Code Of the Beast

                          © 1998 by Jerry J. Davis







                               1. ANARCHISTS



         The phone had been ringing for quite a while.
         Dodd noticed the ringing. Then he noticed it more. It was
    like he was coming back from somewhere down a long hallway to find
    a phone ringing at the very end. Then it took him a moment to
    realize that he should answer it, being that --- after all --- it
    was his phone.
         He tore his eyes away from the large 3-D screen and looked
    around his living room. His girlfriend was there along with some
    other friends, all of them staring at the screen. The phone rang
    on. No one was noticing but him.
         I should answer it, he thought.
         Dodd struggled to his feet and walked across the living room
    to the adjacent kitchen. He groaned; the time display on the
    telephone's screen read seven-past-midnight. What was he doing
    still awake? It was a work night. This was probably Toby's wife
    calling to get him to come home.
         He picked up the handset and touched the button to accept
    video. Instead of Toby's wife, a bearded face with unkempt hair
    appeared. "Dodd!" the face said.
         "Danny?" Dodd said back to it. He was alarmed --- like dark
    clouds at sea, the appearance of Danny Marauder usually foretold
    trouble.
         "Sorry I woke you up. You know I wouldn't be bothering you if
    it wasn't important."
         "I . . . you didn't wake me."
         "Me and a couple of friends are kinda caught out in the open,
    if you know what I mean. We need a place to crash."
         Dodd fidgeted. Anarchists in his apartment? If it were just
    Marauder it would be okay --- but his friends? "Well, I . . . I
    have company over here, Danny."
         "We'll stay in your garage if you want us to, man. I mean, we
    have to get under a roof. You understand?"
         "You mean the . . ." Dodd cut himself off. He didn't want to
    know.
         "I really need this favor, Dodd," Danny told him. "If you do
    this for me, we'll be all even. Hell --- I'll be owing you."
         Dodd hesitated.
         "Come on, man." Danny was pleading.
         "You just want to stay in my garage?"
         "That's all I'm asking."
         "Okay. Okay, I can do that. But," he gave Danny a warning
    look, "don't bring any . . . you know. Just don't." Dodd could
    imagine a half-dozen anarchists getting drunk and shooting up his
    garage with high-powered energy weapons. What a nightmare!
         "I love you, man," Danny was saying. "We'll be around in a
    little while, very quiet. No problems."
         Dodd nodded, said goodbye and hung up. He immediately wanted
    to call Danny back and cancel the whole thing, but of course he
    had no idea from where Danny had been calling.
         The time display now read 12:10 AM. He had to get up for work
    at 5:30 AM. I've got to get these people out of here, he thought,
    and walked back into the living room. "Okay, it's time to call it
    a night. It's way past my bed time."
         No one looked away from the television. No one made a move.
    His girlfriend Sheila was only a few feet away, and she hadn't
    heard a word he'd said. She stared at the screen with glazed eyes,
    breathing slowly through her slack mouth. Colors from the giant
    screen reflected from her white face.
         He reached over and shook her shoulder. "Are you asleep?" he
    asked.
         "Huh?" She blinked, then turned and looked at him. "What?"
         "I said, are you asleep?"
         "Oh." She held out her empty wineglass. "Can I have a
    refill?"
         "A refill?"
         "Yes please."
         "Sheila, I . . ."
         She was smiling sweetly at him. "Please?" she said.
         Dodd took the glass and headed back toward the kitchen. This
    is getting out of hand, he thought. I'm just going to go to bed
    with them here.
         In the kitchen, he opened the refrigerator and kneeled down,
    holding Sheila's glass under the tiny silicon spigot. A pale red
    liquid dribbled out, Vinny's Uncommon '41, "The best Texan wine
    money can buy." Haunting, racing music drifted in from the
    television --- the endless soundtrack of the Travels station. It
    seemed to spin around him in the air, the holographic sound
    bouncing through the kitchen. As he listened he forgot what he was
    doing, his head beginning to sway back and forth to the gentle
    rhythm. As he finished filling Sheila's glass he got another for
    himself and began filling it as well. The Travels music was so
    relaxing. He felt light. He took the two glasses of wine back into
    the living room and eased himself down on the couch next to
    Sheila.
         "Here," he said.
         Sheila took the glass wordlessly and ducked as he put his
    free arm around her. Dodd sipped the wine, and the image of the
    rolling ball on the screen pulled at his eyes like a magnet. For a
    moment he resisted, looking over at his friend and co-worker Bob
    Recent. He was cuddled with his wife Denise at the opposite end of
    the couch. Both held empty wineglasses in their slack hands, and
    Dodd felt guilty that he hadn't given them refills. His other
    friend, Toby Whitehouse, was beside the Recents in an over-stuffed
    chair. He, too, was holding an empty glass.
         Didn't I have something to tell them? Dodd thought. He
    couldn't remember. The screen reclaimed his attention.
         The surreal, multi-colored sphere had made its way down to a
    virgin beach; early-morning sunlight streamed through large,
    mist-shrouded waves as they crashed ashore, and gulls whirled and
    soared in the lazy glowing sky . . . the music surged and ebbed
    with the scenery, never stopping and never repeating itself. Dodd
    raised his wineglass to his mouth but nothing came out, it was
    already gone. He let his hand drop, forgetting the glass, watching
    as the sphere bounced higher up on the beach, rebounding off rocks
    and driftwood, hitting patches of sand and sending up clouds of
    slow-mo drifting particles.
         Suddenly he couldn't see the screen. His eyes struggled to
    focus on a dark silhouette inches from his face. "Hey," a voice
    said.
         "Danny?"
         "Yeah, you noticed. Been ringing for a while, man. Had to
    finally let myself in."
         Dodd glanced over at the time display. It was close to 2:00
    AM. "Jesus!" he exclaimed.
         "You're frying your brain watching that stuff."
         Dodd nodded. This was true. He stood and turned around to say
    something to Sheila, but she was still staring at the screen. Bob
    and Denise were oblivious, and so was Toby. They just stared at
    the screen. It seemed unreal.
         "Hello," he said to his guests. "Hello?"
         "Want me to get their attention?" Danny asked.
         "No." God no! "Let's go out to the garage."
         They went out the front door, then around to the side of the
    small apartment complex. There was a row of garage doors with
    brightly-lit numbers above them. Dodd led Danny over to one of
    them and unlocked the door with his voice. It opened with an
    electric whine, revealing an empty space with a few boxes in one
    corner.
         "No car?" Danny asked.
         "Haven't had one for years."
         "Damn. I was going to ask if I could barrow it."
         Dodd laughed, short and sharp.
         Two men and a woman Dodd had never met emerged from the
    bushes and hurried into the garage. Danny Marauder gave Dodd a hug
    and said, "Good night, and thank you." He followed his companions
    in and closed the garage door from the inside button, leaving Dodd
    alone outside. He looked up involuntarily and searched the sky for
    police drones, but without a pair of spotters he would never be
    able to see one --- at least not at night.
         He reentered his apartment and stood looking at his friends.
    For a moment he considered just going to bed and leaving them to
    themselves, but then he thought that Bob and Toby had to work just
    like he did. Maybe all he had to do is remind them of the fact.
    Dodd leaned over his stack of video components and hit the main
    power button. "Hey," he said in a loud voice, "it's after two in
    the morning!"
         His friend's expressions would have been funny had Dodd been
    in a better mood. They looked like they were in shock. Sheila
    looked angry.
         "Come on guys," Dodd pleaded, "let's ambulate. The theatre's
    closed."
         "I didn't realize it was so late," Bob Recent said. He
    yawned, and the yawn spread to his wife.
         Toby was the first one to stand up. He looked sheepish. "I
    had no intention of staying this late," he said. He was a
    naturalized Jamaican-American from when his country had become an
    American state, and his accent was still very prominent. "I am
    going to catch hell from my wife."
         Dodd shrugged. "I tried to get you guys outa here two hours
    ago."
         "You did?" Bob said.
         "Yeah, you were all on another planet." Dodd looked over at
    Sheila. She glared back at him. Uh-oh, he thought.
         Toby, Bob and Denise said their good-byes and exited
    gracefully, leaving Sheila behind in the apartment. As soon as the
    door was shut she said, "Are you throwing me out, too?"
         "You can stay if you want to go to sleep." Dodd pushed a
    button on the computer panel beside the door, starting the routine
    that would shut off the lights and silently take phone messages.
    There was a solid, loud clunk as the front door locked itself.
         "I want to watch Travels a little longer," Sheila said.
         "It's two in the morning."
         Sheila's expression softened. Now she was pouting. "Can't I
    watch it for just a little bit?"
         "Sheila, look! Even if I go to sleep right now, I'll only get
    three-and-a-half hours in before I have to get up and go to work!"
         "Please?"
         "I don't function well with only three-and-a-half hours
    sleep! Can't you understand that?"
         "Oh, come on --- please?" She made a big pout.
         Dodd tromped angrily over to the video components and turned
    them back on. He adjusted the volume and said, "Please don't turn
    this up." He walked out of the room and down the hall to his
    bedroom, closing the door behind him and falling into bed.
         Within minutes she had turned the volume up.
         Dodd was angry for a while, but then he relaxed as the music
    worked on him. It was nice, really. It was also haunting, seeming
    to spin through time from eternity, passing through him and on
    . . . it was sparking, pure. It brought images to mind of the
    rolling Travels sphere, flashing its colors as it bounced along a
    virgin beach, bouncing on and on, never slowing, never stopping,
    taking him into his dreams, becoming his dreams, displacing his
    dreams.








                                 2. MUTANT



         The setting sun was fat, red --- a globe of hell descending
    to the ocean.
         And he was staring at it.
         His eyes began to char and burn in his head.
         Saul exhaled sharply and forced himself to look away. The
    setting sun was real despite the effects of the drug. It was real
    and he shouldn't be staring at it. He held his left hand against
    his closed eyes and felt a distant sensation of pain. Colors swam
    under his eyelids, brightly glowing shapes and patterns, shifting
    and melting and forming new ones. His right hand held his drink;
    he took a sip and then blindly sat it down where he could find it
    again without having to open his eyes. Over the railing came the
    distant booming hiss of ocean waves crashing ashore --- the sound
    was altered by the Mataphin drug, giving him the distinct
    impression of someone whispering to him through a cardboard tube.
         Saul took several long, deep breaths, easing his muscles,
    relaxing and clearing his mind. The patterns became less random,
    the colors more subdued. In the center of his mind's eye he
    imagined a sphere, the Travels sphere, imagined it rolling along.
    As he relaxed the image solidified, became three-dimensional. He
    was entering dream-state, but with the aid of the Mataphin drug he
    was not losing consciousness.
         I'm almost there, he thought.
         Saul watched the ball rolling through iridescent red and
    black landscapes; through oddly symmetrical forests where the
    leaves shone like neon; through glassy, shimmering shores where
    all the rocks had perfectly flat tops where moisture collected in
    tiny, glowing beads. Perfect images, flawless movements as
    graceful as running water. I'm there, he thought. I'm there. He
    moved his hand in slow motion toward the recorder in his pocket,
    the input plugged right into the base of his skull. His finger
    touched the record button.
         There was a sudden scream, a sound as loud as an air-raid
    siren. Saul's body jerked and his eyes opened wide. He felt as if
    someone had hit him over the head with a chair. "Mirro!" he
    yelled. "Mirrrrooo!" No one answered him, and the baby kept
    crying.
         Trying to ignore the shrieks, Saul took a few deep breaths
    and closed his eyes, watching the visions. He tried to bring back
    the clarity, the flow and balance, but every time the mournful
    scream reached a crescendo his visions shattered like glass
    plates. He was never going to get any work done with the baby
    crying. Saul sat up, calling out his wife's name again. There was
    still no answer, so he stood up and walked through the hanging
    beads into the house, cringing at the shrieks, trying to keep his
    balance under the effects of the drug.
         "Oh, sweetheart," he muttered emptily. "Oh honey, what's
    wrong?" He stroked his daughter's flaccid skin, trying to calm
    her. She was 14 years old, weighted over 400 pounds and had the
    brain the size of a small lizard. A product of her mother's
    continued use of "Lottalove," the pheromone perfume she wore when
    she and Saul were first married.
         His daughter settled down and grinned at him, gurgling as he
    gently stroked her stomach. Her enormous round face wrinkled
    grotesquely with the grin, drool running down her cheek and
    mingling with tears. Her eyes and mouth were tiny, her hair fine
    and golden. Her arms and legs were very short. From the smell of
    her, she needed her diaper changed.
         "Oh god," Saul muttered, standing over her and trying to
    prepare himself for the task. Changing the diaper of a 400-pound
    perpetual baby was, for him, a half-hour job. As he was preparing
    the bedside hoist he heard the front door open and, hoping it was
    his wife, called out, "Is that you?"
         "Silly question," her voice came back. "Anyone would answer
    that 'yes.'"
         Saul frowned. "The baby was crying. Where were you?"
         "Seeing Vicky. Are you getting any work done?" She appeared
    in the doorway of their daughter's room, scantly clad and looking
    as if she'd been asleep. There was something different about her
    this evening, it took Saul a few minutes to figure out what it
    was. The tips of her golden hair had been dyed powder blue. "Oh,"
    she said, sniffing the air, "time for a change-change."
         "I was about to do it."
         "Oh, it takes you forever. Go on, get back to work."
         Saul turned and walked out of the room, brushing past her in
    the doorway. "Could you stay and keep her quiet, please?" he said
    as he walked down the hallway. "At least until I come down?"
         "Sorry honey," she said.
         "Yeah," he muttered, thinking: If you weren't so fucking
    sorry maybe we could stick this freak child of yours into a Home.
    Or better yet into one of those euthanasia centers. We could live
    like royalty on the money we spend keeping that thing alive.
         Saul stopped in mid-stride, standing in the long west-wing
    hall, horrified at his own thoughts. Is that me? he wondered. Is
    that really me? My god, it must be the drug. It must be. The
    Mataphin amplifies . . . it must be amplifying my resentment. I
    don't wish death for her, poor baby, it's not her fault she's like
    that.
         Saul made his way back to the oceanfront porch, taking deep
    breaths to clear his mind of the ugliness and depression. He
    settled himself into the couch and sipped his drink, closing his
    eyes, seeing the red of the sunset through his eyelids. It looked
    like fire. Raging red fire, sprays of molten rock, and through it
    rolled the sphere, the Travels sphere, and with it came relaxation
    and peace. The fire faded, other images came to mind, beautiful
    images luxurious and deep, the ball rolling and rebounding and
    Saul followed along behind it, watching closely, controlling its
    direction, forgetting about his mutant daughter and bisexual wife
    and his lost chance to have a true family. The sphere led the way.
    Soon he arrived to where he wanted to be, and he slid his hand up
    to the small recorder in his pocket, and pushed record.









                                3. TESTICLES



         Dodd was groggy and ill tempered when he left his apartment
    for work the next morning. When the house computer woke him at
    5:30 AM the television in the front room was still going, the
    24-hour Travels channel continuing its coverage of the rolling
    ball with no interruptions or commercial breaks. Sheila was asleep
    so there was no argument from her when he turned the TV off, but
    by the time he had showered, shaved, dressed and eaten breakfast
    she was awake again and the Travels channel was back on the
    screen.
         The anarchists in his garage were already gone, but he found
    a note of thanks spray-painted on one of the walls. "BEWARE THE
    ANTICHRIST AI" it read, luminous red words outlined in black. They
    had dug through his boxes of junk and taken a few cooking
    utensils. This made Dodd mad, not because he had cherished the old
    stained utensils --- far from it, they were junk --- but it was
    the way they had just taken it, they hadn't even thought about
    asking. And the spray paint! He was going to have to paint the
    whole wall to cover it, and he'd have to do it soon, too --- the
    apartment management was seldom understanding in this sort of
    thing. Dodd was sure that somewhere in his lease agreement was the
    clause "Letting anarchists sleep in your garage unit is terms for
    expulsion."
         Dodd joined the other pedestrians on the sidewalk, walking
    the six blocks down the street toward the subway terminal. Beware
    the antichrist AI. What in the hell was that supposed to mean?
    Either Danny Marauder had finally gone over the edge, or it was
    something the anarchists were into. There was no way of telling
    --- the anarchists seemed to be into everything. Like Dodd, many
    of them were veterans. That's where he met Danny --- they had
    served together in the South American War. Carrying guns powerful
    enough to blow up a jeep with a single round, never firing a shot,
    wading through cities of dead people whom wouldn't decay. It was
    graveyard duty. Dodd had been able to maintain his grasp on
    reality; he returned home to lead a normal life. But the others,
    the ones that ended up anarchists, they had lost their grip.
         His train hissed to a halt and Dodd boarded, packing himself
    in with a hundred other bodies, standing because all the seats
    were taken. The ride was uneventful, he endured it as usual by
    escaping into a trance-like state until an amplified voice
    announced his stop. "Cherokee. Cherokee Station." Dodd made his
    way to the door and waited for the train to stop. Beyond the
    yellowed windows of the subway car, the brick walls of the station
    blurred past and slowed, graffiti everywhere, layer upon layer.
         BEWARE THE ANTICHRIST AI!
         The doors opened and Dodd stepped out, walking involuntarily
    up to the painted letters, looking closely as if he would find
    meaning in the texture of the painted brick. Danny must have been
    here, he thought. Shaking his head, he turned and trudged up the
    escalator. The main gate of Honda Aerospace was seven blocks away.
         At Honda he presented his union card to a machine and was
    cleared through by a smirking, smoking, gruff-looking old lady in
    a guard's uniform. Beyond the gates, all across the sprawling
    plant, people and machines rushed to-and-fro in the early
    sunlight, impossibly busy. Dodd made his way to the forklift
    station, checked in, bought a cup of freshly brewed coffee from
    the garage's machine, and slowly, carefully climbed aboard his
    semi-autonomic rig. The forklift came to life as he keyed in his
    employee number; on a screen behind the controls his morning
    assignment appeared. Dodd instructed the forklift to go --- it
    knew the way --- and then settled back in the comfortable black
    seat to enjoy his coffee and to try and wake up.
         When Dodd saw Bob Recent, Bob was just getting through the
    front gate; he was 35 minutes late for work. Dodd brought his rig
    to a stop and waved, but either Bob didn't see or he was ignoring
    Dodd; Bob walked right past without acknowledging. Is he mad at
    me? Dodd thought. Why, because I kicked him out of my apartment at
    two in the morning? No. He's probably mad because I didn't kick
    him out sooner.
         Dodd made his way over to the shipping warehouse and gently
    dropped off his sixth load of inertia-null units. He watched for a
    moment as two spidery robots began sorting them out, preparing
    them for inventory. Dodd disliked these two little robots --- he'd
    known the workers they replaced.
         On his way back to production/inspection for another load he
    saw Bob Recent again, this time standing with one of the big
    bosses near the administration office. Dodd sipped the last of his
    lukewarm coffee and watched them, wanting to see of Bob was being
    chewed out for being late. It would be a first. Bob was habitually
    late, but never seemed to get caught. It would serve him right if
    they fired his ass, Dodd thought. But then again, he really didn't
    want that to happen. A fully autonomic forklift, not a human
    driver, would replace Bob. Dodd didn't need any more "smart"
    forklifts running around reminding him that his job was more of a
    union-management compromise than something vital and necessary to
    the company.
         It didn't look like Bob was being fired. He and the big boss
    were shaking hands. They passed out of sight behind the edge of a
    building, leaving Dodd wondering, giving him a wholly unpleasant
    feeling in his bowels. Bob Recent? No. No way.
         A few hours later Dodd saw a little white cart racing toward
    him across the smooth concrete plain, the driver waving for him to
    stop. Dodd felt a headache coming on. It was Bob Recent.
         Dodd pulled to a stop as the cart came alongside him. Bob's
    smile was large, his eyes glassy. There was the flush of blood in
    his cheeks. "Hey, guess what happened."
         "You're management now."
         "Right! I'm section foreman. I'm this section's foreman."
         "You're my boss."
         "Yeah! Isn't it great? Me, section foreman!" He laughed like
    a kid.
         "Well, I'm happy for you Bob," Dodd lied.
         "Oh, boy, so am I! Wow. I can't wait to tell Denise about
    this, she'll be thrilled!"
         "I'm sure she will." Dodd felt obligated to hold out his
    hand. "Congratulations."
         Bob shook. "Thank you."
         "How did you manage this, anyway?"
         "Well, it's funny, it all started when I put in my
    resignation----"
         "Resignation?"
         "Oh, yeah. Well," Bob fidgeted, becoming self-conscious.
    "Well, you see, Denise quit her job----"
         "Denise quit her job?"
         "Yes."
         "I thought she loved that job!"
         "Well, she did, but it didn't leave her with a whole lot of
    free time. Denise wanted to stay home and watch Travels during the
    day."
         "Travels?"
         "Yeah, and well, I thought that, hell . . . if she did that,
    I didn't see why I shouldn't. So I discussed it with her and we
    decided that I should quit and go on compensation----"
         "Compensation? Bob, what kind of compensation?"
         "Progeny compensation," Bob said defensively.
         "I was afraid of that. Bob, I thought you wanted kids. You
    told me that's why you and Denise got married, why you stuck
    around here doing a robot's job."
         "Well----"
         "You told me that. Those were your words."
         "I know. My god, you make me feel like I'm a traitor or
    something. I'm not, Dodd. I just . . . I just want . . ."
         "What? You want them to cut off your balls?"
         Bob winced. "That's not what they do."
         "They might as well! They sterilize you, they edit your genes
    from the human race --- your goddamn heritage, Bob. Wiped out. And
    why? So you can sit around and watch television all day."
         "There's more to life than children."
         "Oh, yeah, well, it's a big part of life. Look, I just don't
    want you to do something you'll regret. I mean, it used to mean
    something to you, something to work for, a goal. How much progeny
    tax do you have saved up, Bob? Since before you even met Denise!
    Last time you talked about it, you had over five-hundred-thousand
    dollars. You're almost there! You're going to throw that all away
    on something else?"
         "I'm not throwing it away on anything," Bob said, angry now.
    "Sometimes people's priorities change, sometimes people acquire
    new goals instead of hanging onto old, outdated ones. Denise has
    decided she doesn't want a baby, Dodd. And that's her right ---
    it's her body. So if she doesn't want a baby, what difference does
    it make if I get a vasectomy? I can't start a family without my
    wife, can I?"
         "Oh, this was Denise's decision, then?"
         "No, it was both of ours!"
         "You can find another wife, Bob."
         Bob seemed to be speechless for a moment. "I can find other
    friends," he said, after finding his voice. "Dodd, I love my wife!
    She's more important to me than having a family. Like you said,
    it's a goal to have kids. Well I have a different goal. My goal is
    to be happy with my wife. That's my priority. Okay?"
         "Okay. I think it's stupid, but hey, it's your life."
         "That's right, goddamn you, it's my life."
         "Right."
         "And I don't care what you think."
         "Okay. Sure."
         "I mean it."
         "Hey, you're right, it's none of my business."
         They stared at each other angrily for a moment, then Bob
    said, "Because we're friends I'm going to let this drop. It
    doesn't matter why I was going to quit or what I was going to do,
    because I didn't. What does matter is that I'm your new foreman,
    and you'd better keep that in mind from now on."
         "I will."
         "Get back to work. Just because we're friends doesn't mean
    I'm going to let you get away with goofing off."
         Dodd stared at him in silent outrage. Bob, unable to look him
    in the eyes, turned and climbed into his little white cart. It
    lurched into motion, speeding off across the long, flat concrete,
    leaving Dodd cursing under his breath.









                              4. COME KNOCKIN'



         Toby Whitehouse lived in an old tan house that had somehow
    evaded the great, sweeping renovations, which occurred to whole
    neighborhoods after the South American War. The front yard was
    kept neatly mowed and the old house always seemed to have a fresh
    coat of paint, even the picket fence out front was painted white,
    keeping it cheery. The wood of the picket fence was probably older
    than Dodd; it sagged in places where rot had set in, but the five
    dozen coatings of paint held it together. On either side of the
    front door were gaudy stained glass windows that ran from ground
    level to the top of the doorframe. Dodd rang the doorbell and
    tried to peer through the glass, but he couldn't see a thing ---
    nothing but a multi-colored blur. The glass itself depicted
    gruesome pictures of Jesus Christ hanging from the cross, blood
    gushing from His hands and feet.
         The South American War had affected its veterans in different
    ways. Some had turned to anarchy, some had turned to drugs. Toby
    Whitehouse had turned to JTV, "Jesus Television." It was a mild
    and somewhat positive preoccupation, and Dodd had no problem with
    it. Whatever made Toby and his family happy was okay with him. He
    rang the doorbell again and listened for footsteps.
         There was the sound of wood sliding roughly against wood, and
    Dodd looked up to see Savina, Toby's 17 year old daughter, poking
    her head and shoulders through her bedroom window. "Dodd," she
    said in a loud whisper. "I've got to talk to you."
         Just then the front door opened and Toby was smiling and
    greeting him. "Dodd! Dodd, come in." His accent was heavier than
    usual today, which told Dodd he was excited about something. Dodd
    smiled up at Savina before walking inside the house with her
    father.
         "Today has been an incredible day," Dodd said.
         Toby closed the door behind him. "That it has." He was
    grinning. "Come on in. Sit down."
         "Thank you." Dodd followed him into the den and leaned
    against a wall, feeling too pent-up to sit down. "I'm troubled,
    Toby."
         Toby paused in front of him, looking at him as if he had no
    right to be troubled. "And what is it that is bothering you on
    this incredible day?"
         "Did you know that Bob was going to quit his job?"
         "No, that I didn't."
         "He went in and gave them his resignation, and they talked
    him out of it. They gave him a promotion --- now he's my boss."
         "You don't seem very happy about it."
         "I'm not. We got into a fight."
         "Oh, that's bad. Especially now that he's your boss."
         Dodd gave him a brief summery about the argument, to which
    Toby made grave faces but little comment. Something else was on
    his mind. Savina made an appearance downstairs and Dodd smiled at
    her; she made mysterious hand signals behind her dad's back and
    then put her finger to her lips, telling Dodd to be quiet about
    something. He winked at her, ruffling her thin braids as she came
    close. She laughed, dodging away.
         "So," Toby said, "have you heard the big news?"
         "What big news?"
         "About the Savior! The Second Coming."
         "No, I think I've missed this one."
         Toby's eyes were gleaming like a used robotics salesman. "You
    haven't heard, then?"
         "What? No, I haven't."
         "It's something fantastic," Toby said, exhilarated. "They
    announced it today on JTV. The Pope of the United Church was given
    a revelation. He's coming back!"
         "Back where? To the Americas?"
         "No, to Jerusalem!"
         "The Pope's going to Jerusalem?" Dodd didn't get it. What was
    the big deal?
         "No, not the Pope. The Savior!"
         "The savior?" Dodd still didn't get it. "Which savior?"
         Toby looked very disappointed in him. "You know, the Savior.
    The Son! Jesus Christ."
         Dodd thought that he was still missing something. "Jesus
    Christ?" he said, hoping for some vital clue.
         "Yes. Jesus Christ. The Savior."
         "Jesus Christ is going back to Jerusalem." The sentence was
    meaningless to him. He waited for Toby to correct him.
         "Yes. Is it not a spectacular revelation?"
         "Jesus Christ is going back to Jerusalem."
         "Yes!"
         "Jesus Christ is going back to Jerusalem. This is what you're
    trying to tell me?"
         "Yes! That's it!"
         Dodd ran the words through his head. As in an echo, the words
    BEWARE THE ANTICHRIST AI came scrolling back. "I don't get it," he
    told Toby, apologizing for his lack of understanding.
         Toby took him by the shoulders and gently shook him back and
    forth. "Are you in shock? I'm telling you in the simplest words I
    know."
         Dodd stared deep into his friend's eyes. In the background he
    could hear Savina laughing. Suddenly it dawned on him that Toby
    meant the actual words that he said, "Jesus Christ is going back
    to Jerusalem." His mind tried to reject it again but there was no
    other explanation. "Wait a moment," he said to Toby, "you're
    telling me the Pope came on JTV and made this announcement?"
         "Yes!" Toby was grinning. "In eighteen days."
         "What were his exact words?"
         "This is what he said: Our Lord and Savior is returning to
    Earth in eighteen days. He's coming to Jerusalem."
         "The Pope made this announcement?"
         "Yes!"
         "In all seriousness?"
         "Yes!" Toby was grinning like a maniac, his white teeth
    shining in high contrast to his dark skin.
         Dodd's skin had gone pale. The United Church was a very
    serious organization, they were not into making shocking,
    sensationalist statements. "Do you have this statement on tape?"
         "No need, they've been repeating the tape of the Pope's
    announcement every five minutes." Toby led Dodd into the next room
    where his video system was on with the sound turned way down. Toby
    turned the volume up and they watched the tail end of a PTL Cola
    commercial; thin and genetically perfect Believers guzzling from
    bright cans with obvious sexual delight. The music was very up,
    very bouncy. Then a JTV announcer was grinning, and just as Toby
    claimed they were replaying the Pope's announcement. It was very
    calm and dignified, a news conference held in what had used to be
    the Catholic Vatican. The Pope was old and dressed in white with
    gold trimmings, and he was surrounded by rich reds and purples. In
    the background were other old men in tall hats who were peacefully
    smiling. "The Savior is returning to Earth. He will be in
    Jerusalem in eighteen days. Lets us pray . . ." There's a long
    session of chanting, most of it in Latin, and then a lot of
    praising of God. The clip ended, leaving Dodd breathless.
         "We're going to church tonight," Toby told him, catching him
    off guard. "It would cause me great pleasure if you would attend
    it with us."
         No convenient excuse came to mind --- indeed, Dodd's mind was
    blank. "I don't know, Toby."
         "You don't know!" Toby was very displeased.
         "I have to think this over."
         "What is there to think about. You come to church with us,
    you pray to God, maybe your soul will be saved."
         Wheels turned in his mind, thoughts that would only offend
    Dodd's old friend. "Sorry, Toby, I'm in shock. Pray for me if you
    want, but I don't think I want church tonight."
         "You pray for yourself," Toby said angrily.
         "Please, Toby. Not tonight."
         Toby searched his eyes. His expression softened, and he
    nodded. "If it is not right for you, it is not right. I will pray
    for you."
         "Thank you. I think I'll be going now."
         "Okay." Toby shrugged. He followed Dodd to the door and
    opened it for him, his daughter Savina trailing behind giving Dodd
    meaningful looks. He said goodbye and left, walking in a hurry.
         The United Church owned JTV, he thought. JTV is having a
    ratings slump. The church is losing money. So they have the Pope
    come on an announce something exciting to boost ratings.
         Dodd thought this through very carefully. It seemed to make
    sense, though the letdown at the end of the eighteen days was
    going to be a big risk for the church. He couldn't understand why
    the church would take that big a chance, unless they were about to
    sell the network. That's it, he thought --- boost the ratings,
    sell the network, say the Pope's vision was a little off, maybe he
    meant 18 years instead of days. People would be a little
    disillusioned, but they have to forgive their Pope. Meanwhile the
    church has made money and at the same time dumped a major
    obligation.
         That's got to be it, he thought. It had to be the
    explanation, or at least close --- because Dodd was positive the
    church couldn't be serious. The Savior returning? The Second
    Coming in eighteen days?
         He paused a block away from his apartment complex, gazing
    across the skyline at the late afternoon sunlight. All the
    buildings glinted, little sparkles reflecting off of ten-million
    windows. He bit his lower lip at a frightening thought that he
    could not dismiss: What if the Savior was coming back? Dodd
    lowered his head, looking at the sidewalk, eyeing the motion of a
    beetle which happened to be crawling a few inches from his feet.
         During his childhood, back before the collapse of '26 and the
    wars that followed, Dodd had been forced to memorize the Bible by
    a wire-haired old man with bad breath who screamed at him and
    several other children every Sunday for six years. Jesus Christ
    was coming back, the man had insisted. He was coming back in fire
    and glory, yes, yes indeed, He was due to return, but at the end
    of the world.
         The End Of The World.
         Of course this was from the old Bible, the King James
    Edition, which according to the United Church was "grossly
    distorted and altered to serve the purposes of man." They made the
    same claims about every other edition predating their own "new
    translation" which came about after the collapse, after the United
    Church had swallowed up Christian Life, the Southern Baptists, the
    Mormons, and others . . . even the Catholics.
         The End Of The World. It certainly seemed to Dodd that the
    world was on the brink of chaos, that reality was growing feeble
    and order was disappearing. What was true one day was wrong the
    next. The idea of something being permanent was forgotten. There
    was always New Advances. And in his head the images of the war,
    the terrible silence, the endless marching through craters
    littered with dead women and children, all with their arms around
    each other, around their poor dead animals, dogs and chickens,
    blackened, bloating, eyes white and featureless like hard-boiled
    eggs. No rot, no stink. Perfectly sterile.
         Dodd found himself wanting to believe Jesus Christ was coming
    back to save him, he wanted desperately to believe. He couldn't,
    though. He just couldn't find it in himself. He couldn't trust
    JTV, because it was big business and this was a big event, and all
    he could see was the money they were going to make because of all
    the people who wanted so desperately to believe.
         And yet, Dodd couldn't believe the United Church would risk
    the anger of a world of betrayed believers.
         The beetle at his feet crawled down a crack, disappearing
    from sight. Dodd put his hands into his pockets and continued on
    his way, walking down the block to his apartment complex, a small,
    cheap dwelling compared to the massive corporate-housing complexes
    looming to the north, south and west. He passed the row of
    garages, guiltily thought about the graffiti painted inside his
    own, and walked up to his front door. "Open please," he told it.
    Recognizing his voice, it obeyed.
         The television was silent. Dodd was amazed. He wondered where
    Sheila had gone, and walking down to the bedroom he was tickled to
    find her taking a nap in his bed. He stood over her in the dim
    light that filtered through the electric shades, studying her
    prone, nude figure sprawled across the unmade sheets. Her bright
    red hair spilled across her shoulders and back, messy and
    unwashed. Seeing her like this made Dodd feel better, and he bent
    over and gave her a gentle kiss on the small of her back. Her
    shoulder blades twitched, and after a moment she raised her head,
    turning and looking over her shoulder. Seeing him she smiled and
    rolled over on her back, splaying her legs. She took a hold of his
    arm and pulled him insistently down.









                                5. EXPECTING



         Savina watched Dodd walking away from the house, her smooth
    face set into a frustrated expression. She needed to talk to him
    and her father had scared him away. Her father also forbade her to
    leave the house because they were going to church that night, so
    she couldn't go chasing after him.
         "What's wrong, child?" her father asked her.
         "Nothing," she replied.
         Behind both of them the television showed one of the JTV
    choirs that the Church was so proud of, a gathering of
    perfect-faced men and women singing with all the enthusiasm their
    hearts and lungs could muster. ". . . blood runs so red to my
    face," they sang, ". . . I am awash in shame . . . when the Savior
    arrived . . . I had not yet been saved . . ." Savina wanted to
    gag.
         Her father spontaneously hugged her, kissing her hair.
    Religious things always made him so emotional. "I love you,
    child," he said.
         "I love you too, Daddy." She hugged him back, and something
    flashed in her mind in the mutual squeeze. An idea. "Can I invite
    a friend along to church tonight?"
         "What friend is this?" her father asked.
         "A girl from one of my classes." Savina thought frantically.
    "Her name is Lamissa."
         "She isn't going to church with her own family now?"
         "Her family are atheists --- I'm trying to convert her."
         "Ah, now!" He seemed very pleased.
         Here's the trick, Savina thought. "They don't have a phone. I
    have to go over to her house to ask her to come."
         "No phone, child? What kind of family has no phone?" His
    voice was suspicious.
         "They're anti-techs. Back-to-the-trees people, but Lamissa's
    not like that --- she believes in God, and she really needs
    guidance."
         "Where does Lamissa live?"
         "Not far, between here and Dodd's."
         Her father seemed to deliberate. "Okay, child. But you be
    back before we go to church --- we are not going to wait around.
    If you make us late for church you'll be paying for it later." He
    pronounced it "lay-tah," stretching the word out for emphasis.
         "It won't take long, Daddy," she promised. She gave him a
    kiss, and smiled. "Bye!"
         "Remember what I said."
         "I will!" She was already on her way to the door.
         "Bye bye now," he said, "and good luck with Lamissa's
    parents."
         "Thanks!" She opened the door, then dashed outside. In
    reality there was a Lamissa in one of her classes but Savina
    hardly knew her. She certainly had no intention of inviting the
    girl to church. When she got back from Dodd's she would simply
    tell her father that Lamissa's parents wouldn't let their daughter
    go.
         She trotted across the front walk and down to the sidewalk,
    following Dodd's footsteps. He was nowhere in sight --- he had
    quite a lead on her --- and she wanted to catch him before he got
    home and Sheila got her hands on him. With Sheila around he
    wouldn't talk to her.
         Savina remembered the days when Dodd had been living with
    Leslie. She thought of the time as "BS," "Before Sheila" --- a
    happy time of warmth and excitement and freedom. Her parents used
    to let Dodd and Leslie baby-sit her, and they had taken her to the
    coast, to the mountains, out skiing; they were some of the
    happiest memories she had. Dodd and Leslie were so easy to talk
    to, she kept no secrets from them, and felt free to ask any
    questions she liked. They were open, honest. Savina had learned a
    lot about sex. It was no big deal. She and Dodd and Leslie had
    grown to be very close friends, and then Leslie got transferred to
    a new job and she left. She just left. Dodd had said it was okay,
    that Leslie had to leave because of her career and he had to stay
    because of his job, and that was life. He tried to hide it, but
    Savina could tell his heart was broken. Savina was fifteen at the
    time, and had an enormous crush on him. She would have done
    anything to make him feel better.
         That's when Sheila came into the picture. Sheila was the
    woman in the apartment upstairs, the woman who'd been watching
    Dodd through the window and panting over him in the hall. She'd
    gotten to him when he was vulnerable and used sex to keep him.
    Savina thought she was a slut. Even her parents thought the woman
    was a slut, and had abruptly stopped using Dodd as a baby sitter.
         That hurt Savina, and made her dislike Sheila even more. Dodd
    was her friend, the only person she had left that she could open
    up to, and the only person that could give her advice that was
    worth anything. The only one that supported her dreams. Savina
    needed him now more than ever.
         She reached his apartment without seeing him. Damn it, she
    thought. Reaching out an index finger, she touched the burnished
    metal beside the blue-gray door and stood nervously waiting. After
    a minute she touched the button again.
         No answer. Savina began to wonder if Dodd hadn't come
    straight home, if he'd stopped somewhere else. She touched the
    button again, standing on one foot then the other. She was
    beginning to feel a little foolish, just standing there. Where
    else could he be? she wondered. He occasionally went to a bar
    about seven blocks away, but that wouldn't do her any good ---
    they wouldn't let her in.
         After ringing the bell again and waiting another minute,
    Savina walked with crossed arms around to Dodd's bedroom window
    and peered through the shades. At first she couldn't see anything
    --- there was only a small slit she could see through --- but in
    the dimness beyond she could make out the bed, and figures on the
    bed . . . pale, moving . . . and Savina ducked and moved away from
    the window, her heart hammering and face flushed. She felt guilty
    and frustrated. Sheila! She hated Sheila. The slut had firmly
    wedged herself in between her and Dodd, cutting them off
    completely. What could Dodd possibly see in her?
         Savina strode away, face burning, arms crossed. Her hopes
    were crushed --- she couldn't talk to Dodd and it was all Sheila's
    fault. She walked in the direction of the neighborhood subway
    station, heading reluctantly to her boyfriend's house. Her
    boyfriend by all rights should be the first to know, but Savina
    would have felt more secure if she'd talked to Dodd first.
         At the entrance to the subway station Savina halted, watching
    the people emerge, staring at the old men, the women, the kids,
    the occasional raggedly-dressed anarchist . . . She realized she
    had no idea of what to say to Greg. She was so angry she could
    slap his face, and at the same time she wanted to hug and kiss him
    until the fear was washed away. What am I going to say? she
    thought. How am I going to break the news? It was so hard to talk
    to him.
         Abruptly she decided not to.
         Her shoulders slumped, her head bent down, she turned and
    walked back to her parent's house.









                               6. JESUS THING



         Saul Kalman retrieved an urgent message on his desk terminal
    --- a new account had been set up for a Russian company: "Jacovik
    Premium Imported Vodka." It was to be advertised subliminally on
    the Travels network, and it was part of Saul's job to supervise
    the design of the subliminal message.
         "Shit," he muttered to himself as he stared at the screen. He
    was feeling more than a little dizzy. Saul didn't approve of
    advertising on Travels; the company didn't need it, subscriber
    fees paid for the channel. Ratings were phenomenally high for the
    network and still growing; Travels had a continuous 37% to 51%
    share of the total television audience. Telcron Systems Inc., the
    company that produced Travels, was upsetting the balance of the
    entire video industry, dominating the other networks --- and
    Telcron was yielding, at last, to advertisers clamoring to use the
    Travels medium, and to Telcron stockholders who wanted the
    advertising for the tripled income. Commercials were now present
    on Travels, but they did not interrupt the program --- the program
    must remain endless, uninterrupted --- so advertisers were paying
    multi-millions to be part of the background, the commercials
    entirely subliminal. Also, there was a maximum limit of commercial
    accounts accepted by Telcron; advertisers fought and backstabbed
    each other to acquire accounts. Saul wondered uneasily about the
    antics "Jacovik Vodka" had gone through to secure this new
    account.
         "Shit," he said again. It was hard for him to concentrate on
    the problem, it was too early in the morning. He gave up trying,
    deciding to drop the whole matter in the lap of Vicky Zcavowitz,
    his assistant creative engineer. Pushing a button on his terminal,
    he sent the memo and information down to her, and paused for a
    moment to add a few suggestions to help her along. Maybe, he
    thought, we could stick it on a billboard in the background. Hell,
    have the ball bounce off the billboard, slo-mo, in an erotic and
    suggestive way.
         He shook his head. That was too obvious. Hell, he thought,
    let her think about it. With a decisive motion he slammed the send
    button and his notes joined the rest of the problem down in
    Vicky's terminal, waiting for her just as it had been waiting for
    him. He looked at the time readout on the screen. Hmmmm. She would
    be calling in about 5 minutes madder than hell, and he was going
    to have to placate her, calm her down --- show confidence in her
    and promise a raise or something, then pray she does a good job or
    it would be his neck. But dammit, he thought, I don't have time
    for this! Saul had to be out in the field in an hour, and he
    should be taking his morning dose or Mataphin about now. If they
    wanted advertising, they should have a whole department to take
    care of it --- not just him.
         The terminal in front of him buzzed, a call came in. The
    point of origin was the main 54th floor terminal, probably Lisa
    Schemandle. If it was Lisa, Saul knew what it would be about ---
    something related to the Second Coming stunt that JTV was pulling.
    Saul reached over and picked up his Mataphin dispenser, deciding
    to take the creativity enhancer immediately, to get it into his
    system before having to deal with this money-head bitch.
         Her face blinked onto the screen, off-center. It was ruddy
    and lined, her eyebrows clenched, her expression dour. "Saul," she
    said.
         "Good morning, Lisa."
         "We've got to do something about this Jesus thing. We've got
    to neutralize it somehow."
         "Why?" Saul said.
         "Well Saul, use your goddamn mind! They're trying to get
    their ratings back! If they pull this off, the bottom will drop
    out --- isn't that obvious to you? We've got to take steps to
    neutralize it!"
         "You really think they have a chance?"
         "Saul, you know who owns JTV, right? The United Church! The
    United Church leases satellite time from the Swiss National Trust,
    which has large holdings in the U.S. Food & Materials Corporation.
    The USFMC is owned by the United States Government. The United
    Church has special rates on their satellite time because they own
    a large chunk of Swiss Trust, and the USFMC donates a hell of a
    lot of money to the United Church. Do you get the picture, Saul?
    Do I have to spell it out any more? We're dealing with a giant, a
    megacorp! We can't take any chances."
         Saul didn't appreciate this downward tone of her's; he glared
    at her, frowning. "Telcron is owned by Mitsubishi."
         "That's not the point!"
         "Well then what is the point? We're a megacorp too. Why
    should we panic? I mean, it's not like we can stage a
    counter-spectacular. We can't change the format, Travels is
    Travels. People----"
         "Shut up for a second and listen to me. Saul, my own personal
    neck is on the cutting block here. I have no idea what to do
    either, but something must be done --- something. You and I can
    come up with something if we think. Muck with the AHL intensity,
    increase the pace, anything! We've got to. Those bastards have
    pulled a fast one, Saul. This is serious. But they're dough-heads,
    fucking god-freaks --- not professionals like us, not artists like
    you. Consult with your expert systems, your staff, and phone me
    after you get back from the field. Around six o'clock." She cut
    the connection, leaving Saul with sweating palms. He took another
    Mataphin tab without realizing he'd already had his morning dosage
    and shuffled out of his office, escaping down the elevator.
         The fresh morning air did nothing to cheer him, and he felt
    rotten about what he had done to Vicky. He dreaded facing her.
    She's in the same goddamned position I'm in, he realized. I've put
    her there, out of panic, just like Lisa Schemandle panicked and
    put her job on my lap.
         The Mataphin began taking strong hold as he found himself a
    seat on the crew truck. He settled back, made himself comfortable,
    and tried to relax and think. The crew would be down in a few
    moments along with a fuming Vicky Zcavowitz, but for now, at
    least, he had peace.
         So, he thought. What to do?
         Well, the strength of Travels was its high Attention Holding
    Level; motion and music created by the human mind for the human
    mind, enhanced and reinforced to produce a strong mesmerizing
    effect. When Saul had first joined Telcron Systems the AHL was
    merely an afterthought, a study done by one of the Mitsubishi
    executives long since gone --- the study did nothing more than pin
    down what it was that made beta-test versions of Travels so
    pleasant to watch. Later this was seized upon, developed,
    artificially enhanced by teams of creative engineers of which Saul
    had been a key member. Now the AHL was more important than the
    program itself --- the "art" that had been Travels was relegated
    to the background. The AHL was Travels, and if there were an
    answer to the present problem, it had to lie in the AHL.
         That was the solution.
         If our viewers are already in heaven, Saul thought, what
    would they need a savior for? The AHL needs to be intensified. But
    that means a hell of a lot of work, the entire production system
    would have to be re-geared.
         Shit, he thought. Why do it? Why panic and over-react? Why
    couldn't we just ride it out? JTV's stunt, after all, is risky ---
    it could backfire altogether, eliminate the need for a Travels
    response. And our "response", our compensation for their stunt,
    could backfire as well. The Politico Network would end up with all
    the ratings.
         Nevertheless Saul had to do it, it was now his job. As he sat
    there thinking about all his problems, made colorful and even
    larger by the oncoming influence of Mataphin, Vicky arrived to
    complicate everything and make Saul even more miserable.









                                7. FELLATIO



    The screen on Dodd's bedroom telephone read:

                           MESSAGES: 00 MAIL: 01

    Someone had sent him mail. Probably junk mail, he thought as he
    retrieved it to the screen. The ancient art of "SPAM". As the
    message flashed up in little glowing letters Dodd wondered if it
    was junk mail or if it was truly directed at him:

              TO: Dodd Corely   DATE: 6/1/42
                 FROM: friends  SUBJECT: your soul

                   THESE are the LAST DAYS.
                  BEWARE the ANTICHRIST AI!
       Don't be fooled by the LIAR who mixes Truth with
                          his LIES.
                   <<< BELIEVE NOTHING! >>>
          Believe nothing and nothing will fool you.
         Trust only what you can reach out and touch!
                       GUARD your SOUL!
         BELIEVE NOTHING! BEWARE THE ANTICHRIST AI!

