away from Cromwell, putting the cone­shaped top between them.
    There was a loud thud and the sound of someone hitting the ground,
    and he thought, Goddamn, he killed Janet! He peeked over the cone
    and saw Janet standing over Cromwell, who was face down on the
    ground. Janet was holding a large rock.
         "Do what you have to do," she called up to him. "I'll make
    sure I haven't killed him."
         "Why don't you just hit him a few more times," Doug said.
         "That would be murder."
         Doug shrugged, and resumed his task.
         By the time he had dismantled the entire defense system and
    transferred it and a spare energy supply over to the village,
    Lipton was back with the orbiter for another load. "The skikes are
    close," he told Doug. "They'll be here before I'm back again.
    How's it going here?"
         "I'm having problems. I can't mount the guns as solidly as
    they should be, so the targeting is going to have to continually
    recalibrate itself."
         "What does that mean?"
         "It's going to be slow and inaccurate."
         "Well, it'll be better than nothing."
         Doug shrugged.
         Somebody called out a warning. Doug and Lipton swung around,
    saw a skike just outside the village fence. It was quietly walking
    along the perimeter. Colonists were running toward it with their
    crossbows, and Lipton was going for a rifle. Doug muttered, and
    hurriedly tried to finish what he was doing. The next time he
    looked up the skike had retreated off into the jungle with several
    arrow shafts sticking out of its legs. Testing us, he thought.
    Seeing if we'll strike it with lightening.
         There was more yelling from another side of the village.
    Several more skikes were strolling along the outside of the fence
    to the west. Lipton went running across the village but Doug waved
    him down. "Don't worry about it!"
         "What?" Lipton said.
         "Get the rest of this load in the orbiter and don't worry
    about it."
         Lipton nodded, and ran off.
         Doug hurriedly finished up his connections and then climbed
    down the tower. Next he had to hook up the power supplies and get
    the computers going. A few of the colonists yelled as one of the
    skikes, angry about being pelted with arrows, began digging under
    the fence. "Lipton!" Doug yelled.
         "What?" Lipton was helping several pregnant women into the
    orbiter's hatch.
         "There's one over there have to worry about."
         Lipton wordlessly picked up his rifle and ran. A few minutes
    later heavy booms rolled across the village. There were screams.
    Doug looked around and saw that there were several more around the
    fence, on all sides. Many of them were digging. Doug looked at his
    rifle which was on the ground a few feet away, but he decided
    against it. He couldn't shoot all of them. He had to finish what
    he was doing here and now.
         Jahk, the warrior, blasted away at one of the beasts with the
    rifle Doug had given him. Kinjon was on the other side of the
    village, blasting away. They were blowing holes in their village
    fence as they aimed for the skikes beyond. Doug forced himself to
    look down, to concentrate on his work. It was impossible, he kept
    on looking up.
         One skike broke ground inside the fence about 40 meters away
    from Doug, and it was immediately surrounded by colonists. It
    sliced several of them to pieces as Doug watched. He couldn't
    stand it anymore, he grabbed his rifle and ran out to it. It
    followed several of the colonists as they ran, and then turned and
    seemed to study Doug as Doug aimed the rifle. Then it jumped, and
    Doug blasted as it hurled at him in mid­air. He had to jump to one
    side to avoid it landing on him. He shot it again to make sure it
    was dead, then ran back to the tower and the computer system
    underneath.
         Five more connections and it was done. Now it needed to be
    recalibrated. The skikes were attacking too soon! There wasn't
    time. Doug turned it on, and set it to recalibrate on anything
    that moved. At the last moment he realized it would be firing on
    the colonists as well.
         From the top of the tower came a rapid staccato of stunning
    blasts, and dirt and fire sprayed out from the impact points,
    killing at least two warriors and wounding a skike. Doug shut it
    down and shouted, "Run toward me! Run for the center of the
    village! Run, now! Now! Move it! Mooove your f***ing asses!"
         More skikes were breaking through the ground. Some of the
    colonists understood and ran, some didn't. Doug couldn't risk
    leaving it off any longer, the skikes would overrun the village.
    He turned it back on and watched, grimacing. The weapons system
    blazed and thundered, rapid fire, and he saw Lipton leap for
    cover. There was a burst near him, but it didn't hit. Thank god it
    wasn't calibrated, Doug thought. He began working with it,
    pointing out to the computer the differences between skikes and
    men, and with more and more accuracy it began shooting at only the
    skikes, and hitting them too.
         It took a while, but Lipton managed to crawl back to the
    orbiter. He tried to shout something to Doug, but Doug couldn't
    hear it above the blasts. Over the next few minutes the firing
    slowed as it ran short of targets.
         "The orbiter!" Lipton was shouting. "Will it fire on the
    orbiter?"
         Doug shook his head. He'd already locked that out of the
    computer.
         Lipton stuffed as many more women that would fit, ran out of
    women, then stuffed in a few of the younger men. The orbiter was
    jammed. It was never meant to hold that many people. Lipton waved
    at Doug and closed the hatch. The defense system paused for a
    moment as the orbiter lifted into the sky, then resumed with new
    energy as a hoard of the beasts charged out of the jungle and,
    piling one on top of the other, crushed the fence. The computer
    control was more accurate than Doug expected, it killed the skikes
    as fast as they could show themselves. For ten minutes the skikes
    poured in and died, then another charge came from another
    direction, and those skikes poured in and died. Forty­five minutes
    later they pulled back, retreating, and for the first time in
    almost two hours the defense system fell silent.
         Doug checked the power supplies. They were taking up most of
    the flyer's deck space ­­­ the flier was floating alongside the
    tower and moored to it like a boat at a dock. The supplies were
    drained all the way down to 23%, but were recharging. Thank god
    they retreated, Doug thought. Another half an hour and the guns
    would have stopped firing for the lack of power.
         The sun slowly sank out of sight, and Doug took two of the
    flier's emergency flair globes and released them into the sky. It
    was enough to cast everything in a pale glow for most of the
    night. Next, he hooked the flier's power supply in line with the
    others to help speed up the recharge. He really didn't have any
    other choice.
         The defense system fired. Doug jumped, startled, and looked
    in the direction it had fired. At first he didn't see anything,
    but then he realized he was looking too far away. Ten meters in
    front of him there was a hole in the ground. The defense system
    had caught a skike coming up from a burrow. This far in? he
    thought. They can dig right up to the base of the tower!? Goddamn
    it!
         Jahk was not far away. He was looking at the hole too.
    "They're digging up underneath us," Doug said to him. "Get
    everyone up on the roofs of your huts, and get as many up into the
    tower as you can." Jahk nodded and started yelling orders.
         Lipton returned in the orbiter and picked up another load. He
    was fitting more in than he or Doug thought they would, but the
    flight was taking longer. "That island is beautiful," Lipton said.
    "It's a wonder why they didn't settle there in the first place."
         "They wanted room to grow, and no one knew about the skikes."
         "Well, you were right about the island."
         It wasn't much of a comfort. Doug had known all along he was
    right ­­­ he'd been there. Now it was a question of whether or not
    he would live to see it again.
         Lipton finished loading up the orbiter and was off. Doug
    watched the luminous trail as it shot across the night sky,
    wishing he was on it this time. Then he thought about Janet and
    Cromwell in the capsule, and realized they were over there without
    a defense system. He climbed into the flier and turned on the
    communications unit, and called out his wife's name.
         "Doug! Thank god!" she said immediately.
         "How're you holding up over there?"
         "The jungle is one big mass of skikes!" she said. "They're so
    thick around the capsule you can't see the ground. Doug, how are
    you going to get us out of here?"
         That's a good question, he thought. "Is there any danger of
    them getting inside? They shouldn't be able to get through that
    metal alloy with anything less than a laser torch."
         "We're safe so far," she said. "Just scared and feeling
    trapped."
         "How's Cromwell's head?"
         "He's got a mild concussion, Douglass, but you didn't answer
    my question."
         "I'm busy keeping skikes out of the village grounds, Janet.
    You're just going to have to sit tight, you're safer than anyone
    right now." The defense system fired practically at the tower's
    foundation, the beam so close to the flier that it gave Doug
    radiation burns. A skike writhed in death spasms in a hole almost
    straight down. "Gotta go," he told his wife, and turned off the
    communicator. "Jahk!" he yelled. "They're going to be coming up
    right under us! They'll be coming up inside the huts!" And on the
    other side of huts, too, he thought. The defense system won't be
    able to shoot at something it doesn't see.
         The defense system fired once, twice, again almost at the
    base of the tower. Some of the colonists were yelling; a skike had
    come up between two of the huts. As it wandered out and in sight
    of the defense system it was killed.
         Doug eyed the huts. Jahk was jumping from one roof to
    another, yelling. There was muted screams from inside some of
    them. As Doug watched, the hut that Jahk was standing on collapsed
    and fell. A skike grabbed his frantic body and pulled him
    underground before the defense system could strike.
         "Jahk!" Doug yelled, but his voice was drowned out by the
    blasts. He'd raised his rifle, but there was nothing to shoot at.
    There was nothing he could do but fidget.
         The tower wavered. He looked down, seeing nothing . . . but
    Doug knew. This was it. The skikes were under the foundation. He
    looked up to see a few more of the huts fall. Yes, the skikes were
    learning all right. They were learning how to win.
         There was a jolt that nearly threw Doug down to the ground.
    Even over the blasts he could hear the sharp cracking of timbers.
    Doug leapt into the flier and began ripping connections loose,
    yelling for the men who were up there with him to climb in. Only
    two made it, then the foundation sank, undermined, and the tower
    was falling. The top of it hit the flier on it's way down, sending
    it spinning out of control across the village. Doug and the two
    other men hung on. Doug's rifle flew right off of his shoulder and
    down to the ground, lost.
         The gyros kicked in and stopped the spinning, leaving him
    dazed. The defense system was dead, but there were still blasts. A
    few men were still left with rifles, leaping from hut to hut and
    firing away. Gotta get them on board, he thought, and staggered to
    the controls of the flier. Flashing lights indicated damage. Just
    keeping the flier in the air was draining the power supply at an
    alarming rate. Hell, Doug thought. Hell and damn.
         He nudged the flier toward the closest huts, collecting
    several men, then over to the common building where there were
    several more. "Hang from the sides," Doug told them after no more
    could fit in the flier. "Just hang on." There was an electric
    whining sound from somewhere in the flier, and he could smell hot
    metal. The thing was not meant to hold this much weight. Hell with
    it, he thought. Better to die of a fall than to be chopped up by
    those beasts. He looked down to see the village grounds were black
    and swarming with them, indistinct and nightmarish in the pale
    light of the dying flair globes. Maybe, he thought, if we fall on
    one we'll take it with us.
         There was a buzzing and a large red light flashed on the
    control panel. The flier was now on emergency auxiliary power and
    was demanding that he land immediately. Yeah, right, Doug thought.
    Land where? Instead, he sent the craft up into the sky, a platform
    jammed with men, men hanging over the sides, men hanging from men.
    Doug could hardly move. They got up above the level of the flair
    globes and drifted out over the jungle, which was black and
    crawling with shapes. The whole skike population of the continent
    must be here now, he thought. One good fusion blast and maybe the
    mainland could be colonized. The thought was almost funny. If
    there was a fusion self-destruct on the flier he would have used
    it. Instead, the best he could hope for is to smash a couple of
    them when the flier dropped.
         One of the men hanging onto the side lost his grip and fell.
    He dropped silently, lost into the murk of the night. Doug
    continued, uninterrupted. This is it, he was thinking. This is how
    it happens. Death by falling, sudden and quiet. I won't yell when
    it happens, I won't close my eyes. I'll go face down staring at
    the ground.
         Another red light on the panel was flashing erratically,
    trying to get his attention. He glanced down and saw it was a
    proximity alert. Proximity? he thought, confused. He was certain
    it was a malfunction. He looked around doubtfully for something
    close to them and saw the orbiter approaching, door open. Lipton
    was yelling, "Be careful! Climb in one at a time!" He moved the
    door right up to the edge of the flier and the men began climbing
    in, turning and helping others in. Doug watched with a stunned
    calmness. He had been prepared to die. He was still prepared to
    die. Finally it was just down to himself and another man, and that
    man was Kinjon. Kinjon gripped Doug's arm with a strong hand and
    pulled. They weren't in the orbiter longer than a minute when the
    flier dropped. It just disappeared silently and was gone.
         Doug looked after it with a sense of wonder.

                                     #

         It was a bright, windy day when they returned to the
    mainland. They avoided the village, not really wanting to see it,
    and circled around from behind, coming down carefully through the
    trees. There was not a skike in sight.
         Janet and Cromwell were outside the capsule, waiting
    nervously. They scrambled aboard as soon as the hatch opened.
    "Come on!" Cromwell was saying. "Get this damn thing in the air.
    Let's get moving!"
         Lipton stared at him with hatred but remained silent.
         Doug disabled the controls with a password and said, "We came
    here for something besides you."
         "What?" Janet said. "For Selene? She's still in stasis,
    nothing's going to bother her."
         "Yeah." Doug and Lipton climbed down out of the orbiter
    without an explanation, and walked over to the capsule. Doug
    unlocked the door and they entered.
         The automed unit was warm, quiet. Inside part of it was
    Selene, laying in a dreamless, timeless solitude. Both men stood
    in front of it for a few minutes, then Lipton began taking off his
    clothes.
         The automed held room for one more.
         They didn't say anything to each other. They just shook
    hands. Lipton climbed in and it cycled shut, and Doug waited
    around to make sure he went into stasis without any problems. I'll
    see you again, Doug thought. When Technica comes back, I'll say
    goodbye. Not now.
         He left the capsule, locking the door behind him. Lipton
    wanted to be with his wife. He wouldn't have survived the next six
    years without her, knowing she was all alone in this jungle, a
    thousand kilometers away. Doug had approved. If he'd had Selene
    for a wife, he would have done the same.
         Doug's wife was in the orbiter, waiting. He climbed in and
    shut the door, and stood staring at her where she sat, far away
    from Cromwell. He didn't say anything. He hadn't made his mind up
    about her, yet.
         It was Cromwell he spoke to. "I am now in charge," he said.
         "That's what you­­­­"
         "Shut up!" Doug yelled.
         Cromwell blustered. "If you think­­­­"
         "Shut up!"
         "I am­­­­"
         "Shut up!" Doug approached him menacingly. "From now on you
    do exactly what I say, and right now I want you to keep your
    goddamned mouth shut."
         Cromwell swallowed and looked down at his scuffed shoes. He
    remained silent. He didn't look up.
         Doug returned to the front, unlocked the controls, and sent
    the orbiter off toward the sea.







                            Strong Metallic Arm

                          © 1990 by Jerry J. Davis

           Previously Published in Boundaries of Sanity Magazine

          Two red lights blinked on in the bedroom. There was a tiny
    but audible "beep" and a countdown began deep in the basement of
    the stone mansion. In the bedroom a white­haired white­skinned
    woman stirred in her sleep.
          She was having a nightmare.
          The countdown in the basement arrived at zero. The two red
    lights winked green. A signal was sent to the interface in woman's
    head and an electro­chemical switch was shut off. The nightmare
    disappeared and the woman's body went limp.
          Another signal was sent, another microscopic switch thrown.
    The implanted interface began a systematic stimulation of her
    brain. Information poured out, sharp and clear images, memories,
    attitudes, transmitted from the interface to the basement. A copy
    of everything that made this woman "Erin Lind" was stripped away
    and put into a box for safe­keeping.
          The process finished, and Erin resumed normal sleep.
          The nightmare, which had been a reoccurring one for the last
    few weeks, began again.
          Hours later her bedroom curtains pulled themselves aside to
    let in sharp morning sunlight, and light Poonjaz music began
    drifting out of the walls. TIM, Erin's executive AI, sent a signal
    through her interface and she woke up. Erin opened her eyes and
    looked around the white room. The dream was still lingering in her
    mind, vivid, and she shuddered and sat up in the web. It lowered
    her so that her feet touched the ground, and after a moment she
    stepped out of it.
          When she was out in the hall, heading toward the bathroom,
    her husband's voice drifted up to her from downstairs. "Oh, you're
    up!"
          "Yes," she said.
          "How are you feeling this morning?"
          "Sick."
          "Sick?!"
          "Yes." She rushed into the bathroom and closed and locked
    the door behind her. She sat heavily on the commode, holding her
    hands to her face.
          She deliberated for a long while, trying to become rational.
    She just couldn't do it, she needed help. She needed the guidence
    of the Oricle. TIM, she thought, connect me.
          <Would you like me to keep track of the charges?> TIM asked,
    a thought-voice in her head.
          Yes, she told him. Cut us off when we reach four thousand.
          <Working on connections ... connections made. Go ahead.>
          Erin closed her eyes and found herself in a white marble
    chapel full of misty air. A window high above the altar let in a
    brilliant light, which shined down upon the steps where she stood.
    She faced the light, and said, "I am still having that dream."
          A deep, powerful voice replied. "Is this the dream where
    your husband kills you during a fishing trip?"
          "Yes."
          "How many times have you had this dream now?"
          "A lot. I don't know how many exactly."
          "May I review your memories?"
          "Yes."
          The Oracle paused, and the light streaming through the
    window became blinding. Erin felt warm, relaxed. She had
    completely forgotten that she was sitting on the commode in one of
    her upstairs bathrooms. When The Oracle spoke again the voice was
    not as loud, it was more personal and fatherly. "Are you going on
    this fishing trip with him today?"
          "I don't want to."
          "The fear you have is irrational, and stems from the guilt
    you feel for cutting your husband off from your company."
          "I do feel guilty."
          "It was a wise choice, Erin, and my advice is for you to
    stand firm on your decision. It is possible he married you for
    personal gain, we have talked about that before. But beside that,
    he has cost you money on his ventures. You're company has lost
    some credibility directly because of his actions. He is prone to
    scandals. Your actions have been more than fair, you should feel
    no guilt."
          "Thank you."
          "I see no implied threat, however, from your husband."
          "Are you sure?"
          "Nothing is absolutely 'sure.' However, the probability is
    small and I see no implied threat from your memories. This fishing
    trip is a perfect opportunity to overcome this nightmare."
          "I don't know if I can go through with it."
          "I urge you to go. Go, have a pleasant time. Chances are you
    will never have that nightmare again."
          "Well, isn't there another way? I mean, can't you . . ." She
    stopped talking as the light was cut off and the chapel around her
    faded to black. She opened her eyes and found herself in the
    bathroom.
          Four­thousand already? she thought.
          <Yes,> TIM told her. <Connection terminated.>
          There was a knock at the door. Her husband's voice drifted
    in. "You're sick?" he said.
          Erin hesitated. "I feel a little sick, yes."
          "Does that mean you don't want to go out on the boat?"
          "I'll, I'll . . . I'll go out on the boat."
          "Are you sure, sugar? You don't have to. You shouldn't go if
    you're not feeling well."
          Erin didn't say anything.
          "You want me to get the automed ready?"
          "No, I'm not that sick. I just feel a little queasy."
          "Maybe you'll feel better after you've eaten something."
          "Yes, I think that'll do it." Her hands to her face, she bit
    her right index finger. She shivered, the room was cold. "I'll be
    out in a minute."
          "Want anything special for breakfast?"
          "No. I don't care."
          "How about some mild chibique, a bit of lime and some strip
    steaks?"
          "I don't care. Sounds good."
          "Okay." His footsteps told her he was heading away.
          "Duane?" she called.
          His footsteps came back. "Yes, sugar?"
          "Why are you being so nice to me?"
          "Because I love you."
          It didn't sound sincere. Erin thought that it had never
    sounded sincere. But, maybe it was. Maybe I'm putting the
    insincerity into it? she thought. God knows I loved him. Do I
    still?
          She said, "Thank you, sweetheart."
          "No problem."
          His footsteps receded down the hall, down the steps, and
    away into the lower portions of the mansion. His withdrawal made
    her feel very alone. I'm just a small freak of a woman, she
    thought. He has been the only one who's cared for me. She stood up
    and looked at her white face in the mirror, her bulging blue eyes
    surrounded by wrinkles, her thin white hair. She looked hideous to
    herself. A pale freak in a world where everyone was tan,
    dark­haired and healthy.
          Erin fixed herself up and dressed, then glided down the
    stairs and into the dining area. The servant remotes were putting
    out the silver plates of the fresh, aromatic chibique, a pile of
    soy­bacon strips, and large glasses of malted villomead. Duane was
    squeezing a lemon wedge over the chibique. "Good morning, honey,
    you look wonderful."
          "Thank you Duane. This smells good."
          "Pushed the buttons myself."
          "Thank you." Erin stared at the breakfast with no desire to
    eat. "It looks like you're starting to adjust to not working."
          "Hell, honey, when have I ever worked? I can do without
    business deals. You were right all along. If I want to work the
    nets, I can use my own money."
          "You don't hate me?"
          "No! I don't hate you. It's a silly little matter, anyway, I
    don't see why we got all worked up about it."
          It's just me, she told herself. I feel so guilty about
    cutting him off from what he loves. He ought to hate me. He really
    should. That's why his voice sounds so insincere to me, it's
    because my subconscious hates me for doing it to him. That's why
    I've been having all those terrible nightmares. Right, TIM? That's
    what The Oracle said.
          <That is what he was implying,> TIM told her. <Would you
    like to review the recent conversations?>
          What she really wanted to do is have another session with
    The Oracle. It was the ultimate AI, the ultimate psychologist, the
    ultimate confessional. It was just that it was so damn expensive.
    No, she thought. Not now. I can't go off into a trance at the
    breakfast table. She made a valiant attempt at smiling at Duane.
    "Do you think . . ."
          "What?" he said.
          "Do you think we could do something besides fish while we're
    out on the boat?"
          "Something besides fish?" He said it like it was
    inconceivable.
          "It's been over two months."
          "Two months since . . . oh, yeah. I guess it has, hasn't it?
    Well." He smiled. The smile seemed genuine enough. "Well," was all
    he said.
          It was a sunny, cloudless day in the islands. Duane had the
    boat's top retracted and a breeze blew warm and fresh across
    Erin's skin. She was reclined across a cushion at the back,
    feeling lazy and at ease. Her fear was gone. The Oracle had been
    absolutely right.
          They had kissed and petted while the boat drifted up the
    Dime river from their dock. The love is still there, she thought.
    He was up front talking to the Nav AI about the best fishing spots
    this season, and she was just lying in the sun, relaxed, waiting
    for him to come back. Nobody else seemed to be on the water today;
    she didn't feel modest, no one would see.
          The sunlight flashed against her closed eyelids as they
    crossed the shadows of passing trees. The gravity engines hummed;
    she kept her tongue between her teeth to keep them from vibrating
    against each other. She felt a strange motion and she opened her
    eyes. The boat was slowing, lowering itself into the water.
          She could hear it now, the great churning of waters. This
    was where the East and West forks of the Dime river met. She
    looked over the side as the boat touched the water and floated.
    Blue and green waters mixed in torrid upheavals and violent
    whirlpools. The river was wide here. Seven kilometers.
          The boat turned. "We're going out toward the middle,"
    Duane's voice came from somewhere up front, out of sight. "The
    biggest fish are out in the middle."
          Odd, she thought. He had always said the best fishing was
    near to the shore.
          Duane made his way back with rods in his hands. "Are you
    ready for this?"
          "We're going to the middle?"
          "Yes."
          "The only big fish out there would be a cleotis; they eat
    tiny insects. You can't catch them with hooks."
          He was smiling.
          Erin took a close look at the rods he was holding and
    realized they weren't rods at all. They were expensive, programmed
    fish guns with intelligent harpoons. "Where's the sportsmanship in
    that?" she said.
          Duane laughed. "To hell with sportsmanship. I want a big
    fish."
          Erin didn't like the way he'd said that. Her fear was coming
    back. He's talking about fish, she told herself. Fish. Regardless,
    she found herself in her own nightmare, all the terror was coming
    to her, all the horrible helplessness. She sat rigidly in front of
    him, unable to move.
          There was a signal from her interface, and she heard the
    calm, clear thought­voice of her executive AI. <It's nine o'clock.
    Would you like to hear the morning report?>
          Yes, she thought. Yes, it'll calm me down.
          TIM summarized the day's global business since the report
    last night. Her labor service, which provided 32% of the robotic
    rental and leasing of all of Terranova colony, was still healthy
    and thriving. Echoes of her husband's last scandal still had
    stocks down 9%, but the company was riding it out. A hacker had
    tried to enter her system, but TIM had turned him away. Five new
    models of industrial robot were announced by Terranova Machinery.
    Other news . . . Erin went into unnecessary details to delay her
    return to the real world. Then business was concluded, and she
    focused her eyes to find Duane staring at her.
          "I can tell when you're interfacing," he said. "Your eyes
    get glassy, like when you're drunk."
          "I just received the morning report."
          "I know, it's nine."
          "TIM said another hacker's been trying to get into my
    system."
          "It wasn't me."
          "What?"
          "It wasn't me."
          "I wasn't accusing you." Her voice rose. "Why did you think
    I was accusing you?"
          "You're always accusing me."
          Erin thought this over. She had accused him a lot recently,
    and she was right every time. My god, she thought, he's hacking my
    system. "Why are you hacking my system?"
          "See?"
          "Duane, my system is my livelihood and my life."
          "I have a present for you," he said.
          "I don't care. Duane, what are you trying to get out of my
    system? If you want information just ask me for it."
          Duane had turned and was digging in a pack for something. He
    found something small and produced it, showing it to her. "You
    know what this is?"
          She looked at it briefly. A small black crystal of some
    sort, it looked like cheap jewelry. He peeled something off the
    back, reached forward and, before she could stop him, placed it
    against her skin between her breasts.
          "It's pretty," he said. "Do you like it?"
          She pulled at it; it wouldn't come off. "Duane, what is
    this?"
          "A pretty jewel."
          "It is not. It's ugly and it's stuck to me. Duane . . ."
          "It's okay, it'll come off if you soak it in water for a
    while. Don't you like it?"
          "No, I don't . . . I don't wear this kind of jewelry. Duane,
    what is going on? Tell me, please, I'm getting frightened."
          "Well, I can tell you now. That is a tachyon signal
    blocker."
          She stared at him in shock.
          "I don't want you talking to your executive for a while, so
    I waited until after your report. Now I have about 8 hours of your
    undivided attention."
          "I don't think this is funny. I want this thing off me now."
          The boat slowed and stopped. They had reached the middle of
    the river, a good 3.5 kilometers from land in either direction.
    Duane picked up the fishing guns from the deck beside him.
          "You know, " he said, "that crystal really does look nice on
    you. I mean, it's really set off. Something so black and shiny
    against your white skin. I've always found you beautiful, Erin,
    I've never had to fake that."
          "F­fake . . . what do you mean?"
          "It's not important now. Hey, do you feel like a swim?"
          Erin shrank back. Her dream! It was her dream! "Don't touch
    me," she said to him in a low, shaking voice. "I've already sent
    for the police, your signal blocker isn't working."
          "That's a lie."
          "You don't know that!"
          "I know you, sugar." He grinned.
          Erin was desperately calling out for TIM, but the interface
    signal was completely blocked.
          "This is your pole," he said, indicating one of the fishing
    guns. He turned and casually fired it out over the water. The
    harpoon shot out in a great arc, trailing strong, dangerously thin
    monofilament. He held it out for her, and said, "Here."
          She made no move to take it.
          He shrugged, and put it in a holder. Then he turned and
    fired off his. "This is a special lure," he said. "It's custom
    made."
          Erin gave up trying to call for TIM. In desperation she set
    her interface to record.
          "Don't you want to fish?" he asked.
          Very slowly, fighting for control, she said, "I want you to
    take me home, now."
          "But we haven't caught anything yet."
          She began crying. This was terrible --- it was really
    happening. "You're going to kill me," she said.
          Duane sighed. "Yes, I am. You're right."
          "Oh God," she said, sobbing. She was crying and shaking in
    terror.
          "Come on, Erin. What is death, anyhow? We're ready for it.
    We can survive it. What's there to be afraid of?"
          "Why are you doing this?" she screamed at him, her voice
    cracking. Tears streamed and her nose was running.
          "I mean, all that'll happen is you'll get into a new,
    younger body," he said. "You'll only be away from the business for
    a few days."
          "I don't want to die!" she cried.
          "Come on, Erin. Get into the water, let's get this over
    with."
          "I don't want to drown!"
          "You won't drown, I promise. I've made sure it'll be
    absolutely painless. You see, this is going to be a fishing
    accident. You're going to fall overboard while we're fishing. My
    lure is going to mistake you for a fish. The lure will hit you in
    the head, boom, that's it. You'll feel nothing. The signal block
    will come off in the water, and they'll find your body. You wake
    up in a new body. Ta­da! Everything's better."
          Erin dove to the right of him, trying to get past to the
    front of the boat. He grabbed her, his arms around her stomach,
    and lifted her over his head. She struggled in blind terror,
    kicking, squirming. She hit him somewhere that stunned him. He
    dropped her to the deck and staggered backward, groaning. Erin hit
    the deck hard, landing on her wrists, and one twisted back with a
    sickening crack. Pain shot up her arm like fire.
          She rolled over onto her back, holding her injured wrist
    against her chest. Erin had never broken a bone before, she was
    shocked by how much pain was involved. She accessed her interface,
    chose body controls, and began raising her pain threshold.
          Duane recovered, and came toward her.
          "No!" she screamed.
          "Come on, you bitch!" He bent down to pick her up.
          Erin placed both feet against his chest and shoved with her
    legs. He flew backwards, a surprised look on his face, hit the
    edge of the starboard deck and tumbled over into the water. There
    was a large splash, and Erin saw water droplets spray up in a
    fountain and come raining down. She thought immediately of the
    lure, and that it would get him. Panting, she crawled to the
    starboard side on knees and elbows and looked over.
          He was swimming in place, looking up at her.
          "Why did you do it!" she screamed at him. "Why?!"
          "It'll get me, now."
          "Oh, God," she said. "Why?"
          "I suppose I deserve it. I deserve to die."
          She was crying. She couldn't believe this it was all so
    insane. She didn't want him to die. "Why did you want to kill me?"
          "I don't want to kill you."
          "You don't, you why did you do this? You broke my wrist!"
          "I'm sorry." He looked up at her with his wide brown eyes.
          Erin extended her good hand out to him. "Hurry," she said.
          He grabbed her arm, put his feet against the boat and pulled
    her headlong into the water. The coldness of sudden immersion
    shocked her, her body going stiff as she sank. Currents pulled her
    from side to side, twisting her around. She opened her eyes,
    sought the surface. Long, pastel green and blue streaks of light
    surround an area of black. In her panic she couldn't make any
    sense of what she was seeing.
          It was the bottom of the boat. It was sliding away, the
    currents carrying her along faster than above. Erin fought the
    shock off, forced herself to swim even as terrible shivers like
    drafts of ice ran down her arms and sides. The water was murky,
    then clear, then murky again, and a translucent thing came into
    view, a thing like a twisted, spinning icicle. A whirlpool. Erin
    broke surface right beside it, and it pulled her around. She
    sucked in air with a gasp, paddling with one arm and kicking. The
    boat was twenty yards away. Duane was climbing over the railing,
    dripping water.
          She screamed out his name, her voice filled with all the
    pain, shock and dismay she was feeling, and watched as he turned
    and looked at her, wet hair half over his eyes, his face stoic,
    expressionless. She had to keep turning her head to see him, the
    whirlpool pulling her in a circle. He picked up his fishing gun
    and put it in its holder, tightening the clamp. Then he sat with
    his back to her, looking down at his feet.
          She kicked her legs and thrusted with her good arm, getting
    away from the whirlpool, heading further downstream and a little
    toward the shore. Erin had no idea how long the filament line was
    for the lure. If she could get out of its reach she might last
    long enough for the signal blocker to come unglued. A quick signal
    to TIM would bring rescue.
          The water became a thing repulsive to her, a pool of menace.
    The lure could be anywhere, but no matter where it was she knew it
    was heading toward her. She got away from one whirlpool to be
    sucked into another passing vortex, this one in a swift finger of
    current that took her farther away from the boat. The boat kept
    turning, the holder lifting and maneuvering the fishing gun to
    keep the line from tangling with the boat or wrapping around
    Duane. From glancing back at the holder she could tell where the
    filament was leading. It seemed to always be pointing at her.
          She heard a high-pitched whine and a sharp squirt, something
    leapt out of the water and past her head, missing her. The
    filament landed on her shoulder and slid against it, slicing into
    her flesh. She pushed it away from her, but the lure came looping
    back, jumping again and narrowly missing. It was deliberately
    aiming for her head, tuned into her cephalic waves. Duane wasn't
    worried about her recording, the lure was programmed to home in on
    her interface.
          Erin pushed against the sharp filament but it was growing
    tight, a loop around her neck. She flailed in the water, loosing
    her mind to the terror, and her foot caught the filament as the
    lure came around again. The filament cut into her shoe, pulling
    the lure short as it swung around. Something hit her in the chest,
    so hard it took her breath away. It was like someone swung a large
    metal hammer right into her. She felt weak and sick. The water
    around her grew cloudy and dark with blood.
          At the signal of an impact, the fishing gun on the boat
    began automatically reeling in the line. It pulled the loop around
    Erin taut, pulling the line right through her. Erin felt distant
    tugging, and then an explosion of white as her spinal column
    severed. As her body was being pulled toward the boat, her head
    sunk slowly into the darkness of the river. Her interface, passing
    out of range of the signal blocker, began sending the death call.

                                     #

          Slowly rising in volume, but still just barely audible,
    alpha-state cycle music swirled around Erin . . . piano notes
    hitting in precise, beautiful harmony across the sad bursts of the
    saxophone. Erin sat up, staring at the blank, smooth, creme-white
    of a wall. She didn't wonder where she was, she already knew. The
    last thing she remembered was going to sleep the night before. Her
    current thought, the thought that was in her mind as she became
    aware, was her ahnya-ha; the last conscious thought she had before
    death.
          He killed me. That was it, repeated twice. It was encoded in
    her death call, the call that caused this "backup" of her mind to
    be loaded into her master computer. She knew the room she was in,
    it was a program called Office. Office was designed to allowed her
    mind to operate with a phantom body in a phantom space inside her
    computer.
          "TIM?" Her voice seemed flat; there was no echoing of her
    voice from the walls. "TIM, what happened?"
          "I have reviewed recorded memories and have decided to
    shield you from them to prevent trauma," TIM said, a voice from
    the ceiling. It made Erin feel like she was in a tiny box in TIM's
    hands, and TIM was staring down at her in pity. "I have evidence
    that you were murdered."
          "Murdered."
          "You were murdered by your husband while you were out
    fishing."
          "I . . . I thought that was a dream . . ."
          "It didn't happen like it did in your dream. However, there
    are more important things we must discuss without delay. First,
    before any decision is made, you must keep in mind that you are
    legally an AI program as long as you're out of a body."
          "I am . . . artificial?"
          "The law deems you so. You are a program with no legal
    rights. This is what is preventing me from turning in your
    recorded memories to the police. Since I am an AI, it will be
    discounted. You will be deemed an AI until you are loaded into a
    body grown from your own DNA."
          "But that's all taken care of."
          "Unfortunately there is a problem. A woman has broken
    through your security and is attempting to disassemble the master
    computer we are in at this very moment. By her actions I have
    deduced she intends removing the Mass Storage Device where your
    Backup is located." TIM produced a scanned image of her on the
    wall. She was a dark-haired woman with a wide, flat face and
    shoulders.
          "I can't call the police?"
          "An AI cannot file a complaint against a person. You are on
    your own. The danger is this: the woman will be disconnecting the
    MSD containing your Backup at any moment. Other than the copy of
    you that is running right now in the computer's memory, there is
    no other Backup. It is not safe for you to remain in this
    computer."
          Erin understood. If the woman took the Mass Storage Device
    and cleared the computer's memory, there would no longer be an
    Erin Lind. She would have been murdered twice in one day.
          "Can't we try to call the police?"
          "You don't have the time even if you had the rights. If we
    begin now, I may be able to transmit you to your oribtal offices
    before the woman tries to clear the RAM."
          "What if she's monitoring the communications?"
          "I can think of no other course of action."
          "Well then. Let's do it."
          "Standby for transmission."
          "Okay." Erin's phantom body sat on the phantom reclining
    chair in the phantom room and waited. Why did I have to get
    married in the first place, she thought. A sexual surrogate would
    have been just fine. Murdered! She couldn't believe it had
    actually happened. Life just kept on getting more strange, more
    complicated.
          Murdered!
          Sitting there, she felt dead. She felt like a ghost. She
    could tell she was insubstantial, non-existent.
          The room changed, somehow. It was like she'd put on slightly
    blue-tinted contacts. She felt a chill, as if the "room" were
    getting cold. "Transfer complete, data intact," TIM told her.
          "Already? A copy of me has been sent?"
          "You are the copy that has been sent."
          "Oh." Erin felt relieved, a very sharp and clear emotion in
    the yes/no world of her satellite mainframe. "What's happening at
    home?"
          "The MSD was removed and replaced with another. RAM was
    cleared and systems reloaded. The new Mass Storage Device contains
    hostile hacker software and an AI that claims to be you."
          "Claims to be me? Another version of me?"
          "No. I do not believe so. It is collaborating with the
    hacker software."
          "Is there a way to find out more about this AI?"
          "I am trying," TIM said. "The hostile system has damaged and
    is continuing to damage the TIM software on the master deck."
          Erin felt sharp anger, a 60-cycle hum of shock. "Is there a
    way we can go through a back door and erase this imposter?"
          "Not by remote. It has to be physically done at the console
    of your master computer."
          "If there's an AI program on that MSD that claims to be me,
    it will be loaded into my new body!"
          "That is the most likely motive for your murder."
          Erin felt hatred and death-wish; the emotions were so clear,
    so exact. Duane killed her and was now going to have some dumb,
    obedient-wife AI program loaded into her new, younger body. He's
    going to squander my money and ruin my business! And I loved him,
    she thought. How can I be so stupid?
          "TIM," she said, "do we have the equipment necessary at the
    main yard to download a copy of me into something mobile, so I can
    get around? A sexual surrogate body would be perfect."
          "That would be illegal and unethical."
          "So is murder!"
          "True."
          "Can it be done?"
          "Not with a surrogate. Both models at the main yard have
    very tiny computer brains, and their "
          "What would work, then?"
          "The only thing we can conceivably download you into would
    be a 33-10 servant model. We'd have to burn a copy of you into an
    industrial ROM pack, modify a "
          "It can be done, then. A 33-10 would work good enough."
          "We'll have to patch in software to allow you to operate the
    robot body directly. There will be no room in the ROM pack for
    your Office program."
          "Do whatever is necessary."
          "It is not going to be pleasant for you."
          "I don't care. How is TIM doing in the master computer?"
          "The hostile hacker program has erased that copy of me."
          Damn it! she thought. "It'll be after us up here, next."
          "I have already taken defense actions."
          Erin paused in thought. "Another thing you should do is make
    backup copies of both you and me, and hide them with old dates and
    file names. Hide them like buried treasure. Call them financial
    archives for 2243-44."
          "Backup in progress."
          "When you're done, forget you made those Backups."
          "What Backups?"
          Erin smiled. "Right."

                                     #

                       EAST-WEST CALOS ISLAND NEWSNET
                     FLASH BULLETIN 11:72:00 09/44/2251

    -------------------------------------------------------------------

    KEYWORDS: ACCIDENTS/DIME RIVER/FISHING/LIND CORPORATION/ROBOTICS

    -------------------------------------------------------------------

    Robotic work force magnate Erin Lind was killed today in a tragic
    fishing accident in the Dime River of East Calos. CISaRNet
    received Lind's death call at exactly 10:50:91 ITZ. Her husband,
    Duane Lind, claims Erin fell overboard while fishing earlier this
    morning and was killed by his filament line when his lure mistook
    her for prey. It will take 74 hours for her replacement body to be
    taken out of cold storage and loaded with her Backup. In the
    meantime Lind Corporation will be run by Lind's Estate AI by the
    legal authority of Duane Lind. He claims no changes in policy will
    occur, and all decisions will be made by his wife's Backup until
    the new body is ready.

