💾 Archived View for gemini.spam.works › mirrors › textfiles › magazines › INTERTEXT › ITv2n2.etx captured on 2022-06-12 at 12:58:56.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-
--
** *******
* * * *
* *
* ** * ******* ***** **** * ***** ** ** *******
* ** * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * *** **** * *** * *
* * ** * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * **** * * * **** * * *
==========================================
InterText Vol. 2, No. 2 / March-April 1992
==========================================
Contents
FirstText ........................................Jason Snell
FirstText .......................................Geoff Duncan
Short Fiction
Frog Boy_......................................Robert Hurvitz_
Cannibals Shrink Elvis' Head_......................Phil Nolte_
The Naming Game_...........................Tarl Roger Kudrick_
Boy_..........................................Ridley McIntyre_
Serial
The Unified Murder Theorem (2 of 4)_................Jeff Zias_
....................................................................
Editor Assistant Editor
Jason Snell Geoff Duncan
jsnell@etext.org gaduncan@halcyon.com
....................................................................
Assistant Editor Send subscription requests, story
Phil Nolte submissions, and correspondence
nolte@idui1.BITNET to intertext@etext.org
....................................................................
InterText Vol. 2, No. 2. InterText (ISSN 1071-7676) is published
electronically on a bi-monthly basis. Reproduction of this
magazine is permitted as long as the magazine is not sold
(either by itself or as part of a collection) and the entire
text of the issue remains intact. Copyright 1992, 1994 Jason
Snell. Individual stories Copyright 1992 by their original
authors.
....................................................................
FirstText by Jason Snell
===========================
It's hard to believe that it's been a year.
I remember when I first discovered that Jim McCabe's _Athene_
would be ceasing publication, and I remember thinking to myself:
hey, there's something I wouldn't mind doing. An electronic
magazine. Why not?
And here we are, one year and six issues later.
The magazine has grown and changed over the past year, with the
amount of text per issue growing by leaps and bounds. We've got
more subscribers now, though the official number has been
hovering slightly over 1,000 for quite some time now.
One of the stories in this issue, "Cannibals Shrink Elvis' Head"
by Phil Nolte, has quite a history behind it. It is one of the
"lost" stories of _Athene_, a story slated for appearance in the
final issue of that magazine (my own "Peoplesurfing" was
another) that never appeared. I've had the story sitting around
for quite some time. The catch is, I didn't know who wrote it.
Now -- this may seem unrelated, but trust me -- about a month
ago I participated in a strange meeting that has only really
become possible with the advent of computer communications: I
met, face-to- face, one of my assistant editors and
contributors, a man whose stories I've been reading for four
years. His name is Phil Nolte, and he works at the University of
Idaho. As you may or may not know, Idaho is famous for its
potatoes, so much so that their license plates have the phrase
"Famous Potatoes" stamped right on them.
Here's the catch: the University of Idaho has a special potato
testing farm (or something like that -- all I know about
potatoes is that you're supposed to poke holes in them before
you stick them in the microwave oven) in Oceanside, a town just
a few miles north of San Diego. And Phil Nolte was going there
for an 'Open House.'
I met him at a restaurant about a 10 minute walk from the UCSD
campus, and we talked for a few hours over lunch before he
headed for the airport and, eventually, back home.
I've done things like this before: my first girlfriend was
someone I met on a computer bulletin board I ran in high school
(see my story "Sharp and Silver Beings," in the Dec. 1990 issue
of _Quanta_, for details), and since then I've met a few other
bulletin board or computer network folk face-to-face. It's even
a strange experience to talk to them on the phone, as I did with
Dan Appelquist a few months back.
I digress. At any rate, it was fun actually _talking_ to Phil,
about writing, computer communication, and all sorts of other
stuff. And at one point, as we were discussing Jim McCabe and
_Athene_, I mentioned a story I had called something like
"Aliens Stole Elvis' Brain."
"Why, that's 'Cannibals Shrink Elvis' Head!'," he told me. "I
wrote that!"
So it was. I had never bothered to ask Phil in e-mail, but over
lunch we finally overcame a year-long communication barrier.
The moral of this story? Maybe that while computer communication
is an incredible thing, it also can foster a lot of
misunderstandings. (So, of course, can live human communication
-- it's just that the misunderstandings fostered by computer
communication are of a different type.)
In addition to Phil Nolte's store, this issue brings us a few
other fine short stories and the continuation of Jeff Zias'
"Unified Murder Theorem." Jeff informs me that a few readers
have mailed him, asking to be sent the rest of the story so they
can know what happens before the conclusion (which should appear
in mid-June... we're only halfway through now.)
I encouraged Jeff to make the readers wait. First off, waiting
will make the cliffhangers much more interesting, and we are
providing synopses to refresh your memory of the previous
installment. In addition, the version of the story that appears
in InterText will be somewhat different than the version Mr.
Zias has at home. Geoff Duncan and I have been jointly handling
the editing of "Unified Murder Theorem," and if we haven't been
completely lax in our duties, what you see here will be the
"preferred form" of "Unified Murder Theorem."
Before I go, I'd like to thank Mel Marcelo for providing us with
the special "First Anniversary" cover art (sorry to those ASCII
subscribers who can't see it).
I'd also like to mention that ASCII subscribers should hopefully
have an easier time reading the stories with this issue --
italicized words in the PostScript version are indicated by
_these_ in the ASCII version.
Finally, I'd like to thank Geoff Duncan -- an act which is
becoming a habit of mine -- for contributing a column of his own
for this special issue. It's well worth reading, I can assure
you. (As a sidelight, while I've met Phil Nolte and spoken with
Dan Appelquist, Geoff and I have never even spoken. His hometown
of Reno, Nevada is only a couple of hours from my hometown
(Sonora, California), so I'm hoping I'll get to meet him
sometime in the future.)
Enough of me, already.
Until next time, I wish you all well.
FirstText by Geoff Duncan
============================
Recently, I had the opportunity to have lunch with one of the
people who got me started in computing. I'd been the wide-eyed
first- year undergraduate who had barely touched a computer;
he'd been the intimidating electroculture veteran, mentor to
everyone who was anyone on the machines. He'd lived during a
local "golden age" of electronic fiction, when there had been a
virtual writer's community on the campus mainframes. Now he was
a computing professional wearing a suit and passing out business
cards, while I still worked on campus and hadn't cut my hair.
Funny how times change and people change with them.
Over cafeteria food we reminisced about computer gurus,
primitive graphics, and the old days of e-mail serials. It was
time well-spent, a validation of our pasts and the things that
had been important to us. I discovered his interests include
avant-garde gothic rock; he was amused to learn I was an
assistant editor for a network-based fiction magazine. "Don't
you ever grow up?" he asked between sips of coffee. "Electronic
fiction is dead, if it ever lived in the first place."
Mildly offended, I pressed him on the issue. It's not dead, I
explained. It's doing better now than ever before. "That's not
the point," he said. "Electronic fiction will probably continue
to grow for some time. But it's crippled by its medium.
Computing is based on information, and information is measured
by volume, not by content. You only offer content. You'll
eventually run out of stories, then writers, then readers." He
sat back and crushed the paper cup. "It's just a matter of
time."
I laughed in his face. We'll see who's right in the end, bucko.
We spent a few minutes exchanging e-mail addresses and then
parted amicably. I went back to my office and my usual routine;
he went back to Brooklyn and a high-rise office tower. And that
was the end of it.
Except what he'd said kept bothering me. Is electronic fiction
doomed from the start? Is its very media -- information
technology -- going to be its demise?
It's obvious that electronic fiction wouldn't exist without
information technology. What's not so obvious is that
information technology supports the _amount_ of information
available without regard to the meaning of that information.