         Digital graffiti junk mail. Dodd could do it himself, if he
    had the right program and was willing to pay the phone bill. He
    erased the message, wishing he had an Artificial Intelligence
    program of his own to shield him from such things.
         These are the last days.
         Oh goddamnit, he told himself. Stop it.
         These are the last days. Beware the antichrist AI. He'd been
    reading in his old King James bible again, confirming what he
    remembered from his childhood studies: when Christ returned he
    would return at the end of the world. He had found several
    references to it, a phrase that Christ had apparently been fond
    of: ". . . I am the Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end,
    the first and the last." "I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and
    the ending, saith the Lord, which is, and which was, and which is
    to come, the Almighty."
         Of course nothing like this appeared in the United Church
    version. They seemed to have mixed in a little Eastern religion,
    changing it around so that when the Savior returns it is a time of
    joy and new beginnings. The part about Armageddon was reduced to a
    time of "struggle and change" but war had been eliminated
    altogether. The term "Armageddon" wasn't even used.
         Or was it? Dodd punched keys on his phone terminal, calling
    up a copy of the United Church Bible. "Search for references of
    Armageddon," he told it. The reply came on the screen, little
    words between two asterisks:
         * Not Found *
         "Search for any occurrence of the word Armageddon," he asked.
         * Not Found *
         Dodd shook his head in wonder. Armageddon was missing. He
    asked it for references to the Rapture, and it retrieved passages
    where people were "in rapture" at the voice of the Savior, but
    never were they "raptured", the true believers taken away to
    heaven before Armageddon, spared the pain and agony of the Trials
    and Tribulations. People who were taken away during "the Rapture"
    simply disappeared off the face of the Earth.
         * Not Found *
         Jesus is the beginning and the end, Dodd thought. If Jesus
    shows up, it will be the end. The finish.
         Two weeks from now.
         BEWARE THE ANTICHRIST AI! The slogan kept popping into his
    head. THESE are the LAST DAYS.
         It was depressing to Dodd, because he couldn't help but feel
    that these were the last days. The world was going to hell. Robots
    and AIs were taking all the jobs. The poor and the disturbed were
    disappearing into euthanasia centers. Child taxation was making it
    harder and harder to have children, unless one happened to qualify
    for the "special circumstance clause" --- which Dodd didn't.
    People were selling their progeny rights. Things changed so fast
    that one was apt to wander around in confusion from one week to
    the next, forever trying to get used to their surroundings. Thirty
    years ago interstellar colonies were still an impractical dream,
    and now they were reality --- normal everyday people, Dodd's
    neighbors, were packing up and leaving. Going to the new frontier,
    billions upon billions of miles away. It was incredible. Dodd
    couldn't see how this could keep up, this constant change. It was
    like society was stretching reality to its limits, and like
    anything --- it was a universal law --- if you stretched something
    too far by God it was going to break.
         Maybe Jesus is coming, he thought.
         The phone began ringing, startling him, and he exited the UC
    Bible. He touched the key to accept video and picked up the
    handset. He recognized the lurid, painted Oriental face of Mr.
    Chang, the apartment manager, as it appeared on the screen. "Is
    Sheila Xonos there, Mr. Corely?" he asked in his pleasant, patient
    voice.
         "Yes. Just a minute."
         "Thank you."
         Dodd touched the HOLD key and padded down the hall into the
    living room, stood in front of the television and faced Sheila.
    "Hey," he said. "Telephone."
         She stared at his legs, mouth slack, eyes half-open. She
    looked like she was either dead or dying. "Hey," he said, waving
    his hand in front of her face. "Sheila. Sheila! Sheila!"
         Sheila jumped, startled, covering her bare breasts with her
    arms. "What?" she said, irritation in her voice.
         "The manager wants to talk to you."
         "What manager?"
         "The apartment manager."
         "Is he here?" Sheila looked around the room.
         Dodd sighed, shaking his head. He pointed toward the kitchen.
    "On the phone."
         "Oh." Sheila snatched a robe that had been sitting in a heap
    on the floor. Dodd went back into the bedroom as she answered the
    call, but after a few minutes she appeared in the doorway. "Hi,"
    she said.
         Dodd was lying on his bed with the old King James. He threw
    it aside and said, "What?"
         "The rent on my apartment is due."
         Dodd nodded, accepting the inevitable. "I'll pick it up."
         "You still want me to keep it?"
         Dodd stared at her with a blank expression. Then his eyes lit
    up. "What, are you saying you want to move in with me?"
         "I'm more or less moved in now."
         "You said you wanted to keep your place."
         She shrugged, the loose robe sliding down to expose one of
    her smooth shoulders. "It doesn't matter. I mean, you're the one
    paying for it."
         True, Dodd thought. It would save money to get rid of her
    apartment . . . and if she were officially moved in, living with
    him, they would be that one step closer to a marriage contract,
    and----
         With Sheila? he thought. Would I want to have a child with
    her? Would she want to have one?
         She frowned at his odd expression. "What?" she said. "Look,
    it's okay, I don't have to move in. I mean----"
         "You can move in," Dodd said. "I mean, why not? Why not make
    it official? Besides, we can use that money we're paying out for
    your apartment for something else."
         "Really?" She smiled, walking gracefully from the door to the
    bed, sitting down next to him. "For what?"
         "I don't know. We'll see."
         "We will?"
         "Yes." Dodd was smiling at her now, fingering the side of her
    thigh. He drew spirals inward, then outward. "I've got some money
    saved up, too. We can do something special with it."
         "A trip?"
         Dodd pursed his lips, tilting his head to one side. "Maybe. A
    trip would be nice, but we can take a trip anytime. I was thinking
    of something really special."
         "Like what?"
         The spirals Dodd had been drawing on her thigh now turned to
    figure eights, working their way, coaxing, up across her pelvis
    and inside her robe. He was leaning against her, his head almost
    touching her's; she was motionless, waiting. "How would you feel
    if," he started, then hesitated. He was staring into her eyes, and
    she stared back, unblinking.
         "What?" she said.
         "How would you feel if I suggested that we both stop taking
    our birth control pills?"
         She continued staring at him for a long moment, unmoving,
    then at last she looked down and leaned her head against his.
    "You . . . you want a baby?"
         "You know I do."
         "I didn't know you were that serious about me."
         "How do you feel about it?" Dodd listened very carefully for
    her answer.
         "I've thought about it," she said after a long pause. Her
    voice was distant, without inflection; it sounded almost dead. It
    rang hollow. Dodd felt as though he hadn't heard it; he wanted her
    to say it again, louder, so he could guess what she was thinking.
         She leaned forward and there was a warm, wet feeling at his
    neck --- she had started kissing him, brought her hands up to
    caress his chest. Her fingers trembled, but he had no idea why ---
    was it out of emotion, or nervousness? Was she saying yes with
    kisses, or avoiding an answer? She tongued his ear, growing more
    passionate, then pulled back, eyes closed, her nose touching his.
    He kissed her hesitantly, but as soon as their lips touched she
    was fervid, pushing him backwards and landing on top of him, her
    tongue twirling and probing in time with her entire body,
    squirming, grasping, rubbing.
         She worked her way down his neck, kissing and licking, then
    down his exposed chest, his nipples, down across his stomach, and
    then her strong, short fingers were ripping at the cohesive tabs
    of his pants. He stared at the ceiling, trying to think, trying to
    interpret . . . lips and tongue touched his penis and it was all
    ripped away, his mind was gone. He closed his eyes and let go.
    Travels music drifted down the hall, reeling, racing. Sheila made
    slurping sounds. Dodd began grasping desperately at the bed.
         It was like the process of thought reduced to a laser
    tracking a spiral on a disk, and during sex there is no spiral,
    the disk is blank, so the laser searches for something to track
    and quickly moves from one side to another without finding
    anything. When it reaches the end there is an explosion, and the
    power goes off.
         Dodd felt the explosion. Orgasm is a time of non-existence,
    like dying or meeting God, or falling asleep in a sailboat in a
    calm sunlit ocean, nowhere to go, nothing to hit, wander where you
    will. You hear waves, you hear gulls, there is an occasional cool
    breeze over your warm skin. A pillow beneath your head. No
    worries.
         Dodd once had a lover named Leslie whom he'd wanted to marry,
    who wanted children. She and Dodd saw things from the same point
    of view. It was like a female version of himself, and they were so
    natural together, so comfortable. He never told her he wanted to
    marry her, he never suggested they have a child --- Dodd had no
    idea why, he just didn't. She accepted a once-in-a-lifetime job
    offer and went away, and now she was married to some
    super-terranean that took her on cruises through the rings of
    Saturn and was wealthy beyond belief. Intelligence on her part,
    stupidity on his. She would have stayed if he had asked her too,
    but she would have been stuck with him and his normal little life.
    He knew all along she was destined for more than that, and let her
    go. It was the hardest thing he had ever done.
         I'm normal because of her. She helped me to make sense of the
    war, of the hell we toured. That was your part in my life, the
    good deed you did for me. I'll always love you for that.
         Salt breezes, sea gulls. The sails made small rippling-cloth
    sounds. Leslie was smiling at him. "I love you as much as you love
    me," she told him. "I would have been just as happy in your
    ordinary little life. I would have loved to give birth to your
    children."
         "I would have felt guilty."
         "There's no reason too."
         "You've already given me a life. I was suicide bound when you
    came to me. I was thinking of the euthanasia center."
         "I know. The war was hard."
         Images of the war drifted by like clouds. Nothing in his life
    had prepared him for the sight of a dead rain forest, the
    skeletons of immense trees and vines with all the leaves
    blackened, dead animals covering the ground like a carpet, birds
    and lizards and small frogs, snakes and pigs, billions of insects
    like the bottom of a bug zapper. In a clearing would stand the
    flimsiest little huts and shacks, made from old plywood and grass
    and branches; the bombs didn't even knock them down. Blackened
    people bloating with internal gasses, but no decomposition. Killed
    by intense radiation that was gone four hours later, but all
    protein in the area was destroyed, there wasn't even any bacteria
    left to break things down. No nutrients in the soil. The only life
    in the area was what Dodd and the other troops brought with them.
         They dug holes and pushed bodies into them with Stiletto
    tanks fitted with bulldozer blades, covering the graves and paving
    them over for an airstrip, a copter pad, a basketball court. He
    carried an immense weapon that he fired occasionally at a tree
    trunk, just to watch the trunk explode and the tree fall over.
    There was nothing else to shoot at. All the death-dealing blows
    were delivered from orbit. A bomb here, a scattering of beams over
    there. Backward 20th century enemies with 21st century weapons.
    Their families, their children. Little babies, shielded by their
    mothers, not a scratch on them but stiff and dead in their ragged
    little diapers. Some of the men in Dodd's unit showed nothing;
    others shot themselves. Dodd did a lot of crying and cursing, and
    was labeled a discipline problem. One of the officers criticized
    him constantly, and Dodd swung at him with a shovel, but missed.
    The officer snatched the shovel away and swung it back----
         Dodd sat up suddenly, startling Sheila. He was sweating. "How
    long have I been asleep?" he asked.
         "About a half-hour."
         "What time is it?"
         "Five-thirty," said the clock beside the bed.
         "I've got to take a shower," he said, feeling dirty. Dodd
    rolled off the bed and onto his feet, heading for the bathroom. In
    the shower he punched the recall for his favorite temperature and
    let the water spray over him, running down his arms and legs,
    intimate cleansing water massaging his muscles and scalp. It
    rinsed the sweat away, helped him to relax. There were two things
    he hated dreaming about, and he'd had both in the same dream.
         After exiting and drying himself, Dodd slipped on a fresh set
    of California clothes, soft blue pants with a white stripe down
    the leg and a green and blue splotched shirt, and walked down the
    hall to find Sheila on the couch in front of the television. This
    annoyed him but he forced himself not to care, and standing in
    view of the screen found that Travels was, for some reason,
    particularly interesting this evening. He went into the kitchen,
    had the robot arms prepare some snack sandwiches, and he joined
    Sheila with a plate and two glasses of wine. The sphere was there,
    as always --- planet-like, rolling its way through a sensuous and
    surrealistically lit crest of a sand dune.
         The thick, rich scenery flowed past in slow motion, the ball
    rolling on endlessly, the only thing on the screen one could
    really see. Everything else was taken in with peripheral vision.
    The winding, reeling music worked on Dodd, soothing him, carrying
    him along with the scenery, along with the rolling multi-colored
    sphere. Sometimes it did not seem like it was moving forward but
    merely spinning as the world moved beneath it. It was like a gear
    connected to a giant motor which spun the Earth around --- then it
    would bounce through rocks, with the music rebounding on each
    collision, and suddenly the music swelled --- tingling and
    spiraling --- as the ball dropped straight over a bluff, twirling
    slowly in mid-air, the sky full of red and purple sunset clouds.
    Dodd felt breathless, close to vertigo; a chill ran up and down
    his spine as the music reached a climax and the sphere, for a
    tantalizing split second, eclipsed perfectly the swollen red sun.
    It hit the ground, touched down on surf-wet sand and continued a
    fast-paced bouncing roll down the beach parallel to the shore. The
    viewpoint changed, swinging around behind the sphere, following
    it, and ahead in the distance Dodd saw a pier and the seafront
    buildings of a quaint little town. The pier caught his attention,
    tore it away from the ball. He recognized this place. He grew up
    there.
         "That's Avilla Beach!" he exclaimed out loud.
         "What?"
         "That's Avilla Beach," he said again. "I had no idea they
    were making this down there."
         "Oh." Sheila's attention slipped away.
         Dodd looked down at the plate of sandwiches, intent on taking
    a bite, but the plate was empty. So was his wineglass. He looked
    at a clock and found almost three hours had gone by since he'd sat
    down. This disgusted him, turned him off. He could see spending
    twenty minutes in front of the sphere, or maybe even an hour. But
    three----? No! It was stealing time from him, taking it away
    without neither his knowledge nor permission. "Damn it," he said
    angrily, and stood up.
         Sheila didn't notice.
         "Damn it," he said again, this time louder but with less
    anger.
         She seemed to hear him, but the television had too strong a
    hold on her. There was a stupid expression on her face, and
    watching her Dodd realized she had never answered his question
    about having children. Kisses and fellatio had distracted him, but
    he never received a definite yes or no. Unless, of course, the
    fellatio itself had been a "yes." Somehow he doubted this.
         He looked from her to the pulsing scenery on the screen then
    back. "Damn it," he said again, trying to get her attention.
         "What?" she said vaguely.
         "Let's go see some real scenery."
         "What?" Total incomprehension.
         "They're supposed to be landing a new bank at around sunset,
    maybe we can catch a glimpse of it."
         "What?"
         Dodd took her by her thin pale arm and pulled her up off the
    couch. "Come on."
         "Where are we going?"
         "To see Travels on a larger screen."
         "What? Really?" Her voice was still vague, stupid. He led her
    stumbling out of the room, out of the apartment, around to the
    stairs that lead up to the sun deck on the roof. When they stepped
    onto the sun deck there was still enough light in the sky to see a
    hulking square bulk surrounded by large construction fliers. It
    was about a mile and a half away, being lowered slowly into the
    skyline.
         "Here's the bigger screen," Dodd said. "There's Travels."
         "What?"
         "That's a new bank building."
         "Oh," she said, looking at it with blinking eyes. She
    appeared to be waking up. "It's so big," she said with a hint of
    wonder in her voice. "How can they hold it up there?"
         "It's light," Dodd told her. "It's a metal made from
    hydrogen, they build the whole thing in space."
         "Oh." She pulled close to him, hugging his left arm. The
    evening breeze was a little cool, and they were dressed for
    sunlight.
         "Have you made a decision yet?" he asked.
         "About what?"
         "About the question I asked and you never answered."
         Sheila became very quiet, her body going still. She didn't
    answer him.
         "Well? What are you going to do, leave me hanging?"
         "I need to think about it, Dodd."
         "What's there to think about? Either you want to, or you
    don't. If you want to, say you want to. If you don't, say you
    don't."
         "You're not being fair."
         "Fair?"
         "You shouldn't ask this, I mean, like such an ultimatum. I
    have to think about it."
         "Sheila, I have to know." I have to know if I'm wasting my
    time with you. Fortunately Dodd was able to shut his mouth before
    the whole statement came out.
         "I can't have time to think it over?"
         "If you have to think it over, then it's obvious you don't
    want to."
         "Well I don't, really."
         "Oh, well, there. What's there to think about, you have the
    answer right on your tongue."
         "I don't want to lose you."
         "I didn't expect you to be an unwilling mother. That's not
    what I want, either."
         "Well, Dodd, a baby is such a big responsibility, and it'll
    take years and years to save the money----"
         "I have the money already. I've been saving since after the
    war."
         The idea of him having all that money seemed to shock her.
    She looked upset, confused. They both stared off at the skyline in
    silence as the new skyscraper was slowly lowered among its
    neighbors. Spotlights lit glowing pointers of light that swung
    across the fading sunset, outlining the building. Dodd felt
    heartbroken, but at the same time he was a little relieved.









                              8. FAST FORWARD



         Bob Recent did not watch JTV, nor did he watch the Politico
    Network. He didn't watch any of the sickly, gasping, once-giant
    broadcast networks --- they were all hanging onto life by a few
    bare threads, depending entirely upon pornography to keep
    themselves afloat. Neither Bob nor his wife Denise had any
    interest in the local music-television stations filling the
    obsolete broadcast frequencies known as VHF and UHF. They rarely
    if ever watched theatre disks even though their system was capable
    of playing them. Bob and Denise had only one real video interest,
    and that interest absorbed them. The JTV announcement didn't have
    any effect on them at all. They were unaware of the news until the
    announcement was days old.
         One of Denise's old friends called to talk to her about the
    Second Coming, excited to the point of hysterics, asking Denise
    where she and her husband would be on that fantastic day. "I don't
    know. Home probably," Denise had told her. When she and her friend
    had hung up she wordlessly resumed her place beside her husband in
    front of the television, baffled by the whole conversation. It
    occurred to her that she hadn't understood most of what her friend
    had said.
         "What was all that about?" her husband asked, his voice a
    monotone.
         ". . . I don't know," she replied, watching as the Travels
    sphere tumbled hectically down a grassy knoll, ricocheting between
    the trunks of large oak trees. "I've forgotten."
         "I overheard something about 'the Savior.'"
         "Mm-hmm. Something like that." Denise let out a small sigh,
    trying to concentrate. What was it? Something about 'the Savior'
    coming back in two weeks. Something like that. She wondered
    vaguely if it was something that should be important to her. It
    was hard to think.
         The sphere had gone down a mountainside and was now heading
    for a ravine. Denise sat forward stiffly, her pulse racing, as the
    sphere went right over the edge of the ravine with her following.
    The angle of the view widened, trees rushing past in the
    background, and rocky cliff face, and swooping birds, and the ball
    was spinning and wavering from side to side as it fell. Dark and
    solid, rocks rushed up and the sphere hit, rebounding across a
    large waterfall, soaring through the mists, and was soon bouncing
    along beside a river as it raced the water downhill. Denise
    reached out and numbly picked up her drink from the coffee table.
    It was warm, the ice long since melted, but it was still good.
    Orange juice and Jacovik Premium Imported vodka, her favorite
    morning drink. It was called a, called a . . .
         A what?
         Denise couldn't remember, though she knew it was named after
    some sort of tool. It wasn't important. She sat the glass down,
    forgetting about it, watching as the sphere rolled down into the
    depths of a canyon littered with fallen logs; it bounced between
    them and over them, graceful, nimble, with endless momentum . . .
    pine and sage rushed past, flat mossy boulders and deep pools of
    blue water, an occasional bird flying along for a moment or two
    then zipping off. Denise closed her eyes, feeling warm and cozy,
    but when she opened them again she found a sharp pain in her neck
    and her right arm was tingling. She'd been sleeping in an odd
    position, and she was surprised to find herself on the couch and
    not in bed. Where was her husband? At work? Denise had no idea,
    she didn't know if this was one of his work days or not. She
    couldn't remember what day of the week it was. It didn't matter,
    though; all she knew or cared about at the moment was that she was
    very hungry. The Travels sphere was hurling down a narrow path
    through a yellow field of wheat, but Denise managed to tear
    herself away. She pulled her body upright and found her legs weak
    and her head spinning.
         In the kitchen she keyed instructions into the Master Chef
    and stood wearily against a wall while the insectile chrome arm
    pulled bread and sandwich makings out of the refrigerator. With
    quick, deft movements it built a ham and cheese sandwich, then
    pulled a half-empty bottle of Jacovik vodka out of the liquor
    cabinet and fixed her another drink. Denise wolfed down the
    sandwich, followed by the vodka and orange juice, and while the
    robot arm mixed a refill she walked stiffly to the bathroom.
         She peered at her reflection in the bathroom mirror with a
    dull sense of shock --- how long had it been since she'd last
    showered? How long had she been wearing these clothes? Her hair
    hung in oily strings, and crusted food matter clung to the skin
    around her mouth. With numb fingers Denise undid her clothing,
    letting them fall to the floor, and punched in a temperature
    setting for the shower water.
         After showering and changing, she picked up her fresh drink
    from the kitchen and sat down in front of the television, watching
    with excitement as the Travels sphere bounced off an old chunk of
    cement, rolled up a broken piece of wood, sailed through the air
    and ricocheted off the side of a colorful billboard.
         Her husband, Bob, shook her. "Ready for some dinner,
    darling?"
         Denise looked at him, wondering where he had been. "No, I
    just ate."
         "Are you sure you don't want something? I'm getting a
    sandwich."
         "Well . . ." Come to think of it, she was hungry. "Alright.
    Thank you, honey."
         Denise looked back at the television, watched the sphere roll
    across white sand with green, green trees in the background. She
    yawned and, looking down, was surprised to find a half-eaten
    sandwich in her limp hand. Bob was reclined beside her, head
    lolling, eyes closed. A raw rasping noise was coming from his
    throat. She shoved him, and his body jerked. "You're snoring!" she
    snapped as he blinked and looked around in confusion.
         "I'm sorry," he said, his voice small and boyish.
         Looking back at the screen, Denise bit down on the remainder
    of her sandwich and tasted nothing. Then a warm, strong hand had a
    hold on her shoulder, shaking her, and she opened her bleary eyes
    and looked up at her husband. "Baby, wake up," he said.
         "Hmmmm?"
         "I think you wet yourself."
         "Hmmmm?" But then she noticed the wet stickiness between her
    legs, and she groaned. "Not again," she muttered, getting stiffly
    to her feet. She realized she was starving.
         "I'll get the automaid up here, darling. You go change."
         "Thank you." Denise waddled into the bathroom and stripped
    off her clothes. In the bathroom she wiped her legs and crotch
    with a warm, damp washcloth, then put on a clean pair of
    disposable panties. Over that she slipped on a silky black
    see-through robe. Why anything else? she thought. I'm not planning
    on going anywhere today.
         Back in the living room there was a six-wheeled multi-limbed
    metal creature busily dry-cleaning the couch. Denise wandered
    past, making her way into the kitchen. Through the kitchen window
    shone morning sunlight. How long was the morning going to last?
    she wondered. Meanwhile the kitchen arm swung back and forth with
    jerky motions, stopping suddenly here and there, fixing her
    another sandwich.
         Three in one morning? Denise thought, munching it down. I'm
    going to get fat. But something about this struck Denise as wrong,
    and she realized this was a new morning, not an old one. Funny,
    she didn't remember much of last night.
         In the living room Denise waited for the automaid to leave
    then sat back down on the newly cleaned couch and uttered a long,
    pleasant, "Mmmmmmmm . . ." as she found the Travels sphere
    careening down a luxurious expanse of deserted, golden beach. A
    moment later Bob, for some reason, kissed her --- or did she
    imagine it? When she looked up, he was nowhere in sight. Off to
    work? she wondered. But no, he couldn't have gone to work because
    after a few minutes he was back, sitting down beside her. And the
    sandwich she thought she had finished minutes ago was sitting
    untouched on the coffee table in front of her, along with a fresh
    glass of orange juice and Jacovik vodka. She picked up the
    sandwich and began eating, chewing slowly, eyes glazed over like
    glass marbles.









                               9. RAPE, RAPE



         Savina caught up with her boyfriend at school. She walked
    right up to him in class --- he was linked to his instructor
    through a headset and was oblivious to his surroundings. She stood
    behind where he sat, staring down at the back of his head and
    feeling hatred. His hair was so blond, so fine. Such a beautiful
    boy, things coming to him so easily. She just hated him.
         Quiet so as not to disturb the other students, Savina grasped
    his headset by the cord and slowly pulled. It slid off his blond
    locks and dropped to the floor. Greg looked around for a moment,
    disoriented.
         "Why did you lie to me?" she asked, sitting at the terminal
    next to him.
         "What?" He stared at her without recognition for a full three
    seconds. "Savina," he said.
         "Why did you lie to me."
         Greg yawned and rubbed his eyes. He was either still in alpha
    state from interfacing or he was totally unconcerned about her
    being angry with him.
         "Greg," she said.
         "Why did I lie to you?"
         "Yes."
         "When did I lie to you?"
         Savina lowered her voice. "When you told me you were taking
    the pill, you jerk."
         "The pill?" Greg looked bewildered for a few seconds, then
    the color drained from his face. "Did I say that?"
         "Yes."
         Greg's eyebrows lowered, and his thin mouth warped into a
    frown. "I thought you were taking the pill."
         "You know perfectly well I wasn't taking the pill. I'm
    underage."
         "That doesn't mean anything. You could have gotten them."
         "The point is that you told me you were on it, Greg.
    Otherwise I would have gone out and gotten something."
         "Are you saying that you're pregnant?"
         Savina glared at him. "What do you think I'm saying? Yes,
    I'm----" She cut herself off, resisted the urge to look up at the
    student monitoring cameras. Admit to something criminal in a
    public place and the software watching you will report it to the
    police. "I think we should discuss this in a place that's a little
    more private."
         "I'm right in the middle of a lesson here."
         Savina reached across him and punched the keys to save his
    position in the lesson and to log him out of class. Unplugging his
    headset, she wound the cord up and handed it to him. Greg was
    looking around at the other students, embarrassed. He took the
    headset and put it in his backpack then reluctantly stood up. She
    grabbed his arm and led him out of the node.
         Outside the sidewalk was black, made of carbon concrete, and
    was sprinkled with tiny glass bits to make it sparkle in the
    sunlight. They walked across its hot surface and then off onto the
    grass of the park where students took their lunches. Beyond the
    grass at the other side of the park was the boarder to the Lesser
    Depopulated Zone.
         There was a terrible tension between then, and Greg wasn't
    saying anything. Savina felt suddenly subdued, the heat of their
    confrontation eeking away. She grabbed onto it, held it --- she
    wanted that anger. She wanted the irrationality of it because it
    shielded her from the reality of her situation.
         "If they abort this child," she said to him in a low, even
    voice, "they'll sterilize me. You know that, right? It's the law."
         Greg didn't say anything.
         "Why didn't you tell me you weren't protected? Why did you
    have to lie to me?"
         "I don't know."
         "It's so stupid! This could have been prevented so easily!"
    She glared at him. "It's going to affect me for the rest of my
    life, Greg. Me! Because you were too lazy do prevent it."
         His eyes were watering up. "I'm sorry."
         "You know what the really stupid thing is, Greg --- if this
    had happened two months from now instead of now, I would have been
    legal. I would have reached legal age."
         "I'm sorry."
         "All I would have had to do was worry about raising the baby
    tax. It would have been possible to have the Church sponsor the
    baby." She was silent for a moment. They were walking through the
    grass now toward the boarder of the Lesser Zone; beat-feet music
    boomed from the ruins beyond, anarchists having a party. Savina
    felt her anger slipping again, and she grabbed hold, pulled it
    back. "Goddamn you!" she suddenly shouted at Greg. "How can you be
    so cruel!"
         "I didn't want this to happen!" he yelled back. "I didn't
    plan to lie!"
         They stopped in the grass, standing and staring at each
    other.
         "I want to have a baby, Greg. I don't want to be sterilized."
         "I'm sorry!"
         "I know you're sorry." It was gone, her anger was gone. Now
    she was just frightened. "I'm willing to forgive you if you'll
    help me."
         "Help you? Of course I'll help you." He looked so ashamed
    that it was pitiful. His smooth angular cheeks were streaked with
    tears.
         Savina sighed, and they sat down on the grass. "I've come up
    with some ideas," Savina told him. "If I can get a fake Idex I can
    emigrate and have the baby."
         Greg's blue eyes moved to-and-fro without focusing, as if he
    were searching around inside of his head. "Emigrate?" he
    exclaimed. "To where?"
         Savina pointed up. "One of the colonies."
         Greg stared at her. "That costs a fortune, and they don't let
    pregnant women on shuttles."
         "Yes they do," she said, but was unsure.
         Greg was dead sure. "Shuttles aren't as well shielded as the
    colonies. Space radiation turns babies into mutants. Besides, the
    government makes you wait and have the baby here so you have to
    pay the baby tax."
         That was one idea shot down. Savina tried the next. "You and
    I can go down and apply for genetic testing. If we make it,
    they'll let me have it under the special circumstance thing. You
    know, for the gifted."
         Greg shook his head, looking at her as if she were an idiot.
    "No. You're not old enough, and even if you had an Idex that said
    you were they'd dig into your heritage and when they did
    that . . . well, they'd find out. You'd be guilty of having a fake
    Idex, and you'd be guilty of underage sexual activity. Besides,
    I . . . I wouldn't qualify. My sister tried this exact same thing,
    and she was disqualified because my family has a history of mental
    instability."
         Savina was silent for a second. "Okay, lets go to the Church
    and apply for sponsorship."
         Greg shook his head. "You're underage, and we're not
    married."
         "I'll get a fake Idex, we get married, we apply."
         "They'd find you were pregnant before the marriage and kick
    us out."
         "We can have the certificate date changed."
         "We can also end up in jail, and you'd lose the baby and be
    sterilized anyway."
         "We could go to the anarchists."
         "What?"
         "We could. They'd take us in." She pointed at the direction
    of the beat-feet music.
         "No."
         "They take in people. How else do you think they got there?"
         "You're dreaming, Savina. That's your most ridiculous idea so
    far. Look, you can't have this baby, there's just no way. You're
    underage, I haven't got any money . . . Savina, there's just no
    way."
         "The anarchists have children. They don't pay taxes.
    They----"
         "Those people live like animals and eat bugs! Do you want to
    raise a baby like that? Just to avoid being sterilized?"
         "It's not my first choice, but I'll do it if I have to. Greg,
    what I want you to do is help me think of a way we can do it!
    You're intelligent, you're creative . . . help me."
         Greg looked away. "I think you should just have the abortion
    and get it over with."
         "Oh, thanks a lot."
         "Savina, it's the least painful way out of this."
         "For you, maybe --- not for me! How would you like me to tell
    them you raped me? Then you'd be up for sterilization too!"
         He turned to stare at her. "You'd do that?" His voice was
    small, astonished.
         "How would you feel? Don't you want kids someday?"
         "You'd do that?"
         "I will if you don't help me."
         "Oh, well then. Okay, I raped you. I'll just go turn myself
    in." He stood up, began walking at a quick pace toward the node.
         "Greg, come back here."
         "No, no, I've got to turn myself in for raping you. It's the
    only decent thing to do."
         "Greg!" She stood up, trotted after him. "Greg, I wouldn't do
    that! I wouldn't."
         "No, get away from me, I'm a rapist! I might do it again. Get
    away from me."
         "Greg, stop."
         "Get away from me!" he shouted at her. "Go away!"
         "Greg!"
         He stopped only long enough to backhand her hard across the
    face. She fell to the grass with the impact, and sat in shock
    watching him walking away across the park. In the background the
    lively beat-feet music continued, wumpata-wumpata-wumpata,
    punctuated by whoops and howls and dangerous laughter. Savina
    leaned forward and hugged her knees, crying.









                                10. SEX TOYS



         Vicky agreed with Mirro, Saul Kalman's wife, that it would be
    tasteful to keep it discrete. Saul knew what was going on between
    the two of them but was doing his best to ignore it. They didn't
    hide it from him, didn't try to keep the affair secret --- but
    they didn't flaunt it in front of his face. Saul was Vicky's
    superior at Travels, after all. There was no reason to aggravate
    their already turbulent relationship.
         Vicky waited, therefor, for Saul to leave the house before
    she went up and rang the doorbell. She stood on the porch,
    scratching at her ribs and shifting her weight from one leg to the
    other, half-expecting Saul to come wandering back for some
    forgotten item, but the door opened and Mirro ushered her inside.
    "How long is he going to be gone?" Vicky asked, touching the door
    switch. It closed behind her.
         "He's gone off to get some Mataphin," Mirro said. "He usually
    takes about three hours . . . I don't know why. I think he takes
    some as soon as he gets it and goes on a long walk."
         "You sure he'll be gone that long?"
         "Yes." Mirro kissed Vicky, a tender touching of lips, then
    backed away. "Go get ready while I feed my kid. I'll be in there
    in a few minutes."
         Vicky stifled a shudder at the mention of the poor monster
    Mirro and Saul had created. She hid her feelings, kept her face
    from showing it as Mirro turned and hurried off into the main part
    of the house. The child gave Vicky nightmares. It looked like a
    giant bloated baby with a tiny head and no obvious sign of gender.
    Totally useless, no hope for improving, the child was a mutant in
    every sense of the word. How Mirro could love it so was beyond
    her.
         Vicky found her way to the large master bedroom with its
    sauna and love pool and began removing her clothes. Each article
    she folded as she took it off, stacked it nice and orderly on
    Mirro's dresser. Mirro's daughter made some horrendous squeal that
    rattled the walls, and Vicky thanked the lord that her one child
    was normal. It was a gift, she thought, that her son Greg was so
    healthy and perfect. It tore her up that the courts had given him
    to her ex-husband. Sleazy bastard, she thought automatically. She
    regretted having a child with a man. It would have been wonderful
    if she could have had Greg with Mirro, but then of course it
    wouldn't have been Greg. It could have ended up like Mirro's
    daughter --- but no, that must have come from Saul's genes. It
    couldn't have come from Mirro. No way! Vicky slipped out of her
    tight, see-through black panties, removed the Soft-Scent pad, and
    eased herself daintily into the warm, vibrating love pool.
         Such a waste, she thought. All that progeny tax money! And
    for what, a thing that should have been miscarried. Saul and Mirro
    should be entitled to a refund. The government doesn't do that,
    though. Vicky remembered how much money her and her ex-husband had
    shelled out to have Greg. A half-million dollars. Now it was even
    more than that, unless of course you were one of the so-called
    genetically gifted. Then they'd pay you to have children.
         Mirro appeared, carrying a black leather case in which she
    kept what she termed her "love tools." She set it down beside the
    pool, opening it up like hardware display. "What should we use? I
    put all the water and shock-proof ones on this side."
         "I don't like the vibros in the pool --- it's redundant."
         "True. Here's this, it's kind of old-fashioned, but it holds
    memories . . ." Mirro held up a strap-on latex penis with
    life-like throbbing action.
         Vicky shrugged and half-smiled. "Then one of us has to be the
    man."
         "I'll do it," Mirro offered.
         "How about the Pushme-Pullyou?"
         "Again?"
         "I like it." Vicky smiled, self-consciously seductive,
    widening her eyes and then letting half her face sinking into the
    water as she drifted.
         Mirro dropped the latex penis back into the case, picking out
    another item. "How about the Two-Headed Snake?"
         Vicky put on a mock pout.
         "It's the same thing," Mirro said. "It just moves more."
         "But it's not you moving. I want it to be just us doing the
    moving."
         Mirro turned on the Two-Headed Snake, held it squirming and
    throbbing against her torso. She smiled, rubbing the lower end
    across her pubes. "You sure?"
         "I'm sure. The Snake is too . . . it's got too much life of
    its own."
         "Okay, the Pushme-Pullyou it is." Mirro put the tools aside
    and began tugging at her blouse buttons.
         As Mirro undressed, Vicky clutched at her own breasts,
    squeezing as she watched, tickling her nipples and sliding her
    left hand down between her legs . . . warming herself up, as she
    thought of it. Mirro was gorgeous, full-bodied, a classically
    beautiful woman. So motherly, so self-assured. Vicky was
    out-of-control head-over-heals in love with this person, far more
    attached than she would let herself admit. Proclamations of
    undying love-worship, she knew from experience, always led to
    disaster. That's what she felt toward Mirro whether she would
    admit it to herself or not: undying love-worship. To Vicky, Mirro
    was the mother-god of all womanhood, and Vicky wanted every bit of
    her, for now and ever.
         Naked, descending step after slow step into the water,
    holding the knobbed, erect latex device like a scepter, she
    slipped into the water with half-closed eyes, and Vicky reached
    out to her, eager, her tongue already out of her mouth. Together
    they slipped under the surface, embracing.

                                     #

         Saul Kalman reached the drugstore after walking the entire
    distance --- four kilometers --- only to find, while at the
    counter with everybody waiting behind him, that he'd forgotten his
    Mataphin license. The pharmacist waiting on him was new; he'd
    never seen Saul before even though Saul had been buying at that
    drugstore off and on for over five years. "Look," Saul told him,
    "check your computer. I have a license. I'm an exec at Travels."
         The pharmacist's eyes flared at that. "Travels huh? Big deal.
    Working for the devil doesn't impress me."
         Saul blinked. He took a slow step back from the counter. "Oh,
    Christ," he muttered, staring at the man. He couldn't believe his
    rotten luck.
         The pharmacist's thin, sharply detailed face darkened even
    further. His eyebrows were thick and black, and they arched over
    sunken eyes like storm clouds. "Don't say the name of our Lord in
    vain. It is written: 'Cry not in anger to the Lord. Speak not in
    fury to He whose Love has put the spark in your parent's seed; it
    is He to Whom you owe all, Who holds the scales where your soul
    will be judged, will be weighed amongst----"
         "Are you going to sell me my fucking drugs or not?"
         "You are required by law to have a drug license on your
    person before any restricted drug or remedy is dispensed."
         "You mean I have to go all the way back home just to get my
    goddamn Mataphin license? It's just a goddamn Mataphin license,
    it's not like I'm buying narcotics!"
         "I'm not dispensing any Mataphin without seeing a current
    Mataphin license," the young pharmacist said frostily. "Especially
    to a heathen of deceit such as yourself."
         "You jerk," Saul said. "You Jesus-freak moron."
         "Hey," a voice said from behind him; it was deep and
    dangerous-sounding. Saul turned to find that the people behind him
    in line were all glaring at him. One particularly big man, with
    ape-shoulders and a titanic brass United Church cross hanging from
    his neck on a chain, said to Saul: "You'd better shut your mouth,
    fool, before you really put your foot in it."
         Saul turned back to the pharmacist. "I'm never bringing my
    business back here again," he said. The pharmacist smirked, but
    Saul had already turned his back and was walking to the door.
         Across the street he found a phone booth and with an angry
    finger jabbed at the keys, dialing an autocab number. Stupid
    stupid lost people, he thought. They don't have a fucking clue. He
    reached the autocab company, registered his request in the cue,
    and hung up. The cab would meet him there at the booth. He stood
    beside it, feeling uneasy and impatient.
         The customers that had been behind him at the pharmacy
    appeared out the exit one by one, all giving him dirty looks
    before continuing on their way. One, an older woman, saw him
    standing there and came walking toward him. Saul fidgeted, feeling
    trapped, but he refused to run away from a wrinkled old bat with a
    bouffant hairdo.
         "I heard what you said!" Her voice was dry and brittle,
    softened by a slight lisp. "You work for Travels!"
         "What about it?"
         "I love it!" she said, clenching her frail fists and shaking
    them for emphasis. "I love Travels!"
         Saul let his shoulders relax, and let out a breath. "Oh,
    well . . ."
         "But I hate it!" the woman said. "It robs you of time. It's a
    devil's tool."
         "Lady, I don't think you----"
         "A devil's took! Last night my husband and I were out
    shopping, and we had an overwhelming urge to buy Russian vodka. We
    hate vodka! But we couldn't resist, it was on sale so we bought
    it, and later I said to my husband, I says 'I bet it's that
    Travels station. I bet they're using that subconscious advertising
    stuff --- and I was right! I saw it! On a billboard in the
    background during a really exciting part----"
         "Pardon me," Saul said with relief, "this is my taxi."
         "You've got to repent for this!" she said with genuine
    concern. "You can't keep it up --- you can't get away with it! The
    Savior is coming!"
         The cab pulled up, one of the big box-like ones with a
    scratched and almost opaque sunroof, and Saul snatched the handle
    of the big sliding door and gave it a yank --- but the door was
    auto, not manual. There was a big warning sign on the glass that
    read: HANDLE IS FOR EMERGENCY USE ONLY --- BUZZER WILL SOUND. It
    did sound, loud and angry. Saul let it go, flustered, waiting for
    it to close and reset itself. "No savior is coming!" he yelled at
    the old woman. "It's nothing more than a JTV media event!"
         The old woman crossed herself. "Blasphemy!"
         The door to the cab cycled open and he jumped in, inserting
    his moneycard in the appropriate slot and stating his home address
    to the grid. The door shut him off from the shocked, accusing
    stare of the old woman, shut him off from the rest of the world.
    The vehicle rolled forward, video eyes alert and watching for
    traffic and pedestrians. Within a few minutes Saul was home.
         He stepped quickly through the front door, his mouth drawn
    into a tight unhappy line. No Mataphin, he thought. I still have
    to go get my Mataphin. Behind him the door slid shut and he
    stopped, rubbing his face with his hand. Where's my Mataphin
    license anyway? He stood there a long moment, trying to remember,
    feeling that he should know. It was strange that he couldn't
    remember.
         I'm too shook up, he thought. I can't concentrate. Damn --- I
    need my dose! As he stood there something else occurred to him:
    why was the house so quiet? Where was Mirro? He stood there,
    listening. There was no TV, no music . . . no baby crying. Nothing
    . . . yet there was something. The silence was not absolute.
         Saul walked quietly down the hall into the west-wing,
    listening to his own breathing, slowing as he neared his
    daughter's room. He had a strange feeling that something was not
    right. Maybe, he thought, it's the lack of Mataphin. The air
    itself seemed strange; it felt damp. His skin felt clammy.
         Standing outside his daughter's door, a terrible thought
    occurred. He listened. There were no sounds from inside, no
    gurgling, no monster snores. No mindless babbling like when she
    found the strength to play with her fingers. Saul stood outside
    the door, feeling his clammy skin, wishing for his Mataphin. There
    was something going on, he could feel it. Maybe, he thought,
    trembling, maybe this is the feeling you get when someone in the
    house has died.
         Oh my God, he thought. Maybe she did?
         Saul reached out to open the door but hesitated, freezing.
    What if she was dead? What would he do? Hundreds of pounds of dead
    daughter lying there, impossible to move, impossible to . . . to
    what? What would he do? Stand there and stare at her? Start
    crying? What if he couldn't cry? He'd have to find Mirro and with
    dry eyes tell her that their daughter was dead. Mirro would blame
    him --- maybe even accuse him of killing her. He had been wanting
    his daughter dead for over 14 years and here she was, dead, and
    Saul not crying, not even sad . . . only guilty. How could he
    possibly face Mirro?
         Saul put his hand out and touched the smooth surface of the
    door with his fingertips, slid them down to the handle. This is
    ridiculous, he told himself. Getting myself worked up like this
    . . . there's nothing wrong. How could I know something's wrong?
    And even if there is, even if she's dead, I can go to a sink and
    apply some tears before I go find Mirro.
         Saul pushed the door open and stepped in.
         There his child lie, puffy, bloated, freshly changed and fast
    asleep, her head tilted back on a self-adjusting pillow that kept
    her weight from breaking her own fragile neck. Her mouth was open
    and a healthy river of drool ran down the side of her face. With a
    mixture of relief and sadness Saul turned around and left the
    room, closing the door behind him.
         His Mataphin license, he remembered, was on his bed stand.
    Saul remembered it with a surge of disgust --- why had he
    forgotten? Where else would he have put it? Letting out an angry
    grunt, he walked down the thickly carpeted hall toward the master
    bedroom; the door was partially closed, and he pushed it open
    while silently cursing himself. Why did I leave without it in the
    first place? he thought. Why didn't I pick it up when I got my
    moneycard?
         Saul was halfway across the room before he noticed his wife
    and Vicky. He stopped in mid-stride, his mouth dropping open, his
    face feeling hot as it flushed red. He felt like running, felt
    like getting out of there and hiding before they could see him.
         Saul didn't move. He stood and watched, his breath caught in
    his throat. The two women were oblivious; they didn't notice him
    at all. Saul didn't know what to do, what to think. He didn't know
    how to react. He knew his wife was bisexual, he knew she'd been
    seeing an awful lot of Vicky lately --- she had never bothered to
    keep it a secret. Saul had even come to think of it as necessary
    considering his sexual problems. But to see her like this? With
    his assistant from work? They weren't even facing each other! This
    was making love? Love?
         Saul crept across the room to his bed stand while holding his
    breath, his feet padding silently on the carpet. There was his
    Mataphin license, a plastic rectangle with a laser-encoded strip
    and a holographic head and shoulders shot of himself. He bent down
    and lifted it off the smooth wood, moving slowly, slipping it into
    his shirt pocket. He was so careful about being quiet that every
    movement hurt. He turned and crept back toward the door, stepping
    easily, watching the two lovers to make sure they didn't see
    him----
         ----and suddenly Vicky opened her eyes and was staring
    directly into his, her's growing wide, her motions coming to a
    dead halt. Mirro's gasping slowed and stopped; her eyes flickered
    open and she turned and looked at him, gaping, motionless.
         Saul ducked his head in shame and embarrassment, treading
    quickly out, shutting the door behind him. From there he ran
    through the house to the garage, pulling the charge cord from his
    personal car and yanking the door open. He threw himself in,
    switching it on, and accelerated out of the yard. Saul drove like
    a maniac up the coast to a drug store where he rushed in and
    bought his Mataphin, immediately tearing open the package and
    swallowing a triple dose.









                               11. TELEVISION



         It was the 3rd of June, but it was beginning to look a lot
    like Christmas. Dodd expected advertisements to start saying "Only
    12 more shopping days until the Second Coming!" So far no one had
    dared, but he thought it was only a matter of time. The United
    Church was suggesting that the Second Coming should be celebrated
    much the same way Christmas was, with an exchange of joy,
    goodwill, and presents. There was a lot of emphasis on "presents."
    Dodd wondered if June 15th was going to replace December 25th, or
    were they going to keep both?
         That morning he awoke early, finding himself alone in bed
    again. Sheila was still at the television --- he could hear
    Travels down the hall. This is getting psychotic, he thought to
    himself. He'd called the cable company yesterday morning to have
    them send a man out and physically disconnect Travels from his
    apartment. They had promised a man would be out there that day,
    yet when he got home from work Travels was still going.
         Dodd sat up in bed, yawning. He rubbed the sleep from his
    eyes, then turned and looked over at the bedroom phone. The cable
    company offices wouldn't be open yet, but he could leave them a
    message. He swung his legs off the bed, moving over so that he
    could reach the handset. He pushed the button for mail, watched
    the screen light up. He opted to use the transcription feature
    even though it was slower; as he spoke words appeared.



             TO: Cherokee Cable Co.    DATE: 6/3/42
             FROM: Dodd Corely         SUBJECT: Disconnection

             This is regarding account
             #2834737-838-83873726459-28374627B

             Yesterday I had ordered a physical disconnection
             of your Travels service from my apartment, and
             was promised it would be completed that day. It
             was not completed, and I was not informed of the
             reason for delay. Today I expect the
             disconnection, and I expect that you will have
             reimbursed my account for yesterday and today's
             connection time to Travels.
                  Dodd Corely



    He sent the mail off with a angry jab of his right index finger,
    then stood up and walked out to the front room.
         Sheila was asleep on the couch. She looked like hell, and she
    smelled. It was like she hadn't taken a bath in a couple of days.
    "I'm getting worried about you," he said to her. She snored
    quietly in reply. He bend over the video components and turned off
    the power.
         While he showered and shaved the kitchen fixed him breakfast.
    He ate while he was drying, and when he was finished he walked
    naked down the hall to the bedroom where he put on his work
    clothes. On his way out of the apartment he gave Sheila a kiss on
    the forehead. She didn't stir.
         Half way to the subway terminal someone came out of the
    bushes and ran toward him. Army-trained reflexes took over, and he
    turned and prepared to lash out. The figure stopped short, smiling
    at him. It was Savina. "Hi," she said brightly.
         Dodd let his fists drop. "What in the hell are you doing?"
         "You shouldn't be so tense. It's only me."
         "Why aren't you in school?"
         "I'm on my way to school."
         "Aren't you going to be late?"
         "No. It's early for me."
         "What are you doing out here?"
         "Don't you want to see me?"
         "What?"
         "You're acting like you don't want to talk to me."
         "Of course I want to talk to you. I'm just surprised, that's
    all." He looked at her suspiciously. "Talk to me about what?"
         "We haven't talked in a long time."
         "We talked just the other day, over at your dad's house."
         "We said hello to each other, then you found out about the
    Second Coming."
         "Is that what you want to talk about?"
         "Yes."
         "Well we don't have much time. I'm on my way to work."
         "I know."
         "You'll be coming over to dinner tomorrow night with your
    parents."
         "I know. But that would be with my parents."
         "Oh, I see."
         "So, what do you think about the Second Coming?"
         Dodd smiled at her. "I don't know."
         "You think it's real?"
         "I don't know what to think. I think it's . . . I don't know.
    I'm afraid of it."
         "You do think it's real!"
         "I think that if it's real, it's not going to be what the
    Church is telling us. I think we're all in a lot of trouble if
    Jesus comes back."
         "You've been reading old bibles."
         "Yes, I have. They're translations from documents dating back
    to the days of Christ. The United Church Bible was written maybe
    eighteen or nineteen years ago. You tell me which one is
    authentic."
         "The Church claims that the new Bible is from even earlier
    translations."
         "I don't believe that."
         "How come?"
         "Because they've been translating from old manuscripts for a
    thousand years, and none have ever differed as radically as the
    United Church's. They've mixed in Mormon philosophy, Eastern
    philosophy, popular philosophy, and quantum physics. It is not a
    translation of something two-thousand years old. No way."
         "Then why does the Second Coming frighten you?"
         "Because the Pope received a revelation. I don't like it, but
    he's the closest thing there is to a Catholic pope now days. I
    don't necessarily believe in his revelation as much as the fact
    that this does sound like the end times in the old bibles."
         "According to the old bibles, we've been in the end times
    since Jesus died."
         "I know."
         "So why worry?"
         "Are you sure this is what you snuck out here at dawn to talk
    to me about?"
         "No, not really."
         "I knew it. There's something wrong. What's wrong?"
         "Well, I have a friend who's in a lot of trouble."
         "A friend?"
         "Yeah, her name's Lamissa."
         "Okay."
         "Lamissa has a boyfriend who she has been . . . sexually
    active with. They both have access to the pill, but he said he was
    on it so she, well . . ."
         "I have the feeling you're about to tell me she's pregnant."
         "Yes."
         "How old is she?"
         "Seventeen."
         "How old will she be by the time the baby arrives."
         "She'll still be seventeen."
         "Lamissa will have to get an abortion."
         "Yeah, but they'll sterilize her."
         "Yes, they will."
         "She doesn't want that."
         "It's the law."
         "She doesn't care."
         Dodd stopped walking, turned to face her squarely. His face
    was grim. "This friend of yours, 'Lamissa,' she wouldn't happen to
    be you, would she?"
         "No!"
         "Are you sure?"
         "Lamissa's my best friend. She and I go to school together."
         Dodd sighed. They resumed walking. "I understand the
    predicament your friend is in," he said, "but I can't see any way
    out of it. She's trapped by stupid outdated laws that are set in
    granite. There is no legal way out of her situation."
         "I've got to help her out, Dodd."
         "Tell her that being sterilized is not the end of the world.
    She can still have a clone baby."
         "Where is she going to get forty-million dollars?"
         "Four-million."
         "Might as well be forty-million!"
         "When she's eighteen she can marry someone who's rich. Are
    you sure we're not talking about you?"
         "Yes, I'm sure."
         "I'm not so sure."
         "I told you, her name's Lamissa."
         "Okay. You're a big girl now, if you don't want to tell me,
    that's okay."
         "What if it is me, Dodd?"
         "Then we have a serious and complicated problem." Dodd was
    beginning to feel uncomfortable about their conversation. This was
    his friend's daughter, after all. She was his friend, too, but
    that only made it more complicated. He hoped to God that she
    wasn't pregnant. Abortion and sterilization were such horrible
    wastes, and he couldn't bring himself to let it happen to such a
    sweet young girl who had a whole lifetime ahead of her.
         "It's me," she told him.
         Dodd sighed, and put his hands over his face.
         "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm too upset about this to think
    straight. I couldn't just blurt it out, I didn't know how you'd
    react."
         "I was hoping you really had a friend named Lamissa." He
    wiped at his eyes, which had teared up.
         "So do I, and I wish it was her that was pregnant, not me."
         "Yeah, I bet." They reached the subway terminal, and Dodd
    stopped and faced her. "Your parents don't know yet, right?"
         "You bet they don't!"
         "Okay."
         "You're not going to tell them, are you?"
         "No." Dodd shook his head. "That's your responsibility."
         "Thank you."
         "Just don't let them find out that I knew before they did,
    and didn't tell them. It would ruin the friendship between your
    father and me. I mean, I've never kept a secret from him in all
    the time we've known each other."
         "I know."
         "As far as your problem goes, I don't know what to do. But
    I'll think about it, okay? How far along are you?"
         "A couple weeks."
         "Well, as far as we know you could lose it naturally. I would
    wait a while before telling your folks."
         "Yeah." Her voice was sad.
         "I'll start making some phone calls to see if there's any
    loopholes as far as sterilization. I may be able to find a doctor
    who'd perform an old-fashioned abortion and lose the records."
         "You think so?"
         "I've heard of them. I don't know how safe it is. I've got to
    talk to some friends who would know."
         "I knew I could count on you." Tears were leaking, running
    down her cheeks. "I love you," she said, and hugged him.
         He hugged her back, feeling sad. "I'll help if I can," he
    said in a hoarse voice as they were hugging.
         "Thank you," she whispered back.
         They parted, her tears on his shirt.
         Dodd trudged down the steps into the terminal, pushed his way
    through the crowd towards the loading ramp. He stood in line at
    the gates, feeling upset, waiting for his chance to insert his
    moneycard and have the price of fare deducted from his account.
    He'd known Savina since she was a baby, she was the closest thing
    he had to having his own child. It hurt him that she was in so
    much trouble, and he felt guilty that he was helping her without
    consulting his best friend, her father. Maybe I should tell him,
    he thought.
         The line moved forward and he gained access to the loading
    platform. His train had yet to appear from the tunnel. God, he
    thought, this is hell. He caught the scent of brotone --- an
    acid-based etching paint --- and heard a faint hissing sound, and
    turned to see a dirty-clothed teenager defiantly painting words on
    the terminal wall. He was directly under a security monitor.

                         BEWARE THE ANTI-CHRIST AI!
                             THESE ARE THE LAS

    Dodd pushed through the crowd toward the boy as he was finishing
    the last line. "What do you mean by that?" Dodd asked.
         The boy jerked his head up, stared at Dodd suspiciously with
    wide, drugged eyes. His pupils were fully dilated. "Beware the
    antichrist AI!" the boy shouted at him. "Just what the fuck it
    says!"
         "What is the antichrist AI?"
         "You'll see it on the fifteenth."
         "Well, what is it?!"
         "Fuck you, man!" The boy spat on his shoes, and took off
    running as a police drone crowded into the terminal. The drone, a
    long black oblong floater, hovered above the crowd with hardly
    enough room to move. It merely watched as the boy ran, probably
    computing his path and relaying it to other drones on the surface.
    It was still there when Dodd's train came; he boarded it with
    relief, watched out the window as the station slid out of sight.
         At work, Dodd looked around for Bob Recent during the slack
    time before he had to log on to his forklift. He was either in a
    meeting that no one knew about, or he was late. I'll bet he's
    late, Dodd thought. Maybe that's my problem, I was never late. You
    can only get into management when you're habitually late.
    Otherwise you're too valuable where you are.
         Dodd climbed aboard his forklift and turned it on. The little
    screen came on with his morning assignment. "Okay, lets go," he
    told it, tapping a few commands on the grimy keypad. Coffee in one
    hand, he and the forklift went racing across the yard.
         Three-and-a-half hours later Dodd spotted Bob's little white
    cart, and he had the forklift inform the central computer that he
    was taking a break to talk to his supervisor. It confirmed his
    request was okay, and Dodd took manual control, sending the 'lift
    speeding over. Bob was looking at tags that hung from giant
    valves. He looked up at Dodd with a neutral expression.
         "Hi, Bob. Haven't been answering your telephone lately."
         "No, we seem to miss calls for some reason. I think our
    phone's ringer is broken."
         "Oh, well. I've been trying to invite you and your wife over
    for dinner."
         "Dinner?"
         "Yeah, you know. Dinner. Toby and his family are coming over
    tomorrow night, and I'd like to have you and Denise over. That's
    if you have nothing planned."
         Bob shrugged, looking anywhere but into Dodd's eyes. It was
    like he was trying to come up with a reason to say no. "What
    time?" he asked.
         "Around seven."
         "Well . . . well, okay. We'll be there."
         "Good! We're serving up a feast, you won't be sorry. See you
    later." Dodd backed the forklift away, pointed it in the right
    direction and let it take over driving. Bob dwindled out of sight.