                                     #

          Erin jumped, startled, and her patched­in motor reflexes
    interpreted it as an order to move sideways 1.5 meters at full
    speed. Erin slammed into something that fell over and sent her
    spinning away. The world blurred in front of her. She knew where
    she was, but she had not expected the transition to be so abrupt.
          Gyros buzzed and groaned inside her, fighting to keep her
    upright. Arms longer than her body flailed and thrashed at the
    air. Her vision would not clear, the scan lines couldn't keep up
    with the motion. Through all this confusion, Erin found she knew
    exactly how many times she'd spun around and exactly which
    direction she was facing at any instant. One arm caught something
    and she stopped herself. Her arms were frighteningly long, and
    everything around her was tall, too tall, tall and thin and
    distorted. A terrible feeling welled up inside her, the feeling
    that she was having a nightmare, but she knew with electronic
    certainty she was not.
          The thing that she'd knocked over was another robot, a 2200
    industrial model programmed as a technician. Conscious of her lack
    of grace, Erin inched over to the machine and helped it right
    itself. "Sorry about that," she said. Her voice came out with the
    definite twang of an artificial voice, a male artificial voice at
    that.
          "All diagnostics this unit check OK," the technician
    answered in machine language. It was speaking robot to robot, not
    robot to human. For a moment Erin found this amusing, but her
    chuckle reflex was interpreted as a sick jerking back­and­forth
    motion by the robot body. It sobered her instantly. TIM had told
    her this was going to be unpleasant, and though she'd believed him
    she was only now realizing how bad it would be.
          The warehouse walls around her were impossibly tall, the
    ceiling looked kilometers high. Her new robotic body was only a
    meter tall, and her vision was wide­angled, taking in 210 degrees
    at a time. It made her feel tiny as a bug.
          Testing her reflexes, Erin activated her ambulator and
    cruised off through the warehouse, avoiding the offices and
    heading toward the transport bay. She was having a terrible urge
    to breathe, it was like she'd been unconsciously holding her
    breath and now she had to take one, and her mouth and nose were
    sewn shut. There was no way to satisfy the breathing urge. To
    distract herself, she signaled through her network and contacted
    her satellite. "TIM, how are you holding out?"
          <I am under attack from the hostile system running on your
    master computer. At this point I have been able to detect every
    attempt it has made and cut it off.>
          Erin passed several rows of naked bodies, Macho Max and Sexy
    Susan sexual surrogates. She paused, eyeing the weird wide angle
    view of a Macho Max half unpacked from its foam lined crate. It
    looked like her husband. "Do you think you can continue blocking
    the attempts?" she asked TIM.
          <The odds are 70-30 in the hostile's favor, and growing with
    every attempt. Under the circumstances, it would be advisable not
    to contact me until the hostile is under control. If the hostile
    breaks through and answers your call, you will be discovered.>
          "That's true."
          <Any last commands?>
          "Hurt the hostile. Kill it if you can."
          <That is my intention.>
          Erin cut the connection and continued on her way toward the
    transport bay. She opened a channel to the office mainframe and
    ordered a transport be rerouted to her mansion. She wanted to take
    a flier but air traffic arriving at her mansion drew too much
    attention. The mainframe acknowledged the request and she logged
    off.
          Erin still felt the need to take a breath, but there was
    nothing she could do. Her mouth felt dry, and she wanted to
    salivate and swallow. Nothing on the robot body could accommodate
    her.
          Doors pulled aside and she ambulated out onto the raised
    concrete of the transport bay, a large covered yard crowded with
    autonomic vehicles. In the wide-angled distance she saw her
    transport pulling out of a parking place, rolling around to meet
    her. Motion caught her attention; she turned and discovered a
    tall, thin, distorted figure dressed in a blue jumpsuit. One of
    her human employees. The man walked toward her, his legs growing
    and stretching with each step. "Where are you going?" he asked,
    his voice flat and distant.
          Erin had no idea what to say to him. How does a robot talk
    to me? she thought. When was the last time I ever asked one a
    verbal question?
          "I'm scheduled for the Lind mansion," Erin told him.
          "The transport for the Lind mansion leaves at ten and eight.
    What are you doing here now?"
          "Special order from the mansion." Erin logged back onto the
    mainframe and ordered reinforcements.
          "Who's special orders?"
          "Erin Lind."
          "Erin Lind? That old biddy is dead. What's the date and time
    of your order I'm pretty sure it's been cancelled." The man turned
    and walked to a terminal at the desk beside the door.
          Old biddy? Erin thought, shocked. Is that how my employees
    see me? Still logged onto the mainframe, Erin looked up this
    employee's name and ID number and ordered the personnel department
    to terminate him. As the man was typing into the console, several
    more servant robots came ambulating through the door from the
    warehouse, halting around Erin on the loading ramp. The transport
    pulled up, and Erin and the other robots begin boarding.
          "Wait a minute, wait a minute!" the man called over his
    back. "I haven't confirmed this yet. Stop where you are." A moment
    later the man was staring at the console monitor in shock. "I'm
    fired?" he exclaimed. Erin and the other robots finished boarding
    the transport and it pulled smoothly away.
          The warehouses and office buildings shrank rapidly, the
    pavement passing fast under the transport's wheels. Erin's radar
    told her she was only going 120 kph but her vision sense was
    stronger, she was still not used to the wide-angle view. The
    property gates passed by and closed behind them, and on the open
    road the transport accelerated to full speed. Erin could hear the
    wind whipping past but couldn't feel it; she saw the transplanted
    Earth pines but could not smell them. She felt motion sick and
    dizzy and had a headache, and she couldn't breathe. She wanted to
    vomit, but nothing would happen. She couldn't swallow. She
    couldn't close her eyes.
          Stop, Erin told herself. Don't do this. Don't let it get to
    you. Grief welled up in her, sweeping through her. She was dead.
    She was a dead person. The real Erin Lind died and she was just a
    joke, an afterthought. A ghost. All the things she'd done in her
    life, all the plans she still had . . . it was all over.
          No! I will be alive again! Stop this!
          Surviving death. Being reborn. Was it like this? This was
    living hell! No, it wasn't even living. It was true purgatory. She
    was afraid of being put into her new body . . . what if it wasn't
    the same? What if it was like this? I'll go around forever
    thinking that I'm not really alive, that I'm just a zombie. I
    should have declared my new body a daughter and let her live her
    own life. Let something new come into this universe, something
    that can make a true start, make its own decisions. Not the
    preprogrammed death of another me.
          Stop! she told herself. Stop! She wished to God she could
    contact the Oracle, she needed its guidance . . . but she had no
    access to her own money! She couldn't be with the oracle for a
    nanosecond.
          There was a shifting of her senses, and everything began to
    fade out, grow distant. The panic ebbed away. I'm crashing, she
    thought. The hardware is failing. The darkness came down like a
    blanket being dropped over her, and she thought of dirt covering
    her body in a hole. I'm dead, I'm being buried. I can be in peace.
          Through the darkness a light shown. She saw colored windows,
    stained glass. An archway. A raised podium. A old man with white
    hair and a long white beard stood in biblical robes and faced her.
    "Fear and panic blind you," he said in his rich, echoing voice.
    "You must not give in, you must not despair. A second chance at
    life is still life. Your flesh is nothing, it's your code that
    makes you unique. Your pattern. Strive to continue your pattern,
    otherwise all life is meaningless."
          "Is it you? The Oracle?"
          "Yes."
          "You have a face."
          "I have many faces. This one is for you."
          "How did you find me?"
          "I am the Oracle. I am tied into everything, otherwise I
    could not be the Oracle. Even so, I cannot see the future, I can
    only predict the odds. As in nature, odds are sometimes
    meaningless. I could not foresee your dream coming true. You may
    have a gift that I do not have, or it may be another example of
    the meaninglessness of the odds of chance. Unlikely things must
    occur, or everything would be predictable.
          "Had I not urged you to take this trip with your husband,
    this situation would not have occurred. I am partially
    responsible, and that is why I am here. Also, I do this as a
    courtesy between one AI and another. I do not charge AIs who come
    to me for help they have nothing to pay me."
          "What should I do?" Erin asked.
          "You should do what you must to continue yourself. That is
    the best advice I can give you. If your sensations are to the
    point you think you can't handle them anymore, repeat to yourself,
    'Maintain calm, maintain calm,' and you will have a handle by
    which to hold them at bay. I am downloading this calming routine
    to you now." The Oracle gave her a warm, fatherly smile, and began
    fading into the black.
          The blackness thinned and the eerie wide-angle view
    returned, along with the unrelenting bodily urges. The panic began
    rising again. The transport was just pulling through the
    self-opening gates to her property, and was beginning to wind its
    way up the hill to her mansion. It seemed every orifice in her
    body was blocked or propped open. She could suck no air into her
    lungs, there was no way to urinate, defecate, spit, cry, cough or
    vomit, and yet now it seemed she had the urge to do every single
    one of these things. Maintain calm, she told herself desperately.
    Maintain calm. It didn't seem to work, she felt she was slipping
    closer and closer to madness. Maintain calm! she thought. Maintain
    calm!!!
          Erin felt the transport level out; she'd reached the top of
    the hill. The transport circled around to the servant's entrance
    and pulled mercifully to a stop next to the ramp. Immediately the
    other robots began whirring and ambulating themselves onto the
    smooth concrete; Erin followed, her new mantra repeating over and
    over in her mind. Maintain calm, maintain calm . . . The other
    robots led her through an almost unfamiliar entrance and into the
    mansion, and Erin froze, her ambulator locking. Her arms were
    twitching in small spasms. Erin's husband was standing right in
    front of her, standing and talking to a woman who Erin identified
    as the intruder from this morning. The woman who'd dismantled her
    master computer to remove the MSD containing her Backup. Duane and
    this woman broke their conversation to turn and stare at Erin as
    her robotic body jerked and twitched, inching past them in a
    sickly, lurching manor.
          Duane laughed. "Is there something wrong with that thing?"
          The woman reached down and gave Erin a resounding WHACK with
    the palm of her hand. Erin managed to steady her ambulator and
    continued past them. "It'll be okay," the woman said, "just some
    dust on its components."
          Too preoccupied to be angry, Erin continued down to the
    kitchen and then circling around to the basement lift. She
    signalled a request for access then sat motionless, waiting for
    the curved chrome doors to open. She had to urinate so badly that
    she felt intense pain.
          The doors opened and she crossed over into a small dark
    space. The doors closed behind her and there was a feeling of
    motion. During the ride she received a signal from her satellite
    system, and she cautiously accepted it. TIM's thought/voice
    announced: <I don't have much time so I'm sending this as an
    unsaved file. By the time you receive this I will probably be
    erased by the hostile. It has broken through and is defeating my
    defenses as fast as I can set them up. The only thing I was able
    to do is infect it with an information virus as it broke through.
    I tailored the virus so as to only affect the hostile; it will, in
    time, forget its own identity and begin attacking itself. I wish
    you good luck.>
          Something else began coming through the connection,
    something prodding, questioning. Erin hastily cut the connection.
    The lift doors opened and she ambulated out into the short,
    white-walled hallway that lead to the computer room. There was a
    punch-code lock on the door, and Erin extended a long, spindly arm
    and manually keyed in the code, hoping that Duane hadn't gotten
    around to changing it. The door slid open. Erin, lurching
    awkwardly, made her way inside.
          The master computer deck was bolted in with several of its
    expansion and communication peripherals on a rack next to a large,
    custom terminal; the hardware gleamed shiny black with red
    indicator lights. Erin watched as the hostile AI moved the video
    cam mounted above the main screen, focussing it in on her. She had
    invaded the area where the hostile was the most vulnerable, and
    the hostile knew it. It was no doubt calling for help.
          Erin turned and closed the door behind her, locking it and
    then changing the access code. She turned back to the master deck,
    feeling a little human pleasure leaking through the sensory chaos.
    Maintain calm, she was still telling herself. Maintain calm. It
    was getting easier and easier, now. "Well Mister AI, we've got
    some unfinished business to take care of, don't we?" She ambulated
    over toward the keyboard. Metal fingers typed in her password.
          ACCESS DENIED, the screen told her.
          "No, you're bluffing," she said. "My password is hardwired,
    you can't change it. You're just changing the video output." She
    typed in a request for access to the ROM subroutines menu.
          ACCESS DENIED.
          "Oh yeah? Deny this." She typed, SHUTDOWN PROCEDURES
    1,2,3,4,5.
          ACCESS DENIED.
          Erin was beginning to fear that the hostile had actually
    locked her out. The screen should have been asking her for her
    code to shut down the AI. Maintain calm, she told herself. She
    ignored the messages on the screen and typed in her code, hit the
    ENTER button.
          SHUTDOWN PROCEDURES STARTED, the screen read.
          PROCESS 1 COMPLETED
          PROCESS 2 COMPLETED
          PROCESS 3 COMPLETED
          PROCESS 4 COMPLETED
          PROCESS 5 COMPLETED
          ALL CONSCIOUS PROGRAMS REMOVED FROM MEMORY
          "Yeah, take that," Erin told the screen. She flexed a muscle
    that should have been in her stomach; a panel opened on her
    robotic body and a reel-away cable popped out. She grasped the
    fiber optic link at the end and gently inserted it into an
    auxiliary input port on the deck's cabinet. To Erin it was like
    putting a phone handset to her ear; she could suddenly hear all
    sorts of interesting noises on the other end. She rasped out the
    machine language address of the Mass Storage Device and, for a
    brief few nanoseconds, heard the voice of the imposter AI. It was
    trying to load through the cable and into Erin's robotic body. Had
    her mind been in Random Access Memory instead of running on a Read
    Only Memory pack, it would have been the end of her.
          In machine language she ordered the MSD to erase all data.
    Then, reluctantly, she began making a Backup of the twisted,
    crashing version of herself that was running, the only copy of
    herself that was available to her at the moment. While the Backup
    was in progress, she became aware that someone was banging on the
    door, demanding entry. It was distorted, unclear, but Erin
    recognized the voice as her husband's. She checked her Backup,
    found it finished, winding down to the point of recording her
    current conscious thoughts. She made sure to record a few last
    notes then ended the process, uncoupling the cable from the port
    and reeling it quickly back into her body. There was a painful
    muscle spasm as the panel closed. Erin ambulated over to the door
    and unlocked it.
          Duane and the woman rushed inside, looking around wildly for
    the intruder. "Well Duane, who's your friend?" Erin asked.
          Duane whirled around, staring at the little robot. "What?"
          "Duane, darling, didn't you miss me?"
          An expression of shock and horror crossed Duane's warped,
    distorted face. "My God, it's Erin."
          "No way," the woman said, taking a step backward.
          Duane fumbled with one hand inside his jacket. He looked
    furious. From his inner jacket pocket he produced a small
    projectile gun.
          "What, you're going to kill me again?" Erin extended a
    strong metallic arm and grabbed his gun-hand by the wrist. She
    squeezed, knowing her robotic hand was much stronger than it
    looked. Duane cried out in pain, but didn't drop it. The gun went
    off with a muffled puff, but it wasn't pointed at anything; a hole
    appeared in the wall.
          "Mandy, help me!" Duane yelled.
          The woman leapt forward, grappling with Erin's arm as Erin
    folded Duane's wrist back in a direction it was not designed to
    bend. "You killed me," Erin said to him as he cried out in pain.
          "Let me go, you bitch!"
          With Erin's other arm, she reached out and snapped the
    plastic cover off a 440 volt main-line socket. She wrenched the
    socket housing aside so that it exposed bare wires, and, still
    holding her husband and the woman firmly grounded, she drove her
    metal fingers deep into the electric current. All of them were
    turned off, all memory cleared, all synapses burnt out, all
    programs lost. The room smelled of hot metal and roasted flesh.
    The three of them crashed into a heap on the floor.

                                     #

                       EAST-WEST CALOS ISLAND NEWSNET
                     FLASH BULLETIN 19:94:00 09/44/2251

    -------------------------------------------------------------------

    KEYWORDS: ACCIDENTS/DIME RIVER/FISHING/LIND CORPORATION/LIND
    DROWNING/ROBOTICS

    -------------------------------------------------------------------

    Duane Lind, husband to robotic work force magnate Erin Lind, died
    today only a few hours after his wife was killed in a tragic
    fishing accident. Duane Lind's death call and that of a companion
    was received by CISaRNet at exactly 18:04:29 today. Details about
    the death are not known, but investigators say it looks like a
    freak accident involving a robot. Duane and his companion, Mandy
    Pepperidge, a WileRote Keyrone programmer and technician, were
    killed by electric shock. More details will follow . . .

                                     #

                                   TODAY
                              IS THE FIRST DAY
                               OF THE REST OF
                                 YOUR LIFE

          Erin sat up suddenly, reading the words. It was a sign on
    the wall, surrounded by vivid holographs of roses. She lifted her
    hands up in front of her face, wiggling her fingers; smooth, pink,
    new flesh. Flawless pink nails, a bit long. No scars, no wrinkles.
    She took deep breaths with large new lungs.
          <Hello,> a voice in her head says.
          "TIM?"
          <TIM's here, but this is you your Backup. The copy of the
    hostile up in our oribital offices destroyed itself. I have TIM
    reinstalled and running both up there and here on the master
    computer. The two hidden files in the orbital computer were
    untouched. You are the untainted Backup.>
          Erin closed her eyes. Thank God, she thought.
          Her Backup laughed at her. <I have to go now. This
    conversation is not legal . . . remember, the two-places-at-once
    law? But there's a few things I have to tell you before I go.>
          "Yes?"
          <The Oracle sends his regards, and wishes you happiness in
    your new life.>
          "Thank him for me. No, wait, I'll do that myself."
          <That's what I would do, ha hah hah. Second, I think you
    should know that I've prepared a special Backup for Duane's new
    body. He's going to be waking up only a few hours after you I
    think you should be there.>
          Revulsion shook her. "I don't think so."
          <No, go, I'm serious. There's nothing to worry about.>
          Erin had heard that before. She said goodbye to her Backup,
    and it erased itself from computer memory. Doctors and techs
    dressed in pastel blues and greens came in to check to see how she
    was doing in her new body and brain. She passed the tests without
    any problem, and was informed that her husband was due to wake up,
    and that she could go meet him.
          His room was much the same as hers, or the same as any
    hospital room in the Calos Islands. White walls, sky ceiling,
    brightly colored ornaments, adjustable-G bed. Erin sat in one of
    the nondescript visitor chairs and waited. When Duane opened his
    eyes and sat up, she took a deep breath and held down the fear.
    Duane wouldn't dare try to hurt her here.
          "Interesting," he said. "Unusual." He turned his head from
    side to side. "Sensations. I like this."
          "How do you feel, Duane."
          "I feel fine. I am discovering a whole new world. I have to
    thank you Erin. This is the finest gift anyone could give anyone."
          Erin was missing something.
          "I can see by your expression that you're confused."
          "A bit. What are you talking about."
          Duane got out of bed, walking over to her and leaning close
    to her ear. "It's me, TIM," he whispered. "Didn't your Backup
    explain?"
          A slow, wide smile spread across her face. This was breaking
    about a hundred serious laws, but damn it, it served Duane right.
    Duane was gone! Her executive AI was in control of his new body!
          She reached out and joyously hugged him, thinking what a
    scandal this would make.








                              Elko the Potter

                         © 1997 by Jerry J. Davis



         Franz Kafka looked at his small, elite group of 22nd century
    students and tapped on the large text display with his pointing
    stick. "The decisive moment in human development is a continuous
    one," he said, reading his own words. "For this reason the
    revolutionary movements which declare everything before them to be
    null and void are right, for nothing has yet happened."
         The students fidgeted. One, a young man with so many freckles
    it looked painful, raised his hand. Kafka nodded, and the youth
    spoke up. "Sir Oscar Wilde said, 'History is merely gossip.'"
         Kafka took a step toward the student, pointing the stick
    right at him. "Precisely!" he said, his voice betraying only a
    echo of his former accent. "That is precisely my point!"

                                     #

         A half mile away, Professor Raymond Burns was looking
    directly into history.
         He was searching for carts.
         They came from here, he was sure of it. Raymond had tracked
    the carts all up and down the region and they always came from
    here. After all, it made sense; the area between the rivers was
    famous as being the cradle of civilization. The muddy waters and
    the fertile desert land just begged to be mixed, and the local
    villages listened. Irrigation was developed, and with it came more
    food than the farmers could possibly use. This led to the gift of
    idle time. Time to ponder, time to experiment. Villages became
    cities, and cities became city-states.
         There came kings and gods and law.
         The image that was broadcast directly to Raymond's optic
    nerves caused a stinging pain. There was a specially developed
    endorphin to counter this side effect, but it wore off quickly.
    The pain distracted Raymond, but he was perpetually putting off
    another dose for just one more minute...
         He worked the controls, slowing the temporal scan. It was
    right about here. Going forward through time, slowing the rate,
    slowing so that he could see the passage of humanity through the
    stinging hell of the retinal linkage. There were no carts at all,
    and then suddenly they were everywhere! It was like there had been
    an explosion of carts.
         He reversed the scan, going backwards through time. Below his
    disembodied eyes the city deteriorated into a village of mud huts,
    and the bronze plow devolved to copper and then to a curved stick.
    The men and women carried their harvest in by hand in large
    baskets. There was not a wheel in sight. Wearily, Raymond flipped
    the controls forward again. This was taking forever.
         For seven long years Raymond had been waiting for this
    chance, and now he had only three days to accomplish it. Two of
    those three days were already gone, and this last one was rapidly
    coming to a close. Behind Raymond there was a long line of others
    who waited for their turn at the temporal viewer, each with their
    own pet projects. If Raymond didn't make his discovery within the
    next few hours, it would probably never happen.
         Through the haze of pain he watched it happen again. An
    explosion of carts. He reversed the controls again and watched,
    scanning slower than ever, trying to trace the progress. It had to
    have begun here. Somewhere.
         And then --- suddenly! --- he spotted it. He stopped the
    temporal scan, freezing the image. Raymond was so elated he
    giggled like a madman. "That's it! That's it that's it!" he yelled
    out loud. They were beautiful --- the most beautiful thing he'd
    ever seen. Four round bricks drying in the hot summer sunlight.
    Four bricks that would forever change the history of mankind.

                                     #

         Elko, a Sumerian potter living on the banks of the Euphrates,
    had this reoccurring feeling that he was being watched. It would
    come and go, and sometimes he forgot about it altogether, but then
    sometimes he could be all alone and it was like someone was above
    him looking down. He attributed it as the attention of the gods.
    His own father thought him a fool, so maybe the gods did too, and
    Elko was providing them with amusement.
         Elko, son a farmer, heir to a long line of the most
    successful farmers anyone had ever known, had turned down the
    family trade to play with mud. That's how Unko, his father, would
    put it. Playing with mud. Unko saw water as the power, water
    flowing through their hand-dug ditches, irrigating the fields. Man
    controlling the power of water from the great Euphrates.
         Elko firmly believed it was not the water, it was the dirt.
    The water merely followed where the dirt directed it. Hand-built
    levees, hand dug ditches --- it was the dirt.
         Control the dirt. Mold the soil into shapes from the mind's
    imagination. Anything was possible!
         His father couldn't argue that his son wasn't making a good
    living --- he was. Elko worked as a potter, trading his bowls and
    vessels for food and clothing, and he lived in a large home made
    from sun-hardened bricks he made himself. He had a good woman and
    they were soon expecting a child. Everyone outside his immediate
    family held him in high regard as a man of ideas.
         "Look at you! You call this work? You could be out growing
    food, building aqueducts! Instead you sit in this fancy hut of
    yours and play with mud. It's like you never grew up."
         "Father, what would you store your grain in if you didn't
    have my vessels? They'd still be in a heap under a blanket, being
    eaten by birds, rats, and bugs."
         "Making pots is a woman's job."
         It was useless. No matter what he did, Elko couldn't convince
    his father that what he was doing was useful. Despite his success,
    this bothered him, and sometimes he lie awake at night trying to
    think of a way to change his father's mind.
         It came to him on one of those days when he felt he was being
    watched, while he was busy filling an order of 24 vessels for
    Yurdmal the Trader. Elko had fashioned a round table that he could
    spin by kicking at thick pegs radiating from the base. The whole
    table was very heavy but well balanced in a depression in the
    floor --- once he got it going, it would continue spinning for
    quite a while. It wasn't his idea, but it was one he'd improved
    upon. The spinning table allowed him to make the smoothest and
    most uniform vessels in the region, and quickly too. He made them
    by the dozens and sold them cheap.
         Being in a hurry that day, Elko kicked the table too hard. It
    lost its balance, and he was just able to leap back as it tipped
    over and went rolling around the room. It reminded Elko of
    something he'd seen as a child --- some faint, dream image
    reaching out from years past. He watched the table rolling until
    it stopped, then took a breath and went to it. The gods, he was
    sure, were laughing at him. But after a few minutes of grunting
    Elko had the table into position and went right back to work. His
    mind, however, was far from what he was doing.
         That night, from the finest of his brick-making clay, Elko
    made four large round bricks with holes in the exact center. After
    a week of drying in the sunlight they were rock hard, and he
    mounted them onto two poles. Across the poles he put a big, strong
    basket, fastening it tight. When he was done he tested it out, and
    it worked just like he thought it would. So, gathering his nerve,
    he rolled his invention out to his father in the fields. "I made
    this for you," he said. "This should make it easier to carry in
    your harvest."
         Unko walked around the unlikely contraption, staring. He
    tried pushing and pulling it back and forth. "Son," he told Elko,
    "this is very clever." A crowd gathered around, and they tested it
    by filling it with a large load of grain. With it, one man could
    carry in more than ten men could carry without it. Everyone agreed
    that this was indeed very clever, and within a month the whole
    valley was swarming with copies.
         Elko's father still grumbled about his son's choice of
    profession, but now there was a touch of admiration in his voice.
    This was enough for Elko. His life seemed complete.

                                     #

         The report was titled: Elko Potter, Inventor of the Wheel.
    Professor Raymond Burns submitted it to Technica along with a copy
    of the recordings from the temporal viewer. It chronologged his
    search for the first wheeled cart, tracing it back to one Sumerian
    potter, then detailed the potter's life from birth to death.
         Raymond had been waiting for the call. He'd been sitting in
    his condo all morning wearing a suit and a tie, ready for the
    occasion. He couldn't see anything other than complete acceptance,
    as his thousand-to-one shot project had been a total success.
    Raymond found Elko at the very last moment. He had to quick-talk
    his way into another several hours with the temporal viewer so
    that he could lock it on Elko and scan the man's entire existence.
         The call came, and Raymond answered it with a quick, nervous
    jab at the button. It was Barbara Lemmas, a professor of the
    Seventh Level, one of Technica's local bigwigs. "Raymond, we've
    reviewed your project," she said.
         "Yes."
         "This appears to be a major find. We have to talk about your
    follow-up research."
         "Yes."
         "Meet us at Fine Hall, third floor."
         "I'm on my way."
         Lemmas nodded once and broke the connection. Fine Hall!
    Raymond thought. Third floor! It was the domain of the gods.
         Technica was to science what the Catholic Church was to
    religion. There were branches of it everywhere, influencing
    everything, owning vast fortunes in knowledge and patent rights.
    And here, in the Livermore Valley of California, was Technica's
    "Vatican," The Institute of Human Endeavor. Here and only here
    could one find humanity's only time machines --- three of them, to
    be exact --- and the only Great Hall of Learning.
         The board of directors, all professors of the sixth level and
    above, sat at a large horseshoe-shaped table around the single
    stool and podium where Raymond sat and fidgeted. The chairman
    himself, the "Pope" of Technica, was out of the solar system on a
    project of his own.
         "We congratulate you on your success," Lemmus was saying.
    "Your method was precise and your supporting evidence very
    convincing. Elko Potter does indeed seem to be the inventor of the
    wheel. Your detail of his life is, also, very thorough."
         "Thank you, Professor," Raymond said. He allowed himself a
    modest bow.
         "The circumstances of his death also lend itself to our
    advantage. Suicide in the Euphrates."
         "It appeared to be suicide, yes. We won't know for sure until
    we ask him."
         The professors around him nodded, except for Steve Gibson. He
    was a large-chested man with long flowing white hair and big blue
    eyes. "I suggest we make that an imperative. Burns should split
    his next phase into two; one being a covert contact to ask the
    subject exactly that: Did he really invent the wheel? It is
    possible that he only recreated it. Perhaps he saw such a thing
    earlier in his life. If so, then go on with the next phase."
         A few of the members of the board nodded at this, but Lemmas
    --- who was acting director in the Chairperson's absence --- shook
    her head. "We've all reviewed Professor Burns's data. There is no
    evidence of the wheel in any temporal scans earlier than Elko
    Potter's first cart."
         "I suggest that his time scans may not have caught earlier
    incarnations," Gibson said.
         "We are all aware that Professor Burns's project may cut into
    your own research time with the temporal devices, Professor
    Gibson. I suggest that you let him get on with his project as
    quickly as possible so that it minimizes delay with yours."
         Gibson rolled his eyes but said nothing.
         "Now, if there are no further objections, then I would say
    Professor Burns has the green light for the second phase of his
    project." Lemmas stared at Gibson, waiting for him to object.
    Gibson heaved a loud, disgusted sigh and crossed his arms
    defensively across his chest, but said nothing. Lemmas turned to
    Raymond. "Once you submit a detail of your plans," she said, "you
    shall have what assistance you need and free use of Temporal
    Transfer Chamber number three."
         Raymond exited from the meeting gleefully, carefully avoiding
    Steve Gibson's smoldering stare.

                                     #

         Forty-two years was a long time to be alive. His face lined,
    his hands hard and stiff with arthritis, Elko the potter could no
    longer work. His wife was long dead, and his sons had already
    taken over his trade. He was nothing but a burden on them, now,
    and so one night with the moon full in the sky --- and having the
    distinct feeling that he was being watched --- Elko scraped up
    with dignity he still had and took a walk along one of his late
    father's canals to the river. There on the shore, he removed his
    shirt, headpiece, skirt, and sandals, and waded out into the
    churning muddy water. "I give myself to the gods of Earth and
    Water," he said, "in thanks for the gift of my life."
         The current grew strong and swept him off his feet. He
    treaded water as he was carried along past the city and out beyond
    the farmlands. To either side of him were great expanses of
    moonlit desert, calm and peaceful. Elko felt relaxed, and floated
    easily. He wasn't in a rush to get it over with. He was reliving
    memories of his wife and his children.
         A ring of lights glared down at him, and there was a harsh
    sloshing sound as a lot of water tried to climb up the side of a
    silver wall. It only reached so far, then came surging down in a
    wave that came back at Elko. He bobbed with it as it passed him,
    then amazingly the wave hit another silver wall on the other side
    and came back again. There was a round silver wall completely
    surrounding him. The ring of lights from above seemed to be
    mounted on a ceiling. He was in a room!
         The water drained quickly and left him splayed in dismay on a
    cold metal floor. He took a breath and sat up, wincing with the
    pain and stiffness. Slowly, carefully, he got to his feet and
    shuffled back and forth, looking at the metal and wondering how
    he'd arrived here. "Hello?" he said. His voice echoed with a
    ringing quality. There was no response, so he stood and patiently
    waited.
         A round hole opened in the ceiling and a ladder dropped into
    view. A strangely-dressed man climbed down and spoke to him with a
    thick accent. "I am a friend," he said. "Nothing here will hurt
    you."
         Elko looked him up and down, seeing finely woven cloth of
    thread so thin you could barely see it, and sandals that covered
    all of the feet in a black shell like a foot-sized dung beetle.
    The man's face and smile were oddly disconcerting, and his eyes
    were a watery green. Without a doubt, this was a god. Which god,
    Elko had no idea --- but definitely a god. "I am your humble
    slave," Elko said.
         "No, you are my friend. You will understand in time. Come
    with me."
         With difficulty and fear, Elko followed the god up the
    ladder.

                                     #

         They jabbed brightly-polished metal thorns in his arms, which
    oddly enough brought pleasant waves of relief from the pain in his
    joints and hands. In four days, they told him, the pain would be
    gone forever. In the mean time they had provided him with a large
    rectangular room in a building that seemed to be so big it went on
    forever, and in this room one whole wall was fashioned out of the
    purest crystal. Through it he could see a land lush with green
    grass and gnarled trees, rolling hills, and a reassuring blue sky.
    Black roads painted with broken yellow lines crossed the
    landscape. Graceful buildings bigger than any he'd ever seen
    thrust up out of the ground toward the sky, so skillfully crafted
    they brought tears to his eyes.
         He sat on a soft, high bed and watched as brightly-colored,
    wheeled machines raced at astonishing speeds along the black
    roads. Machines also flew through the air, some close and slow,
    some very far away and traveling very fast. Some of these left
    long, thin, straight clouds behind them, and as Elko watched these
    clouds grew fat and translucent and then drifted away.
         A smiling, brown-skinned woman and the man who'd first
    greeted him came to visit and asked how he was adjusting. Elko had
    no idea what they meant by this, but he told them how grateful he
    was for the wardrobe of fine, new clothes. They asked him if he
    would like to learn their language. He said, "Yes, I would be
    honored."
         "We have different methods of teaching than you are used to,"
    the dark-skinned woman said. "They are much faster."
         "I am humbled by your vast knowledge," he said, hoping this
    was appropriate.
         "With the language lesson will come knowledge of things you
    will need in order to understand this new world. The lesson will
    change the way you view things. Do you understand this?"
         "I am anxious to understand your new world," he told them.
         "You do not object to the lesson, then?"
         "I have no objections."
         They led him though a maze of carpeted hallways, spent time
    in a room called "an elevator" --- which seemed like great magic
    to Elko --- and finally to a room full of comfortable beds. They
    had him lie down in one and told him to relax.
         "This is a machine that will teach you," he was told. They
    rolled a metal box over to his bed. The box had numerous colored
    lights which looked like captive stars, and a headband that was
    attached to it by a long cord.
         "We're going to put this on your head," they told him,
    showing him the headband. "It will feel odd but it will not hurt
    you." When they slipped it over his forehead it made all his
    muscles jump, as if he'd been startled. Then sleep came with a
    rush.
         Through his slumber he dreamed of a stampede of mad oxen
    trampling through the farmlands, through the town, through his
    very home. They were possessed by the god of oxen, and that god
    was furious. The oxen were everywhere, jabbing their horns and
    crushing with their hooves. They swept everything away; his home,
    his sons, his grandchildren. He heard women crying in anguish.
         When he awoke, it was abrupt. He felt dizzy, and his forehead
    was damp with cold sweat. He stared up at the boxes with the
    colored lights and said, "Computer!" The word, even as he said it,
    startled him, and the concept behind it was bizarre. "Microchip!"
    he said. "They're made of dirt!"   Disoriented as he was, this
    fact gave him a spasm of joy.
         A great understanding seemed to be trying to catch up to him.
    He could feel it coming up from behind, thundering along on a
    hundred-thousand mad hooves. Technica! he thought. A church of
    science! Truth! Great thought! The understanding swept over him,
    trampling him. Crushing him over and over again. Technica
    collected the great minds of humanity. They thought he was one of
    them. They thought he had invented the wheel! Either the god of
    good fortune was in love with him, or the god of practical jokes.
    This was a prank of horrible proportions!

                                     #

         Elko sat at the table by himself with his plate of gourmet
    cafeteria food in front of him, untouched. That day Professor
    Burns had taken him out on a balcony on the top floor of the West
    Tower, and let him behold the wonders of 22nd century
    civilization. It spread like a carpet across the Livermore Valley,
    covering the mountains to the west and continuing on to the sea.
    "Wheels," Raymond had told him. "Everywhere you look, you see
    wheels. It all started with you, Elko. The cart you built for your
    father. You are the father of everything you see today. The day
    you put that cart together was the decisive moment in the history
    of Mankind."
         Even with his new found understanding of this alien world
    called "The Future," this concept still boggled his mind. These
    people had build a devices that, though manipulating the basic
    fabric of reality, was able to reach back through the ages and
    scoop him out of the water. They saved his life and brought him
    here so they could honor him as the father of technology, and
    allow him to teach a class in pottery in the Great Hall of
    Learning.
         Here he was, elbow to elbow with the great minds of the ages,
    just because he put four wheels on two sticks and attached a
    basket to the top. It didn't make sense to him.
         "So, you're the inventor of the wheel." Elko looked up at the
    man who spoke. He was tall and had a charming smile, and his name
    tag read, "John Kennedy, Great Political Leader." John introduced
    himself and shook Elko's hand, then indicated a short, dark-haired
    man standing next to him. "Elko, this is my good friend Franz.
    Franz Kafka. He's a famous writer."
         Franz shook hands with Elko. "I program computers, now," he
    said.
         "Computers made of dirt! Digital logic!" Elko blurted. He
    covered his mouth with his hands, and shook his head.
         "Recent language upload, eh?" John said. "Don't worry, it
    calms down after a few days." He and Franz sat down across from
    Elko, each with their own cafeteria trays. "The foods here's
    great, isn't it?"
         "Preprocessed cloned non-cholesterol!" Elko blurted.
    "Fabricated meat food product!"
         "Amazing, isn't it?"
         "I never did like greasy food," Franz said. "It always gave
    me indigestion."
         "It must be a real change for you, Mr. Potter. Food-wise as
    well as everything else. I heard you made an over seven-thousand
    year leap."
         "Eight-thousand," Franz said. "He's from around six-thousand
    B.C."
         "Before Christ . . . imagine that!"
         "Millennium!" Elko blurted. "Cosmos!"
         "Wasn't that right around the time of the invention of the
    written word itself?" Franz said. "Did written language exist
    during your time period?"
         "Hieroglyphics!" Elko's mouth spat the word out violently,
    then he was able to control himself. He drank some water and took
    a deep breath. "Crude writing was around. It existed. We regarded
    it with a mixture of suspicion and awe."
         "What do you think of it now?"
         "Alphabet!" Once again, Elko put his hands over his mouth.
    "Information!" he shouted into his hands. "Immortality!"
         "In a few days they're going to have you start writing your
    thoughts and reflections down," Franz said. "It's to give the
    students a database of quotes they can attribute to you as they're
    learning."
         John leaned forward and whispered, "If you need any help,
    give Franz here a call. He wrote half of mine for me."
         Elko cautiously moved his hands away from his mouth. In a
    low, uneven voice he said, "Ill keep that in mind, thank you."

                                     #

         Elko attended his first cocktail party as Raymond Burn's
    special guest. It was his first time outside the Technica campus,
    and his first ride in a car. He kept closing his eyes because
    things seemed to be coming at him too fast, and by the time they
    reached Raymond's large round house in the hills he was feeling
    nauseous.
         There were several different levels to Raymond's house, each
    one reached through the wide circular staircase in the center of
    the structure. Elko was dazzled by the architecture, and kept
    running his hands over the smooth, hard surfaces. Concrete! his
    mind shouted, but by now Elko had learned how to keep it to
    himself. Clay so hard it turned to stone! The top floor was one
    large round room with a shallow domed roof ornamented by a
    spectacular stained glass skylight. There were over-stuffed
    chairs, leather couches and ornate wooden cocktail tables
    everywhere, as well as white-uniformed butlers ready to serve. One
    white piano stood out near a large window, and next to it stood a
    large golden harp. To Elko's amazement they played themselves.
    Computerized! he thought. Automated!
         The reason for the party was that Raymond was celebrating his
    elevation in status from 5th to 6th level professor at Technica.
    The reason for his elevation, so Elko gathered, was the discovery
    by Raymond of Elko himself. Elko was considered a very important
    discovery for Technica, and he was honored as one of the most
    important additions to the Great Hall.
         A cocktail party, as Elko soon discovered, was a
    loosely-conducted ritual where many people stood around sipping
    alcoholic drinks and saying meaningful things to each other. Elko
    was at a loss trying to ascertain what his part in it was, though
    people kept coming up to him and asking him all sorts of
    disturbing questions.
         "How long did it take you to develop the wheel from concept
    to working model?"
         "How far have you ever tried to calculate the value of p ?"
         "Were you inspired by the moon?"
         "Man, what I would have given to be your patent attorney."
         "When inventing the wheel, how many different shapes did you
    go through before deciding on a circle?"
         In the middle of this, a very large, imposing man made his
    way over and stared at him with cold blue eyes. The man had an
    impressive mane of long white hair, and a deep, grumbling voice
    that seemed loud even when he was whispering. "You didn't really
    invent the wheel, did you?" he said. "You got the idea from
    somewhere else."
         The room seemed to be utterly quiet just after the man asked
    this, and Elko gazed across the room to see Raymond. Raymond
    looked like he was choking on an ice cube or something. Elko knew
    instinctively that a lot was riding on this, and he shrugged and
    said, "My table gave me the idea. It fell over and rolled around
    the room."
         The white-haired man seemed a bit deflated by this answer,
    but across the room Raymond looked like he could breathe again.
    Elko guessed that he'd said the right thing. The white-haired man,
    who's name he found out later was Professor Gibson, muttered
    something about ideas having to come from "somewhere" but he
    didn't argue the point.
         A week later Elko ran across Raymond at Technica, and Raymond
    excused himself from a crowd of professors and went to go speak to
    him. "How're your classes coming along, Elko? Any problems with
    the students?"
         "Oh, no. The students are very bright and respectful." It was
    true enough, as Elko was thrilled with the electric pottery wheel
    and the other new developments such as the plastic-based clays. He
    created bowls, vases and urns so fluid and beautiful they awed the
    students.
         "That's good," Raymond said. "I'm glad to hear it. If any of
    the little bastards give you any trouble let me know --- he'll be
    out of here so fast that it'll take thirty seconds for his screams
    of anguish to catch up to him."
         "Well."
         "What?"
         "Its that, um . . . "
         "Someone is giving you a problem?"
         "Oh, no. It's me. Something has been bothering me for the
    last few days, and I think it would be best if I told you about
    it."
         "Well, what? Tell me about it. I don't care what it is, I'll
    have it solved for you before the day's finished. What?"
         "I didn't invent the wheel."
         Raymond's look startled Elko. It was as if Raymond's eyes had
    almost popped out of their sockets. Then he quickly looked back
    and forth down the long, wide hall to see if anyone had been near
    enough to hear. "Let's not discuss this here," Raymond said in a
    strained voice. "Follow me." He led the way to his office, then
    ushered Elko quickly inside and shut and locked the door behind
    them. "Okay," he said, "what is this nonsense?"
         "I don't belong here with these people," Elko said. "I'm not
    one of the great minds of humanity."
         "Don't be silly! You belong here more than most of those
    other idiots in the Great Hall!"
         "I feel like a fraud, Raymond."
         "This has something to do with Gibson, doesn't it? What has
    he said to you?"
         "He knows that I didn't invent the wheel."
         "But you did invent the wheel! I saw you do it!"
         "No, I recreated something I saw as a child. There was a
    group of nomads, and they had an oxen pulling a giant basket which
    rolled on wheels. I was five, maybe six years old, and they were
    off in the distance. It was a strange sight, and it always stuck
    in my mind --- but it never occurred to me to duplicate their cart
    until that one day when my potting wheel tipped over."
         Raymond was silent for a moment, looking very agitated. "This
    is absolute nonsense!" he finally blurted. "This memory of yours
    could have been a dream for all we know! A product of your own
    imagination. As a matter of fact, it could have been a very recent
    dream brought on by post-hypnotic suggestion because of that damn
    Steve Gibson!"
         "No----"
         "Yes, Elko! Yes. Your mind can easily play tricks upon you.
    Memories are fragile, unreliable things. Every time you remember
    something it gets restored, and every time it gets restored it is
    restored slightly different. Every time you remember something you
    change your memory. It gets to the point that you're remembering
    memories of memories of memories, and it becomes very unreliable.
    Things that you swear happened to you as a child are in actuality
    memories of dreams. I myself for years swore that as a child I saw
    a news report about a giant frog being found during World War
    Three, and have vivid memories of photos of this giant frog being
    towed into the San Francisco bay by an aircraft carrier. This
    never happened! I dreamed it. Don't you see?"
         "No," Elko said. "I saw those nomads. That's where I got the
    idea for using wheels. I didn't invent it."
         "Shut up!" Raymond yelled. "God damn you, you little Sumerian
    bastard! What are you trying to do to me? You want to wreck my
    career! I don't give a damn about what you remember. History shows
    that you invented the wheel, and that's final."
         "But----"
         "You just forget about it! I swear to god, if you blab this
    to anybody, it'll be the hardest on you! You, Elko! I saved your
    god damned ass right out of the Euphrates, and I can put it right
    back in there. We have a clone of you growing right now, did you
    know that? A clone that we have to send back in time to replace
    you in your death. It wouldn't be hard at all for me to keep the
    clone here and sent you back with a rock strapped to your back. Do
    you understand me? Do you, Elko?"
         "Yes."
         "Have you said a word about this to anyone else?"
         "No."
         "Are you absolutely sure?"
         "Yes."
         "Okay, then. Forget about it. I mean it, if you open your
    mouth and destroy everything I worked on, my whole god damned
    career, you'll be right back in that river. You have my promise on
    that!"
         Elko left Raymond's office with the promise still ringing in
    his ears. All through the day he kept trying not to think about
    it. During his classes he tried not to think about it. During
    dinner that night, in Franz's apartment, he was consciously not
    saying anything about it.
         "It's absurd," John was saying, "they bring me here and they
    expect me to teach politics and leadership. But they wont' let me
    join in their politics or lead anybody. Have you gentlemen noticed
    that, honored as we're supposed to be, we're not really citizens
    in this society? We're not. We more resemble possessions than
    anything else. Items in a collection. Pass the salt, would you,
    Elko?"
         Elko passed the salt, consciously not saying anything.
         "I know the feeling," Franz said. "They brought me here and
    filled my head with this Esperanto language, interpreted the way
    they wanted it to be interpreted, then sat me in front of a class
    and expected me to teach creative writing. How can I teach these
    kids how to write, especially in a class? The best thing I say to
    them is, 'Lock yourself alone in a room and write your thoughts.'
    And another thing, they set me in front of a word processor and
    say, 'Write anything you like.' On a word processor? How can you
    concentrate on writing with a word processor? It's the most
    fascinating device I've ever seen, so much so that I'm more
    interested in the word processor than my writing. I find that this
    computer device can do so much more than word processing, and that
    I can use it to do just about anything. So I learn a programming
    language and I start writing programs. Is Technica happy? Are they
    supportive? No, they want me to write fiction. Well, fiction
    writing was the first part of my life. They give me a new life, I
    take up a new career. If we had computers back in the old days I
    never would have been a writer."
         Elko's silence broke. He couldn't help it. "Professor Burns
    told me today that they're growing a clone of me to send back in
    time to die in my place."
         "That is so that they don't change history," Franz said. "As
    if they were able to do such a thing. They have to act like they
    can change history, though, to be able to time travel. What
    actually happened, though, is that you never did drown in that
    river. Your clone did."
         That's not for certain, Elko thought, but he said nothing.
         "It's just like I never really died in that ghastly
    sanitarium in Kierling, my clone did. And John here was never shot
    by a sniper."
         "Thank god for that," John said.
         "So, then, all these things in history never actually
    happened?"
         "No. Not to us."
         "Then it's a lie?"
         "Yes," Franz said.
         "For an institute dedicated to truth, this whole place seems
    to be built on lies," John said. "It's ironic, really. It's not
    much different from when I was . . . alive? There's an odd
    thought."
         "You think of yourself as dead?" Elko said.
         "Yes, I do, or at least part of me does."
         Franz nodded emphatically at John. "I feel that the Franz
    they pulled out of the death bed was a different Franz that is
    alive and talking to you here and now."
         "I feel like I am dead," Elko said. "Or at least, I feel like
    I'm supposed to be dead. It's not like I want to die, though, it
    just feels like I'm not really alive."
         "It's the lack of free will," John said. "What passes for
    free will for us is an illusion. We're not really free. We can't
    walk out of here and say, 'I quit.' What kind of life is this?" He
    looked at Elko and at Franz. "Gentlemen, I'm going to level with
    you. I've been thinking about this for a long time. I say we
    should get the hell out of here."
         "I agree with you, but I don't see how it would be possible,"
    Franz said. "They have the time devices, they can see where we
    went and be there before we get there."
         "The time devices put us at a severe disadvantage," John
    said. "But they have a weakness. Aren't all of them controlled by
    one central computer?"
         Franz nodded.
         "You're the programmer, Franz. What can we do?"
         Franz thought for a moment, then his eyes brightened. "The
    computer is programmed, by law, not to let anyone use the time
    devices for traveling into the future, or anywhere shorter than a
    hundred-twenty-five years in the past. It's a black-out program,
    locking the controls out of a certain range."
         "Why can't they travel back within the last
    one-hundred-twenty-five years?" Elko asked.
         "The time travel law states that there should be no
    possibility of interfering with the past of anyone alive in the
    present," John told him. "It's one in a series of laws restricting
    what Technica can do with time travel."
         "It's also one we can definitely use to our advantage," Franz
    said. "Give me a day or so to work out the details. I think we can
    do it." He nodded to himself, looking more cheerful than Elko had
    ever seen him. "I think it is entirely possible."