Technology lets us store, organize, and retrieve more material
than ever before. But what is it that we're storing, organizing,
and retrieving?
"Signal-to-noise ratio" is a term used to describe exactly this
dynamic. In a nutshell, "signal" is the content you want to
receive and "noise" is any other information that comes along
with it. The term actually predates computers: on a telephone
system, noise was literally "noise" -- hissing and crackling.
But the idea still applies: the lower the ratio of signal to
noise becomes, the less worthwhile it is for you to pay
attention to the information as a whole. It hurts your ears.
The signal-to-noise ratio of information technology today (and
of large computer networks in particular) is generally low. This
has a lot to do with the diversity of information available --
not everyone is interested in a constant feed of Star Trek
trivia. But it also has to do with the way in which people _use_
information technology. From the point of view of any particular
person, most users don't generate much _signal_, but they do
generate a fair bit of noise. Most electronic information is
addressed to a narrow audience or is related to the use of the
media itself. Very little of the available material is intended
for a wide audience.
I realized that this is what my friend was trying to tell me
about electronic fiction. The people producing the signal are
vastly outweighed by all the people producing the noise. My
friend doesn't believe that projects such as _Quanta_ and
InterText can be heard for long above the din of the mob. And
even if these projects survive, how many people will try to
distinguish them from the tumult? It's easier to ignore it all.
Well, maybe my friend is right. There is evidence. To my
knowledge, none of the network magazines have much of a catalog
on hand, perhaps with the exception of _DargonZine_. I've seen
most network-magazines print outright pleas for submissions.
Maybe there's already a lack of _signal_ in electronic fiction.
And perhaps I shouldn't say this, but editorial support is also
a problem. At most, a small group of people produces each
publication; the departure of one person can seriously affect a
magazine. _Athene_ shut down because of the time commitment
involved. Furthermore, network access is not guaranteed. A
graduation or a career change can stop a publication overnight.
So coupled with a weak signal, we may have a weak transmitter.
Maybe we _are_ a match in the dark, merely putting off the
inevitable.
But looking back, I still think my friend doesn't quite know
what he's talking about. Electronic fiction has come a long way
since its indeterminate inception. Beginning with Orny Liscomb's
_FSFnet_, we've seen a very long-running shared universe in
_DargonZine_, the on-line magazine _The Runic Robot_, the
irrepressible "PULP", and a new set of far-reaching magazines --
_Athene_, _Quanta_, and (of course) InterText. And that doesn't
take into account commercial services and local electronic
institutions: published novels have made their first appearances
on networks such as GEnie, and e-mail serials continue like
clockwork. New publications are emerging such as Rita Rouvalis'
_CORE_. I used to be able to count the editorship of electronic
fiction on one hand; now I scarcely know where to start.
Cooperation between publications is astounding. InterText's page
of ads is one example; a more significant one is the
comprehensive access site recently created at the Electronic
Frontier Foundation. Looking through that site, I am impressed
by what a few hyperactive, impulsive editor-types have managed
to coax out of the on-line community. I'm a little bit proud to
be part of it.
All this may add up to a little more _noise_, but it also
creates a much stronger _signal_. "Real" publications (and with
them "real" authors) are taking notice. Subscriptions aren't
flagging. There has to be fuel for the fire, and for now things
are getting brighter.
The funny part is that my friend sent me some e-mail the other
day. "That magazine thing you mentioned," he wrote. "Sign me up.
And it'd better be good, or I'll give you a swift kick in the
disk packs." Maybe my friend shouldn't try to be an electronic
comedian, but he only verified what I knew all along: _content_
is what counts. Or none of us would be involved.
Frog Boy by Robert Hurvitz
=============================
Johnny Feldspar woke up one February morning feeling slightly
different. He couldn't put his finger on exactly what it was,
but it bothered him nonetheless. He got out of bed, walked over
to his aquarium, and pulled out his pet frog, Jumper.
"And how are you feeling today?" Johnny asked his frog, gingerly
stroking the cool, damp skin.
"Ribbit," said Jumper noncommittally.
Johnny held the frog up to his face. "You look kinda hungry.
I'll stop by the pet store after school and get some food for
you. Okay?"
"Ribbit," Jumper repeated.
Johnny put his frog back in its little home, locked the lid, got
dressed, and went downstairs for breakfast. His mother was
pouring milk into a bowl of cereal when Johnny sat down at the
kitchen table. She placed the cereal bowl and a spoon in front
of him.
"And how are we feeling today, Johnny?" she asked.
He took a mouthful of cereal and said between chews, "I feel
kinda funny, Mom--"
"Don't speak with your mouth full," his mother said. "It's
impolite." She reached over and tousled his hair. "How many
times have I told you that?"
Johnny grinned sheepishly and swallowed. "Sorry, Mom."
"That's okay. Now what were you going to say?"
"I feel kinda funny."
"Are you sick?" She sat down next to him and put her hand on his
forehead. "You're not running a temperature." She looked at her
watch and scowled. "Damn. I've got an important meeting at nine,
so I don't have time to take you to a doctor..." She drummed her
fingers on the formica table-top.
"I'm not sick, Mom. I just feel kinda funny." He frowned. "I'm
not sick."
Johnny's mother crossed her arms and looked at him. Then she
smiled. "I know what it is," she said. "You're just nervous
because it's Valentine's Day and you're afraid you won't get any
valentines, right?"
Johnny looked at his hands. _Valentine's Day._ The words came
crashing down on his ears like panes of glass, shattering. How
could he have forgotten? He'd spent the last three nights
churning out valentines for all the girls in his class, as per
his mother's stern instructions. If it had been up to him, in
everybody's Valentine's Day mailbox, which they had all made out
of cardboard the previous week as an art lesson, he would have
put frogs.
_Frogs..._
Palm up, fingers stretching out to infinity, Johnny's right hand
had slowly gained his complete attention. He clenched his hand
into a fist, turned it over, and squinted.
"Johnny?" his mother asked, concerned.
He looked up, blinked. "Uh, yeah, Mom. That's probably it." He
smiled weakly. "I guess I just must be nervous."
"Hey, snot-face!"
Johnny stopped in mid-chew, turned his hand inward to protect
the peanut butter and jelly sandwich he held.
"That's right. I'm talking to you, snot-face. Or should I say
lover-boy?"
Johnny turned around and stared at Fat Matt.
"I saw you stuffing all those mushy love cards into the girls'
boxes." Fat Matt laughed, the small rolls of fat bunching up
about his face. His beady eyes glanced down at Johnny's lunch,
in which several pieces of heart-shaped candy bearing messages
such as "Will U B Mine?" and "I Luv U" were strewn. "I see you
also got your own share of valentines, didn't you, lover-boy?
You know, I didn't get any valentines, or valentine candy."
Johnny felt his face flush. He knew what was going to happen.
"It seems to me, lover-boy, that, since you got so many candies
and I didn't get any, that it would only be fair if you shared
some of yours with me." He moved forward and grabbed up the
candies.
"Thanks, snot-face," Fat Matt said with a laugh. "Oh, that
doesn't leave you with any candy, does it?" He picked out a
heart from his sweaty grasp and licked it. "Well, here you go,
snot-face," Fat Matt said, dropping it into Johnny's pint of
milk.
At that moment, Rebecca Moyet, the prettiest girl in school, and
Quinn, her little brother, walked by. Quinn laughed, pointed at
Johnny, and said, "There you go, snot-face!" He laughed some
more.
Rebecca frowned.
Fat Matt popped a few hearts into his mouth and looked once
again at Johnny's lunch. "Hey, snot-face, what else you got
there?"
Quinn laughed once again, and Rebecca looked down at him
sternly.