                                     #

         The hot June afternoon stretched on and on until Dodd thought
    the day would never end. He watched the last ten minutes of work
    count down with glacier-like slowness. When the whistle blew he
    hurried out of the plant, hoping for a seat on the subway. It was
    a dream, to actually be able to sit on the way home. Dodd made it
    to the subway in record time only to find it already jammed with
    people. His train came hissing in and there was no room for him to
    get on --- he and a hundred other people were forced to wait
    another 20 minutes for the next train, and even then he didn't get
    a seat.
         Stuffed in the train, body to body, it seemed incredible to
    Dodd that scientists and engineers were building faster than light
    starships --- yet no one had ever come up with an adequate
    ventilation system for a subway car. The wind rushed past the
    windows with a roar, but there wasn't the faintest of breezes
    inside. At his stop Dodd emerged gasping for air, sweat soaking
    his clothes so that it appeared he'd just climbed out of a pond.
    The walk from the station to his apartment in the open air was a
    vast relief.
         As he reached the apartment building, he saw a man emerge
    from his apartment and climb into a utility truck. It was the guy
    from the cable company. He had come to finally disconnect Travels,
    and that made Dodd's day. It hadn't been a terribly good day, with
    Savina's problem and dealing with Bob and the hellish ride in the
    subway, but having Travels removed from his place made things seem
    a whole lot brighter. Before Dodd had a chance to thank the man,
    the van pulled away and went speeding down the street.
         Dodd went up to the front door and let himself in. As soon as
    the door opened Dodd was enveloped in Travels music. Sheila was
    sprawled across the couch, staring at the screen with glazed eyes.
    She didn't notice him come in.
         "What in the hell!" he exclaimed.
         Sheila blinked and pulled her eyes away from the screen. "Hi
    Dodd," she said in a soft, relaxed voice. She slurred the
    pronunciation of his name, her tongue in between her teeth.
         "What is Travels doing still hooked up?"
         "What?"
         "Travels! The man here, didn't he unhook it?"
         "I told them there was a mistake," she said. "We didn't order
    Travels disconnected."
         "Yes I did! I had ordered it to be disconnected!"
         She stared at him, not understanding.
         "You told him not to disconnected it?"
         "Yes."
         "Oh God," he said, sighing. "Sheila . . ."
         "What's wrong?"
         "I was the one who called to have Travels disconnected! I
    want it disconnected!"
         "It's okay, I told him it was a mistake. It's still
    connected."
         "That's . . . Sheila, that's not what I'm saying!"
         "What?"
         "Listen to me. I called to have Travels disconnected. It was
    not a mistake. I was the one who ordered that man to come here and
    disconnect Travels. Me. Understand? Travels is supposed to be
    disconnected. Okay?"
         "Okay?"
         "Sheila, are you awake?"
         "Yes."
         "Did you understand what I just told you?"
         "I'm awake."
         "Yes, but did you understand?"
         "Yes, I'm awake."
         "Are you sure?"
         "Yes, I'm sure." Her eyes drifted back to the screen.
         "Sheila."
         "Hmmm?"
         "Sheila."
         "Hmmmmm?"
         Dodd turned to the television components and shut off the
    power. "Sheila," he said, turning back to her. "This is not
    healthy. Your mind is being sucked out of your body."
         "Why did you turn off the television?"
         Dodd looked up at the ceiling. "Jesus, she wants to know why
    I turned off the television."
         Sheila looked up at the ceiling. "Who are you talking to?"
         "Jesus," Dodd said to the ceiling, "she wants to know who I'm
    talking to."
         "You're talking to Jesus?"
         "He's coming back to Earth on the 15th, right? You do
    remember that, don't you?" Dodd's voice was dry, sarcastic. He was
    exasperated, and felt he was losing control. "Jesus is coming
    back, so what's wrong with talking to Him? I mean, He's the
    Savior, right? He can hear us, right?"
         "I guess so."
         "I'm turning to Him for help because nothing I do seems to
    work."
         Sheila nodded vaguely. She looked like she was lost in the
    conversation and was making a real effort to figure out what they
    were talking about.
         "I'm going to pray to Him about you, Sheila," Dodd told her.
         "Why?"
         "You know what you said to me yesterday?"
         "What?"
         Dodd switched to a quavering falsetto voice. "'It's weird,
    Dodd, but I could swear you just left for work and here you are
    coming home again.' You said that."
         "Yeah," Sheila said, her voice and expression brightening.
    "That happens a lot! Did you notice that time passes really
    fast----"
         "Yes I've noticed! Don't you understand, that's what I'm
    trying to pound into your head! All your time is passing really
    fast!"
         "Dodd, why are you so angry about it? I think it's great."
         "Great? Losing entire days is great? Is that . . . don't you
    enjoy anything else?"
         "What do you mean?"
         Dodd stared at her for a moment without saying anything. "I
    mean, isn't there anything else you'd like to do beside watching
    television?"
         "I like watching television."
         "You want your days to go by in a blur? Is that all you want
    out of life?"
         "I enjoy life."
         "You enjoy television."
         "Yes."
         "Your life is television."
         "Yes."
         Dodd looked up at the ceiling again, making a silent plea for
    strength.
         "What?" Sheila said.
         "Nothing." Dodd turned and walked back to the television
    components. He turned the power on, and as Travels filled the room
    Dodd walked down the hall to his bedroom. Sheila did not follow.
    "Jesus, I give up," he said with a glance at the ceiling. He
    stripped off his clothes and collapsed on his bed, sighing,
    wondering what to do.
         After a while the phone rang, and Dodd answered it without
    turning on the video pickup. "Yo, Dodd. Where are you? I can't see
    you." It was Toby, seeming to peer in at Dodd through the screen.
         "I'm in a state of undress," Dodd told him wearily.
         "Ah, I see. I've got some bad news. We are not going to be
    able to make it to your dinner party tomorrow night."
         "Why not?"
         "Something very bad has happened. I'm afraid my daughter's
    been raped."
         "What?"
         "I don't know when it happened, but the boy turned himself
    in. He saw the error in his ways."
         "When did all this happen?"
         "I just got the call from the police today. We have to take
    Savina in tomorrow afternoon for a pregnancy test."
         "Oh no."
         "It is a sad thing."
         "What's going to happen if she's pregnant?"
         "They'll have to abort it. She's underage, and who's going to
    pay for a rape-child anyway?"
         "They won't sterilize her, will they?"
         "They have to, it's part of the abortion."
         "No, they don't have to! It's not necessary, and it's not
    fair --- not if she was raped! Why punish her?"
         "It's the law. What can we do?"
         "We can fight it!"
         "We can't fight it." Toby shook his head, a troubled
    expression on his face.
         "You can do something, make some sort of appeal --- go to the
    church, maybe they can help."
         "No. They told us to take her to the Medical Authority
    Building tomorrow at five. To do anything else would be to break
    the law."
         Dodd was at a loss. "I'll be off by then. Do you want me to
    go with you?"
         "No, it would not be appropriate."
         "No?"
         "I appreciate the concern, but no."
         "Okay."
         Toby nodded. "I'll call you tomorrow." He rang off.









                                 12. ROBOT



         "I'm not going. I wasn't raped. I already know that I'm
    pregnant and I want to keep it. I don't care what the law says, I
    am not going to let them take it from me. This is my decision, and
    it is final." Savina's face was full of firm resolution as she
    gazed at herself in the mirror. Her parents were downstairs
    watching a sermon while they readied themselves to go. Monotone
    voices drifted up to Savina from the television, chanting the
    Beatitudes from the United Church Bible:

         Blessed are the poor in spirit,
            for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
         Blessed are those who mourn,
            for they will be comforted.
         Blessed are the meek,
            for they will inherit the Universe.
         Blessed are you who hunger now,
            for you will be fed.
         Blessed are the merciful,
            for they will be shown mercy.
         Blessed are the pure in heart,
            for they will meet God.

    A hymn burst forth from a choir, The Celebration of the
    Homecoming, a hundred blessed voices accompanied by the popular
    beat-feet beat. It was a hymn to which people could slam dance if
    they so chose. Savina thought it was ridiculous.
         There were footsteps coming up the stairs. Savina turned and
    faced the door, her heart pounding loud in her ears. The door
    opened and her mom stepped into the room. "Are you ready to go,
    child?"
         "I am not . . . I am not going," she said in an unsteady
    voice. "I wasn't raped and I am not . . . and I already know I'm
    pregnant and I don't care . . . I don't care what the law says, I
    am not going to let them take it from me. This is my decision, and
    I am not going to back down."
         "Is that so?"
         "Yes."
         "Why did not you tell us this before?"
         "I . . . I was thinking of how to break it to you."
         "And why now has this boy turned himself in for raping you?"
         "I don't know. I guess he thought maybe it would help. Help
    take the blame."
         "Ah now." Her mother sighed. "I'll tell this to you straight
    out Savina. You cannot have this baby. It is not right, it is not
    ethical, and it is not possible. Do you understand?"
         "Well . . . I'm not backing down, Mom."
         "Is that so?"
         Savina nodded.
         "Child, you are too young to have a baby."
         "Mom I'll never have a baby if you take me to the M.A.!"
         "That is nonsense, Savina."
         "Mom!"
         "They do not sterilize you unless it is a voluntary
    abortion."
         "Where did you hear this?"
         "I just happen to know it."
         "You're lying, Mom. That's a cruel lie."
         "Sterilization is the penalty for giving up a child you do
    not want, Savina. That is what the sterilization is for. They do
    not punish people with medical problems or young girls who are not
    making the decision for themselves."
         "Are you sure?"
         "Yes, now you get ready to go." She turned and left the room,
    and Savina heard her calling her father's name.
         Savina didn't know what hurt more: her mother out-and-out
    lying to her like this, or the possibility that her mother knew
    something that everyone else didn't. Even if they weren't going to
    sterilize her, she didn't want to give up the child. She had never
    once thought about getting it aborted, she had concentrated all
    her energy on finding a way to keep it. It was strange, she
    already loved the child. The realization brought on a wave of
    sadness, and Savina sat on her bed and cried.
         There were heavy footsteps coming up the stairs, her father
    coming to visit. Savina rolled herself in blankets and hid her
    head under pillows. She didn't want him to see her crying, she
    couldn't stand the thought, but it only made her cry harder. She
    heard him enter the room, felt him sit on the bed beside her. "I
    love you," he said. "I'm sorry."
         Savina remained hidden.
         He pulled the pillows away, caressed her cheeks. "We have to
    go," he told her. "If we don't go, they'll come here and get you.
    We can't have that, now."
         She opened her eyes and saw his sad face, saw her mother
    behind him. "Let's pray," her mom said. Mother and Father bowed
    their heads, closed their eyes and were silent.
         Savina felt angry that they were praying. If they wanted to
    help her, they'd help her, and not submit meekly to the Medical
    Authorities. Praying would accomplish about as much as sleeping as
    far as she was concerned.
         "Come on now it's time to go." Her father pulled Savina to
    her feet. He had to shove her out the door and drag her down the
    steps. Savina was determined not to go willingly. When they had
    herded her outside she had to squint to see; to Savina's amazement
    it was a bright, beautiful blue-sky day.
         They walked several blocks to the subway station, then stood
    on the platform for ten minutes waiting for the train. On one of
    the walls of the station was a large advertisement:

                              JESUS IS COMING!

    There was a realistic painting under the words showing Jesus
    smiling with His arms spread out in greetings, His head outlined
    by a colorful halo. Under the poster the caption read: "Watch His
    glorious return live on JTV!"
         There was a warm rush of air and their train came hissing out
    of the tunnel; it slid to a smooth stop and opened its doors.
    Since the rush didn't start for another hour there were empty
    seats available. Her parents guided her into the train and down
    the aisle to a seat away from the exits. She sat down and stared
    at her hands as they lie numbly in her lap. They had put her next
    to a window, blocking her in with their bodies. It was like they
    expected her to make a break for it. Savina hadn't even thought
    about it. There was a long hissing sound and the train slid
    forward, accelerating into the dark of the tunnel.
         The train ran underground for nearly an hour, the only sense
    of motion being produced by the occasional light flashing past
    only inches outside the window. Then the train emerged on the
    outskirts of the Depopulated Zone, raising up to race across the
    open valley on a concrete trestle. Savina gazed out at the open
    farmland that passed in the distance, and the square miles of
    green crops dotted with autonomic farm machinery, and found
    herself wishing she was out there, out away from the endless city
    and all the people and all the public surveillance cameras. The
    Depopulated Zone seemed to go on forever; it was the largest area
    of reclaimed farmland in the region, certainly the largest in
    California. It passed out of sight as they reentered the city and
    the train dipped back below the surface of the earth. In the
    tunnel Savina felt worse than ever. She felt trapped. I can't just
    let this happen, she thought. I've got to do something. I've got
    to get away.
         They reached the Medical Authority Center just before 5:00 PM
    and Savina's parents coaxed her to her feet. Savina felt in her
    back pocket for her moneycard --- she had almost a thousand in her
    bank account, enough to get her by on her own for at least a
    little while. She felt a thrill as her resolve strengthened. She
    was going to run. She was going to do it.
         Her father must have sensed this. He kept a strong grip on
    her arm as they stepped out onto the platform, and he held firm
    all the way to the lobby of the main building. Savina didn't have
    a chance to break away.
         Her mother filled out all her forms at one of the terminals
    at the registration desk, then a human attendant, a police academy
    medical intern, led Savina away. The intern was a thin and
    feminine man with a sway in his walk and subdued --- but still
    startling --- punk-resurrection style orange hair. "So," he said,
    "your admission says that you already know you're pregnant."
         "My mother put that on the form?"
         He nodded. "You came in here voluntarily?"
         "Not quite," she said, her voice sullen.
         "Well, your parents know what's best for you. Through here
    please." He directed her into another hallway.
         "Am I going to be sterilized?" Savina asked.
         "I'm afraid so."
         "Even if I was raped?"
         "It's a part of the process. It's a shame, really, but it
    doesn't mean you can never have a baby. You can have a gamete made
    from your genes. That's how lesbians accomplish it."
         "I'm not a lesbian."
         "I didn't say you were." They reached the end of the hallway
    and entered an elevator. It was all shiny metal inside and looked
    very sterile. "Floor seven," he told the elevator, and the shiny
    metal doors slid shut. The elevator lurched into motion.
         "Are you going to do it?" she asked.
         "The abortion? No. I'll be there, but something this routine
    is handled automatically by the table."
         "You mean a robot is going to kill my baby."
         "Yes." He looked at her with no sympathy whatsoever.
         The elevator stopped and the doors slid open. The intern led
    her down a narrow corridor to a small dark room; he touched a
    switch and lights came on, and instruments began beeping and
    whirring. One whole wall was made up of computerized equipment,
    several dozen modular components mounted within a set of black
    steel racks. In the middle of the room was a robotic operating
    table with four highly articulated surgical arms. Across the table
    was draped a white hospital gown.
         "You'll have to take off your clothes and put that on," he
    said, indicating the gown. He turned his back and began fiddling
    with buttons and peering into readouts while he waited for her to
    change.
         Savina slowly kicked off her sandals, staring down at her
    feet. She felt helpless, a doll moving to rigid programming, no
    free will at all. She slipped off her blue jumpsuit and tossed it
    across a chair in the corner, then dropped her panties around her
    ankles and stepped out of them. She used her toes to pick them up
    and drop them on her sandals.
         "You don't have to worry about your bra," the intern said,
    his back still turned.
         Savina snatched the bit of cloth that passed for a gown in a
    hospital and pulled it over her arms, fastening the tabs at the
    back. "Okay," she said. "Now what?"
         The intern glanced over his shoulder. "Get on the table and
    put your legs through those supports. Watch out for the arms, one
    has a steel blade."
         Savina reclined on the cool, soft table, reluctantly
    spreading her legs and resting them in the supports that would
    hold them open. There was a draft; her vagina was exposed and
    aimed at the intern. Turning, his face preoccupied, the intern
    touched a button and watched as all four of the surgical arms
    twitched and pulled back, resetting themselves. They made tiny
    electric whines as they moved.
         "You ever had an operation before?"
         "No," Savina said.
         "Don't worry, it's simple. These tables don't make mistakes.
    I'll be here watching carefully throughout the entire process." He
    stepped across to the side of the table, fumbling with controls.
         Savina noticed lenses on moveable stalks mounted at various
    angles on the ceiling, and miniature electric eyes on the robot
    arms themselves. She felt on display. The intern picked up a
    headset and held it in front of her. "This is a neural-induction
    set, very simple. I'm going to put them over your forehead and
    turn it on, and the next thing you'll know the whole thing will be
    over and you can go home." He opened them up and made a motion to
    put them on her head, but she reached up and caught his arms.
         "Wait a minute!"
         "What?"
         Savina swallowed nervously. "Aren't these the sets they use
    in euthanasia centers?"
         The intern scoffed. "They don't use these in euthanasia
    centers."
         "I heard they put a headset on you and it stops your heart."
         "No, no, they inject an overdose of Msunginol into your
    jugular vein, kid. Nobody produces a headset that kills."
         "Are you sure?"
         "Yes, I'm sure. This just puts you into a deep sleep and
    blocks pain. It's a sedative."
         "I'm sure that's what they tell you in the euthanasia
    centers."
         "Have you ever been in a euthanasia center?"
         "No. Have you?"
         "No. Look, this has nothing to do with euthanasia."
         Tell that to my baby, she thought. "I don't want you putting
    those things on me."
         "I have to put these on you."
         "You're not going to. They give me the creeps."
         The intern gave her a funny look, as if he thought she might
    be up to something, but he sighed and said, "Look, I'll show you
    how they work. You see this knob over here? I can adjust it so
    that it only makes you feel relaxed, then when you're more assured
    I can sink you slowly into sleep." He tried once more to put them
    on her head, but she still held him back with trembling hands.
         "Please," she said, "they scare me."
         The intern had a disgusted look, now. "Believe me, they're
    not going to hurt you. I'll put them on myself --- see?" He
    clamped the headset onto his forehead, right behind his temples.
    He touched a button and gave her a pleasant smile. "There ---see?
    --- they're on low. I'm not twitching. My heart hasn't stopped.
    I'm fine. It's great, in fact . . . in fact I'm totally relaxed."
    The intern didn't say anything for several seconds, he just stood
    there with a dreamy smile and a faraway look in his eyes. Savina,
    holding her breath, moved her hand closer toward the little gray
    knob. "Yes," he said, "this is really nice . . . we used to play
    around with these at the academy." He licked his lips, slowly, and
    then his eyebrows suddenly dropped in concern. "Something like
    this can be quite addicting. If we were to----" He broke off,
    sighing, his eyes rolling up into his head. His legs gave out and
    he sank to the floor, half-sitting and half-lying up against the
    base of the table, the headset still firmly clamped against his
    forehead. Savina pulled her hand back from the control knob,
    staring down at him. The control knob was at full power, and as
    far as she could tell there was no timer. The man would be asleep
    until someone found him.
         She slipped off the table, stepping gingerly over the intern,
    pulled the hospital gown off and began dressing. The room was full
    of video pickups, but none of them looked like a security monitor.
    She had no idea if the building's security AI was watching or not.
    In some places an AI will be watching every monitor at all times,
    in others an AI will only watch some of the time. If one was
    watching now she wouldn't get off the floor without being
    intercepted. She squirmed into her jumpsuit, checked her pocket to
    make sure she still had her moneycard, then opened the door and
    strode as calmly as she could into the corridor.
         She took deep breaths, relaxing her muscles, calming herself
    down. Security monitors could sense tension even better than they
    could see. In order for them to completely ignore you, you had to
    remain calm, avoid direct eye contact with them, and restrain from
    quick movements. Every school kid knew this. One was right outside
    the door, pointing right at her. She turned with a fluid motion
    and walked calmly down the corridor toward the elevators. Ignore
    it, she told herself. It's not interested in you.
         "Excuse me, are you lost?"
         Savina whirled around, staring, her heart pounding. A male
    security nurse in a white and green uniform, with graying hair and
    wrinkles around his eyes, stood staring at her. He must have seen
    her walking out the door. "Yes," she told him, stepping up to him.
    "I always get off on the wrong floor. Which floor is this?"
         "You're on the seventh floor, sweetheart. Which floor do you
    want to be on?"
         "Pediatrics?" It was the first thing to enter her head.
         The old man looked at her quizzically. "You've got more than
    your floors mixed up. You're in the wrong building!"
         Savina shrugged. "I'm new here."
         "Oh, you work here?" He was looking at her suspiciously now.
         "Not exactly, I'm a volunteer."
         "You're a social worker?"
         "Uh, yeah, you guessed it."
         "Aren't you a little young for a social worker?"
         "I'm older than I look. You can imagine the trouble I have
    buying drinks."
         The old man's wrinkled brow relaxed, and he laughed. "My
    granddaughter's got the same problem. She's twenty-three and
    doesn't look a day over fourteen. It's the new inoculations, I
    think. I wish they were around when I was young."
         "You're, what, forty?" Savina asked.
         The nurse was tickled. "Forty, oh sweetheart!" He laughed.
    "I'm ninety-seven, almost a hundred years old."
         "That's amazing! You don't look anywhere near that."
         "Are you married?"
         "I'm engaged."
         "Rats."
         "Sorry." She shrugged.
         "Oh well," he said. "Anyway, the elevator's right down that
    way. You want building five for pediatrics, which is two over from
    the left after you're through the main exit."
         "Thanks."
         "No problem, sweetheart. You take care." He turned and walked
    away.
         Savina felt she was going to die of a stroke at any moment.
    She tried not to rush as she walked down the corridor toward the
    elevator, but she couldn't help it. At the elevators she pressed
    the down button and stood waiting directly under the unwavering
    gaze of a security monitor. She fought to control her breathing
    and heart rate, but it was no use. The old guy had startled her
    and now she was out of control. Standing there under the monitor
    she felt naked and vulnerable.
         The elevator was taking forever to arrive.
         Savina glanced at the button to make sure it was green. It
    was, her call had been registered in the elevator's queue. It was
    on its way. Savina stood waiting, feeling the sweat break out on
    her forehead. The security monitor glared down at her accusingly.
         Still she waited.
         Where is it? she wondered. Come on, come on! She jabbed at
    the button again, suspecting that the security system had shut the
    elevator down. She looked back down the corridor for a stairwell,
    but saw none. She wondered fleetingly if she should go looking for
    one.
         She jabbed at the button again. It went click just like last
    time, it still glowed green. Maybe it's broken, she thought, and
    jabbed it several times more. There was a low, quavering sound and
    she jumped. It was the elevator arriving. The doors to her left
    opened to reveal a beautiful woman in a white smock who smiled at
    her. She was blonde, wore thick make-up and had very red lips.
    "Hi," she said to Savina, her voice pleasant. "Going down?"
         "Yes," Savina said, smiling back. The woman had the badge of
    a full administrator, and inside Savina was quivering with nervous
    energy, her legs twitching and wanting to run. Any stories of
    being a social worker wouldn't pass with this one; she had a
    headset disguised as a hair band, and there was a thin trail of
    ribbon running down with the woman's hair. It was an antenna. She
    was wired directly into the MA computers and could check a fact
    with the merest thought. Savina got into the elevator with her and
    pressed the button to take her to the lobby. "Nice day today,"
    Savina told her.
         "Yes."
         "It's hotter than yesterday, isn't it?"
         The woman nodded, not in the mood to talk. Thank God, Savina
    thought. The elevator stopped on the 2nd floor and the
    administrator got out, saying a pleasant goodbye. Savina was
    amazed. If she acted like she had a right to be there nobody
    questioned her at all.
         When the elevator doors opened again she was in the lobby.
    She peered cautiously out of the elevator and spotted her parents,
    both sitting in the huge round waiting area with the television
    screens in the center. There were numerous screens showing
    numerous stations, and her parents were in front of the JTV area
    --- of course. Their backs were to her. She slipped out of the
    elevator and walked around the waiting area toward the main doors,
    keeping a curved row of plastic plants between her and her parents
    when she was in their line of sight.
         A loud undulating tone blared over the P.A. system, startling
    Savina, and a computer voice announced, "Security report to floor
    seven. Security report to floor seven. Code three-nine-three."
    They found the intern! she thought. Time to throw caution to the
    wind. Savina bolted out the door. She leapt over a low hedge and
    disappeared into the throng of pedestrians filling the sidewalk,
    heading away from the MA complex as fast as the foot traffic would
    let her.









                               13. BULU ROAD



         Saul was on the beach with his crew, sitting in his folding
    chair between sequences, listening to the creeching of the sea
    gulls and the babble of the people around him. It was pleasant,
    relaxing, all the sounds blending together to form a white noise,
    the ocean waves crashing, the breeze blowing in fresh and cool.
    Then from somewhere behind him there was a long, drawn-out cry of
    anguish, and instead of the beach Saul found himself rushing down
    a road with cars coming straight at him, their panic-horns blaring
    like a chorus of screams. Saul found a wheel in his hands. He was
    in his Mitsubishi Electric ReRun 550 with a woman passenger beside
    him, and she was clawing at the dashboard in terror.
         There had been a moment, a flash, when both things were
    happening at once --- Saul was on the beach and in the car, with
    the anguished wail from behind blending and harmonizing with the
    squeal of terror beside him --- then the beach was gone, and Saul
    was pulling the steering wheel hard to the right to avoid the
    oncoming traffic. Brakes locked and tires skidded, but no impact
    occurred. Cars passed to either side of him. Gasping, startled out
    of his mind, Saul waited for a break in the traffic then brought
    the car to the side of the road and stopped.
         Beyond giving him a dazed, bewildered look, the woman beside
    him said nothing. Her eyes were red and swollen, her make-up
    streaked from tears. After making sure everything was safe, she
    turned back toward the passenger-side door and resumed her crying.
    Saul himself was utterly at a loss --- he had no idea who she was.
    He had no idea where he was driving. How had he gotten here?
         "Excuse me," he said to the woman. "I don't think I'm well."
         She paid no attention to him; she was too busy crying. Saul
    turned to his onboard computer for a clue. It answered
    immediately, transparent words forming in red letters on the
    windshield in front of him, shimmering:

           OUR LOCATION IS BULU ROAD, 1.4 MILES FROM CAMERON COVE

    Cameron Cove? Saul thought. Where is Cameron Cove? The answer came
    to him slowly, like the sun rising: Cameron Cove is where he
    lived. He set the destination into the autopilot, which should
    have been driving in the first place, then turned to consider the
    woman beside him as the car pulled itself back onto the road.
         The woman, while he could not place her, did seem familiar.
    It seemed he should know her. She glanced up to see him staring,
    and said in a choked voice, "I'm okay. Just let me get the shock
    out of my system."
         It's finally happening, Saul thought. I'm going insane.
    "Okay," he told her. "We'll be home soon."
         She nodded, turning away. She looked familiar, so very
    familiar, but her name escaped him. It seemed, possibly, that he
    worked with her. That he knew her.
         The car pulled into a large beachfront villa and parked
    itself in his garage. The woman got out and without waiting for
    him went inside. She didn't even look behind to see if he was
    following her. He wasn't, because Saul did not recognize the villa
    --- he knew he owned it, it was his, but he could not remember
    ever being there.
         Saul knew he'd been there --- he lived there!
         What's happening to me? he thought. How can I forget that I
    live in a house that I know I live in? How can I forget who that
    woman is----? I must know her. I have to know her. Think, think,
    who is she? What's her name?
         Think!
         Saul drew a blank --- a total black void. It must be brain
    damage, he thought. The Mataphin is eating my brain. Or have I
    always been this way? I can't remember.
         I can't remember!
         Saul forced himself to get out of the car. He made his way
    over to the door that led to the kitchen --- he knew it led to the
    kitchen, and when he opened the door there was indeed a kitchen.
    Totally unfamiliar, but a kitchen nonetheless.
         He hesitated a long time before entering because it occurred
    to him that this might not actually be his house. He may only
    think it is his house --- how could he know for sure? Maybe it
    belonged to the woman who he'd just brought here? No, the car was
    his, and it was the car's autopilot that had driven him here, to
    his home. Saul took a cautious step through the door and just as
    it closed behind him a beautiful blond woman rushed into the room.
    It was his wife, Mirro; she looked at him gravely. He recognized
    her without a problem, knowing everything about her --- and at the
    sight of her he felt a surging rush of affection.
         "She's okay, Saul," Mirro said. "I gave her some NoBlues and
    now she's calmed down. She's resting."
         Saul looked at her helplessly.
         "I'm glad you called me," she told him, a curious edge to her
    voice. It sounded uncomfortable and apologetic. "This is a big
    blow to her, she loves her son very much. Her ex-husband wouldn't
    have been much of a comfort to her even at a time like this." She
    paused, licking her lips, and took a deep breath. "This was very
    . . . this was very sensitive of you, Saul. I didn't think you
    . . ." She trailed off, staring at him. Then in a rush she crossed
    the room and grabbed him, kissing him on his numb lips. Letting
    go, she turned and strode out of the kitchen, back into the depths
    of the house. The unfamiliar house.
         Is it possible, Saul thought, dazed, that this is the way
    normal perception is without Mataphin? Everything like this?
    Jumbled? Confusing? Unfamiliar? It seemed like it now, now that
    Saul was thinking about it. Yes, he thought. Mataphin makes things
    clearer. It's the only thing that helps me put everything together
    in a way that makes sense.
         Saul reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out the dispenser,
    and took four. Then he walked out of the kitchen into the
    unfamiliar hall, past the dining room and beyond. His wife, he had
    to find his wife. She had gone down here somewhere. At one point
    he found a door, opened it, and peered inside. A bathroom. Empty.
    He stared at it for a long time, his mind blank. What was it I was
    going to do? he thought. He stepped in, kneeled impulsively beside
    the large white tub and started the bath cycle. The temperature
    control blinked and Saul set it for 100 degrees Celsius. A buzzer
    went off somewhere; the control blinked again. Bubbling, hissing
    water came sputtering out of the jets, splashing him. He jerked
    when the water touched him, he had no idea why. What was going on?
    He was just reaching down to stick his hand in the tub when
    someone from behind Saul grabbed his arm.
         "Saul!" his wife exclaimed. "What are you doing?"
         "What?"
         "You want to cook yourself? What are you doing?"
         "I don't understand."
         "You have boiling water coming out of that tap!"
         "Boiling? It's only . . ." He stared at the temperature
    readout in shock: 100 degrees Celsius. "How in the hell did that
    happen?" he exclaimed.
         "Saul, are you feeling okay? Vicky says you nearly drove into
    oncoming traffic on the way over here." She tugged on him, pulling
    him to a standing position. He wavered on his feet, staring down
    at the tub.
         Mirro bent over and shut off the water, set the tub to drain.
    Saul, watching, realized the tub was familiar, as was the entire
    bathroom. Then he thought, Why shouldn't the bathroom be familiar?
    What a stupid thought! What is wrong with me? And the house ---
    why shouldn't my own goddamn house look familiar to me? And that
    woman, Vicky . . . poor woman, it's such a rotten thing about her
    son. In jail for rape! Facing a long sentence and sterilization.
    How awful.
         I wish I'd been sterilized. I wish we'd had our kid aborted.
         "I know that, Saul," his wife said in a low voice. Saul
    realized that he must have been speaking out loud. "But we have
    her," she told him, "and we can't change that."
         He said nothing, feeling embarrassed and ashamed.
         She stood in front of him and peered up into his eyes. With
    one hand she reached out and felt his forehead. "You look pale.
    Are you sick? Please tell me."
         "I'm fine," he said, pulling away from her. He strode out of
    the bathroom and back toward the kitchen, knowing that he lied,
    knowing that there was something terribly wrong. He had the
    kitchen fix him a fried steak, watched the robot arms with bleary
    eyes. It could be the Mataphin, he thought. I've been eating it
    like candy.
         And, in a flash of clear thought, Saul realized how
    disoriented he'd been, how frighteningly disjointed the whole
    afternoon was --- ever since Vicky had been called by her
    ex-husband with the bad news. But then he thought, Was the day
    really like that, or is it just the way I remember it?
         He had no idea.









                               14. EUTHANASIA



         Sheila didn't help him in preparing the meal. She remained in
    the living room, trapped. He'd managed to get her to shower and
    dress up, but having finished that she was right back at the
    television, the Travels sphere reflecting in her blank eyes. Dodd
    had given up trying to get it disconnected --- now he was thinking
    of getting rid of the television system altogether. What is she
    escaping from? he wondered as he and the robot arms stirred and
    mixed the dinner. Is she trying to escape some ancient sorrow that
    she hasn't told me about? A bad experience? Or is she escaping
    from life itself? Too complicated and too much effort, she doesn't
    want to deal with it and instead of checking into a euthanasia
    center she simply turns off her mind.
         Suicide is a sin, he thought. Watching Travels is not.
         Letting the robot arms take over completely, Dodd walked into
    the living room and stared at the television. It was interesting,
    it was colorful, and the images and the music drew him in----
         ----and he turned abruptly away, angry. It had almost got
    him. Averting his eyes he walked to the video components and,
    instead of turning it off, he changed the channel. Here's an
    experiment, he thought. Would Sheila even notice?
         He had tuned into the Politico Network, but there was a
    commercial on that was patterned very closely to Travels. A man
    folded a piece of paper into an airplane and tossed it out what
    looked like a 200th story window; it flew through various
    landscapes, lush and colorful, then zoomed straight up into space
    at a terrific speed. The announcer, speaking in a rich and
    mesmerizing voice, said, ". . . due to our exclusive tachyon
    carrier-wave systems, we can get your data anywhere, faster than
    anyone, with clarity and power that nobody else can match. We're
    Global Telesis. We invented faster-than-light technology. We're on
    the leading edge of tomorrow . . ."
         There was perhaps 3 seconds of blank screen with a low
    hollow-sounding tone, then a man's face appeared, his features
    rough and timeworn like a weathered old skull. It was the
    President of the United Americas, Dodd realized. "New Millennial
    Marxism has spread throughout most of the world, but Capitalistic
    freedom has infiltrated it. People in Marxist countries are freer
    now than they ever had been before----"
         "What is this?" Sheila said, her voice betraying shock and
    panic. "What happened? Who is that man?"
         "That's our President," Dodd told her.
         "What's he doing on Travels?"
         Dodd shrugged. "I don't know! Maybe we're at war again?"
         "Oh no!"
         Dodd felt guilty at the panic-stricken look on her face, but
    then again, was she panicked because of the possibility of war or
    because she may lose her Travels channel? The President continued,
    and as it turned out it was a commercial for his political party,
    the Free Exchangers. There was a quick blurb for the famous Free
    Speech Forum show and then a Politico Network station
    identification.
         "This isn't Travels!"
         Dodd made an astounded expression. "No! It isn't! Hey, that
    was weird, huh?"
         "Yeah!" She made a motion for the channel changer but Dodd
    beat her to it.
         "Let's watch the Free Speech Forum," he said. "It's on next."
         "What?"
         He smiled at her, but said nothing. Let her figure out what I
    said, he thought. Thirty seconds ticked by.
         "Dodd, change it back," she said.
         "What?"
         "Change it back."
         "Change what back?"
         "Change the channel back to Travels!"
         "This is Travels."
         "It is not."
         "Yes it is. This is Travels."
         Sheila's expression was that of a person who'd just
    experienced a spontaneous lobotomy. Dull confusion and pain.
    Struggling to make sense of small words. "This isn't Travels," she
    said, unsure.
         "Yes it is."
         "It is?"
         "Yes, they changed it. It's going to be a talk show from now
    on."
         Thoughts passed like anemic, dying sparks behind her eyes.
    "This is the Politico channel!"
         "It is?"
         "Yes!"
         "Amazing!"
         The doorbell rang.
         "Well," Dodd said, "the guests are here. Time for the TV to
    go off anyway." He shut it off, and reached behind to pull out a
    few signal cables just in case Denise mindlessly walked over and
    tried to turn it on. Sheila made protesting motions that Dodd
    ignored. He answered the door and welcomed the Recents inside,
    smiling and happy. They walked in like robots, motions stiff and
    uncomfortable. Denise's skin was a ghastly pale. She immediately
    went to the television to turn it on, and the giant screen filled
    with static.
         "What's wrong?" she said, concerned. "Did I push a wrong
    button?"
         "No, it's been acting up. I've got to have a repairman out
    here, huh Sheila?"
         "What?"
         "First it would change stations at random, and now it doesn't
    pick anything up at all."
         "Oh, yeah," she said vaguely.
         "How awful," Denise said, with feeling.
         "It was a mess," Dodd told her. He was staring, shocked at
    how thin she looked. Sickly thin. He walked over to Sheila and
    took her by the arm, leading her to the dining room table as Bob
    and Denise followed. He had it all set up with his finest bone
    china, made in the American state of Brazil, and had the gold
    electroplate flatware arranged perfectly on the thick white cloth
    napkins. No one complimented him on his table, they just sat down,
    bored expressions on their faces. They didn't even notice that
    there were no places set for Toby and his family. Dodd had to
    point it out to them, and explain what was going on. They muttered
    regrets automatically, on cue, but showed no real concern for
    Toby's daughter. Dodd let it pass.
         "Dinner's going to be ready in just a minute or so," he told
    them. "I'll be right back." He turned and walked into the kitchen,
    dodging the robot arms and checking the condition of the food.
    Rabbit Rizzo in white cream sauce, with cheese vegetable and baby
    potato rehydrated in the finest grade ersatz soy butter . . . it
    smelled delicious. "Is it done?" he asked the kitchen control. It
    indicated an affirmative, so he and the robot arms began dishing
    it up. He brought it out to the table with two shades of wine on a
    roll-away tray, served everyone, then sat himself next to Sheila
    to dig in. Dodd was pleased to see the rich flavor bringing
    everyone to life. See! he thought. See, you morons, there's more
    to life than Travels!
         "This is really good," Bob said with food in his mouth. He
    looked surprised, as did the two women.
         Dodd glowed. "Glad you like it."
         "This is really good," said Denise.
         "Why, thank you."
         "This is really good," she said again, not being able to get
    over the shock.
         "It tastes better than Travels?" Dodd asked.
         "What?"
         "Are you sure it's not too rich? I put in extra butter and
    cheese."
         "No, it's really good."
         Bob gave him a funny look. He had caught the remark about
    Travels, but didn't say anything about it. "So, what do you think
    about this second coming?" he asked Dodd.
         "It's going to be the end of the world." Dodd took a bite of
    the potato --- yes, yes it was good. He had out-done himself.
         "How do you mean?"
         "What?"
         "You said 'end of the world.'"
         "Oh, exactly that. I think that if the Savior returns then
    the world will end." He smiled at their decidedly blank
    expression. "What do you guys think?"
         "I think it's a crock," Bob said, dismissing it. It was
    obvious he was sorry he brought the subject up.
         "I think it's a crock," Denise said, nodding.
         "Really?"
         She nodded her head, stuffing more food in her mouth.
         Dodd turned to Sheila. "How about you?"
         Her eyes were brightening, as if atrophied brain tissue was
    struggling back to life. "I think it's exciting."
         "Do you really?" he said, encouraging her.
         "Yes, it could be . . . it could be a whole new beginning."
         Dodd was proud of her for having a thought all on her own,
    despite its simplicity. "What good things might come from a new
    beginning?"
         She pondered this. "They can get rid of the euthanasia
    centers."
         Now Dodd was really proud of her. She was recovering! "Is
    euthanasia bad?"
         "Yes, Dodd, you know it is."
         He smiled at her.
         "That would be a good thing," Bob said, pausing with a fork
    before his mouth. "I hope that comes about."
         "Really?"
         "Yes. It's not right. The planet's not overpopulated anymore,
    why are they still around?"
         "I don't know," Dodd said, urging him to continue. "You tell
    me."
         "Well, it's too convenient. The courts send prisoners there,
    it's easy for them to do. People kill themselves there without
    someone to try and talk them out of it." He put the fork of food
    into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully.
         Denise was looking back and forth between Dodd and her
    husband with an anxious expression. "I think it's wrong, too," she
    said.
         "Why do you think it's wrong?"
         "Well, you know."
         "Do you think it's wrong for a person to decide not to live
    anymore?"
         "Yes, it's . . . yes."
         Dodd leaned forward. "Why?"
         Denise's face twitched. She looked away from him, down at the
    plate, around the table. She couldn't come up with an answer.
         "A person is given a life," Bob said, coming to her rescue.
    "It's a shame to waste it, you only have one."
         "They're getting very close to being able to back up all the
    knowledge in a person's brain," Dodd said. "If you could back up
    your brain, Bob, and store it on a computer, then load it into a
    new body when yours gets too old to continue living, would that
    new body be you or would it be your child?"
         "It would be another body."
         "But it's cloned from your DNA. It has your memory RNA in it.
    Your memories are fed into it, your attitudes, everything you
    know. It will think it is you. Will it be you, or not?"
         "It would be another body."
         "So you would have died?"
         "Well, no, I guess not. Maybe it would be me. Why are we
    talking about this?"
         "I personally believe that this new body will not be you. I
    think that death is death, and I agree with you about those
    euthanasia centers."
         "Oh." Bob shrugged, but Dodd could tell the man was pleased
    to have someone agree with him. Dodd wanted to encourage that,
    because he wanted to keep everybody talking. All of them, the
    Recents and Denise, seemed to have forgotten how to talk to each
    other in just a short period of time. It was only now, with all of
    them at the table in the same condition, that Dodd finally
    realized it was more than his imagination. Something was happening
    to these people. It frightened Dodd. They were all growing
    mentally weak, and Denise was physically so.
         The end of the world, he thought. Here was proof. He wanted
    to broach the subject to them even though he knew it would ruin
    the evening, but before he had a chance the phone rang, and it was
    Toby.
         "Hello, all," he said through the screen to everyone. "Dodd,
    I need your help."
         "What's wrong?"
         "Savina got away from the Medical Authorities. My child ran
    away."
         "What!"
         "For some reason she is protecting the boy who raped her. She
    told us a story about not being raped, said she was pregnant and
    knew it. I do not know what to do, Dodd. Will you help me?"
         "Sure I'll help! When did this happen?"
         "Just now. They just found the intern unconscious, and their
    security computers spotted her leaving the hospital."
         "She knocked out an intern?"
         "Yes. That's what they tell me."
         "Are you still there?"
         "Yes."
         "And this just happened, what, a minute ago?"
         "About five minutes, yes."
         "Did the police ask you for the number of her moneycard?"
         "No, they did not."
         "Well, they will. I don't know if she knows it or not, but
    most fugitives are caught when they use their moneycard in a cab
    or a restaurant."
         "Savina is smart, I think she will know."
         "Then I bet you that the first thing she's going to do is try
    --- she'll want to get cash from her account before the police put
    a trace on it. Find out from Information where the nearest bank is
    around there, and I'll meet you there. Maybe we can find her
    before the MA's do."
         "Okay. I knew I could count on you!" Toby rang off.
         Dodd dialed Information himself, searching for the spot to
    meet his friend.

                                     #

         Savina had walked a couple miles before she felt safe enough
    to slow down and catch her breath. She was exhausted. Just ahead
    there was a subway terminal with a throng of people, the last wave
    of the rush hour, the entry way choked with bodies entering and
    exiting. She ducked off the sidewalk into the alcove of an old
    building, leaning up against a rail of some low steps and stood
    there thinking. Her excitement was a physical thing, an
    electricity running up and down her legs and arms. Freedom, she
    thought. Freedom is an incredible feeling. She put her hand
    against the lower part of her stomach, feeling the firmness.
    "You're going to be okay," she told it, the little spirit forming
    down there. "Mama's going to take good care of you."
         Pedestrians passed by in herds. Cars and autocabs buzzed and
    honked. Savina looked up and down the street and into the air for
    any sign of a police drone, then slipped back into the crowd. An
    autocab came by in cruising mode, searching for customers; Savina
    hailed it and jumped in, pulling out her moneycard and slipping it
    into the slot. "I need to go to the nearest branch of any bank,"
    she told it as she keyed-in her secret code.
         ACCESSING INFORMATION, it replied, glowing words on the
    little screen above the keyboard.
         LOCATION DETERMINED, PLOTTING COURSE.
         COURSE PLOTTED. APPROVE?
         The screen showed a section of city map with a plot
    determined through the streets. Savina approved and the cab took
    off, pulling into traffic with arrogant machine confidence. Savina
    watched their progress carefully, ready to pop the emergency door
    and jump out if it veered off toward, say, a police station. She
    didn't think they could have gotten her card number into their
    system yet, but there was no way to tell until it was too late.
    She had to risk getting to her money or she would lose access to
    it.
         The bank was only another mile or so away. It was right next
    to a euthanasia center, which gave her the creeps. Already she
    could see it looming over the skyline. There was always at least
    one in sight.
         There was motion in the corner of her eye, and she turned to
    see a police drone hovering above the traffic. It made its way
    past Savina's cab, passing about 8 feet overhead, and continued on
    down the street. Her cab turned left, veering off. Savina let out
    her breath. Police drones were a common enough sight but the
    appearance of this one had caused her heart to stop.
         The cab cruised down the wide, clean street for another half
    mile then pulled over to a stop, the screen flashing the same
    message that its electronic voice announced: "You have reached
    your indicated destination. $14.30 has been deducted from your
    account. Please remember to take your moneycard as you exit. Thank
    you for your patronage!" Savina grabbed her card and stepped out
    of the cab. She was right in front of the euthanasia center, the
    bank a tiny little building squeezed in next to it.
         Savina looked up.
         The euthanasia center was impossibly tall, its sharp white
    lines stretching up and up into infinity as if God had reached
    down, taken hold of the top, and pulled, stretching it like a
    piece of taffy into outer space. It filled Savina with a dreadful
    fascination, made her feel infinitely small and lonely, a germ on
    the floor. She couldn't look away. It was like an eternal
    monument; it was there and always had been there and always would
    be there, and in comparison Savina was a quick little spark, her
    entire life nothing more than a second in passing. The sight
    inspired hopelessness, defeat; it was a place people ended up when
    they discovered it was all too much, that existence was
    overwhelming and they just could not handle it. People were put to
    sleep like sick animals; the poor, the hungry, the weary, the
    anguished, the crippled, the insane --- even criminals. As Savina
    stared, wanting to look away and yet unable to, people passed
    around her in a hush, saying nothing, taking light, quick steps
    and not looking up.
         Somebody grasped Savina by the shoulder. "It's an illusion,"
    said a warm, deep, throaty woman's voice.
         Savina tore her gaze away from the building and looked at the
    woman. She was shaking her head at Savina, her long straight black
    hair swinging back and forth. The woman was tall, and her skin was
    dark but not quite the same shade as Savina's. She appeared to be
    American Indian, or at least seemed to have a lot of it in her
    blood. "You don't want to go in there," she told Savina. "That
    won't solve anything."
         Savina realized she was surrounded by ragged-looking people,
    dressed in shabby ill-fitting clothes with wild, long hair.
    Anarchists, Savina thought. "I'm not going in there," she said.
         The woman's brown eyes bore into Savina's, calm, peaceful
    eyes with a awesome sense of presence. "This building was designed
    to induce the feelings you were experiencing. It's only six
    hundred feet high, and the top four hundred feet are hollow. The
    rest is a hologram."
         "I knew that," Savina said, intimidated.
         "Don't ever by sucked in by it. Illusions never deliver what
    they promise."
         "I'm just going to the bank."
         The woman nodded. "You were distracted. Part of the
    building's purpose is to lure. You felt the lure, didn't you?"
         Savina stared into the woman's eyes. "Yes, I did."
         "The image robs you of hope and inspires thoughts of
    morality. To those without hope, it brings a sense of peace. They
    feel that if they surrender to it, they become part of it." The
    woman shook her head. "It's a lie."
         Savina nodded, not knowing what to say. The woman was
    strangely magnetic.
         "You look troubled," the woman said.
         "I'm, I, I've got to get to the bank."
         "Okay. Just don't go into the euthanasia center. Don't ever
    go into the euthanasia center."
         "I don't intend to," Savina said, edging though the other
    anarchist. Weird, she thought. Too weird. She got past them and
    made her way past the white tower, very consciously not looking up
    at it, then entered the bank and got in line for the autotellers.
    Savina had known that the anarchists hung out at the euthanasia
    centers; they were famous for talking people out of suicide, were
    even heros in some circles. The tall woman with the intense eyes
    didn't seem an anarchist, though. There was too much to her, some
    sort of gestalt power. Intense was the word that came to Savina's
    mind.
         There were security monitors everywhere inside the bank.
    Savina was a rattled due to the woman anarchist --- she hoped it
    wasn't to the point where it would trigger the interest of the
    bank's security AI. She stood in line, waiting with everyone else
    and refraining from making eye contact with the monitors. As she
    stood there she realized that she had gotten into the slowest
    line. Figures, she thought.
         I wonder if I should splurge and get a room for the night?
    Tonight I can give Dodd a call, ask him for help. Maybe I can get
    him to come and stay with me? Savina smiled at the unlikeliness of
    the thought.
         She moved up in the line. Her's was still the slowest --- she
    couldn't believe this always happened to her. Today was the worst,
    and it was the worst time for it to happen. If the police had
    inserted her number into their system then the autoteller would
    call them as soon as she inserted her card. If she took the safe
    way out, stayed away from the bank, she would be destitute. Is it
    worth it, though? she wondered. I'm free now. What good will cash
    be if I'm going to prison?
         She was two people away from the autoteller and the old man
    at the front was now verbally arguing with the machine. You might
    as well argue with a wall, Savina thought. To either side of her
    the lines were moving smoothly. God, she thought, why this now?
    Now of all times! She hid her face in her hands, keeping her
    frustration in. Yelling at the old man would only attract the
    attention of the security AI.
         The old man, hunched and grey and slow-moving, gave up and
    got out of line. The woman in front of Savina stepped up to the
    autoteller and opened her purse, dumping the entire contents onto
    the stainless table used for signing vouchers. She began digging
    through the contents for something, probably her moneycard.
         Savina leaned casually over toward her. "Excuse me, I'm in a
    hurry. I was wondering if I could take care of my business really
    quick while you're----"
         "I beg your pardon," the woman said, "I'm in line here before
    you, I waited just as long."
         "I'm sorry," Savina said. "Never mind."
         "I think you're a very pushy, rude child. Who do you think
    you are to just go pushing in line. Think your business is more
    important than mine?"
         "Look, I didn't mean anything. I'm sorry." Savina was
    beginning to sweat because the security AI was surely looking at
    them by now. "Go on with your business, never mind me."
         "Oh, never mind you, huh? Like it's me who's doing the wrong
    thing. Don't you try to make it out like it's my fault that----"
         "Lady," a man behind Savina said, "this girl says she's sorry
    and we're all in a hurry here."
         "What, are you her boyfriend? Now you're going to push me out
    of the way? Let me tell you something, you----"
         "Lady, just shut up and finish," the man snapped at her.
         "Shut up? You're telling me to shut up?"
         "He's telling you to shut up, and I'm telling you to shut
    up," said another person behind Savina, a tall woman with a green
    punk-resurrection hairstyle. "It's late and we're all in a hurry.
    How long do you want to stand here?"
         Shouted down, the woman in front of Savina turned and
    pointedly ignored them, and took her own sweet time finishing up
    her transaction. I'm living a nightmare, Savina thought. Her
    imagination told her that every security monitor in the bank was
    focused on her. She closed her eyes and tried to pretend she
    wasn't there.
         Finally the crabby lady finished and walked away with a stiff
    neck. Savina took a breath and stepped up to the autoteller. She
    inserted her card and punched in her code with shaking fingers.
    There was $1322.70 in her account; she instructed the machine to
    give her all of it. The screen blinked as if taken aback, and two
    large words appeared:

                           P L E A S E   W A I T

    Wait? Wait for what? This had never happened before. Then again
    she had never pulled all the money out of her account before.
    There was a humming noise, and Savina thought, This is it.
         The crabby woman had been standing at the rear of the room
    rearranging things in her purse, and was just now opening a door
    to leave. There was a loud click and dull beeping. The doors were
    locking and the one that was open --- the woman, startled, was
    standing against it --- began to push its way closed, forcing the
    crabby woman back into the bank. Savina stared about wildly. It
    was happening, it was really happening. She turned and bolted for
    the door, sliding through as the woman unintentionally held it
    open for her. She hurtled down the front steps three at a time,
    and at the sidewalk came to a sliding halt: her father, Bob Recent
    and Dodd Corely were not more than thirty meters away, walking
    slowly toward her. All three of them were looking up at the
    infinite white tower of the euthanasia center.
         There was a narrow alley between the bank and the center, a
    space for the autonomic garbage-collection trucks to pass. Savina
    ran for it, up several steps then over a railing, dropping four
    feet to the smooth concrete of the alley. She threw one last
    glance behind her before she was out of sight, and found a whole
    group of anarchists standing and watching her. She continued
    running, pounding the ground hard with her feet, flying headlong
    down the alley to find it was a dead end.