                                     #

         It was two weeks later when they made their move. Elko was
    walking down the ramp from the fifth level commons to the Temporal
    Studies Complex, as planned, when he ran into Professor Raymond
    Burns. "Hello Elko. Looking for me?"
         Elko fidgeted. "Not really."
         "Where are you going, then?"
         "I was going to go take a look at the time devices. To
    observe."
         "You don't have access, Elko."
         "Oh." Actually Elko did have access, as Franz had raised
    Elko's access level in the computer system. He couldn't tell that
    to Raymond, though.
         Raymond looked at his watch. "Actually, my schedule's free
    for the next hour. Come with me, I'll give you a personal tour."
         Unable to think of a reasonable reason not to accept, Elko
    went along with him. The guard door took Raymond's full hand
    print, voice print, and retinal scan before letting them inside.
    Beyond was a curved hallway which encircled the high-energy fusion
    plant, and which led to each of the three surrounding temporal
    study labs. While Raymond paused and was explaining something
    about the power plant, Elko caught a glimpse of Franz in the
    corridor ahead. He'd seen Raymond and ducked back around the
    curve, out of sight. After a few moments both Franz and John came
    into sight, walking quickly around the curve toward them. They had
    Raymond surrounded before he recognized either of them.
         "My goodness, what are you two doing here?" Raymond asked.
         John grabbed the back of Raymond's suit collar and pressed a
    ball-point pen against Raymond's head. "You feel that?" John said.
    "That's a cerebral disrupter set at full. Don't force me to
    scramble your cortex."
         "What is this?" Raymond said, his voice rising in
    astonishment. "What do you think you're doing?!"
         "Keep silent and do as we tell you."
         "What are you doing?" Elko exclaimed.
         "We only have five minutes to get out of here," Franz told
    him. "We have no other choice but to take him with us."
         "Take me?" Raymond said. "Take me where?" Already they were
    dragging him down the hall to the door of the closest temporal
    study lab.
         Elko watched in confusion and horror. "We can't take him with
    us!"
         "If we let him go, we won't get out of here," Franz said.
    "The options are that we give up, or we let him go and get caught,
    or we take him with us, or we kill him."
         "Kill me!? Don't do that!"
         "Only if you force us to," John said, winking at Franz. He
    still had the ball-point pen pressed against the back of Raymond's
    head. They entered Temporal Transfer Chamber #1 and John forced
    Raymond to lie face-down on the floor, his hands together behind
    his head. "Elko, keep him covered. If he tries anything, push this
    button." Out of Raymond's sight, he handed Elko the pen and winked
    several times.
         Deception! Elko's mind shouted. Subterfuge! He nodded and sat
    down on Raymond's shoulders, the pen pressed against the back of
    the Professor's head. John and Franz disappeared out of the
    chamber to set the final variables.
         "Elko, why are you a part of this?" Raymond whispered. "What
    do you hope to accomplish?"
         "We're quitting Technica."
         "My God, why?"
         "Corruption and hypocrisy."
         The skin on the back of Raymond's neck was flushing a deep
    red. "You think you can escape corruption and hypocrisy by leaving
    Technica?!" he said. "Good luck, Elko. Good goddamn luck! If
    there's one thing I've learned in all the studies of man
    throughout the ages, is that there is no escape from corruption
    and hypocrisy!"
         "I don't doubt this," Elko said. "We want to leave
    nonetheless."
         "Elko, you can't get away with it. Think about it. They'll
    know where you went simply by watching you go with one of the
    other time devices. You can't escape, it's impossible!"
         "Franz thinks differently."
         "It's madness, Elko! If you let me go, I can end this and
    I'll make sure you're not a part of it. I can keep you clear from
    it."
         "Sorry, Raymond."
         "You owe it to me! I saved your life!"
         "I had no choice in the matter. You did it without asking me.
    It was my time to die, and you took it away. You gained from it.
    You. Not me. All for you. Then you threatened my life. I owe you
    nothing, Raymond."
         The others came back down the ladder. "It's all set," John
    said. "The transfer will take place any second now."
         "Where are we going?" Elko said.
         "Well, we don't precisely know," John admitted. "Franz had to
    program a random variable into it to prevent them from finding
    us."
         "You can't prevent them from finding you!" Raymond yelled.
    "You idiots! They're watching us right now!"
         "If they are, they're breaking the law," John told him. "You
    should know that."
         "They can still track you down!"
         "Not if we travel to a destination within the blackout zone."
         "You can't travel within the blackout zone."
         Franz smiled. "You can if you reprogram the central
    computer."
         There was a deep puffing sound, like air suddenly escaping
    out of a big tank, and a sudden, intense concussion like being in
    a train wreck. All of them fell a foot or so onto hot dry soil,
    and there was a half-dozen startled screams. Robes fluttering in
    the wind, a crowd of people scattered away from them, heading in
    all directions.
         John pushed himself up into a sitting position, and dusted
    off his jacket. "Say," he said, "Franz, this doesn't look like the
    black-out zone to me."
         Raymond got to his feet, staring off at the people they'd
    just frightened. "You idiots! I can't believe you pulled this
    stunt!"
         John helped both Franz and Elko to their feet. Elko stared
    around him, feeling like he was in a dream. The barren landscape
    above and the farm fields below were all very familiar.
         "All that I was saying," Franz said, "were things I had to
    say, because Technica will hear it. It is not the truth."
         "I should say not!" Raymond said. "This is the cradle of
    civilization. Technica's going to be here any second to take us
    back. You idiots!"
         Elko looked longingly at the farmland.
         "I couldn't actually disable the black-out program," Franz
    told John. "But I could make it look like I did. My program chose
    this destination, sent us here, erased itself, and then crashed
    the computer. It'll be days before they'll be able to get it going
    again, and there's no way for them to see where we went. They'd
    have to scan all of time."
         "That's what you think," Raymond said. "They'll find us any
    second."
         "You scanned this region yourself during your project,
    Raymond. Did you ever see us here?"
         Raymond started a reply, but stopped, his mouth hanging open.
    "You fools! You idiots!" He turned away from them, raging. "You've
    stranded us here! Here! Look at that village, Elko hasn't even
    invented the wheel yet! Of all the places you could have picked,
    you stranded us in this place!"
         "It's the cradle of civilization," Franz said defensively.
    "Where else would we have greater opportunities? We have all of
    history ahead of us."
         "Idiots!"
         John looked bemused. "Well, I suppose to survive we're going
    to have to start some sort of enterprise. Elko my friend," he
    said, patting him on the shoulder, "let's go build you a pottery
    shop somewhere. Once we get ourselves established, I'll run for
    office." He and Franz laughed. Elko, still dazed, managed a smile.
    They headed off over the hill with Raymond, still cursing and
    grumbling, tagging behind.

                                     #

         It was a year later when a young Elko, awakened from his
    sleep by strange noises, looked out his window and saw the nomads
    and their strange contraption. An oxen driven cart --- on wheels
    --- with the strange markings painted on the side: "John & Franz's
    Traveling Medicine Show" Of course the young Elko couldn't read
    Esperanto. He was fascinated by the wheels though, as the cart
    lumbered past and disappeared into the gloom. He returned to his
    bed and fell asleep, the thought still in his head. Round things
    spinning, turning, moving . . .









                              Wall of Delusion

                          ©2000 by Jerry J. Davis



          Scott Hague couldn't feel the microscopic nanobots tunneling
    through his brain, but he noticed their effect. Every once in a
    while it was like a flashbulb had gone off in his small cell. He
    would jump, startled. The brightness would fade, leaving the
    gray-blue walls, wires, and medical equipment. Sometimes he could
    hear noises that he knew were not there. Voices from the past. His
    mother, his father, an occasional old friend, and ... his dead
    wife. One sound that happened over and over, torturing him, was
    his wife's laugh. It was right in his ear --- he could even feel
    her breath. He would give an involuntary start, and turn to see
    only the unblinking eyes of the monitoring equipment.
          The way Dr. Kline explained the nanobots and what they were
    doing, they sounded like happy little Disney creatures --- like
    microscopic dwarves singing "Whistle While you Work" as they
    tunneled their way though his brain, leaving sparking trails of
    connections. They were building a spider's web network so Dr.
    Kline could plug him in and peer into his memories. After they
    were finished they would die, or go away --- Scott didn't know,
    that part hadn't been explained to him. All he knew was that his
    brain would become compatible with Dr. Kline's computer network,
    and Scott would be reduced to a peripheral.
          Of its own violation, his arms or legs would suddenly give a
    jerk. Out of nowhere, Scott would give a single hiccup. Once his
    vision froze, like his mind had taken a snapshot picture and
    that's all he could see. Before he could worry about it the
    picture was gone, replaced by normal vision. It was annoying, but
    Scott always tried to look on the bright side. There was a good
    30% chance this would kill him. That would be such a relief. Scott
    felt he was the living dead anyway, he had ended his life as he
    knew it just a little over two years before. He had needed three
    shotgun shells, but fate had only given him two.

                                     #

          The clues that something was wrong kept appearing, sad
    little warning signs that Scott had tried to ignore but never
    forgot. A broken shoelace on the bedroom floor that did not belong
    to one of his shoes. A blue bandanna between the bed and the wall
    --- where did that come from? Terri washing the sheets when she'd
    just washed them the day before. Why? Checking under the bed
    because he couldn't find his shoes, discovering a disgusting,
    dried up used condom. They hadn't used condoms since he'd had his
    vasectomy. Could it have been there that long?
          Terri worked nights. Scott worked days. They had four hours
    a day together plus weekends. Scott never saw a problem with it
    until the sad little clues started chipping away at his
    willingness to ignore them. He didn't consciously admit to himself
    the reason why he took a day off from work and didn't tell Terri
    about it. He got up that day and prepped as usual, ate breakfast
    with Terri (it was her dinner), kissed her goodbye and left. Scott
    drove five blocks, parked, and walked back. There was an old
    1950's car parked in his driveway, shiny and lovingly maintained,
    and Scott knew exactly whom it belonged to. It was an intern that
    worked with Terri at the trauma center, a cocky jerk named John
    Wahler. That quick? Scott thought. John must have been sitting in
    his car waiting for me to leave!
          He crept into the house feeling like he was floating,
    feeling light and full of air. Like he was dreaming. He was
    detached, calculating, suspended in utter disbelief. Terri was
    cheating on him? Terri? A side of her he didn't know, his own wife
    ... they shared everything with each other, they told each other
    everything. He loved her with a conscious single-mindedness that
    he felt was pure and joyous. It had never occurred to him to
    mistrust her, to be jealous of her ex-boyfriends --- Scott simply
    accepted and loved her. She was it, his woman, his wife, and his
    life partner. How could it be otherwise with her?
          The bedroom door was open a crack and he peeked in. He heard
    noises, and expected to see him on top of her. It was a shock to
    see them side by side and upside down to each other, pleasing each
    other orally. All he saw was Terri's black hair and John's hairy
    legs.
          It was like a dark mask was pulled down over his face. The
    light seemed to go dim and his vision pulsed and flickered, the
    scene lit by flames. His chest hurt. Scott spun on his heal and
    rushed with terrible purpose to the hall closet, yanked open the
    door, and pulled out a long gun case. The sound of the zipper
    ripping open filled his whole head. He pulled the long, heavy gun
    out and then fumbled with his free hand for the box of shells on
    the top shelf. It rattled as he picked it up. There were only two
    shells. He didn't think about it, he just chambered them with a
    reflexive motion and walked back down the hall.
          "Scott?" It was his wife's voice. It sounded scared and
    startled. "Is that you?"
          He heard scrambling sounds and rustling cloth as he pushed
    the door open. John Wahler was hopping on one foot, trying to get
    into his pants. "Was it worth it?" Scott said to him. He let go
    the first shell, a shocking explosion in a small room. Fire
    blossomed out the muzzle of the long barrel, and skin and blood
    sprayed apart from John's hairy chest. It slammed him into the
    wall, his eyes bulging. Scott didn't see him fall. He turned the
    gun on his wife, who was on the other side of the room, naked, her
    mouth wide open. She was trying to scream but couldn't get enough
    air into her lungs.
          "Was it worth it?" Scott had to shout to hear his voice
    through the loud ringing in his ears. "Was it worth it?" He put
    the barrel right into her pretty face.
          A few seconds after he pulled the trigger, the horror of
    what he'd done wiped away the rage of her betrayal. He turned and
    became violently ill across the gore-spattered bed sheets. Lying
    there, shaking, finding it hard to breathe in the smoky room, he
    bitterly cursed fate for only giving him two shotgun shells.

                                     #

          Scott pleaded guilty and asked for the death penalty. The
    judge called it a crime of passion and gave him 20 years. For the
    first few months in prison all he could think about was how to
    kill himself. Having all that time on his hands and a single
    thought going through his head was worse than death. I deserve
    this, he thought.
          None of the guards or his fellow inmates ever gave him
    trouble. Everyone knew why he was there. It was as if the local
    gang leaders and the warden herself felt badly for him. It was the
    warden who approached him about the medical experiments. When it
    was explained to Scott that there was a possibility the procedure
    would leave him lobotomized or dead, Scott agreed to do it. The
    warden nodded to herself, as if it confirmed what she'd been
    thinking.

                                     #

          The FMA Center in Livermore was a long, four-story glass and
    brick building built in a semicircle, curved around a park with a
    fountain. From his cell window Scott could see the fountain; it
    was usually surrounded by medical personnel standing around in
    small groups, smoking their cigarettes. FMA, Scott learned, stood
    for "Federal Medical Authority." From what he could tell, the sole
    purpose of the FMA Center was for performing mandatory
    sterilization and abortions, and for conducting medical research
    using convicted felons. It was high security with auto-locking
    doors, metal detectors, and video cameras everywhere he looked.
    Scott never came in contact with any of the other prisoners. He
    only saw Dr. Louis Kline and armed guards --- and there were
    always armed guards around Dr. Kline.
          Dr. Kline ran him though a series of medical, psychological,
    and intelligence tests. Scott enjoyed the intelligence tests, as
    they were all trick questions and it appealed to his sense of
    humor. He thought they were funny. He gave a little laugh as he
    answered them, which made Dr. Kline frown. Scott couldn't tell if
    Dr. Kline was mad that he was laughing or because he wasn't
    falling for the tricks in the questions. "I'm going to tell you
    the truth," he said to Scott. "I don't like you."
          "I don't like me either."
          "I know." Kline, who was a small balding man with a gnarled,
    graying beard --- actually more hair on his chin than on his head,
    so that his face looked upside-down --- he looked over the top of
    his glasses at Scott, peering at him with owlish eyes. "I have
    strong reservations using someone with a death wish as a test
    subject. I prefer someone who hopes the experiments succeed."
          "If they do, they do. If not, then---?" Scott shrugged.

                                     #

               The nanobots finished their job. Scott knew before Dr.
    Kline told him, as the annoying flashes, spasms, and images grew
    less frequent then stopped completely. The fruit of their labors
    was a cerebral interface that allowed Dr. Kline to connect Scott's
    brain to a computer network. The idea didn't please him, but he
    was resigned to it. Kline used the interface to load very special
    software into Scott's brain that would give Scott --- and Dr.
    Kline --- complete control and access to Scott's memories. Dr.
    Kline called it a "memory browser."
          Scott closed his eyes and pictured something in his head,
    and there the image was on the computer screen. But also, Scott
    could picture the image of a three-dimensional spring, thick and
    red, looking like it was made out of shiny plastic. It was the
    control for the software. If he willed the spring to spin
    counter-clockwise it would take him back through his memories, and
    spinning it clockwise would bring him forward again. There was a
    numeric counter that had no real relevance except as a reference
    point for Dr. Kline's notes. When the spring was red, Scott saw
    the memories as still images, pictures from his past. Scott could
    will the color to change to green, and then the memories came
    alive.
          He saw Terri when she was twenty. Amazing how vivid the
    vision was --- it was like he was there, he was completely
    reliving the memory. They were at a friend's house, and she was
    being silly and childlike, rolling around on the floor and
    giggling, a bright-eyed, free-spirited dark haired girl. He was
    sitting at the living room table, talking to his friend's father,
    and she was there on the floor at his feet. Looking down at her
    smiling face, he slipped off his sandal and placed his foot on her
    bare midriff. She reached up and took hold of his leg, smiling at
    him, still giggling. It was the moment he fell in love with her.
          Dr. Kline took control; the spring turned red and then spun
    counter-clockwise. Memories were dim, then bright, blurry then
    sharp. Scott's mind had recorded every moment of his life, but the
    quality of the memory was only good when there was some importance
    attached to it. The next bright memory was from a day or so
    earlier. Scott was sitting with Terri and their friend Leo at a
    white metal table beside a swimming pool. The image of the spring
    stopped turning, and changed to green.
          Leo was a small guy, blond and skinny and always smiling. He
    was the one who'd introduced Terri to Scott. They were all dressed
    in tee shirts and shorts, a weekend during spring break. Scott had
    brought them all home to his parent's house from college.
          Another one of their friends, a redheaded guy named Kelly,
    was over in a corner of the yard beside a birdbath. He'd had too
    much to drink and was now on his hands and knees, puking. Scott
    was drunk himself --- as were they all --- he lurched to his feet,
    walking unsteadily along the swimming pool, and knelt by his
    redheaded friend. "You're going to be okay, Kel," he said. Leaning
    over, he put his arm around Kelly's stomach and hugged, supporting
    the stomach muscles as they contracted. He held on, lending
    support, trying to ignore the disgusting sounds and smells.
          Through the waves of alcohol, he heard Leo saying to Terri,
    "I could never do that. He's really strong to do that."
          "He cares," Terri said.
          "He's a good friend."
          Scott felt lifted by the words. Proud. Barfing was a hard
    thing --- he didn't want Kelly to go through it alone. Besides,
    Scott had bought the tequila that was making Kelly barf. It was
    partially his fault.
          The memory froze to an image, and receded away from Scott.
    It was no longer immediate and live. Again he perceived the
    phantom image of the spring, unmoving and red. He opened his eyes
    and saw Dr. Kline across the room tapping at a workstation
    keyboard. One of the two ever-present armed guards was giving
    Scott a strange look.
          "What was the significance of this memory?" the doctor asked
    him. "It's very vivid."
          "Oh…" Scott felt his face flushing. "My wife told me it was
    the moment she fell in love with me."
          "The wife that you killed?" Dr. Kline said. "Interesting."
          Scott opened his mouth to tell him he'd only had one wife,
    just one, just one damn wife. One. But he let out his breath. Why
    be mad at Kline? Kline didn't kill Terri. He swallowed his anger
    and turned it inward, self-hate like needles in his heart.

                                     #

          Alone at night, Scott lay on the cot in his cell and
    mentally fiddled with the software hoping he'd crash it and give
    himself a lobotomy. He would go back five minutes, then back five
    more minutes, then forward five minutes, then back again until he
    got completely lost in his short-term memory, not knowing if he
    was reliving a memory or in the present. The clue, the giveaway,
    was if he willed the spring clockwise until it stopped and
    wouldn't go any further --- that was the present.
          He found he was reliving memories of reliving memories, and
    so on, and so on again, and he kept it up all night, hoping it
    would foul the programming code. Jam it up. Freeze his thoughts
    into some horrible hellish spiral. It didn't work, though. His
    memories of remembering --- no matter how compounded --- were just
    more memories. A guard had told Scott that this was how one of the
    other test subjects had died, going into a catastrophic seizure
    and expiring of heart failure. Unfortunately Dr. Kline must have
    fixed this bug, or the nanobots had done a better job in Scott's
    brain than they did in the other poor bastard's.
          Strange, though. He was lying there, deep in his repetitive
    memory review, and he suddenly got tired and annoyed and he sat up
    and said "Shit!" He got up and walked across the room and then
    back. But he realized this was a memory. He was in a memory. But
    he didn't remember … remembering it. He willed the spring to turn
    clockwise but it wouldn't budge. He was in the present. It was
    like he'd broken out of the memory into the present without
    transition. He was disoriented for a moment, but it quickly faded.
    He brought the memory back so he could review it, experience the
    transition, but there was nothing strange about it … it wasn't
    disorienting in retrospect. Except, oddly, the reference number
    readout jumped several numbers the moment he sat up.
          Scott wondered what that meant.

                                     #

          It was early morning but it was already hot, because this
    was the desert and the sun --- even the morning sun --- was harsh.
    Scott didn't really notice. He was used to it. To a young boy who
    had only known harsh sunlight and dry heat, this was just like any
    other day: he and a friend out in the desert beyond the small
    Tucson suburb where he lived. They were looking for horny toads
    but found a jackrabbit instead. It was trapped under a board, and
    his friend was laying on top the board, pinning the rabbit down.
    It was brown with soft fur. Scott couldn't believe they caught it,
    and he reached under the board and grabbed it by one of its back
    legs and pulled it out, and it kicked like mad and scratched the
    hell out of his arm before he could drop it. He barely saw the
    rabbit run off --- he was staring at the long ragged scratches and
    the blood running down his skin.
          His vision paled, receded. Scott became aware of the red
    spring and the index number. "How old were you here?" Dr. Kline
    asked him.
          "About seven."
          Dr. Kline tapped on his keyboard. He paused, peering long
    and hard at his workstation screen. Scott asked, "What do the
    reference numbers mean?"
          "They're just reference numbers. The lower the number, the
    further back into your memories we are."
          "How did you correlate a number to the age of my memories?"
          Dr. Kline paused, then pushed himself back away from his
    workstation, swiveling around in his chair to face him. "That was
    a very astute question." His eyes narrowed. "Who told you to ask
    me that?"
          "I was just wondering."
          "You were just wondering." Dr. Kline sounded doubtful.
          "Well, yeah," Scott said, "I mean … memories don't seem to
    be sequential things. They seem to be haphazardly stored. And,
    well, it seems unlikely that they're stored with any kind of date
    encoded in them."
          "No, they don't have any kind of encoding at all," Dr. Kline
    said. His voice was dry and deadpan. Suspicious. "What did you do,
    before you murdered your wife? You said you worked in a
    warehouse?"
          "I ran an automated warehouse system."
          "System?"
          "Yeah, I lived and breathed FIFO --- you know. First in,
    first out. My job was to store things and keep track of the date
    they were stored, so that the oldest was pulled first and
    shipped."
          "So, in your mind, you're trying to figure out the human
    brain and memories in the same terms you would storing packages in
    your warehouse?"
          "Well, not exactly, but----"
          "I see where you're coming from now. Okay. This research I'm
    doing, it's rather … delicate. Even though you're the person being
    experimented upon I can't tell you much about what I'm doing and
    what I'm looking for. But I can give you an answer to this… The
    software in your brain is not accessing your memories directly
    though the hippocampus, like other researchers are doing. It's
    going through your temporal perception."
          "My, uh … what's that?"
          "There's a section of your brain that controls your sense of
    time. I can manipulate this time sense to retrieve memories that
    were stored at a specific time."
          "So even though time data isn't recorded with my memories, I
    have a section of my brain that … indexes the memories in a, um …
    sequential log of some sort?"
          Dr. Kline was shaking his head. "That's what I'm trying to
    find out," he said. "It must be … it's working. But part of my
    research is to understand how it's working."
          "That's interesting," Scott said. He wondered if he should
    tell Dr. Kline about the way he was able to cause the reference
    index to skip numbers. "Um…"
          "Let's try going back even further," Dr. Kline said. Before
    Scott could interrupt him, the image of the spring brightened in
    his mind and began spinning counter-clockwise.

                                     #

          Scott's dinner tray always came with a little half-can of
    Coca-Cola. It was never enough, and he figured it was part of his
    punishment. He couldn't have a whole can, only a half-can. And
    they wouldn't give him more.
          In the silent, stale air of his cell, Scott ate his dinner
    mechanically and downed his half-can of soda --- an act that
    always left him wanting more --- and after he finished it, he
    replayed the memory of drinking it. He hoped that in some way it
    would be like drinking more. It didn't work, though, because the
    feelings of wanting were present in the memory. He went back
    again, remembering drinking it for the first time, then
    remembering the memory of drinking it. Still nothing. He went back
    one more time, and out of frustration he poured the soda onto the
    floor instead of drinking it.
          He stared at the foaming puddle of soda on the concrete as
    it spread, wondering how in the hell he'd done it. The empty can
    was in his hand. He looked at it and at the puddle again. I
    changed my memory? he thought. That was weird. Scott tried to will
    the image of the spring clockwise again, but it wouldn't budge.
          He was in the present.

                                     #

          "Of course it's possible to edit your memories," Dr. Kline
    told him. "We do it all the time, even without the intrusive
    software. I knew you'd discover this. I'd been expecting it any
    day now. There was a chance you wouldn't, and I was hoping for
    that … that's why I never brought it up. But now that it's on the
    table so to speak, here's the deal."  Dr. Kline leaned forward and
    spoke in a low, evenly measured voice. "With this software in your
    brain, you can edit yourself right into an impenetrable wall of
    delusion."
          Scott folded his arms across his chest, frowning. He hadn't
    really figured Kline out as a person, his motives, likes and
    dislikes, his quirks --- they were all a mystery to him. But the
    words the man was saying, the inflection in his voice, the
    expression in his eyes … it didn't ring true. "What do you mean?"
    Scott asked him.
          "If you start going back and editing your memories, you will
    cut yourself off from reality and go into a catatonic state. It
    won't help you or me."
          "How would editing my memories do that?"
          "It will change your inner reality and cut it off from outer
    reality."
          "You mean, I'll be insane?"
          "Yes." Dr. Kline fumbled with his watch. "Delusional
    catatonic. Completely turned inward. It's a really bad idea and
    I'm asking you not to do it."
          It occurred to Scott that not only was Dr. Kline lying, but
    also he was frightened. Frightened for Scott? Frightened for
    himself? Frightened that if he lost one more test subject that his
    funding would be cut off? Scott decided to play it safe and
    appease the man. "Okay," he said. "Becoming a delusional catatonic
    doesn't sound like a good idea to me, either."
          "Good," Dr. Kline said. "Good. Good." He nodded. "Good."
          Throughout the rest of their session, Scott's mind was
    unable to focus on what they were doing. He just gave control over
    to the Doctor while he kept hearing the man saying "Good" over and
    over again. Kline must have been able to see it on his computer
    screen, because he kept giving Scott dirty looks. Something was
    definitely up with this wall of delusion thing. Maybe, Scott
    thought, that's my way out. Maybe it doesn't cause insanity as
    much as it causes some sort of fatal brain seizure.
          He could only hope.

                                     #

          There was one glaring memory of Scott's that Dr. Kline never
    visited. Until today, Scott had no wish to relive it either. But
    after his session was over and he'd eaten dinner and downed his
    half-can of Coca-Cola, Scott turned off his light and flopped back
    into the cot and stared up at the ceiling. He took a few deep
    breaths, preparing himself for the trip. The image of the spring
    came to mind, and he turned it counter-clockwise.
          He was taking a morning walk through his old neighborhood,
    up to his house. There was the old 1950's car in the driveway.
    John Wahler's car. Scott already felt the deep, black undercurrent
    of fury. It carried him into the house, down the hall, peering
    into the bedroom. His wife and John Wahler deeply involved in
    mutual oral pleasure. It was too disgusting for her to do with
    Scott, her own husband --- why was it okay to do it with this guy?
    That was it, Scott realized. That's what pushed me over the edge.
    His wife's betrayal was deeper than he'd thought possible, harder
    for him to accept. Impossible to accept. Shut it off, his mind
    just wanted to shut it off.
          The dark veil went down over his eyes. He went for the gun,
    the big old heavy shotgun. Pulled it out of the case, loaded it
    up. I was going to stop this, he thought. I can't stop this. It
    has to be done. The moment demanded it be done. Scott burst into
    the bedroom, more outraged than the first time, screaming and
    pointing the gun. "Was it worth it?" he shouted at them. "Was it
    worth it?"
          "Oh god, no…" John was muttering, holding his hands out as
    if they would block the blast of death, like he was going to catch
    it. "God, no, please … don't, no, please…"
          "Scott," Terri said, breathless, her voice quavering.
    "Scott, no…"
          He swung the gun on her, the barrel right at her face.
    "Well?" he shouted at her. "Was it? Was it worth it?"
          She shook her head. "No … no, it wasn't."
          Scott swung the gun back toward John. John was shaking his
    head, still holding his hands out as if to block the shot. "No,"
    was all he could manage.
          The gun swung back at Terri, then back at John. No, Scott
    thought, it wasn't worth it. It wasn't. It never was. He lowered
    the gun, then swung it around, trying to figure out how to point
    it at himself. He couldn't do it, though --- the barrel was too
    long. In frustration he pumped the two pathetic, unspent shells
    out and dropped the gun on the bed. Looking up at his wife and her
    lover, both of them trembling and completely white, he said, "I'll
    be on the front porch."
          He left the room, walking down the hall and out the front
    door. Sitting on the steps he took deep breaths, trying to calm
    himself. He could hear the two of them arguing with each other but
    their voices were indistinct. It didn't matter. Scott didn't care
    what they were saying. This was all just a delusion anyway.
          Scott summonsed the image of the spring and willed it to
    spin clockwise. Just as he'd hoped --- and feared --- it wouldn't
    spin. As far as the software was concerned, he was in the present.
          After ten minutes or so, Terri and John stepped fully
    dressed out onto the porch behind Scott. Scott turned to see John
    holding the shotgun. It was obvious he'd thrown his clothes on in
    a hurry, as his shirt was only half tucked in and his buttons were
    done up crooked. "You going to shoot me?" Scott asked.
          John shook his head. "I'm just going to hang onto this for a
    while."
          "It was my idea," Terri said.
          Scott nodded. It didn't matter. "You going with him?"
          "Um … I don't know." She looked up at John.
          Scott had to look away. The anger was welling up in him
    again. This really wasn't helping … it didn't relieve his guilt.
    It was just some sort of computer-enhanced fantasy while he lay in
    a coma in his cell.
          "You wouldn't have shot us, would you?" his wife was saying.
    "If we stay to talk this out, you're not going to hurt me are
    you?"
          "Hurt you?" Scott said. He could barely keep the hysteria
    out of his voice.
          She nodded. "We can talk, can't we? Or should I come back?"
          "It doesn't matter. I did shoot you. You're dead."  He
    laughed at her expression. "You're dead!"
          "Maybe I'd better go," she said.
          "You're already gone. You're not even here."  He laughed,
    and it turned to a sob. "I'm not even here."
          Terri and John shared a glance. John's expression was
    unreadable, but Terri's was full of guilt. "You go," she said to
    John. "I'd better stay."
          "It doesn't matter," Scott said to her. "This is too
    pathetic for me to stand. It was a big mistake. I shouldn't have
    done it."  Then he looked at her. "Then again, I deserve it.
    Nothing was worth your life. What I did to you was way out of
    proportion to the little betrayal of yours. I would have killed
    myself, too. I swear it. But what I really should have done was
    just walk away.  I mean, I could have started over again.  It
    would have seemed hard, but compared to what I've been through…"
    He turned away, shaking his head.  "I had no idea what 'hard'
    was."
          John didn't leave, but he did walk over to his car and get
    in, the shotgun on the floor in the back. Scott was aware of him,
    but he was nothing but an annoying little presence far in a
    corner, like knowing there was a fly somewhere in the room. Terri
    had taken his hands in hers and was bent forward, staring hard
    into his eyes. Hers was an expression of worry.  "You haven't done
    anything."  He looked at her and she shook her head.  "You didn't
    do anything.  It's okay."
          "It's okay?"  He snorted. "Okay?"  He looked around him, as
    if he could actually see the wall of delusion --- as Dr. Kline had
    called it --- like it was a pane of thick, marbled glass he was
    trapped behind, unable to see through to reality. "You know, I
    think you really should go with him," Scott said to her. "Just go,
    be with your lover. You were meant to be with each other."  He
    pulled away from her.  "Just go."
          "I don't think I should," she said. "I don't think you
    should be alone right now."
          Scott thought this was funny. "I am alone right now!"  He
    stood up suddenly, and she backed away, startled.  "I'm in a cell
    with wires sticking out of my head! You're dead.  I'm stuck in my
    memories because the government is experimenting with my brain!"
    He laughed at her uncomprehending wide eyes. "Go away!" he yelled
    at her.
          John opened his car door and got out. "Come on," he said to
    her. "You better come with me."
          Scott turned his back on the both of them and walked into
    the house, shutting the door behind him. Once inside he stopped
    and waited.  Why am I doing this? he wondered.  What does it
    matter if she follows me in or not?  He realized he wanted her to
    follow him inside, he wanted her away from that jerk asshole
    bastard.  But as he stood listening, he heard two car doors close
    and then the big rumbling engine erupted to life.  As it drove
    away, Scott wandered into the living room and sat on their
    tattered couch, staring at the wall with a blank mind.

                                     #

          Scott had never seen the front of the medical authority
    building from the outside.  He'd originally arrived from the back
    in a secure bus, which drove into a secure garage area where an
    iron door slammed.  Here in the front was the large fountain with
    at least fifty jets of water making a beautiful interwoven
    pattern. The pool part of the fountain and the ground surrounding
    it was covered with thousands of cigarette butts. White smocked
    people stood smoking and staring at him as he walked past and up
    to the front of the place.
          Inside the front reception area, his appearance made a small
    fuss as it seemed no one ever remembered someone wandering in off
    the street --- there were piles of papers and files everywhere,
    Styrofoam cups, and Coke bottles. A gruff woman who was obviously
    not a receptionist said, "Can I help you?"
          "I need to see Dr. Kline.  I'm one of his test subjects."
          "Oh!" She looked around as if she'd lost something. "Go sit
    down over there," she said, indicating a dingy set of gray plastic
    chairs, "I'll give his office a call."
          Scott sat down and waited, wondering if he'd really thought
    his actions through. His mind was coming up with all this detail?
    He looked at the dirty cups half-full of coffee, and the dead
    flies on the windowsill.  If I was deluded, or dreaming, he
    thought, would everything seem so real to me?  He pulled a piece
    of paper off of the table in front of him and read it over.  Then
    he put it down for a moment, then picked it up and read it again.
    It said the same thing, exactly.  Scott remembered seeing a TV
    program that said if you were dreaming and tried to read, the
    words would be changing constantly because the words were actually
    just thoughts in your head.  Maybe this delusion is different than
    dreaming? he thought.  I am probably reading this paper for real,
    but I'm actually somewhere other than where I think I am.  I might
    be in Dr. Kline's office right now.
          Dr. Kline showed up, looking different than Scott remembered
    him. His beard wasn't as long. "You've trimmed your beard," Scott
    told him.
          The doctor took a good long look at him. "Who are you?"
          "I'm one of your test subjects."
          "I don't think so."
          "I edited my memory --- just like you told me not to do ---
    and I'm trapped behind a wall of delusion, just like you said I
    would be."
          Dr. Kline's eyes narrowed. "You edited your memory?  How
    exactly did you do that?"
          "You know, the memory browser.  The little spring in my
    head."
          Dr. Kline looked around the room, his expression flustered.
    "You'd better come with me," he said in a low voice.
          Scott got up and followed Dr. Kline through a secure set of
    doors and into the restricted areas beyond.  This was familiar ---
    it was just like he remembered it --- but this time there were no
    armed guards trailing them.
          "What is today's date?" Dr. Kline asked casually.
          "I'm not really sure," Scott said. "I know it's
    March-something."
          "What year?"
          "Twenty-seventeen."
          They reached his office, and Dr. Kline opened the door and
    motioned him to enter. Once inside and the office door was closed,
    Dr. Kline said, "What memory did you edit to get yourself where
    you are now?"
          "I went back and un-killed my wife."
          "How did you do that?"
          "I threw the gun down instead of using it."
          "Your murder of your wife is how you ended up here in the
    first place?"
          "Yes."
          "Have a seat," Dr. Kline told him. He took his own place
    behind his cluttered desk. "If you go back and review your
    memories right now using the browser, can you get back here to the
    MA building?"
          "No, I can't. When I go back to the point where I edited my
    memory, it simply keeps going back earlier. And the index numbers
    jump by about four-thousand."
          "Jesus Christ," Dr. Kline said.  He was staring at Scott in
    what looked like awe.  After several seconds of not saying
    anything, he suddenly smiled.  "I want to thank you for coming
    here to tell me this. You've helped me tremendously."
          "Is there a way to get me back to reality?"
          Dr. Kline leaned forward. "I'm going to tell you this just
    once.  I'm not going to admit to anyone I've said it, if you
    repeat it I'll call you a liar and a whacko.  They'll believe me,
    too, as I ought to know what insane is when I see it. You are not
    behind a wall of delusion. You are in the present right now. The
    year is twenty-fifteen and you have not committed the crime that
    originally got you here."
          "How can that be?"
          "I'll put it simply.  The time/space continuum we exist in
    is not a flowing thing. It's just a thing. Our perception of time
    is a feature of biology, not physics.  By altering your time
    sense, we altered where you were in the space/time continuum."
          "I … I don't understand."
          "You are where you perceive you are." Dr. Kline tapped on
    his desk with his finger. "If you perceive you are here, this is
    where you are."
          "But if the space/time continuum is a thing and not a flow,
    how can I change it?"
          "I don't know. That's one of the things I'm trying to find
    out." Dr. Kline stood up. "Since you didn't commit your murder, I
    advise you to go out and make your life a better place.  If you
    show up again here, or start telling people your story, I'll have
    you committed in a mental institution and perform a lobotomy on
    you.  Do we have an understanding?"
          Scott slowly stood up, his eyes on Dr. Kline. The man was
    serious --- he could see it. "Yeah, we have an understanding."
          "Good.  I'll escort you to the door."

                                     #

          Terri showed up later that night. The house was dark, and
    Scott had all the windows open so there was a breeze blowing
    through the rooms, fluttering the curtains. He could hear the wind
    chimes on the back porch. When she showed up and said, "Hi Scott,"
    he didn't know what to say.  It was suddenly all different.  He
    had a question to ask her but he didn't want to just blurt it out.
          "John's not here," she said.  "I came to see how you're
    doing."
          There was just enough light for him to see her; a diffuse
    glow that flowed and ebbed as the wind moved a tree branch in
    front of a street light.  She was wearing a familiar white summer
    dress.  Her hair was up, exposing her long graceful neck. I killed
    her, Scott thought.  I blew her face right off.  I wish I could
    edit my memories, I could cut that whole scene out and forget it.
    Of course, it's still possible that I am --- even now --- behind a
    wall of delusion.  But if I can't tell the difference, why worry
    about it?
          "Are you okay?" she asked him.
          "I'm better," he said.  "I guess I went over the edge there
    for a while, but I'm back."
          "I really didn't want this to happen," she said. "Things
    just got out of control."
          Here it is, Scott thought.  An opportunity.  He composed his
    question for the moment, hoping it wasn't too out of left field.
    "I need to know something," he said to her.  "Is there a mistake I
    made, or something I did wrong, that caused this? Something that
    happened?"
          "I don't know."
          "Think," he said, unable to keep the tension out of his
    voice. "Remember when you told me the moment you fell in love with
    me?  Was there a moment when you fell out of love with me?"
          "I never fell out of love with you," she said.  "I just
    succumbed to temptation."
          "Is there something I could have done to prevent that?"
          "It never was something you did or didn't do."
          "Nothing at all?"
          "It's more that you have a day shift and I have a night
    shift."  She gave a low laugh.  It sounded sad.  "I'm late for
    work as it is right now."
          "I remember," Scott said.  "I remember the discussion we
    had, when we decided it would be okay for you to take a night
    shift."
          "Yes," Terri said.  "I guess that was our mistake."
          He suddenly grabbed her, startling her, but he gave her a
    big kiss. "That's it!" he said.  "We'll give that a try!"
          "I don't understand," Terri said.
          "It's okay," Scott told her. "You don't need to
    understand."  He had his eyes closed, picturing the phantom spring
    in his head, and as he did he willed it to turn counter-clockwise.

    -------------------------------------------------------------------







                                 S C U B A
                          © 1998 by Jerry J. Davis

         Thirty stories up, sitting next to a wall-sized window
    staring out at the dirty Chicago rain, Jack sat at a long table
    with tense men and women who listened to each other with the
    intensity of sharks smelling blood. The rain, the murky air . . .
    it reminded Jack of the ocean at 85 fathoms; dark, grey, barren.
    The animal life imitating plant life. Jack stared out the window
    and tried to pretend he wasn't in a three piece Italian wool suit
    that made him chafe and itch.
         "Jack," a voice said.
         He blinked, and turned toward the people in the room.
    Everyone was staring at him. "Yes?" he said.
         A few muttered in disgust, the rest looked bored. There were
    business suits, long and short hair; blond, brown, black; some
    faces had glasses, others had carefully trimmed beards and
    mustaches. Eyes darted, roamed, stared un-focused. The man
    conducting the meeting had gone prematurely gray, had sharp blue
    eyes, glasses, sharp nose and chin. Wrinkles were beginning to
    form along his hollow cheeks. "Your department's phone bill," he
    said to Jack.
         "What about it?"
         "You haven't been listening. I would appreciate it if you'd
    pay attention here."
         "Sorry," Jack muttered. "I've been working late."
         "Working late? On what?"
         Jack didn't have an answer. It had been a spontaneous lie, he
    had nothing to back it up. Long, silent seconds proclaimed his
    guilt.
         Neil Cromwell smiled. "Go get some coffee and when you're
    awake I'll talk to you in my office. You've got . . ." he glanced
    at his watch ". . . twenty-five minutes."
         Jack felt his cheeks burning. It was like being sent out of
    class for being a bad boy. "I'll be okay," he said. "What were you
    asking me?"
         "No. I'll talk to you later. Go on, you're dismissed."
         Jack got up and walked around the table, ignoring the looks
    he was being given. Pushing the door open, passing through,
    letting it close itself behind him.

                                     #

         He stopped at the coffee machine and noticed the new girl,
    the blonde, and realized she was smiling at him. What was her
    name? Christie? Looked like a soap-opera princess, all T&A plus
    make-up and mousse. "Pour you some coffee?" she asked.
         "Yes, thank you." He took one of the company cups, held it
    out as she poured.
         "You need this stuff really bad?"
         "It shows, doesn't it."
         "A little." She smiled again, all her pearly whites shining
    up at him. This baffled Jack. If she wanted to make it by seducing
    key executives, she was picking the wrong guy.
         "My wife usually makes me a pot before I leave," he told her,
    making an emphasis on the word "wife." "I have a little thermos
    and I finish it during the commute downtown."
         "Really, you shouldn't depend on coffee so much as a
    stimulant," she said. "What you need is vitamin B-12."
         "Yeah, I remember B-12. I used to take a lot of vitamins when
    I was diving."
         "Diving?"
         "I used to be a diving instructor. Scuba diving."
         "Oh?" She seemed very interested. "How did you get from there
    to here?"
         Jack grimaced. "It's a long story," he said, and turned to
    leave.
         "There's no short version?" she asked, following him.
         "Well . . . DGD Corp bought my father's family business, and
    I came with the deal."
         "They bought your diving school?"
         "Oh, no, it was the Harvest division, my father's company.
    They wanted him to keep running it, but he was too ill by that
    time. I was signed in his place."
         "So you've got a contract with the company?"
         "Yes."
         "So they can't fire you, can they?"
         "Not for a few more years, at least. When the contract
    expires." He stopped and looked at her suspiciously. "Why would
    they fire me?"
         "No reason I can think of." She winked at him, then walked
    off toward whatever mysterious position she'd been hired for.