Johnny looked around at the crowd that had suddenly gathered
around the four of them. Dozens of eager faces shifted left and
right, vying for a clear view of whatever further ridicule
Johnny might soon suffer. He felt nauseous, and his hand began
to tingle...
A shout erupted from the crowd as Johnny's half-eaten peanut
butter and jelly sandwich fell, hit the pint of milk, knocked it
off the bench and onto the asphalt. The initial spray of milk
spattered the blacktop with white spots; the rest puddled around
the fallen carton.
Johnny's outstretched hand, raised toward Fat Matt, burned with
an increasingly painful pulsing. Sweat ran down, dripped off
Johnny's forehead, his nose, his chin. His lips twitched.
"Frog," he said gutturally, and slouched, exhaling, cooling,
feeling spent.
Johnny hadn't expected there to be any noise; he hadn't expected
anything, really. He certainly hadn't expected, when he looked
up, to see Fat Matt screaming, to see his body spasm violently.
He hadn't expected his hair to shrivel acridly and to come out
in tufts as his hands clawed at his face, his head, his throat.
He hadn't expected his skin to turn green, to bubble, to drip
off in clumps and sizzle away on the asphalt into foul vapor.
The nausea that Johnny had felt only moments earlier gripped his
stomach fiercely. The shriek continued, stabbing progressively
deeper into Johnny's ears.
Fat Matt wobbled, what was left of his legs buckled, and he
collapsed to the ground with a crash of shattering bone. On
impact, a noxious cloud of green and red steam erupted from his
body, obscuring the view.
The vapors made Johnny's eyes water, and he grabbed the bench to
steady himself from vomiting.
The cloud dissipated, and all that remained of Fat Matt was a
pile of stained clothes and, sitting in the middle of them, a
frog.
The crowd gasped, stared in disbelief.
Quinn's laughter sliced through the heavy aura of astonishment.
He pointed down at the newly created amphibian. "Frog!" he cried
out, and laughed harder.
Johnny felt ill. He wiped his forehead, his trembling upper lip.
His skin felt cold.
The frog tried to hop away, but slipped on the slick clothing
and landed on its side, making the rest of the children laugh
loudly. Johnny saw Rebecca try to hide the nervous smile on her
face. The frog stopped, then tried to bury itself under the
clothes.
Quinn rushed forward and grabbed the frog. "Gotcha!" he said,
hefting it.
"Hey! Put it down!" Johnny said. "Can't you see it's scared?"
The frog squirmed in Quinn's grip.
"Put it down?" Quinn smiled wickedly. "Okay. I'll put it down."
He lifted the frog above his head and then, with the help from a
little jump, he hurled it to the ground. It hit the asphalt with
a wet splat and lay there awkwardly, legs twitching slightly.
Quinn laughed. "Want me to scare it some more?"
"No!" Johnny cried, as Quinn swung his arms and launched himself
into the air, feet held together to ensure that his landing
would strike true. At the last moment, though, just before
Johnny was about to cover his eyes, Quinn jerked his feet apart
and ended up barely straddling the injured frog.
The crowd let out a sigh.
Glancing around, Quinn laughed, lifted up his right leg, and
forcefully brought it down on the frog.
The crowd let out a sound of disgust, and Johnny jumped to his
feet, enraged.
Quinn stepped away from the dead frog and looked down at his
blood-stained Reeboks. He frowned and poked his shoes into Fat
Matt's soiled clothes, in an attempt to wipe them clean.
Hatred coursed through Johnny's veins. "Quinn! You... You..."
The air seemed to thicken, grow hot and humid, as he struggled
to express his anger. "You..." Each breath he took became more
difficult than the one before. He strenuously dragged each
mouthful of air down into his lungs, only to have it slip
through his throat and rush back out into the world. And all the
while he stared at the grinning Quinn, who was now busy
entertaining the crowd with theatrical attempts at cleaning his
shoes.
Johnny's vision blurred, the air coagulating into a sickly grey
soup, as if the day were hazardously smoggy or he were looking
through a grimy pane of glass. He squinted and saw Quinn kick
the dead frog toward the crowd, which immediately widened with
shrieks of amusement.
Johnny violently snapped his arm forward, his elbow joint
popping, and pointed at Quinn. One word, dripping acid, burned
through his lips: "Frog."
Quinn jerked his head around, a surprised look on his face, and
looked at Johnny before he screamed. His small body shuddered
with convulsions as the hideous transformation began.
The crowd, frightened and confused, screamed in macabre
accompaniment to Quinn.
"That's my brother!" Rebecca yelled, running up to Johnny. Her
face was flushed, violent. Tears were forming around her widened
eyes. "That's my brother!" She slapped him across the face.
"That's my brother!" She kicked him in the leg. "Make it stop!
Make it stop!" As she raised her hand to strike again, chorused
with screams from Quinn, the crowd, and herself, Johnny pointed
at her and said meekly, "Frog."
In horror, Johnny watched Rebecca's face contort monstrously as
she shrieked and as her hair, crackling, shrivelled and burst
into dark, acrid smoke.
Johnny reeled back, tripped over the bench, and tumbled to the
ground. He stared up at Rebecca, who was still screaming, though
Quinn had by then stopped, and saw her skin begin to dissolve.
The crowd swarmed into his view, rushing up from behind Rebecca
and from the sides, surrounding him. Every face was twisted with
desperate fear, every pair of eyes burned wildly, and every hand
was clenched into a fist.
The sudden closeness of the bodies of all his schoolmates made
the air so stifling that Johnny was not able to breathe. He
raised his hand in an attempt to defend himself, but could not
utter a single sound.
Robert Hurvitz (hurvitz@cory.berkeley.edu)
---------------------------------------------
Robert Hurvitz will finally be graduating from UC Berkeley in
May, despite all attempts on his part to avoid the real world
for as long as possible. He assume he'll have to get a job or
something.
Cannibals Shrink Elvis' Head by Phil Nolte
=============================================
It started out as a joke. I mean, we were just going to have a
little fun. You know, do something weird. That, and we thought
we had them cold this time.
"Them" is the folks that publish those idiotic tabloid
newspapers. Every now and then someone will bring one of them in
to work. You know the ones, they're right beside the checkout
counter in the grocery store. That's right, the ones with
headlines like "Vampire Mummies Repel Space Alien Invasion" or
"Tammy Faye's New Miracle Diet." The stories are always about
odd things that were supposed to've happened. Trouble is, they
always happen in foreign countries or in little towns that you
never heard of like Slapshot, Wyoming or something. Not this
time. This time they'd made a mistake; they'd picked a real
town.
It was Raymond who pointed it out. "Hey guys, look at this!
There's two brothers in Absaraka, North Dakota who have a space
alien ship in their barn!"
I replied to that with something very intelligent; something
like: "Huh? Bullshit!"
"I'm not kidding," he said. "Here, read it yourself."
"Bachelor Brothers' Barn Houses Space Alien Ship," I read aloud.
"Trygve and Einar Carstenson found the strange craft in an
abandoned field near their farm. 'We could barely lift it on to
our trailer with the endloader,' says Einar. Well-known
Yugoslavian experts say it probably came from Rigel." I could
barely keep from laughing as I read it. "Shit!" I said.
"Absaraka? That's only 30 miles from here."
It was Neil who had the next thought. "Let's drive out there and
see if that farm even exists. What the hell, we could grab a
twelve- pack to make the trip go a little faster. It won't take
an hour both ways. Come on guys, what d'ya say?" Neil could be
very persuasive.
"Yeah, let's do it!" We might have been a chorus. It was kind of
a slow day anyway. We left Knutsen to mind the store. He didn't
like it much, but it was his turn.