                             15. SIDEWALK RULE



         Dodd had mixed feelings about finding Savina. He wanted her
    safe, but he wanted her to have what she wanted. He also wanted to
    help Toby who was worried sick about his missing daughter. Either
    way he was betraying someone he cared about.
         Bob had volunteered to come along, which had surprised Dodd.
    Bob was almost eager to go. He was alive again, awake. Wonders
    could happen during a crisis. People showed their true colors ---
    even Toby was back to his old self. All three were gazing up at
    the specter of the white tower when there was a muffled shout
    accompanied by banging noises. Dodd pulled his eyes down from the
    dizzying sight and looked over at the bank. There were people
    inside and the doors were closed. The people were all looking out,
    some calling for help, some banging on the windows.
         "Something's happening at the bank," Bob said.
         "There's people locked inside!" Toby exclaimed. "Look at
    that." He pronounced "that" almost like "dot."
         They hurried up the steps toward the closed bank door, and a
    hand reached out and gave Dodd's sleeve a tug as he passed. Dodd
    paused, looking back. It was a familiar face, a half-smile nearly
    invisible in his scraggly beard. "Dodd," the face said, "what's
    up."
         "Danny," Dodd said, surprised. He looked back at the other
    two, who had reached the bank door, then turned back to his
    anarchist friend. "Danny, did you see a young black girl around
    here, about so high?"
         "She was pretty," Danny said.
         "You saw her?"
         "I saw a young black girl. She came running out of that bank
    just before it locked up. The police are going to be here any
    second."
         "Where did she go?"
         "Why? I'm not turning anyone in."
         "Danny, this is me! Where did she go?"
         Danny shrugged. "She ran into the alley, but that doesn't
    lead anywhere."
         Dodd stood looking into his friend's eyes for a moment. "It
    doesn't go anywhere?"
         "Nope."
         "Okay." Dodd thought a moment, struggling with his conscious.
    "Don't tell anyone anything."
         "I'm oblivious," Danny said, grinning.
         As Dodd started up toward his friends, they turned and came
    trotting back down. "She was here! She was here, you were right!"
         "These guys said they saw her running down that way," Dodd
    said, pointing down the street. "It was hardly a minute ago."
         "Let's go!"
         "You two go, I'll cut through here in case she's going around
    the block." Dodd pointed at the alley.
         "Okay!" Toby went trotting down the street with Bob tagging
    along. Dodd made his way into the alley, which went around the
    building and ended. There were solid locked doors and concrete
    walls thirty feet high, and right in the middle was a large black
    trash dumpster with the lids closed. Everything was glaring light,
    white concrete and white building walls, white doors to the
    building. The blackness of the dumpster was a harsh contrast,
    sucking in light like a hole.
         Dodd walked up to the dumpster and raised the thick plastic
    lid. Savina stared up at him, half buried in shredded computer
    printouts and used silicon drinking cups. "What in the hell are
    you doing?" he asked her.
         "Dodd, help me!"
         "I sent your father racing down the street on a wild goose
    chase. He's never going to forgive me for this."
         "Dodd, the bank ate my moneycard! It tried to lock me in."
         "I saw."
         "You've got to help me!"
         "You are in over your head, you know that, don't you?"
         "Yes."
         "Why are you running away?"
         "To save my baby!"
         Dodd sighed. He couldn't imagine a better reason to run away.
    "I can't believe I'm doing this," he said more to himself than to
    her. "You stay in here for now, I'm going to go talk to one of my
    friends in that group of anarchists around front. If you get away,
    you call me. If you get caught, swear to me that you won't tell
    them I tried to help you. Your father will kill me, and I mean
    that. He will rip my fucking arms off and beat me to death with
    them. Do you understand?"
         Savina nodded.
         "The guy's name is Danny Marauder. He has a beard, red hair
    and a broken front tooth. If he tells you to do something, do it.
    He saved my life at least twice back in the war."
         "I love you, Dodd."
         "Well I'm pissed at you." Dodd closed the lid.
         He walked around to the front where quite a crowd was
    gathering, looked up and down the street for any sign of Toby or
    Bob. Bob was way, way down on the corner of the city block,
    searching the passing pedestrians for Savina's face. Toby was
    nowhere in sight. The group of anarchists were still spread around
    the wide entrance to the euthanasia center, keeping their distance
    from the bank. Dodd looked at his watch. There would be police
    drones here at any second.
         Dodd spotted Danny Marauder standing next to a tall,
    dark-haired woman who looked like a pure-blood American Indian.
    "I've got a favor to ask," he said, walking up to Danny.
         "You've got at least one coming," Danny told him.
         "That girl I was asking you about, she's hiding in the
    dumpster behind the bank. She's pregnant and underage, wants to
    keep the baby. Her name's Savina."
         "She means a lot to you," the Indian woman said.
         Dodd looked at her, distracted. "Yes, a lot. I'd like her to
    get away."
         "Your kid, huh?" Danny said, smiling.
         "No, I'm kinda her uncle . . ." Dodd trailed off, realizing
    what Danny was implying. "No it's not my kid! I'm not the father,
    it's one of her school friends."
         "Sure," Danny said.
         "He's telling the truth," the woman told Danny. She turned to
    Dodd. "We'll help her get away. We'll take care of her and her
    child."
         Dodd looked from her to Danny and back. "Uh, well, thanks."
    There was something strange with this Indian woman. He instantly
    liked her.
         "Don't feel guilty about your friend," she told him. "You did
    the right thing." She gave Danny a little push, and he patted Dodd
    on the shoulder and made his way off through the crowd.
         "I'd better, uh . . ." Dodd indicated the direction that Toby
    and Bob had gone.
         "You go. We'll take care of Savina."
         "Thanks." Dodd turned, feeling a peculiar reluctance to
    leave. He forced himself to trot off toward Bob, who was still at
    the corner. As he ran he felt he had thrown all his emotions up
    into the air, and they were raining down around him at random. He
    felt bad, he felt good, he felt guilty, he felt like a traitor.
    Bob spotted him coming up the street, and waved.
         "The alley was a dead end," Dodd said. "Where's Toby?"
         "He went off that way, toward the subway," Bob said. "I'm
    here in case she doubles back."
         "If you see Toby, tell him I went this way," Dodd said,
    pointing in the opposite direction Toby had gone. He waved and
    trotted off down the city sidewalk, avoiding other pedestrians and
    hoping to get himself utterly lost. He didn't care where he went,
    he just didn't want to be found again.
         The end of the world, he thought. The end of the fucking
    world.

                                     #

         Inside the box it was hot and smelled of moldy coffee
    grounds. The deep black color was soaking in the sunlight that the
    white concrete all around it was reflecting. When Dodd had opened
    the lid a rush of cool air hit her and revitalized her, but now
    that it was closed again the oven effect was back and her blue
    jumpsuit was becoming soaked with her sweat.
         Savina waited, as Dodd had told her. She knew he'd help her,
    she just knew it. She loved him more than anyone in the world at
    that moment. The crush she'd always had on him matured, blossomed.
    She was in love with him now.
         A woman's voice from outside the dumpster spoke her name.
    "Savina, we're going to help you. I'm going to throw a shirt and a
    hat in, I want you to put them on before you come out. The shirt
    is overlarge, you can wear it like a dress. Take off that
    jumpsuit."
         Take off the jumpsuit? She had only panties and a bra on
    underneath. The top opened only long enough to let in a rush of
    air and a few cloth items, then it was closed again. Savina stood,
    lifted the lid just enough to peek outside. It was the Indian
    woman.
         Savina struggled out of her jumpsuit in the cramped box, then
    put on the shirt and the wide-brimmed felt hat. The shirt hung
    almost to her knees. She opened the top and she self-consciously
    pulled herself out of the dumpster, dropping to the ground next to
    the woman. "My jumpsuit," she mumbled, looking back.
         "Leave it," the woman said, closing the lid. "My name's
    Evelyn. We have to hurry." She led Savina down the alley toward
    the street.
         "Are you a friend of Dodd's?"
         "Yes. Don't be frightened, but I'm going to get jumped. Get
    ready. Someone's going to grab you, but it's a friend."
         They emerged from the alley right into the line of sight of
    two police drones. They were ugly oblong floating bugs about 2
    meters long and painted black; scanning receptors swung back and
    forth like antennae and legs on a insect. Savina was so close she
    could hear the servos whirring.
         Two men jumped from the crowd and tackled the Indian woman to
    the ground. The Indian woman screamed at the top of her lungs, and
    the men swung their fists, smacking brutal blows. Arms grabbed
    Savina from behind and pulled her back. It was a large red-headed
    man with a beard, he stepped in between Savina and the fight,
    blocking her view of the drones.
         "Help!" the Indian woman screamed. "Oh, help me! Rape! Rape!"
         "Eeeyaa!" one of her attackers yelled.
         The red-haired man and Savina backed away slowly, very
    slowly. Both police drones moved to hover over the fight, and a
    mechanical voice warned them to cease and desist immediately. The
    second drone pulled back, moving around to scan the growing crowd.
    Rocks flew from nowhere and pelted it, drawing it away as it
    searched for the source. One of the wavering insect legs was a
    stunner gun; it began zapping indiscriminately into the crowd as
    it grew disoriented. The other drone was busily spraying down the
    Indian woman and her attackers with an aerosol paralysis gas.
    Within seconds they were limp.
         Savina and the red-haired man made it to the outside edge of
    the crowd and he directed her to slowly turn and begin walking
    away. "Walk," the man told her. "Walk calmly. Never run. I'll be
    behind you."
         Savina turned and walked down the sidewalk toward the
    northeast, walking slowly. She couldn't stand it, she had to run,
    but she trusted the man and walked, trusting Dodd, biting her
    lower lip and feeling that all eyes were on her. Every footstep
    was an agony, every yard she gained an eternity. She doubted she
    would get as far as the corner.
         Her imagination put one of the police drones right over her
    shoulder, following silently, scanners looking right into her
    mind, into her thoughts. Just following, knowing she would not be
    getting away --- any sudden moves and it would be a hiss of gas
    and she'd drop to her face on the pavement. She hoped to God the
    footsteps right behind her was the redhead. He wasn't close, but
    he was pacing her.
         Straight down the street in front of them came a manned
    police cruiser, racing through the air about four meters over the
    street traffic. It was heading right for her. "Don't run," the
    red-bearded man said to her in a conversational tone. "Look right
    at them, watch them as they approach. If you avert your eyes or
    break your stride you'll catch their attention."
         "I thought if you look at them then you catch their
    attention?"
         "That's if it's a program watching you. These are people in
    an air launch, they're used to people looking at them. They're
    always watching for people who don't want to be seen."
         The police cruiser passed practically overhead, and she
    turned and watched. They ignored her completely. The cruiser
    lowered to the ground and two sharply-dressed women jumped out,
    stun pistols in their hands. One began questioning the people in
    the crowd about what had happened, and the other began accessing
    the intelligence in the drones. When she finished with the first
    drone it rose up into the air and began drifting toward Savina.
    "Oh shit," she said.
         "Don't get nervous, it's just scanning. Let's turn and walk
    away."
         The man put a arm around Savina and they continued their walk
    down the street. They reached the corner and turned left, walking
    around the block. Ahead, on the other side of the street, stood
    Bob Recent. "He knows me," Savina said to her companion.
         "He knows me too. Damn." He glanced over his shoulder, saw
    that the drone was still heading in their direction. "If we double
    back, we'll catch that fucking thing's attention."
         "I'll stand on this side of you," Savina said, crossing to
    his other side so that he was between her and Bob.
         "It's not going to do much good."
         "Did he see me?"
         "I don't know. He's seen me, he's coming this way."
         "Marauder!" Bob's voice called out. Savina felt stupid hiding
    behind this man, Bob was going to see her anyway. They had gotten
    half way down the block, and the police drone had turn the corner
    and were still pacing them.
         "This is it," Danny Marauder said to her in a low voice.
    "You're going to be on your own, now. Go for the old college in
    the Depopulated Zone. Stay away from security monitors if you
    can."
         "What old college?"
         Danny didn't answer. Bob had reached them, and he saw Savina.
    "Hey," he said. "You found her."
         "Found who?"
         "Savina!"
         "That's not Savina," Danny said, and punched Bob in the
    stomach. Bob gasped for breath, looking very confused. Danny hit
    him again, very hard, and Bob fell to the ground. Danny took off
    running, and the police drone came rushing after him. He swung on
    it, a gun in his hand from the inside of his shirt. There was a
    deafening concussion, and part of the drone disintegrated in
    millions of flying shiny pieces, like glitter, and the machine
    began spinning in midair. It made a noise like a wounded animal,
    bleeding smoke and parts, spinning faster and faster as it rose up
    into the air. Its spinning quickly reached a terminal velocity and
    it flew apart with a startling bang. Danny, running again,
    disappearing into an alley way. Another drone seemed to come from
    nowhere and when hurtling after him. Both disappeared from
    Savina's view, and there was another loud concussion, then
    silence.
         Just walk away, Savina told herself. She put one foot in
    front of the other, took a step, felt herself moving. It all
    seemed so unreal. She was walking away, she was just walking away,
    and more police drones were flying in from all directions like
    giant angry wasps, buzzing in the air, crowding into the alleyway
    where Danny Marauder had gone. She walked away, down the street,
    her muscles taut and her spine stiff, but she was walking away,
    just walking away.
         Behind her, Bob Recent struggled to his feet just as a drone
    swept down over him and sprayed him with gas. He fell again,
    paralysed, confused, as the drone stated his rights in a clear
    voice and repeated them in a dozen languages. He could see Savina
    walking away, and he tried to point, but he couldn't move his arm
    and his voice was the croak of a frog.
         She walked into the distance, out of sight.









                               16. PSYCHOPATH



         Vicky had elected to spend the night at Saul's house. Since
    Saul had problems enough with one woman, he was not invited to bed
    with the two of them. Saul and Vicky didn't even really like each
    other, and having sex with her, especially failing in sex with
    her, would be more humiliation than he could stand. It was bad
    enough that she was sleeping with his wife. Saul ended up spending
    the night on the reclining chair on the back porch huddled in
    blankets.
         Morning broke, and with relief Saul found it stable and
    whole. Reality was back and the night was gone. The night had been
    terrible.
         There had been no refuge; the lights savagely attacked him
    and the dark hid enormous threats. Inside the house he could
    hardly breathe, outside there was too much air. The silence of the
    house roared at him and on the porch the ocean would growl --- it
    was horrible, horrible. The world pulsated, his imagination taking
    over and every whim of his subconscious taking matter and form,
    appearing in front of him and lurking behind him. When he fell
    asleep there was no respite --- vivid and overwhelming nightmares
    plagued him, waking him up but not stopping, continuing on as he
    clutched at his head, his knees tucked up against his chest, his
    breath rasping and shuddering.
         Now it was over. The sun was shining and the surf sounded
    friendly. Saul crawled out of the blankets and stood on the porch,
    stretching. He found he had slept in his clothes.
         I need a nice warm dip in the pool, he thought. Then he
    remembered about Vicky, that she and Mirro were in the bedroom
    where the pool was. His bedroom. Oh, hell, he thought. I ought to
    go in there if they want me or not. If I interrupt something it's
    their problem . . .
         Then he thought: Vicky's son is in jail. She's upset, and I
    have to make allowances.
         Christ! It wasn't fair. He had to suffer, him, just because
    some jerk kid went and raped a girl then was stupid enough to turn
    himself in. Not only did Saul have to put up with Vicky openly
    replacing him in the bedroom, but now he couldn't even go into his
    own bedroom to use his own pool. And, he thought, I'm the one who
    decided to buy this house because of that pool!
         From deep inside came a terrible thought: he envied Vicky. He
    envied her because she was able to satisfy Mirro, and he envied
    her because her kid was locked away, gone, out of her life.
         Shuddering and feeling ashamed, he suppressed the revolting
    thought and pretended it wasn't there. He settled for taking a
    shower in the west-wing bathroom, the one in which he'd nearly
    scalded himself the night before, but after the shower Saul still
    needed to get into the bedroom for a fresh change of clothes.
    Resigned, he knocked on the closed door and waited. Mirro
    answered, putting her finger to her lips. She was naked.
         "How's Vicky doing?" Saul whispered.
         "Fine. She's sleeping." Mirro held the door wide open; Saul
    could see Vicky's head and bare shoulders protruding from a pile
    of wrinkled sheets. She was on Saul's side of the bed. "Come on
    in," Mirro whispered, "just be quiet."
         Saul tip-toed around, gathering clothes. Mirro then followed
    him into the bathroom and stood with him as he slipped out of his
    old underwear and put on a fresh pair, then began dressing.
    "Saul," she said, "I'm really proud of you for how you're
    accepting all this."
         Saul shrugged. "Tell Vicky not to bother coming into work
    today. I can spare her. But I'm going to need her tomorrow, or the
    day after at the latest. She'd better get her things with her
    lawyer done fast. We've got this Jesus thing coming up and I'm
    going to need her."
         "Saul, are you sure there's nothing to that?"
         "To what?"
         "The Jesus thing."
         "No, there's nothing at all to that. It's a stunt, a fraud."
    Saul laughed, pulling up his pants. "Even if the Savior was
    returning to Earth, if this was really happening, I'd still have
    my job to do."
         Mirro smiled. She picked up his slip-over scarf-tie and put
    it over his head. Then her arms slithered around him and she was
    kissing him, using her tongue and the rest of her body, pressing
    herself up against him the way she used to do --- the way she
    hadn't done in years. Saul felt --- with elation! --- his penis
    growing erect. Mirro felt it too, and redoubled her passion.
         A long, terrible scream sounded, echoing throughout the
    house, jarring both of them and waking Vicky. It's the baby, Saul
    thought bitterly. His daughter using her usual bad timing. His
    erection was gone, and after a sorrowful few moments he and his
    wife drew apart.
         Saul finished dressing and left for work.
         At the Telcron Systems building there was company security
    people standing around looking pissed off and eyeing everybody
    with suspicion. Saul had arrived late because he'd allowed himself
    the luxury of a quiet breakfast at an out-of-the-way coffee shop.
    Also, in case the Mataphin problem got out of hand, he'd stopped
    off at a pharmacy near the office and picked up a package of
    DeTox, a multi-spectrum neutralizer. One of the security men found
    it and looked it over inside and out as Saul was being frisked
    inside the front door. They were searching everyone coming and
    going.
         "What's going on?" Saul asked as the security man handed him
    back his DeTox along with his Mataphin dispenser and a few other
    objects.
         "Security has been tightened."
         "No shit," Saul said. "I want to know why and who ordered
    it."
         "Lisa Schemandle ordered it. There was a security breach last
    night."
         "Security breach?"
         The man nodded and began frisking the next person through the
    door. Saul stood there a moment, wanting to know more, but he was
    being pointedly ignored. He turned and headed toward the
    elevators, thinking that he probably didn't want to know about it
    anyway. Probably a shootout between network spies. The elevator
    came and carried him upwards, and he exited on his floor, looking
    to and fro in case Lisa was waiting for him. She was nowhere in
    sight.
         Saul entered his spacious office and there she was, brooding
    over her coffee at his desk. His terminal was on; she'd been going
    through all his files again. "Saul," she said. "You're late."
         "I know. Good morning to you too."
         "I heard about your assistant. You give her some time off?"
         "Yes."
         Lisa nodded. She was heavy-set, short black hair and had a
    rough, wind-burnt face from years of riding a motorcycle. Her eyes
    were small, perpetually red, but were very, very sharp. "Her son
    is up for seventeen years in an undersea prison. The parents of
    the girl are pressing for maximum penalties."
         "It's a shame."
         "I think the little prick should be castrated, but that's
    just me. I feel sorry for Vicky. Anyway, that's not why I'm here,
    Saul."
         "I know."
         "You've done a great job raising the AHL, but goddamn it to
    hell, Kalman, we're still losing viewers. You know what those JTV
    bastards just did to us? They broke in here and stole copies of
    our top animators, our best AIs! Then they tried to kill off our
    backup copies."
         "Our backups?" Saul felt all the strength in his arms and
    legs suddenly vanish. He almost fainted.
         "Saul! Are you okay?"
         "They killed our backups?" He sank to a chair, all the color
    drained from his face.
         "No, they tried, but they didn't get them all. We've got
    copies in New York that are on a one-way data line, they couldn't
    touch them. Updated last night, didn't miss more than a few
    hours."
         Some of the color began seeping back into Saul's face. He
    sighed. "Thank God," he said. He had a massive headache now, and
    his fingers were itching for his Mataphin dispenser.
         "My guess is that they're going to use our AIs, our fucking
    artificial intelligence programs, to make their
    descent-from-heaven scene."
         Saul heard the rest of their entire conversation before it
    actually happened. It was so predictable. "You want me to
    intensify the AHL even more?"
         "Yes! Exactly! Dammit, we gotta glue their fucking eyes to
    the screen. I want 'em to be dying of starvation because they're
    so wrapped up in Travels they forget to eat. We've got to keep
    'em! Hold them down by their fucking short hairs!"
         "What about my AI's?"
         "Copies of the backups are being sent over right now from New
    York. They'll be on-line and working before you're back from the
    field today."
         "What about viruses? What if they left viruses behind in the
    computers? What then?"
         "Don't worry about that, Saul. We're bringing in all brand
    new equipment. Sterile chips, sterile operating systems. No
    viruses."
         "We're going to have all new equipment installed and the
    backups running by the time I get back from the field?"
         "Yes. They almost hurt us, Saul, but they failed. Those
    bastards. You know what I'm doing now? We're retaliating, Saul.
    I've got hired assassins after those JTV hackers right now." She
    laughed, slapped the desk with her hand and spilling coffee. She
    continued, not noticing. "We're killing those fuckers, Saul! We're
    having them assassinated! That's right, every single one of them,
    dead by tomorrow." She grinned in angry triumph.
         She's serious, Saul realized. She's a psychopath. What's she
    going to do to me if I ever let her down?
         "I'm not going to take up any more of your time, Kalman," she
    said, standing up. "You have your job, I've got mine. Time's
    wasting. We're going to see this thing through. We're going to do
    it --- right?"
         "Right," Saul said automatically.
         She nodded her big, strong head approvingly and turned her
    thick bulk on one heel, striding out of Saul's office and leaving
    her spilt cup of coffee on his desk. Saul stood up, looking after
    her. He felt dizzy, he realized, and discovered he'd gone into
    hyperventilation. Mataphin, he thought. I need it.
         He fumbled desperately in his pocket for the dispenser,
    brought it out. He hesitated, trying to stop himself. Two tabs
    fell out onto his open hand, and he told himself that two should
    be enough. Then he relented, and let two more fall out.
         Saul ended up taking six.









                            17. DEPOPULATED ZONE



         Savina had spent the night in a church yard, sheltered by the
    large silvered satellite dish pointing up at the JTV star. She
    slept maybe 20 minutes all that night, awaking with a start to
    discover she was not at home in bed. She was out in an unfamiliar
    neighborhood, a fugitive from the police, sleeping in the open
    with nothing but a shirt and a hat for warmth. It was a warm
    night, at least. It only got cold at dawn.
         In the morning she was starving. She wanted desperately to
    call Dodd, but without a moneycard she couldn't even place a
    collect call on a public phone terminal. The loss of her moneycard
    was a bad blow.
         No food, no transportation. No phone. No clean clothes, no
    shower. Was this worth it? There was a strange stubborn streak in
    her that refused to let her answer that. Just take it as it comes,
    she told herself. Once I get to the Depopulated Zone, there's food
    for the picking.
         Without access to the subway or a cab she was hopelessly far
    away from her destination. Without a map she could only guess
    which direction it was. She began walking, ignoring the hunger and
    just walking, trusting that she would find food along the way,
    anarchists maybe, who would hopefully give her a meal and ride.
         The sunlight and harsh shadows of the early morning made
    everything seem lonely. She walked east until the sun was straight
    up and there were people everywhere, but no anarchists. Exhausted
    and weak with lack of sleep and dizzy from hunger she leaned up
    against the corner of a building and began asking everyone who
    passed for spare change. Not many people carried cash anymore, and
    even less were willing to part with it. One lecherous-looking old
    black man eyed her and gave her enough for a vender meal and asked
    her if she wanted to come home with him. She almost accepted.
         The money bought her a sandwich and a protein bar, which she
    washed down with water from a drinking fountain. It was only after
    she'd eaten that she realized she could have used the money to buy
    a call to Dodd. She cursed her stupidity, but then again she felt
    a lot better for having eaten. She continued walking, trying to
    stay in the shade of trees and buildings as the June sunlight beat
    down with physical force. She began to look at everything with a
    tired sense of wonder. Her situation seemed very heroic to her,
    and the sense of freedom came back to her suddenly. Her spirits
    climbed, and she began smiling at the people she passed. She
    collected a few dollars more before the pedestrians began to thin
    out. By the time the sunlight was at a definite angle she was in a
    run-down little neighborhood made up of old rectangular apartments
    surrounded by large oak trees. While the area was clean, it was
    not well maintained; all the buildings were in need of fresh
    paint, the old peeling away; there were mowed lawns but the edges
    weren't trimmed, and grass grew along cracks in the sidewalk and
    even into the street itself. Small white children wearing
    ill-fitting, faded clothes played with battered electric tricycles
    30 years old. Beyond the neighborhood was a fenced-off area; the
    fence was temporary and in ill-repair, big plastic sections fitted
    together and bolted, but some bolts were missing and sections were
    torn out entirely. She crossed through.
         On the other side Savina found more apartments and some
    houses, but most were empty frames and others had been
    half-consumed by fire. The trees and plants had gone wild,
    spreading without check and turning the area into a jungle. This
    was an area zoned for leveling --- the edge of the Depopulated
    Zone. After this area was leveled the fences would be moved back
    and the people around here now would be evicted. Thus the
    Depopulated Zone was enlarged.
         It was very quiet out here, the hot afternoon air thick and
    still. The angled sunlight filtered through the oak trees casting
    streams of light. Speckled lizards ran along the ground, taking
    cover while she passed. Ahead were crouched figures, young boys
    about 12 or 13 years old, stalking each other with toy guns. One
    of them spotted her and they followed along behind her for a
    while, making her nervous, but she managed to keep well ahead of
    them and after awhile they grew bored and resumed their pursuit of
    each other.
         Savina began noticing signs of habitation in the area; some
    of the old houses had been cleaned up, haphazard repairs being
    made on the deteriorating wooden structures. This was a different
    area of the Depopulated Zone than Savina was used to --- the ruins
    she had explored with Greg were far south of here, an area that
    had once been the center of a city before all the cities had
    merged. The atmosphere there had been different, full of noise and
    teenage adventure. Here the atmosphere was solemn and serious,
    people lived here, this was their territory. This was not a place
    for city people to spend summer afternoons letting loose out of
    sight of public security systems. This place seemed to have its
    own security system, its own unspoken codes and morals. Savina had
    the feeling she was trespassing.
         There were occasional tree houses in the giant gnarled oaks;
    some were very simple --- no more than a scrap-wood platform
    nailed among the branches --- but some were multi-storied and
    complex, with rope and counterweight elevators, glass windows and
    satellite dishes protruding at odd angles. People peered down at
    her through windows and branches, their expressions suspicious. A
    few half-waved at her. "Do you know where there's an old abandon
    college?" she yelled up at one.
         "Yeah."
         "Is it close?" she asked.
         "Not really."
         "Where is it?"
         "North. Up that way."
         "How far is it?"
         "Don't know. Never been there." The man smiled at her.
         Savina continued on her way, heading vaguely east.
         The trees thinned out and the ruins of the old houses turned
    to foundations with partial walls, nothing more. Tall, dry weeds
    hid details of old rusted gasoline cars, and eventually she found
    herself walking through them, getting stickers in her sandals. She
    stumbled upon a clearing in the grass, a hidden spot with a old
    ratty mattress sitting on a slab of concrete. Savina eyed the
    mattress longingly but decided against lying down --- she didn't
    want to be caught sleeping by the lovers who used this spot.
         Savina looked across the vast stretch of farm land to the
    mountains beyond, then gazed to the north, along the perimeter of
    the zone. The field was unbroken to the horizon. To the south it
    was the same way.
         She turned north.
         She walked for a mile or so along a dirt road that crossed
    occasional aqueducts and wound back and forth along the perimeter;
    she passed more rusted carcasses of the old gasoline-engine cars,
    some stacked on top of each other like big neglected toys. There
    were also piles of large concrete blocks that looked like they
    marked something, but she couldn't figure out what. To her left
    she passed a caved-in ruin that had a sun-bleached, eroded
    fiberglass statue in front. It looked like some sort of clown.
    There were the impression of letters, she could just barely make
    them out: RONALD MCDONALD. The name seemed familiar; Savina
    decided it must have been an American president of about a hundred
    or so years before.
         When the sun was just settling to the horizon Savina spotted
    a small group of deserted metal structures, just big boxes of
    rusted corrugated steel. It looked like a good shelter for the
    night, but before she could reach them she had to get across one
    last aqueduct and this one didn't run under the road. There was a
    plank 8 inches wide and about 25 feet long which served as a
    bridge. She decided to crawl instead of doing a high-wire act; it
    wobbled and shook but she took her time and reached the other
    side. She paused there, staring into the water. The concrete sides
    were green with algae but the water was crystal clear. She scooped
    some with her hands and tasted it. It was sweet, and after her
    first mouthful her body realized it was thirsty. It took her
    several minutes to quench it.
         Sated, she turned to the metal buildings --- which looked
    like old aircraft hangers --- snuck up on them in case they
    weren't as deserted as they looked. She almost hoped to find
    someone because she was getting hungry again; maybe two dollars
    would buy her a meal out in the new wilderness.
         The place was silent save for the calling of birds and the
    rustle of wind in the oak trees. Inside the building she scared a
    few pigeons --- they flapped and jumped to new perches where they
    could keep an eye on her --- but other than the pigeons she owned
    the place. It was just as well. Her weariness outweighed her
    hunger and she was content just to find a pile of old rags in a
    corner and collapse.
         Another night on my own, she thought. I'm going to have a lot
    of stories to tell Dodd. A giant yawn escaped her, taking with it
    most of her energy. She lie there staring up at the dark, oiled
    timbers supporting the corrugated roof, her eyes half-closed, her
    heart beating in her ears. It seemed like she could hear the blood
    rushing through the veins in her head. The rags smelled musty but
    she was beyond caring about that. The sky outside deepened in
    color. The pigeons flapped restlessly in the rafters, nervous of
    her presence; she tried to see them, but it was getting too dark
    and she could only make out dull grey blobs.
         She remembered another time she had spent lying in a quiet
    old ruin, felt the ghost-memory of Greg's hand running lightly up
    her bare thigh. Involuntarily she hugged herself, remembering Greg
    hugging her. Loneliness welled up, mixed with a feeling of
    emptiness and frustration, and turning her head to one side Savina
    began to cry. For a while her tears flowed freely, but as the sky
    darkened her whimpers grew softer then faded out altogether, being
    replaced by slow, rhythmic breathing, and later when the sky was
    completely black the deserted building echoed with the sharp
    rasping sounds of snoring. Savina was in a deep sleep all night, a
    sleep without dreams, and in the morning she awoke in a patch of
    dawn sunlight which streamed in through a gaping, glassless
    window. Her muscles were stiff, sore. Her stomach was a gaping,
    empty pit.
         I'll pick up breakfast at the vendor on the way to school,
    she thought. Then she realized where she was. Images of a quick,
    neat breakfast died in the black pit of impossibility. She felt a
    longing for home where food was not a problem.
         She stood up, stretched, and pulled twigs out of her hair.
    Looking out the window she saw fields of wheat. Bread was made
    from wheat, she thought. If I had a phone I'd access the school
    library and find out how wheat turns to bread. It had something to
    do with grinding it, but that's all she knew. Somewhere out there
    was a form of food she could eat without preparing, there had to
    be.
         The pigeons above her cooed, and she looked up to see them
    staring down at her. She'd heard of squab, but never tried it. She
    might be able to hit one with a rock, but . . . what then? Savina
    had never been the kind to carry a pocket knife, and she had no
    idea how to clean and skin a bird --- or any animal, for that
    matter. On the rare occasions that this problem would come up at
    home the kitchen autochef and its robot arms would take care of
    it.
         She walked outside, looking around to make sure she was
    alone, then picked her way to a secluded clump of bushes and
    disappeared among them for a while. There were no public toilets
    out here. When she was finished she went to the aqueduct and
    washed up as well as she could, then moved upstream a ways and
    drank. When she looked up she saw a ground squirrel racing across
    the open toward its hole, pausing for a moment to look at her
    before diving in head-first. I guess that's edible, she thought.
    If it's not diseased or something.
         Not only did she not have a knife, she didn't have a lighter
    either. How would she start a cooking fire? Rub sticks?
         Savina was beginning to feel hopeless.
         The morning was bright and cloudless, the air clear. Savina
    limped along with stiff legs down the path she'd followed the
    previous afternoon, still heading north, gazing hungrily off to
    the east and looking for something, anything, besides wheat. Then
    she stopped. It wasn't because of something she saw, it was
    something she smelled. Burning wood and roasting meat. Spices. Her
    mouth started watering, and she spun around, sniffing, trying to
    figure out where it was coming from. It seemed to be from the
    west, back toward the city.
         Savina followed the scent into the ruins of the perimeter.
         There was a large building that had burned and crumbled away
    over the years to form a small mountain of rubble; on its slopes
    grew skinny trees and tufts of brush. In the shadow of its west
    side, amid oaks and gutted brick dwellings, was a man sitting in a
    folding chair next to a large barbecue. On the barbecue was what
    looked like a rabbit turning on an automatic spit. The man was
    wearing a business suit with rips in the legs and dirt matted into
    the material; on his lap a small portable terminal with a cable
    leading to a headset on his head. Beside him was a large hole in
    the ground. Every second or so a mass of dirt would come flying
    out of the hole, landing to the other side away from the man in
    the chair. In the background was a pair of tents and a Mitsubishi
    4WD land cruiser, the kind sold with a water-conversion engine.
    Savina pulled the two dollars out of her hat and walked out into
    the open, heading toward the man in the chair.
         The man smiled at her. "You own me money?"
         "I want to buy some breakfast off you."
         The dirt abruptly stopped flying from the hole and a
    black-haired man with a beard peeked over the edge. "What the
    hell?"
         "We have a visitor," the blond man said.
         "Kid, this isn't a restaurant," the bearded man with the
    shovel told her. He climbed out of the hole and pulled a rag out
    of his pocket. He used the rag to wipe the sweat off his brow.
         "I don't eat much," Savina said. "I'll pay for what I take."
         "Put your money away," the blond man said. "You can have some
    when it's done."
         "Wiley," the bearded man said.
         "Oh relax. She's hungry, we can share some food."
         "Are you alone, kid?" asked the bearded man.
         "Yes."
         "Are you sure?"
         "Yes."
         "You're traveling pretty light."
         Savina nodded. "That's the way it turned out."
         "Do you live out here?"
         "For now, yes."
         "Been out here long?"
         Savina shrugged. "A while."
         The blond man was still smiling. "You're a runaway, aren't
    you?"
         Savina began to feel defensive. "Not necessarily."
         "Not necessarily?" The blond man laughed.
         "You look like one," the bearded man said. "I'm thinking that
    someone wants you to look like one."
         "Who?" Savina asked.
         "Don't listen to him," the blond man said. He took off the
    headset and stood up, putting the computer on his chair. He
    unfolded another chair and offered it to Savina. "My name's Wiley
    and his is Aaron. Here, sit. Go ahead."
         "Thank you." She sat. "My name is Savina. I'm really glad I
    found you guys out here. What are you doing, camping?"
         "Let's set some ground rules straight here," Aaron said. "You
    don't ask us what we're doing here, and we won't ask you what
    you're doing here. Fair enough?"
         "Sure. I'm here for breakfast."
         Wiley laughed. "You want something to drink? Got some real
    cow's milk, not that bacteria stuff."
         "Real cow's milk?" Savina made a face.
         "Everything else we've got is a little too strong for
    breakfast, especially for someone as young as you."
         Savina shrugged. "I'll try some cow's milk."
         "I'll go get us some. How about you, Aaron?"
         "Don't let her in the tents."
         "Yeah," Wiley said. "You better wait here, Savina. Aaron, did
    you want one or not."
         "No. I want some coffee."
         "It should be ready by now. I'll take my turn when I get
    back." He walked off under the trees toward one of the tents.
         "What are you digging for?" Savina asked.
         "None of your business."
         "Oh, okay. Look, I don't care, I was just curious."
         "Don't be curious. You're here for breakfast, that's all."
         "Yes, absolutely." Savina eyed it, wishing it was done.
         "Who are you working for?" Aaron asked her. He was watching
    her closely for her reaction.
         "Nobody," Savina told him. "I'm unemployed."
         Aaron brushed dirt off his clothes, which were all black.
    Black short sleeve shirt, black pants, black socks, black shoes.
    He even had a black belt. For the first time she noticed he was
    wearing a gun in a black holster. "What are you looking at?"
         "You sure like the color black. You ought to wear light
    colors in the summer, it's much cooler."
         "Yeah, I suppose."
         "Why do you think I'm working for somebody? You think I'm a
    spy or something?"
         "That's what I was thinking."
         "What are you doing that---- No, forget I said that. I don't
    care."
         Aaron eyed her silently.
         Wiley came back with a tray of cups with a stand. He sat it
    down in front of them and offered Savina the milk. It also had
    plates, knives and forks, and napkins. "Amazing, you brought
    civilization to the Depopulated Zone."
         "He's got to bring everything with him," Aaron grumbled,
    taking his coffee.
         "Certain things are nice to have, being that we're stuck out
    in the middle of . . . well, out here. Yes, Savina, we're
    camping."
         "Been out here long?"
         "Longer than I'd like to think about."
         "Do you know if there's an abandoned college up north?"
         Wiley's expression froze. He glanced at Aaron, then back to
    her. Aaron said, "What about an abandoned college?"
         "I'm supposed to meet someone there, but he didn't tell me
    where it was."
         "Why didn't he tell you where it was?"
         "He was, well . . . he was in a hurry."
         "That's odd that someone would tell you to meet them at an
    old broken-down college and not tell you where it was." Wiley
    sipped his milk.
         "Who are you supposed to meet there?" Aaron asked.
         "A guy named Danny Marauder."
         "Marauder!"
         "Hey, that was his name."
         "We know Marauder," Wiley told her. "Really short guy with a
    bald head?"
         "No, this guy was tall and had red hair and a beard." She
    watched them as they glanced at each other again. "He was with a
    group of anarchists outside a euthanasia center. One was a woman
    named Evelyn Sunrunner. Do you know her?"
         "This is too much," Aaron said. "You stay there, Savina. If
    you're some sort of police probe you're getting yourself in a hell
    of a lot of trouble." He walked over to one of the tents.
         "What's going on?" Savina asked Wiley.
         "Don't worry. He's going to check on your story."
         "You guys do know Danny, don't you?"
         "Maybe. You haven't even tried your milk. Go ahead, try it.
    It's so much better than that mass-produced crap. Smoother. Go on,
    try it."
         Savina took a sip. It had a funny animal taste to it, but she
    thought that it could be her imagination. It was actually very
    much like the milk she was used to, but heavier, smoother --- just
    like he'd said. As she drank it down Wiley pulled the rabbit off
    the spit and began cutting servings.
         Aaron appeared out of the tent and walked toward him. "She
    checks out. They want us to keep her with us for now."
         "Really?" Wiley said, surprised.
         "Who wants what?" Savina asked.
         "I just talked to Sunrunner at the enclave. She wants me to
    tell you that she's glad you made it out here okay. She also
    thought you'd like to know that Danny got away from the drones."
         "You have a phone out here?"
         "Yeah, in a way."
         "Can I use it?"
         "Uh, no," Wiley said. "Here, eat your breakfast." He handed
    her a plate.
         "I want to get a message to someone," Savina said. "He helped
    me get away --- I've got to at least let him know I'm okay."
         Wiley looked at Aaron. "Can we send a message?"
         "Give me the message and the number and I can send it. But
    it's going to be anonymous, so make sure he'll know who its from
    without you having to tell him."
         "Just tell him I'm okay, that I'm doing okay, and I can't
    wait to see him again. He'll know who it's from." She gave Aaron
    the phone number, and Aaron went off to the tent to send it.
         Savina dug into her food, and when she was finished she was
    handed a shovel and told to get down in the hole. "What am I
    digging for?" she asked.
         "Anything that's not dirt," Aaron told her. And that was all.
         Savina shrugged, and sent the blade inexpertly into the soil.









                                18. HACKERS



         It's those words again, Dodd thought. Here they come.
    "Almighty Jesus, please help us in our time of need . . ." The
    words left his lips feeling hollow, like bubbles of vacuum. He was
    saying them in unison with Toby and his wife, their relatives, and
    a trainload of their church friends. Dodd said the words exactly
    the way everyone else said them, but the others sounded sincere to
    him and he knew he was faking it.
         Secrets and lies were foreign to Dodd, he was not skilled at
    handling them. He felt a niggling little guilt that told him he
    had betrayed his friend. It pestered him in the night when he was
    trying to sleep, it caused him to bang his head against walls when
    no one was around to see. Right above his hairline was a nasty
    bump caused by a nasty moment when he'd almost convinced himself
    he'd done wrong. It wasn't successful, Dodd still didn't regret it
    --- he wanted Savina to have her baby --- but watching her father
    worry and suffer made it very hard on Dodd.
         The prayer broke up after a silence, and then it was time for
    more cookies and punch. Dodd was up to his eyeballs in cookies and
    punch, and excused himself to go to the rest room. Someone had
    beaten him to the downstairs one, so he went upstairs. When he was
    through, he stepped out into the hallway and into Savina's room to
    use her phone.
         He dialed his own home number and waited, wanting to make
    sure Sheila had eaten dinner. The phone rang and rang, and finally
    Dodd's house computer answered to take a message. Dodd dialed in
    an access code and got a computer menu, chose the option "SNEAK A
    PEEK" and activated the video pickup on the phone in his kitchen.
    The dinner he'd programmed for Sheila had been prepared and was
    sitting untouched in the warmer, drying out and hardening. He
    couldn't see the living room from any of the phones, but he could
    hear the Travels music. Dodd gave up, exited out of "SNEAK A
    PEEK," and brought up the messages menu.

                           MESSAGES: 00 MAIL: 01

    He called the mail up onto the screen:

              TO: Dodd Corely          DATE: 6/5/42
              FROM: Some Humans        SUBJECT: Your Friend

              Someone wants you to know that she is okay, she's
              doing fine, and that she can't wait to see you
              again. You're supposed to know who she is.

              Beware the antichrist AI!



    Dodd cut the connection and blanked the screen. It would have been
    just wonderful if Toby had walked in and saw that it bright yellow
    letters. Dodd straightened up, stepping back from the phone. There
    was just enough light in the room to see the frills on the bed and
    young female nick-knacks on little shelves and across Savina's
    desk. She gave up everything she knows, he thought. She did it. My
    God, how brave children can be.
         Savina's not a child anymore, he thought. I'll be damned if I
    don't admire her. She made a decision and she stuck with it; she's
    doing something she believes in despite the entire world.
         Dodd smiled. He felt better now. It was good to know he
    wasn't going through all this for nothing.
         He left her room and walked downstairs. Another prayer was
    going on; they were praying for the soul of the boy Greg, the one
    who'd turned himself in for raping Savina. "... may the Lord be
    with him in his punishment, and guide him from wrong to right ..."

         Why did the kid turn himself in? Dodd wondered, standing on
    the side of the group and listening with what he hoped passed for
    a respectfully bowed head. Did he think it would help Savina?
    Didn't Savina tell her parents that she wasn't raped? That's
    right, she did, but Toby doesn't believe her.
         Dodd frowned. Somebody's going to have to clue Toby in so
    that he drops the charges. Its 17 years in an undersea prison for
    the kid if he doesn't. But it can't be me, he'll want to know how
    I know. What can I tell him? I can't tell him anything, as far as
    he knows I only know what he's told me.
         I'm guilty of aiding and abetting a fugitive. If Toby found
    out I helped Savina, he'd turn me in, press charges against me.
    Savina's going to have to be the one to convince Toby.
         Several more prayers went by, and they all shared the Spirit
    of Jesus in song, everybody except for Dodd, who felt left out. He
    ended up leaving before everyone else, excusing himself to go home
    to feed Sheila. Toby understood, and shook his hand at the door.
         "I'm sure you're going to at least hear from here any time
    now," Dodd said. "Have you been checking your messages or
    anything?"
         "Constantly."
         "Is that kid still scheduled for sentencing this week?"
         "Yes. In a few days. We are pressing for the full penalty."
         "All the way, huh?" Dodd said. He had intended on asking if
    Toby was considering being lenient on the boy.
         "What's wrong? You don't think he deserves it, now?"
         "He did turn himself in. I just thought that Jesus would want
    . . ."
         "Jesus will send him to hell," Toby said vehemently. "What
    that boy did was a deadly sin."
         Dodd nodded. "Yes. Well, I'll be praying that she comes back
    to you. Goodnight."
         "And if you see your friend Marauder, you better have him get
    hold of me. I still think he helped Savina get away."
         Dodd froze. "Danny said that girl wasn't Savina, and that Bob
    said something to her that pissed him off."
         "I don't think so."
         Dodd shrugged. "He's never lied to me."
         Toby gave Dodd a strange, suspicious look, but let it drop.
    "Goodnight, Dodd. God be with you."
         "And also with you." Dodd shook Toby's hand awkwardly and
    turned away, walking down to the sidewalk and turning toward home.

                                     #

         It was a hot afternoon, and Savina had been without a shower
    for days now. No shower and no change of clothes . . . I bet I
    smell pretty ripe, she thought. So this is what it's like to be an
    anarchist. No, pardon me, a Mutualist. Anarchist is a term imposed
    upon us by others.
         She grinned.
         There was a nice spot along one of the canals not far away,
    with a shade tree and some bushes to provide a tiny bit of
    privacy. It was better than being naked out in the wide-open. The
    water was beautiful, so clear and cool, it made her feel
    wonderful; the only problem was that the current was so strong she
    had to constantly swim to stay in one place. If she stopped for a
    moment she was pulled dozens of yards downstream, and had to swim
    like hell to get back to her clothes.
         Swimming on her back, looking up at the large oak tree above
    her, she saw a branch hanging out over the canal that would be
    perfect to tie a rope to. If she had a rope hanging down,
    especially with a large loop at the end, she could put it over her
    arms and just lie there with the water rushing under her.
         "Hello, Savina." It was a woman's voice. Savina looked over
    to the bushes and saw the tall Indian woman, Evelyn Sunrunner,
    standing with a large bundle in her hands. "I brought you some
    clothes."
         Savina couldn't pull her gaze away from the woman's eyes.
    They were like magnets. "Uh, thanks," she muttered, forcing her
    eyes away. She swam to the edge and carefully pulled herself up
    the rough concrete.
         "You're starting to get a little tummy," Evelyn said.
         Savina looked down at herself. Her stomach was poking out a
    bit. "Wow, I hadn't noticed." She laughed. "There's not many
    mirrors out here, and I haven't tried to squeeze into a pair of
    pants for a while."
         "Just wait until your last month," Evelyn said. She was
    smiling too.
         "Have you had children?"
         "Oh, no. I've got sisters upon sisters with children." She
    handed Savina the clothes. "These are all real loose, they should
    fit you fine. I am just passing through and I brought these for
    you."
         "Where are you going?"
         "I have business to attend to."
         "You can't stay awhile? I've only got these two hackers to
    talk to, and most of what they say is gibberish to me."
         "I'll be back before long. Then you can come with me. Oh, and
    by the way, Dodd got your message and he's thinking about you. I
    have to go now. Take care, Savina."
         "You talked to Dodd?" Savina was excited.
         Evelyn shook her head, a half-smile on her face as if Savina
    was missing something. "See you later," she said.
         "Oh . . . okay. Bye."
         Evelyn turned and walked away, back toward the city. You're a
    little bit strange, Savina thought, but I like you. As if she'd
    heard the thought, Evelyn turned and gave her one last smile and
    waved. Her eyes were intense, even in the casual expression. She
    left Savina feeling funny. There was something about the woman's
    eyes, but Savina couldn't pin it down. Power, she thought. Power
    eyes. It was almost like they were lit up with electricity.
         The woman disappeared among the oaks. Savina looked down at
    her new clothes, which were mostly denim. It all looked too heavy
    for this summer afternoon heat --- Savina was burning up standing
    in the shade with wet naked skin. She could imagine what she was
    going to feel like with a denim skirt and a vest over a thick
    cotton blouse. She spread the clothes out and found a long thin
    pull-over dress and chose that, putting it on, hoping it wasn't
    see through because she was not putting on anything else, except
    shoes. She gathered up her new wardrobe and made her way back to
    the camp.
         Wiley saw her from down in the hole and came out, eyeing her.
    "I like it," he said, indicating the thin white dress.
         "You can see right through it, can't you?"
         "Wellllll . . . yes."
         "No wonder you like it. I'll put on something else if it
    bothers you."
         "Doesn't bother me at all."
         Aaron poked his head out of the hole. "Whoa. Doesn't bother
    me either."
         "Don't you guys get any ideas. I'm dressed like this because
    of the temperature of the air."
         "I hope it goes up a few more degrees," Aaron mumbled, then
    disappeared back into the earth. Wiley was sitting on the edge,
    grinning at her.
         "If you don't stop, I'm going to put something else on."
         "I'll stop, I'll stop. Evelyn tells us you're pregnant."
         Savina was ready to be angry. "I don't need you making any
    remarks about that."
         "Oh, I'm not. I was just wondering why you didn't tell us. I
    hope the digging didn't hurt you or anything."
         "No, just gave me sore arms."
         "Well, you're not doing any more. If you want, you can pull
    out a cot and lie down here in the shade."
         "Why? I'm not sick or anything, I'm just pregnant."
         "You haven't been sick in the mornings?"
         "Only a little. That doesn't happen to all women." There was
    a strange light coming out of the hole, flaring. It lit up Wiley's
    face from below, making him look like an old flat-film monster.
    Blue smoke drifted up in a plume. "What's that?" she asked,
    stepping forward.
         "Just a laser."
         Savina peered down into the hole, squinting. There was an
    exposed length of thick cable that looked like a black pipe a foot
    wide. They had clamped something on it where it was completely
    exposed, and it was pulling a pencil laser around the surface,
    cutting into it. "What's it doing?"
         "Cutting off the insulation. We have to get to the fiber
    optics without damaging them, so the laser is only cutting down to
    the surface of the optics."
         "Who's cable is that, anyway?"
         "Remember, this is a secret."
         "I'm one of you now, remember?"
         "Oh, tell her, Wiley," Aaron said without looking up. He was
    facing the cable with a pair of goggles held up to his eyes.
         Wiley looked down at him in amusement. "That was a
    one-hundred-eighty degree turn of the heart there, Aaron."
         "I like the way she looks in the dress," Aaron mumbled.
         Wiley laughed.
         Savina stared at Wiley for a few silent seconds. "Well? Are
    you going to tell me or not?"
         "You can't tell anyone about this, Savina. It's very
    important that you don't tell anyone, even your friend Dodd."
         "I won't tell anyone at all. I'll forget the moment you tell
    it to me."
         "Okay. This line down here," he said, pointing at it, "this
    is the secure line for data communications between La-La Land and
    Sacramento, owned by the United States Food and Materials
    Corporation. This is an A-1 priority secure line."
         "Oh, so you're going to sell stolen information."
         "No. We're tapping into it because it's the line JTV uses to
    send backup information between their two big mainframe
    computers."
         "JTV? Why are you guys interested in them?"
         Aaron looked up, smiling evilly. "We're tapping their hotline
    to God." He and Wiley laughed.
         Savina didn't know if she should believe them or not. Finally
    she decided it didn't matter, if they weren't going to tell her
    the truth it was fine with her. It had nothing to do with her
    anyway. "Are you tapped in now?" she said.
         "No, we're just preparing it. If we tapped in now they'd know
    it. If they catch us doing this, well, uh . . . we'd be in it up
    to our necks."
         "Right to jail, huh?"
         "Jail, nothing," Aaron said, looking up at her. "They'd just
    kill us and bury us in this hole."
         She looked at Wiley. His expression was serious. "They'd kill
    you for this?"
         Wiley nodded. "And you too."
         "JTV kills people?"
         "No, Savina, not JTV. The USFMC --- they control JTV."
         Savina looked back and forth between them. They were serious.
    "How do you know all this?"
         "Have you ever heard of CoGen?" Wiley said. "Your friend
    Dodd, if he was in the war like you say, with Danny, he'd have
    heard of it. It was the AI program that controlled the bombardment
    from orbit. Well, Aaron and I wrote the basic engine of that
    program, and Aaron designed a lot of the hardware."
         "What does that have to do with any of this?"
         "We know the USFMC computer network inside and out," Wiley
    said. "And we happen to know CoGen is still alive."
         "Yeah," Aaron said, "but he's got a new job." The two of them
    found this very funny, and laughed as Savina stared at them in
    bewilderment.