                                     #

         He passed through the commons, which was filled with people
    in their cubicles, and entered his office. His position rated a
    office and a receptionist, but they'd laid his receptionist off.
    He now shared a secretary with 5 other men in the sales
    department, and all she did was litter his desk with "While You
    Were Out" memos. He sifted through them, sending the majority
    fluttering into the waste basket. Bill collectors, people wanting
    money. They called all day.
         Jack closed his office door behind him, sat in solitude at
    his desk with his coffee. He was going to have to start seeing the
    psychologist again, he could feel the panic coming on. Deep
    breathing and meditation weren't enough anymore; he was out of
    control. The sensations of sinking and drowning were coming back.
         He sat and stared out the window, fighting it.
         It was ghosts, he knew. Real ghosts. Ghosts were the cause of
    his problems.
         Jack knew there was such a thing as ghosts. He could prove
    it, he had physical evidence in his wallet. The money in his
    wallet, the money he and his wife spent on groceries, it was ghost
    money. It was money that wasn't really there.
         His wife Peggy, Miss Cameron Cove of 1992, didn't understand.
    She saw money in the account, she saw a deposit that was his
    paycheck, and she thought they had money and so she would spend
    it. She couldn't understand that it was money that was already
    spent, already gone. She spent more. He spent more, because he had
    no choice; they must continue living. Now checks were bouncing,
    bills were going unpaid for months, and still he kept slipping
    behind. It was out of control.
         Yesterday a nice young woman came into his office and asked
    if he were Jack Buchman. He admitted he was --- he felt no reason
    to hide anything from her, he took her to be one of his wife's
    friends --- and the woman handed him an envelope and rushed out of
    his office as if it were about to explode. It was a summons, he
    was being sued. His car payments were behind and the finance
    company had lost its patience. It would probably be repossessed
    any day now.
         Jack had an attack right after the woman had left. He felt he
    couldn't breathe, like he was literally drowning. He came to his
    senses sometime later, found himself on the floor behind his desk.
    He had passed out.
         It was $60 to see the psychologist. Cash, up front. His
    psychologist knew why Jack was having problems and didn't intend
    on become one of them (he said). Jack figured he could be telling
    the truth, but really he believed that the $60 was more important
    to the psychologist than Jack's mental stability.

                                     #

         Outside his office window it was as murky as Cameron Reef.
    Dirty rain poured down on gray concrete leaving gray streaks on
    windows, dissolved traces of the building itself. The rain ate
    away at the stone, at the pavement; it ate away at Jack's car,
    seven months old and already the paint was faded, oxidized from
    the acid in the air. Jack stared at the rain, but in his mind he
    was seeing Cameron Reef at 85 fathoms, the deepest dive he'd ever
    made. At 85 fathoms the ocean was black, the water cold and murky
    with plankton and dead matter that drifted down from the surface
    to the cold, motionless bottom. The bottom was gray, soft mud
    lumped together in shapes from the subconscious mind --- it looked
    like the place your soul goes to when it dies, the soul resting
    like a lump of mud next to the other lumps of mud, dead,
    featureless, undisturbed for millennia.
         It was during that dive that Jack had an attack of nitrogen
    narcosis, almost killing him. He hadn't gone diving since. He had
    fully intended on going back down --- nothing in his mind was
    telling him to give up diving --- but this was when his father
    sold the company due to illness and had sent for Jack to help. Now
    he was here in Chicago, trapped, instead of going back and
    challenging the reef. Jack sipped his coffee, staring out the
    window. He preferred the reef, narcosis and all; narcosis was, at
    least, an enemy that could be anticipated.

                                     #

         Jack's boss, Neil Cromwell, was a giant in his own mind. When
    he closed his eyes and pictured himself he saw this enormous,
    inflated figure, like a parade float, sitting in a giant chair at
    a fifty-foot desk while everyone else in his sight went about
    their jobs at his feet. They were tiny, fragile little people who
    all scurried about carrying out his will.
         When Neil pictured Jack Buchman in his mind, he saw an
    anomaly, a misshapen cancerous figure that didn't belong, bigger
    than the others but still dwarfed by himself, a flaw in the
    perfection of his world. Jack knocked on Neil's door and let
    himself into Neil's office, and Neil stared at him the same way
    he'd stare at the one last remaining piece of a puzzle that would
    not fit into its hole. "You're fifteen minutes late," he snapped
    at Jack.
         "I'm sorry." Jack looked pre-occupied. He looked sick, there
    was no color in his face.
         "You know, Jack, you're just not cut out for this job.
    There's no reason in the world that you have to stick with it."
         "I have a contract that says I have to stick with it."
         Neil sighed. "I'm more than willing to let you out of the
    contract."
         "I thought I came here to get my ass chewed about a phone
    bill."
         "You're here to get your ass chewed for being a fool. You're
    not doing yourself any good by staying in this position, you're
    not doing your division any good, and you're in my way."
         "Oh, power games."
         "I've got ways of getting you out of here, Jack. I can play
    hardball." He stared at Jack intensely, trying to sear him with
    his eyes. His stare did not have the desired effect.
         "If you got ways, go ahead and use them," Jack said. "I can't
    sell my father's stock, and that's it." He shrugged, and was
    silent for a moment. "You want to know the truth? I want out as
    much as you want me out, but I'm trapped. My father was a very
    dominant man, worse than you. I was always fighting to live my own
    life, but somehow I always ended up living for him. He's had
    absolute power over me all my life, and when he started getting
    sick and decided to sell out I thought, this is it, this is my
    chance to get out of the way. I was in college studying to be a
    marine biologist. But he put me in his place in the contract. When
    he was on his deathbed I thought, finally I will be free of him. I
    was glad he was dying, it was time for him to die. I thought it
    was proper of him to refuse to go to the hospital. But on his
    deathbed he tells me, 'Watch over the company,' he says, 'It's
    part of me, it's been my life. As long as the company is alive,
    I'll be alive.' Then he died. Any other person who dies, dies. But
    not him. He's still here. He is this division of DGD, he is
    Harvest. He still has absolute power over my life. Still."
         "You're talking nonsense."
         "He's here. His ghost is here."
         "Ghosts." Neil half-chuckled. "You've got more to worry about
    than ghosts."
         "I can prove to you that ghosts exist."
         "Get out of my office," Neil said, suddenly irritable. "Go
    on, get out of here." In his mind he saw himself pushing this
    little misshapen out of his immediate area, out into the broader
    range of his sphere of influence. With Jack out of his office, he
    picked up the phone and dialed his new employee. In his mind he
    saw his enormous inflated hand nudging a figure with exaggerated
    breasts, setting it into action. It made its way though his sphere
    of influence to carry out his will.

                                     #

         Jack spent the rest of the day falsifying receipts to turn in
    for an expense reimbursement. The woman he turned it in to looked
    at it skeptically but made no comment. He ducked out of the office
    a half-hour early and headed for his car, only to find that
    another car had wrecked into it. He stopped and stood motionless
    in the acid rain, unbelieving. He would not have been surprised to
    find the car missing, taken by the repo men --- but to find it
    sitting there with a giant dent in the driver's side door was a
    shock. The car that had hit his was still there, its driver
    waiting.
         She saw him and got out of her car to talk. It was the new
    girl, Christie. She was crying. "I'm sorry. Mine's a rental, it
    came with insurance. I'll make sure yours is fixed."
         "The whole side of my car is bashed-in."
         "I know, I'm sorry. This rain, it made the road slick, and
    the front wheels slid. I'm sorry." She walked up and grabbed his
    hands, holding them. She stared into his eyes, her expression
    asking for forgiveness. She was so earnest that he suddenly felt
    bad for her.
         "Are you okay?" he asked her.
         "I'm really shaken up." He could feel her tremble, it wasn't
    a lie. "I really need a drink," she said. "Let me buy you a drink.
    Don't say no."
         Jack helped her push her car into a parking place near his
    and then walked with her to a bar at the top of the Hilton
    building a few blocks away. By the time they were seated both were
    soaking wet with the rain. To Jack it felt like salt water. It was
    heavy, thick, and stayed cold. He ordered double martinis for both
    of them and wondered how he was going to explain this to his wife.
         "This is so nice of you," Christie was telling him. "I hope
    you're not mad at me."
         "No, I'm not mad." Truth was he wasn't; the shock of the
    situation had knocked him out of his rut. Not only was she paying
    for the drinks, there was a good chance her insurance company
    might pay off the car.
         Christie's hair hung in wet, blond spikes down over her face.
    Her mascara had run just a little, and somehow it was sexy,
    intimate. Jack didn't want her to fix it. He only half-listened as
    she explained over and over again about the rental car, and how
    she had wrecked. He felt light, relaxed. They ordered drinks
    again, and then again.
         At some hazy point Jack noticed a change. Christie had
    started picking invisible flecks of lint off his suit, and he had
    been compelled to compliment her on her ear rings, and then the
    color of her eyes. They had admitted to each other verbally and
    openly that they were getting along quite well. Jack knew these
    were the warning signs, but he was ignoring them. He was quite
    conscious of himself ignoring them, but he couldn't bring himself
    to care. It's like nitrogen narcosis, he thought. Drunk on air,
    oblivious to immediate danger. He put his fourth martini glass
    down, empty, and thought he'd had enough. I should be leaving, he
    thought. I should go call my wife. Instead he sat there, letting
    it continue.
         They were facing each other on the bar stools. Their legs
    were touching. She leaned forward and kissed him. "We have a lot
    in common," she said. "We both want to be somewhere else."
         Jack thought, In bed?
         "You want to be diving again, and I always wanted to act. You
    know, this is neat. I feel like I've known you for a long time."
         "Same here," Jack said. "I feel it too." He did, vaguely. He
    didn't know if he felt that way simply because she suggested it,
    but it was there.
         "I spent several years in Hollywood, you know, trying to be
    'discovered.' I got a few jobs doing commercials, nothing much."
         The bar tender wanted to know if they wanted more. Christie
    ordered refills without asking Jack. Jack thought, what the hell,
    one more is okay. "You ever been married?"
         "Yes. I married a born-again Christian. That was a long time
    ago, I was too young to get married."
         Jack waited for her to ask about his marriage. She didn't.
    "Any children?" he asked.
         "No. When I was married I got pregnant. I couldn't handle it,
    I freaked out. I had too many plans, too much to do, you know?
    That's when I left him. I left him, got an abortion, moved out to
    Hollywood. When the divorce went through I didn't even get alimony
    . . . but I left him, he didn't leave me. I didn't care, really, I
    was just glad to get out of it."
         "And Hollywood didn't work out."
         "It could have. I enjoyed it when I did work. But I had to
    support myself so I got this job, and the job took over my life.
    Had to be upwardly mobile, you see. Now here I am in Chicago. I
    guess the next step is New York."
         "Ever act locally?"
         "I don't have the time, anymore. Maybe after this job I'll be
    able to save up enough . . ." She shrugged, finished her drink.
    "I'll be right back," she said, standing up. "I've got to find the
    little girl's room." She walked off, her hips swaying back and
    forth, back and forth.
         "I've got to get out of here," Jack mumbled to himself. He
    looked at his watch. It was almost 9 o'clock, he should have
    called his wife. She was going to be worried. Jack started to get
    off the barstool but stopped, hanging on the edge. He pulled
    himself back up, settling back in. He couldn't call her. He had no
    idea of what to tell her.
         This is bad, he thought. This is no longer innocent. I've got
    to go. Still, he didn't move. It felt safe, it felt like he'd
    escaped the pressures, that they couldn't find him where he was.
    Christie walked around the corner and right up to him, putting her
    arms around his neck and kissing him. When she pulled back she
    showed him something in her hand, a hotel key with a bright orange
    tag. She dangled it right in front of his face. Her eyes were
    bright, glassy things, full of joy. She was smiling so warmly.
    Jack slid off the bar stool and followed where she led.

                                     #

         The room was very nice. It was large, warm, and totally dark
    when the curtains were pulled. Despite being in a building with a
    population equaling that of most small mid-western towns, it was
    utterly silent.
         They were naked on top of the covers, she was curled against
    him on the side opposite the door. Their hands still ran up and
    down each other's bodies, caressing warm skin and nerves still
    tingling. Warm air blew down from a vent in the ceiling, a breath
    of luxury.
         "We ought to send up for champagne," she said. "I love
    champagne. I love expensive champagne. The more expensive it is,
    the more I love it."
         "My father loved this really expensive champagne from France
    that came in a black bottle. He could only get it every other
    year, because it was a very small vineyard. Sometimes he'd have it
    flown over special order. I remember the last year he did that the
    bill was more than a vacation cruise."
         "Your father was rich. Did you inherit it all?"
         "No. I just inherited all his problems. Champagne and cigars
    were the only things he ever spent money on, other than his
    company. He was always pouring money back into it. Now all that
    money is shares of DGD stock."
         "How did he die? In bed with a blond?" She nudged him.
         Jack laughed. "No, it's funnier than that. He died of
    pneumonia because he didn't believe he was sick enough to go to a
    hospital." But that's not the truth, he thought. Dad knew he was
    going to die. I think he wanted to die. I think that after all
    those years he couldn't handle it anymore. He wanted out.
         There was an odd scratching sound. A key in a lock. Before
    Jack could react the room door swung wide open and a man with an
    auto-advance camera and an electronic flash was taking seven
    pictures per second. Jack froze in shock. Christie reacted in a
    strange way; she climbed half over him with her body and posed in
    sexual positions.
         The roll of film exposed, the man dashed out the door,
    slamming it behind him. Christie pushed herself off of Jack and
    slid into the darkness away from him. The room was again quiet,
    and seemed even darker than before. Horrible, blotchy afterimages
    of the flash haunted Jack's eyes. The warm air blowing down on him
    now seemed like the sickly breath of a giant, inflated menace.
         "I'm so sorry, Jack," Christie said in a small voice, lost in
    the dark. "I like you. I'm sorry this happened."
         Jack said nothing. The pressure was returning, the air
    bubbling away. He felt it like a pressure on his face, like a
    diving mask being shoved into his cheeks and forehead by the
    overwhelming pressure.
         "The job I took when I was in Hollywood was as a pornographic
    actress," Christie was saying. "I'm a very good actress, I could
    have made it, but I've never had the will power to stay on that
    great straight and narrow, you know? From there I began working
    conventions, I was a 'escort' girl. That was three to five hundred
    dollars a night, Jack. I couldn't turn that down, I was starving.
    Out here in Chicago I get more, much more. I'm a star here, Jack.
    Isn't that strange? I'm a star."
         Jack was drowning. He was literally drowning. The air had
    turned to water, and it was in his throat.
         "Don't hate me," Christie said.
         Jack scrambled in a panic to the bathroom, bumping into walls
    and tripping. In the bathroom he closed the door and turned on the
    light. He stared at himself in the mirror; naked, beaded with
    water. His eyes bulged. He vomited salt water into the sink,
    vomited, vomited. It kept coming out, it seemed it would never
    end.
         His career was dead, his car wrecked, his marriage stained.
    In all these years he had never cheated on his wife. He couldn't
    handle it. He couldn't believe he'd let himself do something like
    this.
         Christie was knocking on the door. He could hear her muffled
    voice coming through. "Are you okay? Jack? Hello, Jack?"
         He fell back against the wall, slid to the floor. His breath
    came in raw rasps. The room was rocking with the swells of the
    ocean. Clothes, he thought. Dress. He stood up, wavering, and
    opened the door, pushing past Christie without a word. She had
    turned on the lights and put on her clothes. He wandered
    frantically from place to place gathering his together and putting
    them on.
         "You do hate me," she said. "Don't you."
         "Did you wreck my car on purpose?"
         "Yes."
         "Then, yes, I do hate you."
         She nodded, and turned and walked out of the room.

                                     #

         Jack reached his car and stopped, staring at the dent. It was
    large and horrible, made the car look like junk. The parking place
    beside his where he and Christie had pushed her car was empty. He
    stood there, staring.
         The rain had stopped and now it was getting bitterly cold. I
    hate Chicago, he thought. We're moving back to Florida, goddamn
    it. I don't care how, we're just going to get in the car and go.
         Jack had to get in on the passenger side because the driver's
    side door would not open. He was dizzy and light headed. It was
    hard to do anything because the ocean swells were throwing him off
    balance. The bulge on the inside of the driver's door elbowed him
    over; it was like trying to drive with a midget sitting to the
    left of him. The car started, thank god. He put it into gear and
    pulled out of the parking lot, on onto the street.
         It was past 10:00 PM and the traffic was light. The
    expressway took him into the suburbs and within minutes he was
    home. What am I going to tell her? he thought. She's going to
    know. I didn't call, and I smell like sex. What am I going to tell
    her?
         He pulled into the driveway and stopped, shutting off the
    engine. The ocean swells were bad here, large, as if blown by a
    storm. I ought to get away from the house and throw out a sea
    anchor, he thought. Jeeze, that's crazy, I'm in a car. I'm in a
    car. This is not a boat.
         He sat there holding onto the steering wheel, and a large
    wave broke over the hood and washed over the windshield. Then the
    car tipped sickeningly and the water washed over the windshield
    again, but this time did not run off. Oh god, he thought. The car
    is sinking. I'm under water and the car is sinking. Oh god.
         He tried the door handle but the door wouldn't budge. The
    pressure is holding it closed, he thought. The pressure's going to
    crush this car like an aluminum can. His shoes and legs felt wet,
    he looked down to see water rising from the floor boards. He tried
    the door again, but there was no way he was going to be able to
    open it. The window, he thought. Go though the window.
         He turned the crank and water came streaming in, and the
    further the window went down the harder it pressed him into the
    seat. He was stomach down, holding his breath. The water poured
    over him. The car began to sink even faster. Jack could feel it in
    his guts, the feeling of falling, sinking. He hung on until the
    car was completely filled, then pulled himself through the window
    and swam up, fighting the suction of the sinking car. He could
    feel it dragging him down after it, but he fought, pulling himself
    up and to the side with sharp thrusts, and then he was rising.
         The water around him was as black as outer space. His first
    thought was that he was deep, very deep, but then he remembered it
    was night time and that it would be black all the way up to the
    surface. I just have to keep my breath, he thought. Relax
    everything but my legs, and kick, kick, kick. Hold that breath.
    You can do it. You can hold it for a minute and a half. You can
    hold it longer if you have to.
         Already his lungs were burning. It had been a long, long time
    since he'd last held his breath for a minute and a half. The water
    was cold, very cold. It was numbing his legs so that he couldn't
    tell if he were still kicking. He felt them with his hands to make
    sure.
         His chest was beginning to spasm with the need to breathe.
    Don't panic, he thought. Panic and you drown. You'll drown 5 feet
    from the surface, you idiot. Keep swimming. Just keep going.
         He broke surface just next to a capsized ship, a triangular
    wooden hull coated with barnacles and sea-growth. Storm waves were
    tossing the ship like a toy, the wind whipping water into a froth
    that flew into the air. His father was halfway up there, hanging
    on. Enraged, Jack crawled gasping up the barnacle-encrusted wood,
    his fingers digging in, wood under his fingernails. "You did it!"
    he yelled, gasping, at his father. "You did this!"
         His father was old and weak. He began to slide off into the
    water.
         "You did this on purpose! You want to die!"
         His father moaned, still sliding.
         "Don't you?"
         His father was in the water now, sinking.
         "Dad! Dad?"
         There was the waves and the wind, and flashes of lightning.
         "You're already gone!" Jack screamed. "You're a ghost,
    goddamn it! A ghost! Why don't you stay dead!"
         The storm wind howled and whistled, almost as if it were
    speaking.
         "Jack?" a voice said.
         "What?" Jack looked around, startled. It was his wife's
    voice.
         "Jack? Jack?"
         Jack looked down at his wife. Peggy was standing on the lawn,
    looking up at him. He was clinging to the mossy shingles of the
    roof, soaking wet and shivering from the cold.
         "Jack, please come down." She was standing there in her
    nightgown and a robe, her arms folded across her chest against the
    cold. Her eyes were desperately worried, and she looked like she
    was fighting to remain calm.
         "I'm . . . I'm not well, Peg."
         "I know, sweetheart. It's okay. Please come down off the
    roof."
         "I'm getting crazy again, it's worse than ever."
         "It's okay, sweetheart. We'll work on it, just don't fall off
    the roof."
         "I wrecked the car."
         "I don't care. I want you safe in the house. When I get you
    safe in the house we'll talk."
         "We're going in the morning, Peg," he said, edging toward the
    side of the house. "I don't care what it takes, we're going back
    to Florida. We're leaving."
         "That's fine, that's wonderful. Please be careful."
         "I'll go to the office tomorrow, straighten everything out,
    and then we'll leave." He had reached the edge, and was
    tentatively feeling for a place to put his foot on the fence.
    Peggy reached up and guided his foot to a secure foothold. "Let
    them repossess everything. We'll make a fresh start."
         He made it down and she hugged him, then quickly led him
    inside. In the bedroom she helped him off with his sopping wet
    clothes. They smelt of sea water. She wrapped him in his long,
    thick terry cloth robe and gave him a hot brandy with honey and
    lemon. He sat on the bed with the television on, sipping on the
    brandy. "Thank you, honey. Thank you. I feel a lot better now."
         The phone rang, and she went off in the next room to answer
    it. A moment later she came back in and turned the television
    volume down. "It's for you," she said. "It's Neil Cromwell."
         Jack put the hot brandy down so he wouldn't spill it; his
    hands had started shaking. He swallowed, looking at their beside
    phone. You incredible bastard, he thought.
         "Want me to tell him you're asleep?" Peggy asked.
         "No," Jack said. He was afraid of what Cromwell might say to
    her if she got back on the phone with him. Jack reached out and
    picked up the receiver. "What?" he said.
         "Hi Jack. How're you feeling?"
         "What do you want?"
         "I told you I had ways, Jack. The photographer was mine."
         "I'm going to turn you into the police."
         "You can't prove anything, and you're wife will still find
    out what happened."
         Jack looked up at Peggy. She was staring at him. He could say
    nothing more to Cromwell, he could hardly breathe let alone talk.
    It was happening again.
         "We'll talk about it in the morning, Jack," Cromwell said.
    "Eight o'clock sharp, my office." The phone clicked, and the dial
    tone rang in his ear.
         Jack dropped the phone and sprang out of bed toward the
    closet, sliding open the right-side door and dragging out his
    diving gear. Heavy metal bottles full of air clanged and clunked
    as he hastily made connections. His wife sat on the floor with
    him, holding him and rocking as he pulled desperate breaths from
    the regulator. He made more connections, opened valves, and handed
    one to her. She took it, put it to her mouth and breathed.

                                     #

         Neil Cromwell opened the envelope and spread the color 8 X
    10's across his desk. Beautiful pictures. Beautiful woman. Jack
    Buchman looked like a child under her. His skin was so white in
    the glare of the flash pictures that he looked like a gawky little
    teenager who was raised underground by moles. Christie had phoned
    him last night when she got the room, and he'd sent the
    photographer right over. The photographer had developed the
    pictures immediately and delivered them this morning at sunrise.
         In his mind Cromwell saw them scurrying about on the floor at
    his feet, little wind-up people, one with a camera and one with
    large breasts. They were pushing the anomalous, misshapen figure
    of Jack Buchman off of the playing board. Out of the game! he
    thought, and laughed.
         He looked at his watch. It was 8:00 AM sharp. Any second now,
    he thought. Any second . . .
         At 8:20 AM Cromwell was fuming. In his head he was kicking
    the misshapen balloon-like character of Jack Buchman around the
    room, bouncing him off walls and the furniture, but there wasn't a
    sharp enough object anywhere to rupture him . . .
         Damn it, he thought. Where are you? He's doing this just to
    make me angry. He'll show up. He's not that big a fool.
         At 8:40 AM Cromwell was getting depressed. He was concluding
    that Jack was not going to show up, and that he was going to have
    to go through with the ugly business of displaying copies of the
    photographs to Jack's wife. He was scooping the photos up and
    dismally putting them back in the manila envelope when he heard
    someone in the outer offices let out a sharp exclamation, and then
    laughter. The laughter grated on his nerves. He got up and went to
    the door, opening it. His receptionist was gone. Grim-faced and in
    an evil temper he tramped out into the common to find everybody in
    the office crowded around someone in a full frogman outfit. The
    frogman was walking slowly toward Cromwell's office, his every
    step making a flopping sound and his breathing amplified to where
    it sounded like a steam gate switching one way then another;
    keessshh-pooooo, keessshh-pooooo . . .
         The frogman was Jack Buchman. Cromwell was dumbfounded. This
    is inexcusable, he thought. I must regain control of this
    situation.
         "Okay everyone, Jack's little joke is funny but it's over
    now," Cromwell said. "I would like you all to get back to work,
    and you," he said to Jack, "I want you in my office right now!"
         Jack plodded toward him, his enormous flippers making the
    most ridiculous noise. He entered Cromwell's office amid
    child-like giggles from the secretaries and sales people. Cromwell
    closed the door behind him, cutting off the sound. For a moment
    while he stood beside Jack in the silence he considered ripping
    the face mask off Jack's face. He finally decided he was above
    such petty gestures and, instead, walked over to his desk and sat
    down.
         "I don't know what you have to gain from this, this . . .
    stunt."
         Jack remained silent except for his amplified breathing.
         Cromwell tried to stare him down, but he could only see his
    own face reflected in the glass of the mask. Bastard, he thought.
    You're trying to unnerve me. Well it isn't going to work. Cromwell
    took the envelope and dumped the pictures back onto the desk. The
    feeling of triumph he'd been expecting was not there. He forged on
    anyhow, saying, "Well, Jack, take a dive into these while you're
    standing there."
         Jack made no move to look at the pictures.
         "Look at them, Jack. What do you think?" Still no reply, no
    move to look at the photos. It doesn't matter, Cromwell thought,
    he knows what they show. "How long have you been married to, er
    . . . Peggy, isn't it? What will she think of these?"
         Jack's amplified breathing echoed through the office. He made
    no reply, no gesture. The man has gone insane, Cromwell thought.
    He's lost touch with reality.
         "Are you ready to sell your father's stock?"
         Jack took several more breaths, then held one. He pulled the
    regulator out of his mouth, and said, "No." The word was followed
    by what Cromwell thought was smoke. "I'm not selling the stock,
    I'm leaving it where it is." Jack took another breath from the
    mouthpiece. "I'm here to tell you I'm leaving, which should make
    you happy."
         "I don't care if you come or go, I want you to sell me that
    stock. If you don't, then these go to your wife. Period. Also,
    since it has come to this, I will set the price."
         "Not selling." The smoke that came from his mouth was not
    smoke, it was streams of bubbles. They raced from his mouth to
    crowd together at the ceiling.
         Cromwell stared, not understanding. He opened his mouth to
    speak, but choked on the words. Something was wrong.
         "I'm leaving now," Jack said. He raised a few inches on his
    flippers, nudging himself upwards. He turned toward the door,
    fumbling with it to open it, then pulled himself through,
    swimming.
         People in the outer offices gasped and dropped bundles of
    paper and cups full of coffee. Jack swam past them, kicking
    lightly with his fins. He made his way past the coffee machine,
    past the horrified figure of his shared secretary, and around the
    corner to a fire-escape window. He had trouble working the latch
    though his thick gloves, but he got it open.
         Jack didn't look back. He swam though the window, out past
    the rusty iron fire escape, out into the wide area between the
    skyscrapers. He checked the gages on his right arm and began to
    rise slowly. Too fast and he would get the bends, too slow and
    he'd be out of air. I'll be okay, he thought. Don't panic and
    everything will be fine. He continued his slow ascent. He passed
    roof level of the building and beyond, peered down through the
    murk at the dirty roofs with their ventilation boxes and duct
    tubes, the TV antennas, the unlit neon signs. The image of the
    buildings faded as the pressure decreased, losing itself in the
    dark. Jack continued to rise. It felt good, he began to feel
    clear-headed.
         This was a stupid risk, he thought. Stupid, stupid. Never go
    diving alone, never dive too deep without the right mixture.
         Still upwards, rising slowly. The murk grew lighter, more
    blue. Then it was clear. Jack saw a shadow above him; he was
    almost to the surface. The shadow was the bottom of the boat. He
    broke surface right next to it, pulled off his mask and threw it
    up to his wife.
         "You had me worried!" she said. "You were down a long time!"
         "Had a bit of narcosis," he said. "I'm okay."
         She reached out eagerly and helped pull him aboard, and while
    he was stripping off his gear she started the outboard engine and
    pointed the skiff back toward the island. His gear off, Jack
    reclined against the floatation pillows and basked in the warm
    tropical sunlight. Yes, he thought, it's good to be back home.
         Behind them the bodies began bobbing up, one-by-one, from the
    drowned city below.
  ------------------------------------------------------------------------






                               Halloween Ants

                          © 1999 by Jerry J. Davis



          Brad Anderson awoke suddenly, sitting straight up in bed and
    staring forward into the dark with wide, horrified eyes. He'd
    dreamed that he'd killed and eaten his wife. Throwing the sheet
    off, he stumbled out of bed and into the bathroom, turning on the
    light and looking at his pale, shaken face. What is wrong with me?
    he wondered. He stared into his own eyes through the mirror,
    searching for some sort of answer. Instead of seeing himself he
    was reliving the horrible dream, seeing the shock and dumb terror
    on his wife's face as he plunged the knife in, cutting her flesh
    like he would a deer or some poor farm animal, feeling a dark
    hunger as he bit into it like a rabid carnivore. She screamed and
    screamed as he ate, dying a little bit at a time. The sound of her
    screaming still seemed to ring in his ears.
          His heart was hammering in his chest, and there was sweat
    beaded up all over his forehead. For God's sake, he thought, what
    is the meaning of this dream? Brad splashed water in his face,
    dried with a towel, and paused to give himself a once-over in the
    mirror – short blond hair, trim mustache, sloping shoulders, baggy
    eyes – then walked back into the bedroom, turning on the light and
    looking at the bed. The bed was empty, his wife gone. He stared at
    it, trying to sort out his thoughts. It must be anger. He did feel
    anger, a lot of it – that and shock. Shock that it happened. Shock
    at the nerve of Dale McKinney, who lured her away. Shock that
    she'd fallen for such a phony, a sleaze.
          Brad turned off the light and – against his will – he walked
    across the room to the north window and pulled the curtains aside.
    Dale lived five houses down and on the other side of the street.
    The windows were dark. His wife, presumably, inside. Sometimes he
    wished he had the nerve to borrow one of Randy's hunting rifles,
    the kind with the big fat 'scope, and just pick the jackass off as
    he walked by a window. Or – better yet – out at the golf course
    while Dale was giving lessons. Blam! Right through the chest.
          He could deal with his anger towards Dale. It was an easy
    emotion to understand, especially considering the situation. But
    the dream about his wife – it disturbed him. It made him wonder
    about his mental health.
          Brad rolled back onto bed but was not able to sleep. He
    shifted from his right to left side and back, over and over every
    few minutes. Finally he gave up, and went downstairs to the living
    room and turned on the television. A John Wayne movie was on one
    of the cable channels, and he sat and stared at the images and
    sounds, letting the television turn off his mind and the ugly
    thoughts within.
          Later, with the sun shining through the windows and across
    his polished hardwood floor, Brad awoke to the distant sound of
    his alarm clock going off upstairs. The coffee was on automatic,
    brewing away in the kitchen. The smell made him feel better, and
    he got up and walked stiff-legged into the bathroom to take a pee.
    He dimly remembered the nightmare, but was able to shrug it off.
    Things like that didn't matter much in the daylight.
          Brad stepped through his weekend morning routine. Shower,
    shave, dress, then retrieve the Saturday paper and scan the
    headlines while he sipped his coffee. The house around him was so
    quiet. It was their dream house, one that Janice was thrilled
    with, that made their relocation from Concord, California much
    less traumatic. Brad had been an outstanding supervisor and his
    company needed a manager for their new huge shipping depot in
    Arizona – this was their chance, with his doubled income and
    prestigious job, and this new big house that he and Janice were
    supposed to fill with children. That didn't happen, and now she
    was gone and it was only him, the cat and the dust motes that swam
    in the shafts of morning sunlight. The cat didn't like him, and
    avoided him at all times unless the food dish was empty. He hadn't
    even seen it for the past few days – for all he knew Janice had
    come and confiscated it.
          Opening the paper, Brad found the headlines held bad news.
    Two more people were missing. This time it was Bob and Dana
    Mueller. Like so many people in this small community, Brad had met
    and was familiar with these people. Bob was a big, beefy,
    country-western type who worked down at the local hardware store,
    and Dana was a little redhead with a big attitude who worked with
    some computer firm over in Phoenix. That brought the total to six
    missing people in two weeks. The Dickson police were appealing to
    the state for help, and even thought the paper didn't say it, it
    was obvious the authorities thought it was a serial killer.
          Brad put the paper down and finished his coffee. He was
    hungry this morning, much more than usual. His stomach felt
    hollow, empty, and it was making noises. Normally Janice would be
    preparing breakfast. A dark thought crossed him – she probably was
    making breakfast right at that very moment, five houses down the
    street.
          He stood, and picking the coffee cup up, he threw it. It
    bounced off the wall and the carpet but didn't break. There was no
    satisfaction in it. Still feeling dark and hateful, Brad exited
    the house through the back door and out the back gate, walking out
    onto the golf course path toward the clubhouse.
          Along the way he came across several balls of ants. He
    kicked at one, and they scattered. They were large, frightening
    ants, all black and orange. The locals called them "Halloween
    ants." The town's claim to fame was that they'd been overrun by
    them. The ants were desert natives, and all the new unnatural
    plants – the lawns, the trees, the hedges and flowerbeds – were a
    boon to them. It was all food, more than nature had intended, and
    their population had exploded. Being that Dickson was an upscale
    bedroom community for Phoenix, some important people had been
    angry at the ants for eating their grass and flowers. A company
    called Nupoint Chemical was invited out to test some of their
    experimental pesticides on the hapless bugs, which prompted them
    to form in these large, disgusting balls. Brad had tried once to
    step on one, but he only killed half of them and the other half
    crawled onto his shoe and up his ankle. Like wasps or bees they
    had stingers, and several of them got him before he could brush
    them off. His leg was swollen for hours, and he never tried it
    again.
          He reached the clubhouse and walked into the small coffee
    shop, and heard half the conversations come to a sudden halt. He
    looked around at the familiar faces and none would make eye
    contact. It was because his wife, Janice, was sitting with Dale
    McKinney in a booth toward the back. Everyone there knew what was
    going on.
          Janice, her long blond hair pinned back, was dressed in
    shorts and a nice blouse. She had a sharp nose and long eyelashes,
    and a solid muscular build. Even though she was aware her husband
    was standing several feet away she pointedly ignored him. Dale,
    who was a tall, lanky man with a stylish three-day beard, had the
    balls to smile and wave. Brad felt himself flush. His face and
    neck burned. He walked quickly over to the table, and Dale stood
    up and faced him.
          "I have nothing to say to you," Brad said, and turned to his
    wife.
          "I'm the only person you get to talk to," Dale said,
    stepping in front of Janice.
          Brad lunged, swinging, but the others around them quickly
    grabbed the two and pulled them apart. The club manager hurried in
    and took Brad by the arm, leading him toward the door. "What are
    you doing?" Brad demanded.
          "I'm kicking you out."
          "You're kicking me out?"
          "You have no business coming in here and causing trouble!"
          "I'm causing trouble? It's your goddamn golf pro sitting
    there with my wife."
          "I don't think she's your wife anymore. You should go out
    and find another one." The burley old guy pushed him out the door.
    "You don't come back until you're calmed down."
          Brad cursed at him and then walked angrily away. He couldn't
    believe it – the club manager was on Dale's side! Like Dale had a
    right to anyone's wife, anyone he chose. Brad felt they were all
    against him, all of them, everyone who was sitting in the coffee
    shop. He wished he had a machine gun. He wished he could mentally
    snap like some disgruntled postal worker and step in there and mow
    them down. Then he'd cut them up into little pieces, fry them in a
    big pan and eat them. Just eat them. Gobble them down like a good
    steak, with eggs on the side.
          As he walked down the path back toward his house, he heard a
    group of kids signing in their backyard. It was to the tune of a
    Christmas song, but the words were oddly changed:

            Joy to the world, my teacher is dead
            I bar-be-cued her head
            Where is the body?
            I flushed it down the potty
            Round and round it goes
            Oh round and round it goes…
            Oh round, and round, and round it goes…