Fifteen minutes later we were in Neil's Caravan out on
Interstate 94 and we were all on our second beers. ZZ Top was
blaring on the stereo. Draper had brought the newspaper and was
reading it out loud to a very appreciative audience: "Milkman
Bites Dog. Ninety- year-old Woman Gives Birth to Twins. Love
Boat Attacked by 150-Foot Shark." We were all in high spirits
when we took the Wheatland exit.
"Absaraka, five miles," announced Neil.
We went to the post office-grocery store to get directions to
the fictitious farm. We were surprised to find out that there
were two Carstenson brothers who had a farm about four miles out
of town. The guy at the post office said they were a couple of
bachelors and that they were kind of weird. I didn't say
anything but I thought the whole town was kind of strange.
Five minutes later we pulled up to the mailbox at the end of a
long winding farm road. "Trygve & Einar Carstenson," it read.
You couldn't see the buildings from the road, there were too
many trees and too much brush.
"Well, we've come this far," said Neil. "Let's go."
The road was nearly half a mile long. When we got to the farm,
we found a ramshackle three-room house and some dilapidated farm
buildings. In one corner of the yard was a rust-red Studebaker
pickup truck. It was a nineteen forty-something, I wasn't sure.
It looked like junk, with a cracked windshield and one staring
headlamp.
Draper was the youngest so we made him go to the door. He
knocked a couple of times but there was no answer. We were about
to call it a day when the old geezers surprised us all by coming
up on us from behind the machine shed.
"What the hell do you sumbitches want?" said one of them. I
guessed it was Einar.
Old, grizzled, and Norwegian they were, and not in the least bit
friendly.
"We came to see the spaceship," I managed to squeak out.
Trygve was holding a double-barreled shotgun!
"Yew ain't from some Gad-damned lib-ral newspaper are ye?" said
Trygve.
"No, we're from Fargo!" said Raymond. Brilliant, Raymond,
brilliant!
"There ain't no Gad-damned spaceship here and git to hell off
our property!"
So much for country hospitality! We took his advice and "got to
hell out of there!"
We had finished our twelve-pack and were in need of another. We
were also getting hungry, so we stopped in Casselton for a bite.
Half an hour later, we were leaving the restaurant. It was
Draper who noticed them first.
"Well I'll be go-to-hell!" he said. "Look at this, you guys."
Rattling and smoking down the main street of the little town
came an apparition. An honest-to-god, rust-colored,
forty-something Studebaker pickup truck. In it were two other
apparitions. Or fossils, if you prefer. Sure enough it was old
Trygve and Einar (which was which?), come to town. The
ever-devious Neil was the first to grasp the significance of the
event.
"Wonder who's at the farm?" he mused.
"Shit, probably nobody!" said Raymond.
"What say we go back and have a look around?" said Neil.
I don't know if any one of us really wanted to but no one wanted
to be accused of not having any nerve either. I guess I was the
most cautious. "Christ!" I said. "That old son-of-a-bitch had a
shotgun!"
"Well he can't hardy hit you from Casselton, can he?" Neil
replied. That ended the argument. Neil's good at saying the
right thing to end an argument. He's brave, too. When we got
back to the Carstenson farm he showed his courage by offering to
stay in the car with the motor running while the rest of us did
the snooping. It was Raymond and I who found the ship! No shit!
Believe it or not, Ripley! It was in one of the old buildings
that had a big door on one end.
"Jesus, would you look at that!" said Raymond, his voice rising
with excitement. "That thing is gorgeous!"
No doubt about it, it was beautiful. Long and slender and
smooth, it was sleekly aerodynamic and obviously intended for
use in atmosphere. It was much smaller than I would have
expected -- it must have been some kind of scout ship. It simply
couldn't have come all the way from Rigel. It was only about
forty feet long and made of some kind of totally unfamiliar
metal or plastic. It was sky-blue and shiny. Raymond and I
looked at fun-house reflections of ourselves in the side of it.
Raymond made a funny face. I slapped his shoulder.
"Cut that out!" I said. "This is an alien spacecraft! It should
be treated with dignity! Jesus, can't you ever be serious?"
The little craft was beautiful, but it showed the after-effects
of one hellacious impact. One of the "wings" was bent and torn
and the nose and bottom were covered with dirt, like it had
landed in a swamp or something. There was an obvious hatch on
one side. From the way the mud was caked on the seams of it, it
had not been opened. The way the little ship was damaged we had
to assume that its occupant(s) were dead. We were just about to
get a closer look when we heard the horn of the Caravan honk and
Draper screaming at the top of his lungs. We high-tailed it for
the van.
Trygve and Einar had come back from town. Hell hath no fury like
a pissed-off Norwegian farmer! Fortunately, all they had was
that old Studebaker truck and we had a head start. Neil has a
couple of dents and one broken window on the back of his Caravan
from the shotgun blast, but it could have been worse.
Within a day there was an Air Force barrier thrown up a mile
around the house. No one goes in or out. We don't know what to
make of it. Trygve and Einar must have gone into town to call
them.
One thing that really irks me is that no one thought to bring a
camera. One lousy picture and we all could have been rich and
famous!
Well, we won't be caught napping this time. We're on our way to
Clear Lake, Iowa to visit a Miss Nellie Rawlings, RR 2. It seems
that the large oval rock she was using as a doorstop on her hen
house turned out to be a Tyrannosaurus Rex egg. Hatched into a
hungry little needle-toothed monster. She says it ate a bunch of
chickens and her cat. By God, we're gonna get this one on film!
Phil Nolte (nolte@idui1.BITNET)
----------------------------------
Phil Nolte is an extension professor at the University of Idaho,
in addition to being an assistant editor of InterText.
The Naming Game by Tarl Roger Kudrick
========================================
His mother's name was Sherry.
His father's name was Nathaniel.
His best friend's name was Warren Denaublin. His worst enemy's
name was Emily Pirthrull. Some of his classmates were Susan
Fench, Gordon Quellan, and Irving P. Rinehauser the third.
_His_ name was John Smith, and he was _not_ happy.
He wouldn't have cared so much if his name was at least
_spelled_ differently. Jon Smyth, Jonn Smithe, or something like
that. But it wasn't. It was J as in Joshua, O as in Orville, H
as in Harvey, N as in Norman, S as in Samuelson, M as in
Mitchell, I as in Idall, T as in Terniard, H as in Hutchington
-- John Smith. His older sister (Josephine) had an English
teacher (Mrs. Starnell) who talked about the Everyman. John
thought that John Smith was the perfect name for an Everyman,
but he was only eleven, so he couldn't even qualify for that.
There had to be at least a _million_ John Smiths in the world.
Didn't his parents _realize_ that? What was wrong with them?
What could they have been thinking when they'd named him?
His mother would have talked first. She always did. "Oh
Nathaniel dear, look, it's our new baby. What'll we name him?"
"Oh Sherry darling, how about 'John Smith?' "
"Why 'John Smith?' "
"It's the most boring name I can think of."
That just about summed it up, John figured. Then his dad
would've gone on about something else, probably football. John
hated football. All the players had their names proudly
displayed across their backs, so everyone could see how great
they were. Once, he _had_ seen a player with the last name
Smith, and felt some hope. Then it turned out the man's first
name was Ebineezer and John lost all faith in the world.
If only there was a famous president, or rock star, or something
named John Smith. Or a movie star. Anything. Of course, those
people would never _call_ themselves John Smith, even if that
was their real name. Those people never used their real names.
They made something up. And that's what gave him the idea:
He would get his name changed. Officially. Right now, right on
this bright Sunday morning, before he even got dressed. Why put
it off? He felt better already.
The hard part, of course, would be convincing his parents.
Nathaniel Smith was sitting in his armchair in the living room,
reading the newspaper, completely ignorant of the storm of self-
confidence and assurance that was about to come flying out of
its room, demanding to have its name changed. Thus, he regarded
the request with considerable surprise.