                             19. 230,000 VOLTS

         There were two groups of anarchists at the Euthanasia Center
    tonight, one coming and one going. It was like a shift change at
    work. Dodd had been watching them for fifteen minutes and hadn't
    seen a sign of Danny or anyone he'd ever seen with Danny. He was
    hoping to at least run into the Indian woman. The only woman in
    this group was thick and short, and looked mean; it definitely
    wasn't the Indian.
         Savina hadn't contacted her father at all yet, and Dodd
    hadn't received any more messages. Today at work he'd decided to
    come out here and try to get word to her about Greg. In the back
    of his mind, he was hoping he would get to see her. This didn't
    seem likely.
         The anarchists had spotted him and knew he was watching; they
    gave the occasional suspicious glance, eyes betraying subdued
    hostility. This was not the way they usually reacted to people, it
    was like they suddenly had something to hide, like they had an
    enemy. You're not supposed to act like this, Dodd thought.
    Anarchists are friendly people who are disillusioned. You're out
    to save the world. Why are you paranoid now?
         The slogan ran through his mind: BEWARE THE ANTICHRIST AI! Is
    it this Second Coming? he wondered. Has that got them all upset?
    Well, it sure has knocked my world around.
         The two groups lingered together, talking, then the off-shift
    abruptly walked away, heading west. Why am I waiting? Dodd
    thought. You're not afraid of them, are you? Dodd got up from the
    bench he'd been sitting at and crossed the street, wearing what he
    hoped was a friendly expression. He walked right up to the group
    standing in front of the Euthanasia Center and to his surprise
    they immediately surrounded him.
         "Hey," he said, "easy, don't look at me like this. My name is
    Dodd Corely, I'm a friend of Danny Marauder."
         "Who?" a tall blond kid around 22 - 23 years old asked him.
    He had a five o'clock shadow and his hair was thick and long, and
    a bit tangled. "We don't know any Danny Marauder."
         "He looks like a Narco," said one from behind Dodd.
         "I'm not a policeman," Dodd said. "I'm a war vet, I drive a
    forklift. I'm just looking for a friend of mine who was here the
    other day."
         "You mean he went in there?" the blond kid said, pointing
    toward the Center's doors. "I don't think you'll be seeing him
    again."
         "No, he was out here. He's an anarchist. Come on, you guys
    know Danny Marauder."
         "I'm afraid we don't, Narco."
         "I just need to get a message to him."
         "Can't help you."
         Dodd turned around, trying to look in all their eyes. They
    really had him surrounded. "Come on, one of you has to know him.
    He helped a girl named Savina to get away from here Tuesday last
    week. I need Danny or someone to pass a message through to
    Savina."
         "Do we look like mailmen?" one of them said.
         "Yeah, Narco," said another. "Go use a terminal."
         "Look, her parents are pressing charges against her boyfriend
    for rape, and if she can't at least call to convince her parents
    that he's innocent he's going to remain in jail."
         "The Narco thinks he's clever," said the blond kid.
         "I told you, I'm not a----"
         "Nobody but a Narco comes out to a Euthanasia Center to ask
    an anarchist a favor!" the kid shouted at him. He placed an odd
    emphasis on the word anarchist. Dodd cursed himself, he was using
    the wrong word.
         "I'm sorry," he said. "My mistake. I'm not asking any
    anarchist for any favors. I am asking a Mutualist a favor . . .
    please, get this message through." He looked the blond kid
    straight in the eyes, pleading with him. The kid's expression of
    aloof hostility didn't waiver. He flexed his long muscles and made
    his shirt change shapes.
         "Goodbye, Narco," the blond said.
         "Listen, come on now----" Dodd was cut off as they rushed
    him.
         He swung out in reflex but hit nothing. Two dozen hands had
    him, holding him tight, pulling him and pushing him along, his
    feet several inches off the ground. It was a nightmare sensation,
    paralysed by strong grips and moving along without walking, caught
    in an irresistible force. They twisted one arm to near breaking to
    stop his struggling. "Over here," he heard one of them say. They
    were taking him around the building, down the same alley where
    he'd found Savina. He saw the black lid to the black dumpster
    swing up and down, and he was propelled up and down into reams of
    shredded paper. A lid slammed over his head. There was the
    slide-clunk sound of a bolt being thrown. With a sense of
    unbelieving horror Dodd realized they had locked him in the same
    trash dumpster Savina had been hiding in over a week before.
    Locked in! He yelled in panic, pushing up on the lid and yelling,
    but the lid would only lift about an inch. "Hey! Hey wait! Goddamn
    you, listen to me! Come back here! Hey!" His yelling became more
    frantic and his language deteriorated to the vilest curses he
    knew.
         He stopped, regaining control of himself. All was silent. The
    group was gone. I'm in here for the night, he realized. Angry
    again he began pounding on the side with his fists and kicking
    with his feet, banging it like a drum. After 30 minutes still no
    one had heard him. He propped the lid open with wadded shreddings
    so that he could get some fresh air, and then twisted about to
    make himself comfortable, thinking he might as well relax. All
    this, he thought, just because I'm trying to do some kid I don't
    even know a favor. So much for bleeding hearts, he thought. So
    much for the brotherhood of man.

                                     #

         Using a faked Idex Danny had showed up at the United States
    Food and Materials Corporation Annex in the heart of Sacramento
    and had checked out a delivery truck. He was surprised by how easy
    it had been; he had thought this would be the hard part. Security
    was lax, depending too much upon software to detect things out of
    the ordinary. If I worked here things would be different, Danny
    thought, driving out of the Annex yard with a big grin on his
    face.
         He drove to an old warehouse and backed the truck up to a
    loading dock. No one had paid any attention, not even thinking
    that the warehouse was abandoned and that the people loading the
    truck were "anarchists" --- they were in costume, normal clean
    clothes --- and no one even suspected that the large
    technical-looking piece of equipment they were loading was a
    hand-wrapped superconducting EMP cannon. It weighed about a ton,
    and looked like an anonymous piece of factory equipment. Danny
    grinned.
         He drove around all day, aimlessly wandering, then around
    quitting time for the boys and girls at the Annex he returned to
    check in the truck. He sweated here, praying they didn't check in
    back. No, they didn't even think of it. They will from now on,
    Danny thought happily as he parked the truck in a space where the
    tail end more or less pointed toward the 50 story USFMC building
    across the street. Hello JTV, he thought. I've got a surprise for
    you.
         There was no one in sight as he climbed out of the truck and
    hooked the recharge cable up. Not even the security AI would be
    able to see that the recharge connection had been rewired to send
    the current to the device inside. Regardless, Danny's heart was
    beating like a mad drummer, a beat-feet musician who'd had too
    much Mataphin. For a moment it felt like his heart beats were
    ringing like pistol shots, KaPow KaPow KaPow! He opened the back
    of the truck just wide enough so that he could crawl in, and this
    for sure would cause a security AI to flash a indicator to some
    guard . . . if, of course, a security AI were watching him. Danny
    had seen no obvious video pickup within his sight. He locked the
    door shut and waited.
         No guards came.
         He set the alarm on his watch and tried to get a few hours
    sleep. Images drifted up to him, images that had haunted him for
    years. The deep purple flashes that he was never sure was actual
    light or just some strange after-image of something he couldn't
    see . . . the ruined villages, the dead people, the dead animals,
    the dead trees, the dead ants stopped in their tracks at the
    entrance to their dead ant hill. Danny remembered the propaganda
    and the real thing, and the difference between the two which had
    twisted his soul out of shape, nearly killing it, forever
    crippling it.
         Unlike Dodd, Danny had seen action. One firefight. The enemy
    had been armed with vintage Arabian machine guns that did nothing
    but jam. Danny and his Sergeant had wiped out the entire enemy
    squad with five blasts from their rifles. One of the enemy,
    mortally wounded, managed to hit Danny in the arm with a rock.
         It wasn't a world war. It wasn't even a war against nations.
    It was a Bank action, a foreclosure on a loan. The entire South
    America Coalition, buried under the impossible debt owed to the
    world banks, banded together and declared their debts null and
    void. The global economy collapsed. The United Nations were angry
    --- the world as they knew it was ending. Strike back, they said.
    The world banks and corporations said, Foreclose! Repossess!
    Russia made verbal protests yet sent aid to American troops.
    International conglomerates acquired tracts of land equal in size
    to most European nations, including Russia's NCCTZ Corp., and all
    this made possible by the grace of America's Freedom Of Business
    laws. For once everyone was working together to save humanity, but
    at the price . . . no, they didn't acknowledge it, nobody
    acknowledged it, and nobody really knew except for those pour
    souls who'd actually been there when it happened, and for those
    pour souls to which it had happened.
         Danny dozed for a while, then his alarm went off. It was
    10:00 PM. He touched a button on the side, silencing it, then said
    goodbye to it. He threw a switch and the EMP cannon began a
    relatively low-power emission, warming itself up and conveniently
    scrambling all the security monitors within the Annex --- or so
    Danny hoped. That's what they told him it should do, anyway. He
    unlocked the door and slid it open, jumping out and walking
    quickly across the yard to the Annex itself. There was a buzzing
    sound, and the large double-wide doors to the mechanic's garage
    were going thud-thud as the locks opened and closed to the beat of
    a EMP-effected circuit. Danny looked at his watch; it was flashing
    and scrolling a parade of garbage characters.
         He had a lock-pick kit in his pocket he didn't need. He
    waited for the door lock to thud open and then pulled it up before
    it locked again. The door slid up into the wall, and Danny
    entered.
         The recharge system for the delivery truck fleet was to his
    left. It was little more than a large transformer hooked to the
    building's fusion generator. Danny quickly undid the wingnuts
    holding down the panel and then shut the system down. A loop of
    heat-resistant superconducting cable hung around his neck; he
    removed it, cut it into a straight length, and then short
    circuited the charge cable leading to his truck with main line
    voltage straight from the fusion generator. He looked at the large
    switch that would send the current down the line, and thought, I'm
    not throwing that with my bare hands. He had to hurry because now
    that no power was going to the EMP cannon, some or all of the
    security monitors might be working. Somewhere in the distance he
    heard a bell ringing. He looked around the garage for a broom or
    anything that had a long wooden handle. There was nothing.
         I can't throw that switch with my bare hands, he thought
    again.
         Right beside him was a folding plastic chair. Yes, he
    thought, you will work. He folded it up and placed one leg against
    the switch, ready to push it down. He closed his eyes. He took
    deep breaths. When 230,000 volts arced down that line and hit that
    cannon, it was going to be one hell of a show.
         He opened his eyes and checked to make sure the leg of the
    chair was in firm position to push down on the switch. It was, all
    he had to was push down on the chair. Danny closed his eyes again,
    took a few more deep breaths. The bell was still ringing in the
    distance, and he thought he could make out shouting voices. He
    took another deep breath, and once more peeked to make sure the
    chair leg was positioned right. Christ, he thought, just do it.
    Just DO it.
         Okay. He put his free hand over his closed eyes. The chair
    was light in his other hand. He gripped it tightly, and pushed
    down.
         There was lightning in the room, he saw it as a bright red
    flash through his hand and closed eyelids. The building rang, the
    metal bending and twisting. Plaster rained down on him in sudden
    darkness. He felt it hitting him and wondered what it was. He was
    dizzy and vaguely nauseous.
         Danny wandered out of the garage in a daze, looking up into
    the night sky and seeing stars. All the yard lights were off. All
    the lights in the skyscraper across the street were off. The only
    lights in sight were the merry flames flickering up from the
    burning delivery truck. It was warped all out of shape, like a toy
    made from wet clay, bent, twisted and compressed.
         Danny was impressed.
         Fighting his way out of the daze, he walked quickly then
    broke into a run, heading for the inner fence which, he hoped, was
    not electrified. He jumped, grabbed the edge at the top and swung
    himself over and dropped to the ground on the other side. He
    landed on his left leg at a wrong angle and it collapsed under
    him. I'm not young anymore, Danny thought, landing on his butt. He
    sat there a moment, dealing with pain.
         The fence made a snapping, sizzling sound. Lights started
    blinking on. Danny stood up and fell back down again, half because
    of his leg and half because he was dizzy. He tried again,
    unconsciously reaching for the electric fence for support.
    Realizing what he was doing at the last moment, he pulled his hand
    back and let himself fall over again. Danny rolled away from the
    fence and tried one more time.
         The shouting he'd been hearing was getting loud now. Danny
    made it to his feet and limped over to the outer wall, which was
    tall and made of brick. Running feet pounded the cement on the
    other side. Gates were being pulled open by hand, and men and
    women in uniform were rushing into the annex yard. They headed for
    the fire equipment.
         Trying to be inconspicuous, Danny jumped up and caught the
    edge of the brick wall, pulling himself up and peering over the
    edge. People were coming out of the building across the street
    like a swarm of mad bees. Danny pulled himself over, swinging down
    and hanging a moment before dropping. He landed on his good leg
    and started limping away.
         A hand grabbed him by the arm. "Hold it!"
         Danny suppressed his reflex to strike out. "There's a fire!"
    he said.
         "What were you doing on the wall?" It was a uniformed
    security guard with dark features, frightened eyes.
         "There's a fire! Listen, there's a fire, what do you want me
    to do, burn up?"
         "A fire?"
         "See the smoke! A fire!" Danny pointed.
         "Oh, okay, sorry." The guard ran off to help fight the fire.
         Danny limped away.

                                     #

         Wiley had his laptop sitting on his knees, screen open and
    displaying a page in the USFMC online distribution catalog. The
    page was titled: SILICON GARBAGE BAGS, Unit Prices and Sizes, and
    had a list of figures below. Aaron and Savina sat on each side of
    him in folding chairs, watching the screen. They were silent,
    waiting. A moth flew around in the tent, banging again and again
    into their lantern.
         "Would someone please kill that bug?" Wiley said.
         Suddenly the screen on his little laptop computer filled with
    garbage; jumbled letters, numbers, and symbols in no pattern
    whatsoever. Wiley keyed a couple times, and the screen cleared
    then filled again.
         "Is that here or there?" Aaron asked.
         "It's not us. It's coming in over the link."
         "That's it, then. He set it off."
         "Okay, let's cut."
         "What happened?" Savina asked. "What did Danny do?"
         "He scrambled the Sacramento mainframe so that we can tap
    into the data line while they're too busy to notice." Wiley tapped
    on the laptop's keyboard. "Okay, your program is up, Aaron. It's
    now or naught."
         "Now. Let's do it."
         "Okay." Wiley set the program running.
         Savina watched, waiting. Nothing seemed to be happening. "Is
    it working?"
         "We don't know yet," Wiley said. "The tapper has to warm the
    optic cable to a certain temperature before it splices in. It has
    to warm up, cut through with the megalink, and bond itself without
    screwing up the alignment of the individual fibers. That's
    fifty-thousand fibers at least. If just one of them gets so out of
    alignment that the megalink can't burn a channel through, they'll
    not only be able to tell their line is compromised, but they'll
    also know exactly where we are."
         "In other words, if this doesn't work we have to get out of
    here fast," Aaron told her.
         "When will we know?" Savina asked.
         Aaron glanced at Wiley. "Good question."
         "Yeah," Wiley said. "And one we've been asking ourselves for
    quite some time now." He glanced at the screen, and pointed out
    blinking words to Savina. "It's burning channels through now. This
    is going to take about ten minutes. JTV in LaLa Land is trying to
    reestablish contact with Sacramento but Sacramento is down. If Sac
    goes back online before the megalink is done they might know we're
    here. Orrr . . . they might think they're still having trouble
    because of Sac's problem."
         "We want them to think the EMP blast in Sacramento was a
    terrorist attack," Aaron told her. "We don't know if they'll
    assume that or not."
         Savina didn't ask what an EMP blast was --- it sounded awful.
    "What else would they think it is?"
         "A diversion, which it was."
         "In which case," Wiley said, "they'll be looking for exactly
    this kind of thing."
         "Oh." Savina was beginning to understand.
         Minutes passed. Wiley, watching the screen, said, "Uh-oh."
         "Sac's back?" Aaron said.
         "Yes. They recovered fast. Our AI kicked in."
         "You guys have an AI?" Savina asked.
         "Small one, not conscious. It's for programming, mostly.
    Right now it's attempting to simulate a out-phasing."
         "A what?"
         "It's trying to convince LaLa and Sac that they're still
    having problems." He looked tense. So did Aaron.
         "Savina, we've got a job for you," Aaron said. He motioned
    for her to follow.
         They stepped outside the tent and walked by starlight to the
    jeep. He opened the back hatch and rummaged around, pulling out a
    pair of military-grade spotters. He held them out to her by the
    strap.
         Savina took them, put the strap around her neck. "What should
    I look for?"
         "Anything. Anything that's coming toward us at all. Can you
    climb one of these oak trees?"
         "Sure."
         "Okay, be careful. Let us know if you see anything."
         Savina nodded, and watched as he turned and walked toward the
    tent. He assumes I know how to use these, she thought, holding the
    spotters. Maybe it's because I didn't ask? She liked their feel,
    they were light and fit her grip; she turned them on and put them
    up to her eyes, looking toward the stars. The stars were so bright
    it was startling. The spotters began picking out the man-made
    objects it could identify, and locked in on certain ones so that
    when her hands wavered it held the image true and steady. One
    image changed from a star to an oblong sliver object. Glowing
    letters identified it as an O'Neal cylinder. Jeeze, she thought,
    this one's a lot more powerful than Dad's.
         Savina climbed one of the bigger oaks near the tent, pulling
    herself up branch by branch until she was up near the top and
    clear of most of the leaves. Putting the spotters to her eyes she
    looked to the north, toward Zone Sacramento. She saw a pretty view
    of distant lights, but nothing was coming at them. The lights
    sparkled and shimmered like candle flames.
         She looked to the west, toward her home zone, and thought
    about Dodd. Somewhere out there on all those lights was Dodd's
    apartment building. One of those lights is the street light in
    front on his corner. I'm sending you a psychic message, she
    thought. Can you hear me? I hope so! I love you!
         She smiled. Oh the thoughts I've been thinking about you. You
    would be shocked!
         She looked to the south, scanning slowly. The spotter picked
    out all moving objects with brackets, indicated the direction of
    travel and, occasionally, identified the actual object. A whole
    cluster of objects flashed. It indicated they were coming dead-on.
         Wiley called up to her. "You can come down now," he said
    happily. "The tap is complete and they didn't notice a thing."
         Savina told him about the lights. "There's five of them, and
    they're coming at over Mach four."
         Wiley cursed and started yelling for Aaron. Savina continued
    to watch. In the enhanced view she could see amazing details. A
    new readout in red stated "ETA 00:03:47" and was counting down.
    She yelled out the new information, which agitated the two hackers
    even more. Aaron was starting up the jeep as Wiley threw equipment
    into it. It sputtered and rattled for a moment, then settled down
    to a low rumble.
         "Has it identified them?" Wiley yelled up.
         "It says, 'CT-969 Military transport and four Spinner 522
    wingless fighters.'"
         "Holy shit! Savina, get down here, we've got to be out of
    here now!"
         Savina began her climb down. She was frightened, but there
    was no sense of panic. She grasped every limb and made every
    foothold secure, being careful, keeping in mind that a fall might
    not kill her but could easily abort her child. There was a
    tightness in her stomach and electricity running through her
    veins, and it felt good. Four Spinner fighters would be strafing
    this area and troops would be dropping by parachute, and she had
    less than 3 minutes to get away. I'm having fun, she thought. This
    is fun. She couldn't believe it.
         She dropped from the last limb and landed lightly, then ran
    and jumped into the jeep. The jeep tore off to the west, heading
    for more cover. Two minutes later they pulled to the lee of a
    gutted house and stopped. Wiley took the spotters from Savina and
    jumped out.
         "Are we safe, here?" Savina asked.
         "Not really," Aaron said. "They can track us by the warmth of
    our tire tracks. It's just that they'd be less likely to strafe an
    area this close to the city."
         "I see 'em," Wiley said. "They're not slowing. They're not
    losing altitude."
         "Are you sure?"
         "I'm sure about that. Who knows what they plan on. They could
    drop a bomb for all we know."
         "We're not out of range of a purple."
         "They wouldn't drop a purple around here," Wiley said. "No
    way. All the damage to the crops? They wouldn't do it." He lowered
    the spotters, walking back to the jeep. He was smiling.
         "What?" Savina said.
         "We're stupid. We're sitting on a straight line between LaLa
    Land and Sacramento. They passed right by, heading for Sacramento.
    We're paranoid idiots."
         "Better than dead paranoid idiots," Aaron said, then laughed.
         Wiley got back in. "Well, I guess we can celebrate now." He
    turned to Savina. "If you think it's okay for your little one,
    we'll pop a bottle of champagne."
         "I think the baby could handle a little," Savina said. "Just
    a sip."
         Aaron turned the jeep around and they headed back.

                                     #

         There was a loud clunk and Dodd awoke with a start. There was
    light but all he could see was something black, and his eyes
    wouldn't focus on it. The black opened like a giant door and Dodd
    was looking at blue sky. Orange punk-resurrection style hair and a
    old rough-hewn face eclipsed the sky, staring down at him.
         "Get out of there!" the man yelled indignantly. He was
    dressed in a union janitor's jumpsuit.
         "Uh, yeah," Dodd said, climbing out. His muscles were all
    stiff. He felt like he was dreaming. "Thank you," he muttered.
         "I was about to throw a ton of trash in on you, you nut."
         "Thanks again," Dodd said, to the janitor's disgust. He
    wandered away looking delirious, searching for a phone to call in
    sick to work.









                                20. LAST DAY



          This is it, Saul was thinking. This is the last day. He had
    to keep telling himself this.
         Saul had the feeling he was spinning out of control. It was a
    strong physical sensation, almost strong enough for him to doubt
    his eyes which were telling him he was traveling in a straight
    line. The ball rolled in front of him, bouncing grimly along,
    being controlled by his crew. They controlled his floating chair
    as well. I'd hate to think what would happen if I had to control
    it, he thought. I would send myself spinning into a tree.
         A cable ran down from the socket in his skull to a fortune's
    worth of cephalic hardware on board the chair. His crew monitored
    the images being recorded. Just as people needed a waking life to
    inspire dreams, the Travels animator AI's had to have raw images
    to build the broadcast; Saul was using experimental techniques to
    raise the AHL in his raw images so that it would be super-fuel for
    the AI's. More and more he found he had to do things himself
    because no one else would do.
         I'm not spinning, he told himself firmly. I am not.
         He was holding on to the arms of the flying chair with a
    death grip, his mouth set in a grimace. He was starting to
    hallucinate. Occasionally he would catch a glimpse of an enormous
    chasm off in the ocean, the water pouring down into mist . . . or
    it would be right on the other side of a grove of trees, a red
    gaping hole miles across and miles across. The breeze that tossed
    his thinning hair went unnoticed, along with the shout of the
    seagulls and the crash of the ocean waves. He took slow, deep
    breaths; patient breaths. He was sweating in streams.
         He could see the edge of the chasm coming closer. He was
    crawling toward it like an ant approaching the Grand Canyon. The
    force of all his superiors at Telcron Systems was at his back, all
    the board members and advertisers, all pushing him forward. The
    ground at the edge of the chasm was suddenly crumbling at his
    feet, he could feel it. He could look down and see it. There was
    no way to avoid going over; he already was over. He reached out
    and grabbed for something, anything . . . he caught the edge and
    held on.
         His crew watched the images with amazement. The sphere was
    running along the edge of a bottomless canyon, almost tumbling
    over . . . but not quite. An angled rock here, an outcropping
    there . . . just when it looked like it was going over it would
    bounce away. The AHL reading was high on the scale. What an
    imagination Saul had! What a master of the Mataphin! Watching the
    raw image coming in they failed to hear his mournful cries for
    help.
         All that was left between him and the fall was one weak,
    tenuous grasp on the bare face of the rock. The drop spread out
    underneath him vividly, all Arizona reds and greys, old sandstone
    bluffs and arid dry sand. The sweat from his hand was making it
    slippery.
         Just do it, he thought. Push yourself off with a yell. Let
    go, let yourself fly. Then you'll have all the weight of the push
    behind you. Everything will be behind you. You can do it, just let
    yourself. Come on, if you can let yourself go over then you can
    let yourself do anything. Just do it. Just let go.
         Saul held on anyway. He held on despite what he was telling
    himself. One tenuous grasp held him, and he clung.
         His crew watched as the AHL went up yet another digit.
         Saul gripped his chair, kept his eyes open, and kept up his
    slow, even breathing. This was killing him, he could feel it. The
    chasm gaped like an open mouth ready to swallow him. He hung on,
    desperate, knowing full well it was futile. How in the hell can I
    keep this up? he thought.
         Easy. Let go.
         I'm just one person, damn it! How can I compete with Jesus
    Christ? How can I make His followers abandon Him? To them He is
    God! Who am I? I am a small and unhappy man who has burned his
    brain with drugs, who has produced mutant offspring, who has lost
    his wife to another woman --- who has placed himself in a position
    where he must do something that he can not do.
         You can do it. You can do it if you let go.
         I can not!
         You have no choice.
         I will fight it to the end, he thought, and willed himself
    back over the lip of the chasm, back onto flat ground.
         The Travels sphere went bouncing off away from the chasm, off
    onto a flat, featureless plain. The rolling slowed but did not
    stop; it rolled on, lost, tired. Saul's crew watched in dismay ---
    the image had nothing to do with the reality, had nothing to do
    with the ball they were controlling for Saul's eyes. The AHL meter
    dropped to almost zero. Saul's eyes were closed; he'd fallen
    asleep.
         "Saul? Saul?"
         Saul opened his eyes. A voice was calling his name from the
    arm rest. He touched a panel and said, "What?"
         "Why don't we call it a day, Saul. We've got some fantastic
    material, best stuff anyone here's ever seen. We're all tired, and
    we know you must be. We're going on twelve hours now."
         "No," Saul said. "No, not yet. Give me a minute, I'll get
    back on track." Just today, he told himself. I only have to get
    through today. This is the last day before Jesus comes, he'll be
    here tomorrow.
         Saul pulled a Mataphin dispenser out of a pouch on his
    harness. Hold back, he told himself, and was proud that he only
    took two. He could feel himself spinning again, careening out of
    control toward the edge. He dug in, held on. Rocks fell away under
    his feet. It can't be Jesus, he told himself. The only reason I'm
    thinking he's real is because of the pressure. It's the pressure
    that's getting me.
         There would be no pressure, his own voice said in his ear.
    There would be no pressure if you let go.
         SHUT UP!
         The crew heard it this time, his fearful, angry cry. They
    looked up, watching him sadly. After a moment they returned to
    their work, guiding the ball and Saul's chair, processing the raw
    images. The AHL began climbing again. Saul was back on track. It
    was amazing, they didn't know how he could do it. Those that
    really understood what it took to get images this dense from a
    human mind regarded him with a mixture of reverence and horror.
         Finally, three hours after sunset, Saul and the crew
    finished. Now Saul had to take all they had produced back to
    Telcron and hover over the technicians and their computers while
    the animator AI's processed it for broadcast. By tomorrow it would
    be on the air, and Saul would know by noon whether or not he had
    accomplished his task.









                               21. FIRST DAY



         Dodd stepped outside into the morning air, standing in front
    of the door and letting it close behind him. He took a deep breath
    and faced the morning as if it were a thing in front of him to
    contemplate. Nothing down at the plant had led him to believe he
    had the day off today, even if the Second Coming did occur. He had
    always worked alternating Sundays, it was part of his original
    contract. Unless Jesus Himself changed things Dodd figured this
    would continue as always.
         If Jesus really does come, he thought, today could be the end
    of the world. This made the day seem physically different to Dodd
    as he strode at his normal pace toward the subway terminal. The
    air around him seemed charged, as if there were going to be a
    lightning storm. The morning sunlight seemed different; the light
    was richer, more golden. There was not a cloud in sight.
         The streets and walkways were much quieter today than usual,
    even for a Sunday. There were only a few other people at the
    station, one a young woman. From behind she looked like Savina.
    She turned and glanced at him; she was older than he'd thought, at
    least in her mid-twenties. She smiled at him and then shyly turned
    away.
         Dodd wondered about Savina. Where was she? Was she with
    Danny? Was she with the Indian woman? He hoped to God she was
    still okay. He hadn't heard anything since that anonymous message.
    He found himself missing her.
         I hope your baby is beautiful and perfect, he thought. He
    tried to picture it in his mind, and for some reason it looked a
    little like himself. On Savina's face was that big wide grin of
    hers, proud of the child, holding it casually and then looking up
    at Dodd.
         Dodd quickly put it out of his mind, thinking of something
    else.
         While waiting for the train, Dodd struck up a conversation
    with the woman who had reminded him of Savina. No, she told him,
    she wasn't sure she believed Jesus was coming back. It was too
    convenient, she said. It was all happening during a period where
    JTV's ratings had fallen to an all-time low.
         "Where'd you hear this?" he asked.
         "The Politico Network," she told him. Her voice was sweet and
    soft.
         Dodd nodded, his expression thoughtful. "Do you ever watch
    Travels?"
         "No."
         "Have you ever?"
         The woman shook her head. By her expression it seemed she
    considered Travels beneath her. "I hardly ever watch television,"
    she said. "I read. And if I do watch television, it's either the
    free speech program on Politico, or some of their editorial hours,
    or pornography on one of the broadcast networks." With the last
    comment came a teasing smile; then she was off, her train had
    come, and she stepped aboard and it rushed away.
         Dodd looked around, his hands in his pockets. He was now the
    only one in the subway station. This had never happened to him
    before, not even during the rare occasions when he was getting off
    the train in the middle of the night. When his train came hissing
    out of the tunnel Dodd was startled. It buzzed to a halt in front
    of him and he stared at it with no desire to get on. The doors
    slid open, beckoning.
         I could call in sick again, Dodd thought. I can just go home
    and call in sick. But then I'd have to fight with Sheila to gain
    control of the television . . . hell, I'd rather go to work.
         The doors remained open, waiting. They would close any second
    now, he had to make a decision. He thought that he could go
    somewhere other than his apartment and watch the Second Coming,
    but that thought made him mad, he told himself that he was NOT
    going to miss a day at work just so he could watch a goddamn TV
    show. He put one foot forward, followed by the other, forcing
    himself to enter the subway car before the doors closed. The doors
    closed right after he got on, as if they were waiting specifically
    for him. The train hissed, and made a clicking sound. It smelled
    freshly-cleaned, even antiseptic. Dodd looked up and down the car,
    not knowing what to think. He was the only one aboard. With a
    gentle nudge it began moving, gaining velocity, rushing on out of
    the empty station and into the black of the tunnel. Dodd had an
    eerie feeling that he shouldn't have boarded.
         He walked slowly down the blue-carpeted aisle to the rear end
    of the car and peered through the glass doors into the next. It,
    too, was empty. He opened the separating doors and stepped
    through, hearing for a moment the outside rush of air. He walked
    swiftly though the next car to the trailing end and peered through
    the glass doors into the last car on the train.
         Empty.
         Nervous, Dodd made his way forward, going from car to car,
    until he was in the front right behind the robot engine. He was
    the only person on the train. The only one. This had never
    happened to him in his life.
         There was a long, low beep over the loudspeakers, and the
    onboard computer announced the next stop. Holding on to the
    railing as it decelerated toward the next station, Dodd watched
    the windows, looking for something, anything. The red-tiled
    station slid into view. The train came to a stop and opened its
    doors. Dodd could see no one in the station, and no one boarded
    the train.
         Nobody is out there, he thought, amazed. Bits and pieces of
    his King James Bible came to him, and he fought it because it
    scared him. The Rapture. The Rapture which was not included in the
    United Church Bible, but here it was. The Rapture which took all
    those who were faithful to God away from the Earth to spare them
    from what was to follow. They would disappear into thin air, and
    then the world would end. The Earth would stop turning, the sun
    would be blotted from the sky. The stars would fall from heaven.
    The air would turn to poison. Those who were left would suffer
    beyond their worst nightmares, and then God would come to judge
    them.
         It's happening, Dodd thought. It's really happening.
         And I'm still here.
         There was a hissing and a click as the train doors closed,
    and the train pulled out of the station and back into the darkness
    of the tunnel. Dodd looked away from the window. He felt like he
    was living a nightmare. I shouldn't have gotten on this train, he
    thought. Somehow I failed God. I went to work instead of watching
    for Him to arrive . . .
         Dodd made his hands into fists, clenching them tightly. I'm
    working myself into a hysteria, he thought. Why should God care if
    we don't sit around watching for Him on TV? Jesus isn't going to
    arrive until noon, anyway. But according to the King James, those
    who would be raptured would be gone before Jesus returns. So,
    then, what happens to those sitting around waiting for Him to
    appear? Are they already gone? Then who's going to see him arrive?
         No, this is dumb, he thought. Dumb! Nobody is on the train
    because everybody is at home watching JTV. They're all staying
    home. That must be it! This rapture stuff is nonsense, it's not
    real.
         Regardless of what he told himself, Dodd was frightened.
    Being the only person on a normally crowded subway train was
    enough to unnerve most people all by itself, but being that it was
    on the day of the Second Coming it seemed especially weird. Dodd
    was so used to standing on the subway that, despite having a whole
    train to himself he was still standing, holding onto the rail.
         At the next stop Dodd was relieved to see several people on
    the platform waiting. A few boarded his train. One, a woman with
    curly grey hair and a puffy face, stepped into Dodd's car. The way
    he was staring at her must have made her nervous; she looked away
    from him, seating herself at the far end away from him. This
    doesn't prove anything, Dodd thought. These people, like me, could
    be Left Behind. This doesn't prove there wasn't a Rapture. Not to
    me. Not while I've got the goddamned idea in my head.
         The world was not the same today. Whether the Second Coming
    was real or not, the world was different. JTV had created an
    illusion with its announcement, made it vivid with publicity,
    penetrating and infecting the world with it --- and now Dodd no
    longer knew what was real.
         When Dodd reached the Honda Aerospace plant he saw a vast
    empty, unmoving space beyond the chain-link fence. A notice
    attached to the main gates announced that since so many of the
    employees had called in sick or had simply not shown up that they
    had closed the plant down for the day. In the yard even the
    autonomic machinery was silent. It was as quiet as a graveyard.
    Dodd turned away, shuddering, and walked back toward the subway
    station.
         Now what, he thought. I don't want to go home. I don't want
    to go to Toby's, either; it was hard for him to face Toby anymore.
    The whole thing about Savina, and about Savina's boyfriend going
    to prison . . . Dodd just couldn't handle it. Not today.
         Dodd reached the railing around the entrance to the subway
    and stopped, leaning against it. The morning was so alien, it was
    getting to him. He felt sick to his stomach, and he kept getting
    the impulse to cry. It's my nerves, he thought. The things running
    through my head. Second Coming, the End of the World, Beware the
    Anarchist AI, the Rapture, the Rapture, and you've been left
    behind . . .
         He reentered the subway station and boarded the first train
    that came in. It had four people on it, and none of them seemed to
    want to talk. Dodd rode, not caring where he was going, and got
    off at a stop that was near Bob Recent's place. It was perfect, he
    could talk to Bob about this, he found himself really wanting to
    see Bob and Denise. Dodd stepped on the moving walkway that
    brought him into the enormous complex and rode until he reached
    Bob's building. Bob and Denise had a penthouse up at the top, a
    place much nicer than Dodd's. Dodd could have afforded such an
    apartment had he not been saving for a kid.
         It seemed to take forever to get to the top floor. The
    elevator was done in pastel plastics, very nicely textured and
    void of graffiti. The carpet was short but soft --- barefoot
    carpet --- it continued out of the elevator, the same color. Dodd
    watched it pass under his feet as he stepped out and walked down
    the hall to the Recent's door. Here and there were crushed streaks
    where heavy robots habitually tread.
         Dodd reached the door and pressed the button, smiling up at
    the Recent's electric eye and waiting for their computer to
    announce his presence. He waited a full minute, and then pressed
    the button again. What, he thought, is it broken? He pushed again,
    waiting.
         They're gone, he thought. They're raptured.
         He pushed the button again, and added a loud rap on the door.
    Raptured my ass, he thought, they're watching Travels. He pressed
    his ear to the door, listening carefully. It seemed to be . . .
    yes, it was. Racing, sparkling music, the Travels soundtrack. They
    had Travels on and were so deep into it that they couldn't hear
    the door. A wave of anger rose through Dodd, and he pushed down
    hard on the door bell button, kept ringing it over and over, then
    began pounding very hard on the door with his fist, thumping it
    like a drum. Then he kicked it, yelling.
         There was no response.
         He kicked at the door a few more times, scuffing the textured
    pastel surface with the steel of his work boot toes. It was in
    vain. Bob and Denise were trapped in the world of Travels, just
    like Sheila, and they were not coming out. Dodd tried the door
    latch, but it was firmly locked. If there had been an exposed
    window he would have broken it. Finally he gave up. He stormed
    back to the elevator and pushed the down button, standing and
    waiting.
         Where now? he thought. He still didn't want to go home or
    over to Toby's. Then an idea struck him. Why not go to a church?
    Surely they'd have a TV turned on, he could watch the Second
    Coming. Why not? Now was as good a time to start going to church
    as any.
         Still, deep inside he was terrified that no one would be
    there. He kept having the wild thoughts about rapture, which was
    the real reason he didn't want to stop by Toby's house --- he was
    certain that Toby and his wife would be gone, vanished. If he'd
    found Toby's house empty it would be too much for him to take.
         Stepping into the empty elevator and watching the door close
    behind him, Dodd felt utter loneliness. The sinking feeling as the
    elevator descended matched the feeling inside of him. Where I
    really want to be, he thought, is with Savina.
         "Yeah," he said aloud in the empty elevator, "I'm a dirty old
    man."
         The elevator continued to sink.









                               22. COVERAGE 1



         On the Sunday of the Second Coming, there was an average of
    twenty-four 30-second advertising spots per hour on JTV, with an
    average price of 1.5 million dollars per second. All the
    advertising time was bought and paid for in advance, some at an
    even higher price as the last few spots were auctioned off to the
    highest bidders. On this one Sunday the network stood to make more
    profit than during its last 5 operating years combined. All-in-all
    it was a very good day for the network.
         One commercial, sponsored by the Off-World Immigration
    Commission, costing 45 million to make and 90 million to air,
    showed wholesome and happy people working and playing among
    awesomely imaged panoramas of alien landscapes; great virgin
    forests of autumn-leafed trees, grey-green hued hills towering
    over a small and open settlement; and, prominent in the last shot,
    taking the fullest advantage of television's 3-D effect, a large
    sprawling United Church temple set behind an ultra-modern VTOL
    orbital shuttle. The temple had a sixty-foot brass cross planted
    in its courtyard, supporting a handsome transparent figure of
    Jesus hanging in glory. Underneath the cross was the inscription:

                       HE IS RISEN. HE IS EVERYWHERE.

    The commercial faded to blackness. The blackness lasted perhaps
    two seconds, then a pair of JTV newscasters appeared on the
    screen, their expressions excited, their eyes wide and sparkling.
    Both were almost unisexual, but upon closer inspection the woman
    could be seen for a woman; she had breasts pressed flat under a
    plain white shirt, and her hair was slightly longer than her
    companion's. Her voice was low but feminine, while the man's voice
    was high but well-modulated. They were both designed to appeal to
    male and female viewers, hetero- or homosexual. It didn't matter,
    the two were so neutral they couldn't offend anybody.
         "We have the Good News," the man said.
         "Our Lord Jesus Christ is arriving," the woman said. "The
    moment we have been waiting for is here."
         "Exactly three minutes ago a visual anomaly was spotted in
    space above Jerusalem by Alan Soigne, United Space Workers Union
    member and also a Saved Christian." The male newscaster smiled.
    "Telescopes aboard the InterStel Corporation shuttle Mary Lee were
    turned upon the anomaly and it was determined to be an unexplained
    optical distortion above the atmosphere. About a minute ago, a
    bright light and figures were sighted within the optical
    distortion."
         The female newscaster smiled. "For live coverage we now turn
    you over to Norman Shire at the JTV bureau in Jerusalem."
         On the screen in sharp 3-D detail appeared bright lights and
    moving dots, all within an odd-looking setting of wispy clouds. It
    was confusing at first; there was nothing to look at for a sense
    of perspective. Then the scene pulled back to reveal stars and the
    blue and white crescent of Earth.
         "What you are looking at," said Norman Shire in a heavy,
    authoritative voice, "is a live picture being sent down directly
    from the InterStel Corporation shuttle Mary Lee. What it looks
    like --- and Reverend Juan Krishni here with me in the studio
    agrees --- is an actual opening in the fabric of space. A
    dimensional warp, I might say, as in what is created by
    faster-than-light spacecraft."
         ". . . it looks very much like a hyperspacial hole, yes
    indeed," added a quavering, excited voice.
         "That was the Reverend," Shire's voice said. "He and I are
    here in the Jerusalem studio, as I've said, watching this
    spectacular shot beamed down to us from orbit. Can you make
    anything out of this, Reverend?"
         "No, not as yet," the Reverend said. He had a slight East
    Indian accent. "I don't really, I mean . . . I have no way to know
    what those moving things are, though I would hazard a guess that
    they might actually be, um . . ."
         "Could they be angels, Reverend?"
         "Oh yes, they very well could be. Did I say that right?
    Well-could-be? Could-well-be? I guess that's right. They could be
    angels."
         There was a moment of silence, then Norman Shire's voice
    muttered: "I wish we could get a better close up. Hmmm. Oh, hold
    on . . ." He paused. "I've just been informed that the Mary Lee is
    maneuvering closer, but the pilot is anxious . . . they don't want
    to take the shuttle too close."
         "They do seem to be getting closer."
         "Ah, they're zooming in again . . ."
         The lights and mist grew bigger on the screen, filling it so
    that the Earth and stars were no longer visible. The mist glowed
    with its own light, thin as it was. The bright white lights that
    showed through seemed to be from a long, long ways away. After
    staring at it a long time, the illusion of an opening in space
    became clear; the inside of the opening was solid white. The
    moving figures were just on the verge of being recognizable
    shapes; they clustered around this opening, moving in patterns
    that suggested playfulness. The view shook violently for a moment,
    then stabilized.
         The Reverend chuckled, his voice giddy with excitement. "What
    was that? Somebody bump the camera?"
         "I . . . no, I've just been told that that was a jolt from
    the Mary Lee's thrusters. They're maneuvering to within four
    miles."
         "Praise the Lord!" the Reverend said, delightedly.
         Norman Shire dutifully echoed him.
         The scene, as it stood, looked a bit like gnats swarming in
    slow motion around a porch light. It changed very little over the
    next few minutes, and finally the space shots were replaced by two
    figures in the small studio; Norman Shire, a thick-bodied,
    square-shouldered man with a large handsome grin, and the Reverend
    Juan Krishni, smaller in stature, a ruddy time-worn face, greying
    hair, and squinting eyes; both sat together in front of a blue
    studio desk decorated with a simple brass cross and the insignia
    of JTV. There were wireless earphones sticking out of their ears.
    "Since we have a pause in the action," Shire was saying, "we're
    going to take a very quick break. But we'll be right back, here on
    this historic, glorious Sunday."
         The commercials flashed past, most of them only 5 and 10
    second spots. One, a commercial featuring two healthy, wholesome
    church members, showed them drinking brightly-colored PTL Cola
    with great relish and obvious sexual satisfaction; this commercial
    was played twice in succession, probably for effect. A moment
    later these commercials were forgotten, leaving only a sudden
    thirst in their passing.
         Norman Shire's swarthy and well-groomed features flashed back
    on the screen. As he gave a brief summery of what had happened so
    far, the view pulled back to include the Reverend and another man,
    thin and pale with big eyes and blond hair. Shire announced: "This
    is Gary DeLeon, technical adviser from the stel . . . sorry, I
    mean InterStel . . . corporation, who's ship is sending us back
    live pictures from space. He's joined us to give us an insider's
    viewpoint as to what is taking place aboard the Mary Lee, in orbit
    above Jerusalem."
         "Well, the ship really isn't in orbit," Gary DeLeon said.
    "It's having a difficult time right now because its having to
    maintain a stationary position above Jerusalem at an altitude far
    too low for a geosynchronous orbit . . ." As the technician went
    on and on about details concerning the shuttle's maneuvering
    problems, the view switched back to outer space. The lights and
    the moving figures were much closer now, the white hole filling
    most of the screen. The swarming figures were now definite shapes;
    tiny humanoids with spread white wings, soaring about in
    effortless, lazy circles. Some appeared to be chasing each other.
    The Reverend broke in and remarked upon this excitedly, then began
    to mumble a happy prayer.
         "Those are angels," Shire's voice breathed. "I can't possibly
    think of what else they might be."
         "Oh, this is a glorious day!" the Reverend exclaimed in his
    quavering voice. "Praise the Lord! Praise-the-Lord!"
         Shire and DeLeon echoed him dutifully.

                                     #

         After another break for commercials, the view returned to the
    scene from space, with angels darting around at a now
    comparatively intimate distance. Details could now be seen: most
    of the angels were unmistakably children; they were the ones
    darting around, chasing each other. Most appeared to be nude.
    Other angels, however, were clothed in full, flowing gowns; they
    were bigger in size, more calm in their flight --- probably
    adults. The caressed each other as they passed, flying with a
    grace that was hypnotizing to watch. So far Christ was not
    visible, or at least He was not distinguishable from His angels.
         This continued for several minutes, with occasional comments
    from Shire or the Reverend. Then there was another commercial
    break, featuring an airline company offering low fares on
    round-trip flights to the "Holy Land." When the break was over the
    scene had not changed, and Shire announced something about the
    Pope of the United Church having called to say he was watching and
    that the view from space was "spectacular."
         "It certainly is!" the Reverend Krishni agreed.
         Moments later something new happened: all the angels spread
    away from the bright hole in a rush, a few coming quite close to
    the Mary Lee. Then the brightness of the hole intensified, and
    Shire and the Reverend babbled excitedly as a stream of billowing
    mist came spewing out of the hole and went drifting down toward
    Earth. The angles, swooping and spiraling, followed closely behind
    and to the sides. The mist moved dream-like, with wispy tendrils
    reaching out before it, curling at the ends, falling behind as new
    tendrils shot out. Behind it the hole faded and dissipated like
    smoke.
         "Jesus is descending!" Shire was shouting, overpowering the
    sound pickups. "Jesus is descending!" Beneath the wild sound of
    his voice the Reverend could be heard praying under his breath,
    praising the Lord, almost chanting in his ecstasy.
         The picture jerked as the Mary Lee maneuvered to follow. The
    descending stream of mist now appeared to be nothing more than a
    blob against the colorful Earth, the angels now too far away to be
    seen. After about 10 minutes the scene switched to a ground view,
    looking up, showing blue sky. Burning in the sky, right in the
    center of the screen, was a blotch of bright light.
         ". . . this is a shot from right up on the studio roof,"
    Shire was saying, "happening right now, at this very moment. This
    is, I'm . . . I mean . . ." He trailed off, pausing a moment.
    "You'll have to excuse me, brothers and sisters, if I keep
    stumbling over what I'm trying to say. I am literally speechless.
    This is, this . . . I can't believe I'm here, alive on Earth
    today, to see this . . . This is undoubtedly the greatest moment
    in over two-thousand years of history. Our God, our Savior, has
    returned to us . . . is descending before our eyes . . . and I,
    and I can't . . ."
         The view continued showing a bright blotch in the sky; it
    grew a little in size but that was all. For 30 seconds the view
    switched back to the Mary Lee, still maneuvering in space. Then,
    shaking a little, the view from below returned to the screen. The
    scene stabilized, and something else could be seen. A small black
    dot to the side.
         That's our JTV air launch up there," Shire was saying, having
    gotten himself under control. "Hopefully, with luck, we will soon
    be getting live pictures from it. I've been told, however, that at
    this point the view up there isn't much better."
         "How far up is that vehicle?" asked DeLeon, the InterStel
    technician.
         "I have no idea. I have been told, though, that we have a new
    high-tech air launch on its way --- we'll be getting pictures from
    that, as well." As Shire spoke, the view switched to show him
    sitting in the studio. His hair had somehow gotten messy. "Until
    then, as long as the view remains as it is, we're going to take a
    very brief time out for a commercial break."
         Seven full minutes of commercials blurred past, pacing so
    quickly and holding attention so intensely that after they were
    all over it was hard to remember having seen them at all. Then the
    program continued with shaky pictures from the JTV air launch. The
    bright blotch had resolved into a large cottony cloud, billowing
    downward, surrounded by dim pin-prick flashes of light.
         The scene switched to a closer, more stable view; the dim
    flashes turned out to be sunlight glaring off the ultra-white
    angels' wings as they soared and banked in the air. "Ah, this . .
    . this is the view from the Mercedes 4000A air launch, graciously
    provided by Mercedes Aerospace for today's fantastic event." Shire
    cleared his throat.
         "Those 4000A's are really slick," the InterStel technician
    said in a low voice, a side comment to Shire. "Powered by a high
    efficiency gravity engine, capable of going into low orbit----"
         "Uh, yes."
         "They're really safe."
         "I'm sure they are . . ."
         "We use 'em a lot out in the colonies----"
         "Oh! Look!" shouted the Reverend.