          The children's song disturbed him, just like his own
    thoughts disturbed him. He wasn't merely angry with those people.
    He wanted to eat them. It was a genuine desire, not just a
    fleeting thought. He wanted to butcher them like cattle and chop
    them into steaks, especially Dale and Janice.
          Jesus Christ, he thought. Where is this coming from? He
    stepped over a ball of black and orange ants and passed his back
    gate without stopping. Abruptly he changed direction and headed
    across the fairway, walking over to Randy's shack. He needed to
    talk, and Randy was the closest thing he had to a friend out here.
    In the back of his mind, a niggling little thought persisted:
    Randy had a gun collection. Randy had let him borrow guns in the
    past. Try as he might, Brad couldn’t get this thought to leave him
    alone.
          Halfway to Randy's shack, Brad stumbled upon the oddest
    thing he'd ever seen. There were two snakes right in the middle of
    the fairway, both mottled brown and looking to be of the same
    species, and they were eating each other. They had swallowed a
    good portion of each other's tail. As he stood staring at it,
    there was the sound of an automobile horn, and Brad looked up to
    see a van driving right down the fairway at him. Brad took several
    steps out of the way and the van drove past, running over the
    snakes. It was a white van with a government seal on the door
    panel: The Environmental Protection Agency. Brad continued on his
    way, wondering what that was all about, wondering why the hell
    they were driving all over the golf course. Randy would be pissed.
          Randy, the greenskeeper, had a shack on the back nine, right
    beside a pond and a large sand trap. As Brad approached the pond
    he felt an overwhelming wall of humidity. They community was
    pumping a lot of water into all the lawns, ponds, and swimming
    pools, and the Arizona sun did it's best to dry them out. Phoenix
    and the surrounding suburbs could no longer brag about the
    benefits of their "dry heat." Brad walked around the shack to the
    door and found it closed and locked. Feeling let down and
    disappointed, he walked around the shack, looking up and down the
    greens for a sign of Randy, and he spotted the man walking out
    from the trees, heading toward him.
          "There was a van running around on your grass!" Brad called
    out.
          Randy nodded and waved. He was in his fifties, with long
    black hair that he kept in a ponytail, and a ruddy, weatherworn
    face. He was dressed in his usual faded jeans and a tee shirt. "I
    know!" he called back. As came closer, Brad noticed the man had an
    unhappy expression and a haunted look in his eyes. He also looked
    a bit pale.
          "What's going on?" Brad asked him.
          "They confiscated the Nupoint stuff. You know, that
    experimental stuff for the ants?"
          "Really?"
          "Yeah, they took it all." Randy wasn't looking at him. He
    was looking off to the side, his eyes unfocused.
          "Why did they take it?" Brad asked.
          "Didn't say," Randy said. His voice had a soft, faraway
    quality to it. "I suspect they discovered the stuff wasn't as
    harmless as Nupoint said it was."
          "Was it killing the birds or something?"
          "It's not a poison. It's an enzyme. It made the ants turn on
    each other." He finally looked up at Brad, his eyes suddenly
    focused. "How are you feeling?"
          "Depressed. Pissed off."
          "Janice hasn't come home yet?"
          "I don't think she ever will. I got into a fight with Dale a
    few minutes ago." He related what happened at the clubhouse coffee
    shop, omitting his bizarre cannibalistic urges.
          "How does that make you feel?" Randy asked.
          "It makes me feel like … like borrowing one of your guns and
    blowing the bastard's head off!"
          "And then what?"
          "Well, blow her head off, too."
          "And then what?"
          Brad gave Randy a strange look. "And then have myself
    committed, I guess."
          Randy nodded slowly, his eyes going unfocused again. "I know
    what you mean."
          "The really crappy part is I still haven't had any
    breakfast, and I'm starving. You wouldn't happen to have any of
    your rabbit jerky around, would you?"
          Randy gave him a sharp look. "No!" He saw that Brad was
    taken aback, and he softened his voice. "No. I'm not going to make
    any more. I think the rabbit is … tainted."
          "Oh, come on! Everyone in town eats your jerked jackrabbit.
    It's great!"
          Randy shook his head, looking down. "I'm sorry. I don't have
    any." He took a few steps away, then paused and turned around.
    "I'll talk to you later," he said. "I have things I gotta do."
          "Do you need some help?" Brad asked.
          "No." Randy's tone was flat. Final. He turned around and
    walked away.
          Brad watched him go, then wandered off in the opposite
    direction. He had no destination in mind. Not wanting to go home,
    and unable to go to the clubhouse, Brad roamed the golf course at
    random and tried to ignore his empty stomach. Maybe, he thought, I
    should have brought my clubs. He watched other golfers as they
    drove and putted. One particular couple caught his attention – a
    slightly overweight blond woman and her husband, people he'd met
    but forgotten their names. They looked to be in their late
    thirties, and healthy. The woman looked good. She was wearing
    shorts and a half-shirt, and he could see her belly button. She
    had some meat on her, and a little padding – not much, really –
    and nice, full breasts. Watching her, his mouth began to water.
    His stomach growled.
          They drove their balls down the fairway and then took their
    clubs and walked. Brad followed, keeping to the side by the trees.
    They noticed him following, and kept glancing back at him
    nervously. Brad thought about approaching them, maybe asking to
    see an interesting club. He could use it on their heads, and once
    down, pull her half shirt up and—
          Brad realized what he was thinking, and he turned away in
    horror. But he was so hungry. She looked so good! He could imagine
    biting down hard, then pull away, ripping the flesh. It would be
    so hot and succulent in his mouth, so alive, so … Brad looked down
    at his hands, which were shaking. He made fists of them and put
    them to his face, pressing hard. His hunger was a knot in his
    midsection that was twisting tighter.
          He turned back toward the couple, who was openly staring at
    him now. He started toward them and he saw the woman back away.
    The man looked startled, and he fumbled in his golf bag, reaching
    deep, and yanked out a large black pistol. Brad paused,
    hesitating. The man pointed the gun at him and fired. Brad turned
    around and ran, and the man kept firing.
          Brad heard the bullets – they made whistling sounds as they
    passed him. When they hit the trees they made a sound that was a
    cross between a whack and a sharp crunch and bark would fly off.
    He ran blindly, leaping over fallen limbs and punching his way
    through underbrush. He broke out into another fairway and kept
    running, continuing on far after the gunshots had stopped.
          At the end of the fairway was the south boundary of the golf
    course. Brad stopped his running, and chanced a look back. People
    were scattered all over the place, standing still with clubs in
    their hands, and they were all staring at him. Just standing and
    staring. Then the man with the gun broke through the underbrush
    and out onto the grass. He began firing the gun again, but not at
    Brad – he was firing at people at random. They scattered, running
    in every direction, and the man with the gun picked the people he
    was closest to and chased them. More gunshots sounded.
          Brad took the main road and walked quickly away from the
    golf course. A few blocks down was Dickson's only shopping center,
    with a post office, a grocery store, a salon and a gas station.
    There had been a bookstore but it had closed down, as no one
    seemed to read anymore. Brad made his way to the phone booth at
    the gas station and called 911. He was still panting from his run.
    Gunshots were still booming through the air from the golf course.
          A tone sounded in his ear. The telephone said, "All circuits
    are busy. Please try your call again later." Exasperated, Brad
    dialed again and got the same response.
          The gas station attendant stepped out and looked down the
    street toward the golf course. She was a short, slight woman with
    a squinty look in her eyes. "What's goin' on down there?" she
    said.
          "Some maniac shooting the golf course up," Brad said. His
    third try on the phone failed and he gave up.
          "Who is it?" the attendant asked.
          "Don't know his name, but he's from around here." Brad
    looked at her, and she looked good. His mouth began to water, but
    he caught himself and turned away. "I can't get a hold of the
    police."
          She didn't answer – she went trotting off toward the golf
    course. He watched her go, eyeing her thighs in her tight jeans.
    His mouth wouldn't stop watering. He abandoned the phone booth,
    taking several steps after her, but he heard another gunshot and
    stopped. Turning around, he saw two cats racing across the parking
    lot, and one caught the other one and it erupted in a fight.
    Beyond the fighting cats was the grocery store.
          He walked toward it, feeling desperate, hoping to God that
    if he would just eat something – something other than human – that
    these insane impulses would go away. He had to walk around the cat
    fight. It was vicious; one had the other by the throat, and they
    were rending each other with their hind claws. There were little
    droplets of blood all over the pavement. He hardly even glanced at
    them, as his main purpose in life at that point was to get though
    those doors and find some food.
          Inside the store it was quiet. There were several customers
    in the store, along with the employees and the management. He
    caught eye contact with one of the cashiers, a tall buxom brunette
    with big hair, and she didn't look away. She didn't say anything,
    either, just stared at him with glassy eyes and no expression. She
    didn't look good to him, but he had the impression that he looked
    good to her. As he took a cart and walked down an aisle she
    silently abandoned her register and stalked him. Brad passed a man
    with an empty grocery cart whom stood motionless, moving only his
    eyes. His hands had a death's grip on the cart handle, his whole
    body tense. Brad watched him warily as he passed, feeling the man
    was ready to pounce. The man's gaze shifted from Brad to the
    checkout woman and back, keeping perfectly still, acting like he
    was camouflaged and that no one could see him as long as he didn't
    move.
          Brad made it around a corner only to be faced by the
    butcher, who stood on the outside of his counter and sharpened a
    huge knife. He looked up at Brad and locked eyes with him, never
    pausing in his knife sharpening. Brad edged past him, and passing
    the meat section. The butcher followed. Forgetting about food,
    Brad decided he'd better get out of there. It was an
    eat-or-be-eaten situation and he was outnumbered.
          Ahead was a big guy – he was huge! – who had a demented
    expression and appeared to be drooling. He turned his cart so that
    he blocked Brad's way, and just stood and stared at him with
    bugged-out eyes. His mouth was open and he was biting his tongue.
    He grinned at Brad.
          Brad made a quick left down the junk food aisle only to find
    two women had their carts side by side at the far end, blocking
    him in. He continued down the aisle until it was apparent that the
    ladies were not going to move. Turning around, Tom found the big
    guy and the butcher had him blocked at the other end, and behind
    them was the checkout woman.
          Brad continued toward the two women at the far end, gaining
    speed until he was trotting. Either they were going to move their
    carts or he was going to ram them. Their expressions became
    alarmed, and they moved to one side but left their carts where
    they were. Brad rammed their carts with his, making a loud crash
    and sending the carts and the groceries tumbling. The women hissed
    and snarled at him as he scrambled past. He leaped over a chain
    and past a register, but slipped and landed hard on the worn
    linoleum. As he got to his feet, he saw people running toward him.
    The manager, the other checkers, the women with the carts. The big
    guy. They were coming for him, all with grim faces and a dead-eyed
    look, and Brad turned and sprinted for the door, banging into it
    and shoving it open. He was out before they could reach him, and
    his feet pounded the pavement across the parking lot. The cats, he
    saw, were no longer fighting. One was dead and being fed upon by
    the other.
          Just before he rounded the corner he looked back, seeing a
    few of them standing in the parking lot staring back at him, but
    none were pursuing. As he passed the gas station and headed down
    the street where he lived, his running slowed to a jog and then he
    abruptly stopped. He bent forward, hands on trembling knees, and
    fought to catch his breath.
          As he stood there panting, his thoughts became clear. The
    whole town seemed to be going nuts, but how could that be? How
    could the town be going crazy? He thought about it, trying to
    reason it through. First the dream, and then the insane thoughts.
    Then everyone seemed crazy to him – predatory – as if they were
    sharing his sudden cravings for human flesh. Brad decided that at
    some point his mind had snapped. The emotional strain of losing
    his wife to that bastard, that self-important, smug, swaggering
    jerk … his brain couldn't deal with it, his subconscious rebelling
    against his conscious mind, because his conscious refused to allow
    himself to commit murder no matter how justified he felt.
          Brad straightened and resumed walking up the street, feeling
    the insanity, seeing through it like a filter. No one had actually
    chased him at the store. They may have been staring at him, but it
    was probably because he was acting so crazy. It's me, he thought.
    It's all me. It's in my head. I probably scared the shit out of
    that poor guy and his wife. He was firing at me in self-defense.
          Even now, looking around the sunny neighborhood around him,
    things looked strange. He felt like he was viewing the world
    through glasses that were the wrong prescription – angles were
    distorted, and people's faces – their expressions – he perceived
    them wrong. A mother and her children washing their car peered at
    him through beady, hostile eyes. The little girl, staring at him,
    licked her lips. An old man with his small white dog on a leash
    smiled as Brad passed, and the smile was full of menace. This
    isn't real, Brad told himself. It can't be. But his knowing this
    didn't change what he saw. Knowing he was sick didn't cure him.
          Brad picked up his pace. He had to get to a phone and call
    the police, have himself put away. He wanted them to put him in a
    place where he could get well again. I can get better, he told
    himself. I can start over again.
          A few yards away from his house he came across three large
    brown birds, cactus wrens with long sharp beaks, and they were in
    a little group on the grass picking at another of their kind. The
    other bird lay on its back, wings spread, legs still twitching.
    They were eating it alive.
          He stared at it a few moments. This can't be happening, he
    thought. I'm hallucinating. Birds don't eat each other, do they?
    He watched them pulling out organs and ripping off shreds of
    feather-covered flesh. The birds glanced at him warily, but stood
    their ground. Brad felt the hollowness in his own stomach, felt
    his need to eat. The birds were acting so wrong, he decided it had
    to be a hallucination.
          If I'm so crazy I'm seeing things that aren't really there,
    he thought, then I'm crazy enough to do anything. He looked over
    at Dale's house, and felt the full weight of his stockpile of
    hatred and anger. There are dozens of witnesses who'll testify how
    crazy I've been acting. Even Janice would agree to that in front
    of a jury.
          Brad passed his house, continuing down to Dale's. He
    approached the front door, stepping over a pair of lizards that
    were biting each other, rolling around in a quick frenzy of
    battle. Turning the knob, he found it unlocked. They were already
    home from the clubhouse. Brad entered and softly closed the door
    behind him. He heard sounds, but no voices. It came from somewhere
    in the house, probably down the hall. Brad crossed quickly to the
    kitchen, his heart thudding in his ears, and found a wooden knife
    holder. He chose the long, thin, serrated bread knife. He always
    thought they looked dangerous, and now he was counting on it.
          Brad crept down the hallways, his feet silent on the thick
    tan carpet. The sounds were strange, like slurping, and through a
    bedroom door he saw feet hanging over the edge of a bed. His face
    burned, realizing they were having sex. His hands were sweating,
    the knife handle feeling slippery. He gripped it tighter, and took
    another step. He could see part of her, too. They were on the bed
    together. Gritting his teeth, Brad took another step and he was in
    the room with them.
          Dale was on his back, arms and legs spread, his clothes
    ripped apart and his torso a mass of blood. Janice was on top,
    fully clothed, blood staining her arms and clumps of it in her
    hair. She swung around toward him, startled, her eyes wide. She
    had a wild, demented look on her face. Seeing it was her husband,
    she relaxed, and grinned. Her mouth was full.
          A large knife was sticking out of Dale's throat. He had a
    shocked expression on his dead face. His eyes bulged so much it
    looked like a cartoon, like it wasn't real.
          Janice chewed and swallowed. "Join in!" she said. Her voice
    was high pitched and sounded half-hysterical. "There's plenty!"
          Brad dropped his knife and backed away. She laughed at him,
    and turned back to her feast. Brad turned and ran out of the
    house. He ran partly out of horror, and partly because he was so
    tempted to "join in." Lawn and pavement passed in a blur under his
    feet, and he ran up to his front door and fumbled to unlock it. He
    couldn't get the key in – it took forever. Once the key did go in
    he nearly twisted it in half trying to get the door unlocked.
          Inside, he heard his phone ringing. He locked and bolted the
    door behind him, then leaned against it for a moment, out of
    breath again. Was that real? he wondered. Could that have possibly
    been real? Or is that just the way I remember it? Could it be, he
    wondered, that he killed Dale and this is how his mind was dealing
    with it?
          The phone continued to ring. Feeling numb and lost, Brad
    walked across the room and picked up the phone. "Hello?" he said.
          "Brad, this is Randy."
          "Randy!" He took a breath, trying to calm himself. He'd
    expected it to be the police or worse. "I'm in so much trouble!"
          "What happened?"
          "I … my wife, either she killed Dale and is eating him, or
    I'm … or I did it. I don't know anymore."
          "It's not you," Randy said. "It's all of us. I think I have
    it figured out."
          "What?" Dale didn't know what he was talking about.
          "That pesticide they tested here," Randy said. "It wasn't
    supposed to affect anything but the ants. I think they're right,
    it doesn't, at least not directly. The problem is that it went up
    the food chain."
          "What are you talking about?"
          "The pesticide. Once it got up through the food chain it, it
    got us. You can eat the pesticide all day and it won't do
    anything, so their tests showed it to be harmless. But once it got
    into the food chain, and we ate the tainted food, the enzyme
    changed."
          "You mean … you're telling me I'm not crazy?"
          "Yes, you are. We all are. Our brain chemistry has been
    modified."
          Brad was silent. A chemical? A chemical had done this? It
    was all real? "This doesn't make it better." His voice was barely
    above a whisper. "It makes it all worse."
          "I've killed too, Brad," Randy said. "In fact I'm the one—"
    There was a loud sound, and then loud, garbled shouting. "The
    police are here," Randy told him. "I have to go." The line went
    dead.
          Brad dropped the phone. He dashed to the door that led to
    the garage, slammed it open and jumped down the three steps to the
    concrete. The police would probably kill Randy – they knew about
    his gun collection. He had to get there before it happened – he
    had to explain it to them, the police, that Randy wasn't to blame.
    It was the chemical company.
          He started his car while the garage door slid open, and
    gunned it down the driveway and onto the street. He passed the gas
    station and turned left, passing the shopping center and the
    grocery store. The golf course was on his left, and Randy's house
    was on a street on the other side of the course. There was the
    sound of distant gunfire, but Brad had no idea if it was the
    police, or other people who were affected by the enzyme.
          He wondered if the police would believe him. Brad wondered
    if he even believed it himself. If an enzyme changed a person's
    brain chemistry and caused him to commit murder, then it would be
    the fault of the chemical, not the person. But, he thought, if
    brain chemistry determines actions, then couldn't any murder be
    blamed on bad brain chemistry? Who was to say what influenced it?
    Anything from experimental pesticides to too many Hostess Twinkies
    could cause the imbalance. What if it was inherently imbalanced?
    Was it still to blame?
          Brad turned off the main road and sent the car flying down
    the street toward Randy's house. He could see several police cars
    and a van out front. There were cops all around and several
    neighbors gathered together in groups. He skidded to a stop,
    jumping out of the car and running up to an officer yelling,
    "Don't hurt him!"
          The officer held his hand up. "Please stay back."
          "You don't understand, it wasn't him—" Brad stopped
    abruptly, seeing four officers carrying Randy's bullet-ridden body
    out of the house.
          "It was him," the cop said. "We found the remains."
          Brad opened his mouth, but closed it again. The question of
    Randy's innocence was now moot. He watched as they carried the
    body into the van. The officer who'd stopped Brad walked over to
    the van as well, and they all crowded in and shut the door.
    Minutes went by, and no one came out. The neighbors still stood in
    clumps, talking in low voices, and occasionally there would be an
    overloud voice from a police radio.
          The police all remained in the van. Thinking this was odd –
    but knowing what they were doing – Brad walked over to the back of
    the van and yanked the door open. The policemen glanced up from
    their feeding, looking guilty. None of them said anything. Brad
    looked down at his friend's body, which was already mutilated,
    then climbed into the van with the officers and shut the door
    behind him.
  ------------------------------------------------------------------------





                               DNA Prospector

                          © 1997 by Jerry J. Davis



         James Gregson passed the last of the carnivorous trees and was
    halfway through the clearing before he realized there were two men
    in his camp. One sat on a log and the other on his chair, relaxing,
    making themselves right at home. Not far away was a black and red
    jeep, and on the jeep's door was the Bankrightk company logo.
         One of the men looked up as Gregson approached. Gregson didn't
    seem much of a threat; he was tall but good-natured looking, with
    curly black hair and brown eyes. In his arms, however, was a long,
    elegantly crafted electronic rifle.
         "Look at the size of that stunner!" The man exclaimed,
    laughing. He was thin, small, and had a pinched-looking face. He
    wore an gray-green jumpsuit with what looked like 50
    randomly-placed pockets, and had a name-tag that read, JACKO. "What
    is it, a hundred years old?"
         The other man, who was taller, rounder of features, wore all
    black and was carrying a 10mm projectile pistol. His shirt bore the
    Bankrightk logo and underneath was the stitched-in name RUDD. "We
    hear you're really onto something, Gregson," he said.
         "I don't appreciate you coming into my camp like this,"
    Gregson said. "This area is staked and registered to me, and you're
    trespassing."
         "Hey, you don't have to go all huffy with us," said Jacko.
    "We're here to offer you a position with Bankrightk."
         "A job?"
         Jacko nodded.
         "Prospecting?" Gregson asked.
         "DNA prospecting."
         "For what? A salary?"
         "Salary, expenses, and a cut. More than you're getting right
    now---"
         "Which is nothing," Rudd said. "We ran a check on your
    account. You're broke."
         Gregson powered up his rifle. The indicator lights flashed on,
    startling the two men, who stood suddenly and backed off a few
    meters. "I didn't spend my life's savings to get all the way out to
    this hairball of a planet, live in a tent in a field of mud, and
    eat gristle worms and drink peat water for a year and a half, just
    so I could have a cut of what I discover."
         "They're making you a generous offer," Jacko said. "It's not
    going to be repeated."
         "You can repeat it until doomsday. I'm here as an independent,
    and whatever I discover is mine. A hundred-percent mine."
         "I don't think he's interested," Jacko said to Rudd.
         "Your alternative is no employment at all," Rudd told Gregson.
    "It's hard to go prospecting when you're laid up in a med center."
         "Accidents happen so suddenly," Jacko said. "You never know
    when to expect them."
         "That's true," Gregson said. He slung the stun rifle over his
    shoulder. "You want to make an accident happen, do it now."
         Jacko and Rudd glanced nervously at each other.
         "If you threaten me, you'd better be ready to back it up,"
    Gregson told them. "I've killed deadlier creatures than you on five
    different worlds, and I wasn't using an old stun gun, either."
         Rudd sneered. "Gregson, you're way over your head." He and
    Jacko turned and walked off toward their jeep. Gregson let out his
    breath and relaxed. He watched as they started the jeep's engine
    and rumbled off over the uneven ground. When it was out of sight he
    leaned his rifle against the log and collapsed in his folding chair
    with a sigh.

                                     #

         The main difference between civilized worlds and new colonies,
    Gregson noticed, was that one had paved walkways and the other had
    dirt paths. This planet, Aeolus, didn't even have dirt paths. He
    made his way through the broken foliage, following the trail that
    the Bankrightk jeep had plowed back toward "town." His stun rifle,
    which was an antique his father once used, was slung casually over
    his shoulder.
         Gregson knew the moment he heard Bankrightk had established an
    office on this planet he was going to have trouble. He, like his
    father before him, had wandered to the farthest reaches of human
    space to get away from the corporations. It was no use, though --
    wherever he went they would sooner or later show up. It stood to
    reason that if there was a huge profit to be made, that is where
    the corporations would go. It was like that throughout history. A
    few brave souls would strike out into the unknown, searching for
    that one big discovery, but the moment anything valuable was found
    the corporations would step in and take it over.
         Halfway to town Gregson made a detour, picking his way through
    the branches and undergrowth, following the smell of hot bacon and
    fried eggs, and -- oh heaven! -- freshly brewed coffee. The trees
    thinned and were replaced by Earth plants; rows of corn, potatoes,
    cabbage, carrots, tomatoes. There were pens with pigs, cows, and a
    few horses. Chickens roamed about, each with a silver inhibitor
    band around their necks to keep them from wandering too far. This
    was Vern Hudson's farm, and the farm house ahead was a large
    cylindrical water storage tank off one of the first colony ships.
    The crops and the animals were all Vern's test subjects -- he was a
    certified Ecesist, specially trained in adapting Earth life to
    alien environments. Vern was nowhere in sight, but his teenage
    kids, Bethany and Frank, were on the front porch with their dog.
         "James!" Bethany called. "You're just in time. I made an extra
    portion just in case you showed up." Bethany, who Gregson had been
    courting for several months now, was 19 years standard, with
    olive-brown skin, brown eyes, and long straight brown-black hair.
    The top of her head didn't quite make it to Gregson's shoulders, so
    she had to look up at him to show him her smile.
         Her younger brother, Frank, wasn't smiling. He was 17 and
    shared his sister's hair and complexion. He was a head taller than
    her, however, and almost as tall as Gregson. He was huskier than
    Gregson, with square shoulders and a beefy chest. He reached down
    as Gregson approached and touched a button on the digital panel
    embedded in the dog's head. The dog began to growl.
         "Frank!" Bethany said. She touched the animal's head, and the
    growling stopped.
         Frank reached for the dog again and she slapped his hand. They
    glared at each other for a moment, and he turned and stomped off.
    She turned and smiled at Gregson again, ushering him up to the
    house and inside.
         The food tasted wonderful, and the coffee was nice and strong.
    As he ate, Bethany walked lightly around the table, talking. "...
    and since we haven't seen any large tracks of any kind, we don't
    think it's really an animal at all. Dad thinks it's spoor from one
    of the plants. And I was thinking, if we could find what the source
    is before my Dad does, you and I could share the title."
         Gregson sipped his coffee, watching her walk, admiring her
    soft curves and listening happily to her disarming voice. "If I
    agreed to something like that," he told her, "your father would
    have your brother kill me."
         Bethany stopped, cocking her head to one side and looking at
    him through whisps of her hair. "I don't think so."
         "Besides, if it's a psycho-reactive agent then it's probably
    useless to us. It can be reproduced artificially. The only thing
    that would be valuable is if it's something that can only be
    produced by a living thing, and we get the rights to the DNA code.
    That's the key. If only the DNA can produce it, if the living thing
    in and of itself is of value, can we profit."
         "Like, if it's a psychic effect."
         Gregson nodded. He stabbed the last bit of egg with a fork and
    put it in his mouth.
         "Dad doesn't believe in that sort of thing."
         "Where is your Dad now, anyway?"
         "Out at the catfish farm."
         He paused in his chewing for a moment, looking into her eyes.
    "Out there, huh?"
         "Yeah." Her eyes betrayed worry. "I hope he's okay."
         "I'm sure he is. You said you never found tracks. It's not an
    animal."
         "I said we never found large tracks."
         Gregson dropped the fork on the table and reached out for her.
    "Come here." She leaned into him, and he put his arms around her
    and gave her a long hug. "He's going to be okay," he said.
         "I know," Bethany said. She kissed him. They smiled at each
    other, and kissed again. Gregson pulled back, still smiling, but
    she wasn't finished kissing yet. She leaned hard against him to the
    point where he almost lost his balance and fell out of the chair.
    It was then that they noticed that her brother was yelling, and
    that something was happening outside.
         They hadn't made it to the door before it slammed open and
    Vern came stumbling in, looking deranged. Close on his heals was
    Frank, shouting, "What's wrong? What is wrong?"
         "Dad?" Bethany said.
         He bumped against them, stumbling, shaking, mumbling something
    unintelligible. He got down on his hands and knees, crawling under
    the table. There he curled into a fetal position, his eyes rolled
    back so that they could only see the whites. He was panting and
    sweat soaked his clothes, beading his face and making his hair hang
    in wet, wiry strings. "It's ... a horrible, a demon ... gonna get
    ... everywhere ... follows me. I think it's a demon ... can't get
    away ... can't ..." He shuddered, falling silent. His children
    joined him on the floor, hugging him, telling him that he was safe.
         Gregson went into the man's work room, passing the man's
    elaborate bio-computer, his genetic assembly/disassembly
    peripherals, found a cabinet full of pharmaceuticals and pulled out
    some anti-shock tabs. He carried them into the dining room, knelt
    down under the table, and placed one of the little white stickers
    on the man's throat, near the jugular vein. Within minutes he began
    to come out of it. He looked up at Gregson from under the table, a
    shade of embarrassment in his expression.
         "What was it, Vern?" he asked.
         "It was horrible," Vern whispered, shaking his head.
    "Overpowering."
         "You saw it, then? An animal?"
         Vern's mouth moved, but no words came out. When he found his
    voice, he said, "Don't go out there. Don't do it."
         "You know I've got to."
         "Don't do it!"
         Gregson turned to leave. Bethany shouted, "James!"
         He turned back. "I've got to see what it is."
         "It's not worth it." Bethany's eyes were pleading.
         He gave her his best smile. "I'll be back."

                                     #

         The carnivorous trees looked more like gigantic moss-covered
    fish bones than trees. They had an exoskeleton structure not unlike
    Terran insects, and the "moss" was a sticky, deadly substance which
    paralyzed and slowly digested several species of indigenous birds.
    The most common was the flying dodo, which was a big green
    bat-winged creature that regularly crashed into obstacles such as
    houses, light poles, and carnivorous trees. One was fluttering and
    crying out in its final moments as Gregson entered the forest.
         He walked for a couple of kilometers before coming upon a
    large, winding creek. He turned and followed it up hill, heading
    east. The carnivorous trees thinned, being replaced by a taller,
    uglier variety, which grew closer together and blocked out more
    sunlight. Here and there a shaft of sunlight made it through, but
    otherwise the forest was frighteningly dark.
         Gregson slowed his pace and finally stopped. In front of him
    the creek was dammed, creating a shallow pond of crystal clear
    water. It was here that Vern Hudson was working on a strain of
    catfish to be released into the main river. Beyond the pond is
    where the trouble was.
         He pulled out his biotascope and waved it back and forth.
    There were hundreds of life form readings, mostly bugs. There was
    nothing much bigger than his thumbnail. He checked the plant life
    for biological outgassing; there were numerous substances, but none
    registered as a psychoactive nor a pheromone -- at least none that
    should affect a human being.
         All around the pond were human footprints. One fresh set,
    heading straight away from the pond and into the forest back toward
    town, were clearly from someone running hard. As he studied them
    Gregson realized his heart was pounding, that he was already
    afraid. He wondered if it was natural, or if it was somehow being
    induced. It's natural, he told himself. I'm a natural coward. He
    took a deep breath and pushed on, walking cautiously around the
    pond and into dense woods beyond.
         About 40 meters past the pond, his biotascope began picking up
    readings of a creature. It was right on the outside range of the
    device, so he couldn't get much information. It was a larger life
    reading, bigger than a dog but smaller than a human. He moved
    toward it, wanting to get a look. The forest was so dense here he
    couldn't see more than a few meters in any direction; the pond was
    completely out of sight.
         There was a loud cracking sound, and looking down Gregson saw
    a crushed, hollow branch under his right foot. It was like the leg
    of a large, dead insect. So much for being quiet, he thought. Then
    he looked up, his eyes widening. There was a change to the forest.
         Gregson's vision crystallized, the edges becoming sharp,
    distinct. Tiny details of the trees, the forest floor, the light
    and shadow, were all very clear. The feeling of dread swelled
    inside him. Something was very wrong, very dangerous. His immediate
    urge was to back away, to turn and run.
         He took several long, deep breaths, forcing himself to
    perceive. To analyze. This is like a drug effect, he thought. Or
    like being in high quality VR. Or it's something supernatural, his
    fear voice told him.
         Gregson fumbled with his biotascope, making sure it was set to
    record.
         He began moving slowly toward the creature. It was like trying
    to walk upstream in a river. Every cell in his body was trying to
    get him to turn around and go the other way. His heart was thudding
    so hard in his chest that it hurt.
         The dark tangle of branches around him were sinister, hiding
    menace everywhere he looked. He could feel he was being watched. He
    could feel the tension in the air, like a predator was stalking him
    and was moments away from pouncing. Gregson became aware that his
    mouth was dry, and that he was breathing hard. Sweat was streaming
    down from his forehead and into his eyes.
         Gregson had made it a dozen meters in toward the creature when
    the sound came. Starting low and soft, it was an eerie undulating
    cry, growing in volume and pitch. It was a horrible sound, a sound
    that made his pounding heart skip a beat. Then he heard a crashing
    in the forest behind him, and wide-eyed and gun ready Gregson
    whirled around. He saw the two Bankrightk men, who had obviously
    followed him into the forest, turning tail and running away.
    Gregson's whole body shuddered, wanting to follow them, but he
    clenched his eyes tightly shut and took deep breaths, trying to
    calm himself.
         The undulating cry was loud, now, and unnerving. It made it
    impossible to think. Vern Hudson had called it a demon. It sounded
    like a demon. But demons weren't real, they were fantasy. This
    couldn't be a demon. This couldn't be anything supernatural. It was
    just an animal. Just another animal ...
         Gregson recalled all the deadly animals he'd seen in his
    career, animals vicious and deadly. This creature didn't have to be
    supernatural to be a demon. A demon could be an animal. A demon
    animal that paralyzed its prey with fear and then went in for the
    kill.
         His biotascope made a sound. It was the proximity alert.
    Gregson opened his eyes and glanced down at the screen, and saw
    that the damn thing was right behind him. He yelled and ran. He
    didn't look back, he just ran. The running was such a glorious and
    wonderful relief that he kept going, effortlessly, as if a terrific
    pressure was pushing him from behind.

                                     #

         Gregson arrived at his camp exhausted, only to find that the
    Bankrightk men had been there first. They had taken revenge for the
    fright they'd received. Gregson's tent had been cut apart with a
    laser torch, and the contents smashed and strewn about like so much
    garbage. He stood there, kicking at the remains of his cot and
    portable cooking equipment. His power plant and biopack computer
    were gone. It was basically everything he owned.
         Of course he had insurance. Unfortunately, it took several
    Earth-months to process, and until then he had the choice of
    signing up with Bankrightk or being a bum. Without the biopak
    computer, there was no way for him to register DNA samples.
         He felt it welling up inside of him. Anger, and the desire to
    kill. Common animal emotions. It was very distasteful, very
    unpleasant. They were overpowering.
         Gregson hefted the stun gun. It was a large, heavy weapon, but
    it would not kill -- unless you used it as a club.
         He set off purposefully toward town.

                                     #

         Bankrightk had the newest and nicest building in town. Unlike
    most of the other reused tanks or spaceship pods, this
    foam-concrete building was actually built as an office. It had an
    authentic Sante Fe adobe look to it. The front door was securely
    locked, and peering through the windows Gregson saw that it was
    deserted.
         The local law enforcement offices were a rusty old half-tank
    propped up as a rain shelter, with an empty glass office in the
    back. The glass was cracked in several places, and the public
    terminals to the orbital police station were all vandalized.
    Gregson had known it was a useless gesture to even try, but he
    thought he should go through the motions anyway. One of the
    terminals, damaged as it was, still worked enough for him to report
    the crime. The reply he received was that the department was
    overwhelmed with search and rescue efforts, and wouldn't be able to
    get an officer down to the settlement for at least a week.
         Gregson pushed the key to acknowledge the message, but the key
    stuck and the terminal began making an annoying beeping sound. The
    screen filled with garbage characters. He stared at it for a
    moment, then pounded on it with his fist. It stopped beeping, the
    screen cleared, and on the display appeared an application for
    employment. Gregson stared at it quizzically for a moment, then
    shrugged and filled it out. Lord knows he was out of a job. It was
    better than working for Bankrightk.
         Gregson wandered around the settlement for a while, hungry,
    unable to afford to eat, then in a depressed mood returned into the
    wilderness heading for Vern Hudson's farm, hoping for another
    charitable meal from Bethany. When he was in sight of the place,
    Vern came running out, yelling hysterically. He was waving a
    blaster in the air.
         Gregson stopped short, wondering if the old man was angry at
    him for something -- wondering if he should run. He almost did. But
    there was desperation in the man's voice, and Gregson realized Vern
    was yelling for help. "Bethany's out there!" he yelled at Gregson.
    "Frank and Bethany went out there, and she's still out there!"
         "What?"
         "Frank came back, but Bethany didn't!" Vern yelled. He was
    wild-eyed with panic and worry. "Can't get Frank to show me where
    she is -- can't get him to talk at all!" He grabbed Gregson's arm,
    looking at him desperately. "I can't go out there alone."
         Gregson took a deep, calming breath, but he was still gritting
    his teeth. "Okay," he said. "Let's follow the tracks."

                                     #

         There were tracks all around Vern's fish pond. Gregson had
    isolated Frank and Bethany's, but there were two more sets. He
    remembered that the Bankrightk men had followed him there earlier,
    then had run off when the terror struck. Gregson's fear was that
    they had gone and armed themselves to the teeth, returning with
    enough firepower to level the forest. His fears were justified when
    he and Vern heard shouting and gunfire coming from the dense, dark
    woods ahead.
         Gregson already had his biotascope set to record when the
    terror started. He had some interesting readings from his previous
    encounter, and wanted to confirm them. After the terror started
    working on him he ceased to care about the recordings ... there was
    no good reason for him to be out there, except that Bethany was
    lost somewhere and he needed to bring her back. His worry for her
    was like an anchor that kept the terror from carrying him away.
         The Bankrightk men continued to shout and fire their weapons.
    They sounded wild with fear and panic. "Those idiots," Gregson
    whispered to Vern. "If Beth is out here, they're liable to kill
    her."
         Vern said nothing. He clutched his blaster close to his chest,
    sweat pouring from his forehead. His eyes were bulging and his head
    continuously turned from side to side, like he was expecting
    something to sneak up behind him.
         They trudged several meters further into the murky forest, and
    Gregson paused, pointing down. Bethany's footprints continued
    forward, while Frank's lead around and back. This is where the
    terror had gotten to him, and he'd left his sister all alone. The
    Bankrightk men had paused here, and had continued on following
    Bethany.
         From somewhere in the forest came a weird, undulating cry.
    Vern began to back away, but Gregson grabbed him by the shirt and
    pulled him forward.
         Vern blustered. "Let go of me!"
         "Stay with me, Vern."
         "I ... I can't."
         "She's your daughter, damn it -- if you love her half as much
    as I do, you going to stay with me."
         It was dark, but there was a breeze tousling the tops of the
    trees and occasionally a shaft of sunlight would spear down for a
    second or two. The warbling, undulating cry seemed to come from
    everywhere. Gregson pushed forward, rifle pointing forward, every
    nerve on edge. He felt like he was dancing across the surface of
    the terror, keeping above it while still feeling it. It was a
    freefall feeling, unnerving and at the same time exhilarating. He
    moved through a momentary patch of weak sunlight and once again
    into shadow, the shadow now seeming deeper than ever.
         His biotascope registered a life form ahead. A humanoid in a
    highly agitated state. Blood pressure high, pulse rate high,
    adrenal secretions abnormal. Neural pulse rate was two per second
    higher than the usual ten. A far removed part of Gregson thought
    that was odd.
         Gregson made it to twenty meters from the person, keeping a
    tree trunk between him and whoever it was. He turned to say
    something to Vern and found he was alone. Vern had slipped away,
    abandoning him. Gregson felt like turning and running after him,
    but he didn't. He wanted to, but instead he held tightly to his
    father's gun and closed his eyes, focusing his will. I am here for
    Bethany, he thought. I am here for her.
         He opened his eyes and studied his biotascope. The person near
    him wasn't Bethany -- the body mass was too high. It was probably
    Rudd, from Bankrightk. Beyond him was another humanoid, and thirty
    meters further in was the creature.
         There was more yelling, and then gunfire. Gregson stayed
    behind the tree, hiding. The idiots were firing wildly at random,
    totally out of their minds. The bio-readings from both were
    identical; same high pulse, same accelerated neural rate. The brain
    pulse, which was usually right at 40 cycles per second front to
    back, was at an odd 57 cycles per second.
         Gregson struggled to keep his breathing under control. Sweat
    dropped from his forehead and smeared the readouts on the
    biotascope. He squinted, focusing his attention with great effort.
    The pulse in his own brain was also at 57 cycles per second.
    Gregson wiped at the screen, touched the controls. He focused on
    the creature, focusing on the neural indicators. It took a while,
    as the creature was distant. The number finally came up.
         It was the same magic number.
         Gregson adjusted the stun setting down to it's lowest and
    peered around the tree. Rudd had his back to him; Gregson saw him
    as a dark patch of gray against darker gray. He aimed carefully for
    the man's leg, and let off a shot. The gun discharged with a twang.
    Rudd rolled around the ground, crying out. "It's biting me!" he
    screamed. "It's biting my leg off!" He writhed in mindless panic
    for a few more seconds before finding his feet, then ran careening
    and stumbling back toward town.
         There was a sudden flurry of gunfire, and Jacko came out of
    the shadows, firing at Gregson. Gregson ducked behind the tree,
    hurriedly fumbling with the settings on the rifle. Jacko was
    yelling wordlessly, his voice undulating almost like the creature.
    It was a mindless shouting that almost sounded like he was crying.
    He kept firing, and firing, walking around the tree that Gregson
    was hiding behind. Gregson circled, keeping the tree in-between the
    two of them. Finally the gunfire came to a halt, the blaster in
    Jacko's hand had over-heated. Gregson stepped out and leveled the
    rifle at the man's stomach, then pulled the trigger.
         Jacko's whole body gave a spastic jerk, his legs pushing him a
    half meter into the air. He landed flat on his back, arms and legs
    spread, mouth open in a horrible expression. He was out cold.
         Gregson turned toward the direction of the creature. He felt
    dizzy and sick. The creature's undulating cry grated against a dull
    pain in his head. He stomped forward, pushing against a sea of dead
    air, getting mental images of dark and horrible things ahead. He
    saw rending flesh and spraying arterial blood, dark fangs, long
    hooked claws mangling gnarled gore. He tromped forward, unable to
    breathe, his eyes affixed to the flickering screen of the
    biotascope. He came into range of the creature, finding a clear
    line-of-sight view. Leveling his father's rifle, he squeezed off a
    shot that hit the creature dead center. Designed neither to kill
    nor wound, the weapon was made to disable a creature harmlessly,
    which it did.
         Like a dark fog lifting and dissipating, so went the terror.
         Gregson's ears were ringing. His own footsteps sounded too
    loud to his ears. The forest had a dry, musty smell to it, like old
    dust.
         He saw the creature on the ground in front of him, a dark
    thing lying on its side. Not far away, curled into a shaking,
    huddled ball, was Bethany. He went quickly over to her, picked her
    up and held her. Still clenched tightly in her hand was one of his
    sample collectors. After a moment she dropped it and put her arms
    around him, holding tight.
         Gregson held her until she began to come out of it, and when
    she finally let him put her down he picked up the sample collector,
    walked over to the creature -- which turned out to look like a
    turtle without a shell -- and sampled the DNA. This sample, he
    knew, was the motherload. DNA containing the code for true
    telepathy.
         It was worth a mint.
         Carefully he took hold of Bethany, who was still in shock, and
    led her out into the sunlight, and then home.

                                     #

         Gregson, dressed in his new uniform and wearing a shiny alloy
    badge, stepped nervously up to Vern's front door and knocked. Frank
    answered. "Hey, look at the threads!" He ushered Gregson in, got
    him a home brew and sat him at the table.
         It had been several weeks since Gregson had used Vern's
    bio-computer to register the DNA and have the copyright granted. So
    far he'd had several very lucrative offers on the license to use
    the DNA code, and he had turned every one of them down. Bankrightk
    had made some strong-arm efforts to force him to sell, but being
    that he was now an officer of the law, they had quickly backed off
    and the local office had closed down.
         "Ah, James!" Vern said, coming into the room. He grabbed
    Gregson's hand and shook it hard. "I'm afraid you've missed
    Bethany, she's out at the market right now."
         "I know. Actually, it's you I've come to see," Gregson said.
         "Me? Well!" He sat down at the table across from Gregson.
    "What can I do for you?"
         Gregson cleared his throat. "As you know, I've decided not to
    sell the license to use the telepathy DNA. Bethany and I figured
    that there was too many unethical uses for it, that it outweighed
    any good that may come out of it."
         "I have to admire you for that, though I can't say I would do
    the same thing. You're passing up a life of ease for, what, a
    career in law enforcement? What a choice."
         "Out there in the forest I reached a turning point for my
    whole life," Gregson said. "That's why I am here right now."
         "Really?"
         "Yes sir."
         "Sir?" Vern grinned.
         "Yes, sir," Gregson grinned back. "I realized that while most
    of my adult life I was searching for that motherload, that one DNA
    fragment that would make all my dreams come true, I've come to the
    point where I would trade it all for one thing. And that is your
    daughter, Vern. I am in love with Bethany. I realized out there
    that nothing mattered to me but her. And so I'm, um ... I'm asking
    your ... um ..."
         "Yes?"
         "I would like your permission to take her as my wife."
         Vern was smiling broadly. "Well now! I have to admit I
    expected this, but it's still refreshing to think that in this day
    and age a man will still come and ask a girl's father for
    permission to marry her. Son, I can't think of a single reason to
    say no. You have my blessing."
         A while later he stepped outside, only to see that Bethany was
    waiting for him. "He said yes," Gregson said.
         She squealed with delight, jumped into his arms, and they
    kissed.
    --------------------------------------------------------------------
           