"You want to what?"
"Dad," John repeated, "I want to change my name." It had far
less effect than he'd hoped for, especially the second time.
"You want," John's already washed, shaved, combed, groomed, and
perfectly dressed father slowly said while staring blankly over
the rims of his shiny glasses, "to change your name."
John, unwashed, uncombed, and still in his pajamas, said "Um...
yeah."
John felt the moment slipping away from him.
Seeing no real response from his father, he used what he'd been
saving as a last resort.
"Movie stars do it!"
"You aren't a movie star."
Leave it to parents to be logical when their only son in going
through the ultimate crisis of his life, John thought. "You
don't understand. I _have_ to."
"Why? Are you hiding from the police?"
"No!" Why did parents have to _say_ stupid things like that? "I
just have to, that's all."
"Oh," said his father, turning and looking at the wall. John
looked there too, but didn't see anything. And apparently,
neither did his father. After a couple moments he turned back to
John and asked "Why?"
"It's _boring_," he answered. He spread his arms out in a
gesture of emphasis that was completely lost on his father.
"There are millions of people called John Smith."
"Name one."
John stopped for a minute, thought, then realized he'd been
tricked. "Daaad! You aren't taking me _seriously_!"
His father chuckled. "Okay. Look, have you talked to your mom
about this?"
John reluctantly admitted that he hadn't. But, he added, she was
next.
"Well, why don't you see what she thinks, and then talk to me."
"But she's at _church_! She won't be home for a long time!"
"She's always back by lunch time. You can make it that long." He
ruffled John's hair. John slumped his shoulders and went back to
his room.
"And stand up straight," his father called after him.
John got caught up in other things and forgot about the whole
problem until after dinner. Then, his mother was shopping. She
always shopped after dinner. It never made sense to John, but
then, nothing his parents did made sense. He _had_ to talk to
her as soon as she got back! School started tomorrow, and there
was no way he was going to start fifth grade as John Smith.
When he heard the sound of his mother's car coming into the
driveway, he ran out of his room to let her into the house. He
threw open the door just as his mother was about to unlock it.
"Hi Mom!" he shouted, scaring the unprepared Sherry Smith almost
to the point of dropping her groceries.
"Hi John! Hey, you scared me there." She wondered why he was
opening the door for her. She figured he wanted something, and
tested this by asking him to bring in the rest of the groceries.
"Sure, Mom!" He ran out and made four trips from the house to
the car and back without a complaint.
Even when that was finished, though, John still hadn't asked for
anything, and Sherry began wondering instead what John had done.
Finally, she came out and asked him if he wanted anything.
John beamed, then became ultra-serious. "I'd like to change my
name," he said.
Inwardly, Sherry Smith groaned. Josephine had gone through
several different stages of "but Mom, I just _have_ to (fill in
the blank)," and was working on another one. She'd hoped John
wouldn't fall prey to it too. But, the best way to handle these
fads, she'd long ago decided, was to just play along.
So she asked him what he wanted to be called.
John opened his mouth, then closed it again. He had no idea what
he wanted to be called.
"Larry," he finally said, proudly.
"Larry," she repeated, as if trying on a new hat. "Sounds like
my name! Why Larry?"
John didn't know, so he said, "It sounds good."
"Larry," she mused. "Larry Smith."
John almost had a heart attack. "No! Not Larry _Smith_! Larry...
Quartz! Larry Quartz."
His mother looked dubious, but John loved it. "Yeah. Larry
Quartz. It's great. It's _exactly_ right." Seeing no complaint
from his mother, he went back to his room, smiling. He could
hardly wait until tomorrow.
The next morning, after washing and dressing, John came out to
eat breakfast. His mother was making pancakes. No one else was
in the room yet.
His mother greeted him with a smile. "Good morning, John."
He almost responded, but then remembered and said "Who?"
His mother sighed. "Right. Who are you again?"
"Larry," he said slowly. "Larry Quartz." He sat down at the
table.
His father came in from the living room. "Hi John." Both wife
and son quickly corrected him. He looked at them, confused, but
then just shrugged.
His older sister was next. She bounded into the room, her silky
and wet black hair flopping behind her like a confused flag. She
sat down at the table and, much to John's dismay, ignored him
completely. He wanted to get her to call him John too.
So, he started humming quietly underneath his breath, and
playing with his fork, hoping Josephine would tell him to stop.
She did give him an odd look, and he paused and returned a false
smile, but nothing else happened. He went back to his humming.
Pouring some pancake batter into a pan, John's mother said "Jo,
we have a new member of the family this morning."
John stopped humming. What was she doing?
Josephine studied her mother. She looked around the table. "I
don't get it," she said finally.
Sherry put the batter down and waved an arm at John. "Meet Larry
Quartz."
Josephine stared at John, who paled slightly. "Whaaattt?" Her
voice rose in disbelief.
John sat still, wondering how to turn this to his advantage.
"He changed his name?" Josephine drawled. Then she started
laughing. "He changed his _name_?"
She turned to John. "What's wrong with the name they gave you?"
"Now Josephine," John's father began.
"It's Jo, Dad, not Josephine," she reminded him.
"What's wrong with the name they gave you?" John mimicked.
She glared at him. "John!"
"Who?"
"All right!" John's mother announced. "The first pancake is
ready."
"Well, why don't we let John have it?" suggested Josephine
sweetly.
"Who?" John replied innocently.
"Well, if _he's_ not around, I guess I'd better have it!" She
took the pancake.
Not taking any chances, John quickly added that he wanted the
next one.
All in all, breakfast turned out pretty good for John. His
mother called him John once, his father accidentally called him
Harry, and his sister, for sake of argument, called him John
every time. It was great. He just _knew_ that he was going to
have a wonderful day.
He didn't, of course, know about the new girl in his class.
Her name, and the month she was born in, was June. She had the
nicest hair and the sweetest smile, and she had just the right
mixture of shyness and audacity to get anything she wanted from
anyone. She was a knockout, or as much of a knockout as a fifth-
grader could be, and this was certainly the impression held by
the male population of the class.
In fact, no one dared sit near her. The boys didn't, because
they didn't want to do something stupid. And the other girls
didn't quite trust her. June, and the seat next to her, were
left alone.
So when John walked in, just barely before the bell as always,
the only available seat was the one next to her, and all eyes
were on him as he sat in it.
With no formal training at all, John performed a perfect double-
take, and the result was a spontaneous burst of giggles as John
found himself trying not to stare at June as rudely as he was.
Then the bell rang and the teacher walked in, and everyone
turned to the blackboard.
The teacher was new. He walked in front of his desk and said
"Hello, class!" His voice was deep and clear. "As you may have
noticed, I'm new here. But I've taught fifth grade before, so
I'm very good at it. I hope that you will all think the same
after you get to know me. But first," he said, placing a pile of
notebooks he'd been carrying onto his desk, "I would like to get
to know _you_. My name is Mr. Carniss." He wrote it on the
chalkboard with precise handwriting and opened up one of his
notebooks. "Now I have here a list of names, but I don't know
whom each one belongs to. So I'm just going to read off each
name and if that's you, just raise your hand. How does that
sound?"
Sounds terrible, thought John. This name-changing business was
going to be harder than he'd figured.
What were his friends going to say? He glanced around. Sure
enough, they were all there. About two-thirds of the room knew
him, or at least his name. He vaguely remembered being laughed
at only a couple of minutes ago and he didn't want to go through
that again.
Then he thought of June. He didn't know her name was June, of
course, but whoever she was, she didn't look like she'd think
much of a John Smith. He found himself staring at her again, and
looked away. Why did he even care what some dumb girl thought,
anyway? He wasn't sure, but he did.