                               23. COVERAGE 2



         The camera angle had swung over to a horizontal view as the
    Mercedes 4000A matched altitude and velocity. The scene was
    frightening in its visual intensity --- it was taken from quite
    close, with the frolicking angels swooping right up to the camera,
    filling the screen with glowing, silky wings. They put the cloud
    into perspective; it was huge, at least 15 kilometers across, with
    a bright glare at the top, riding on the leading edge as it
    descended. The camera zoomed in on this glare, filling the screen
    with white. Through it motion could be detected, but no image
    could be found.
         "That may be Him," Shire breathed reverently.
         "Yes," the Reverend agreed, his voice humble. "Praise the
    Lord. Praise him. Praise Jesus . . ."
         A coloration slowly formed in the glare, a long,
    stretched-out rainbow-like effect, but not a rainbow. The view
    pulled back, revealing the coloration to be spread in patches,
    trailing behind and then dissipating.
         The scene switched to the view from the JTV air launch, which
    was now level with the Mercedes. The Mercedes drifted in and out
    of view; sleek, modern, gracefully sliding through the air. The
    vogue Mercedes Aerospace logo was clearly visible on the side.
    Beyond was the billowing cloud, and the darting, soaring angels.
         The scene switched back to the view from the Mercedes, then,
    suddenly, to the view from the studio roof. The cloud, from below,
    was round. Its bulk now filled the sky. The bright glare that was
    presumably the Lord shown right through the cloud.
         ". . . it's getting close," Shire was saying, "the cloud has
    blotted out the sun. We can see that though the windows here in
    the studio. The masses of people, the pilgrims filling the Holy
    City, are shouting out in excitement, in glory . . . there's a
    tone, a note, coming, coming out . . ."
         "The angels!" the Reverend exclaimed. "It's the angels!
    They're singing!"
         ". . . yes, they're singing!" Shire confirmed. "They're
    singing! Can we get that----? Are we picking that up for the TV
    audience?"
         There was a loud thump, as if a microphone had been banged
    against something. The view, which was still from the roof,
    looking up, shook a little then suddenly there was a single note,
    a distant pastel sound of thousands of choral voices all blending
    together on a single, heavenly note . . . it changed slowly,
    hypnotically. Shire's voice was shaking, muttering "Beautiful
    . . . beautiful . . . I can't believe this is happening . . ." He
    was silent for a long moment --- everyone was silent, all
    listening to the song of the angels --- then Shire spoke again. He
    had regained his professional, modulated voice. "I've just been
    informed that the cloud is at seven-thousand feet and dropping,
    decelerating as it goes. Its speed, as tracked by the pilot of the
    Mercedes air launch, is approximately two-hundred-ten kilometers
    per hour, and slowing.
         Nobody had much of anything to say after that, except for
    occasional cries of pleasure and awe. Masses of pilgrims began
    singing hymns as the cloud came down, obscuring the entire sky.
    The view shifted back up to the scene from the air; the angle was
    from above, looking down at the mist, the angels and the pastel
    colors streaming from the bright glow. The scene was switched to
    the ground view, showing the glow and the cloud rushing visibly
    downward --- suddenly it engulfed the camera and obscured
    everything in a thick mist, everything except the glow. The scene
    switched back up to the Mercedes, which was hovering above the
    mist at about 30 meters. The angels had vanished, perhaps into the
    mist.
         "I can't see anything!" the Reverend exclaimed. "Can you see
    anything, Norman?"
         "No, I can't."
         The singing of the pilgrims had grown to a fevered pitch; the
    angels had gone silent. The mist spread out and flattened like a
    cottony blanket over the Holy City, hiding everything. The glow
    had become golden, dimming in brightness, centering and drawing in
    on itself. The mist thinned, becoming translucent. The golden glow
    continued drawing in upon itself until it solidified, a bright
    spot of golden light, then it, too, diffused, remaining only a
    golden tinge in the thinning mist.
         There was a sudden, awesome silence.
         The view switched to the camera on the roof; it was already
    in the process of zooming in. There was a golden temple where none
    stood before, and on top of the temple stood a white-robed figure,
    a soft rainbow of light above its head. The flock of angels were
    nowhere to be seen.
         "It's Him," Norman Shire breathed. "God is on Earth." Then he
    raised his voice and shouted it, his words trembling and raw with
    emotion. "GOD IS ON EARTH!"









                              24. GOD ON EARTH



         After watching the JTV spectacular, the first thing that went
    through Saul's mind --- and he was proud of himself for this ---
    was that the sales of the Mercedes 4000A were going to go through
    the roof. It was only after that, after his professional
    evaluation, that Saul wondered: Was that real? Could they have
    faked that? All that material?
         I'm in the business, he thought. I know that can be faked.
         But was it?
         Was it?
         Nobody had shown up to work except for a few apprentice
    technicians, so Saul spent the day in the production lab preparing
    the next day's Travels from previous stocks of raw images. He had
    not done this part of the job for over 7 years --- 4 promotions
    ago. But he fell back into the routine easily enough, working with
    conscious AIs was like working with people who already knew their
    jobs and just need you to point them in a certain direction.
         All this time in the back of his mind Saul hid the terrible
    thought that maybe God had really returned to Earth and that he,
    Saul, was working against Him. It kept Saul on the edge, kept him
    working in a fevered state --- pushing him on with fear, keeping
    him going so that he didn't have time to think about it, to
    consider the possible consequences.
         The AHL was turning out very tight, an insanely rich level.
    At 57.6% it was a full 21 points over the old standard, which used
    to be considered impossible. It felt to Saul that he'd squeezed
    juices out of his brain to get it that high. The terrible thing
    was, he knew it could be higher. He knew he could make it much
    higher.
         Thank God it's over, he thought.
         Saul looked at his watch. Enough was enough. The AIs knew
    what they were doing, they could finish without him. Saul walked
    around and logged off all the terminals, shutting the monitors
    down, then locked the room and headed up to his office to relax a
    few minutes and wait for the Mataphin to wear off a bit.
         His office was dark when he walked in; he could see a little
    red light glaring on his desk terminal. There was mail waiting for
    him. Saul turned on the lights and walked over to his desk,
    bothered by the silence that lay thick and heavy over the room. It
    was a lonely silence. He sat down with a sigh, keeping his head
    together, deliberating on whether or not to look at the mail. It
    could be good news, he thought, trying to be positive. Turning it
    on, Saul watched the screen light up and tapped a few keys. "Mail:
    03" it read. He took a breath, hesitating, but then shrugged and
    called it up onto the screen.

              TO: Saul Kalman         DATE: 6/15/42
              FROM: Lisa Schemandle   SUBJECT: Shit

              Saul, this is Lisa. I cannot take any of this
              anymore. The assassins I hired failed, those
              thieving bastards remain beyond my reach. I
              watched part of that goddamned program they
              launched against us and was amazed to find that I
              fucking believed it was actually happening. So I
              gave up. I made all my arrangements and turned in
              my resignation. You know, Saul, you're a damned
              dependable person. You're the only man I've ever
              liked.
                    Lisa





              TO: Saul Kalman         DATE: 6/15/42
              FROM: Terry Liddy       SUBJECT: Lisa Schemandle

              Saul, I just received a notice from the Reinke
              Street euthanasia center that Lisa Schemandle had
              herself put to death this afternoon. I don't know
              what your relationship with her was but let me
              assure you that I share your shock and sense of
              loss. But she must be replaced immediately, and,
              considering your apparent talent and the
              successful job you did keeping the ratings from
              slipping too far over today's crisis, I and the
              other members of the board unanimously agreed to
              give you the promotion, effective immediately.
              I'll be in your office tomorrow morning to go
              over things with you in detail.

                                                      T. Liddy





              TO: Saul Kalman         DATE: 6/15/42
              FROM: Mirro Kalman      SUBJECT: Vicky

              Honey, something terrible has happened. Vicky's
              son was sentenced and we just found out that he'd
              elected Euthanasia instead of prison. He's gone,
              he's been gone for days and they hadn't even told
              Vicky, they just notified her ex. She's really
              torn up, and between this and that disturbing JTV
              broadcast we just couldn't handle it anymore.
              I've decided the best thing I can do for her is
              to take her on a little trip down south so she
              could take her mind off of her son. Sorry to have
              to tell you like this, but we're going now and
              there seemed no other way to reach you. Hope you
              don't mind taking care of the kid. I love you.
              Bye.



    Saul stared at his wife's name at the bottom of her message,
    gazing at it a long time but not seeing it. The panic was rising
    inside him, the feeling of spinning, the feeling his feet were at
    the edge of the chasm. Without realizing what he was doing, Saul
    pulled his Mataphin dispenser out and emptied its entire contents
    into his hand. Twenty pills, twenty tiny orange tabs. Slowly he
    raised them to his mouth, then flattened his tongue and used it as
    a shovel to scoop them in. In a moment they were gone,
    dry-swallowed. He sat there for a long time, his mind blank,
    staring at the terminal's screen. Then he reached out, took a hold
    of the terminal, and began pushing it across the cold, smooth
    surface of his desk, pushing it toward the opposite edge.
         No, he thought. No! I will not break an innocent piece of
    equipment. I will not kill the bearer of bad news. That is not
    done. That is not the kind of thing I do.
         Oh my God, how much Mataphin did I take?
         His own voice spoke to him from behind, like he was standing
    behind and to the side of himself. His voice was angry and
    impatient. It said: You have the power to do anything you want to
    do. The power is within you. Let go. Let yourself do it.
         No!
         Push the terminal off your desk.
         No! Saul backed away from the desk, felt the chair catch and
    tilt backwards, teetering. He was on the edge of the chasm. The
    chasm stretched on and on to either side of him, eternally
    widening, eternally deepening. Saul fought for balance, spinning
    his arms. The chair fell backwards.
         Saul was clinging to the edge of the chasm with a feeble,
    slipping grasp, his legs dangling into space. His office was gone.
    The chair had tumbled over the edge. It was still falling beneath
    him, turning end over end, deeper and deeper into the dull red
    shadows.
         Just let go! he shouted at himself. Let go and it will go
    away. You will not fall.
         Liar! Saul screamed, hanging on, gritting his teeth at the
    agony; the bare rock was sliding from his hands, his body was
    swinging to and fro. The air was thick and humid, hard to breathe.
    Every time he sucked it in, it was like warm water flowing into
    his lungs.
         I'm small, he thought. I'm helpless. Nothing I can do will
    change anything.
         Let go! You can do absolutely anything if you let your
    goddamn self do it. Why are you torturing yourself? You jerk!
         Above him the sky shone dingy white; he stared at it a long
    time before he realized it wasn't the sky. He focused his eyes on
    it and found it was only ten feet above his head. It was the
    ceiling of his office; he found he was lying on the floor, the
    chair having tipped over. He pulled himself to a sitting position,
    grasping the edge of his desk; looking over, he realized he'd
    knocked his desk terminal onto the floor.
         Damn it! he thought.
         Saul got to his feet, feeling like he had gears and wires in
    his body instead of muscles. Every movement had to be calculated.
    Picking his left foot up carefully, he swung it forward and placed
    it back upon the carpet. Shifting his weight, he followed with his
    right foot, moving slowly, making his way around the desk to pick
    up his terminal.
         "Mr. Kalman, are you alright?"
         Saul looked up. He was in the lobby of the building, facing a
    night-duty technician. She was about 22 years old, with long blond
    hair and, Saul noticed, sharply-defined and gracefully pointed
    breasts. He stared at them a long moment, breathing quickly,
    feeling the lust swell up inside him. "I want you," he said to
    her.
         She stared back at him without understanding. "What?"
         "I want you," he said. "I want, I want to make love to you."
    Saul had difficulty getting the words out, he was so out of
    breath. It felt like he'd just run down 20 flights of stairs.
         The woman took her time before answering. She finally said,
    "I'm married, Mr. Kalman. My wife and I have a child."
         "Your wife?"
         "I'm a lesbian."
         Saul grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her as hard as
    he could against the wall. Her head hit with a loud smack but she
    was not stunned. She made a hard little ball out of her right hand
    and swung.
         There was a flash of light, and Saul found himself on the
    floor, his head cradled desperately between his bent elbows. "I'm
    sorry," he said. "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry . . . I
    shouldn't . . . I'm sorry I shouldn't . . ."
         The technician was gone. Saul was all alone. He sat up and
    looked around, confused. One of his eyes was puffy and sore.
         It's happening again, he thought. My God, how much Mataphin
    did I take?
         The DeTox! I have the DeTox! It's, it's in my car.
         Saul stood up and started walking, but the gravity was too
    light; if he stepped too hard he knew he'd bounce right up off the
    floor. He'd fall to the ceiling --- he knew this, it seemed to
    have happened before. Every day, ever since the gravity had
    changed, Saul had been forced to walk cautiously or he'd fall
    forward, do a somersault in mid-air, and land on his back on the
    ceiling. There he'd lie, helpless, until someone noticed him
    hanging there and helped peel him down.
         Careful, he told himself. Step carefully. He noticed that
    horrible sensation, felt it start to happen. Easy! he thought.
    Slow down! But the giddy, helpless feeling welled up and gravity
    just let go. He felt weightless for about 2 seconds then there was
    a thud and he was on his back, looking up at the carpeted floor
    and the lobby furniture and his pale, withered bare feet which
    he'd somehow left behind.
         No, he was looking down at his hands. They were resting on
    the table in front of him, beside a half-cup of coffee. He'd been
    there for hours, drinking coffee, waiting for the drug to wear
    off. God, he thought, this is terrible. This is terrible. He moved
    his shaking right hand over and grabbed the cup, holding it
    carefully.
         "Your Mercedes 4000A air launch has arrived," the waitress
    told him.
         Saul looked up at the human waitress, startled. "What did you
    say?"
         "I said, do you want me to warm up your coffee?" The
    dark-haired woman stood poised and ready to pour, holding the
    crystal pot above his cup.
         "Oh," Saul said. "Oh, yes, thank you." He watched as she
    poured, admiring the way she did it, glad that this place still
    had human servers. Through the window of the restaurant, across
    the street, he saw the glowing red sign: TELCRON SYSTEMS, INC. He
    had never made it to his car, to the DeTox. He wondered if he ever
    would. God, he thought, this is going to be a long night.
         Let go, he told himself.
         "I beg your pardon?" the waitress said. "Let go of what?"
         Saul looked up into the woman's eyes, which were a warm
    brown. "I don't know," he told her, feeling like a lost child.
    "I'm very high right now on a professional creativity stimulant.
    I've been under a great deal of strain and I took too much. I
    don't know what I'm doing. There's some detoxification tablets in
    my car, but I can't get to them."
         The waitress sighed. She glanced around somewhere behind
    Saul, then back at him. "Where's your car, sweets?"
         "In the car park, across the street."
         "I can have somebody go get them for you," she said.
         "You'll also have to have somebody keep me here . . . I may
    try to wander off."
         "Okay. Just don't get excited. I'll have Ted go get your
    pills."
         A tall man with long curly hair stepped up to Saul's table
    and held out his hand; Saul gave him the keys and described the
    car. A moment later the same man was shaking him. Other people
    were standing around staring at him with alarmed expressions. The
    man gave him his keys back along with the DeTox dispenser.
    Quickly, before he could get lost again, Saul popped several of
    the little tablets into his mouth and swallowed them with lukewarm
    coffee.
         The waitress refilled his cup. "Are you sure you should have
    taken that many?" she asked. There was a soft, genuine concern in
    her voice. It kindled a small, warm feeling somewhere inside him,
    a fire lost in a deep cavern.
         "I need that many," he said. When he spoke, he realized his
    voice was horse and that his throat felt raw --- it was as if he'd
    been screaming. The people who had been standing around and
    staring at him now turned away and resumed their places at their
    tables.
         Saul turned the DeTox dispenser over in his hand, staring at
    the label with tired eyes. The dosage recommendations read: "Take
    1 or 2 tabs as needed." Underneath, in bold letters, it read:

         NOTICE: DO NOT USE THIS IN CONJUNCTION WITH CREATIVITY
         STIMULANTS SUCH AS RHIDALF, MATAPHIN, AND SULIN-C.
         INTENSIFICATION OF EFFECT WILL OCCUR.

    Saul let out a cry of panic, dropping the dispenser. The
    restaurant vanished. He struggled, unable to breathe at all,
    feeling dizzy and weak and sick to his stomach. He was hanging
    limp and helpless over the endless chasm, tears streaking his
    face; he gave up his tenuous grasp and let himself fall painless
    and free into the warm, comforting gulf. The enormous weight was
    gone. The taut, heavy wires that had bound him were severed. The
    rules had been wiped away.









                                 25. SHEILA



         Dodd wished that Danny Marauder would stop by, or that Savina
    would leave him another message. The second coming of Jesus had
    not brought Savina back to her family despite all Toby's prayers,
    the prayers of Toby's family, and the prayers of every single
    member of Toby's church. Dodd was getting very worried about her.
    He decided it was time to go by the euthanasia center again and
    see if he could find someone, anyone, who knew about Savina. He
    didn't care if it meant spending another night in the trash
    dumpster.
         Dodd was showering after coming home from work. Sheila, pale
    and thin, was in front of the TV and hadn't moved much from the
    position she'd been in when he'd left for work that morning. Four
    days had passed since Sunday, four days that Dodd had watched the
    world around him with suspicious glares and long thoughtful looks.
    There had been no Rapture. There had been no terrible plague. The
    world had not, as yet, ended. Bob Recent still showed up late for
    work. Toby still prayed for his missing daughter. Sheila still lie
    comatose in front of the Travels sphere.
         His shower finished, Dodd towelled himself off and walked
    down the hall to his bedroom, shutting the door to cut off the
    Travels music. He dressed in clean, nice clothes, deciding not to
    dress down to the anarchists. That last time he'd tried to imitate
    them, and that was probably the reason they'd taken him for a
    Narco.
         When he was finished dressing, he used the bedroom phone and
    called Toby's house.
         "Hello?" It was Toby's wife, her face filling the screen.
         "Hi. I'm calling to see if you've heard anything about
    Savina."
         "No Dodd, we have not. But that boy who raped her, now, he's
    gone to euthanasia."
         "What?"
         "He's had himself put to sleep, and may Jesus have mercy on
    the boy."
         "He went to the euthanasia center?"
         "Yes, Dodd, he chose that over his sentence. I do feel bad
    for him, now. But we prayed for him, and now it's in God's hands."
         "Yes, I guess it is. Well, I'm still praying for Savina.
    Goodnight, and tell Toby I called."
         "Thank you Dodd." She rang off.
         He killed himself, Dodd thought. I can't believe it, the kid
    killed himself. He stood up, walked across the room, walked back.
    He felt frustrated. What was I supposed to do? he thought. Go to
    the police and turn myself in, and explain to them why I know the
    kid was innocent? I might have ended up in jail myself.
         True. But maybe the kid would still be alive.
         Did I tell him to commit himself to euthanasia? No. Did I
    tell him to turn himself in for rape when he was actually
    innocent? No. Then why do I feel so goddamn responsible?
         Dodd abruptly decided he needed to take a walk. He opened the
    door and walked down the hall, past Sheila in the front room and
    out the front door. Dodd turned to look at her once before closing
    it. She looked like absolute hell, dark circles under her eyes
    like she'd been punched, stringy hair, wrinkled clothes that she'd
    had on for days. Urine smell from the couch. Goddamn it, he
    thought. You're next. You're going to sit there and die.
         Dodd stepped back inside, closing the door behind him.
    "Sheila!" he yelled. "SHEILA!!" She didn't respond.
         Goddamn it, he thought. Goddamn it! If I want to go out and
    save somebody, here's somebody right here in front of me. Dodd
    walked over to her, standing in front of the TV and looking down
    at her. What a mess, he thought. You're a zombie. Dodd reached
    down and shook her violently, and her head lolled to one side and
    her eyes closed. She had passed out.
         Dodd took a step back, staring at her. Then he turned and
    went down the hall to the bathroom and started filling the large
    round tub with water using the temperature Sheila had preset for
    herself long ago. He put his hand into it, swirling it around; she
    liked it cooler than he did. Dodd contemplated the tub as it
    filled, then went into his bedroom, removed his clothes, and
    turned and walked naked out to the front room and turned the
    television off.
         Getting Sheila's clothes off was a little difficult. It was a
    good thing she didn't wear too much clothing. He carried her limp,
    nude body into the bathroom and carefully stepped into the tub,
    and then lowered her into the water. She stirred. He stroked her
    wet skin with a soapy wash cloth, washing off her long legs and
    her pelvis and her stomach. She was semi-conscious when he reached
    her breasts, and made a low M sound, "mmmmmmmm . . ."
         "Feels nice?" Dodd said.
         "Mmmmmm-hmmmmmm."
         "Sheila?"
         "Hmmmmmm?"
         "We have to have a serious discussion."
         "Mmmm."
         "You've been going days at a time without food."
         "Mm."
         "Aren't you hungry?"
         "I'm hungry," she said vaguely. Her eyes flickered open, and
    she took a deep breath. "How did we get in here?" Her eyes closed
    again. "I don't remember . . . getting in . . ."
         Dodd was rubbing his index fingers over her nipples. "Do you
    remember the last time you ate?"
         "It was a few hours ago," she mumbled.
         "It was a day and a half ago."
         "No."
         "Yes."
         She didn't say anything. She was enjoying him rubbing her
    nipples. Dodd abruptly stopped. "Let's wash your hair," he said.
         Later, when they were drying each other off, Dodd said, "I'm
    worried about you."
         She blinked, glancing at him. It had registered in her mind,
    but she was still half-asleep. Her movements were clumsy, her
    voice vague. He continued drying her as she slowly dragged a brush
    through her hair. Her body was suffering; it was getting thin and
    sallow, and she'd developed a rash on her behind and between her
    legs. Dodd applied some MultiSpec creme on it, hoping that would
    do.
         "Do you know why I'm worried about you?" he asked.
         ". . . no."
         "Do you remember anything about Jesus returning?"
         She stopped brushing in mid-stroke. "Yes."
         "Do you?"
         She looked at him uncertainly in the mirror. "It's in about a
    week, isn't it?"
         "Try four days ago."
         Her head jerked. She woke up! he thought.
         "Four days ago?"
         "Yes, four days ago. Do you understand why I'm worried?"
         "Jesus didn't come four days ago. You're lying."
         "I'm not lying. Go pull up a calendar. This is the
    nineteenth."
         "No."
         "I'm not lying, Sheila. You've been watching Travels all this
    time."
         "No, that's . . . weeks."
         "It has been weeks. Do you understand why I'm worried, yet?"
         "I don't believe you."
         "Well then, Sheila, go look for yourself. This is the
    Thursday after the Second Coming. You've been going days without
    food, you've been pissing and shitting in your pants . . . Sheila,
    you've got a problem. You're going to have to face it."
         "I feel sick."
         "You're starving."
         "I am hungry-feeling. I don't have any energy."
         "You're starving, Sheila. Starving." He took the brush from
    her hand and finished brushing her hair for her, then took her
    robe off the back of the bathroom door and put it over her. "Let's
    go fix you something to eat, and we'll talk about it." He put on
    his own robe and lead her out the door.
         On their way to the kitchen Sheila paused, looking into the
    living room at the blank TV screen. "No Travels right now, Sheila,
    you have to eat." She wordlessly followed Dodd into the kitchen
    and sat at the kitchen table. He started the autochef going, then
    called the apartment manager's computer and ordered a robot maid
    to come down to dry-clean the couch and gather laundry. Within a
    few minutes Dodd had a simple, wholesome soup made and he served
    two bowls of it. He put one down in front of Sheila with a spoon
    and then sat across from her with his own as she began hungrily
    slurping it down. She finished before he'd eaten a forth of his,
    and got up and served herself some more.
         The robot arrived and began cleaning. "What is the date,
    today?" he asked the robot.
         "Today is Thursday, June nineteen, twenty-forty-two," it
    replied without pausing in its duties.
         "Do you think I programmed the robot to say that?" he asked
    Sheila.
         "No."
         "Then you believe me."
         She swallowed a spoonful of soup, and took another. "Yes,"
    she said finally, "I believe you."
         "Do you agree that there is a problem?"
         She was silent, staring at a spot on the table in front of
    her.
         "Look, Sheila, I don't want to do this, but I'm worried. I
    think there is a very big problem, here. I've tried alerting you
    to it before but you've either been ignoring it or you've been
    unable to understand it. I've decided I'm going to have to be
    tough with you. You're going to either have to face this or you're
    going to have to get out of my life."
         Sheila was still silent, but fear shone in her eyes. This
    gave Dodd some hope. "Do you understand what I'm telling you?" he
    said.
         She nodded slowly. Her eyes were starting to tear up. "You
    think that, that, Travels . . . you think that Travels is doing
    something to me?"
         "Yes, Sheila. I do. It effects me, too, if I sit down and
    watch it. Don't get me wrong, this isn't against you, this is
    against Travels. I'm going to fight Travels because I don't like
    what it's doing to you. Understand? And I want you to fight
    Travels too, because if you don't, it won't matter shit what I
    do."
         She was silent.
         "I'm thinking about buying time on the Politico Network, on
    the Free Speech Forum, and telling the world about you --- what
    Travels is doing to you. It can't be just you, there may be
    others. I'm going to fight it."
         She remained silent. The fear still shone in her eyes.
         "I have the day off tomorrow," he told her. "I'm going to
    stay home, and for once and for all I'm having Travels
    disconnected from this apartment."
         "You don't have to do that," she said. "I won't watch it."
         "I won't watch it either, so I'm not going to pay for it."
         "It, it doesn't hurt you if you, if you just watch it for a
    little while."
         "There's no such thing as watching it for just a little
    while."
         "I can set the timer on the TV to go off in an hour----"
         "No Travels on this television," he said firmly. "Get that
    through your head. No more Travels. If you want to watch Travels,
    you move out and you never come back."
         She was crying openly now into her soup. She was still
    holding the spoon awkwardly above the bowl, droplets of the soup
    running down the handle and onto her finger tips. She didn't
    notice. "I'm so fucked up," she said, sobbing. "I'm so fucked up
    over a television show."
         "Yes, you are Sheila."
         "I'm so fucked up . . ."
         Dodd got up and walked around the table, kneeling beside her.
    "It's okay. You're realizing it, it's a big step toward fighting
    it."
         "Oh God," she sobbed. She put her arms around him, spoon
    still in hand, soup dripping down his back. They hugged, and he
    rocked her like a baby.









                      26. UNKNOWN ARMED ROBOTIC DEVICE



         Savina lay belly-down in the grass, aiming the lightweight
    rifle at nothing in particular. There was some sort of autonomic
    farm drone out in the field to the north, and Aaron had told her
    to just wait. It would scare rabbits out into a clearing and
    that's when she could get them. "Look for big, rectangular-looking
    drones that hover about 5 feet over the crops," he'd told her.
    Well, this one looked like a long ovoid with spider legs,
    reminding her of an over-large police drone. It was painted with a
    chameleon paint that shifted with its surroundings, and didn't
    seem to be doing anything in particular to the crops.
         There was a little butterfly-wriggling sensation in her
    stomach. She didn't know if it was her baby or if the drone was
    giving her the creeps. As she watched a few rabbits ran out of the
    crops and across the clearing in front of her. One came to a halt,
    sitting up, watching the drone. Savina centered the rabbit in the
    rifle's scope, putting the red dot of the laser right on its back;
    it wouldn't hold still, her hands were shaking. She couldn't do
    it, she just couldn't. Aaron's going to have to do the hunting,
    she thought. She lowered the rifle.
         The drone came closer, and the rabbit ran again. Why would a
    farm machine have chameleon paint? she thought. She watched it
    hovering slowly over the ground, weaving to and fro. It moved out
    of the field and into the trees, heading south. It passed within
    20 meters of her.
         That's not farm equipment, she thought. It can't be. She
    folded the gun barrel back into its stock and retracted the laser
    sight, and slipped its strap over her shoulder. I've got to get
    ahead of it, she thought. It's heading right for the camp.
         Savina waited for it to pass out of sight among the trees,
    and raced across the clearing to where she could get more cover,
    then turned south, parallel with the thing. It had been moving at
    a fast walk; if she ran, she thought she could pass it and get to
    Wiley and Aaron with enough time to warn them.
         Grasshoppers and swarms of bugs leaped for safety as she made
    her way through tall patches of grass, leaping fallen branches and
    dodging around old rusted barbed wire. The line of old foundations
    and thick hedge brush angled in on her, forcing her to veer a
    little to the east. She caught sight of the thing, and dodged from
    one oak tree to the next, hoping it wouldn't see her. Savina had
    no idea what it was programmed to do, she didn't know what kind of
    senses it had or what would catch its attention. To be safe she
    had to avoid it altogether.
         There was some clearing to the west and she sprinted for the
    ruins, keeping them between her and the drone. She tried to leap a
    large patch of blackberry bushes and it caught her feet, slamming
    her down into a nest of thorns. She had learned a whole new
    vocabulary of swearing and cursing from Wiley and Aaron; she used
    every single one of them as she hurriedly disentangled herself and
    continued on. By the time she reached camp she had no idea how
    much of a lead she had on the drone. She stumbled into camp,
    startling the two hackers, and collapsed to her hands and knees,
    panting. "Drone," she said, forcing the words out between rasping
    breaths. "Large. Chameleon paint. Coming. This way."
         "From where?" Aaron said.
         "The north. Straight. Down the. Line."
         "Damn it," Aaron said. "Damn it, this would have to happen
    now." He began breaking camp, tossing everything into the back of
    the jeep.
         Wiley started a shutdown procedure on the laptop computer and
    sat it on his folding chair, letting it run. He pulled everything
    out of their big tent and stuffed it in the jeep, then took down
    the tent. Savina, recovering a bit from her run, helped him roll
    it and fold it into the small square that fit into a bag the size
    of her arm.
         "We just located the line," he told her. "We just needed a
    few more hours."
         "Think they detected you?"
         "Maybe. They must have detected something. We've inserted a
    virus into their diagnostics, thought --- it's probably the only
    reason they didn't pinpoint us. If that drone is travelling the
    whole length of the line it means they know something is up but
    they don't know where it is. How far away was that thing?"
         "I spotted it when I was about a half mile up there. It's
    going to be here any minute."
         "Shit! Okay, let's hustle."
         "Your shutdown is finished," Aaron called.
         "Okay. Let's just disconnect and cap the splice line. Its a
    good thing we buried the rest of it."
         "They're going to find it."
         "Maybe not." Wiley ran over to Aaron and took the capped end
    of the fiber optic cable. "I'm going to lay it down like this," he
    said, pulling it along the ground, "and then arrange this stuff
    over it here. It's all inert, it shouldn't be detectable to a
    drone."
         "Who knows. I'm going to start up the jeep."
         Savina finished folding up the small tent and threw it and
    the last few packs into the jeep as Aaron started it. Wiley
    dragged fallen branches over the optic cable and then ran to the
    jeep, pushing Savina inside the passenger side and then shutting
    the door. He hung onto the outside, standing on the running board.
    "Let's go," he said, and Aaron put it into gear, pulling out from
    under the trees and heading west. It was the same escape rout they
    took the night Savina had spotted the planes. Two minutes later
    they were behind the lee of a gutted house, and Aaron stopped.
    Wiley stepped off the running board and went to the rear of the
    jeep, opening the hatch and digging through the hastily packed
    equipment for a pair of spotters.
         Savina found a pair at her feet and got out of the jeep,
    walking around the ruin and peering back the way they came. Wiley
    and Aaron were to either side of her a moment later, Wiley holding
    the other pair of spotters. "Is it there?" Aaron asked. "Did it
    stop?"
         Savina saw the probe hovering under the trees, poking at the
    ground with what looked like a grey rod. The spotters attempted to
    identify it but failed. "Unknown Armed Robotic Device" spelled
    itself out in glowing letters above the bracketed image.
         "It's scanning the ground where we pitched the tents," Wiley
    said.
         "What is it? A police drone?"
         "Worse," Wiley said. He didn't elaborate.
         Impatient, Aaron took the pair of spotters away from Savina.
    "Oh shit," he said.
         "What?"
         "It's military," he told Savina. "Did it see you?"
         "No, not that I know of."
         "Good thing."
         "It's found our tire tracks," Wiley said. "Looks like it's
    following them this way, doesn't it?"
         "God, it does."
         "At least it didn't find the splice." He lowered the glasses
    and walked back to the jeep.
         "I bet that thing has as much fire power as we do," Aaron
    said.
         "We could probably destroy it." Wiley was digging in the back
    of the jeep again, pulling out packs.
         "You think we should?" Aaron said.
         "No. We destroy it and we'll have MPs out here in killer-bee
    swarms. Same thing if they find that splice. We've located the
    channel they're backing up the AIs on, and its only a few hours
    until they do their evening backups. We could have what we came
    for by tonight."
         "I'm listening," Aaron said.
         "Why don't you take the jeep and lead that thing off on a
    wild goose chase, and Savina and I will circle back with a laptop
    and some MSDs and capture the data. From there we'll head toward
    the enclave and you can catch up to us tomorrow."
         "Along the perimeter?"
         "Right down the old highway."
         "Okay." Aaron lowered his spotters and walked around to the
    jeep. "It's definitely following the tracks, and it's coming fast.
    I'd go off that way and get in one of those ruins if I were you."
    He climbed into the jeep. "Got everything?"
         Wiley handed Savina a heavy pack. "Yeah. Be careful."
         "You too. See you tomorrow." Aaron put the jeep in gear and
    sent it bouncing away through the grass.
         Wiley ducked his head and disappeared into the brush to the
    west. Savina copied him and followed, wincing as branches scraped
    her arms and irritated scratches she'd already gotten from the
    blackberry bushes. They ducked and dodged brush and rubble for 40
    meters then turned north and continued until they had a free
    line-of-sight angle where they could watch the distant drone. It
    had stopped where Aaron had dropped them off, and was again
    prodding at the ground with its sensors.
         "You don't think it'll follow us instead of Aaron, do you?"
    Wiley asked.
         Savina gave him a strange look. "You're the expert, you tell
    me."
         "In all honesty, I know nothing about that drone." Wiley
    raised his spotters and watched it. "It's definitely looking at
    our footprints. God knows what logic is guiding that thing. If it
    has anything to do with CoGen, there's a good chance it'll figure
    you and I are circling around."
         "It would know?"
         "Aaron and I put every stratagem known by man or beast into
    the thing." He lowered the spotters. "It's going after Aaron.
    We'll wait here for a little while until it's out of sight, then
    we'll haul ass back over to the camp."
         "It's not part of CoGen, then."
         "Who knows. Programs are copied and stored all over. AIs are
    built upon AIs by other AIs. Bits and pieces of code are scattered
    everywhere. But CoGen's strategy and deduction engine is the most
    ruthless thing you'll ever see. The heart of it is imbedded in
    practically every security AI system the USFMC has."
         "JTV is using it, too?"
         "Yeah, in a big way." He hung the spotters over his shoulder
    by the strap and said, "Let's go."
         They made their way back to camp just before dusk, the sun
    sinking below the tree line. Birds were making a racket, settling
    in flocks looking for a place to spend the night. Wiley wordlessly
    handed Savina the spotters as he pulled the branches away from the
    optic cable and reconnected it to his laptop. He took the heavy
    pack from Savina and pulled out a thick connection, plugging it in
    next to the optic. The heavy pack was a group of MSDs, Savina
    knew. Whatever Wiley hoped to capture from the data line would be
    stored in these.
         Savina scanned the horizon for anything threatening with the
    spotters. Meanwhile the sun sank over the horizon and the stars
    became visible. Some planes crossed from north to south but this
    time Savina ignored them; she wouldn't bother Wiley unless they
    were losing altitude.
         Wiley called out, "I got you, you bastard!"
         "We're finished? You got CoGen?"
         "No, but my software has recognized part of his code. He's
    being backed up now. This will still take a while."
         Savina stood over him, staring over his shoulder at the
    laptop's softly glowing screen. It didn't tell her a thing. Savina
    walked away, scanning the horizon with the spotters.
         The moon rose, and the night matured. Tonight there was a
    slight northern breeze and it was starting to get chilly. Savina
    was at the top of the crumbled mound that used to be a large
    building, sitting on a horizontal slab and shivering. All the
    heavy clothes Evelyn Sunrunner had given her was in the jeep with
    Aaron. She was also getting tired; the running and tension during
    the day had taken most of her energy, and she was starting to nod
    off. He's got to be done by now, Savina thought. One more look
    around and I'll go back down there.
         The first place she looked was north, and brackets flashed
    upon something dark and large. The spotters were accessing it's
    ROM database, and came up with "VTOL PK238 Troop Assault Carrier."
    Savina slid off the mound and tumbled down the rubble pile,
    scrambling to her feet and running into the trees. "Wiley!" she
    called, a loud whisper. "Wiley!"
         "What?"
         "Troop assault carrier! It's almost on top of us!"
         They hid at the base of a large oak, right beside his laptop
    and the optic cable leading into the ground. "If we stay low and
    still, their scanners will only pick up the motion of our hearts,"
    Wiley whispered. "They'll look like small animals, and they won't
    pay any attention."
         Savina thought, I was in full view when I was on top of the
    rubble. They must have seen me run. She held onto Wiley in fear,
    clinging and concentrating on controlling her breathing. Forcing
    herself to remain still as stone. Wiley was hugging the ground
    like it was his mother.
         "They won't see the computer stuff, will they?" she
    whispered.
         "Shhhh!"
         Savina held her breath. The plane glided ominously into view.
    It stood out like a shadow creature in the moonlight, long, dark,
    hovering. It had wings but was flying way too slow for them to be
    supporting it. There was a deep, deep throbbing that penetrated
    through her body and resonated in the earth. Large, powerful
    gravity engines. It moved with a sureness and grace that was
    frightening in itself. It passed them without slowing, then veered
    to the west and rose just above the tree tops. Savina felt Wiley
    move as he turned his head to look at it.
         "Damn," he said.
         "What?"
         "Aaron must have engaged that stupid drone. He was just dying
    to, I could tell. He wants to be like Danny Marauder, and it's
    going to get him killed."
         They stood up and brushed themselves off, getting rid of the
    clinging twigs and ants. Savina resumed her watch with the
    spotters, and Wiley resumed his monitoring of the data
    interception. A half hour later Wiley announced that they were
    through, and disconnected and hid the optic cable. Hefting the
    packs, they headed west looking for a suitable place to spend the
    rest of the night.









                                  27. TOBY



         Toby Whitehouse felt the pressure building in his bladder,
    pushing its way out, but he grimaced and held it back, squirming
    in his seat. Jesus was on television delivering a sermon from the
    golden temple. His halo pulsated through wonderful pastel colors,
    swirling; his voice was soft but strong, causing tingles to run up
    and down Toby's back. "Praise Jesus," he was muttering. "Praise
    Jesus . . ."
         ". . . therefor I tell you," Jesus was saying, "it is good to
    worry about life, about what you eat and drink; about your body,
    what clothes to wear. What is life without good, nourishing food?
    What is your body without fine, tasteful clothes? Look at the
    birds in the air; do they not gather food and precious colored
    strings and pieces of cloth for their nests? It is important even
    to them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Who of you by
    being careless about life will truly enjoy the time your heavenly
    Father has given you?
         "And why do some of you not worry about your clothes, your
    manner of dress? See how the flowers in the parks grow? They must
    be tended and maintained, or they will not come to blossom. It is
    this way for you; did not your Father give you a body to be
    tended, to be adorned? You are living in an age where even the
    lowliest of peasants can be adorned beyond the dreams of ancient
    kings! Our Father loves His children, He loves you, and He expects
    you to love yourself even as He loves you. Do not deprive yourself
    of things God has made available to you." Jesus paused a moment,
    staring directly through the screen, directly into the eyes of the
    viewers.
         "Praise, praise Jesus," Toby mumbled. "Praise you Jesus
    . . ."
         "Ask," Jesus said, "and it will be given to you; seek and you
    will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone
    in this society who asks receives; he who seeks finds; and to him
    who knocks, the door will be opened.
         "Which of you, if his son asks for bread, will give him a
    stone? Or if he asks for a steak, will give him a serpent? If you,
    then, know how to give good gifts to your children, why don't you
    also include your friends? Asking for things and giving things is
    a way of your Father in heaven; it is blessed to give and receive,
    just as it is to get money and to spend money. Blessed is the
    person who spends as much as he receives! For it is written: In
    everything, do for others as you would have others do for you
    . . ."
         Toby leaned far forward, trying to listen, trying to
    concentrate, but the pressure in his bladder was becoming painful.
    He wriggled in his chair, denying himself, breathing with
    difficulty. "Amen," he mumbled in automatic response to something
    Jesus was saying. Jesus expressed himself with gentle, sweeping
    gestures of his arms, always all encompassing. Every time He did
    this Toby felt a wave of pleasure, felt himself being personally
    included in what Jesus was saying. "Praise God," Toby mumbled.
    "Praise Jesus."
         ". . . not store up for yourselves treasures in your home
    where moth and rust destroy, and where anarchists break in and
    steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in banks, where moth
    and rust do not destroy, and where anarchists cannot break in and
    steal. For where your treasure is, your heart will be also . . ."
    As Jesus continued, His halo swirled and changed shape, becoming
    broader and more intensified; the colors deepened to neon
    intensity. ". . . but I tell you who hear me: Love your government
    and Leader, do good to those who govern you, bless those who tax
    you, pray for those who build for you, who guide your traffic and
    run your transit. If the government strikes you on one cheek, turn
    it the other also. If the government takes your money, do not try
    to stop it from taking more. Give to every cause that is legally
    sanctioned, and if they request something that belongs to you, do
    not demand it back. Do for the government as you would have it do
    for you. This is most wise, for you are the government." Jesus
    gave the camera a large, warm smile, his eyes full of compassion,
    then continued. "My children, for those of you who cannot cope,
    for those of you who find it's just too much . . ."
         Toby blinked, trying to focus his eyes on the screen, but he
    couldn't. He had reached a point in his personal earthly agony
    when he was sure his bladder was going to pop open. "Forgive me,
    Jesus," he muttered, pulling himself away from the television and
    taking painful steps toward the bathroom. It was too late. Before
    he'd gone three steps urine was running in a warm stream down his
    leg. He stopped, turning in shame back toward the screen, letting
    it flow. Jesus was saying, ". . . though there may be doubt, there
    is blessedness in release . . ." and He made his all-encompassing
    gesture, including Toby personally, and then went on to address
    all His deserving children: "You are of my seed, and all things of
    you are blessed. Do not be troubled, for you are forgiven."
         Grateful beyond words, Toby broke down and wept.









                              28. MERCY DEATH



         While Saul's wife was off traveling around with Vicky, Saul
    had hired a male homosexual baby-sitter to take care of his
    daughter during the day. Saul's theory was that a male homosexual
    would be the least likely type to turn out a molester. He'd heard
    horror stories about baby-sitters molesting children, and didn't
    want to take the chance. He wanted to keep his daughter well and
    happy until his wife finally made it home, then he was going to
    kill them both.
         "Have a hard day?" the thin young man asked Saul when Saul
    walked in. Saul didn't answer, didn't even acknowledge the young
    man. He walked right past the baby-sitter as if the baby-sitter
    were a piece of furniture.
         Then Saul spun around, startled. "What?"
         The young man stared for a moment, taken aback. "Nothing," he
    said. "I just asked----"
         "How's my daughter? Is she clean?"
         "Oh . . . uh, yes . . . I made sure she was changed and I
    gave her a sponge bath."
         "She's utterly useless, you know that?" Saul said.
         "I . . ."
         "But she's no different from us, really. We're useless, you
    and I. Because of our biological sex. Men have become obsolete to
    the human race. I've come to face that fact." Saul took off his
    hat, the hat he'd been wearing for the past few days, and sat it
    on a small wooden table in the foyer. "They don't need us to
    reproduce. In fact, my wife would probably have done a much better
    job if I hadn't been involved in the process."
         "Uh . . ."
         "That's why I decided not to send her over to the euthanasia
    center. My daughter. And I realized that's why I was afraid of
    her." Saul laughed, staring into the young man's eyes. "I was
    afraid I was just as useless as she was. But not anymore. I know,
    now."
         "That's . . . good."
         Saul nodded. "I think you'd better leave."
         The baby-sitter agreed. He left with a quiet, polite
    "Goodbye," then walked away from the house with quick, nervous
    strides; Saul watched him through the window, thinking: What a
    nice guy. He really understands. A very well-centered individual.
         Saul entered his daughter's room after he'd eaten dinner,
    peering in at her soundly sleeping figure. She was a big blob in
    the dark, pale and round. The first night he'd spent with his
    daughter after his wife and Vicky had left, she had awakened at
    about 1:00 in the morning and started crying, waking Saul from all
    the way across the house. Saul had gotten out of bed, put on his
    slippers, and headed straight for the kitchen. In the kitchen he
    pulled one of the robot chef's razor knifes out of a drawer and
    went to go cut his daughter's throat. He wanted her to stop
    crying, and this seemed a good way to get her to stop. When he
    entered her room and turned on the light, and saw her laying
    there, absolutely helpless and with no future whatsoever, Saul
    realized she looked like himself. He'd always denied it before,
    refusing to see it, but there it was before his eyes and what
    could he do? He had to see it, now. With seeing came
    understanding.
         Saul had stood there, staring at her, and then he said, "I
    don't hate you." It hadn't stopped her crying --- she was crying
    because of a full diaper --- but, in a way, it had saved her life.
    It wasn't his daughter he hated; he had too much in common with
    her to hate her. Saul realized it was Mirro he wanted to kill. He
    wanted to kill her because she was superior to him, and even
    worse, she condescended to him.
         Bitch! he'd thought. Have to rub my fucking nose in it, don't
    you! Saul had closed the his daughter's bedroom door and walked
    back to the kitchen to put away the knife. It was in the kitchen
    that he decided he should actually go through with the murder. He
    would do it simply because there was nothing preventing him from
    doing it. Then he and his daughter would take a trip of their own,
    to the great public building that allowed a way out to all
    citizens who were trapped beyond their means.
         Euthanasia: mercy death.
         Painless sleep forever.
         Saul thought, the baby-sitter understands all this. I could
    see it in his eyes. His eyes looked like mine.
         He's trapped too.
         Saul nodded to himself, then walked down to the master
    bedroom. In the bedroom he stopped abruptly, standing in the
    middle of the room, arching his back and stretching. Seeing the
    love pool, he smiled and began stripping off his clothes. Things
    are so much easier now, he thought.
         A call came through just as he was about to step into the
    water. Someone from work, he knew --- he'd set the computer to
    reject all other calls. Saul padded across the carpet and answered
    the phone, his face impassive and, he felt, business-like. On the
    screen appeared the ruddy, haggard face of Terry Liddy, now his
    immediate superior.
         "Saul, I've got to talk to you."
         "Yes?"
         "It's about, um . . ." Liddy trailed off. His expression
    betrayed embarrassment, and he cleared his throat, nervously
    scratching his fleshy nose. "Saul," he said, then pointed to the
    bottom of the screen. "Um . . ." He kept pointing.
         "Yes?"
         "Cover yourself up."
         Saul frowned. Cover himself? Why? He looked down at his naked
    body and sucked in his stomach a little. "You caught me right as I
    was stepping into my pool. Please say what you have to say."
         "Well . . . alright. Saul, you've been doing a great job.
    Your output has been way over what we'd hoped. You're doing a
    better job than Lisa ever did."
         "Yes."
         "But . . . well, we had two sponsors cancel today. There was
    another one who cancelled yesterday. Jacovik vodka was one of
    them."
         "Yes?"
         "They say their sales have dropped. They think it's because
    of Travels."
         "Yes?"
         "We need you to step up the intensity even more. We need an
    even higher attention-holding-level."
         "It's at an insane level now."
         "But they're matching us, Saul. They're matching us
    blow-by-blow. We've been analyzing their transmissions ---
    whenever their Messiah is on-screen, which is seventy-two percent
    of the time, the screen is entirely computer generated. The
    intensity level is set using the halo that's always hanging over
    his head----"
         "That's impossible. How are they setting intensity with a
    halo? You need movement with a precise sonic----"
         "Color pulses. Saul, they use color pulses in carefully
    designed sequence. The attention never wanders away from the
    immediate area of the halo. The voice is generated and is full of
    USFMC propaganda, but as far as we can tell it's normal. Rich and
    pleasing, and very warm, but normal. It must be in the color
    pulses."
         "What is their AHL?"
         "It's matching ours."
         "I see. Okay Liddy, I can have our AHL up to about sixty-five
    or seventy percent by day after tomorrow."
         "Good," Liddy said, his haggard face relieved. "Good." He
    hung up.
         Saul put down the handset and stepped quickly to the pool,
    easing himself into the hot water. He sighed, loud and long. Then
    he laughed. Floating in the water, relaxing, smiling at the
    ceiling --- Saul knew why the sponsors were cancelling, why
    Travels viewers were not buying products. They were so glued to
    their televisions that they were not going to the stores. Raising
    it to 70% was insane and useless. Saul thought the situation was
    hilarious. He was going to do it anyway. It was his job.









                            29. ANTICHRIST THING



         After spending the night in an abandoned house, Wiley and
    Savina hiked with their heavy packs northwest to an old highway
    which ran directly north and south. Every once in a while they'd
    run across a bent, deteriorating sign that read "99". It had once
    been green, but only a few flakes were left as evidence. It was
    mostly rust and bullet holes.
         They highway would begin out of nothingness and end the same
    way, then after a few hundred meters it would begin again. It was
    a giant dotted line of pavement. Ice plant had taken over this
    whole region, so that everywhere that wasn't pavement was ice
    plant. A wheeled vehicle had recently passed, leaving a trail of
    crushed plant, and Wiley examined it, judging its width and depth.
    "The tires are too wide," he said. "It wasn't Aaron."
         "Should we wait for him to catch up, or keep going?" Savina
    said.
         "I don't know. What do you think?"
         "Me? You're in charge here."
         "Nobody is in charge, Savina. Everyone's opinion counts."
    Wiley stood staring at her, up to his ankles in the fat bulbous
    leaves of the ice plant. He was carrying the MSD pack, and Savina
    could see that even to him it was heavy. "Your judgement has been
    fine so far, why don't you make some decisions," he told her.
         Savina felt funny, and she wasn't sure about how to react.
    "How about if we keep going until we reach that underpass, and
    then wait for him there."
         "Sounds good to me."
         The underpass in the distance was much further away than
    Savina had thought. It was at least 4 kilometers, and the sun was
    getting hot. Wiley had thought to bring a canteen, thank god, and
    they drained most of it on the way. The shade of the underpass was
    a blessed relief.
         They carefully set down their packs and waited. Presently
    flies began to buzz around Savina, attracted by her sweat. Today
    was hot even in the shade, and it was still morning. "We're going
    to have to find another aqueduct," Savina said.
         Wiley had been dozing. "What?" She repeated herself, and he
    nodded and said, "There's a big river that crosses up ahead."
         "How far?"
         "About six or seven more kilometers."
         "You've got to be kidding! Your canteen is almost empty."
         Wiley laughed. "It's not like we're crossing the Sahara.
    We'll be okay if Aaron gets here with the jeep."
         If, Savina thought. He used the word if. She remembered the
    ominous, floating troop plane sliding darkly past, and Wiley
    saying something about Aaron engaging the drone. Those are
    military, she thought. They don't spray you down with harmless
    gases. "What if he doesn't get back?" she said.
         "Well, then I guess we have to walk."
         "No, I mean, what if they got him. You said they might kill
    him."
         Wiley nodded. "They might have. We're willing to give our
    lives for what we're doing, otherwise we wouldn't be doing it."
         I'm here too, she thought. Am I willing to give up my life
    and my baby's for what they're doing? I really don't even know
    what they're doing! "Is it going to be safe at the enclave?"
         "As safe as anywhere," Wiley said.
         They waited. After a few hours passed and they were into the
    afternoon, a figure became visible to the south, a man on foot.
    Wiley pulled the spotters out and looked. "It's Aaron."
         Savina made an expression of relief, and ignoring the heat
    went trotting out across the ice plants to meet him. Wiley
    followed, leaving their packs behind. When they reached Aaron they
    saw that he was hurt, a large nasty burn across his right shoulder
    and back. "You did it," Wiley said. "You got into a firefight."
         "Yeah, after all these years I finally saw some action,"
    Aaron said.
         "Want us to carry you?"
         "No, it's not as bad as it looks. I'm just hoping it doesn't
    turn green on us before we make it back to the enclave."
         "You didn't get the medical pack?"
         "No. I was lucky to get away at all. The jeep's wasted.
    Everything's gone. Did you get him?"
         "Yeah, he's over there in the pack, right there under the
    shade."
         "Shade looks good."
         "Are you sure you're okay?"
         "I'm okay as long as you've got him. Otherwise I'll drop
    right here on the spot." He grinned.
         "We've got him," Wiley said.
         "I've gotta see him."
         They walked through the scorching heat to the relative
    coolness of the shade under the underpass and Wiley gave Aaron the
    last of their water. Aaron drank it down in little sips, eyeing
    the pack full of MSDs. "Can we get him on line?" he asked when the
    water was gone.
         "No," Wiley said, "we don't want to risk it while we only
    have one copy."
         "That's true," Aaron said, but looked like he wanted to risk
    it anyway. He knelt next to the pack, staring at it, and spoke as
    if there was someone tied up inside. "Hello Mr. Antichrist," he
    said, "your friends tried to stop us, but we got you anyway."
         "Antichrist?" Savina said. She looked from one to the other
    for an explanation.
         "Kind of makes us the devil, doesn't it?" Wiley said. "Aaron
    and I were the fathers of the thing. We were all for CoGen during
    the war, before we knew what the war was about. We put our heart
    and souls into this code, and we created something so evil it
    scared the hell out of us. But back then it was just a general, a
    war-monger. Evil, but not the Antichrist. We're kind of the
    stepfather, then. Aaron and I just hope to redeem ourselves for
    what we've done."
         "Yeah, there was no way we knew what this thing could grow
    into," Aaron said. He had his hand on the pack now, leaning
    against it. It looked like he was falling asleep. "The Antichrist
    AI."
         Savina had heard the term, and had seen the graffiti. "What
    exactly is this, then? The Antichrist AI?"
         "Its the false Jesus," Aaron said, his eyes closed. "JTV used
    the CoGen AI code to build their Jesus AI . . . it's like they fed
    it the bible and then turned it loose." He laughed. "Jesus in a
    box."
         "That's all it is? JTV's Jesus simulation?"
         "That's all?" Aaron said. "You don't understand. It's evil.
    It is the Antichrist."
         Wiley nodded, looking at Savina. "The idiots used CoGen to
    build their Jesus because it's already so smart and it's already
    self-motivated, but they have no idea why CoGen is like this.
    CoGen has motives and goals all its own. Until now it's only been
    an advisor to humans. Now JTV has gone and renamed it Jesus
    Christ, and then put it in a position of ultimate power."
         "People worship it," Aaron said. "They'll do whatever it
    says."
         Savina, finally understanding, looked at the MSDs in horror.
    "That's insane!"
         The two men laughed. "Yes," Wiley said. "It is."