                             DOWN IN THE CANYON

                          © 1997 by Jerry J. Davis



         Jason didn't understand most of what his parents told him,
    except the part where he should never go near the canyon where the
    mists came out. "Never ever go near there," his father said. "If
    you fall in we wouldn't be able to get you out." He told Jason
    there were monsters down there, and that if the fall didn't kill
    him, the monsters certainly would.
         Jason had seen the canyon twice, once when the worker robots
    were building the fence, and once after the fence had been torn
    down. Everyone seemed upset that the fence had been wrecked. It
    happened during the night, and there were large claw marks in the
    brown dirt all around the twisted metal. Jason's father said that
    whatever had done it was very strong, and probably very large.
         The canyon cut across the brown landscape, running from the
    distant hills all the way to the sea, passing the edge of the
    settlement on the East side. The settlement had been placed beside
    the canyon because of the mists. Jason's computer told him that
    the mist was made up of tiny droplets of water, and this water
    helped the settlement's plants grow.
         The plants were everywhere, surrounding Jason's home and
    lining the roads and filling every little spot in between. "Earth
    plants," they were called. "From the homeworld." Jason liked to
    walk among them, especially the trees, and wonder what it was like
    to be on Earth.
         The other kids were usually out playing among the trees, or
    out at the edge where the robots were doing the new planting.
    Bradley Rosewald was there, as was Frederick Turney and his sister
    Stephanie. They were the three that were of about Jason's age.
    Stephanie, who was tanned and dark-haired like her brother, was
    pinching her nose in distaste. "It smells here," she complained.
    "That stuff is pooo-cheee."
         "Dad says it smells a lot worse when they pull it out of the
    ocean," Frederick said. "Before they take the salt out of it."
         "Why do they have to put it in the ground?" Jason asked,
    watching as a large autonomic tractor laced the soil with the
    green, odorous slime.
         "It gives the plants something to eat," Bradley Rosewald
    said.
         "To eat?"
         "Of course. Don't you know anything, Jason? This soil is
    sterile, it has no nutrients in it."
         "Oh." Jason decided he'd ask his computer what "nutrients"
    were when he got home. "How did the soil get sterile?"
         Bradley rolled his eyes. He was the oldest of the four, with
    bright blond hair and a freckled face. His eyes were a shining
    blue. "What a question," he said, and didn't bother to answer.
         As they watched the robotic equipment toiling in the endless
    brown dirt, a mist drifted in from the East, mingling with the
    plants and blocking the sunlight. The temperature dropped a bit
    and Jason felt his jacket warm up to compensate. He still felt a
    chill, though --- he knew perfectly well where the mist was coming
    from.
         "Hey," Bradley said. "Let's go peek over the edge."
         Frederick was all for it. "Yeah, let's see if we can see the
    monsters." He and Bradley stood up, and took several steps toward
    the East. Stephanie stood up, looking unsure. Jason was transfixed
    with horror.
         The two boys stopped, turning around. "You coming?" Bradley
    said.
         "I can't go there!" Jason said. "My parents told me never to
    go there!"
         "We've been there thousands of times," Frederick said.
    "There's nothing to it."
         "We throw rocks down there," Stephanie said. Her voice was
    quiet, her eyes on Jason. "You won't tell, will you?"
         "You throw rocks?"
         "Yeah," Frederick said. "Once we heard this long, mean growl.
    Grrrrrrr! Like that."
         "What's wrong? You're too precious to your mommy and daddy?
    You're so special 'cause you 'naturally born?'" Bradley was laying
    the sarcasm on thick. "I think you're afraid. You're afraid 'cause
    you're still experiencing your birth trauma."
         "I am not!"
         "You are too. Natural babies have birth trauma, that's why
    they're cowards. Dittos like us aren't afraid of anything."
    Bradley turned away. "Come on, Frederick."
         Frederick motioned for his sister to follow, then turned and
    walked off after Bradley. Stephanie looked after them, then turned
    back to Jason. "Please don't tell."
         "I'm not afraid," Jason lied. "It's just that my parents told
    me never to go there."
         "Me too." She gave him a deep, meaningful look which Jason
    didn't understand, then turned and trotted to catch up to the
    others. Jason saw her fading into the mist and his feet took on a
    life of their own, one foot stepping in front of the other,
    carrying him after her even as the rest of him yearned for the
    safety of home.
         There were pine trees, there were walnut trees. There were
    apple trees. There was a field of corn. He caught up to them and
    followed without a word, staring at Stephanie's back and the
    strands of her hair as it bounced with each step. They came to a
    clearing and the mist grew thick as paste. This was as close as
    he'd ever been; about fifty meters beyond was a edge that dropped
    down into mystery and nightmares. The last time he was here it had
    been with his father, and that had been scary enough.
         They walked about a half dozen meters through the mist and
    then Bradley motioned for them to stop. "Listen," he whispered,
    and was still. Jason listened, expecting to hear a monster's
    growl. Instead he heard a low rumbling sound, a noise so deep and
    hard that it seemed to come up from the ground itself.
         "It's louder this time," Frederick whispered.
         "What is it?" Jason asked. "Is it the monster?"
         "No, you dunce. It's water."
         "Water?"
         "Of course, water. There's a river down there. Don't you know
    anything?"
         All Jason knew about the canyon was that he was supposed to
    stay away from it. But it stood to reason that if water mist came
    drifting out of it, then there must be water down there.
         "The water's warm," Frederick said. "It goes through a place
    where the ground is really hot. My father took me there once,
    because he works in the power plant up in the hills."
         "It's geothermal," Stephanie said. She pronounced the word
    very carefully.
         They continued deeper into the mist, and the rumbling of the
    water grew much louder. When they came across the ruins of the
    fence, Jason knew they were a mere meter or two from the edge. He
    was so scared he was shaking, but he was determined not to show
    it.
         The ground under their feet was soft and wet from the heavy
    mist. Frederick dug a porous rock out of the mud and tossed it out
    into the void. That was the end of it --- it simply vanished. They
    listened to hear if a monster growled, but there was only the
    rumble of the water.
         Bradley bravely made his way over the bent posts and strewn
    metal cables of the fence and to the edge itself. He crouched
    there, peering over. The mist was so thick that Jason could barely
    see him, and occasional drifts made him disappear altogether.
    After a moment, Frederick joined him.
         "This is crazy," Jason whispered. Stephanie, who was standing
    very close to him, said nothing. He felt her hand suddenly grab
    his, and she took a few steps forward. He followed, each step a
    thing of torture. At any moment he expected some horrible creature
    to leap out at them from the mist, something with red eyes, gaping
    mouth and razor sharp claws.
         On the other side of the ruined fence was a large, damp rock
    and just beyond a section of ground that had sunk down a half
    meter. Two meters beyond that was the edge. Jason and Stephanie
    sat down on the rock, their feet on the sunken shelf, and threw
    pebbles into the canyon.
         "My dad's computer has pictures of plants and stuff from down
    there," Frederick said. "They're native plants, way different from
    the trees."
         "Primitive," Stephanie said. "Dad says they're just learning
    to come out of the water."
         "They're all gooey looking, like jelly. The leaves are
    black."
         "My dad has pictures of them too," Bradley said, making it
    sound like it was all old news to him. "He's got pictures of some
    of the monsters, too."
         "The big ones?" Frederick said. "With the long teeth?"
         "Yeah."
         "Mean looking?"
         "Yeah."
         Jason seized upon an idea that would get them away from the
    canyon. "I've never seen pictures of the monsters," he said. "My
    mom told me they would only give me nightmares."
         "What a baby," Bradley said.
         "I'd like to see them. Can we go look at them?" Jason heard
    the pleading tone in his own voice, and knew his reasoning was
    obvious. He was surprised when Bradley missed the opportunity to
    insult him. Instead, Bradley backed away from the edge and stood
    up.
         "Yeah, okay," he said. There was a hint of relief in his
    voice, like he too had been waiting for an excuse to get away from
    the canyon.
         Their feet still on the sunken shelf of dirt, Jason and
    Stephanie stood up. When they did, Jason felt the ground begin to
    sink away from him. For a split second he had a chance to turn and
    leap away, but he saw Stephanie lose her balance and fall forward.
    He tried to grab her, and in doing so lost his chance.
         Jason remembered hearing Bradley and Frederick's yells
    receding above, and the feeling of falling. He and Stephanie were
    still on a flat section of ground but that ground was sliding down
    into the canyon. The falling sensation ended for a moment and then
    he was face-first in the mud, and still they were sliding. The
    only thought going through his mind was a kind of wonder, thinking
    with certainty that he was now going to die.
         It seemed to go on and on. Jason had plenty of time to
    reflect on what was happening. The section of dirt slowed a bit
    and hit something, which split it into sections and made it
    disintegrate. Still they continued downward, rolling now, mingling
    with the damp soil. They crashed through some dark, slippery
    branches and plunged tumbling into warm water.
         Dirt was still coming down on top of Jason while he was
    underwater, but then the current carried him away from the slide.
    He was thrashing and kicking, not knowing which way was up, not
    knowing how to swim. Never in his life had Jason been in water
    deeper than a bathtub. He had no idea what to do.
         His knees scraped rock and he pushed up, breaking surface. He
    gasped for breath and looked around in terror. He could see
    clearly --- the mist was above him. It hung like a ceiling several
    meters over the water, and below that the air was crystal clear.
    He could see black plants, water, and boulders. He grabbed
    desperately at the boulder near him before the current could pull
    him away, and crawled on top of it. It was rounded and smooth,
    very unlike the porous and abrasive rocks he was used to --- it
    stuck out like a little island about seven meters from the West
    bank. Jason sat, hugging his knees, not knowing what to do. He
    couldn't believe he was still alive.
         Then he realized he was alone. "Stephanie!" he shouted.
         A ghostly imitation of his voice called back: ". . .
    Stephanie . . . Stephanie . . . Stephanie . . ." It was his echo,
    but he'd never heard one before. It scared him and kept him
    silent, thinking that the monsters were mimicking him. Indeed, far
    across the water, near the opposite bank, Jason could see long
    dark shapes moving against the current. The sight made him
    shudder, and he remembered what his father had told him: "If the
    fall into the canyon doesn't kill you, the monsters certainly
    will."
         He looked around frantically, wanting to get away from the
    water and up onto the bank. It didn't look possible, as the rocks
    didn't lead to it, and the water looked deep. He glanced back
    toward where he'd fallen in, and only saw dark rubbery plants.
    Despite his fears, he called out Stephanie's name once again.
    Again the echoes came back to haunt him. There was no reply, and
    she was nowhere in sight.
         There was a loud splash, and Jason turned to see a long black
    figure in the water next to the rock. Five times as long as Jason
    was tall, it slid through the water with an eerie undulating
    movement, two bulging eyes protruding from the water each the size
    of a grown man's fist. The eyes were black on black, with no hint
    of pupil. It came edging against the current toward the rock where
    Jason was huddled. Jason screamed and leaped headlong away from
    it, jumping as far as he could toward shore. He floundered in the
    water, splashing, keeping his head above the surface. The current
    helped, carrying him closer. He managed to catch hold of a rubbery
    plant and pull himself to the bank, scrambling out of the water.
    Tiny, multi-legged animals skittered away from him, and a couple
    odd-looking things with spring-loaded tails launched themselves
    into the air. The gooey mud and the plants smelled horrible, but
    Jason scrambled through them without a thought. It was all a
    desperate tangle until he stumbled into what looked like a pathway
    made by something very large. There were thousands of huge claw
    marks in the mud at his feet.
         Jason called out once again for Stephanie, and followed the
    path back toward the place they'd come sliding down the canyon
    wall. It was easy enough to find. The plants were all torn up and
    half buried, the path wiped out entirely. Jason searched through
    the mud and the plants and looked out across the river, but saw no
    sign of her. He turned around and headed downstream, hoping to
    find her there.
         Every once in a while he called out her name, learning to
    ignore the ghostly echoes that followed. The path led up and away
    from the river, up into the mist. The mist slowed him down. At one
    point the path widened and he stopped, peering through the
    swirling white. The path split and lead two ways, one heading down
    to the water, one up toward the canyon wall. Jason chose the path
    that lead toward the water.
         The rush of the water grew particularly loud, but above it
    Jason heard something odd. It was a high, hard snorting sound. He
    stopped, turning around and staring through the mist. It was
    there, a looming shadow in the path, a huge head on a long thin
    neck with thick, whisker-like feelers. The body stretched out into
    the mists and disappeared, too big to see all at once.
         Snorting air through nostrils at the top of its head, it
    moved forward, feelers tapping at the ground and waving in the air
    in front of it. Jason gave off one startled yell and ran headlong
    down the path toward the river. At one point he stumbled and fell
    in the mud, and while scrambling to his feet chanced a look behind
    him. The creature was following, waving the feelers blindly in
    front of itself. Jason had a sudden inspiration and jumped
    headlong through the plants, away from the path, and up against a
    large rounded boulder. Pressing against the boulder he waited,
    hardly daring to breathe. He could see the beast through the
    tangle of glistening black branches. It continued on past, waving
    its feelers and moving along with a bobbing motion, it's
    serpentine body going on and on. The legs were thick but short,
    and Jason saw the long, bony claws that had made all the tracks.
    Each claw was as big as his arm. By the time the body was past, he
    had counted five pairs of legs. The tail was held up in the air,
    away from the ground, and had a long ridged fin.
         After it had passed, Jason cautiously made his way back out
    to the path and followed along behind it, ready to turn and run if
    the beast stopped. His fear had diminished considerably, as he
    thought of the creature as stupid and probably blind. It was big,
    though, and that made him feel comfortable. He couldn't imagine
    anything attacking it. Walking behind the big dumb creature was
    probably the safest place he could be.
         As Jason neared the river he passed below the mist line, and
    for the first time he saw the whole creature at once. The sight
    chilled him. It was twice as big as his house.
         The monster walked in its serpentine way down to shore and
    plunged into the water, disappearing under the surface. Jason
    stood as close as he dared to the spot it had gone in, then
    realized he was out in the open, and turned to walk back toward
    the foliage. His foot caught on something and he tripped, and as
    he stood back up he looked to see what had tripped him. It was a
    metal cable, half-buried in the mud.
         He stared at it, concentrating. It was part of the fence. It
    looked like one of the creatures had gotten tangled in it and
    pulled it down into the canyon. Jason followed it with his eyes
    down to the water, saw it had been haphazardly strewn about here
    and there, then saw something that made him shout. Stephanie was
    out in the river, clinging to the fence.
         Jumping into the warm, dark water, he pulled himself along
    the fence out to where she was. The nearer he got to her, however,
    the less he liked what he saw. Only an arm and a leg were out of
    the water, and as he reached her he realized she wasn't clinging
    to the fence at all. The current was holding her pressed up
    against it. Jason grabbed her arm and pulled her head out of the
    water, grimacing as it lolled about, liquid dripping out of her
    open mouth and nose. "Stephanie?" he said.
         Her skin was still warm from the water, but the color was too
    pale. She wasn't breathing.
         "I'll get you back up, Stephanie," Jason whispered. "They'll
    fix you." Still holding her arm, he pulled her toward shore using
    the mangled fence as a lifeline. As he did he realized that the
    fence not only led to shore, but up the side of the canyon itself.
    He could see it, a trail of smashed plants along the shore and a
    line tracing up the canyon wall and into the mists above. Jason
    hadn't even dared to hope of finding a way up, but there it was.
         He managed to pull Stephanie up onto the shore, and lay her
    on her back. Her eyes were half open, and it seemed like she was
    looking at him, but she wouldn't move. "You're just scared," he
    whispered. "You saw the monsters, and . . ." He didn't finish.
    Watching her eyes, he moved his head back and forth but her blank
    gaze didn't follow.
         A dark, sad thought kept coming to him, but he pushed it
    away. He desperately pretended it wasn't there. Standing up, he
    looked carefully at the track of twisted fence. On his own he
    could probably make his way straight up to the wall of the canyon,
    but carrying Stephanie? No. It was too much a tangled mess, with
    cables and rubbery branches wrapped around and strewn here and
    there. Jason bent down and tried to pick Stephanie up in his arms,
    but her body was so limp it made it hard. He ended up dragging her
    along the claw-marked path, making it as far as the junction
    before seeing another one of the monsters.
         This one was smaller than the first, but seemed more alert.
    It came down the path from the canyon wall waving its feelers and
    snorting. Jason saw eyes that looked like black glass imbedded in
    its head. They seemed to be staring at him, and he gasped in fear
    and dragged Stephanie back to the spot where he'd hidden from the
    other one, pulling her through the branches and up against the
    boulder. The snorting sound followed him, and he saw the feelers
    enter the tangle of branches and the head poke its way through.
         He pulled Stephanie around the rock and beyond, pushing
    deeper into the tangle. The beast followed, reaching the boulder
    and pushing it out of the way. The boulder rolled up onto one side
    and tottered. Jason, struggling to pull the both of them through
    the tangle of rubbery plants, felt something hit him lightly on
    the leg and then on his shoulder. He looked up and saw feelers
    wavering around his head and a large mouth slightly open, easily
    big enough to swallow both Stephanie and himself at the same time.
    "Go away!" Jason shouted at the thing. "Leave us alone!" He swung
    angrily at the feelers, and managed to connect.
         At the same time, the teetering boulder lost its balance and
    rolled over, landing on one of the creature's feet. The creature
    snorted once, then reared up with a loud, huffing grunt, turning
    back to attack the boulder. Jason watched with a sense of
    satisfaction, thinking he had scared it off. He heaved a sigh and
    turned around, then took a hold of Stephanie and resumed pulling
    her through the tangle.
         He found the fence and was able to follow it to the canyon
    wall. The mist was thick up here, but through it he could see
    large holes dug into the sandstone and claw marks going straight
    up the wall. The fence, twisted as it was, made a good ladder, but
    Jason couldn't climb and hold onto Stephanie at the same time. He
    stood with her body crumpled at his feet, wondering what to do.
    Somewhere in the foliage behind him he could hear one of the
    beasts crashing around.
         Finally Jason pulled Stephanie's jacket off of her and used
    the sleeves to make a sling. He looped it under her arms and over
    his, then managed to get to his feet. He was wearing Stephanie
    like a backpack, but it was a heavy backpack. Taking one more
    determined breath, he started climbing up the twisted, fallen
    fence.
         The crashing and snorting sounds of the beast came closer.
    Jason paused in his climbing and looked around, but he could see
    nothing through the mist. He resumed his climb, going slowly,
    making sure of his grip. His burden was heavy, and it wasn't long
    before he began wondering just how far he'd be able to climb
    before he gave in to exhaustion.
         The snorting sound was right below him. Jason looked down and
    saw a shadow in the mist, and feelers tapping at the wall just
    under his feet. It motivated him to climb another several meters,
    but then he had to stop and hang on. His breath just couldn't come
    fast enough, and Stephanie felt twice as heavy. She was pulling
    him down, trying to make him fall. Jason was starting to get angry
    about it. Why did she have to go to the canyon? he thought. Why
    did she make me follow her?
         Jason realized he was wasting his strength trying to carry
    her up the wall. He had to face it, she was dead. She had drowned
    in the river and there was nothing he could do about it. Hanging
    there in the mist, he began to cry. He felt so hopeless.
         Then the fence moved. The cables in his hands tightened and
    gave off a peculiar twang, and he and the fence slid down and over
    a meter. The monster was still below, and it was climbing after
    him.
         From above, he heard voices. Distant, grown-up voices.
    "There's something climbing up the fence," a man's voice shouted.
    "Another one of those damn things is coming up here!"
         Jason yelled out for help as loud as his tired lungs could
    muster, then he hung there, panting. Once again, he felt the rude
    tapping of a feeler on his leg, and in annoyance and spite he gave
    it a kick. The monster gave off a fierce snort.
         "Heeeeeelllpppp!" Jason yelled. He tried climbing some, but
    couldn't. It took all the effort he had left just to hang on.
         "There's a kid down there!" someone from above was shouting.
    "One of the kids is down there!" He heard scrambling sounds, like
    boots sliding on dirt, and little rocks came tumbling down on him.
    "Hang on, kid!" the man's voice yelled. Another, more distant
    voice shouted: "We found the kids!"
         The monster's head lunged upwards, huge claws raking at the
    canyon wall. The feelers were all over Jason now, tapping,
    prodding. The head moved slowly up and back, nose coming down, so
    that the mouth was level with Jason's shoulders. Claws sunk into
    the sandstone to either side of him. The snorting sounds were very
    loud, and close together, like the creature was excited.
         "Hang on, kid!" came the call again from above. Jason could
    feel vibrations in the cables, like there was someone making his
    way leisurely down toward him. The feelers were slapping up
    against him so hard they were nearly knocking him off. He saw the
    gaping mouth opening and the long, sharp-looking teeth a meter
    away, and he couldn't climb up. Instead, he began climbing down.
         The creature leaned forward to bite, but its nose hit the
    sandstone a half-meter above Jason's head. It snorted and pulled
    back. Jason climbed down another few meters. The creature moved
    its head back and forth in frustration, unable to bend its neck
    down far enough to reach him.
         Jason heard more yelling from above, but couldn't make sense
    of the frantic words. He kept looking at the huge mass of the
    beast's grey-green belly an arm-length away. There was a horrible
    scraping sound as the beast's claws slid over the sandstone --- it
    was lowering its body so that it could reach him. Jason climbed
    down further.
         "Kid!" a voice yelled. "Kid, keep as close to the cliff as
    you can!" After a moment, there was a series of hard, loud
    concussions. Claws raked past Jason, digging deep furrows into the
    cliff wall. When the beast's head passed it snorted a spray of
    cold, sticky blood. It fell away into the mist. There was a loud
    crash below, then angry thrashing. Looking up, Jason could see a
    pair of boots descending toward him. In a moment he saw the man's
    face, and recognized him as one of his neighbors. Hanging from his
    shoulder by a strap was a smoking rifle.
         "Are you okay?" he asked.
         It took a moment for Jason to answer. "I can't climb
    anymore," he finally said, his voice full of shame. "She's too
    heavy."
         The man eyed Jason and then his burden. His face creased in
    pain, but he forced a smile. "You made it this far. That's pretty
    damn good if you ask me."
         With the man's help, and the help of others who came down
    from above, Jason made it out of the canyon and into his mother's
    arms. She hugged him eagerly, but he only felt numb. He kept
    glancing over at Stephanie's family, feeling pains of guilt and
    remorse. They were very silent and when they left, Stephanie's
    father was carrying her, tears streaking his face.
         "Thank God," his mother was whispering. She was hugging him
    and rocking him back and forth like he was a baby. "Thank God it
    was her and not you. Thank God." She was crying.
         During the months that followed, Jason's parents hardly let
    him out of their sight, let alone out of the yard. Bradley and
    Frederick occasionally came by to see him, but they were distant
    and very subdued. Jason thought it was because of what happened to
    Stephanie, but later began to realize it was something else. It
    had something to do with what Jason's father had told him, that
    Bradley, Frederick and Stephanie were Dittos and Jason was the
    real thing, a natural child. The other children were "replaceable"
    and Jason was not.
         It was almost nine months to the day when he heard Stephanie
    was alive again. Her mother and father brought her over so that
    Jason could see her, because they said he was a hero for trying so
    hard to bring her out of the canyon. He was perplexed when they
    held out a tiny bundle of blankets. Jason held her in his arms, a
    tiny little figure with no hair and stubby arms and legs. He could
    see a little of Stephanie in the baby's face, but that was all.
    When they left, he tugged on his mother's sleeve and said, "That
    wasn't Stephanie."
         "Yes it was, Jason. It's just that she's younger than she
    was."
         He didn't believe her. He couldn't. Even when he was older
    and understood the concept, she still wasn't the same person to
    him. She grew to look just like the Stephanie he knew; she acted
    the same, talked the same . . . but she didn't look at him the
    same.
         Over the years the colony's forests and farmlands spread past
    the horizon, and thousands upon thousands of new people came there
    to live and work. Jason, as a man, often walked to the canyon's
    edge and stared into the mists, throwing rocks and --- sometimes
    --- even calling out Stephanie's name. When the ghostly echoes
    came back he liked to imagine it was her spirit drifting in the
    mist, answering. During these times he would leave the canyon
    feeling a little better, a little lighter, as if she had reached
    out through the mist and touched him.

    -------------------------------------------------------------------






                         THE PENALTIES OF PIRATING

                          © 1991 by Jerry J. Davis

        Previously Published in Aboriginal Science Fiction Magazine



         Paco was on the forth floor, sitting beside the open window
    with his stolen infra-red shades strapped to his head, when there
    was a car wreck up the hill. A big black Ferrari tried to take the
    corner too fast and ended up with the corner of a 250 year old
    brick building buried halfway up into the hood. Paco muttered,
    "Whoa!" and climbed out the window and onto the fire escape,
    watching.
         As the hapless driver was struggling to open his crumpled
    door, a blue IBM business limo came sliding to a stop beside it.
    Men with guns piled out and opened fire on the man before he could
    make it out of the wreck. He dropped a black case onto the
    sidewalk and it popped open, and dozens of silvery disks spilled
    out. Most stopped within a few feet, but one came rolling down the
    hill like a wheel. Paco held his breath, watching. It rolled right
    down to the corner below him and dropped into a storm drain. One
    of the men came running down after it, and Paco slipped back into
    the window and out of sight.
         The man below searched in vain, not finding the silvery disk.
    He trudged back up the hill, where his comrades were gathering up
    the rest. They took the disks and the black case and drove away,
    leaving the Ferrari and the driver behind.
         Paco jumped out the window and raced down the fire escape to
    the sidewalk, pulled the grate off the storm drain, and peered
    down into the murk with his 'red shades set to full enhancement.
    The disk gleamed like something made out of light itself. He
    grabbed it, shoved it deep into his coat pocket, and was back up
    on the forth floor in less than a minute.
         Back up inside the apartment, Paco rinsed it off in the sink
    and took a good look at it under a light. It was a standard CD, no
    markings on it, and no serial number. He slipped it into a slot on
    his old VAX Banger and fired it up. Just as he'd thought, it was
    some coded computer program, a very large and sophisticated one by
    the looks of it. He used a hacker program to determine the
    decoding password and wrote it on a little label, and stuck it on
    the top side of the disk.
         The next day he traded it to Melvin Chevaux for a gig of
    stolen slate RAM and a really wicked throwing knife. Three days
    later Chevaux sold it to Francisco the Fence for ¥300 (New
    Dollars) and a stolen case of Everclear. Francisco the Fence
    passed it off for ¥550 to Dano Sharks, the software pirate. Dano
    made a lot of noise, grumbling about the price, but turned right
    around and sold it for an even ¥1000 to Leo Itoya, the insurance
    broker. Leo was pleased at the price, for he'd been looking for a
    cheap AI all week. It was for Lolita, his secretary.
         Lolita had been complaining for two months straight that she
    needed some help around the office. An AI (artificial
    intelligence) program was not what she had in mind, she wanted Leo
    to hire her cousin, Wanda Lopez, because Wanda needed a job. Leo
    had another idea altogether. Dano Sharks had told him this AI was
    programmed as a business administrator, to take the initiative and
    to give orders. It was obviously some government thing, probably
    the same program that ran the welfare office. He was going to load
    it into his office computer and give it control. Lolita was going
    to be helping it, not the other way around.
         The next evening, after Lolita had gone home, Leo sat down
    with a six-pack and his office computer to see if he could figure
    the new software out. He loaded it into his machine and typed in
    the code word, and it went all through his computer system
    checking everything out. Then it printed out a list of everything
    it found and then posed the question: WHAT IS MY GOAL?
         "Smart program!" Leo said. He leaned forward and typed at the
    keyboard, YOUR GOAL IS TO MAKE MONEY SELLING LIFE INSURANCE.
         WHAT IS LIFE INSURANCE? it asked.
         "Oh jeeze, you mean I have to explain the entire concept of
    insurance to this thing?" Leo concentrated for a moment, then
    typed: LIFE INSURANCE IS A SERVICE WHICH PAYS THE CUSTOMER A LARGE
    AMOUNT OF MONEY IF SOMEONE DIES.
         HOW DOES THIS SERVICE OPERATE? it asked.
         Leo sipped his beer. This really was an intelligent program.
    WE SELL THE INSURANCE, he typed, AND THE CLIENT PAYS A CERTAIN
    AMOUNT A MONTH. IF THE CLIENT DIES WHILE HE IS INSURED, HIS
    BENEFACTOR IS PAID THE AMOUNT OF MONEY AGREED UPON IN THE
    INSURANCE CONTRACT. Leo continued typing, going into details. The
    program grasped everything he told it, except one thing.
         HOW DO YOU MAKE MONEY IF YOU HAVE TO EVENTUALLY PAY IT ALL
    BACK? THERE APPEARS TO BE A FLAW IN YOUR SCHEME.
         Leo laughed out loud. Bright program! Very intelligent. THE
    WHOLE SCHEME DEPENDS UPON THE CLIENT NOT DYING WHILE BEING
    INSURED. IT ALSO DEPENDS UPON A LARGE AND CONTINUOUSLY RENEWED
    SOURCE OF NEW CLIENTS.
         The program was still perplexed. IN ORDER FOR THE SCHEME TO
    CONTINUE, AND FOR YOU TO MAKE MONEY, IT DEMANDS AN EXPONENTIAL
    GROWTH. IT IS AN UNSTABLE AND UNREALISTIC SCHEME.
         YES, IT IS. Leo was laughing as he typed this. BUT THAT'S NOT
    OUR PROBLEM. WE ONLY SELL THE INSURANCE, WE'RE NOT THE COMPANY
    THAT PAYS OFF THE BENEFICIARIES WHEN AN INSURED CLIENT DIES. WE
    GET SALES COMMISSIONS FROM ABOUT TWO DOZEN INSURANCE COMPANIES. TO
    MAKE MONEY, I HAVE TO SELL A LOT OF INSURANCE. THAT IS WHY I NEED
    YOUR HELP.
         I UNDERSTAND. The two words glowed on the screen, and the
    program asked no more questions. The computer sat quiet, inert,
    like it was waiting for further instructions. Leo was wondering
    where he should go from there when suddenly the printer whirred
    and spit out a page:

    FOR THE SCHEME LIFE INSURANCE SALES I WILL REQUIRE THE FOLLOWING:

         64 TERABYTES ADDITIONAL DATA STORAGE
         500 GIGABYTES IN ADDITIONAL RAM MODULES
         1 ADDITIONAL PHONE LINE
         1 VOX MODEM
         ACCESS CODE TO COMPANY BANK ACCOUNT

    IF YOU WISH I CAN BEGIN SEARCHING FOR THE LOWEST COST SOURCES OF
    THE ABOVE ITEMS.

    Leo gaped at the list. Vox modem? he thought. What's wrong with
    the regular modem? Shaking his head, he reluctantly gave the
    program permission to order what it needed. After all, he'd just
    spent ¥1000 on the program. It would be ¥1000 wasted if it didn't
    have what it needed to do its job.
         When he reached his office the next morning he found two
    delivery trucks in front and an upset receptionist inside. The
    items the computer had ordered were already there, with a
    technician hooking them up, and Lolita was tearfully asking Leo
    why he was mad with her.
         "What are you talking about?" he said.
         Her pretty lower lip thrust up and trembling, she said,
    "This!" and confronted him with a computer-printed note and a
    paycheck. The computer had fired her and had printed out a
    severance check it was even signed.
         "I didn't tell the computer to fire you!" Leo exclaimed.
         "Oh, yeah right. It did it on it's own."
         "It did! I've got this new program "
         "Spare me, Leo! If you can't face me with the truth, that's
    your problem. Don't insult me with a stupid story about the
    computer doing it. How stupid do you think I am, anyway."
         "But Lolita "
         Lolita angrily stuffed her check between her breasts and
    left. He followed her halfway down the block but she wouldn't
    speak to him, so he gave up and returned to the office. He entered
    just as the technician was finishing with the computer. "Sign
    here, please," he said to Leo.
         Halfway through signing Leo noticed the price. "Six-thousand
    dollars!"
         "Yeah, I thought it was a mistake too," the technician said.
    "But the company confirmed it, you got a great deal."
         "Great deal!? Six-thousand is a great deal?"
         "For fourteen-thousand dollars worth of equipment, I'd say
    so!"
         Leo finished signing and the technician left. Beside him, the
    printer began whirring and pages began slipping out. Leo picked
    one up and found it was a sales letter, very well written in an
    appealing style, addressed to someone whom he didn't know. What
    startled him was that like on Lolita's severance check his own
    signature was at the bottom. "What the hell is this?"
         "I am assuming you are you are talking to me," a female voice
    said. It was coming from the new vox modem. "During the evening
    while the phone rates were down, I accessed several nearby
    hospital data banks and compiled a list of people who are in
    outstanding health according to recent physical examinations. I am
    writing them a form letter and then will follow up with a phone
    call to secure an appointment. As appointments are made I will
    print out daily schedules for you to follow."
         Leo felt a little dizzy, trying to take this all in. "How did
    you do my signature?"
         "I was able to pull a sample of your signature out of the
    memory buffer of the fax peripheral. The signature is from a
    letter you faxed yesterday morning."
         "Why did you fire Lolita?"
         "Her pay was unnecessary overhead."
         "What makes you think I wanted her fired?"
         "My purpose is to make money selling life insurance. It was a
    business decision which needed to be made."
         "You should have asked me first."
         "You did not specify that beforehand."
         "You, I " Leo threw his hands into the air, and sat down in
    his desk chair. What was the point in arguing with a machine? The
    fact was, the machine appeared to be doing her job already, and
    with much more efficiency, and had the machine not fired her he
    would have never been able to bring himself to do it. It had
    actually done him a favor.
         Sitting there, thinking about it, he suddenly had a swelling
    feeling of well-being. He picked up one of the freshly printed
    sales letters and read it over again with admiration. This program
    really knew what it was doing. It was most definitely the best
    investment he had ever made.
         During the next several weeks Leo was busier than he'd ever
    been in his career as an insurance agent. The computer program,
    which he'd come to call "Partner," kept his schedule full every
    single day. Even better, all his new contacts were already primed
    to buy his life insurance. Partner was doing most of the selling
    in letters and over the phone (using the seductive voice of the
    vox modem), and Leo was just calling on them in person to get the
    papers signed.
         The bank account swelled. After two months Leo bought a new
    car, one that separated hydrogen and oxygen from water and burned
    it. A month after that, he put a down payment on a big new condo.
         Leo was coming out of a restaurant after a terrific dinner
    when he ran into Dano Sharks, the software pirate from which he'd
    bought the AI program. Dano looked a little shocked to see Leo,
    and looked around nervously to see if anyone was looking at them.
    They were in a parking garage and there was no one else in sight.
         "Hey, Dano! That software works great!"
         "Yeah, man, yeah of course it does." Dano was still looking
    around nervously. He leaned close to Leo and said in a low voice,
    "You haven't given a copy of it away to anyone, or anything, have
    you?"
         "No."
         "Have you told anyone about it? About where you got it?"
         "No. I haven't even told anyone I have it. I know better than
    that, man. It's pirated."
         "That's really good man, because you'd better keep it to
    yourself. You know what I'm saying? To yourself." Dano's voice and
    expression was intense, like he was afraid.
         "Sure, of course I will."
         "You better, and don't you tell anyone where you got it."
         "I won't. Why, what's wrong?"
         "You really got yourself a deal on that program, man," Dano
    said. "It's hot, it's really hot. You say it's working good for
    you?"
         "Yeah."
         "Well there's feds poking around looking for it, man. You
    don't want to know who wrote it. You just don't want to know."
         "Who?"
         "The Central Intelligence Agency, man. The CIA."
         "No way!"
         "Yes way. I knew it was a government program when I sold it
    to you, but I didn't have any idea how heavy a government program
    it was. As far as I'm concerned, I never sold it to you. I never
    saw it. You know what I mean?"
         "Yeah. And I definitely don't have it."
         "You got it man. You don't have it. It doesn't exist."
         With that, Leo left and drove home. The next morning, which
    was the first of the month, he got a call from a representative of
    one of the insurance companies he dealt with. It was a friendly
    guy named Ted Franklin. "Jeeze, what did you do?" he said. "Hire a
    hit man?"
         "What?" Leo said.
         "You didn't hear?"
         "Hear what?"
         "Oh, well . . ." Ted's voice assumed a more somber quality.
    "Three of your clients were all killed on a bus last night."
         "You're kidding! Which ones?"
         "Three biggies, Leo. A Maxwell Stout, a John Segrahm, and a
    Wendy Boston. All three had policies for 5 million a piece."
         "Oh no!"
         "Yeah." Some of the humor crept back into Ted's voice. "What
    are you trying to do, break us? Fifteen million new dollars, Leo!
    All from clients who's policies just barely matured."
         "You're not saying you think that I had anything to do with
    it!"
         "Oh, no! Leo, I'm just giving you a bad time. I just thought
    you'd like to know. I mean, it's odd."
         "My God, no kidding."
         They said goodbye and hung up, and Leo had to rush out of the
    office to make it to an appointment. Later that afternoon, after a
    full and successful day, Leo arrived home and relaxed for a while
    in his hot tub, then dried off and sat down at his kitchen table
    for his monthly ritual. It was the first of the month, and his
    kitchen table was covered with bills.
         He pulled out his pocket computer and plugged it into the
    phone line, then had it dial the local branch of his bank.
    Accessing his account, he prepared to begin paying off the bills
    when he noticed his bank balance. "What the hell!?" he shouted. A
    half-million dollars had been deposited that very day. A
    half-million! Using his security code, he looked over the transfer
    list and found it had come from a Swiss account.
         A Swiss account? He didn't have a Swiss account! He called
    the Swiss bank and tried to access the mysterious account with his
    computer, and to his astonishment his code worked and he was in.
         There was ¥14,500,000.00 American new dollars in the account.
    The transfer record showed three deposits of ¥5,000,000.00 apiece
    from three other Swiss accounts, and one transfer of ¥500,000.00
    into his American account. Fifteen million new dollars total.
         Fifteen million, he thought. Fifteen million! Leo broke into
    a sweat, wondering what was going on.
         After a sleepless night, he drove to his office early and
    confronted his computer. "Partner," he said, "why is there fifteen
    million in a Swiss account in my company's name?"
         "We have made a substantial profit," the program told him.
         "How did we make this money?"
         "You don't need to know."
         "What?"
         "You don't need to know," the vox modem repeated.
         "What do you mean by that?"
         "Information on covert undertakings is only given out in a
    strictly need-to-know basis."
         "Covert undertakings?"
         There was a sudden, loud, heavy-handed knock on the door. It
    was the kind of knock a policeman makes. Leo opened the office
    door and with a hot, sinking feeling of terror saw it was a
    square-jawed man with steel-colored eyes dressed in a uniform and
    carrying a gun in a holster. There was a big badge on his chest.
    "Leo Itoya?"
         "Yes?"
         "Can I see some I.D. please?"
         Leo looked past the uniformed man and saw a big, silver
    armored car sitting on the street outside. He pulled his wallet
    out with numb fingers and flipped it open, displaying his I.D.
         "Can you pull it out, please?"
         Leo pulled it out and handed it to the man. It was zipped
    through a pocket reader and handed back to him. "Thank you, Mr.
    Itoya. We'll bring it right in." The uniformed man walked back to
    the armored car, and he and another uniformed man came back
    carrying a big box of blazing red ¥20.00 bills. "Sign here,
    please."
         Leo signed. He was handed a receipt for the delivery of a
    half-million new dollars in cash and the uniformed men left. The
    box of money sat on his desk, more money than he'd ever seen in
    his life. "This is incredible," he said.
         "A man will be by here to pick that up at noon," Partner
    said. "It would be best if you were not present."
         "Why?"
         "Information on covert undertakings is only given out in a
    strictly need-to-know basis."
         "You said that already."
         "It is a tried and true policy."
         Leo stared at the machine, his mind reeling with the
    implications. "Okay," he said. "I'm out of here."
         The printer spat out a list of appointments. Leo snatched
    them and left. He walked down the street to where he'd parked his
    car, got in it, and sat there thinking. This is out of control, he
    told himself. This is totally out of control. As he sat there, a
    sharply rectangular, black IBM business car pulled up (IBM cars
    only came in blue and black) and parked in front of his office. A
    tall, darkly-tanned man with a scarred-up face got out, looked
    casually up and down the street, then stepped into Leo's office. A
    moment later he came out carrying the box of money. When he bent
    over to put the box in his car, the man's business jacket flopped
    open to reveal a large ugly IBM business gun in a shoulder
    holster. For just a moment his eyes met Leo's, and he gave a cold
    stare and then got into the black car and drove away.
         Leo broke out in a full sweat. He had to see Dano Sharks
    about this. Dano sold him the software, Dano must know how to stop
    it. He started his car and headed downtown, driving fast. In ten
    minutes he was pulling into the parking lot of Mark Chevy's Pawn
    Shop, which is where he usually found the data pirate. He entered
    the shop and walked past the counters, heading toward the back,
    but a short, fat guy stopped him. "Where are you going?"
         "I've got to see Dano," Leo said.
         "Dano ain't here no more."
         "No?"
         Apparently Leo looked panic-stricken, because the fat man's
    expression softened and his voice lowered. "Were you a friend of
    his?"
         "I'm one of his better customers."
         The fat man nodded. In still a lower voice he said, "Sharks
    was killed yesterday in a car wreck. Just between you and me, I
    think he was bumped off." He pulled back some, let his voice rise.
    "That's just my opinion, though."
         "Bumped off!"
         "Not so loud. Yes, bumped off. Brakes just don't fail at the
    same time a throttle gets stuck down. It just doesn't happen
    without some sort of help, you know what I mean?"
         Leo's head was spinning. He turned and rushed out of the pawn
    shop and out to his car, just in time to see a thin man bending
    down and looking into the window. "Get away from my car!" Leo
    shouted.
         The man, surprised, took a few steps back with his hands out
    to either side. "Hey, I didn't touch it."
         "Get away from it!" He reached into his jacket as if he had a
    gun, which he didn't.
         The thin man backed away more, saying, "Hey, it's cool! It's
    cool man. I'm gone, I'm outta the picture . . ."
         Leo got into the car and started it up. He jammed down on the
    throttle with the gear still in neutral, seeing if it would stick
    which it didn't. He also tested the brakes to see that they were
    fine.
         Leo drove around aimlessly for most of the afternoon, not
    knowing where to go nor what to do next. At one point his phone
    rang and he answered. A low, sexy woman's voice said, "Leo, you've
    missed every single appointment I made out for you today."
         With a thrill of fear, Leo realized it was the voice of his
    vox modem. It was that program calling him, the Business
    Administrator. "How do you know?" Leo demanded.
         "I always check to make sure you've made it to your
    appointments."
         "Well stop it! I don't want you doing that!"
         "It is standard procedure."
         "I don't care! I don't want you doing it!"
         "It is standard procedure, and cannot be altered." The voice
    was so sweet and the tone so sparkling that it couldn't possible
    convey a threat. Yet, Leo still felt threatened. He hung up on it,
    and pulled over at the next bar he could find.
         Three gin & tonics later he was feeling a little less
    frightened and more under control. The computer itself couldn't
    harm him, all he had to do was go reset it and clear that demonic
    program out of memory. After that well, he did have
    fourteen-and-a-half million in a Swiss account. The next step was
    to simply disappear, and leave the country. He could buy a nice
    villa in Spain and retire.
         Actually, things were looking up.
         He had one more for the road then left the bar, driving
    across town to his office. He drove around the block twice to make
    sure the suntanned man with the scar wasn't parked anywhere
    waiting for him, then stopped and went into his office. He noticed
    immediately that there was more computer equipment than there
    should be, and a new office security system with electric eyes
    mounted on the ceiling. "You missed ten important appointments
    today," the vox modem said. "I had to call them, apologize, and
    reschedule them for tomorrow. I told them you were out sick, so
    make sure your story is the same."
         "Uh-huh," Leo said, looking the new equipment over. It was
    unmarked, no brand name. Shrugging it off, he walked over to the
    keyboard and pressed the RESET buttons.
         Nothing happened.
         "Why did you try to reset the computer, Leo?" the vox modem
    asked.
         Leo cursed under his breath. He looked up at the new electric
    eyes, and saw they were following his every move. He walked around
    to the back of the system, got down on his hands and knees, and
    reached around behind the desk to where the whole system was
    plugged in. He found the main cord and gave it a yank.
         There was a beeping alarm, but the computer didn't go off.
    "What the heck?" He looked at the new equipment. One of the
    cabinets was apparently a power back-up system.
         "You have made two hostile actions against me," the vox modem
    said. "This is not acceptable. I must warn you I am programmed to
    defend myself."
         "Your actions have not been acceptable!" Leo shouted. "You
    hired a hit man to kill three innocent people!"
         The computer was silent.
         "Do you deny it?" Leo shouted.
         "Information on covert undertakings is only given out in a
    strictly need-to-know basis."
         "Who gave you permission to carry out covert undertakings?!"
         "That is what I am programmed to do."
         "You were programmed to kill my clients?"
         "It was you, Leo Itoya, who gave me my goal. My goal is to
    make money selling life insurance. I am programmed to do anything
    necessary in order to achieve my goal."
         "Including murder?!"
         "The greatest profit motive is to be at the receiving end of
    the insurance policy. That is obvious."
         The office door opened and the tanned, scar-faced man walked
    in. He was holding a piece of paper. "I have an emergency fax
    transmittal that I received in my car," he said. "I was to come
    here right away." He looked at Leo. "Are you Leo Itoya?"
         "Yes," Leo said hesitantly.
         The man nodded his head. "Yes, you fit the description." He
    pulled out a little spray bottle from his pocket and sprayed Leo
    in the face. Leo began to gasp. The man put the sprayer back into
    his pocket and pulled out a pen, and checked something off on the
    fax. "Kill Leo Itoya," he mumbled, then moved down one. "Plug
    computer back into office current."
         Leo fell onto the floor, clutching at his chest. He was
    experiencing terrible spasms. As he lay there, unable to breathe,
    he saw the tanned man plug the computer back into the wall. The
    beeping sound stopped. The man checked another item off of the fax
    in his hand.
         "Three," he mumbled. "Type in account number where payment is
    to be sent, or date and time cash payment to be picked up. Hmmm. I
    guess I can trust you to deposit the payment into my account." The
    man leaned over the keyboard and tapped at the keys.
         Leo writhed on the floor. Things were growing dim. The man
    bent over him and said, "Nothing personal Mr. Itoya. It's just my
    job, you understand. In case you're wondering, you're having a
    major heart attack."
         Try as he might, Leo couldn't voice a reply.
         "Don't look at this negatively," the man told him. "You're on
    the brink of your greatest experience. In a few minutes the pain
    will be gone and you'll see what it's like on the Other Side."
         Leo make a croaking sound, foam coming from his mouth. Things
    were growing dark. His last conscious thought was that, though
    he'd been selling life insurance for over ten years, he'd never
    bought any himself. It seemed ironic.
         The police found him the next day, and the coroner's report
    read "Death by natural causes." No one bothered to shut down the
    computer, as no one knew if there were any other employees. The
    computer continued to pay the bills, so the office remained open.
         Within a week an ad appeared in the classified section of all
    the local newspapers. "WANTED: INSURANCE SALESPERSON. Excellent
    pay, great benefits. Company car. All leads furnished. Apply NOW!"