Mr. Carniss began.
"Sue-Ann Aldring?"
A girl in the last row raised her hand as if it were going to
explode if moved too quickly. Mr. Carniss looked up, smiled a
smile that melted Sue-Ann, and made a mark in his book.
"Michael Bern?"
And so it went. Name after name was called. Denaublin, Ewing,
Garth...
"June Golden?"
June raised her hand as far as it would go. John felt sick. June
Golden, he marvelled. What a name. She'd _never_ have to change
it. If I had a name like that, thought John, I wouldn't change
it for a million dollars. Not for ten million. I wouldn't even
change it if my parents threatened to kill me. I wouldn't...
John stopped thinking and sank into his chair. He felt like he'd
just been hit with a sledgehammer. That was it. The answer. That
was how he could get away with this and not be the laughingstock
of the fifth grade.
Excited, he smiled, and could barely restrain himself until,
eleven names later, Mr. Carniss said
"John Smith?"
John raised his hand, slowly, faking uncertainty. He hoped he
looked like he wasn't sure he was doing the right thing.
Mr. Carniss looked up at John and made a mark in his notebook.
Then he looked back at John. "Is something wrong, John?" he
asked.
John couldn't tell if it was real concern, or just the usual
kind teachers had for their kids. "Um...yeah," he said finally.
"Kind of. That's...that's not my name anymore."
Mr. Carniss looked surprised. So did the other kids. John kept a
perfectly straight face, but mentally crossed his fingers as he
said, "My parents changed it."
Next to him, June Golden's eyes went wide with pity. On the
other side of him, his best friend Warren almost fell off his
chair.
Mr. Carniss was disoriented. For the first time, he seemed
unprepared. But he quickly regained his composure and said, "I
see. And what is your name now?"
Here we go, John thought.
"Larry Quartz."
Warren gave him a look which translated as "You've got to be
kidding." Some of the other students were looking at each other
in awkward disbelief. June seemed slightly bothered at the idea,
and turned away from John just as he looked over to see her
reaction. But none of this fazed Mr. Carniss, who had once again
taken control.
"Well," he replied cheerfully, "what would you like me to call
you? John or Larry?"
John looked at him, sinking. Why did he have to be so nice? But
it was too late to back out now.
"I guess you'd better call me Larry, Mr. Carniss. I should get
used to it."
"You should get new parents," whispered Warren, but Mr. Carniss
simply nodded and made some more marks in his book. He finished
off his list of names and then class started.
The day went badly for John. Things hadn't gone at all like he'd
hoped. When he thought about it, he wasn't even sure what kind
of reaction he'd been looking for, but he did know he hadn't
gotten it.
As it turned out, Mr. Carniss was only his homeroom teacher.
That meant he had to repeat his story and his act for five more
teachers throughout the day. By the afternoon he no longer
wanted to, but he kept having people he knew in some of his
classes, and the story had spread through the entire fifth grade
by lunch hour. John heard people talking about him from time to
time, but he could never quite hear what they were saying.
By the end of the day, the misery he'd feigned for his first
class was real. No one wanted to talk to him. No one knew what
to say. A brand new student would have been treated better. John
had forgotten how many friends he'd really had, until none of
them seemed comfortable around him anymore. It was like he'd
died and some new kid had come along, trying to take his place.
It isn't fair, John wanted to shout. I'm still the same person!
I'm just called something different!
After his last class, he collected his books and went to the
bike rack where he traditionally waited for Warren. He unhitched
his bike and, after a couple minutes, Warren arrived.
Warren smiled, started to say "Hi John," and then remembered and
mumbled "oh yeah."
"It isn't _that_ bad, is it?" John asked.
Warren stared at him. "You mean you _like_ it?"
"Don't you?"
Warren started to say something, but stopped. "It's okay," he
said. "But I like John better."
John looked at his bicycle. "Maybe I can get them to change it
back, or something," he said. He didn't like the idea.
Warren did. His spirits lifted immediately. "You think you
could?"
John was slightly taken back at the force of Warren's question.
"Well, I don't know. They haven't actually made the change yet,
but they said..."
"Well don't _let_ them!" Warren shouted. "Shit! Tell them not
to! I'll help! Want me to come over? I'll stand up for you!"
"No! No--that's okay." John wanted to change the subject. "I'll
tell them. I won't let them. I...I like being John Smith." But
he wondered who he was trying to convince, Warren or himself.
He rode Warren home, and then went on to his house, deep in
thought. He still thought John Smith was a boring name, but
nobody seemed to mind. Maybe the name actually helped somehow.
"John Smith? Yeah, his name's boring, but _he's_ cool..."
He got back home and put his bike away. When he walked inside,
his mother smiled at him. "Hi Larry! How'd school go?"
"Who?" John asked.
Tarl Roger Kudrick (auelv@acvax.inre.asu.edu)
------------------------------------------------
Tarl Roger Kudrick has been making up stories since he could
talk and writing them since he was twelve. He's written numerous
short stories and first drafts of two novels, one of which is
on-line at Oberlin College (owrite@ocvaxa.cc.oberlin.edu). His
major goal in life is to earn a Ph.D. in psychology. He stays
sane through both being weird and running AD&D sessions.
Boy by Ridley McIntyre
=========================
1. Start Switch
-----------------
Shitamachi. The Manhattan Outzone. The Year of the Rat.
Darkness and rain pervade the quiet streets of the Outzone.
Here, the Federal Government in its infinite wisdom has cut off
all electricity, and left the running of the place to its
inhabitants. In Shitamachi, the Asahi Tag Team run everything.
The DJ in Snakestrike is a tiger-haired poserboy with his brain
connected to the turbo sound system at the end of a large dance
floor, two thin blue wires dangling from the tiny electrodes
stuck to his forehead. He is engrossed in the world of the
music, every digitized blip and beep and thump pulsing through
his nerves like the very blood in his veins. Electrical signals
interfacing the sound system to his nervous system to allow him
complete control over the mix. The ersatz sensory stimulation
that runs through the 'trodes overrides his own natural senses.
Every three minutes he switches to life to take a request.
The dance floor swarms with a thousand Shitamachi teenagers,
sticking their heads into the blue lasers and flashing
fluorescent gloves under the ultra-violet strobes. Every wall of
the club writhes with holographic snake scales, a reptilian
world that's constantly moving.
There's a hole above the dance floor where people from the level
above can watch the dancers. Up here, on the left at the
cocktail bar, Snakestrike stinks of dancer sweat. It also reeks
of business. And for once, Dex has nothing to do with it.
Two women serve the cocktail bar. One dark-haired with natural
beauty, the other a made-up half-Japanese blonde doll who is
well known as an Asahi Tag Teamster. They call themselves
sisters when a drunken Japanese Sony slave plays being a suit to
them, despite his slave's company-grey jumpsuit. Dex watches
them all with interest, then calls the dark-haired girl over to
order his third Vijayanta tequila slammer.
Dex is here to see Laughing Simon, the Asahi Tag Team's best
technojack, but he's been stood up again. So, he sits by the bar
with his face cupped in his hand and a pocketful of stimulant
wetware in his black pilot's jacket. He is just thinking of
leaving when he feels a tap on his shoulder from the billy on
the grey stool next to him: a muscular Australian kid with
sideburns, a blue denim jacket, a quiff and a ginger moustache.
"So what do you do?" asks the billy.
"Why, are you collecting taxes?" Dex answers. His voice is
English. The dark-haired girl returning with a plastic tumbler
wonders if there are any Americans left in Manhattan. She turns
the glass three times and fizzes it with a bang on the bar and
Dex calmly downs it.
"You look like a ghost to me," says the Australian.
Dex shakes his head the way he's supposed to when they ask him
these questions. All the time thinking, does it show that much?