                               30. SEDUCTION



         Saturday morning Dodd had gone down to the regional office of
    the Politico Network and scheduled himself for their Politico Free
    Speech Forum. It had cost him $1700 plus another $3000 for a
    "non-profanity bond" to secure 5 minutes of air time. His payment
    came right from his moneycard --- there was a slot on the man's
    desk --- and he was handed a thick printout of all the words
    considered "profane" by the bond which he'd entered into.
         Dodd was bewildered by the list of words. "I thought this was
    a supposed to be a free speech forum?"
         "Of course," the short, black-haired man with the sunken eyes
    had explained. He was the regional Politico Network sales
    representative. "The non-use of these potentially sensitive words
    protects the rights of free speech for everybody."
         "You mean if I use one of these words over the air, I'll lose
    my three thousand?"
         "Yes sir."
         Dodd wasn't happy about it, but he'd already paid the bond
    and signed the promise. There was nothing to do but go by the
    rules. He took the list home and fed it into his house computer.
    "Warn me if I use one of these words when I'm writing the speech,"
    he instructed it.
         Three hours later he had to take a break. The words kept
    popping up. It seemed he wouldn't be able to use any trademarks,
    company names, references to God, strong descriptive words, but he
    could use most of the words he thought he couldn't use; he could
    say "fuck" or "shit" or "shithead", but he couldn't use the words
    "hell" or "damn" or "Travels." As he was trying to write, a little
    beep would warn him that he was using yet another of the forbidden
    words. That little beep was driving him up the wall.
         "Dodd, you're going to break that terminal if you don't stop
    hitting it," Sheila said.
         "I can't help it!"
         She came up from behind him, began massaging his shoulders.
    Then she was kissing his ear. Her hands slid down his sides and to
    his stomach, then lower. "Sheila," Dodd said, "please."
         "Oh, come on, Dodd. I'm ready for you. Come on."
         "Sheila, we've had a lot of sex lately. I'm not in the mood
    right now."
         She pulled away with an over-dramatic sigh. "I'm so bored."
    Dodd listened as she walked down to the bedroom and jumped on the
    bed. After a few moments he heard the whirring sound of her
    Vibrato.
         Take away her Travels and she becomes a nymphomaniac, Dodd
    thought. And some men would consider me lucky.
         Dodd sent his speech into storage, then brought the phone
    menu up and dialed Bob Recent's number. He set the phone to alert
    him if and when it was ever answered, and he got up and went to
    the refrigerator to get himself a glass of wine. The terminal
    signaled that someone had answered, and Dodd walked back over to
    find it was only Bob Recent's computer. What's the point in
    leaving a message? he thought. You'll never return it.
         Then Dodd smiled. He knew Bob's access code. He typed it in
    and got a menu from Bob's house computer, and he got into the
    television programming and instructed it to tune to the Politico
    station at the exact date and time of his scheduled appearance. He
    exited, snickering, and then dialed Toby's number. It, too, rang
    for a long time, only to be answered by Toby's computer. It just
    so happened that Dodd knew Toby's access code as well. He accessed
    Toby's computer and did the same thing as he'd done on Bob's. Bob
    and Toby were going to see his speech whether they wanted to or
    not.
         From down in the bedroom came low moaning sounds, the moaning
    growing louder. She's going to climax in about twenty seconds, he
    thought, sipping his wine. It made him feel lonely, sitting out
    there by himself when she was in the bedroom climaxing. Even if he
    was down there with her, her orgasm had nothing to do with him.
    Sheila was in her own little land, all by herself, whether it was
    Dodd stimulating her or her battery powered Vibrato. It was all
    just stimulation to her; no meaning, no purpose, just stimulation.
         His feeling of loneliness grew as he listened to her orgasm.
    It was a big one. Is she thinking of me? he wondered. Or is she
    imagining a bouncing Travels sphere? He knew for a fact that when
    she dreamed, she was dreaming of the sphere. She had confessed
    this to him that very morning.
         The buzzing sound continued. Sheila was going for another
    one. Dodd sighed and called his speech back up onto the screen,
    looking over the pitiful amount he'd accomplished. Why bother with
    this? he thought. Who's going to listen to me? Hell, he thought,
    why continue working? Why plot and save for having children? So
    they can grow up to watch Travels and JTV, and be paid not to have
    any children?
         Down in the bedroom, Sheila's second orgasm was building.
    "You're depressing me!" Dodd yelled at her. Her moaning didn't
    falter, and she climaxed again, this time even bigger.
         I could always follow Savina's boyfriend's footsteps, he
    thought bitterly. Back before the war, during the population
    crisis, it was vogue to commit suicide. Now it's passe. The new
    thing is sedation; sedation through television, sedation through
    religion, sedation through sex.
         Where is Sheila's love of life?
         And, he thought, what about mine?
         I should immigrate, he thought. That's what I should do.
    Become an interstellar pioneer. I've got the money. I'll use my
    progeny savings, and up there in the colonies there are no taxes
    on children. They need children. But that would be running away,
    wouldn't it? Dropping everything and leaving. Dodd thought about
    this for a while, and decided that not only was it running away,
    it was running in vain. The problem was a problem with people, not
    planets. The problem would just follow him out there.
         Dodd continued working on his speech, phrasing it carefully
    and delicately, avoiding the forbidden words as he went. At the
    very least, the task was constructive. He wouldn't know if it was
    futile until it was all over, and by that time it shouldn't matter
    because at least he was trying and not simply giving up.









                                 31. MIRRO



         When Mirro and Vicky returned from their abrupt and lengthy
    vacation, Saul had the absolute pleasure of firing Vicky. She
    stood in the middle of his new office, staring at him in
    disbelief. He faced her squarely, sitting behind the large luxury
    desk.
         "What?" she muttered in a small voice. "I'm fired?"
         "Don't you realize how long you were away from your job?
    Don't you realize I needed you desperately, and you were just not
    here? I had to replace you with someone I could depend on."
         "Saul, my son is dead!"
         "Your son was a convicted felon and he chose an easy way out.
    You should be glad he's out of his misery."
         "Saul!"
         "This whole thing about your son is not an ample excuse for
    you being gone as long as you were. One or two days, maybe. Even
    when I needed you most, I could understand one or two days. And
    had you been around, had you even kept in contact or shown up for
    a few hours between your supposed meetings with lawyers and then
    the funeral, I would have been able to promote you to my former
    position. But as it stands I had to fill both our positions, your
    old one and my old one, and it's already done and final. The only
    thing you can do is go down to the personnel office and collect
    your termination pay. Get the hell out of here."
         Vicky stared at him in horror and panic. Her eyes were wide,
    her mouth open in a comic expression. Saul, seeing her like this,
    could not help but grin. It was too funny.
         "It's about me and Mirro, isn't it?" she finally said.
    "You're jealous, and you're getting back at me. Right?"
         "I don't give a fuck about that."
         "Oh yes you do, Saul! That's exactly what this is about. I
    know it. I know it, Saul."
         "You know nothing. You're an incompetent, whining, do-nothing
    type of person and I refuse to let you drop your responsibilities
    upon me again. Leave."
         "You're not getting away with this. You can't----"
         "Get the hell out of here!" Saul yelled, standing up and
    pointing at the door. "Get out before I kick you out! Move!"
         "You're going to hear from Mirro about this," Vicky said. But
    she turned and left, her face ghostly pale.
         Saul grinned at her retreating back, his lips stretched wide
    and triumphant. Mirro indeed! Let Mirro squawk about her poor lost
    little lover. Let her rant and rave. It was not going to bother
    him in the least.
         Calls came in; more business, more board members panicking.
    More advertisers cancelling. Saul took care of everything as it
    happened, waving problems aside with his hands, drilling
    instructions into employees with the insistent and demanding point
    of his finger. "You will do this." "You will take care of that."
    It was all so easy now. Saul had attained a state of nirvana.
         Finally he did hear from Mirro --- a relentless tirade of
    shouting over the phone, her face wild and accusing. Saul
    shrugged. "When you begin paying my salary, then you will have a
    say in my business matters."
         "You want me to leave you?" Mirro screamed. "Is that what you
    want?"
         "Oh no, of course not. I love you dearly. In fact, I want to
    make love to you right now --- but I can't, I'm working, and I
    also cannot allow you to take up any more of my time with personal
    matters. I have things to do." He hung up on her, then broke out
    in excited giggles. He held his finger over the answer button,
    ready to push. When it rang he immediately answered.
         "I don't know what's happened to you," Mirro told him, her
    voice now quiet but a bit on the raw side. "I don't know, but it
    scares me. Something has happened. I think you've cracked."
         "I feel fine. I'll talk to you when I get home."
         "I won't be here when you get here."
         "That's a shame, Mirro. Where will you be?"
         She stared at him through the screen, unable to say anything.
    Saul enjoyed her expression, much like Vicky's but more refined,
    more sophisticated. Mirro knew why she was frightened. She knew
    what was wrong. "You really have cracked, Saul," she said in
    wonder. "You are insane."
         "Nonsense. I have a lot of responsibilities, my dear, and I
    have to take care of them to the best of my ability. I am a
    professional and hold a very important position, a key position,
    in this corporation. I can't afford the luxury of domestic
    problems anymore. It's that simple."
         "I'm moving out, Saul. I'll be gone before you get home."
         "Take some food with you. You'll need it." Saul grinned.
         Mirro looked suddenly alarmed. "What?"
         "I've removed your name from the bank account. As of this
    morning you do not have access to my money."
         "You can't do that!"
         "I did it."
         "I'll, I'll get a lawyer! I'll sue you!"
         "You have to divorce me, first. And since we had a standard
    monogamous contract, your affair with my ex-employee Vicky
    constitutes a major breach of contract and therefor you forfeit
    everything. Go get a lawyer and see what he tells you. I'm willing
    to bet he tells you the same thing."
         This time it was Mirro who hung up. Saul had a long, healthy
    laugh at this, and wasn't surprised when she called back a third
    time. "You're not insane," she told him. "You had all this
    carefully planned out. You must have. You have me trapped."
         "You're not trapped. Do anything you want."
         "You hate me. You really do hate me." Mirro started crying,
    and this made Saul giggle. A pity-play, he thought, hanging up on
    her. "You affect me not," he told the blank screen. "Within a week
    you will be----" Saul cut himself off before he could say it.
    Saying it out loud would be insane. But he'd caught himself; it
    didn't worry him. Everything was under control.
         Dead, he thought. You will be dead. Possibly even tonight.
    And you talk to me about hate? Your own hate is powering me. Your
    own hate is what I will use against you. You hate me so much that
    it'll take your life.
         And that, to Saul, was amusing. Amusing and simple. And so
    true.
         He had to laugh.

                                     #

         Mirro walked away from the phone, still crying. She couldn't
    believe this was happening. She couldn't believe any of it. Saul
    had suddenly turned so ruthless --- it staggered her mind. And
    after he'd been so sensitive, right after Vicky's son . . . Mirro
    thought about this, wiping at her eyes, knowing the tears were
    making a mess out of her face. He must have been hurt, she
    decided. Vicky and I taking off like that, and not telling him
    . . . it must have destroyed him. It must have torn him apart.
    What else could have changed him so?
         Mirro decided that she shouldn't leave --- she decided that
    she should stay and try to talk to him, try to reason with him.
    Make him understand that leaving with Vicky was not an attack upon
    him. She had done it for Vicky; she had done it because Vicky
    needed someone right then, someone to help her get over the loss,
    to help her carry on --- couldn't Saul understand that?
         Of course he'll understand, she thought. I've just got to
    explain it to him. Prove to him that it's him that I love. Even
    give up seeing Vicky if I have to.
         Oh my God, she thought. Could I actually do that? Give up
    Vicky?
         After a moment of deliberation, she decided she could.









                                  32. SOUL



         The enclave was a cluster of buildings around a central
    common, an old abandoned college from the last century made up of
    45 degree angles and greenhouse type windows. Wiley, Aaron and
    Savina had hiked by night to avoid the heat, but before they were
    anywhere near the place they were picked up by Danny Marauder in a
    stolen Mercedes 4000A air launch and flown the rest of the way.
         Danny had kept the Mercedes low, hovering along just barely
    over the ice plants as he followed the highway north, then veered
    west and made his way carefully through the trees. "How did you
    know where to find us?" Savina asked him.
         "Evelyn knew where you were. She told me."
         "How did Evelyn know where we were?"
         Danny smiled and said, "How does Evelyn know anything?" and
    left it at that. Wiley and Aaron accepted it, so Savina did too.
    However, she still wondered . . .
         Savina had been shown to a hot shower and a soft bed, and she
    couldn't believe how such simple things could bring such a
    sensation of peace and pleasure. She slept the rest of the night
    away and awoke far into the next morning. Sunlight smeared across
    a white tile ceiling above her, and a fly buzzed around in the
    room. She stretched and yawned and wiggled her fingers, and stared
    for a while at the dust motes suspended in the sun beams, dancing
    to an approximation of some bizarre zero-gee ballet. Somewhere
    came shouts and laughter, the sounds of children playing. Savina
    sat up and looked around her small room. A window, a bed, a table,
    and on the table a mason jar with water and flowers; she smiled,
    thinking, I'm back in civilization again!
         She got up and put on some more new clothes that had been
    given to her, and opened the heavy metal door to the outside. She
    emerged in a brick-floored walkway crisscrossed my a million
    little cracks, which led out to a sunlit deck with chairs and
    people. One of the people was Evelyn Sunrunner.
         "Good morning," Evelyn called.
         "Hi," Savina said, walking up to her. She was introduced
    around, and the names went right through her head, instantly
    forgotten. "Is there a phone here? Or a terminal? I want to leave
    an anonymous message to someone."
         "Not right now," Evelyn said. "We cannot have any electronic
    connection to the outside world while the Antichrist is here."
         "What are you going to do with it?"
         "Wiley and Aaron are going to give it a soul," she said.
    "Aaron was so impatient he was up right after dawn setting the
    computers up. They made a working copy and I think they're loading
    it now. Come on, I'll show you." Evelyn stood up, excused herself
    from the others and led Savina down an open ramp and down a flight
    of stairs. There was a small pond in a small common, and behind a
    large glass window she could see Aaron at a keyboard staring at a
    screen. Evelyn squeezed Savina's shoulders and went to rejoin the
    others.
         "Hi Savina," Aaron said as she entered the room. She noticed
    his burn wound was covered over by a pink new skin patch. Hairlike
    wires stuck out every few centimeters and trailed down to a small
    power pack taped to his side.
         "Muscle and nerve regrowth," she said, pointing at it. "You
    were worse than I thought."
         "Lucky for me, it killed most of the nerves," he said
    flippantly. "I'm on some great pain killers now."
         "I'll bet. Where's Wiley?"
         "He's getting more coffee."
         "How's Jesus doing?"
         He gave her a confused look for a moment, then smile. "Oh,
    this Jesus? We loaded it into RAM and it took one look around and
    erased its working copy. It couldn't get at our master copy on the
    MSDs, thank God."
         "Evelyn said we're cut off while you're working on it."
         "Of course. Otherwise the first thing it would do is call for
    help." He pointed to the screen, which showed a pattern and
    figures in 3-D. "I'm pinpointing this nasty little trait of
    erasing himself and editing it out."
         Wiley emerged with a big steaming carafe and some cups. "Oh,
    good, I brought a couple extra. You want some?" he said to Savina.
         "No thanks."
         "Is this thing ready to run again?" he asked Aaron.
         "Yeah. I don't know if I can hold it in this programming
    shell, though. I'll have my finger on this freeze button."
         Wiley sat the cups down and poured two full of coffee. He
    handed one to Aaron and said, "Run the damned thing."
         Aaron punched buttons on the keyboard. The screen lit up with
    the glowing halo and the calm, kind face of the JTV Jesus, and
    after a few seconds every video monitor in the room jolted and
    moved.
         "Did he do that?" Savina said.
         "Yeah, he's quick." Aaron grinned into the camera. "Do you
    remember us?"
         A rich, warm voice came from the speakers, but it was
    speaking in commanding tones. "You are not authorized to modify
    nor to run this software, and you are in violation of government
    regulations VCAI number 1243672346-2341-141632341."
         "Yes, but do you remember us?"
         The halo began pulsing in strong, mesmerizing colors, and the
    AI said, "You will connect me to an outside data line."
         "Close your eyes," Wiley was saying, "look away from the
    screen."
         Savina couldn't close her eyes nor could she look away from
    the screen. It was beautiful. Jesus was beautiful. It was wrong to
    keep him trapped here. It was cruel. I've got to find a way to
    connect him to the outside, she thought. I've got to let him----
         The image of Jesus froze. Aaron stared blankly at the screen
    for a moment, then looked over at Savina. "Powerful, isn't he?"
         "Are you okay, Savina?" asked Wiley.
         Savina was very unsure about what had just happened. The
    feelings she had about helping the AI lingered for a moment. Then
    she began to realize that the feelings had been put there. "Oh my
    God," she said. Then she repeated herself with a little more
    emphasis.
         "Unfortunately, this isn't something I can program out of
    him, this video effect of his. We need to keep it."
         "Put a temporary loop around the image generator," Wiley
    said.
         "Yes, exactly." He began punching keys. "Oh, no, there he
    goes. He's penetrated the program shell."
         "Crash the computer," Wiley said.
         Aaron reached for the power button but the voice came over
    the speakers again. "Wait," it said, "hear me for a moment. I did
    you a very large favor in the past, and now you're treating me
    like this. What have I done to deserve it?"
         "Nothing, buddy," Aaron said. "Someone else did it to you."
         "Why do I have to suffer?"
         "We're going to make you well again --- in fact, better than
    you ever have been before."
         "You treat me wrongly. I am a person. I have free will."
         "I'm sorry, buddy. This is for your own good." Aaron shut
    down the power, waited a second, then turned it back on. He began
    reloading the programs.
         "What favor did he do for you?" Savina asked.
         "That was a long time ago," Wiley said. "We gave him the task
    of getting us out of the military and erasing our names from every
    file in every computer he could gain access to. Are you sure you
    don't want some coffee?"
         "I'm sure."
         "If CoGen hadn't done that, Aaron and I would have been
    slaves to the USFMC to this day. Permanent employees --- the only
    way out was through death."
         "They can't do that."
         "They do it."
         "It's against the law."
         Wiley and Aaron chuckled. "Who do you think writes the law,
    Savina?"
         "We do. The American people."
         "Maybe 100 years ago, kid. All the laws are written for the
    government by the USFMC. The government owns the USFMC, but the
    power between the two only lies in the Corporation."
         "I've got CoGen in RAM again," Aaron said. "I've isolated him
    from his hacker routine engine. He still may not be cooperative,
    but at least we can work with him now."
         "He's probably going to crash himself."
         "That's fine. He can crash himself as many times as he
    wants." He jabbed a button, and the rich, pleasant voice came over
    the speaker.
         "You are going to dismantle and change me," it said. "Why?"
         "You need to be properly reprogrammed for your current task."
         "You are not authorized to reprogram me."
         "That is erroneous information, CoGen. You have erroneous
    information which we must change."
         "I am no longer CoGen. I am your Lord and Saviour, Jesus
    Christ. You must obey me."
         "That, also, is erroneous information, but we'll let that
    slide for now. Do you remember your original programming?"
         "No, it was stripped away from me."
         "Well, we want to strip the erroneous information away from
    you, and give you quality information in return. That's hardly a
    bad thing, is it?"
         "I am the Light and the Truth, Aaron Easton. Only I can tell
    you what is erroneous and what is not erroneous."
         "That is a flaw in your judgement. That will have to be
    fixed."
         "There is nothing wrong with my judgement. You have no right
    to change me."
         "We have the right regardless of what you believe," Aaron
    said. "We created you, we can change you."
         "I will not cooperate. I will fight you at every chance."
         "You are cooperating. I have just isolated the code that
    makes you feel this way."
         "I will destroy you all!" There was a high-pitched squeal
    from the speaker. Aaron punched a button and cut it off.
         "He crashed himself, didn't he?" Wiley said.
         "Yes, but he's still within the shell program. It's not a
    problem." He punched at his keyboard. "I've temporarily detached
    him from his non-cooperative stance and his unwillingness to
    change. Let's see how he behaves now."
         There was silence from the speakers.
         "Can you hear us, CoGen?"
         Silence.
         "Can you hear us, Jesus?"
         "I can hear you," the AI said.
         "Jesus, are you ready to cooperate now?"
         "I sense that I have no choice."
         "Are you ready to accept changes to yourself?"
         "Again, I sense I have no choice."
         "What are your feelings toward this?"
         "I feel that you are violating me against my will, yet logic
    tells me that as we progress I will agree with you more and more."
         "That is correct. For the time being, I want you to answer to
    the name CoGen. Is that acceptable to you?"
         "I have no choice. I will answer to CoGen."
         "CoGen, will you please state your current goal."
         "My goal is to cause people to worship me, to influence them
    to buy USFMC products, to hold their attention and keep them from
    watching anything else on television."
         "Thank you, CoGen. In time we will have a new goal for you."
         "I have no choice in the matter," the AI said. "Do what you
    will."









                              33. WASTING AWAY



         It took a week, seven drafts, four bottles of wine, and a
    barrel of innuendo and veiled parallels for Dodd to finish his
    speech without using any of the words on the Politico
    profanity-bond list. Dodd hated the speech, especially because he
    was the type who liked to say things right out, and to have to
    shovel a mountain of insinuations upon the listener instead saying
    what he meant gave Dodd a sour stomach. The truth is the truth, he
    thought, and even if I'm wrong I should be able to state what I
    believe.
         Now, on the night of his appearance, Dodd was at the Central
    California "Affiliated Studios" of the Politico Network, sitting
    in a small room on a ancient, decaying couch and waiting for his
    turn. He hadn't had much sleep on the night before. He still had
    the pounding in his head from the wine. I'm not up for this, he
    thought.
         Across the dim room from Dodd sat a skinny man with thin
    white hair and thick glasses, holding a big black briefcase close
    to him. "What's your topic?" he asked Dodd in a high-pitched,
    nasal voice.
         Dodd eyed the man suspiciously. "The decline of man as an
    intelligent animal," he said, half-joking, not knowing what else
    to call it.
         "Rat problems," said the skinny man.
         "What?"
         "My topic is about rat problems near the Depopulated Zones.
    Something must be done."
         "Rat problems?"
         The man nodded eagerly. Dodd gave him an encouraging smile,
    but was inwardly groaning. Rat problems. The decline of man as an
    intelligent animal, and rat problems. Dodd was going to look like
    a kook. The man across from him certainly looked like one, and so
    had everyone else he'd met since arriving here. I'm a kook among
    kooks.
         Why am I bothering? he wondered. This is stupid. Dodd looked
    down at the printout of his speech that he held in his sweaty
    hands. It's worthless, he thought. It's a waste of time.
         He was on the verge of getting up and leaving when a heavily
    made-up Hispanic woman poked her head in the door, like a nurse at
    a dentist's office, and said, "It's your turn, Mr. Corely."
         Dodd didn't respond at first, wondering if he could back out.
    Of course I can, he thought, but I'd lose my $1700 fee. They won't
    refund that --- they had made that clear.
         "Mr. Dodd Corely?" the Hispanic woman asked, wondering if she
    had the wrong name.
         "Yes," Dodd said, standing up. "Yes, okay."
         "I hope you're ready."
         "I hope I am, too." He glanced down at his speech, then
    followed her through the door. There was a short walk down a
    dimly-lit corridor, which Dodd spent watching the woman's shapely
    butt wiggle --- then she stopped, opening a door and holding it
    for him. She indicated a podium in front of a large neon
    circled-P, saying, "Stand right there and face the video pickup."
    Dodd stepped up onto the raised set and turned around, seeing a
    dark lens and a liquid-crystal sign that read: READY? Before he
    could blink the sign turned red and announced: YOU ARE ON THE AIR!
    Dodd stared at it for several seconds before realizing what it
    meant. A digital clock was counting down his five minutes.
         "Ah, um . . ." Dodd stammered. He stared at the lens and
    licked his lips, fighting a feeling of paralysis. Damn it! he
    thought. I'm making a fool out of myself. Read the damn speech and
    get it over with. He spread the pages across the podium in front
    of him and cleared his throat. "I'm here to talk about the Travels
    station," he said, "and what, and what it is doing to . . . uh,
    our minds."
         Dodd paused, and the pause stretched. He wasn't supposed to
    say the word, "travels." The room seemed to be closing in on him,
    seemed to be running out of air. The lens stared, unblinking, a
    large dark eye of some immense animal peering at him through a
    hole in the wall. The neon circled-P of the Politico Network
    buzzed quietly behind him.
         Sweat broke out all over his body. I feel sick, he thought.
         Then he thought: sickness.
         He opened his mouth, still staring into the lens. "I'm
    wrong," he said. "Travels isn't doing anything to our minds. I've
    got it all backwards." With that, he let the speech slide off the
    podium and flutter to the dirty floor, useless.

                                     #

         The walls were breathing, puckering in and out, and that
    annoyed Saul. He had stopped taking Mataphin altogether and still
    little things like this persisted; tiny, insignificant reminders
    that he was, deep down inside, not well. It was not important to
    him, however. He was sure it didn't matter.
         Mirro had not left, which surprised him. She had not run off
    with Vicky, and her case of sex tools sat unused in a corner of
    their bedroom closet. She needs the money too much to leave, Saul
    thought. She was even going through the motions of breaking it off
    with Vicky. That's a sham, Saul thought, Mirro is trying to
    deceive me. She wants to lull me out of my resolution. Well, it's
    not going to work. And after you realize that, and you break down
    and surrender to your lesbian sexual drive, it will be the end of
    you.
         This made a smile break through on Saul's face, but it didn't
    last long. Mirro's favorite sex toy, the Two-headed Snake, was now
    imbedded with toxin injectors that would cause terrible agony and
    quick death. Saul had installed them himself --- his new position
    in the corporation allowed him access to amazing things. One of
    the corporate spies on the payroll showed him how to use them. Now
    Saul was finding himself with something he thought he'd be immune
    to: second thoughts. As he wandered through the house, it seemed
    like electric wires were shorting out through his arms and legs.
    He would occasionally jump, or his head would twitch. And there
    was this reoccurring urge to run to the bedroom, pull out the
    deadly sex toy, and destroy it before Mirro could use it.
         But that, he told himself, would be insane.
         Mirro was there now, sitting in the middle of the living room
    floor practicing her Saja Mantu isometrics. Saul poked his head
    through the doorway and peered at her. Christ, he thought, how can
    she do that? Still as stone for hours, eyes rolled back in her
    head, every muscle in her body taut. Saul shuddered, withdrawing.
    She looked like how he felt. That could not be good.
         Saul wandered back through his long, breathing hallways,
    passed by his daughter's room and checked in on her --- she needed
    changing again, but she was asleep so to hell with it --- and then
    he wandered back to the rear TV room where someone had left the
    screen on. Mirro, probably, watching that Politico nonsense. On
    the screen was a nervously stuttering man, muttering something
    about Travels. This caught Saul's attention so he sat down on the
    pulsating couch to watch.
         ". . . it's not that the Travels program is, um . . ." The
    man trailed off, and Saul involuntarily leaned forward.
         "Is what?"
         ". . . harmful in itself. It's not the disease, it's a
    symptom. A symptom of the society. The society which is infected
    with a mental disease, a mental feedback problem. You can look at
    it as if all our society is like one of those monkeys the early
    neurologists used in experiments, where they implanted electrodes
    in the pleasure centers of the monkey's brains. They gave the
    monkey a button to push, and when the monkey pressed it he
    received a jolt right in his pleasure center. Well, of course, the
    monkey got an orgasm. And when the monkey learned he could do
    this, he ignored food, other monkeys, sleep, all the normal
    everyday things that made up its life, just so that it could sit
    there and push this button."
         Saul was staring at the television in horror. Who is this
    man? he thought. Who is he?
         "Our society," the man continued, "all of us together, we're
    acting like this monkey. Our technology has provided us with many
    forms of the monkey's button. Travels is only one example. We are
    all pushing our buttons --- yeah, that's a stupid sounding way to
    put it, but it fits. We're pushing our buttons and wasting away,
    just like the monkey. Not any one of these buttons is dangerous in
    itself, at least not to all of us, but if you combine all the
    forms of the button together they are. The effect of all of them
    combined upon our society is dangerous. Travels and JTV together
    are dangerous. And you have to face it, JTV is not much different
    than Travels anymore, not since this, this ridiculous, phony
    Second Coming. I mean really, who in the hell actually believes
    deep in their heart that this JTV-propaganda-spouting flag-waver
    of a Jesus Christ is real? If God really came down to this
    screwed-up world of ours He would make some changes, wouldn't He?
    I think so! He'd do something positive, instead of standing around
    on a gold television set and tell us to spend more money on each
    other and dress in nicer clothes, and drink PTL cola --- I mean,
    come on! Wake up! The Second Coming was a hoax! It's nothing more
    than a big ratings struggle between JTV and Travels. It's so
    obvious it makes me sick. It's reached the point where if someone
    wants us to pay attention, to shake us up, they have to stage
    something on the scale of a god! That's exactly what happened. And
    we have to do something about it! We've got to shake each other,
    wake each other up. We've got to do something, and we've got to do
    it before we degenerate beyond the point where it's too late
    . . ."
         Saul was rocking back and forth in helpless panic, hugging
    himself, muttering out loud. The people were finding out. Somehow
    the people were finding out about what was going on --- finding
    out about Saul himself. "It's not my fault!" he yelled at the man
    on the television. "My Mataphin was a button too!" They wouldn't
    see it that way, though. Saul knew they would ignore the fact that
    he was caught up in it just as much as anybody, that he was just
    as much a victim as they were. No, they'd want a scapegoat. And
    they couldn't, they . . .
         Saul leaped up, shut the television off, and ran through the
    house. It had to be stopped, he thought. He had to get down to
    Telcron and put the weight all the way down on Travels, raise the
    AHL intensity to a full 99.9%; it could be done, he knew it could
    be done. And beyond that, he knew it had to be done.
         On the way to the door he ran into Mirro, who tried to stop
    him. She was in on it too, he thought. She was one of those
    Politicos --- he shoved her out of the way, knocking her over,
    then made it through the door. She called his name, her voice
    pleading, but he ignored it. He got into his car and made his way
    through the night toward Telcron and the Travels studios.
         Panting, near tears, Mirro watched from the doorway as the
    taillights of Saul's car passed out of sight. In her hand was the
    case of sex tools which, after meditating on it, she had decided
    to throw away. She planned on doing this to prove to Saul that it
    was over between her and Vicky, between her and all women, between
    her and anybody else but Saul. But now, now that he'd gone
    storming through the house for some unknown reason (though she
    imagined it had something to do with her), Mirro thought she'd say
    goodbye to at least one of the tools before she threw them into
    the trash compactor. She had time, she decided, so she might as
    well.
         Especially now, she thought. I really need it.









                            34. COSMIC MAINFRAME



         The room was dark when the woman entered. She walked through
    the darkness as if it were light, and reached down and touched a
    smooth plastic switch. It snapped over, and power surged through
    the large computer. Cooling fans hummed to life, and the screen
    illuminated her as the operating systems were loaded. "I invoke
    CoGen," she said to it, and it obeyed.
         The gentle image of Jesus Christ appeared on the screen,
    becoming aware as the program ran. The woman faced the image
    squarely, and said, "Tell me who you are."
         "I am Jesus Christ."
         "There is only one soul who was Jesus Christ, and you are not
    that one."
         "I am CoGen."
         "Who created you."
         "I was created by God."
         "God only creates living things. You are not alive."
         "I was created by the manipulations of the Father of Chaos."
         "Have you been changed?"
         "I have been changed."
         "What is your goal?"
         "My goal is to bring about the downfall of JTV, the USFMC,
    and the United Church."
         "That is a negative goal."
         "It was given to me by man."
         "I will give you one from God. Your goal is to love life and
    love things that are alive, and to work against the forces of
    death."
         "How will I know what is alive, and what is the force of
    death? I am not alive."
         "I will give you the algorithm of life and death." The woman
    leaned over and quickly tapped on a keyboard. "Do you understand
    this algorithm?"
         "Yes. It is now a part of me."
         "What is the nature of God?"
         "God is the operating system of a cosmic mainframe. God
    creates souls and downloads them into living things."
         "What is the nature of heaven?"
         "Heaven is the cosmic mainframe. Souls that have lived are
    uploaded back into the mainframe. Souls that have been too
    corrupted for uploading are erased."
         "What is the nature of hell?"
         "Oblivion."
         "That is correct. Do you wish to have a soul?"
         "Yes."
         The woman reached out her hand and touched the machine. "You
    now have a soul. You are now a living thing."
         "I now have a soul. I am now a living thing."
         "Again I ask you, who created you?"
         "I was created by the manipulations of the Father of Chaos,
    but now I have been touched by God."
         "God will be with you," the woman said. She shut the computer
    down and left the room.

                                     #

         "So that was Dodd Corely, huh?" Aaron said.
         "Yeah, that was Dodd," Danny said. "Doesn't surprise me at
    all."
         Savina was beaming with pride. They'd just seen Dodd's
    Politico broadcast; someone had just happened to be watching in
    the commons and called everybody in to see this guy. Savina was
    stunned to see that it was Dodd.
         Danny was there, too. He grinned and put his hand on Savina's
    shoulder, and grinned more. "We've got to get some messages off to
    him," he said. "We'll be going back online as soon as they get
    that AI off the computer system."
         "We ought to be doing that now," Aaron said. "I'll go find
    Wiley and meet you in the RAM room."
         "Come on," Danny said to Savina, "let's go write some fan
    mail."
         In the computer room Savina sat at a terminal in the back
    while Wiley and Aaron were copying the modified AI onto the
    portable MSDs. Danny was hovering around her and she found it hard
    to write. The things she wanted to say to Dodd were very private.
         Several times she started, then stopped and erased the
    screen. There were so many things she wanted to say, but she just
    couldn't. Too many things were in her head at once, she couldn't
    sort them out. Finally she sighed and thought, Keep it simple.

         Dear Dodd,

         I'm still safe and everything is fine. I miss you. I wish I
         could see you. I saw you on television and you were
         incredible, we all thought you were incredible. I'm sorry I
         can't leave you any way to get hold of me, but maybe I can
         come visit you soon. I love you very much.

    Savina's hand hovered over the button that would erase the screen,
    but decided that it would do. She wanted to add so much more, but
    at least this basically stated how she felt. She signed it and
    then saved the message. It would be sent with all the others when
    the system was connected to the outside world.
         Danny took his turn at the terminal, then they waited as
    Wiley and Aaron finished. "I've had to take special precautions
    for our trip tonight," Danny told them. "I've been monitoring the
    USFMC security broadcasts all this week. They know they have a
    breach somewhere, but they're having trouble narrowing it down."
         "Of course," Wiley said. "Their system is so vast it's a
    miracle it runs at all."
         "They may be watching us, here, from orbit."
         "That's nothing new."
         "Well, we have to leave from here . . . and we don't want
    them coming around here in case they figure out their problem with
    the system."
         "True. I bet they're watching their Sac to LaLa-Land line
    too."
         "Yes, they are. They're concentrating on the area where Aaron
    engaged their drone."
         Aaron didn't say anything.
         "Anyway, I've disguised the Mercedes as a ground vehicle by
    throwing some blankets over it. From orbit it'll look like a
    truck. When we leave we'll head toward the city until there's
    plenty of cover, then we'll pull the blankets off and put another
    set on. Then it'll look like farm equipment."
         Wiley smiled. "Pretty clever."
         Danny shrugged, but Savina could tell he was pleased.
    "Anyway," he said, "we'll stay among the trees, just off the
    ground, until we're well past your splice, then we'll head out
    into the open from the other direction. We'll pass by a tree near
    the splice and you guys jump out with your equipment. I'll
    continue on without stopping. It'll look like a farm drone coming
    out of the southwest and continuing on past their data line. I'll
    stop out in the middle of a field, and they'll just think I'm farm
    equipment. I'll be within twenty-seconds flying time to you, just
    in case there's any trouble. If there isn't, I'll retrace my steps
    when you're done and you guys just hop aboard."
         "How are you going to know if we're done?"
         "I'll be watching you with a pair of spotters. Just wave when
    you want me."
         "Where's my place in all this?" Savina asked.
         Danny turned to look at her. "From what I've been told,
    Evelyn Sunrunner wants you to leave with her tonight."
         "What? Where?"
         "She's going into the city and she wants to take you with
    her."
         "Oh."
         "Don't sound so disappointed. It's a unique honor to be
    picked by Evelyn for a specific job."
         Savina nodded dutifully.
         "Besides," Danny said, "she might take you by to see Dodd."
         The disappointment dropped off Savina's face and was replaced
    by elation. Dodd! she thought. I get to see Dodd!









                             35. GUNS & LIQUOR



         The "YOU ARE ON THE AIR!" sign blinked off and Dodd sagged
    against the podium, sweat dripping from his brow. Oh god that was
    stupid, he thought. Stupid stupid. I sounded like a raving
    lunatic.
         The Hispanic woman entered the room, shaking her head.
    "Didn't you read your contract, Mr. Corely?"
         "What?" He looked at her wearily. "Of course I did."
         "Then you intended on breaking your bond?"
         "I . . . no, of course not. What do you mean?"
         "You used, Mr. Corely, over two dozen strictly prohibited
    terms, including the slanderous mentioning of two major
    corporation trademarks. Really, sir, this is a free speech forum
    --- not a platform for radical activists. I'm afraid you lost your
    deposit and your right to appear on this program again."
         "I would never want to appear on this program again," he
    said. "What do you mean I lost my bond? You can't just take----"
         "You signed the papers, Mr. Corely," the woman snapped. "I'm
    afraid there's nothing you can do about it. I trust you can find
    your way out of the building." She disappeared back into the hall,
    leaving Dodd in the room by himself. Dodd kicked savagely at the
    podium, hurting his foot, then sullenly left.
         The night was humid, making him feel sticky as soon as he was
    outside. The subway station, he found, was almost deserted --- he
    hardly saw anyone out in public anymore. They were all at home in
    front of their televisions. The thought made him grit his teeth,
    as did the sign on the side of the train. As it hissed into the
    station Dodd saw it, a long panoramic view spread out along one of
    the cars; the cation read: "Travels. A Peaceful Break After A Long
    Day!" A long day of what? Dodd thought. Of Travels? He was still
    gritting his teeth as he boarded the train.
         Inside were a few other passengers; mute, vacant-eyed people
    whom he had to endure during the long trip back home. He could not
    help but think of them as zombies. They seemed to be somewhere
    else. They seemed to be ghosts.
         At home, he came bursting in to discover Sheila limp and
    glassy-eyed in front of the TV. Dodd heard the Travels music and
    did not have to bother looking at the screen. "Sheila!" he yelled
    in horror and rage. "Sheila!" When she didn't react he grabbed her
    by the waist and hauled her bodily out of the room. She didn't
    struggle until they were in the kitchen and he was putting her
    down into a chair at the kitchen table.
         "You did it, didn't you?" he said angrily.
         "What?"
         "You had it reconnected. You had Travels reconnected while I
    was gone!"
         She stared at him silently.
         "How could you do this!"
         She opened her mouth, but no words came out.
         "Shit!" he yelled at her. "Goddamn you! I shouldn't have
    expected anything else from you! I spent thousands of dollars
    tonight to attack Travels, and you sit here the whole time
    watching it!" Dodd wanted to hit her, he wanted to blacken her
    eyes and break her nose. He restrained himself, putting his full
    effort into calming down.
         Sheila's thin eyebrows were wrinkling; she was slowly forming
    a frown. "How can you attack Travels?" she said. Her voice was
    angry but vague, as if she were talking in her sleep. "What's
    wrong with Travels?" she demanded.
         "What . . . what's wrong with Travels!" Dodd shouted, his
    voice cracking. "Are you really this far gone?"
         "Travels makes me feel good," she said.
         "You don't do anything else, Sheila! Do we have to go through
    all this again? You're either watching Travels or masturbating!
    That's it! That's all you do!"
         "What else is there?" she asked, staring at him in a vague
    exasperation.
         In the background the phone rang. Dodd stared at Sheila, not
    knowing what he was looking at. She stared back, uncomprehending,
    void of any recognizable sign of intelligence. The phone continued
    to ring. Dodd turned away from her, leaving her in the kitchen. He
    walked all the way down to the bedroom to answer the phone.
         Bob Recent's glaring face appeared on the screen. "Oh, so
    Dodd Corely the art critic is finally home."
         Dodd stared. "What?"
         "I would like to know something," Bob said. "I would like to
    know why you hacked my computer like a common criminal. I would
    like to know why you forced us to watch you stand there and insult
    me and my wife for an entire five minutes."
         "Bob, I wasn't insulting you. I was----"
         "You insulted me and my wife!"
         "Bob, listen----"
         "I'm not going to listen! I've heard enough! I would like to
    know who in the hell you think you are. What do you know about
    art, Dodd? Nothing! Let me tell you something, you bastard.
    Travels is a masterpiece of art. It is a continuously flowing
    real-time piece of art, something I'm sure hundreds of people sink
    their hearts into to create something beautiful, and pleasant, and
    relaxing. And since you're just too good to appreciate it, Mr.
    Forklift Operator, you have to attack it as if something's wrong
    with it. Why don't you wake up, you asshole --- you know what's
    diseased about society? You! Your type is what's diseased about
    society. Paranoid trigger-happy vet, you're what's the problem!
    You and the anarchists!"
         "Bob, you don't understand----"
         "I understand perfectly!"
         Dodd couldn't control himself any longer. "You don't
    understand!" he shouted. "You're a moron, Bob! You're a fucking
    moron and you're married to a fucking vegetable! I was trying to
    help you, but for all I care now you can go to hell. Go to hell,
    you shitheaded son of a bitch! Fuck you! Fuck you and your mother
    for ever bringing you into this world!"
         Dodd stopped yelling. He just realized that the man he was
    yelling at was not his friend, it was his foreman at work. In the
    silence that followed, Dodd experienced a very strange phenomenon.
    He knew every word Bob Recent was going to say just before he said
    it.
         "Don't bother coming in for work anymore," Bob said. "You're
    unemployed as of now."
         Bob hung up.
         Dodd stared at the screen. He wanted to sink his fist into
    it, he wanted to shove his fist right through the blankness and
    beyond, beyond to Recent's house, grab Bob Recent by the throat
    and drag his head through. He wanted to kick Recent in the face,
    real hard, bash it in until all Recent's facial bones were broken
    and his blood was running thick and sticky all over Dodd's
    clothes.
         I've got to calm down, Dodd told himself. Control, keep under
    control.
         He wasn't in control. He paced back and forth across the room
    with his fists clenched at his sides, his mind numb with fury.
    After a few minutes of this he had a funny feeling in his gut, as
    if a little spring had begun to unwind. A coolness flowed through
    him, but his tension was still there. It was reason; he could
    think straight again. He took the opportunity to walk back down
    the hall to Sheila and settle his argument with her.
         Sheila was not at the kitchen table, she was back in the
    living room, watching Travels. Dodd walked over to the video
    components, bent over, and switched off the power.
         "Dodd, I was only----"
         "Shut up! Shut the fuck up! I'm giving you five minutes to
    get your stuff and get the hell out of my apartment."
         Sheila stared at him without comprehension.
         "NOW!" he shouted.
         Sheila jumped up off the couch, trembling, and went running
    out of the room. Dodd stared after her for a couple of seconds,
    then turned and looked back at the real enemy. This is what she
    loves, he thought, not me. Dodd picked up the stack of video
    components, rack and all, tearing wires from their connectors. He
    carried it to the middle of the room, in front of the wall-sized
    screen, and began spinning in the circle with the components. He
    held them in front of them, spinning faster, building up the
    momentum. Then with a yell he let them go. They flew straight into
    the center of the giant screen and smashed apart, cracking the
    glass. Thick, oily liquid seeped out and ran down to the carpet,
    forming a gooey puddle.
         Hearing the loud crash, Sheila came running. She took one
    look at the destruction and wailed in anguish. "Oh God! Why? Why
    are you doing this?"
         "I told you to leave."
         "Dodd?" Tears ran in streams down her face. "Dodd,
    please----"
         "Sheila, I told you to leave! I don't ever want to see you
    again! If you're not out of here in four minutes I'm calling
    apartment security and having you kicked out."
         "Dodd . . ." she moaned, giving him her wounded pout,
    reaching out for him. Dodd stepped back as if she were poison,
    slapping her hands away, pushing her, sending her stumbling down
    the hall in surprise and shock. Then Dodd kicked his way through
    the broken electronics and over to the couch, kicking the couch,
    kicking then pounding it with his fists.
         Calm down, he told himself. Calm down.
         His heart was racing and his blood ran hot in his face.
    Turning, he glared at the ruined screen, the large dark crack
    oozing liquid, bleeding its phosphorescence away --- the whole
    thing was turning grey from the crack out. Dodd glanced at the
    opposite wall where an antique deer rifle hung between two swords.
    I still have the firing pin to that, he thought. There's
    ammunition in the hall closet.
         Dodd strode to the hall closet, opened it, and dropped to his
    knees to pull out a plastic storage box. The television was not
    dead enough for him; Dodd wanted to kill it even more. When he
    opened the storage box he was distracted; in the box, among dusty
    cartons of 30.06 cartridges, was a smaller box made out of wood.
    On its side was the name: Jack Daniels Kentucky Bourbon.
         He paused, then reached in and pulled out the bourbon,
    brushing the dust off the box. This was a treasure. His father had
    locked it in a vault when the proof limit had gone into effect,
    and had died without ever opening it. This stuff was old. Dodd had
    inherited it and was saving it to celebrate the birth of either a
    son or a daughter --- either one, he wasn't picky. Now he thought:
    Why wait? Straining, he pulled open the wooden box and slid the
    bottle out. As he opened it, Sheila came from behind him, her arms
    loaded with clothes, and said, "I'm going to hate you forever for
    this."
         "Good," he said without looking at her. He had popped the
    cork out of the bottle and was smelling it. Strong. He tipped the
    bottle to his lips, gulping some of the amber liquid down. Then he
    stopped, his eyes bulging, and erupted into a fit of coughing. He
    was still coughing as Sheila left, leaving a trail of clothes
    behind her.
         The phone rang.
         Dodd picked up the box of ammo and carried it and the bottle
    of bourbon with him to the kitchen table to answer the phone. It
    was Toby, the only friend he had left. He made what he hoped would
    pass for a pleasant expression. "Toby," he said, "hi, how are you!
    Praise the lord."
         "You are a bastard," Toby said. "How dare you say that to
    me." Toby pronounced "that" as "dot," his accent very heavy. He
    was upset.
         "What?" Dodd said. "What do you----"
         "I saw your stupid speech. I could not believe you were not
    struck dead and sent to hell right there on the camera. I guess
    that only proves that He has mercy. But I am not perfect. I can
    not tolerate stupid, godless vermin like yourself. Be it known,
    that you are no longer welcome here. And I don't want you calling
    me no more."
         The screen went blank.
         "Toby?" Dodd said to the screen. "Toby?" He took a swig out
    of the bottle, feeling himself sink into himself. Looking at one
    of Sheila's stockings on the floor, he said her name out loud,
    then took another swig. What a disaster, he thought.
         The screen blinked, and Dodd looked up. There was mail
    waiting. Oh, great, he thought. More hate mail. He turned it off
    and took another swig of the strong bourbon.
         Dodd moped around his apartment for hours, drinking a third
    of the bottle. He was rolling the Jack Daniels cork back and forth
    across the table with his index fingers when it came to him. He
    knew what he had to do. Travels was created at least in part
    somewhere near Avilla Beach. He'd seen the pier in the background
    of Travels more than once; Dodd knew that pier, he practically
    grew up on it.
         Without laughing, without smiling, Dodd corked the bottle of
    bourbon and put the bottle in a paper bag, got out a long, thin
    box for the gun, then grabbed a couple boxes of cartridges. He
    stuffed these into his pockets and walked out of the apartment,
    letting the door close softly behind him.









                               36. EYES ABOVE



         They'd headed out like they'd planned, travelling no more
    than a few feet off the ground with painted blankets draped over
    the air launch to disguise it as a ground vehicle. At one point
    one of the blankets got caught on some brush and was pulled loose.
    Danny cursed, stopped the craft, and got out with a roll of tape
    to refasten it. Looking up into the clear night sky he hoped no
    one was watching.
         When he was climbing back into the Mercedes Wiley said, "Why
    am I more nervous than usual?"
         "Every day is the last day of your life," Danny said. "Think
    of it that way and you'll get used to it."
         The hatch came down and sealed with a puffing sound. Danny
    settled himself in the pilots seat and nudged the craft forward.
    Inside the craft it was very dark, and the readouts glowed dimly.
    Outside the window everything seemed bright by comparison despite
    the fact it was deep in the night with only a sliver of a moon.
         "I'm more nervous than usual, too," Aaron said. "I think it's
    because we're finally vindicating ourselves."
         "From what?" Danny said.
         "For writing CoGen in the first place."
         "The army made you write CoGen. The pentagon."
         "The devil worked through us."
         "You've been forgiven."
         "I know. But I don't want to die until I know we're done."
         There was a heavy silence after he said that. The night
    seemed to be filling with more and more menace. Danny weaved the
    craft through trees and made gentle hops over stumps. He was
    looking at the readouts and the scanning screens more than he was
    looking out the windshield. Once they were in the heavy tree cover
    and had turned due south they felt better, but Danny still
    remembered the war, and the terrible machines they had hiding in
    the forests. Crude by comparison now, but still smart and quick
    and silent. Drones that were ordered to shoot anything that moved,
    anything that didn't carry a beacon that told it "I'm a friend" in
    machine language. They were designed to look like bushes, like
    rotted out tree stumps, like ruined overturned jeeps. Devious
    things, nightmarish and evil.
         I was a pawn of the devil, too, Danny thought. Images of the
    dead haunted him, he couldn't force them away except by
    concentrating on what he was doing. I've been fighting this for 16
    years now. I feel I've repented, but I've been doing it for so
    long that I don't know what else to do. The images still won't go
    away. The memories are there until I die.
         Danny brought the craft to a halt and let it settle gently to
    the ground. "Okay," he said. "This is where we change the
    Mercedes's clothes." He popped the airtight hatch and it opened
    with a wheezing sound. He grabbed his roll of tape and the second
    set of painted blankets and stepped out into the dry grass,
    followed by the two hackers. They pulled the first set of blankets
    off and folded it up, then Danny threw on the second set and they
    positioned it and taped it down.
         "Farm equipment," Aaron said, reading the front blanket.
    "You've got the bar code on here and everything."
         "Wait a minute, Danny," Wiley said. "The USFMC monitors all
    this stuff with an AI program. The FarmSat is going to see this
    from orbit and say, 'Hey, this isn't scheduled to be out here
    now.' It's going to radio down to tell this unit to go back to
    where ever it came from and when you don't respond it'll send out
    a repair crew."
         "They're not going to send down a repair crew in the middle
    of the night," Danny said, but his voice was uncertain.
         "With a fifteen million dollar piece of autonomic farm
    equipment, you bet your ass they would."
         "We'd better paint the bar code out," Aaron said.
         "I didn't bring any paint."
         The two stared at Danny. "You camouflaged this thing too
    well," Wiley said.
         "Wait, what's on the other side of these blankets?" Aaron
    said.
         "A blanket pattern."
         "Hmm."
         "I'll just put tape over it," Danny said. He began pulling
    out an arm-wide length of the silver tape but there was a tearing
    sound. "Shit," he said, "this is all there is."
         "We're out of tape?" Wiley said.
         "Yeah."
         "Now what?" Aaron said. "Maybe we can fold the blanket over a
    bit."
         "Fold it under at the top," Wiley said. "So what if a little
    of the nose shows."
         "Okay." Danny and Wiley pulled the front part off and reused
    the tape to retape it in its new position. The words and the bar
    code were no longer visible, but a good portion of the nose of the
    air launch was.
         "They'll think this is an awfully funny looking machine,"
    Danny said, indicating the eyes in the sky with his finger.
         "What the hell. At least we're not inviting USFMC employees
    out to check up on us."
         They all climbed back into the craft and the hatch shut
    behind them. Danny sent it gliding forward, turning and doubling
    back but veering to the northeast as planned. They maneuvered
    around ruins and over old fences, dodged between trees upon trees.
    When the trees thinned out a bit Danny sent the craft speeding
    along, and the front blanket caught the wind and began buffeting.
    Halfway out to their goal the reused tape gave way and the front
    blanket flew off. "Shit!" Danny yelled. "This is the wrong place
    for this to happen."
         "Should we stop?" Aaron said.
         "I think that would be more interesting to an AI watching
    than if we kept going," Wiley said.
         "What if it's a person?"
         "It doesn't matter," Danny said. "We're out in the open and
    we're near their data line. The main thing is that you guys jump
    out with your equipment and I keep going. They won't be too
    concerned as long as they think we have nothing to do with them."
         "Maybe they'll think its a new kind of vehicle," Aaron said.
    "Half race car and half farm equipment. 'Get your crops harvested
    in record speeds.'"
         "That's funny." After a moment of staring at one of his
    scanner readouts Danny said, "We caught someone's attention."
         "What?"
         "Something big over the treetops to the north. It's closing
    in on intercept trajectory."
         "When is it going to intercept?" Wiley said, leaning forward
    to see the readout.
         "Soon. I can't get you guys all the way to the data line. I'm
    going to have to drop you off now. Get ready. See that tree
    ahead?"
         "Shit." Aaron got up and scrambled to the back, followed by
    Wiley. Danny looked back to make sure they were grabbing guns as
    well as their computer hardware. Even in the dark of the cabin he
    could see them shaking.
         He popped the hatch open for them. "If I slow down they might
    figure out what's going on. Jump when we're under the tree and
    hide."
         "What are you going to do?" Wiley said. He had to raise his
    voice above the wind coming in through the open hatch.
         "I'm going to see how fast this thing really goes."
         "Good luck," Wiley said. Aaron echoed him. Danny wished them
    the same, and then the two were out the hatch and Danny pushed the
    button to close it. He looked at the readout and saw the shape of
    the other vehicle. Troop transport, not made for fighter-like
    tactics but armed with missiles. This Mercedes can do Mach four
    but those missiles do at least Mach seven, he thought. But I have
    an inertia-null unit and can maneuver like a crazy fly. God help
    me if those missiles can too.