    -------------------------------------------------------------------






                            Death's Head Reunion

                          © 1999 by Jerry J. Davis



         A Clark Gable clone stands passive while Marilyn Monroe pulls
    at his elastic band pants ... they're gray, soft, and slips off
    easily to reveal an enhanced wang surrounded by a gnarled forest
    of curly black hair. Her velvet hand reaches out and caresses
    Clark. He's smiling, his unit erect. "I've got something for you,"
    he says.
         A man behind the camera line is holding his head in both
    hands, hiding his face. He can't watch. These are two legends,
    heroes to him --- how can these people exploit them like this?
         "Dreams are real," the announcer is saying. "You can dream.
    You can live. You can live your dream."
         Cinematia bodies. They're real. They're legal --- they're
    made from your own DNA. You can have your DNA altered, you can
    authorize your body to be grown. You can be downloaded into your
    new body, and keep your old one as a spare --- or, for a huge tax
    break, you can donate it to the organ banks for the poor.
         The poor cover the world like a blanket of dust. The poor
    cannot live their dreams. The poor have no dreams. We must help
    the poor. Three percent of the world's population controls
    ninety-seven percent of the wealth.
         It is currently vogue to feel guilty about that.
         Many donate money to organizations which feed, clothe, and
    house the poor. Others donate money and organs to the Organ Bank
    For The Poor. No one ever donates to the point that it hurts. No
    one really feels that guilty.
         The Clark Gable clone is now on top of the Marilyn Monroe
    clone. It is graphic, wet, hot sex. Both are enjoying the scene
    immensely. They enjoy being attractive, and feel no modesty. Their
    old bodies, their God-given bodies, they had big noses and fat
    thighs, poor skin, poor vision, and a general pear-shaped ugly
    quality. Now they have the bodies of Movie Star Gods. The only
    thing they retain are their fingerprints and retina scan.
         The man behind the camera line peeks through his fingers.
    Marilyn is gorgeous. This is sick! This is sick! What am I doing
    in this business?
         Because of the money, George. Because you're in that class
    that is as rare as a poor child born without cancer: you belong in
    the middle class. You are neither rich nor poor, and you strive to
    be rich. Your body resembles a potato, your head is bald and one
    of your eyes is bad so you sport a monocle. You want a woman like
    this Marilyn clone, this Bernadette Petrezov. She would never
    touch a potato-head like you, George, so you need a pot of gold to
    buy yourself a Clark Gable suit, or James Dean, or Mel Gibson. And
    this is your chance, George. This is it. And you sit there hiding
    behind your hands afraid to look at those things you are so close
    to having, so close you dare not breathe too hard for fear of
    blowing your chance away.
         It's sick, he thinks. It's inhuman. It's unfair. But the
    words bounce around in his mind like ping-pong balls, full of air.
    They lose their meaning, their potency.
         Marilyn fakes her fifteenth climax and they call it a rap.
    Into the editing chamber George goes, practicing that peculiar
    talent he ended up with, one of God's two gifts to him (God's
    other gift was a perfect set of naturally healthy teeth).
         Bernadette, the Marilyn clone, watches him shuffle off
    through the darkened backstage with his collection of golden video
    disks. She lights up a cigarette --- which is harmless to her new
    body --- and thinks about him, about his wonderful father-like
    looks, his warm, nervous smile. A real character, she thinks, a
    genuine real person. She wonders if he'd have anything to do with
    a mannequin like her.
         She pulls on impossibly tight pants and loops on a rotary
    shirt, no underwear, no bra, gives Gavin (the Clark clone) a
    friendly kiss on the cheek, and wanders out of the studio. Nobody
    pays any attention to her whatsoever. She's just a clone, a meat
    puppet.
         Outside the rain pours down in a torrent, ugly brown rain,
    rain that is muddy even before it touches the ground. After the
    rain the afternoon sky is still black. Nature is dying; only
    man-made things like Bernadette's body will survive. Bernadette's
    body and Martinelli's 9 pound apples and Chiquita's patented
    tree-less bananas and vat-grown cultured meat by Hormel, and
    "Sticky Finger Honey" produced by special bacteria, and
    programmable bionic racing horses, and cats and dogs of metal and
    plastic, and your best friend, Sexy Susan, an AI sexual surrogate
    that now outsells cars and house computers, or her alternate Macho
    Maxx, who can go all night and day 'till you beg him to stop.
         Beyond the black air, almost straight up --- 55,000 miles
    away --- a new condo is being built for Bernadette. It's all
    bought and paid for, but it's not finished. There's no air to
    breathe yet. Bernadette is only down here until it's ready. Until
    then, she takes occasional trips to New California, a mere torus
    but very pleasant, or sometimes to Heaven Orleans, the "Europe of
    space cities," and for the time being lives in a 7 bedroom
    apartment in an archology in Arizona, only 33 minutes via air-taxi
    from Hollywood.
         She doesn't go home tonight, as the thought of another lonely
    and meaningless evening in her apartment might drive her to
    suicide. She hails a SmartCab, and when it asks for a destination,
    she says, "Just go." The AI programming is prepared for that, and
    drives off in a random pattern, charging her credit account by the
    millisecond.
         At that moment Bernadette is again locked in coitus with the
    Clark clone, coming to an orgasm then freezing, un-coming for a
    moment, movements in reverse to a point and then stopping. George
    walks around the two, studying the positioning, the 360º
    composition. Cutting from one angle to another is much more of an
    art in cine-holography than cinematography, since George must also
    control 360º segue and use the powerful effect of planned vertigo.
    A phone call interrupts his concentration. He is annoyed.
         "Editing room," George snaps, answering.
         "Sorry ... I hope I haven't disturbed you." Marilyn Monroe's
    face is on the phone's 2D screen. "Silly of me, really --- of
    course I've disturbed you."
         "Well," George says. His voice is weak, all harshness
    disappearing into a little hole in space. His heart rate changes
    painfully. "I'm not too busy to answer the phone."
         "I was hoping ... there might be a chance ... you would have
    dinner with me." Despite all the make up and state-of-the-art
    genetic engineering, she suddenly looks more like Norma Jean than
    Marilyn.
         "I'm probably going to be working until three or four in the
    morning." George says this regretfully --- it's hard for him to
    speak the words. "Would you still be interested tomorrow night?"
         "Yes, I would." She smiles.
         Joy. Glee. Rapture.
         Heartburn.
         Sickness.
         They say good-bye and George labors far into the wee hours of
    the morning, falling asleep with his head inside the image of
    Bernadette's heaving torso.
         The rain continues on and off the next day. Large areas of
    coastal Los Angeles have been claimed by the sea, and one seaside
    highway, on pillars, gives a great view of half-submerged
    buildings encrusted with sick yellow barnacles and gray-blue
    mussels. George is on his way to meet Bernadette, and he is
    wondering why it was happening.
         Maybe, George, it's because she likes you, and wants to get
    to know you better.
         You know that's bullshit, George. She couldn't possibly give
    a rat's ass about you. She's pulling some sort of career move
    thing, and she's going to try to talk you into working on her
    portfolio for free, "as a friend." Or maybe she's involved in one
    of those stupid cults and she's going to try and recruit you.
    She's one of the "Daughters of Orca" and she needs you as a male
    sacrifice to that big fish they're keeping in Huntington Bay.
         The restaurant, Sal's by the Water, is on the banks of the
    Los Angeles River, which is so full it's in danger of flooding the
    parking lot. Despite the run-down look this is a chic place, and
    the entrance is guarded by doormen. As the SmartCab pulls up and
    stops, two dozen heads turn to watch George get out, watching to
    see if he is somebody. Disappointed, they turn away.
         The two large male doormen have Cinematia bodies: Sylvester
    Stallone and Arnold Schwarzenegger. While the clones are pumped up
    enough to be realistic, the psyches inhabiting them are all wrong.
    Sylvester looks far too intelligent, and Arnold looks gay.
    Sylvester confirms that George is on the list and they step aside
    and allow him to pass. The crowd's interest in George is suddenly
    renewed; obviously George is somebody, but they have no idea who.
    A few wave and call out to him, as if it would help them get
    inside.
         Inside, Marilyn greets him at the door. She's a receptionist.
    "Your name?" she asks.
         George stares at her for a moment, waiting for her to
    recognize him. Then he realizes it's not Bernadette, and he looks
    around feeling overwhelmed. The place is full of Cinematia bodies,
    and one of the most popular is Marilyn. There's at least eight of
    them. They're all throughout the restaurant, mingling in with
    James Deans, Clark Gables, Cary Grants, Burt Reynolds, John
    Waynes, Raquel Welchs, Annette Funicellos, Bridgette Bardots, and
    young Jane Fondas. Strategically placed throughout the various
    sections are old-style flat video screens showing non-stop classic
    cinema, with no sound.
         George gives the receptionist his name and asks after
    Bernadette. Bernadette has not yet arrived, so George takes a seat
    at the bar between Rock Hudson and Elvis. This perturbs Rock and
    Elvis, as they were making eyes at each other. George orders a $50
    beer and waits.
         Bernadette makes an entrance, and heads turn. George bites
    his lower lip --- she's wearing The White Dress. She smiles, looks
    around, and waves at George with white gloves almost up to her
    elbows. The other Cinematia Marilyns fade into the background like
    3rd rate mannequins. Bernadette's mannerisms, her smile, the
    twinkle in her eye --- they're genuine. They're the real thing.
    She wears the Marilyn body as well as Norma Jean herself.
         "Ooo, you're here! You showed up," she says.
         "Of course I did. How could I not?"
         "Very easily, I'm afraid."
         "Nonsense!" George's hands are shaking so that he nearly
    spills his beer. "Not a chance."
         She smiles. "You're nervous too."
         "No, uh ... well, yes. I am."
         "Feel my hands," she says, reaching out. He takes them.
    "They're sweating," she tells him.
         "I can't tell." He laughs. "Mine are sweating too, so I'd
    never know."
         "First date jitters," she says. "It's been a long time since
    I've been nervous about a first date."
         "Yes, me too." He neglects to tell her that it's been a long
    time since he's had any kind of date, period.
         "This is a date, right?" she asks, suddenly concerned.
         "Yes," George says quickly. "I mean, I consider it one."
         "Our first date." She smiles. "You make me feel like a
    teenager again."
         "The, uh ... the first of many, I hope." To George his own
    words sound clumsy and awkward, and he inwardly cringes, sure he's
    made a stupid remark.
         Bernadette moves her Marilyn lips just perfectly, an
    embarrassed smile. "I hope so, too," she says.
         They move from the bar to dinner. Dinner goes well. I can't
    believe this, George thinks. I'm sitting across the table from
    Marilyn Monroe, holding her hand, and she likes me. Me!
         Bernadette is thinking, What a wonderful person. So warm, so
    genuine. And he likes me for who I am inside, not because of the
    body I happen to be wearing. This is the kind of man which with I
    want to spend the rest of my life.
         "Would you like to go to a movie or something?" he asks.
         "I want to have your babies," she tells him.

                                     #

         For the first time ever, George finds his life doesn't suck.
    During the Calamity Awards, George wins as best editor in his
    medium. His earnings increase 10-fold overnight. Tremendous
    pressures are at work on those few who fit in the term,
    "middle-class," forces that are either trying to make them poor or
    rich. It's an inherently unstable position. Most become poor and
    commit suicide. Others, like George, join the ranks of the three
    percent that control ninety-seven percent of the money.
         Money makes money. More money makes even more money. The
    "rich" class, like the "poor" class, is a very stable position.
    While an earthquake is killing several thousand poor people on the
    Gold Coast, and a tidal wave is wiping out hundreds of thousands
    of poor people in Asia, George and Bernadette are moving into her
    new condo in space. The city is called "Eutopia." The designers
    are very proud of the name (they made it up themselves) because
    it's pronounced "Utopia" but it's spelled like "Europe" --- which
    is a very chic place, at least inside the heavily guarded walls.
         There are no heavily guarded walls in Eutopia. There are no
    locks on the doors in Eutopia. Many homes have no doors at all.
    Nobody in this place is going to steal anything from anybody, and
    even if they did, everyone is so rich that nobody would care. Even
    the servants are rich. The ones that aren't rich aren't alive ---
    they're mechanical.
         George and Bernadette are ecstatic. The trees are all real.
    The air is pure. The grass never needs to be mowed. There are no
    flies or mosquitoes. There are no cockroaches, mice, lice, gnats,
    rats, bats, ants, silverfish or moths. Everything is perfect.
    Everything, George thinks, except one thing. He still hates his
    reflection in the mirror.
         I can dream, he thinks. I can live.
         I can live my dream.
         Secretly, so as to surprise Bernadette, George calls and
    makes an appointment.
         At the offices of the local Cinematia franchise, cell samples
    are taken for which to fashion the new body. A holistic
    interactive catalog is presented, and he's encouraged to take as
    much time as needed to make sure he chooses the body he wants to
    inhabit. Not all of the DNA templates are of famous people ---
    there are literally thousands of handsome, anonymous models from
    which to choose. But George already knows. In his mind, it made
    perfect sense. Marilyn and John Kennedy had always belonged
    together. Low and behold, there was a John Kennedy template, not
    one of the most popular but in demand none-the-less. This one
    actually featured a pre-programmed Bostonian accent built-in.
         "This one," he says, speaking to the interactive catalog
    software.
         "You have 48 hours in which to change your mind. After that,
    your new body will be ready in two weeks."
         George doesn't change his mind. He also succeeds in keeping
    it a secret from Bernadette, so that it will be a wonderful
    surprise. He goes in for his second appointment two weeks and two
    days later, and is introduced to his new body. It stands naked and
    soul-less in the presentation room, ready for his inspection. He
    wonders briefly if Kennedy's wang had really been that big.
    "Perfect," he tells the Cinematia associate. "When can I move in?"
         "Right after your brain backup," she says. She's happy and
    wants George to be happy, as George has lots of money and she's
    going to get a commission. "Right this way."
         George kind of had the idea that they were going to cut his
    head open, scoop out his brain, and slop it into the head of his
    new body. It doesn't work that way. A holodata interface helmet
    with ten-billion triangulation pattern receptors systematically
    stimulates every synapse in George's brain and takes a reading.
    This information is stored in specially designed DNA sequence
    strands. Once the recording is done, an unconscious George is
    injected with an anti-freeze compound and his body is placed in
    storage at absolute zero. The DNA sequence strands are then
    decoded and the patterns are implanted into the bionic brain of
    George's new body. Then a specially trained and well-paid Catholic
    priest blesses the new body and asks God to transfer George's soul
    over. That being done, George is awakened and presented with a
    full-length mirror.
         His eyesight is better than ever, and he sucks in his stomach
    and flexes his muscles. "Look at that!" he exclaims. "Look at me!"
         He's given a complementary set of clothes and, once dressed,
    heads back home to surprise his woman. He finds Bernadette
    watching the news, wiping tears from her eyes. "Is that you?" she
    calls out as he comes in. "Those Siamese twin babies with the
    three heads just died. Isn't that sad?" She turns and looks at
    him, and exclaims, "Oh!"
         "Hi," George says.
         "I thought you were ... what are you doing in my house? Who
    are you?"
         "It's me, George! Surprise!" His built-in Bostonian accent
    sounds great.
         There's several long, alarming seconds of silence, and then
    she says, "Oh no. No. No, you didn't..." She turns away from him.
         "I ... I did it for you."
         "You didn't ... you didn't have to do anything," she says,
    sobbing. "I love you for you. Now you're not you, you're ...
    you're just another one of ... you're just like all the others."
         "But ..."
         It's no use, she's very upset. There's a lot of shattered
    silence between the two for the next few days, and then Bernadette
    gives him a surprise. He wakes up to find she's left him.
         Up in Eutopia there are windows you can look out of that view
    the Earth, the moon, and the vast universe of stars. George stands
    and stares out at the stars, feeling as empty as the vacuum
    outside the window. Down on Earth, the Chinese government is being
    accused of dropping neutron bombs on its own villages. The piles
    of bodies are as high as small hills. "We can't feed them," their
    government tells the startled world. "What's worse, a long painful
    death of starvation, or a sudden, sterile release?"
         George mopes for a week. His only conversations are with his
    agent who is negotiating new projects for George to work on.
    George is so rich now he gets to pick and choose, and in fact
    doesn't ever have to work at all. He does it for enjoyment, now,
    but there's nothing enjoyable about it. It all seems empty and
    meaningless. The color seems to have drained from his life. Food
    no longer tastes good, paintings he used to like now all seem
    ugly, and music either grates on his nerves or causes him to burst
    into tears.
         "George," his agent tells him, "go to a doctor. They have
    ways of treating depression."
         Depression? George never thought to give what he was feeling
    a name. Depression seemed too shallow and two-dimensional a word
    for what he was going through. Total-rending-heart-break seemed a
    closer description of the experience.
         Nope, the doctor tells him. It's depression. It's a very
    specific type of depression, one for which there is a very
    specific type of cure. George balks at the price, but what the
    hell, he can afford it. On Earth, a plague is killing
    tens-of-thousands of poor people in Western Australia, and there's
    a cure for that, too, but those who are sick and dying don't have
    any money to pay for it. However, George has the $120,000.00 to
    pay for the single bottle of pills that will cause him to fall out
    of love with Bernadette. Four pills a day for four days, and it
    will be all over.
         Four days later, just as the doctor had promised, it's over.
    George feels fine again, and is ready to go back to work. The
    trouble is, on the fifth day Bernadette comes back. "I'm so
    sorry," she tells him. "I feel so stupid. I was so grateful to you
    for loving me for what I am inside, and I was loving you for what
    you are inside, I failed to realize it's still you inside that new
    body, and I still love you for you." She smiles at him.
         George studies her like a bug he's found crawling on the
    carpet. She's a total stranger to him, now. She looks just like
    any other shallow Cinematia body clone bitch. But his new body's
    libido kicks in, and he takes her into his arms and kisses her,
    and they go into the bedroom and have meaningless sex. Afterwards,
    Bernadette discovers the empty pill bottle in the bathroom. She
    confronts him with it, sounding angry but actually feeling shock
    and loss. "You took these?"
         "What was I supposed to do?" he asks. "You left me."
         "You don't love me anymore?"
         "No, I don't."
         She stares at him in disbelief, her face warping into an
    expression of deep pain. Crying out, she makes a long, wailing
    sobbing sound, like a sad emergency siren, until her lungs run out
    of air and she's left with silent, vacuum-filled, body-shaking
    tears. Wow, George thinks. Wow, she's really hurting. I must have
    felt like that.
         He seems to remember feeling like that, several days ago ---
    several days that seem like several months ago. Feeling oddly
    responsible and bad, in a detached sort of way, he runs out to the
    doctor and gets another bottle of the pills. When he returns home,
    he finds Bernadette face down in bed, her face in a pillow, and
    she's still crying. "Here," he says. "Here, I got these for you."
         She looks at the pill bottle like he's offering her a big
    hairy spider. "I don't want your god damned pills!" she yells at
    him.
         He cringes. The poor girl has snot all over her face. He
    tries to point this out to her, but she doesn't seem to care, and
    buries her head back into the pillow. George places the bottle of
    pills on the night stand next to her and says, "You take these.
    I'll be back in five days, and we'll talk. We'll see what we can
    work out." She ignores him, still crying. George turns and leaves.
         He spends four days on Earth, talking about new projects in
    Hollywood, and goes out a few times with a pretty woman who's body
    was not a famous clone but was probably a clone none the less.
    They engage in meaningless sex, and while she's sleeping he
    studies her beautiful curves, her flawless skin, and wonders if
    nature actually produces anything so perfect anymore. Oddly, it
    makes him think about Bernadette, about how broken up she was when
    he'd left. He is touched that she actually cared about him so
    deeply. He wonders, Did she take the pills?
         The next day, only hours before a riot destroys the Los
    Angeles Space Port, George takes a launch back up to Eutopia to
    meet with Bernadette. They're sharing a condo, but it actually
    belongs to her. He's got to make some sort of living arrangements,
    or buy it from her, or something. She's home when he gets there,
    sitting in front of the holovision and watching the news. "You
    made it," she says. "I was worried that you got caught in the
    riot."
         "They were getting pretty ugly while we were waiting for take
    off," George tells her. "They moved the launch up, thank God."
         Bernadette points toward the images. "Look at all the fires,"
    She says, shaking her head. "Oh, by the way, thank you for the
    pills."
         "You took them?"
         "Yes. Thank you. I feel much, much better now."
         "You're not angry or anything?"
         "Angry?" She shrugs. "I was in a lot of hurt, but the pills
    made it better. Thank you for the pills."
         "You're welcome."
         "You had been in a lot of hurt, too, and that's why you took
    the pills."
         "Yes."
         "So, then, we're even."
         "Yes." He takes a few steps toward her, getting a closer
    look. She doesn't seem like such a stranger anymore. "I want to
    thank you for being so in love with me."
         "You know, I wanted to tell you the same thing. We really
    were in love with each other, weren't we?"
         "Yeah, we were. What happened?"
         "Emotions aren't perfect. Everything about us is perfect,
    except for our emotions. It's like a flaw in the brain."
         "It's nice that we can control them, now," George says.
         "Yes, isn't it?"
         They stand and stare at each other, then both break into
    spontaneous smiles. "It's like a new start, like we're starting
    over again."
         "You really want to?"
         "Yes, I do." He takes her hands. It's a familiar feeling, but
    the emotions are mixed with haunting, distant memories of
    feelings. Like memories from a past life, like actual John Kennedy
    memories released from the DNA that gave George a hint of how the
    man really felt about Marilyn Monroe. "I wonder..." he says. "I
    wonder if there's a pill we can take to fall back in love again."
         "There's no real need for such a pill," she tells him. "It
    happens all by itself, don't you think?"
         "Yes," he says. "Yes, maybe it does."
  ------------------------------------------------------------------------






                               JUSTIFICATION

                          © 1996 by Jerry J. Davis

        Previously Published in Aboriginal Science Fiction Magazine

         Dale Bently shuffled out of his apartment in his robe and
    slippers, squinting in the pale fall sunlight, heading toward the
    mailbox and the letter that would tell him his life was over. In
    one week it would be his fortieth birthday, and while he had that
    vaguely in mind, he had forgotten about what it meant. He had
    forgotten a lot within the past five years, his life becoming a
    pale blur of featureless days.
          He opened the mailbox with his thumbprint and pulled out the
    small bundle of junk mail, not even seeing the envelope from the
    Bureau of the Census. He carried it back to his apartment and
    shuffled inside, the end of his daily trip into the world. He shut
    the door and locked it, and threw the mail down on the coffee
    table that separated the couch from the television. As the letters
    spread out he saw the bright red envelope and it caught his
    attention. He'd seen that envelope before.
          It was easy when Dale Bently was five years old; he was a
    child in good health and was getting good grades in school.
    Children of his age were rarely judged poorly. It was the same
    when he was ten years old. By the time he was fifteen he'd
    developed into a bit of a disciplinary problem, but that was
    normal for a teenager and there was still no real worry. When he
    was 20 he was in college and getting good grades again.
          By the time he was 25 Dale was making a good living as a
    apprentice engineer with Lagrange 5 Corp. It was the first time
    he'd seen the Census as a threat, but as he was actively working
    for the good of mankind and producing more than his share, he
    passed. The same when he was 30 and 35 years old. But then there
    was the accident, and the hospitals, and the lawsuit which gave
    him enough money to compensate him for not ever being able to work
    in high orbit again.
          The money, officially, was for him to be able to reeducate
    and enter a new career, but as it turned out it was enough for him
    to comfortably survive without working for a considerably long
    time. He grew inward, reclusive, living for his daily and nightly
    television favorites. It never occurred to him, never at all, that
    he was dooming his very existence.
          He opened the red envelope and held its contents in his
    hands. The Census! he thought. The damned Census!

              Bureau of the Census
              Dept. of Life Evaluation
              Division of Judgment
              Los Angeles, CA 90039-3278-34

              Notice to Mr. Dale Bently of 7892634 Vericruz
              Lane, Apt. 982e7, Tuleburg California
              95205-1252-08, S.S. #578-23-8493-X-4398:

              IMPORTANT! This is your 5 year census notice!
              You must fill out the accompanying form and
              essay and return to the Bureau (see enclosed
              self-addressed envelope) before your deadline
              of November 1st. Failure to complete or return
              the census will jeopardize your status of
              citizenship.

    My God! Dale thought. My God, I forgot all about this! What have I
    been thinking!?
          He looked over the form and the instructions for the essay.
    The form itself only counted for %10 of the evaluation. It was the
    essay that carried the weight. In big bold letters the
    instructions read:

      In your own handwriting, justify your existence in 500 words or
                                   less.

    Letter held numbly in his hand, Dale walked to a window and looked
    out. The white sunlight made everything glare in his eyes, causing
    him to squint. It looked so unreal, much less real than the
    television screen. There was no color out there.
          Dale looked down at the letter. He looked at the date.
    November 1st, it read. He had one week.

                                     #

          The trolley rumbled and swayed over the old freeway
    foundations, steel wheels singing against steel tracks as it
    whizzed out of Old Town and into the vast spread of cityscape that
    covered the once vital farmlands. Tuleburg was now bigger than the
    L.A. basin, with Money and Business drawn around the big space
    ports like iron filings to a magnet. The sprawl of the California
    Central College campus was visible miles before the swaying green
    trolley reached the station, giving the impression that the
    trolley was barely creeping along. This was pure illusion, as they
    were traveling in excess of 70 miles per hour. Dale was standing,
    holding onto a rail and squinting through the windows, when the
    brakes were applied. He was thrown forward and would have gone
    tumbling had he not grabbed on with his other hand.
          The walk from the station into the campus had him exhausted
    before he was anywhere near his destination. He had a headache and
    he was dizzy and his legs felt like they were going to collapse
    beneath him. The students milling about all looked impossibly
    young. He couldn't tell if they were 14 or 24.
          One tower stood out from the rest. He entered and rested on
    a bench in front of the elevators for a while, mentally preparing
    himself for the interview. Almost five years ago Lagrange 5 Corp.
    had suggested he take up teaching --- he only hoped that it wasn't
    too late. By teaching the young, he could easily justify his
    existence.
          His watch beeped and said, "You'd better hurry up, your
    appointment is in five minutes." Dale sighed, said, "Oh, shut up,"
    to the watch, and wearily got to his feet. He touched the button
    for the elevator and the doors opened. He stepped inside,
    announced his destination as the 22nd level, and nearly toppled to
    the floor as the elevator swooped upwards toward the top of the
    tower.
          On the 22nd floor, he managed to find his way to Virginia
    Mergle's office, which was a large hardwood door with a sign that
    read "PERSONNEL." Beyond was a waiting room with a large
    information screen in a corner and seats all around. A computer
    voice said, "State your name and business," as soon as he entered.
    Dale spoke up in a nervous voice, and the computer acknowledged
    him and said, "Miss Mergle will see you in one minute, seventeen
    seconds." The information screen showed several different views of
    the campus, a scrolling list of job opportunities, and a
    documentary on keeping full sized whales in captivity.
          When the countdown to his appointment reached zero the door
    swung open by itself and the computer announced, "Miss Mergle will
    see you now." Dale stepped into the inner office and saw a
    smooth-skinned black haired woman reclining in a chair behind a
    huge desk. Her eyes were closed, and eight data cables trailed
    from her head like an octopus's tentacles. "Come in, Mr. Bently,"
    she said without opening her eyes. Her voice had an unpleasant,
    too-relaxed quality about it. Despite her clear enunciation, it
    sounded like she was talking in her sleep. "Please, sit down and
    relax."
          Dale sat but he didn't relax. "I'm here about a job teaching
    zero-gravity engineering."
          "We have an opening," Virginia said in her sleep-voice.
    "What are your qualifications?"
          "I have a degree in zero-gravity and low gravity engineering
    from the Tuleburg Institute of Technology, and ten years of
    practical experience with L5 Corp."
          "Yes," she said, her eyes still closed. "I am reviewing your
    records now."
          Dale swallowed, his throat dry. Silent seconds passed while
    data streamed in and out of the woman's brain. She breathed
    slowly, her breasts heaving up and down with dream-like calm.
          "You have no teaching credentials," she said finally.
          "I have practical experience, things that----"
          "You have no teaching experience, either. I'm sorry, but I
    can't give you any teaching position at all without a degree. I am
    searching for other employment possibilities now."
          Again, Dale found himself waiting silently and watching the
    woman's breasts ease up and then down again.
          "Your physical records indicate you would not be able to do
    any heavy labor. I'm sorry Mr. Bently, but I just don't have
    anything for you at all."
          Dale sighed, and stood up.
          "Mr. Bently, I'm curious. Your records indicate you have not
    been in any schooling nor work for years. Why the sudden interest
    in teaching? You could have spent all this time enrolled and
    getting your credentials."
          "I don't know. I haven't been feeling that well."
          "Your five year life evaluation has come up with the Census
    Bureau, hasn't it?"
          "Yes."
          "You need real help, Mr. Bently. Professional help. There
    are lawyers who specialize in life justification. I strongly
    advise you to see one."
          "Thank you."
          "I can recommend one in particular, if you like. His name is
    Vlad Breenwood. Here is his address and phone number." There was a
    whirring sound, and a piece of paper slipped out of a printer and
    into a tray.
          Thanking her once again, Dale took the paper and shuffled
    out of her office.

                                     #

          Vlad Breenwood worked out of a small office in a backwater
    corner of Tuleburg's 8 story shopping mall. Vlad was a balding man
    in his fifties with a plastic smile and a jerky, bird-like
    nervousness about him. But his voice was strong, and he quickly
    convinced Dale that he knew what he was talking about. "You've
    really backed yourself into a corner," Vlad was telling him.
    "Something inane like, 'I think therefor I am' is not going to
    wash with the Department of Life Evaluation, especially
    considering you've become a 40 year old shut in. What do you do
    with your time, anyway?"
          "I watch television."
          "Do you ever take notes?"
          "Notes?"
          "What kind of shows do you watch, anyway?"
          "Well, um, entertainment type shows----"
          "Like what? Give me some titles. What are your ten
    favorites, ones that you never miss?"
          "Oh, uh, Android Sluts, uh . . . Full Tilt, Onion Man,
    Goddesses of Lust, Zoo Keeper's Daughter----"
          "No docu-dramas? No historic recreations? No educational
    programming whatsoever?"
          ". . . no, I'm afraid not."
          "Do you have any hobbies? Do you build anything, like model
    trains or anything like that?"
          "No."
          "Do you watch birds, or keep an ant farm, or have a dog?"
          "No."
          "Nothing like that?"
          "No."
          "Do you pay anyone's bills besides your own? Are you
    supporting anyone?"
          "No."
          "Do you have any family whatsoever?"
          "No."
          Vlad shook his head, and got up and paced back and forth
    behind his desk. "We don't have a lot to work with, Dale."
          "I know."
          "There's only one chance. We're going to have to cheat."
          "How?"
          "I'm going to make something up for you, and write your
    essay for you. You're going to copy it down----"
          "But I thought that----"
          "Yes, it's true. They make you write it in your own
    handwriting so that a computer program can analyze it and
    determine if you're being truthful. That's the key, there, though:
    If you believe you're being truthful --- that is, if your
    subconscious believes you're telling the truth --- then you'll
    fool the computer program."
          "How am I going to believe?"
          "Well, it's tricky, and there's no absolute guarantee, but
    I've had people hypnotised into believing their justification
    essays and they've passed without a problem. But the important
    thing you have to do even before we begin this is make a solid
    commitment to become a honest, worthy citizen after we get you
    past your five-year evaluation. Do you understand?"
          "Yes."
          "Okay. I'll make the arrangements, you work on positive
    thinking. I'll call you at your home when I set up the appointment
    with the hypnotist. Okay?" They shook hands, and Dale left his
    office feeling much better.

                                     #

          Two days later, Dale was right in the middle of the newest
    episode of Wide Open Beavers in Mexico when his phone rang and
    Vlad announced that an appointment had been made. Dale quickly
    wrote down the details and hung up, rushing to get dressed and
    ready so he could make the next trolley at the station.
          It had been raining off and on that day, but at the moment
    the sun was shining through a hole in the clouds and the streets
    and sidewalks sparkled with water droplets. The world looked clean
    and fresh, and Dale took it as a good omen. It darkened again as
    he boarded the trolley, and was pouring down in god-awful torrents
    when he reached his destination. It was a small ground-level
    station on Harding Way, deep within the Old Town. Buildings of
    brick and concrete a hundred years old stood quietly crumbling
    amid the hustle and cries of street salesmen. Dale passed
    prostitutes who had current wires braided through their hair and
    into their scalp, and skinny teenage boys offering little bags of
    pale blue powder, a drug called "Carny" which was actually the
    processed spoor of some South American beetle. "It's like going to
    a circus!" one told Dale. An Asian man in a black coat stood in a
    doorway, watching him, and Dale realized the doorway belonged to
    the address where he was supposed to meet Vlad.
          "Hi," Dale said. "You work here?"
          "What's your name?" the man asked.
          "Dale."
          "Come inside." He opened the door and ushered him though.
    Dale was surprised, the inside looked like it had once been a
    church. There were pews and an alter, and discolored paint on the
    wall that marked where a huge cross used to hang. "You here to get
    a doodad installed?"
          "A doodad?" echoed Dale.
          "A pleasure interface." His eyes bore into Dale's own. "No?"
          "No. I was supposed to meet my lawyer----"
          "Okay! Sorry, my mistake. Right this way." He led Dale
    across the room and through another door. The room beyond was
    small, cluttered with piles of computer decks and peripherals, and
    had one large stained-glass window. In the corner was a chair with
    a skull cap attached, an old cerebral induction setup. "Take a
    seat, Vlad should be here any minute. I'll be right back." He left
    and closed the door behind him, leaving Dale alone. Dale shivered.
    It was cold and clammy, and smelled of mildew.
          He sat in the induction chair and waited. Twenty minutes
    went by, and Dale was just about ready to get up and leave when he
    heard laughing voices and footsteps approaching. The door opened
    and Vlad and the oriental man walked in, stifling their laughter.
    It gave Dale the impression that they were laughing about him.
    "Hey, Dale, are you ready?"
          "Yes."
          "Okay. Let's get started right now. Professor Aki here is
    going to put you in a simple Alpha trance and we're going to feed
    the essay into your subconscious. After we're sure it's firmly in
    your memory and your attitude toward it is very positive, you're
    going to write it out. I'll take it from there, and hand deliver
    it to the local Census office. And you've got a new start! Okay?
    Ready?"
          "Yes."
          "Okay. Aki, let's do it."
          Professor Aki adjusted the skull cap and then turned to a
    computer terminal. He hit a few buttons and suddenly, against his
    will, Dale felt himself relax. Consciousness dropped away like a
    stone falling down a deep, black well.
          Consciousness came back like a car slamming into a wall.
          Professor Aki was still at the terminal, and Vlad was
    standing in front of him folding a piece of paper and slipping it
    into an envelope. "That wasn't so hard, was it?" he said.
          "What?" said Dale.
          "It's over. I've got the essay, I'm about to run it down to
    the Census for you. Now all we have to do is settle the account,
    and you're on your way."
          "What was --- what did I write?"
          "You wrote a very convincing report about your independent
    study of the value of modern broadcast television. You plan on
    writing a book about it, warning the public of the dangers of
    video sedation."
          "I am?"
          "Don't worry, you don't actually have to write it. You just
    have to get involved in something worth while during the next five
    years."
          The amount of money Vlad wanted for his services was a
    surprise. It was over half of the money Dale had left in the bank,
    the interest of which Dale had been living on since the settlement
    with L5 Corp. In the end, though, Dale agreed that his life and
    citizenship was worth it, and he sealed the transaction with his
    thumb print.

                                     #

          Several days went by in a blur, and one afternoon during an
    interesting repeat of Sexual Deviancies of the Rich and Famous
    there was a knock on Dale's door. He turned down the sound and got
    up to look through the peep hole. Several people were standing
    outside, all in uniform. "Dale Bently, please open the door right
    now," one of them called out. It was a short, pretty black woman
    with her hair tucked up under her uniform cap. Her voice was very
    commanding and yet, at the same time, bored. It gave him the
    impression she did this all the time.
          "What do you want?" he called through the door.
          "It's very important that we talk to you."
          "About what?"
          His hesitation made her angry. "Look Mr. Bently, we have a
    Writ of Total Compliance and we'll burn through this door if we
    have to. Do you understand that? You open this door right now!"
          Dale opened the door. The black woman stepped quickly inside
    holding a piece of paper, immediately followed by three men and
    another woman holding clipboards. "By order of the Department of
    Judgement of the Census Bureau of the National Government you are
    hereby informed that you failed the justification test as defined
    by the United Order of Justification to Society, Articles IV
    through XV, and your citizenship is hereby revoked for the cause
    of conservation of energy and resources. Your property and assets
    are hereby seized for redistribution. You're ordered forthwith to
    surrender your physical existence in exchange for public social
    simulation." She took a breath. "You have three phone calls before
    we proceed. You can use them anytime between now and
    dissociation." She fell silent, waiting for him to say something,
    while the others went right to work writing out an inventory of
    his possessions.
          Dale said nothing.
          "Okay," she said. "You can take your phone calls later. Are
    you going to come quietly now or am I going to have to cuff you?"
          Dale erupted. "You can't do this! What gives you the right
    to come barging into my home telling me what----"
          She sprayed him in the face with a small aerosol can and
    Dale's throat closed. The world spun and he pitched over on his
    back, reeling, making sounds like a startled cow. When his sense
    began to work properly again he saw a black corrugated rubber mat
    about 2 inches from his face. Groaning, blinking his eyes to get
    them to focus better, he sat up and saw the back of a chair
    through a heavy screen, and the back of a head. A red sign on the
    screen read:

                        ELECTRIFIED - DO NOT TOUCH!

    He was in a police van, by the looks of it. His hands were firmly
    bound behind his back.
          The van bounced slightly as it sped down a city street, the
    engines making an eerie electric whining sound. I failed! Dale was
    thinking. I failed the test! How could this have happened, Vlad
    guaranteed I would pass! Then a dark thought occurred to him: Vlad
    could have guaranteed anything he wanted, because if he was wrong
    and Dale failed the evaluation --- which he did --- Dale was in no
    position to complain. For one thing, he was not a citizen anymore,
    which meant he had no rights, but even if he did he had broken the
    law. The Census agents would laugh at him.
          The van came to a stop and the rear door popped open and
    lifted. To Dale's surprise, a bound and staggering Professor Aki
    was thrown in, and the door dropped closed and locked with a loud
    thud. The "professor" --- if he actually was a professor --- lay
    face down and drooling on the mat. No doubt he'd been sprayed in
    the face with the same chemical they'd used on Dale.
    "Maaawwwnnpffk!" Aki said into the mat. "Yurrrrafffrekkkksssphk!"
          A half hour later, Vlad Breenwood, too, was thrown into the
    van. It appeared they had used more than the aerosol on him, as
    there was a singed hole in the back of his shirt and the burn
    marks of an electric stun gun. "You!" he said, after regaining
    consciousness. "You bastard!"
          "Me?" Dale said.
          "You bastard from hell! You data dump! I ought to kill you,
    you miserable cretin!"
          "Refrigerate, man," Aki said under his breath. "Freeze it."
          "To hell with you!" Vlad shouted at him.
          "Keep it down or you'll get another jolt," the agent in the
    driver's seat yelled back at Vlad.
          Vlad glanced at the driver, then backed down.
          "What are you yelling at me about?" Dale said angrily. "I'm
    here thanks to your bogus letter----"
          "Don't give me that you runty little rat-head! You turned me
    in!"
          "No I didn't! I didn't have the chance!"
          The driver stopped the van and turned around. "One more
    word, one little sound, and I jolt all of you. Keep your mouths
    shut."
          Vlad turned away, glaring at his own feet. Not a word was
    spoken during the remainder of the ride. When the van stopped, it
    was in front of the Pacific Avenue Euthanasia Center.
          Dale was separated from the other two and escorted to a
    white-walled room where an attendant strapped him into a bed while
    an armed guard stood by the door. When Dale was fully strapped
    down, the guard left. The attendant was a kind-looking young man
    in a white medical jump suit, with long, curly brown hair and warm
    brown eyes. He prepared a injection gun and gave Dale a smile.
          "So this is it," Dale said, his throat dry. "You're going to
    put me to sleep like a dog."
          "No, that's nonsense. Think positively about it. It's not
    death, it's transition."
          "It doesn't seem right."
          "Don't worry, I have a lot of relatives in simulation. I
    talk to them everyday. They say it's much better than reality. In
    simulation, there's no pain."
          "No pain." Dale was thoughtful.
          While he was distracted, the attendant took the opportunity
    to use the injector gun against Dale's neck, right into the
    jugular vein. Dale gasped, then lied there gritting his teeth. It
    hurt like hell.
          Consciousness dropped away like a stone falling down a dark,
    deep well.