"Sorry, matey. Just your average ho-hum chipster."
The billy shuffles closer, his voice slipping gently into a
business tone. "Shame. I'm looking at some hot paydata and I
really need a ghost. One of the best. Someone like the Camden
Town Boy. Dexter Eastman."
"You've found Dexter Eastman, matey. But I gave up the ghost
over a year ago."
The billy makes a swift move from his jacket and Dex can feel a
cold plastic tube dig into his hip. The Australian raises his
eyebrows. "Looks like I've found my man, then." He motions to
the exit with his head. "We're walking."
"You're walking. I'm here for a drink."
The Australian squints in Dex's face. "You'd better move, cause
if you don't it's gonna be a Kodak moment."
Dex sits still. "Go ahead. Shoot me. You won't get out alive.
The decision, as they say, is yours." A flick of Dex's eyes
motions the Australian to look at the dark-haired bargirl. She
holds the HK assault shotgun usually kept under the bar.
Casually, and with a feisty smile, she rests the barrel on the
bone of the Australian's nose and crunches the first round into
the chamber.
"If you're takin' anyone out at my bar, it won't be with a
plastic pistol, matey," she says curtly. "Give me the piece and
deal with the man friendly-like."
The Australian gives over the gun with a taut look from Dex to
the bargirl and back. He wipes sweat from his moustache.
Dex gives a thankful look to the bargirl. "Respect to you," he
says.
"S'okay," she replies, "If he didn't look so dumb, I'd shoot him
anyway." She puts the guns behind the counter, out of reach, and
goes back to the Japanese slave.
Dex turns to the Australian. "You've got two minutes. Deal or
step."
The billy talks through clenched teeth. Being challenged down in
a club full of strangers by a girl who looked about seventeen
has raised a storm inside his pride. It is a storm that has to
subside just this once.
"My name's Priest. I'm a dealer for Kreskin."
"Kreskin the rigger?"
"The very same. Kreskin says you two used to work together. You
used to do overnight laundry for him with the World Bank."
"That was a year ago."
"Yeah, well he's coming up against some tough opposition from
the Martial Government Air Force along the North Route and he
needs you to run the Ether for him. Hack into the MGAF shell and
find out the reconnaissance flight plans for next week. Rabies
just broke out again in the Seattle Metroplex and Kreskin has
the contract to ship vaccine over the line. He says you did it
before for him. He says you'll do it again."
Dex narrows his eyes. "Read my profile. Ex-hackerjack."
Priest smiles. "Kreskin said you'd be a little reluctant. I have
read your profile. Ex-hackerjack. Ex-MGAF pilot. Ex-joker.
You've done a lot in your time. Kreskin needs someone he can
trust. Someone he knows. And of course if you refuse..." Priest
takes a cold gyuza dumpling from a bowl on the bar and bites
half of it.
"Kreskin publicly announces my whereabouts to the MGAF."
"I think he had something even worse in mind, but you're on the
right track. Strictly business, you understand, Dex. Nothing
personal.
Somehow Dex wishes it was personal. Then he'd have an excuse to
smash Priest's face in.
Kitty slips into Dex's room and hands him steaming ration coffee
in a polystyrene cup. She's like him, another smart young
refugee from the authorities. The Manhattan Outzone is an
excellent place to hide, but she wasn't born to this, and no one
could hide forever.
She looks at Dex through superchromed Sony eyes as he drinks his
coffee, sitting on his black leather swivel chair and fidgeting,
and she realizes that she knows very little about him. He grew
up in a shanty town in the Thames Midland Metroplex and found a
way out through running the Ether; the Camden Town Boy. He was a
hackerjack legend by the age of fourteen, teaching others like
Dagger and Man Friday to run the Ether. At fifteen he was
involved with a team rivalry squabble and left for North Am
District, where he joined the Martial Government Air Force,
flying missions against the nomad joker clans who smuggled
anything from weapons to computer parts from one Metroplex to
another, figuring that the MGAF's high security would make him
harder to track down.
She heard that he turned joker after he had to shoot down his
own wingman to save a busload of joker kids from being rocketed.
So he joined the nomads as a pilot running recon missions and
every once in a while he would launder joker clan money through
the Ether.
Kreskin got him a new identity and he left the game for the
Manhattan Outzone, where he moved in with Kitty and the Asahi
Tag Team and became a chipster. Once, he told her that his main
ambition was to live a normal life. Buy himself a piece of
Happyville. The biggest problem he had was dropping his past.
Kitty only has to see the look on his face to know that the past
is on its way back.
Dex downs the coffee and crushes the cup inside a sinewy hand.
"You don't think I should do this, do you?"
Kitty stands with her back to the wall by the door to the
kitchen, her arms neatly folded over her _Omni_ T-shirt. She
bites her bottom lip.
"No," she says to him. She kicks herself off the wall and leaves
the room, closing the door behind her.
Dex is alone in a grimy-grey room with a swivel chair, a desk
and a foam mattress to sleep on. Something inside him claws his
stomach. An empty feeling.
A hunger.
He takes the machinery out of its bubble-plastic wrapping. It's
been in storage in a tea chest in Kitty's room for so long that
the wrapping sticks to the molded form of the Sony electronics,
making the job more difficult. The sense 'trodes, like sticky
silver beads with microthin wires, are wrapped around the
Etherdeck. A procured military item in cold matte black,
designated Ares IV.
The Ares IV has a stream of wires that plug into the input port
of his stolen, unlicensed Fednet computer. Built in Poland, its
bright red plastic casing and molded keyboard with old chunky
keys seems tasteless to all but the billy tribe. Dex is no
billy, he's too dragon, but he likes things in strange colors.
The whole setup that has been updated for high-speed bias by
Laughing Simon is plugged into the socket that runs a tap into
the groundline. He sticks the trodes to his forehead and
switches on all the equipment. "On" telltales glisten in the
darkness of his room. The screen on the Fednet computer displays
a prompt. Everything's ready except Dex.
He sits cross-legged in front of the setup and hesitates. The
hunger inside his guts claws him again, and he nearly buckles
with tension. With his left hand, he fingers the keyboard of the
Fednet computer, preparing himself for sensory takeover.
With the other poised over the Ares IV, he touches the Start
switch.
2. Ether
----------
Just as Dex had taught the Dagger and Man Friday, so a girl
called Kayjay introduced him to the Ether on a cold London night
in a Sony-owned flat in the Camden Secure Zone. He was twelve
years old and Kayjay was a small, thin- boned, pretty little
Bangladeshi girl with nothing better to do than follow the
latest fads.
She had spent most of the day playing with her father's
electronic toys. His Sony computer... black and sleek and
totally unlike the low-tech kit-boxes that Dex had seen in the
shanty town. His wallscreen color TV that was constantly tuned
into Disney 7 (The Children's Channel), showing the latest
adventures of baby-faced anthropomorphic soldiers in space
jungles, fighting the evil insectoids with their nuclear
battlesuits, and Dex and Kayjay acted them out in the living
room, firing remote control units at each other (Dex was always
Mark and Kayjay was always Sukhi), and Kayjay won. When they
raided the wardrobe for fancy costumes, Kayjay came across the
thin non-descript box that she had seen her father use. It was
densely heavy and as big as a Federal Government daily ration
box.
He remembers her words now as she tried to explain the concepts
to this bright, but uneducated, boy, lying on the thick carpet
floor of her bedroom. She tapped the ridge on her black leather
swivel chair.
"See this chair?" she said. Twelve-year-old Dexter Eastman
nodded softly. "This chair doesn't really exist. It's just an
amassment of atomic particles. But the way the light reflects
from them, and the way our eyes see that light, leads our brains
to come to the conclusion that this pack of particles is a
chair. Without a way of translating the fact to us, it doesn't
really exist. Without sight it has no color. Without touch it
has no texture. Without taste it's not organic. Without sound it
doesn't squeak when you turn it. Without smell it isn't leather.