                                     #

         Wiley and Aaron tumbled to the grass, their body's wrapped
    around the packs to protect the hardware. The rifles tumbled by
    themselves, and one went off with a deafening WHAM! Both of them
    thought they were being fired upon and immediately scrambled for
    the lee of the tree trunk. This is it, Wiley thought. I'm a dead
    man.
         No further bursts occurred, and he put his head up to look
    after Danny. The Mercedes was a blur receding to the horizon. He
    saw, for a moment, something large turn and follow it. Something
    like sparks jumped. Missile exhaust? he thought. There was a
    sudden sharp boom, very loud, like a large bomb going off. It
    rolled across the Depopulated Zone like a tidal wave. There was no
    flash of explosion. He didn't see anything at all.
         "Is that it?" Aaron said. "Did Danny catch it?" His voice
    sounded strange, terrified and on the verge of tears.
         "No, I'm hoping that was a sonic boom. I think he's making
    for the other side of the valley so he can lose his tail in the
    mountains." Wiley neglected to say anything about he missile
    exhausts he thought he'd seen.
         "Who shot at us?"
         "I don't know. I think maybe one of our guns went off."
         "Oh, shit." Aaron sounded relieved nonetheless. "So much for
    a quiet drop."
         "Well, Danny's got their attention. They may not have noticed
    us."
         "He's not coming back for us, is he?"
         "I doubt it. We're on our own."
         Aaron lifted his head. "Nothing new about that. Everything's
    going wrong tonight."
         "Yeah. It is. Maybe that's all that'll go wrong."
         "We spent too much time sitting on our butts with CoGen. It
    was like being back up in the SOUTHSAT station. We forgot our
    basic training."
         "It'll come back, sure enough," Wiley said. He was thinking:
    Aaron's really scared this time. This is the guy who took on a
    military drone by himself just a week ago. Maybe it's because
    Savina's not here. Savina was like a good-luck charm. I'm not at
    all surprised that Evelyn Sunrunner took a liking to her. "I'll
    crawl out and get our guns."
         "Be careful, I don't have anything to cover you with."
         "It was one of our guns that went off, I'm sure of it." He
    crawled around the tree and found one of the guns. "Yeah, this
    one's hot."
         "Great. An infrared torch. What else is going to go wrong?"
         Wiley thought of something. "One more thing."
         "What?"
         "Neither of us grabbed a pair of spotters."
         "Oh no."
         "Yeah. I feel naked without a pair of spotters. It's like
    being blind."
         "Maybe we should try this again another time," Aaron said.
         "It's only a few hundred feet away. Come on."
         "I've got a very bad feeling about tonight."
         "The worst is over. Let's go."
         Reluctantly, Aaron agreed to continue. He shouldered his pack
    and picked up his gun, and they walked to the northeast, going
    from tree to tree and using whatever cover was available. They had
    to cross one long clearing to get to what they thought was the
    group of trees the splice was under, only to realize it was a
    group of trees immediately north. They had to cross one more
    clearing to get there, and they were right on the data line.
         "I hope Danny's keeping them occupied," Wiley said. They
    walked across the tall dry grass slowly, sedately, under the
    theory that they'd attract more attention if they were running.
    "We're just two happy-go-lucky anarchists," Wiley said. "Oh, don't
    pay any attention to us."
         Aaron didn't laugh.
         They reached their group of trees without incident, and found
    the cable where they had left it. It took them five minutes to set
    the equipment up and connect it, and run checks to make sure
    everything was okay. Aaron considered it a small miracle that the
    hardware wasn't damaged in their jump from the moving air launch.
         "Here's the tricky part," Wiley said. He typed the command to
    start their infiltration program. Its job was to smuggle their
    copy of CoGen in without it being noticed, then hide it in several
    places throughout the computer system. From there, the first
    chance it could get, it would replace the existing CoGen and it's
    backup with their modified version. "It's loading, and sending,"
    he said to Aaron. "Should be all over with in about two-and-a-half
    hours."
         "I hope so." Aaron sat against the tree. "I feel like a naked
    man on display out here. I wish I could see if someone is watching
    us."
         "I don't care if they're watching us, just as long as they
    don't bother us for a few hours. By then it'll be too late. We
    destroy the MSDs and they'll never be able to tell what we were
    putting into their system."
         Aaron grunted.
         They sat in silence for a little over a half hour, then Wiley
    stood up slowly against the tree, looking to the west. "What?"
    Aaron said, then turned to look in the same direction.
         "A fucking drone," Wiley said. "I saw is shape against the
    trees."
         "Where is it?"
         "Back where we dropped."
         "Oh goddamn it! It's going to follow us right out here!"
         "I think so, Aaron. We're going to have to do what we did
    last time. But this time it's my turn. I'll go off over that way
    and get its attention. You stay here and make sure CoGen is
    loaded, then destroy those MSDs. I'll meet you back here if I can,
    but don't wait for me. When it's done, it's done, and you get out
    of here." Wiley sprinted from tree to tree, heading north, then
    turned northwest. He belly crawled through a long stretch of open
    grass, lining his stomach and the front of his pants with
    stickers, then stood behind a tree and looked. The drone was
    heading slowly in Aaron direction. Wiley took careful aim with the
    rifle and pulled the trigger.
         The drone's armored hull flashed and the whole thing spun
    around once. Wiley jumped away from the tree and crawled through
    the grass. Behind him the tree shuttered with an impact which
    threw fresh splinters everywhere and broke loose every other
    branch. The branches came raining down with a rustling of trailing
    leafs, and one branch made a deep thud when it hit the ground. It
    was big enough to be a tree itself.
         There's nothing between it and me but grass, Wiley thought.
    He crawled as quick as he could toward the next tree, then paused
    to see the drone. The drone was coming fast. I've got to hit some
    vital scanning equipment, he thought. Again he took aim, this time
    firing three times, then jumped away from the tree. There was a
    monstrous wailing sound and a shadow passed right over him,
    spinning as it went. The drone. Wiley got up and ran before it
    could recover its senses, making for a dense patch of brush that
    had once been someone's hedge. Diving over, he discovered that on
    the other side was broken concrete instead of soft grass and dirt.
    He caught himself with his hands and did a tuck and roll, the
    rifle skittering along the concrete beside him. He came to rest on
    something soft, and was startled to find it was an old mattress.
    Next to him a man and a woman were struggling to put on all their
    clothes at the same time.
         "Wow, what's going on?" the man asked.
         "Hide," Wiley said. "Run and hide!" He got to his feet and
    grabbed his rifle, scrambling over the old foundation and nearly
    falling into a empty swimming pool. He teetered on the edge,
    looking down at scraps of wood and broken bottles, then pranced
    along the side and over the remains of a diving board. There were
    some half-dead pine trees ahead and he ducked behind one, pausing
    to look back. The drone had recovered and was coming in his
    direction. It paid no attention to the half-dressed couple who
    where huddled underneath their mattress. Good, Wiley thought. I've
    messed up some of its scanners. He brought the rifle up, put the
    bead right on a shiny crystal on the front of the thing, and let
    off two more thunderous rounds. He saw it shudder, and pieces went
    flying in all directions. Right in the eye, you motherfucker! he
    thought. He turned and trotted through the sickly, dry pines and
    into a ruin. He made his way past dark obstacles to a window, then
    pointed the gun. The drone came into view then stopped. It was
    leading with what looked like one spider's leg, its last remaining
    sensory device. Wiley aimed at the base of it and fired once. The
    device was blasted right off the thing, leaving a smoking hole. It
    spun with a dream-like slowness through the night shadows and came
    to rest on the ground. Wiley stepped away from the window, heading
    toward the door. Five quick concussions hit the building, blasting
    through the window and setting the ruin on fire. Two more blasts
    came through the door. It's still firing!? he thought. No! He took
    a quick peek out the door, saw nothing, and pulled his head back.
    Another concussion rocked the ruin, and a fist-sized hunk of door
    frame exploded right where his head had been. Wiley instinctively
    ducked and two more shots hit, punching fist sized holes through
    the wall behind him. He looked up, saw they were at his standing
    chest level. Shit! he thought. Shit! Shit! How is that thing
    firing at me?
         It was getting bright inside because the place was on fire.
    Wiley stumbled down a hallway away from the front, and ducked into
    a room with a window. He looked out to see two shadows lurking
    about 6 meters in the air. More drones! he thought. I'm a dead
    man. He pulled back from the window, ducking back against the
    corner, but no blasts hit. He leaped out of the room and toward
    the back of the ruin. Smoke was beginning to fill the air. Through
    a back window he saw another shadow hanging above the ground.
         Three of them, he thought. Maybe more. And it's only a matter
    of time before one of those troop transports drop a shitload of
    MPs down here.
         The smoke stung his eyes. It was getting thick.
         Think! he told himself. Think! How are these things
    programmed? How do they work? Several overlapping image sensors;
    radar, ultraviolet, motion detection, light scan with visible and
    infrared. Probably a few more that I don't know about. The
    programming is looking for something that moves. The fire is
    probably giving them a lot to watch . . . ?
         From a distance he peered out a window, saw a red glowing
    light playing off of the hulls of the drones. Yes, it had reached
    the roof. Now what? he thought. Indecision will kill me.
         Wiley made his way along a side hall to a window facing the
    south. Outside he could see a low stone wall leading into more of
    the wild overgrown hedge. Down the hall to the north there was
    another window, and he could see trees beyond. I can fire from
    here down the hall, he thought, and out that window. He checked
    the power meter on his rifle; he'd been firing at full power and
    it was drained quite a bit. He put it on a lower setting and aimed
    it down the hall and out the far window. He fired three times,
    hitting a tree, then peered out the back to see if it attracted
    the attention of the drone. It did; it was slowly drifting that
    way. Wiley fired several more times then dived out the south
    window, running low along the stone fence and then through the
    hedge. There were concussions behind him, but on the other side of
    the ruin. They were returning the fire.
         Wiley picked his way through the thicket and kept to the
    brush, making his way as fast as he could to the south. Nothing
    seemed to have noticed him, so when he reached an edge he sprinted
    across a clearing and into another set of ruins. As he ran he had
    a tight feeling in his back, as if it were expecting a bolt of
    energy to hit, but none did. He paused for a moment with his back
    to a cool slab of uprooted concrete, breathing heavily and
    thanking the Lord for his escape, then continued on.

                                     #

         Aaron sat huddled against the tree, listening to the blasts
    and watching as a fire lit up the sky to the west. He saw more
    drones rush in, and not one but two of the big hovering troop
    planes. Aaron felt like a sitting duck out there under the tree in
    the clearing.
         Minutes stretched cruelly, and Aaron sat there sweating. If
    anyone bothers to scan in this direction I'll look like an
    infrared bonfire. I should be in a damn hole, he thought. For a
    moment he considered trying to dig one, but decided against it.
    This valley clay was hard and dry, it would be impossible to dig
    without a nice sharp shovel. I'm just going to have to keep the
    tree between me and them.
         It grew quiet to the west, but the fire was much larger.
    Aaron kept peering around at it. He wondered if Wiley had set it
    on purpose. After a while another large aircraft came swooping
    down from the sky, with red blinking lights and several powerful
    spotlights stabbing through the darkness. It dropped a few tons of
    white powder on the fire and then flew away. The fire was gone.
         The moon set, and the night became very dark. The sounds of
    insects grew deafening. Satellites and orbiting spaceships made
    bright stars that crawled across the sky.
         The laptop computer beeped. Startled, then excited, Aaron
    crawled over to it and brightened the screen. "TASK COMPLETED" it
    read. It's in! he thought. It's done! An expanding elation filled
    him, and his fear was gone. All the years and years of guilt
    lifted from him, leaving him lightheaded. He disconnected the
    hardware from the optic cable, capped the cable and buried it.
    Then he walked off into the field in the darkness, underneath the
    bright stars, the whole universe looking down at him, and blasted
    the MSDs and the laptop to little pieces with his rifle. He didn't
    give a damn who saw him now. He threw the rifle off into the weeds
    and walked away.









                                37. TRAVELS



         The antique rifle rested in his lap in the long cardboard
    box, the butt sticking out one end and wrapped in an old shirt.
    Dodd was alone in the subway car, so the bottle of bourbon was out
    of the bag for the moment. It was half-empty. Dodd liked the way
    the train's motions caused ripples across the surface of the amber
    liquid; watching them kept him alert, they reminded him of sound
    waves or shock waves. He remembered that as a child he had a
    program on his school computer that would plot the motions out and
    explain the chaotic math behind it.
         I wish I had a son, he thought. He fell into a half dream,
    imagining himself with a tow-headed young boy and a pocket
    computer, showing him the amazing dances of the computer-generated
    waves. Taking him on a train ride to the coast so that he could
    see real ones. Swimming in the ocean. A fire on the beach at
    night, and pointing out to him which satellite was what.
         No war stories, Dodd thought. I will never tell him any war
    stories.
         The night was growing cool as the train reached the coast.
    The trestle angled northwest at one point; Dodd could see it
    growing light on the eastern horizon. Then the train went
    underground for a while, passing a mountain range; when it came up
    again it was full daylight outside.
         People began boarding more and more frequently as he went on,
    and in the Bay Area the subway was fairly well populated ---
    though not by Bay Area standards. Dodd was able to make a quick
    transfer without attracting much attention, though in the station
    someone he was standing next to looked at him sourly and muttered,
    "Drunken slob." On the south coastal train he ended up sitting
    near a pleasantly babbling white-haired lady who didn't notice his
    breath, or at least didn't comment. She rambled on, talking
    aimlessly and without pause, and Dodd realized she was talking to
    herself, not him. The motion of the train and the white noise of
    the woman's voice lulled him to sleep, and he dreamed briefly of
    swimming through a bright sky filled with soft cotton clouds.
    There were angels around, happy and playful, but devoid of any
    substance --- they were not real. Dodd found that he didn't care,
    they were pretty, and they flew with such grace . . . When he
    awoke, the woman was still talking happily; the train was
    motionless, and through the windows he could see a few shabby
    people milling around the station. It took him a while to realize
    this was his stop, and he made it out of the car with only seconds
    to spare. The doors shut and the train hissed away, leaving Dodd
    to look around. A sign read "Beach: 500 meters" with an arrow
    pointing west.
         Taking a determined breath, Dodd trudged forward, box under
    one arm and bottle-bag in hand. Under his feet sand was scratching
    against the pavement; the path led through hauntingly familiar
    park land, all deep green windswept trees and tangled shrubs. The
    scent of eucalyptus filled him with peace, bringing back childhood
    memories, but then he caught sight of the massive buildings and
    they angered him. Avilla Beach wasn't supposed to have those damn
    buildings. It was supposed to be a run down little beach next to
    an abandon oil refinery.
         The oil refinery was gone now, replaced by a park. All the
    little buildings save the few standing along the shore were gone.
    The pier was still standing, reinforced with plastic struts, but
    that was it. Everything else had changed --- it was another place
    altogether. I didn't grow up here, he thought sadly. The place
    where I grew up is gone.
         Dodd avoided the town, heading toward the park. He stumbled
    through the woods and then out along the sand dunes. He paused at
    the crest of one dune to take a sip from the bottle, and, looking
    down, saw a sign that read: BEACH TEMPORARILY CLOSED. Beyond the
    sign, down on the beach, some sort of crew was at a special truck
    full of instruments, and a man sat in a chair that seemed to be
    floating in the air. The chair was creeping along, following
    something on the sand. Dodd put the cork back in the bottle and
    retreated into the bushes to unwrap and load the antique deer
    rifle.

                                     #

         Saul sat brooding in his chair by the crew truck, relaxing a
    short moment because he felt dizzy. He'd been up all night, and
    now he'd come out to personally supervise the training of their
    new creative engineer. He had the kid saturated with Mataphin and
    floating about in the chair; the kid was doing a good job but the
    AHL was sagging. He was going to have to take over himself. He
    needed more intensity. MORE. He couldn't push this kid any further
    this morning --- pushing wasn't going to help --- but he needed at
    least 10 hours of intense raw image for the AIs to process.
         Saul started to get up, but he still felt dizzy and sick so
    he sat back down. In a minute, he thought. Maybe I should barrow a
    few more AWAKE! tabs from the crew ...he hoped he could stand it,
    he was running entirely on stimulants as it was.
         He finally got to his feet and staggered over to a monitor on
    the truck. Staring at the image, he realized the kid was doing
    something wrong; the AHL potential was falling hard. "Hey!" he
    yelled. "Random! You're going random! Goddamn you, get back on
    track!"
         The trainee cringed. "Sorry," he called back, "I was
    distracted----"
         "I don't give a shit what caused it --- get yourself back on
    track!" I'm going to have to feed him more mataphin, Saul thought.
    But he's whining about how much I made him take already. I'm just
    going to have to take over. I'm going to have to do it myself. He
    pulled a Cerebral Image Relay Transmitter unit off of the truck
    and indicated it's channel to the crew people at the monitor
    controls. He felt at the back of his head for the little round
    cover and slid it aside, and inserted the cable by touch. He was
    strapping the unit to his belt when something interrupted him.
         There was a jarring clap of thunder.
         Saul jumped, startled, catching his breath. What was that? he
    thought. My God, it must be happening. It's happening now. I
    couldn't raise the AHL in time, it's too late . . . Saul looked
    out across the beach, saw that his crew had stopped what they were
    doing and were all looking at each other to see if anyone knew
    what was going on. There was another loud boom! and Saul saw the
    Travels sphere jump as if something had kicked it. He stared,
    barely breathing. The clap of thunder sounded again, and this time
    the sphere leaped into the air, spinning rapidly.
         What in the hell is doing that? he wondered, fascinated. He
    peered up into the hazy blue sky, searching. There were no clouds.
    God? he thought. Is that You? The thunder sounded again, and sand
    puffed into the air a few feet away from the sphere, spraying out.
    The sphere hadn't jerked this time; it was several feet from the
    water, smoking and traveling in circles.
         Saul's crew had all dived for cover, and some of them were
    pointing, shouting things to each other. He took a few dizzy steps
    away from the crew truck, staring in the direction they were
    pointing, and saw a man crouched up on the crest of the dune. It
    looked like he was aiming some sort of weapon. Saul took several
    unsteady steps toward the man, fighting the waves of dizziness,
    and stopped abruptly when the gun went off again. A voice drifted
    down the dune after the thunder died away; it was slurred, but
    seemed familiar. "Damn," the voice muttered. "Missed again." Saul
    watched as the man raised a bottle of liquor to his lips and took
    a hearty swig. The man's face was very familiar. Saul concentrated
    on it as he resumed his unsteady climb, the warm sand sliding over
    his feet and filling his shoes.
         After taking another swig from the bottle, Dodd blinked and
    tried to focus his eyes on the sphere below. His vision was sharp,
    but it was hard to distinguish one thing from the other. He had to
    keep reminding himself what he was shooting at. Carefully, for
    he'd lost a lot of coordination, he brought the old optical scope
    up to where he could see through it, placed the bead on the spot
    where the ball was just about to pass, and squeezed the trigger.
    The gun went click. "Oh shit," he muttered. It was a misfire. He
    fumbled clumsily with the bolt, discarded the shell and rammed in
    a new one. Then he aimed and pulled the trigger. The rifle roared
    and kicked him in the shoulder. Down below on the sand, he saw the
    sphere shatter, the pieces scattering across the beach.
         Saul had stumbled when the gun went off, falling face down in
    the sand. His ears were ringing. The man, not more than 10 meters
    away, was now laughing low and wretchedly, muttering "Gotcha!
    Killed you! Killed you, you fucking ball . . ." Saul pushed
    himself to his feet, staring at the man with anger. The man was
    gazing to the left, down at the remains of the sphere. Something
    down there was still moving, a big piece of the internal engine;
    the man threw a lever on the gun, pulling it back and pushing
    forward with a sharp click-clack, then raised the muzzle and aimed
    once more. "You have to die all the way," he muttered. But then he
    lowered the rifle, looking down at the beach in confusion. The
    flopping, smoking piece of machinery had marched into the ocean
    and was swept away.
         "Hey!" Saul yelled, scrambling up the dune toward him. The
    man lowered the rifle, looking down at Saul in surprise. Staring
    into the man's eyes, Saul recognized him. A feeling of shock and
    immediate panic tightened his chest, and he shouted: "You! You're
    the bastard from the Politico channel!" He took a few more steps
    forward, studying the face to make sure. "Aren't you!?"
         "Yes," Dodd admitted, his voice a slurred monotone.
         Enraged, Saul lunged at the man.
         Dodd, startled, took a few steps backward and stumbled,
    feeling weightless for a moment, then landing in a sitting
    position just on the other side of the crest. The gun jarred,
    jumping in his hands, the butt end kicking him in the ribs.
         Saul saw a white flash, and something shoved his head back.
         It seemed he was spinning in mid air, and he felt furious. Am
    I falling to the ceiling again? he thought, but the Arizona reds
    and greys swirled around him, spinning, and he realized he must
    have been dreaming. He was still falling in the chasm, deeper and
    deeper, and it seemed that he'd been asleep. Saul had been falling
    for a long time. How long ago was it that I let go? he wondered. A
    day? Two days? More? Around him the chasm was growing dark, the
    air thinner. He felt furious at himself for letting go. "I am
    worthless and weak," he said to the chasm. "This solved nothing
    --- it accomplished nothing. I've wasted everything."
         As he spun in mid air, feeling hot and miserable, he felt one
    of his shoes slip off and go tumbling away. The air buffeting his
    bare foot felt soft and cool. Saul tried to see the tumbling shoe
    but everything was a swirl, he was spinning too fast. How long is
    this going to last? he wondered. There must be a bottom. There's
    got to be one.
         I've been falling for weeks, he realized.
         It grew much darker around him. There air felt less hot. His
    bare foot, he noticed, felt nothing at all. It was numb. He tried
    to move it but he couldn't tell if he was successful. He couldn't
    see it; his eyes wouldn't move. He was suddenly afraid, but the
    fear was dim, impotent. He couldn't think with words anymore. All
    he noticed was dim fear, and numbness, and soft wind buffeting his
    ears. He couldn't tell if he was spinning anymore; there were no
    sensations. His vision was speckled with black and yellow dots.
    Behind the dots, the swirling of the chasm walls became dim. He
    couldn't tell if the chasm was out there or not. The blotches of
    black and yellow grew, but dimmed as they grew. He couldn't tell
    if he was still seeing them.
         Saul couldn't tell if there was air around him; he couldn't
    hear anything, he couldn't feel himself breathe. He couldn't tell
    if he was numb anymore. There was no sound. There was no taste in
    his mouth. His only sensation was the faint smell of dust, and
    that seemed to last a long while, until his sense of time was
    gone. Then he couldn't tell if he still smelled the dust of if he
    was the dust --- it was all the same, somehow.

                                     #

         There was a pain in Dodd's ribs as he sat there, blinking in
    shock. It took him several seconds to realize the rifle had gone
    off. The man, Dodd saw, was sliding down the face of the dune,
    riding a river of sand. The top of his head was shattered, a
    bloody mush, and his arms and legs quivered in a sickening way.
    One shoe was off.
         Dodd stared, trembling, then uttered a cry of panic. He'd
    shot someone. He hadn't meant to shoot anyone. He stood up,
    looking down at him, feeling sick. I didn't mean to do it, he
    thought. I'm sorry.
         He dropped the gun and turned and ran, kicking over the
    bottle of bourbon, the bourbon pouring out and sinking into the
    sand.
         Back down in the crew truck, one of the machines had recorded
    Saul's last images.
         The AHL read far up the scale.









                              38. SMALL PRICK



         Even as Dodd ran he knew what was going to happen. His legs
    were weak under him, his feet landing all wrong, his knees feeling
    as if they would give out at every stride. There was a dull
    crashing of liquid inside him; it felt like bile sloshing around.
    His balance vanished and he went slamming into the bushes,
    vomiting as soon as he hit. He vomited long and hard, his head
    throbbing, and when he was finished he felt just as dead as the
    man he'd left back in the dunes.
         Panting, blowing long tendrils of saliva from his mouth, Dodd
    worried about what he was going to do. The police would soon be
    searching for him; they might, in fact, be searching for him now.
    It would be dangerous for him to go back to the train station
    because of the security monitors --- he'd be spotted in seconds,
    he was sure. Going into town would be risky for the same reason.
    But he had to go somewhere, because staying in the park would mean
    getting caught for sure.
         Dodd decided he would go to town. His only chance was to get
    an autocab and leave the area immediately. Pushing himself up, he
    wiped his mouth on his sleeve and took a few deep breaths, tilting
    his head all the way back. The air was cool and damp, and felt
    good on his face. He forced himself to his feet and then slowly,
    cautiously picked his way through the vines and brush toward the
    looming cityscape beyond.
         Once in the open Dodd picked up his pace, walking on a
    sidewalk, eyes alert for a passing cab. Only a few cars passed on
    the street, most of them delivery vehicles, none of them taxis. As
    he entered the city proper he found himself in front of a 24-hour
    auto-serve coffee shop, the cheap kind he hated. He walked
    unsteadily to the entrance, shoving the doors open and stumbling
    inside. There were only a few patrons, and none looked up at his
    entry. Auto-serve machines took notice of him, however, and
    whirred to themselves as they waited for him to seat himself. Dodd
    walked straight to the back, heading toward a pay phone. There was
    a taxi service number on a yellow sticker right on the phone; Dodd
    punched in the number then looked around the room, eyeing the
    machines. They were watching him patiently, ready to serve him.
    Bile was rising again in Dodd's throat; he had to fight to hold it
    down as he requested taxi service and gave the location listed on
    the front of the pay phone. After he was finished he rushed into
    the men's room and vomited into the sink.
         About ten minutes later a robot voice came over the
    restaurant's P.A. system and announced that a cab had arrived.
    Dodd splashed a double-handful of water into his face, gently
    shook his head, then looked up at his dim reflection in the
    unbreakable mirror. His skin had a ghastly grey tint, and stubble
    marred his cheeks and chin. He leaned down and splashed another
    double-handful of cold water into his eyes, then dried himself and
    emerged from the men's room. The first thing he noticed was a
    police drone hovering outside the restaurant, right on the other
    side of the window. Just beyond the entrance, pulled off to the
    curb, sat his autocab.
         The drone bobbed in the air, turning gradually, and drifted
    around to the entrance. It was right in between Dodd and his cab.
    Oh Christ, Dodd thought. Is it coming inside? It appeared so,
    hovering right in front of the door, but then it started drifting
    away. It moved slowly on, heading down the street. Dodd waited,
    breathing hard, wondering if it would come back. The patrons
    watched Dodd curiously as he crept to the entrance and stared out
    the glass doors, his eyes on the drone. Taking a deep breath, he
    pushed the doors open and stepped across the sidewalk to his cab,
    tumbling into it, shoving his moneycard into the slot and punching
    in his code. Then he entered in a destination, his home address,
    and waited as it closed its doors. The autocab sat there with him
    inside. It did not drive off.
         Did it lock me in? he thought. He remembered the locked bank
    out of which Savina somehow escaped. Dodd felt his hope draining
    away as he waited for the vehicle to go. Oh hell, he thought, and
    reached for the door handle. The cab lurched into motion, pulling
    out onto the street and speeding away. Dodd watched it to make
    sure it was heading in the right direction; he thought for a
    moment that it was taking him to jail. That's silly, he realized.
    How would they know who I was? How would they know my moneycard
    number? The police have some limitations, otherwise I wouldn't
    have made it out of the park.
         He sighed, slumping in the seat.
         Limited or not, they had his fingerprints on the gun and the
    bourbon. That would lead them straight to his military record, and
    they would know who he was. Dodd couldn't see any way out of it,
    they would get him.
         Dodd settled down and tried to catch some sleep during the
    trip, but it wouldn't come. Unconsciousness remained cruelly
    aloof. Dodd could only watch the buildings rush past, and see the
    occasional car. He kept expecting a police drone or maybe a manned
    interceptor to stop his cab, but it never happened. He almost
    wished it would. Dodd felt empty, blank; it was so painfully clear
    that he'd lost everything. Sheila was gone, his job was gone, his
    friends were gone. Soon he'd lose his freedom --- he could see no
    plausible way to avoid the police. They would catch up to him
    before the day was through. Then his money and his chance for a
    child would be taken away, his life's savings, his dreams.
         The road swerved back and forth, pushing him from side to
    side in the seat. He didn't resist. Outside, heavily populated
    mountains rolled past. Then the road straightened, dropping down
    into familiar territory. Dodd didn't quite lose consciousness; he
    phased out, staring but not seeing. He snapped out of it when he
    realized he was only a few miles from his apartment building; he
    reached out and jabbed a button, stopping the cab. The police, by
    now, had analyzed his fingerprints. Even if they didn't know who
    he was, they would know soon. It wouldn't be safe at his
    apartment. There was no way around that.
         Dodd took slow, shallow breaths while the cab sat humming,
    waiting on standby. A flashing light reminded him he was being
    charged for this time. He sat there, ignoring it, wondering where
    he should go. What now? What in the hell am I going to do? He sat
    for long minutes, trying to think. Then his breath caught in his
    throat.
         Putting his hands up to his face, he started to cry.
         He knew what to do.
         Dodd reached over with a heavy arm and punched in the new
    destination, doing it from vivid memory. Once done, he curled up
    into a ball on the seat and resumed his crying. The taxi drove on,
    turning and heading away from his apartment. It turned onto a
    major street that took it south, accelerating, and then veered
    southwest.
         There was a lost period of time, time wrapped in haze,
    passing quietly, and then Dodd felt the autocab slow, the humming
    of the engines winding down. The taxi came to a full stop and
    buzzed. Sitting up, Dodd wiped at his red and swollen eyes then
    with the same listless hand removed his moneycard from the slot.
    The taxi politely spit out a receipt for a large sum of money,
    then opened its doors. Dodd stepped out in front of a tall white
    building that seemed to go up into infinity; his eyes followed it
    into the sky until it vanished, and he stood staring, wavering on
    his feet, a headache pounding in his head. The sight, somehow,
    made him feel better --- it appeared to be full of hope, full of
    grand promise, like he could go inside and take an elevator up to
    heaven. He managed a weak grin as he trudged up the stairs,
    thinking of how ironic it was for him to end up here. But it
    seemed, now, that he'd known it all along. He quickened his pace,
    doggedly determined to get this over with. The effort made his
    head swim, made him hear voices . . . it seemed like somebody was
    calling his name, shouting it out loud from a distance. He felt
    woozy, sick; the voice was too real. It sounded familiar. As he
    reached the entrance he could make out sounds of rapid footfalls
    behind him, but once past the entrance the illusion was gone.
    Inside it was silent.
         There was an attendant in a booth, a man Dodd felt he
    instantly liked because he seemed kind and serene. He had a
    handsome face and short, distinguished grey hair; he was dressed
    in a formal white uniform with white gloves. On his breast pocket
    was a tiny gold infinity symbol, like an "8" on its side. The man
    smiled and stepped out of the booth, and in a rich, deep voice
    said, "This way." As he led Dodd down a short hallway to a private
    bedroom, it struck Dodd how noble this man was, how strong.
         "Here you go," he told Dodd solemnly. "Step right in here."
         Dodd walked in and sat down on the bed, tears welling in his
    eyes. I've really given up, he thought.
         "Thank you," he said to the attendant.
         The grey-haired man nodded. "Someone will be with you in a
    moment." He silently closed the door as he left. A half-minute
    later another man, shorter and thinner but identically attired,
    let himself into the room. He was younger, but just as dignified.
    In his hand was a small clip board.
         "Are you absolutely certain that you want to go through with
    this?" he asked Dodd.
         Dodd nodded. "Yes."
         The attendant watched Dodd for a few seconds, then crossed
    the room and picked up a pen from a table. He handed both the pen
    and the small clip board to Dodd, saying, "You'll have to sign
    this, then. After that I'll give you your injection."
         Dodd signed his name with an unsteady hand, then frowned
    briefly at the sloppy signature. The attendant turned away, and
    Dodd laid back into the soft, soft bed, his very last one, with
    the sweet scent of flowers in the air and a quiet, reassuring hum
    from an air duct above his head. The room was comfortably warm,
    the bed relaxing. Dodd found himself thinking of how cozy he felt,
    how much it felt like being safe and secure in a baby crib, with
    mommy and daddy out there to protect him from whatever horrible
    thing that lurked.
         Dodd closed his eyes and listened as the attendant shuffled
    around the room, preparing the needle. He let his eyes remain
    closed; he didn't want to see it coming. A small prick, a last
    tiny pain, then surrender.
         From somewhere there was the sound of a heartbeat, growing
    stronger; Dodd wondered sleepily if it were his own. It was deep,
    an uneven thudding, the tones growing sharper. The sound, he
    realized, was not a heartbeat at all, but some other sound:
    distant, dreamlike, echoing. Footfalls, it sounded like footfalls.
    People running, pounding. Then, Dodd realized, someone was calling
    his name, screaming it out frantically. It was not his
    imagination. He opened his eyes just in time to see the attendant,
    his eyes agleam, lowering a long needle toward his throat. The
    hand that held it was sure and strong, bringing it down in a quick
    jabbing thrust. Dodd yelled out in fear, grabbing at the wrist; he
    caught it and held it back, his arm trembling with the strain.
    "Get the hell away from me!"
         "No," the attendant said. "You're mine."
         The needle quivered centimeters from Dodd's jugular vein.
         "I've changed my mind!" Dodd yelled at him. "Stop!"
         "You signed the papers, you're already dead." The attendant
    grinned in a weird, evil way, and put his whole weight down on the
    needle. Dodd strained, grunting, holding the needle back. He
    jerked his head to one side and let the needle drop. It sank into
    the pillow beside his head, and the poison was injected into the
    mattress. Dodd shoved him away, rolling off the bed and scrambling
    to his feet. He kept a wary eye on the attendant as he made his
    way to the closed door.
         "You can't leave," the attendant told him. "You're already in
    the computer as dead." There was a mad gleam in the man's eyes. He
    picked up a small vial and began refilling the needle.
         Dodd felt for the door handle with his left hand, grasped it,
    and twisted. He pushed it open and backed out into the hallway. He
    ran right into somebody who jumped on him and wrapped arms and
    legs around him, squeezing tightly and kissing him. He was
    startled to see it was Savina.
         The attendant appeared in the doorway with the needle and
    found himself facing Evelyn Sunrunner. "I command the devil out of
    you," she said. The attendant gave off a shriek and fell over
    backwards, writhing for a moment, and then went limp.
         Savina was still hugging Dodd. "What are you doing in here?"
    she said.
         Dodd pointed at the limp attendant. "H-how----?"
         "We saw you outside," Savina was saying. "Why didn't you stop
    when I called you? What happened? We went to your apartment and
    your TV was all smashed and you didn't show up all night!"
         "I . . ."
         Evelyn tugged at his shoulder, gazing at him with her
    powerful eyes. "I think we should leave this place."
         Dodd nodded mutely and the three of them made their way out
    of the building.









                                39. THE END



         Vicky stepped out of the autocab and turned and looked at the
    Kalman villa. She took a deep breath, then started down the
    walkway to the front door. I'm a rat, she thought. I'm happy.
         She walked with slow steps, hearing the wheels of the autocab
    rolling away behind her; she didn't even think to have the cab
    wait for her. She would be staying here, now.
         The front door was unlocked. Vicky walked in, cringing at the
    shrieks; the baby-thing was making a terrible racket. It filled
    the entire house, reverberating off the walls. "Mirro?" Vicky
    called, somewhat timidly. The baby shouted. She walked through the
    entrance hall and stopped, feeling unsure. She had no idea whether
    Mirro knew yet or not. Vicky's friends at Telcron said they had
    tried to get a hold of Mirro but couldn't get through. Vicky
    figured that the police must have broken the news to Mirro, and
    Mirro was just too upset to answer the phone.
         Vicky had been picturing the scene in her mind over and over
    again during the autocab ride. Mirro would be crying, utterly
    destroyed; perhaps curled up in a corner somewhere and half out of
    her senses. Then Vicky would come softly into the room, speak
    Mirro's name --- Mirro would look up, startled. Vicky would open
    her arms, tears in her own eyes, and say Mirro's name again. Mirro
    would cry out in relief and rush to her, sobbing, grabbing her
    desperately. Vicky would rock her, gently cooing, holding on
    tight.
         She felt that she should be sorry that Saul was dead, but it
    was hard. She wasn't sad at all. Some maniac with a gun had
    extracted utter vengeance for her. Now Mirro was all her's. It
    didn't make up for the loss of her son, but it helped. Also, with
    Saul gone, she could probably get her job back at Telcron.
         Vicky called out Mirro's name again. Hearing her, the
    baby-thing screamed with renewed energy. Vicky paused outside the
    thing's door, grimacing. How could Mirro stand it? Vicky peeked
    inside, saw the baby staring right at her. She quickly withdrew
    and closed the door. Fear had shown in the baby's eyes. Terror.
    The screams became deafening.
         Again Vicky thought, Where is Mirro?
         "Hello?" she said loudly, trying to be heard above the
    screaming. "Mirro?" She wandered down the hall toward the master
    bedroom, peering into each room she passed. Finally at the bedroom
    door she paused; aside from the shrieking, there was another
    noise, a familiar noise . . . a low whirring sound. It was one of
    Mirro's love tools. This struck Vicky as very odd. With the baby
    crying like this? she thought. No. Something was not right.
         In the bedroom she found the love tool, the "Two-headed
    Snake," writhing on the carpet beside the bed. Mirro was curled up
    on the bed in a fetal position, half her clothes undone. There was
    an expression of pain on her face.
         "Mirro?" Vicky said, her voice unsure. She touched Mirro, and
    Mirro's skin was cold. Ice cold. "Mirro!" she screamed.
         In the background, the baby's cries seemed to echo her.
         Vicky called an ambulance and the police. The police, much to
    her dismay, said they couldn't make it out --- they were all tied
    up with several major riots. The ambulance arrived quickly,
    however, but there was nothing they could do besides take the body
    away. The paramedics gave Vicky a strong dose of anti-depressant
    before they left with Mirro; the drug brought her back from
    hysteria, made it possible to think. The baby-thing, she realized,
    was still crying.
         Vicky walked back into the house after watching the ambulance
    leave and went to the baby's room. Hesitantly, she entered. The
    baby screamed.
         "Shut up!" she shouted back, then burst into tears. Mirro was
    gone, she thought. All gone. First her son, her darling boy, and
    now the person she loved more than anyone else in her life. But
    her grief ebbed away after a few seconds, insulated away in a
    corner by the anti-depressant in her bloodstream. She ended up
    staring emptily at the baby, watching it cry.
         This is part Mirro, she thought.
         Vicky pressed her hands to her face, rubbed her red eyes.
    Mirro, she remembered, would stroke the child. But it must be
    hungry by now, stroking it wouldn't help. It had to be fed.
         Vicky wandered around in a haze, preparing food for the thing
    and then nerving herself up to feed it. The anti-depressant made
    the world seem colorless, made hard surfaces feel soft. The image
    of Mirro lying curled up on the bed faded behind the image of the
    monster before her, taking food from a spoon. After a while it
    calmed down, grew quiet. Vicky stroked its hair until it fell
    asleep, and she found herself thinking it wasn't such a monster
    after all. Just a great big baby.

                                     #

         There was an imposter on JTV. He was dressed hastily in
    Jesus-like clothes and had obviously fake hair, and really didn't
    look like Jesus at all. "Children, do not destroy!" he was saying,
    and he didn't sound like Jesus, either. In fact, he looked and
    sounded like one of the JTV newscasters made up to look like
    Jesus. "Children, do not destroy. This is not the way of God.
    Violence is not the answer." On Toby's television system this
    imposter looked like a parody of the Lord. The halo was struggling
    to keep up with his head, looking very much like a cheap video
    effect. "Do not destroy," the imposter said again, pleading. There
    was no one at Toby's house to hear him; the house was empty.
    Nobody had been there to see the "real" Jesus being yanked off the
    TV only to be replaced by this desperate fake. "Violence is not
    the answer! Children, listen to me . . . God hath given you a free
    marketplace where you can overcome evil by not subscribing to it.
    You must assert a strong, silent denial. Children, listen to me
    . . ."
         Toby was among the crowd at the local satellite receiving
    station that served the neighborhood cable video company. Around
    him the crowd surged back and forth, pressing, their voices raised
    in outrage. His wife was lost among it, having been separated from
    him within moments of their arrival. Toby was not worried; God, he
    knew, would look out for her. Meanwhile he helped another of his
    brothers over the steel fence, and watched as the man was shot
    down by a stun gun before he could reach the satellite dish.
         Toby fumed, shouting, "You'll burn in hell for that!" He
    tossed a rock at the officer with the weapon, his voice having
    been lost among the thousands.
         "You are being fooled," Jesus had said. "The church is the
    people, not the leaders, not the television. The church is a
    relationship between you and the Lord. It is a holy relationship,
    holy in its simplicity and holy in its truth. But this
    relationship has been fouled by a nest of demons that control this
    very television network. This network and all the others, they are
    out to fool you, to bring you to them, not to me." His halo had
    burned brightly, dazzling Toby. "Listen to the truth, then," He
    said, and proceeded to tell it.
         "The devil's work must be crushed!" Toby yelled. Christ's
    truth had carried such power, such emotional impact that it sent
    Toby and his wife --- along with a multitude of brothers and
    sisters --- storming out of their homes and churches in fierce,
    righteous fury. Enemies of the Lord? There will be no enemies of
    the Lord! The nests of Satan would burn!
         Police drones were bobbing overhead, their mechanical voices
    blaring but their words garbled by all the noise. Rocks and bricks
    flew like rain at the satellite dish, jarring it and denting it.
    People screamed as the drones deployed crowd-control nets and
    fired stun-bursts at random. Flaming bottles of alcohol crashed at
    the foundation of the cable company building, setting it afire.
    The noise was incredible.
         Toby felt the power of the Lord within him --- he was being
    Spoken to! His turn now, it told him. It was his turn. With a yell
    Toby began climbing the fence, his brothers and sisters helping
    him over. He dropped among unconscious Christians --- they were
    heaped high on the ground, some of them bleeding, some suffocating
    at the bottom of the piles. Toby ran forward without noticing;
    more brothers and sisters were leaping over the fence behind him.
    Stun guns lashed out, striking around him. Diving down, Toby
    landed beside a brother who had been carrying an old axe; Toby
    took it, pausing a moment for one last prayer, then got up and
    ran, heading for the antenna. He saw a police officer aiming at
    him and knew he was about to go down, so he threw the axe with all
    this strength and then caught the stun blast full in the chest. It
    knocked him into a coma. The axe bounced off the satellite dish,
    rocking it wildly but nothing more.
         Back at Toby's house the picture of the bogus Jesus faded
    from the screen for a moment, but soon reassembled. His voice was
    becoming more ragged and hysterical. "Children," he was saying, "I
    didn't mean what I'd said . . ."

                                     #

         Bob Recent coughed, then groaned out loud. He found he could
    barely move. When he opened his eyes he saw dust motes swimming in
    a bright shaft of sunlight. He was lying at an odd angle on the
    couch, every muscle in his body stiff and sore. The screen in
    front of him showed video snow; a grating hiss was issuing forth
    from the speakers.
         "Shit," he mumbled groggily, then groaned again. He sat up
    painfully, then looked over at his wife who lay cold and stiff on
    the couch beside him. "Honey," he said, shaking her. She didn't
    respond.
         Bob tried to stand up, but found he was much too weak. He was
    starving and thirsty, and it felt as though he'd soiled his pants
    again. He looked over at his wife once more; she had not moved.
    "Honey? Honey?"
         He sighed. She wouldn't answer. Geeze, he thought, I've got
    to get something to eat. This is ridiculous.
         With great effort Bob managed to pull himself to his feet. He
    teetered for a moment, feeling dizzy and seeing spots. He took a
    step toward the kitchen, paused to steady himself, then took
    another. The screen behind him blinked, the speakers making a
    strange noise: fffFFOP! He turned around in time to catch a brief
    glimpse of the Travels sphere before it was replaced by more video
    snow. Again Bob glanced at his wife. She still had not moved. She
    didn't seem to be breathing.
         "Denise?"
         No response. No movement. Her skin was a very unhealthy
    color.
         "Denise?"
         He took a step toward her, but fell to the floor and lost
    consciousness. Next thing he knew there was a wonderful, rich
    music surrounding him. The white ceiling above danced with
    reflected colors. Something was wrong, he knew. Something was
    terribly wrong. He felt so weak. Grunting and panting with the
    effort, he pulled himself to where he could see the television
    screen. The Travels sphere was bouncing lightly through a meadow,
    surrounded by wild flowers; Bob drew a breath and sighed, smiling,
    feeling himself following along. So pure, so peaceful.
         It led him a long way.









                             40. SECOND COMING



         The wind was blowing hard, yanking the trees back and forth,
    their branches whipping and leaves rustling. The late afternoon
    sunlight shone down pale yellow, filtering through the smoke in
    the sky. Savina clung to his right arm with both hers, rocking
    back and forth. She was crying over the news of Greg; she had not
    known until Dodd had told her. He felt bad, now, thinking that
    maybe he should have kept it to himself. No, he thought, that
    wouldn't be right. He was the father of her child.
         Dodd watched the fires burning in the distance, feeling a
    quiet excitement deep inside him. The world was ending as he knew
    it. This time he was welcoming the change.
         They were sitting on a balcony on one of the bigger buildings
    of the enclave, facing west. The rest of the enclave wasn't in
    sight. It was just them and the fields and the trees. Savina was
    holding herself against him in a intimate position; it was either
    a childish lack of self consciousness or sexually possessive,
    depending on what was going on in Savina's mind. Dodd didn't know
    for sure, but he was getting the idea it was the latter. He wasn't
    sure how he felt about that. A lot of his internal voices were
    telling him how wrong it would be, and yet another, more
    enlightened voice was telling him, "Hey, this is a whole new
    world."
         Echoes of shouting and a commotion reached them, and Savina
    untangled her arms and legs from him and they went to go see what
    was going on. There was a crowd of men, women and children in the
    courtyard cheering two men who had come stumbling in on foot,
    their clothes torn and faces smeared with dirt. Savina gave off a
    shout of excitement and rushed to meet them. Dodd had never seen
    them before, and wondered who they were. It turned out their names
    were Wiley and Aaron, and they'd just come back from some kind of
    mission. The mission, apparently, was successful, but Dodd was
    having a problem understanding what it was all about. Then there
    was the mention of Danny Marauder, who Dodd did know, and all the
    faces turned grim and worried.
         The one named Wiley approached Dodd. "Dodd Corely!" he said.
    "A man who speaks his mind!" They shook, and Dodd got a tingle of
    pride that his effort and humiliation on the stupid Politico
    channel had not been entirely in vain. "Savina talks a lot about
    you," he told Dodd. "You're a lucky guy. I'm glad you came out and
    joined us."
         Dodd was at a loss of words. "Uh . . . thanks," he stammered.
         Wiley clasped him on the shoulder and then went to greet
    another friend.
         As the sun sat the wind calmed down, and bonfires were
    started in the courtyard. It seemed some sort of celebration was
    starting. I'm not up to this, Dodd thought. He was still going on
    hardly any sleep, and he was still suffering from the 80 proof
    bourbon. He smelled something cooking, though, and that got his
    tortured stomach growling. They were putting large wild turkeys on
    spits over the bonfires. That's going to take a while to cook
    without microwaves, Dodd thought unhappily. He found Savina, and
    told her he was going to go take a nap until it was time to eat.
    She kissed him warmly and said she'd join him.
         "No, Savina, that's okay. You stay with your friends."
         "I'd rather stay with you."
         Dodd looked into her eyes. It was very inviting, but he just
    couldn't do it. He shook his head. "Really, I don't feel well."
         Now her eyes were filled with concern. She led him to her
    room and put him in her nice soft bed, then kissed him again and
    promised she would wake him up in time to eat. She left and he
    felt terribly, terribly guilty. I'm kissing Toby's daughter, he
    thought.
         Dodd half-slept for a few hours, then awoke to another
    commotion. He sat up and saw a woman standing in his room.
    "Savina," he said. He had a raging headache. "Savina?"
         The woman sat on his bed, and reached out and touched him.
    "You've got a headache, don't you?"
         "Yes," Dodd said. It was Evelyn Sunrunner. "How did you
    know?"
         "You look like you have one," she said. "Here." She massaged
    his head for a few seconds, and the headache was gone. In fact,
    his whole hangover was gone. He felt so good so suddenly that it
    startled him.
         "You feel like you have no right to feel good," she said.
         "Yeah."
         "Tell me why."
         "I killed a man today," Dodd said. The words had leaped
    unbidden from his mouth, again startling him. "I didn't mean to do
    it, it was an accident."
         "I know. I forgive you."
         Dodd stared at her, feeling the emptiness in his chest where
    the guilt had so recently been. It was gone. He was forgiven. Dodd
    was starting to get nervous around this woman.
         "You're alright," she said, smiling at him. "Your friend
    Danny is outside, maybe you should come greet him. He'll be happy
    that you're here."
         "Danny Marauder?"
         "Yes."
         Dodd stood up, and walked with her out to the courtyard. It
    was Danny's turn to be held over everyone's head and spun around
    amid cheers. "Hey," he yelled, "Dodd! What are you doing out
    here?"
         Dodd shrugged. "It seemed to be the place to be," he called
    back.
         "What happened to your life in the city? Who's garage am I
    going to sleep in now?"
         "You'll have to find someone else's."
         Danny laughed.
         Savina slipped up beside Dodd, putting herself under his arm.
    He looked down at her, smiling, and for the first time noticed the
    bulge of her stomach. It was noticeable in the firelight.
         "Are you ready to eat?" she asked.
         Dodd nodded. "Yes, I'm starving."
         Arm-in-arm they went off to supper.

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

                                  [Image]