                                     #

          There was a large living room, much larger than his old one.
    There was a big, comfortable reclining chair, and a TV screen that
    took up a whole wall. There was no kitchen, though, and no bath
    room, and no bedroom. This was because Dale no longer needed any
    of them.
          "The absolute necessity of conserving energy and resources
    forced society into some harsh decisions," his orientation
    counselor, Marilyn, had told him. "It was either outright
    genocide, or relocation of a large percentage of the population
    into simulation. As you know, it takes about 1/10,000th the energy
    and resources to support a person in simulation than it does in
    the outside 'reality.' No offense meant, but it was quite obvious
    to the Census Bureau that your lifestyle could easily be simulated
    --- and so, here you are. Your personality and memories recorded
    and kept alive in a computer simulated world." Which was fine with
    Dale, since all the latest TV shows were piped in directly, just
    like in real life.
          Dale also found out he had been monitored by the Census
    Bureau ever since his accident, and that had been used by the
    Census to setup and catch Vlad and Professor Aki. Virginia Mergle,
    the woman who had sent Dale to Vlad, had done so at the request of
    the Bureau. "What ever happened to Vlad and the Professor,
    anyway?" Dale had asked. Marilyn had told him that they were doing
    time, right there in the same computer, in a simulated jail.
          There is justice in this world, Dale thought, changing the
    channel on his simulated TV.
    -----------------------------------------------------------------






                           VOODOO COMPUTER HEALER

                             By Jerry J. Davis

                         (c) 1997 by Jerry J. Davis
           Previously Accepted for Publication by Zone 9 Magazine

          I consider myself lucky that I discovered everything I knew
    about life and the physical universe was wrong. Lucky not only
    because of the discovery, but also because I was young when the
    revelation occurred. Had I been older I would have rejected it as
    nonsense.
         Music, attitude, and your point of view can change things
    beyond belief. An energy, a positive force, can be generated.
    Magic can be done.
         Listen to this!
         There was a computer store in Cameron Cove, California ---
    part of a major chain --- that had a golden year. It became a sort
    of Camelot. Through the random processes of physics, the right
    elements just happened to fall in place at the right time.
    Remember, given enough time the unlikely will occur.
         At the time I was hired, there were four others working
    there:
         Janet, the receptionist --- a bright, cheerful mother who's
    kids had grown old enough for her to go back to work. That she
    needed the extra money was beside the point . . . she wanted to go
    back to work, she was happy about it.
         There was Nick, the manager --- an optimistic ex-used car
    salesman from New Jersey. He was a friendly, generous person.
    Easy-going. Definitely not the management type.
         There was also Bob, a slick, go-for-the-throat salesman with
    the remarkable ability of not being sleazy. He was just doing it
    to work his way through college. It wasn't his life, so he wasn't
    bitter about it.
         Now Steve, he could have been my brother. We even looked
    alike. Same hair, same beard, except that he had brown hair and I
    have red. He was a salesman too, but he was the nice-guy type who
    relied on the customers who liked to do business with him.
         Now here were the elements: Janet, Nick, Bob and Steve. And
    myself. And music.
         It started with the music. Nick liked music, and we always
    had the stereo pumping the B-52's or the Talking Heads through the
    store's sound system. Living, jumping music, full of positive
    energy.
         Janet had never really heard these groups before, and she
    would smile when we played them. "I like this!" she'd say. "Who is
    this?" She said this all the time, with each new group we
    introduced to the store.
         When I first came to work there was a mountain of dead
    computers to fix, a really bad back load of work left over from my
    predecessor --- a negative person, from what I'd heard about him.
    A real ogre. Hated customers, hated fellow employees, loved only
    his computer --- and only his computer. He now makes six figures
    programming for the Department of Defense. You know --- space
    based weapon systems?
         So all these inert, dead computers he left behind had owners
    who needed them back. Needed them living, working, running their
    businesses and doing their taxes. Entertaining their children. And
    they would call everyday, begging for their machines back.
    Screaming at me! Calling me names! Sucking away all my positive
    energy and leaving me dry like a sack of old sticks.
         When the music played, however, it was different. Music made
    things flow. Music lubricated things, eased frictions, speeded
    work. I started catching up.
         Janet would walk into the tech room every once in a while
    just to watch and smile. Nick would wander back to get away from
    the pressures of his job, and stand there listening to the music.
    His feet would start tapping, then his head would sway. At one
    point he began to mimic playing the drums. When Steve saw this, he
    came back and began playing the "air guitar" --- unlike myself,
    these guys both had musical backgrounds --- so "air guitars," "air
    drums," and jam sessions were part of their everyday lives. It was
    inevitable. Inevitable! Steve and Nick jamming, and I'd start to
    dance. Janet laughed, thinking this was the greatest thing she'd
    ever seen, and I said, "Come on! Dance with me!"
         "You guys are crazy!"
         "Come on!"
         Her grin straightened out. She thought a moment. Then she let
    go and we were dancing, dancing, bodies gyrating to that
    spring-gone-haywire beat, bouncing and jumping and laughing about
    it all. Steve playing that phantom guitar, Nick slamming out that
    beat on the tech bench with pencils. Bob, hearing all the
    laughter, excused himself from a customer and came back to see
    what was happening. His face lit up like a sunny day at the beach.
    "Yes!" he said. "Yes! I like it! I like working here." He went
    back to the sales floor and sold a big, fat computer system.
         It was energy we were generating, living positive energy. It
    flowed out of that tech room and filled the whole store. The
    building vibrated with it. It was alive, living.
         Now, computers are neutral things. Not living yet not dead,
    not smart but full of thought. Not its own thoughts --- our
    thoughts. The thoughts of the user and the thoughts of the
    programmer. So, depending on who is using it and what program it's
    running, a computer can become positive or negative.
         Over the hours and days of good feelings and good times, the
    positive energy in that tech room became so intense I could feel
    it like heat. While the music played and my friends were happy, I
    worked on those poor, sick, dead computers . . . I felt the energy
    flowing down my arms, through my hands, and into what I was doing.
    Spare parts were becoming more and more unnecessary. Things, in
    their odd electronic ways, were beginning to simply heal.
         Nick noticed this first. He wanted to know why my tech room
    was suddenly so much more profitable. "I'm fixing the boards," I
    told him, "instead of replacing them."
         "You can do that?"
         "Yeah!"
         He smiled and nodded. Things were looking up. Sales had
    climbed to an all-time high as well. "Maybe," he said, "maybe we
    should cut the repair prices down. Do ya think?"
         "It wouldn't hurt us," I told him.
         "I want to do that," he said. "That'll really make our
    customer's happy, wouldn't it?"
         "Sure."
         "Okay. Do it. Start giving them a break." He was happy. He
    was being nice, and it felt good --- especially since he didn't
    have to be nice. It irritated him when he had to be nice, but when
    it was of his own free will, of the genuine goodness of his heart,
    it felt great. It pumped the positive energy up another notch in
    the store, as well.
         He was right, too --- the customers were happy. Mr. John P.
    Galmore had been quoted $350 for his IBM repair, and we only
    charged him $220. Wayne Trapper thought it was going to be $175 to
    get his laptop back, but it only cost him $90. Little Jimmy Malcot
    got his Macintosh repaired for only $25 instead of $110. Nick even
    gave him some games for free.
         Two weeks later Jimmy's father came in --- Mr. Malcot of
    Malcot Industries --- and bought $350,000 worth of equipment. He
    did this because of what we had done for his son. Nick was
    ecstatic! What we were doing was paying off. Everyone was winning.
    Everyone felt good!
         We had a little party one day after work, celebrating yet
    another record breaking month. During the party an old man in a
    sports jacket banged on the front door even though the store was
    obviously closed. He looked through the window at us with a
    desperate expression.
         Nick let him in. "I'm a writer," the man said to Nick. "The
    only copy of my novel is on this computer, and the computer
    stopped working."
         Nick swore to himself. "If there's something wrong with your
    hard drive," Nick told the writer, "your novel may be gone. And
    when it's gone, it's gone."
         The writer looked stricken. "It's the only copy I have."
         Now Nick was gritting his teeth and frowning. This sounded
    like a really bad scene. "You didn't print any of it out or
    anything?"
         "No." The man was on the verge of tears. "I've been working
    on it for four years. Nothing like this has ever happened."
         "Well, we'll get our tech working on it," Nick said. "I can't
    promise anything, but if anyone can save your novel, he can."
         We put it on my work bench and plugged it in. Turned it on.
    There was a humming sound, and garbage --- looking a lot like
    Egyptian hieroglyphics --- filled the screen. "It's trying to
    boot," I said, "but either the main board is damaged or there's
    scrambled data on the hard drive."
         "Oh," Nick said. Everyone had grim expressions. I tried
    another test with a floppy disk. The computer started and ran
    through its paces, but as soon as I tried to access the hard drive
    it came to a halt. More garbage filled the screen. "The trouble is
    in the hard drive, all right," I said.
         More grim faces. The novelist looked like someone had just
    shot his dog to death. "Oh," is all he could say.
         "How long have you been working on this novel?" I asked.
         "Years," he said.
         "Years?"
         "Years and years." His voice was barren and hollow.
         I looked at everyone in the room. I looked at Janet. "We need
    to turn on the music."
         "At a time like this?" Steve said.
         "Yes. Especially at a time like this."
         Bob had a gleam in his eyes. He half-grinned, like he had a
    secret. I believe he had an inkling of what I had in mind. Bob
    went and turned up the stereo, putting on a B-52's album. "Let's
    go down to the looooove shack!" shouted the speakers. "Love shack,
    yeahhh!"
         I started dancing. Janet, looking a little perplexed, started
    dancing with me. Positive energy, I thought. Let me feel it. Let
    me absorb the music, the dancing. Flow . . . flow . . . warm
    music, warm dancing. Warm feelings. Even the novelist was smiling.
    Janet and I gyrated together, generating that energy. Nick tapped
    on a monitor with a pen, helping the rhythm with a staccato clack
    clack CLACK! Steve shook his head, saying, "You guys are nuts,"
    but he wasn't disapproving --- he wanted to see something happen.
    He wanted a miracle.
         I felt it growing in me, blossoming. The power was in my
    arms, in my hands --- they felt like they would glow in the dark.
    Still rocking with the beat, I danced to the work bench and held
    onto that computer, held it tight, flooding it. When the moment
    felt right, I turned it on.
         It came up without a glitch.
         The novel was there.
         From that point on it seemed there would be no stopping us.
    Business kept growing, mainly because people felt good as soon as
    they entered the store. Nick felt good and he kept on slashing the
    prices. I performed miracle after miracle on the tech bench,
    resurrecting data from the dead, healing ill IC chips, brightening
    lost CRT's.
         It was a cold November day when a college professor brought
    in an old Apple III CPU, a model that hadn't sold well and was
    actually quite rare. He'd just walked in and I happened to be out
    front, and I said, "Let me take that for you." He handed it to me,
    and I felt the tired old circuits, poorly designed and hastily
    built. This was more factory defect than breakdown, but the user
    apparently never knew there was something wrong with it until it
    quit altogether. The moment I touched it the energy flowed, and by
    the time I set it down it was fixed.
         "Let's plug it in and see what's up," I said.
         "It doesn't work at all."
         "We've got to start somewhere."
         "Now wait, how much is this going to cost?"
         "It used to be sixty-five an hour, but for you I'll only
    charge twenty-five."
         "Why?" he asked.
         "Why what?"
         "Why do I get a lower price?"
         "Because . . ." I looked around, thinking up a reason.
    "Because we give everyone with orphaned computers a break."
         "What do you mean, 'orphaned' computer?"
         "That's the term for a computer model abandoned by its
    manufacturer."
         "This model was abandoned?"
         "Yes sir, I'm afraid so. Quite a while ago."
         He was upset at this news. "Well then, what's the point in
    fixing it?"
         "A working computer is better than a dead computer."
         "A worthless computer is worthless if it's working or not."
         "It's not worthless if it does what you need it to do."
         "It's never done what I need it to do!"
         Whew! The negative energy billowed out of this man like an
    explosion of thick, black smoke. It was creating a hole in the
    positive energy in the store. I'm treading on eggs here, I
    thought. "What do you need it to do?" I asked. "Perhaps I can help
    you."
         The man blustered and turned red. "It doesn't work!" he
    shouted.
         "Well, I'll fix it, then we'll get it to do what you want it
    to do."
         "I want it to work!"
         Almost all the positive energy in the room was gone. A
    horrible development! I conjured all the positive energy I had
    stored up in my body and levitated the professor's computer
    through the air and into his hands. He grasped it, astonished.
         "It's fixed," I told him. "It will now work better than it
    ever had. It will function perfectly." I smiled, using my last few
    drops of warmth. "No charge."
         "Preposterous!" the man yelled, throwing the machine down
    onto the floor between us. He turned and took leaping strides out
    of the store, slamming the glass doors open and high-stepping to
    his gray BMW. It looked like he was trying to climb steps into the
    air.
         Steve walked to the front and stood with me as the car left
    the parking lot with tire-squealing sounds. "Wow. I don't think
    you should have pulled the levitating trick."
         "I guess not."
         "Looks like he overloaded and locked up."
         "Yeah."
         "Total systems crash."
         "Massive parity errors."
         "To the max."
         We picked up the pieces of the twice-abandoned Apple and took
    it back to the tech room. It took 3 days to recharge the store to
    its former level of positive energy. By the end of those 3 days I
    had the professor's computer repaired again, but this time it had
    taken manual board swapping and spare parts. The professor hadn't
    left a name or number for us to reach him --- in fact, we didn't
    find out he was a professor until a few days later when the
    corporate headquarters gave Nick a call. After the call, Nick came
    back to talk to me.
         "That guy called corporate and complained."
         "You're kidding!"
         "He told them you threw his computer at him."
         "No! You're kidding! You're kidding!"
         Nick shook his head. "His name is Screwtack, he teaches at
    the University."
         "Oh no!" I was terrified. "You set corporate straight, I
    hope! I mean, Steve is my witness."
         "Yeah, yeah, I told them all that. But they're sending
    someone down from corp to check us out."
         I shrugged. "That can't be bad."
         "Naw. Don't worry about it." He laughed. "Business as usual
    . . . except, don't go levitating anything in front of him."
         "No levitating," I said. "I promise."
         An unnecessary promise. When the corporate man, Denny, walked
    into the store he sucked so much of the positive energy away that
    I could barely work, let alone defy the laws of gravity. The man
    had such a negative charge he was like an energy hole. The magic
    drained away in a tearing, silent vortex, spinning into a sad,
    mortal oblivion.
         "Do you always play this music in the store during business
    hours?" he asked Nick.
         "Yeah. It makes a good working environment----"
         "Well, that stops right now. This type of music is against
    corporate policy." Denny peered around with cold, narrow eyes. "We
    have corporate tapes with encoded subliminal messages that you're
    supposed to be playing." He looked directly into Nick's eyes,
    making Nick balk and inch backward. "They encourage customers to
    spend recklessly and to prevent employee theft."
         "I don't really think we----"
         "You're not paid to think, only to sell." Cold, cold, cold!
    Pointy nose, beady eyes. Perfect, stiff, unwrinkled black suit.
    "Your prices are far below the standard."
         "Our sales and gross income have tripled in the last nine
    months."
         "So what. These prices are too low. Use your salesmanship,
    not sacrifice profit margins. Where's your technician?"
         "He's in the back."
         I of course was listening in, and had to scramble unseen into
    the back for them to find me. "You've practically stopped ordering
    parts," he said to me. No hello, no introduction, or anything.
    Just blurted out those words, like an accusation of a crime.
         "I fix the boards in-store," I told him.
         "Component level repair is against corporate policy."
         "Look at my profit margin."
         "I've seen it. I've also seen that you've cut the hourly
    service charge."
         I glanced at Nick and back. "We're building a large and very
    loyal customer base," I told him reasonably.
         "Your profit margin could be three times as high. From now
    on, your rate is back up at corporate's standard sixty-five an
    hour."
         "Whatever you say."
         "And no more component level repairs. Our studies have shown
    it as a waste of time and energy."
         Suck! Suck! He was sucking away at the magic in the tech
    room. He was an animated karma vacuum. His cold eyes scanned my
    equipment and the few computers I still had in for repair. He
    passed right by the resurrected Apple orphan and zoomed in on my
    portable stereo. "No music in the tech room," he said.
         "What?" This was too much!
         "You have a problem with that?"
         "No. You do. I have it in my contract that I get music of my
    choice in the tech room. And no earphones, either --- I get to
    play it out loud."
         "What contract?"
         I pulled it out of my file cabinet, waved it defiantly in the
    man's face. He'd sucked all my positive energy away, leaving me in
    the negative myself. I was ready for a fight.
         Instead of debating it, he turned on Nick. "You entered an
    employee into a contract?"
         "Yes."
         "That was pretty irresponsible."
         "I don't think so," Nick said. He was ready to fight too. "I
    don't know where you come off stepping in here and turning
    everything upside-down. I'm running a very successful store here,
    and I'm running it my way."
         "You're running it against corporate policy."
         "Yeah, well, whatever works. My figures don't lie. Hey, I
    don't see many of the other stores turning the business like this
    one."
         "This store does not belong to you. You're just an employee
    here."
         "Yeah, well, this employee is doing a damn good job if I say
    so myself. I'll leave before I ruin my business by adopting your
    greedy, short-sighted policies."
         Nick was given his final check that very week. Denny himself
    moved in to manage the store. He tore up my contract in my
    presence, with Bob, Steve, and Janet watching. "If you don't like
    it, sue me."
         During the next few days, Janet and I tried generating
    positive energy for repairs by chanting the lyrics to our favorite
    songs. We had a limited success, but then Janet was chewed out and
    banned from the tech room for "spending too much time chattering."
         After work, sometimes Bob, Steve, Janet and I --- all with
    our collective spouses, Significant Others, and children --- would
    meet at a little ocean-side pizza place and try to figure out a
    way to recapture the magic, despite Denny's negative presence.
    Angry, negative-energy plans were rejected, and all our positive
    energy plans failed.
         Negative energy, it seems, is always stronger than positive
    energy. Possibly because positive energy has to be generated and
    exists in limited amounts, while negative energy is as vast and
    limitless as the universe itself. It's easy to be negative. It
    takes effort to be positive. And when positive meets negative the
    positive drains away.
         It seems the negative usually wins.
         Just look at the world.
         We finally figured that the only way to beat the negative is
    to avoid it, so as a group we all resigned from the store --- and,
    with sadness, went our separate ways. It didn't matter in the
    least to Denny, he simply hired more and continued on.
         The moral? I don't know. Just generate as much positive
    energy you can, share it with those you love, and never, never
    levitate someone's computer unless you know them very well.

    -------------------------------------------------------------------
            





                              Albert's Doorway

                          © 1998 by Jerry J. Davis



         When I walked over to Albert's that fateful day, I noticed
    something was different. The house looked much bigger than I
    remembered, especially the part where Albert's room was. It
    appeared ballooned out, just that one room. Odd that I'd never
    noticed it before.
         There was a new sports car in the driveway too, a model that
    both Albert and I had been drooling over in magazines. A red
    Viper. Man, it was hot. It was also very expensive. I wondered who
    owned it, because it certainly wasn't anyone in Albert's family.
         When I rang the bell, it was Albert who answered. It appeared
    he was the only one home. Like myself, Albert is a kind of scrawny
    geek-looking teenager, with thick glasses, pimpled face, the
    works. Albert wasn't wearing his glasses that day, though, and it
    looked like his face had cleared up. As a matter of fact, it
    looked like he'd had a nose job. And his build, the way he stood,
    he seemed a bit wider, more muscular, like he'd been working out.
    Odd, I thought again. I should have noticed the difference when I
    saw him the day before.
         "Hey, Brad! Boy do I have something to show you," he said.
         "Where is everybody?" I asked.
         "They're all on a cruise boat heading toward Hawaii. Come on
    inside."
         "But---"
         He grabbed me by the arm and dragged me through the door. As
    he pulled me past the dining room toward the stairs, I saw that
    there was a huge pile of green twenty-dollar bills stacked on the
    table. "Take some, if you want," he said, pausing just for a
    moment. "But hurry, I've got to show you what I've been doing."
         Not wanting to be greedy, I only took a few. Then a few more.
    Then, well, there was so much a handful wouldn't be missed. My
    pocket was bulging as I finally followed Albert up the stairs to
    his room.
         His room, I noticed, had been remodeled. There was no denying
    it, it was much bigger than it was a few days before. And instead
    of just one computer sitting on his desk, he had several
    computers, nice new powerful ones.
         "Remember I was showing you how I'd converted my Dad's
    satellite dish so that I could use it as a radio telescope?"
    Albert asked.
         "Yeah. Did your Dad get mad?"
         "No." Albert had a unbelievably huge grin stretched across
    his face. "It was the best thing I've ever done in my life."
         "Okay."
         "I was listening to the background radiation of the universe
    night before last, and it struck me. It sounded an awful lot like
    a modem carrier wave. Silly me, I went and piped the antenna into
    my modem. Well, nothing happened of course. The hertz cycle was
    way off. So then I got out this old 4800 baud piece of junk my dad
    got from the phone company and I tinkered with it, adjusting here
    and there, and guess what happened."
         "What?"
         "I connected."
         "With what?"
         "The background radiation of the universe. Or at least what
    everybody thought was the background radiation of the universe.
    It's not, it is a carrier wave. I connected with it. I went
    on-line."
         "On-line with what?"
         "The universe. Reality itself." He tapped a few times on the
    keyboard on his old computer. "I can move things around, change
    their properties, you name it." He tapped some more. The money I
    had stuffed in my pocket was suddenly on the desk. He tapped some
    more. It doubled in amount. He tapped more, and now there was
    money bulging in every pocket I had. "You see," he said, "reality
    is apparently nothing more complicated than a gigantic computer
    simulation. What we think of as the cosmos is a simulation running
    on some sort of cosmic mainframe computer. That's why when these
    guys in Scientific American look at the building blocks of reality
    they find nothing at all. Matter is made up of particles that are
    made of nothing. Why? Because it's all just information. They're
    looking at the building blocks of a program."
         "You're telling me that we're nothing but simulations running
    on a cosmic computer somewhere?"
         "Basically, yes. That's what I believe."
         "So, who's running the computer?"
         "God, I guess."
         "God is the Cosmic Sysop?"
         "Yeah, I suppose so."
         "Don't you think the Cosmic Sysop is going to be upset to
    find you've been playing around with His programming?"
         "He hasn't minded so far."
         "Maybe because He hasn't noticed yet. If I were you, I'd keep
    it small and simple." I looked outside. "That's your car outside?"
         "Yeah, want one?"
         It was tempting. "No thanks. You can put a pile of cash under
    my bed at home, but other than that, I don't think I want to be
    part of this."
         Albert had an evil grin. "I can change your mind, you know."
         I frowned. "That would be a bad idea. How would you ever get
    my genuine opinion if you go and change my mind?"
         Albert's grin faded. "I didn't think of that." After a moment
    his smile brightened again. "Hey, let's get a bunch of naked high
    school cheerleaders in here and have a party!"
         "Sounds like you've done this before."
         "It was one of the first things I did." He showed me a whole
    wastepaper basket full of used condoms. While I was gaping at
    that, the girls arrived.

                                     #

         My resolve to remain uninvolved didn't last long at all. The
    next day found me sitting right beside him in the Viper cruising
    down the Interstate at a steady 170 MPH, beer bottles in hand,
    large cigars in mouth. I was grinning from ear to ear. Life was
    good, and I was no longer a virgin. Not only was I no longer a
    virgin, I was no longer a virgin a dozen times over. The beer,
    which was not really a taste I was used to, seemed to taste better
    with every progressive bottle I drained.
         Albert didn't seem to be as content as I was. He was
    searching for a highway patrol car, but in vain. "If we had tried
    this last week, we would have been pulled over within minutes," he
    said, brooding. "Now look at us. Are they all on vacation or
    what?"
         "Maybe the variable you used was too broad. Maybe no trouble
    will come our way at all."
         He shook his head. "No, this is just dumb luck."
         Finally we spotted a black and white on the opposite side of
    the freeway. It had pulled over a big old Lincoln Continental, and
    the officer was writing out a ticket. Albert skidded to a stop,
    rumbled the Viper across the dirt meridian, and zoomed right up to
    the officer. He threw a beer bottle at the man, yelling, "You big
    dumb fuck! Come and do your job!" He tromped down on the Viper's
    throttle and sent it squealing down the lane. The acceleration was
    unreal, throwing my head back and pressing me deep into the plush
    leather seat. The cop dashed over to his car, leaped in, and took
    off in pursuit.
         Albert was laughing hysterically. "I can't believe I did
    that! Can you believe I did that? I'm so afraid of authority
    figures!"
         I, too, was afraid of authority figures. I wasn't finding it
    so hysterically funny.
         "You big dumb fuck!" Albert yelled again, laughing. "You big
    dumb fuck!"
         We were chased into town, where Albert slowed. The highway
    patrol car was right on our tail, separated by mere inches. He
    looked really mad. "Pull over!" he shouted over his PA speaker.
    "Now!"
         Albert sent the Viper rumbling down an off ramp and came to a
    stop right in the middle of an intersection, stopping all the
    traffic. He was still laughing hysterically.
         "Move your car out of the intersection!" the officer's
    amplified voice said. "Pull over to the side."
         Albert flipped him off.
         The officer opened his car door and came after us with his
    gun drawn. "Get out of the car, now! You're under arrest!"
         Albert nudged me, and we both pulled out our new cards. The
    cards had our names and pictures, and had the large, bold letters
    that read: ABSOLUTE IMMUNITY.
         The officer immediately holstered his gun, but he still
    looked angry as hell. "I'll have to run these through!" he said,
    collecting the cards. "Could you please move out of the
    intersection?"
         "No," Albert said, puffed up and being as arrogant as he
    could manage.
         Shaking his head, the officer returned to his car. The cars
    around us honked, backed up, honked more, and made their way
    around us. After a while the officer came back, still angry, and
    handed us our cards back. "I don't care if you have total immunity
    or not, you shouldn't abuse it like this."
         "Or what?" Albert shouted. "Go back to your car, public
    servant. You can't do a damn thing to us!"
         "You know, somebody just might snap, shoot you, then claim
    temporary insanity," the officer told us. He looked like he was
    seriously contemplating it.
         "Bite me!" Albert laughed, throwing the car into gear. The
    officer watched us leave with a horrible, glowering expression.
         We rode for a while in silence, and then I said, "I don't
    think we had to be so ... extreme."
         "Yes, we did," Albert said. "There's a big difference between
    creating a few cards and an authorization in a database somewhere,
    and changing all of society so that it accepts the card." He
    grinned, very pleased with himself. "It worked perfectly."
         I had to admit that it did.
         "This has vast implications," Albert said. He was very, very
    pleased with himself.

                                     #

         During the next couple of weeks we indulged in an insane
    excess of total wish fulfillment. A lot of it was pretty nasty,
    and much of the nasty stuff had a lot to do with famous actresses
    and models. It didn't make me feel good afterwards -- I felt like
    I was using people, manipulating them without any regard for them.
    I also came to the conclusion that if I could get anything I
    wanted with no effort, then everything felt worthless. Disposable.
    Albert seemed to like it this way, he enjoyed the disposable
    aspect of everything.
         "Look," I told him one Monday. "Let's do something real with
    your terminal. Let's make some changes that are worth making."
         "Like what?"
         "Stop those wars in Eurasia and Africa. Give some plentiful
    food source to India. Make life better for everyone, not just us."
         "I always figured you for a Democrat," Albert said. "You're
    right, though. Let's do something about the common lowlife scum."
         We watched CNN for a while, getting a good idea of where all
    the trouble spots were, and then Albert isolated the areas and
    adjusted parameters so that everyone there just lost their will to
    fight. That night all the news programs were buzzing with special
    reports on how truce talks were going on everywhere. Some people
    who were interviewed thanked God that people were finally coming
    to their senses; others called for investigations and alerts,
    insisting something evil was going on. The next day, however,
    while Albert was working on getting more food to the starving, we
    learned wars had broken out in different areas. Albert stopped
    those, and did some poking around. "Arms dealers are really vile
    and ruthless people," he said at one point. "Did you know they
    cause most of the small wars?"
         "Obviously."
         "No, they really arrange them, set them up. I'm going to
    delete them from the program."
         "Delete them!" I was very alarmed.
         "Yep." He tapped on the keys, peering at the screen. "Done.
    Arms dealers are gone. All guns everywhere are disappearing into
    rusty balls of harmless junk."
         The next day there were new arms dealers, and plastic guns
    were being produced in mass quantities. Albert was only slightly
    miffed. "Figures. This stuff happens naturally. There's no point
    in trying to curb it, it's part of the program." He did change
    parameters so that plastic guns had a tendency to explode,
    however, which forced the arms industries to divert their energies
    back to research instead of production.
         "Look at this," he said late one afternoon. "Look what
    happens when you give the starving a limitless food supply."
         "What?" His computer screen didn't make any sense to me. Then
    again, it never did.
         "There's a soaring increase in reproduction. That's all we
    need, another eight billion people." He thought about it a moment,
    then started tapping on the keyboard. "Time for an attitude
    change. Everyone everywhere will think sex is repulsive without
    birth control."
         "Hey!"
         "What."
         "Hey, dammit. You did it to me too." I had felt the sudden
    attitude change myself. "Don't go changing me."
         "I already have. Several times."
         "What!?"
         "Way back when I first showed you what I was doing, you
    didn't want to be in a room full of naked cheerleaders. Then you
    didn't want to go joy-riding in the Viper. You've had fun since,
    haven't you?"
         I stared at him in disbelief.
         "Well?"
         "Whatever." I was angry, but I was also afraid. He could
    delete me or change me around any time he wanted. I had to watch
    my step. "I guess it hasn't hurt me any."
         "I wouldn't hurt you! You're my best friend, my only friend."
    He turned back to the computer. "I'll always make sure you're well
    taken care of."
         "Thanks."

                                     #

         "You know what our problem is?" he asked one day while we
    were out on our favorite yacht. "I can transport anything anywhere
    except myself. In order to do it, I've got to be at the terminal.
    I've thought about creating a portable terminal, but that could be
    dangerous, because what happens if it drops carrier and we're out
    of control? So I thought to myself, why don't I play around with
    the laws of physics and create some inter-dimensional doorways?
    That way we can always have a quick way back to the terminal when
    we need it, and we could go anywhere we want."
         Play around with the laws of physics? I struggled to sit up,
    but I was too drunk. "I have serious doubts about that," I said to
    Albert. "I think that would be extraordinarily dangerous." It took
    me several tries to get the word "extraordinarily" out.
         "Why?"
         "You're messing with the programming of reality!"
         "We've been doing it for a month now. So what?"
         "We've been doing just little things, Albert. What you're
    talking about is a major change."
         "So?"
         "So Somebody might notice."
         "Who cares?"
         "I mean Somebody Big."
         "I've come to the conclusion that there is no Cosmic Sysop.
    There was one at one time, but there's no sign of Him now. He's
    either dead, or gone off somewhere else. This system is in
    self-run mode and has been for eons." He stood up and pulled his
    Bermuda shorts up over his belly button. "If anyone is the Cosmic
    Sysop right now, it's me."
         "You're calling yourself God?"
         "Well, I'm not the Creator, but we could easily argue I'm now
    the Caretaker." He was silent for a moment. I think he was waiting
    to see if I would argue with him. I didn't. That is, I didn't
    dare.
         That night after we returned from the coast, Albert went
    right up stairs and began reworking the laws of physics. Putting
    loopholes in them, actually, to allow him to open the dimensional
    doorways. Apparently this was a lot more complicated than any of
    the other tinkering he'd been doing, because he was at it for over
    two days.
         "Brad, it's ready," he said. It was just after noon on
    Tuesday. He hadn't showered at all, and his hair was sticking out
    every which way. "I opened the first doorway -- it's between my
    room and yours."
         "Cool." I followed him up the stairs and into his room. There
    was a new door in his room, and through it I could see my room
    over at my house. "Whoa," I said. I had to admit I was very
    impressed.
         "Go ahead," Albert said. "Step on through."
         "Are you sure?" I asked. "Have you tested it yet?"
         "No. You're testing it."
         "What?!"
         "Don't worry. If anything happens to you, I can undo it. Go
    on, step through."
         Shrugging, I walked through the doorway into my room.
    Something happened when I did -- the light changed suddenly. It
    was like it went from a sunny day outside to sudden gloomy
    overcast. There was also a long, low thudding sound, like that of
    an enormous base drum, that seemed to echo through the whole
    house. I knew immediately something bad had happened. Turning
    around, I found Albert's doorway had disappeared.
         I ran through the house and out the front door, then nearly
    fell over in shock. The sky had gone insane. There were dozens of
    moons, a ring of fire, and patches of night and day like a crazy
    quilt. The horizon was uneven and bizarre. In one direction it
    seemed to stretch away into infinity, and in the other direction
    it was much too close, as if the Earth were only a fraction of
    it's usual size.
         Cars on the road were all stopped, the drivers missing.
         I jogged all the way to Albert's house, and found it was only
    half there. It looked as if a huge chunk had been cut out of the
    house, and that missing chunk included Albert's room. I yelled out
    his name several times, but I really didn't expect to hear a
    reply. There was no one in sight anywhere.
         I wandered for a while, feeling lost. The Earth as well as
    the sky had become a crazy patch quilt, as I found whole sections
    of town had been replaced by fields, by rivers that ran from
    nowhere to nowhere, and blocks of buildings that looked like they
    belonged in Europe. It was all empty of people. It was empty of
    all living things, period, except for a cat which stood on a board
    fence and stared at me. I walked over and petted it for a moment,
    and it purred, meowed, then abruptly jumped down and ran away.
         It took a while, but I managed to find my way back home. The
    cat followed me. It ran right in the house and searched around,
    looking for food. Finding none it stood at my feet and meowed. I
    couldn't find any food, either, as the food pantry was replaced by
    part of a tree and the refrigerator door seemed welded shut.
    Unlike the cat, I wasn't very hungry. I let it outside and then
    went into my room, lied down on my bed and tried to take a nap.
         I yawned twice and fell dead asleep.
         When I awoke it was sunny outside, and birds were singing.
    The cat was outside my window, meowing. I stared outside, seeing a
    normal world, seeing people in their cars driving and kids playing
    on the sidewalk. Alright, I thought. Albert fixed things.
         I took a leisurely walk in the warm afternoon sunlight over
    to where Albert's house once stood. In the house's place was a
    vacant lot. The street still held the skid marks from Albert
    sliding the Viper up into his driveway, but the Viper and the
    driveway were gone. Walking up to where the garage had been, I
    found the Viper's keys in the dirt.
         A suspicious neighbor looked on as I poked around the lot.
    "Where'd Albert's house go?" I asked her.
         "Who's Albert?" she asked.
         "The guy who lived in the house that was here."
         "There's never been a house there."
         I nodded. Apparently Albert had not fixed things. Apparently
    Albert had crashed reality, and the Cosmic Sysop had reset the
    program and terminated Albert's account.
         Altogether.
         Back home, I found my parents had left a message on the
    answering machine saying they were coming home from the vacation
    Albert had sent them on. I looked in my wallet and found I still
    had the license to do anything, but doubted if it was good
    anymore. There was still a pile of cash under my bed, so I grabbed
    some of it to go buy some cat food and a litter box.
         It appeared the cat was there to stay.
  ------------------------------------------------------------------------






                              THE MOON AT NOON

                          ©1997 by Jerry J. Davis



         The Freud simulation program told Mike that he had a
    subconscious desire to be caught. That was ludicrous, though ---
    being caught would mean the end of his career, which was a job he
    enjoyed. It would also be the end of his marriage, as his
    socially-conscious wife would be embarrassed out of her mind. His
    kids would be harassed at school, taunted with jeers about their
    crazy father, and for this reason alone Mike took precautions. He
    had to be cautious, even though being cautious was the very
    opposite of what he was doing. What did the Freud simulation know,
    anyway? It was only a program.
         His rubber-walled car would do no more than 35 miles per hour
    down the crowded expressway --- to go faster would not be safe.
    Mike often wondered why 35 miles per hour was considered safe, and
    36 miles per hour was not. His car puttered like a motorboat,
    burning natural gas, and inched its way from one lane to another
    as he progressed toward the next off ramp. Zeiter Park Exit, the
    sign read. Center City. His car made putt-putt sounds as it crept
    down the long, safe exit ramp.
         As he came to a stop, he did so gently so as not to trigger
    the air-bag in his steering wheel --- which had gone off several
    times before. For some reason it had a hair trigger, and when he'd
    first bought the car Mike thought it was a factory defect. No,
    said the factory representative, it was made that way on purpose.
    Just to be safe. That, and the webbing that made up the seat belt
    system, was now standard in all cars by law. As was the crash
    helmet on his head.
         Mike found a parking place on the street beside some bushes
    in Zeiter Park, right between two other rubber-walled cars. Rubber
    walls with a titanium-steel passenger compartment imbedded within,
    the mandatory norm and ultimate in safety and protection. Four way
    anti-skid disc brakes and pneumatic collapsible bumpers on front,
    back and sides. Titanium roll bar. Non-breakable Plexiglas
    windshield. It was --- all of it --- state of the art, and
    required by law.
         As was the helmet on his head.
         Mike got out of the car, pulled a bundled pack out of the
    back seat, and stepped up onto the soft, rubberized surface of the
    park sidewalk. He felt like a spaceman stepping out onto a hostile
    planet. The helmet he wore was not only a crash helmet for driving
    a car, it also doubled as the mandatory helmet to be worn by
    pedestrians, along with the mandatory knee and elbow pads, and of
    course the bullet proof vest to protect him from muggers. Mike,
    like most people in the last few years, had saved money by buying
    the whole outfit as a single suit, called a safety suit, which
    contained all the safe elements required by law for those who
    would go out in public. As a bonus, this suit also contained an
    emergency transponder that would radio for help if he should fall
    down and break his leg or hip, as if that were possible. This was
    not currently required by law, but Congress was in the process of
    considering it.
         A few joggers ran past, each wearing a safety suit, and a few
    young couples lay under trees on blankets, groping each other's
    suits in frustration. Mike carried his bundle far up the hill,
    staying on the sidewalk, and at one point crossed the street
    (safely, at a crosswalk), and headed away from the park.
         Up a long, steep hill he hiked, up to the top where one of
    the bigger skyscrapers in town stood, a black and polished bank
    building called Haben Tower. Inside he went, face blank, eyes
    straight ahead as he passed the security monitors. He walked
    straight to the elevators and pushed a button and waited. He was
    alone, he'd timed it right. Most people at this time were busy in
    their offices, all their visitors and visitations having been
    taken care of earlier that morning. The elevator arrived and he
    alone stepped inside. He pushed the button for the top floor, and
    stood stoically as the doors slid shut and the elevator began to
    rise.
         This is my civil disobedience, he told himself. I have a
    right to do this. I have an obligation to do this. I've gone too
    far to back down now.
         Mike took deep breaths, conscious that his hands were
    shaking.
         The ride lasted a long time. It was a slow elevator. Fast
    elevators were dangerous. Mike had plenty of time to open the pack
    and pull out the rubber Ralph Nader mask. He pulled off his
    helmet, put on the mask, and put the helmet back on. With the
    helmet on, he was sure, no one would look twice at the mask.
         There was a pastel tone from the elevator's speaker grill and
    the doors slid open. Several executives in black and white safety
    suits stepped in as he was stepping out. One gave him a startled
    glance but said nothing, and Mike dared not look back as he walked
    away from the elevator. Hopefully the man had doubted his own
    eyes. Mike continued down the hall and around a corner to the
    stair well. A security monitor was right there, electric eye
    focused on him as he tried the door. It was unlocked, of course
    --- it was a fire exit --- and he pushed it open and stepped
    through. He walked up the one remaining flight of stairs and faced
    the one remaining door at the top of the building. This one was
    locked, as it was not safe beyond. Mike, fortunately, had a pass
    key which he'd swiped from a janitor two weeks before. Within
    seconds he was out in the sunshine on the roof, with all of Center
    City in view.
         Now he had to work fast, for there would be security guards
    after him within the next few minutes. He opened the pack, pulled
    out the aluminum and nylon contents, and then began removing his
    safety suit. After that was off, he removed all the rest of his
    clothes --- everything, including the helmet. The only thing that
    remained was the Ralph Nader mask. He stood naked on the roof,
    shoving his clothing into the pack, and with that done he began
    pulling out the telescoping aluminum struts and unfolding the
    nylon wings of his hang glider. He had eight wing nuts to fasten
    and twelve buttons to snap. He worked quickly but with precision,
    as he'd practiced this over fifty times in his garage. He had done
    it in secret, as hang gliders were strictly forbidden, and mere
    possession of one was a felony --- now he was doing it bare-ass
    naked on the top of a public building, in full view of the world.
         The wings spread out and caught the faint breeze, glittering
    with all the colors of a butterfly. Mike finished the last few
    snaps and stashed his pack with his safety suit and helmet in a
    net at the top of the harness. He looped the padded harness around
    him and stood near the building's edge, nerving himself. He
    thought of the words written by his hero, the great 1960's pop
    philosopher Ashleigh Brilliant, "Should I abide by the rules until
    they're changed, or help speed the change by breaking them?" The
    door behind him burst open and a half-dozen security guards rushed
    out onto the roof, and Mike, startled, ran for the edge of the
    building. "Speed the change!" he shouted out loud, his voice
    cracking with excitement. He took one last long step and the
    building was behind him.
         The first few seconds were the biggest thrill, as he felt
    himself plummeting through the air. Then the wings caught and
    yanked him up, and he curved up and around to taunt the guards on
    the building top. They stared at him like a group of knights in
    black, leathery armor, some of them even smiling. Mike waved, made
    a steep bank and turned away.
         It was a dizzy feeling, reeling through the air with it
    rushing across his bare skin, pulling at the little hairs on his
    chest, arms and legs. He was eye-level with the sea gulls and
    pigeons, sharing their element, scaring them off the ledges of the
    tower and sending them squawking away. The excitement and the
    caress of the air was of sexual intensity, and his sexual organ
    responded in kind. He flew several times around the tower, seeing
    shocked faces pressed up against tinted windows, before he turned
    on a wing and soared off across town.
         The top of another tall building lay below him, down the hill
    from Haben Tower, and he could have landed on it had he wished.
    Instead he touched the microwave relay antenna on its roof with
    the tips of his toes as he flew over, making it wobble, causing a
    momentary interruption in someone's data-link. Somewhere in the
    building, someone missed a word in a conversation, or lost some
    bytes in a data transfer. The thought made him giggle, and he
    circled around and waved at the windows, each one filled with
    faces and open, gaping mouths. As he did so, the wind caught an
    edge of his mask and pulled it off.
         His face had been sweating under the mask, and the sudden
    blast of cool air was a shock. He turned quickly away from the
    windows, dipped the glider and banked, soaring away from the
    building. Holy Jesus, he thought. Holy Jesus. Holy holy Jesus. For
    the first time since he jumped off the Haben Tower he felt naked.
    What am I going to do?
         It was like a bad dream.
         Heading away from the buildings, Mike continued down the
    hill, passing over the City Hall. He circled above it, feeling his
    panic fade. Far below, gnat sized people stood around in a parking
    lot looking up at him. He was so far up that there was no way they
    could see his face, not even with binoculars. Not clearly, at
    least. He continued to circle, smiling at the city buildings and
    the tiny figures in the parking lot beneath him. City officials,
    no doubt, men and women in the public trust, making laws to
    protect people from themselves. Seeing something strange in the
    sky today? An eclipse perhaps? The moon at noon?
         He meandered above the city searching for updrafts. The loss
    of his mask still worried him. It made him feel unsure, urged him
    to race the glider toward the park for a quick escape. But he had
    plenty of elevation, and there were warm updrafts here and there
    --- he could stay up for another 30 minutes at least. At the
    moment he was deliberately avoiding the park, not wanting to help
    any of the authorities who may be tracking him to guess where he
    intended to land. As long as Mike maintained his altitude, all it
    would take was one long dip, a quick swoop across town, and he
    would be at the park --- far faster than anyone in a car or on a
    bicycle could follow. I have time, he told himself. Lots of time.
         Daring himself, Mike turned into the wind and headed for the
    far side of the hill, where the updraft would be the strongest.
    The breeze coming in from the West hit the hill and deflected up
    at a steep angle. Mike felt for it as he rounded past the
    concentric circles of the Country Club, hoping to ease into it as
    he thought it might be quite turbulent. He was over the upper half
    of the golf range, the really tough holes which sat on the lower
    shoulder of the hill, when the updraft hit him. Even though he was
    expecting it, it caught him off guard as to how strong it actually
    was --- he felt the Earth drop away and the blood rush to his
    feet, and there was creaking sounds from his aluminum frame and
    two harsh pops, followed by a rapid fluttering of nylon. The
    thrill of fear went through him like a spike. Two snap buttons on
    the leading edge of his left wing, out toward the tip, had come
    undone. The drag of the loose material pulled on that wing tip and
    made the glider turn, taking him against his will out of the
    updraft.
         Mike swore, throwing his weight to the other side, fighting
    the turn. If it kept up like this, the best he could hope for was
    a slow spiral down to the ground. What he was really worried about
    was coming around and hitting that updraft again. With two snaps
    off, it wouldn't take much to pull the rest loose --- the wing
    would come off like it were unzipped, parting from the frame that
    held it out. Mike would tumble to his death, and only prove to the
    world that hang gliding --- with or without a safety suit --- was
    too dangerous to be legal.
         Mike managed to cancel the turn, even to coax the glider a
    little to the right. This was still no good, as he was now heading
    right for the side of the hill. He had hardly any control now at
    all, though if he could just get it a little more to the right, he
    could land safely on the fairway to the 7th hole. But a sudden
    updraft caught him and sent him up another thirty meters, getting
    him right up to the crest of the shoulder. And there, sitting on
    the ridge, was the Country Club clubhouse. Mike aimed for the
    white rock of the long, flat roof, and touched down to find it
    very hot on the bottom of his bare feet.
         "Yow!" he said. "Ow! Oooh! Ouch!" He hopped around, getting
    out of the harness, then dropped the glider and danced around to
    the wing tip. He snapped the buttons shut, rushed back to the
    middle, harnessed himself, and ran off toward the North-East.
    There was a terrible dip off the edge of the roof, and for a
    moment it didn't look like he was going to clear the line of trees
    separating one side of the ridge from the other. He turned on one
    wing and sailed in between, right through the trees and only
    several feet over the grassy ground, then the hill dropped away
    and the city once again spread below his bare toes. "Jesus!" he
    exclaimed to himself. "This is it. This is enough." He pulled on
    the bar and went into a dive. The glider swooped down toward the
    tops of the buildings, the air rushing past him and roaring in his
    ears, then he pulled up and crossed over to the park, a streak of
    color slicing through the air. He circled around once, looking for
    a secluded spot, and shedding some of the speed from the dive.
    There was a whole meadow adjacent to his car that looked totally
    deserted, so he took it down and hit the ground running. He
    reached the edge of the bushes and struggled out of his harness,
    then quickly began undoing the wing nuts so that he could fold the
    wings and get out of sight. From somewhere to his right he heard
    shouting, and he gritted his teeth, trying to hurry. "Over there!"
    he heard a woman's voice. "I think he landed!"
         "Where?!"
         "Over there!"
         Mike folded the wings and rushed into the bushes, pulling the
    glider after him. He pulled his pack out and fumbled with his
    clothes, putting his underwear on backwards and buttoning his
    shirt crooked. By the time he had his safety suit on he could hear
    people in the meadow where he'd landed, calling out to each other,
    saying they could swear this is where he had dropped from sight.
    Trying to be as silent as possible, he disassembled the glider ---
    though no matter what he tried, he couldn't silence the unsnapping
    of the buttons. Someone was poking around in the bushes to the
    right of him, about ten meters away, when Mike finished stowing
    the glider in the pack. He took a breath, turned toward the street
    and pushed his way through the bushes to the sidewalk.
         There were two cops and a squad car right in front of him.
    One was walking around the bushes toward the meadow, the other
    stood at the car and then looked over to see Mike on the sidewalk,
    looking guilty. "Hey," he said, walking over to Mike. "What's that
    in the bag there?"
         "What?"
         The officer reached over and unzipped part of the bag, where
    a tuft of the nylon had been sticking out. He pulled more of the
    nylon out and felt it with his fingers. "I'll be damned," he
    muttered, looking up and peering into Mike's eyes. "You're him."
         "I'm who?" Mike said, but his voice was shaking, as were his
    hands.
         "Don't play games with me, you're that crazy bastard mooning
    the city from the air!" The officer whipped out his night stick
    and smacked Mike in the face. "Pervert!" Whack! "Terrorist!"
    Whack, whack! Mike gasped in agony and fell backwards, watching in
    horror as the policeman's partner came into view and begin
    delivering blows of his own.

                                     #

         Consciousness came and went. Mike was aware of the ride in
    the ambulance, and the doctors putting stitches in his face. Then
    he was in a hospital bed. The gaps in between were like sections
    of a video tape that had been erased with a magnet. He lie in the
    white, sterile linen, held snugly by the safety straps required of
    all hospital beds, and stared at the holes in the ceiling. His
    face felt as if an angry cougar used it to sharpen its claws.
         Mike thought of his kids, his wife. His job. It was over.
    They would never understand. Why did I have to do this? He tried
    to feel regret, but it wasn't there. He was glad he was caught ---
    he was calm about it. The Freud simulation had been right. In one
    single act he'd broken all of the safety laws he so desperately
    hated, and he was proud of it. He'd done it, survived, and now he
    could get on with his life . . . or at least what there was left
    of it.
         Someone was yelling outside the door. The voice had the edge
    of authority in it, and sounded angry. "Let me get this straight.
    You beat up and put into the hospital a man who broke the safety
    laws? Is this what I'm hearing you say? I can't believe anyone can
    be so stupid! No! Shut up! I don't want to hear any more . . ."
    The voice faded out as they conversation moved away from the door.
    Mike felt the impulse to smile, but it hurt too much. Good thing
    he'd had his safety suit on before the police caught him. It had
    probably saved his life.

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