A person without senses has no world. It just doesn't exist,
there's no way of translating it to them."
Kayjay moved around the room like some eccentric Disney 9
(Education Channel) science instructor and ended up grinning,
pointing to her red telephone.
"Ever listened to the sound a modem makes when you send it down
a phone line?" She made a weird screeching sound and an equally
appalling face and Dex gave a little giggle.
"Data. Raw data. A computer talking to another computer. Not to
us, because it doesn't speak our language, but that's by-the-by.
The fact is that data has a sound. And if it has a sound, it has
a smell. And a taste, and a texture and you must be able to see
it. It exists. Only normally, there's no way to translate it to
us."
She edged over to Dex and kissed him softly, ran thin brown
fingers through his spiky black hair. "Somedays I go there... to
this other world. Father calls it the Ether. Like ethereal, I
suppose. But it's more like a checkboard than anything else. You
want to go? I'll get Father to bring home another set of trodes.
After that, we'll do it together..."
The processor is an empty blue cathedral. Code embodies him as
the virus runs its course. There is a soft dent in the defense
shell and Fednet's watchdog program lays in wait. Dex knows
this, though, and avoids the obvious weakness in favor of the
silent meltdown.
Another key is tapped and a silver thread streams from the
melting roof where Dex has lived all this time toward the
bounty. The defenses have been breached, the virus has become
part of the defense program, shaping itself to the contours and
Dex knows his trojan software can work well enough without him,
that he can switch off any time and let a demon do the work for
him. But it seems too easy, and something must be wrong.
He stays with it, observing... watching the trojan open and
close files with lightning speed, knowing it's true target, but
running a trick that it really is a routine file check. As soon
as it finds the file, the thread snaps back, and Dex sends a
program to cover its tracks. It doesn't matter. The breaching
virus is old and faulty, and has caused a cancer in the defense
shell that the watchdog can't fail to notice. Dex waits just
long enough for the thread to return before he tries to rescue
the virus which has gone wild. Eventually, before he can tear
the trodes from his forehead, he feels the crushing smash of the
MGAF trace program as it finds his home shell. His senses are
dazed, rocked back and forth and he is pulled like spaghetti as
he sees the trace's toothy smile.
He tears the trodes from his forehead and fights for breath.
Suddenly nauseated, he crawls so fast through the door but
vomits across the kitchen floor before he can reach the sink.
Passing out, he can sense the far off rank smell of stagnant
water and the cruel touch of a rough cloth. The stern tones of
Kitty's voice echoing through his head...
Snakestrike. The pretty, dark-haired girl brings his drink over
to him, loosely covered with a small cloth. She draws him closer
to her. Her voice is an urgent whisper. "Your name's Dex, isn't
it?"
Dex nods.
"Man in that booth behind you was asking for you not two minutes
ago. He said he was an old friend. I told him you weren't here.
He said he'd wait. If you're in trouble, matey, call for another
drink. I'll bring the shotgun. Escort him out for you."
Dex sits back. She circles the tumbler three times and bangs it
on the bar, turning the drink into wet foam. Dex lets her take
away the cloth before downing it.
"What's your name?"
"Jess," she says.
"Enough respect to you, Jess." He taps the bar and takes a
breath before pushing himself off the stool and looking for this
Mister Dangerous. He spots him immediately, and knows his name
is Turk.
"What are you doing here, Turk?"
Turk has his arms spread along the back of the seat, a dumb,
superior grin on his Dixie City fat face. He wears a blue flight
suit, wing commanders tapes on the epaulettes. He even has his
own row of medals, including a purple heart that he must have
got when Dex shot down his own wingman.
"Thought ah'd find you heah, Eastman," he drawls drunkenly. "Ah
was gonna ask you that question mahself. How the hell can you
live in this dump, anyways? What do the Sammies call it?
Shitter-what?"
"Shitamachi. It's Japanese for downtown. Look, cut the gomi,
Turk, just tell me what you want."
Turk laughs raucously and chews gum, bobbing his head. "Jeez,
Eastman. You been heah so long, you'se even spoutin' like a
Sammie. Bah the way, your friend Priest is dead. Ah did him
mahself. But not before I managed to spill your deal outta him.
So gimme the file you copied and we'll be friends again."
"We were never friends. What makes you think I've got it with
me?"
Turk leans forward and takes a sip from his beer, then returns
to his reclining position, absent-mindedly tapping his fingers
against the ultra-suede. "Ah told you, Eastman. Ah know the
deal. So gimme the data, 'cause I know you got it."
Dex takes on a wounded, irritated look. He runs his hands
through his spiky black hair and then takes out a black silicate
cube from his jacket pocket and tosses it over to him. Dex is
angry as hell now, but he knows he has to contain it if he wants
to stay alive.
"Sammie for downtown," Turk mutters. "Down is the operative
word, Eastman." He turns his head to the end of the booth, which
backs onto the hole above the dance floor. "CAN'T YOU PLAY SOME
NEIL YOUNG OR SOMETHIN'? ALL THIS SAMMIE NOISE SOUNDS THE SAME
AND HALF OF IT AIN'T GOT NO WORDS!" He comes back and laughs.
"You got insurance, Eastman? Ah'd take some out if Ah were you."
He stands and finishes his beer.
"And don't let those Sammies take you in. Remember Pearl Harbor.
Catch you 'round." Turk slips out of the booth and past the
cocktail bar, shaking his head and laughing to himself when Jess
throws him a dirty look.
Dex and Jess exchange a glance. Somehow the look on her face
tells him exactly what to do.
3. Rehash
-----------
"Nixon. How are you? It's the Camden Town Boy. No, not anymore,
I'm a free man now. In Shitamachi dealing software to the Asahi
Tag Team. Yeah I know... fifty-five points last night, you get a
share? Better luck tonight, eh? Anyway, I've got something you
might like. I did a run for Kreskin last week, MG Air Force
flight plans along the North Route. Yeah, well I asked for 750
marks, but Kreskin dropped his price, said he couldn't go any
higher than 500 marks. Yeah, I know, I should have guessed he'd
take me for a sucker. Anyway, the MGAF are wise to it, so
they've changed their flight plan. Yep. And I've got the new
one, too. I'll let you have it for 600 e-marks, what do you say?
Ace, it's a deal. Transfer the money into a World Bank bin under
the account name of Peter Townshend. Of course I know who Pete
Townshend was, but they're too stupid to figure it out. I'll fax
the details to you. Better send one of your jokers. Pickup point
will be on the fax. Anyway, time is money and you're eating my
phone bill. See you sometime."
Dex has an airbrushed wheel-dial telephone, the color of
turtleshells. Kitty says he has no taste whatsoever. When Dex
reiterates that he likes strange colours, she just shakes her
head.
"Who was that?" asks Kitty. She stands half-in, half-out of the
doorway to the kitchen. There is still a trace of vomit smell in
the air in there after a week.
"Nixon's another Rigger. Officially him and Kreskin are rivals.
So he'll buy it just to have something Kreskin hasn't." He wipes
sleep from his eyes and pulls at itchy hair.
"Think it'll work?" Kitty sips on ration Vijayanta coffee and
makes a face as she burns her tongue.
Dex collapses onto his mattress and sighs, looking out through
his window at the condemned block across East 10th Street. Lines
of age wrinkling the building. The circular port-hole windows,
like a thousand eyes all crying at once.
"It bloody well better work," he finally replies, hoping that
soon, things could get back to normal.
Nixon has his package. Another group of mercenaries known as the
Harlequins are also interested in the information. Something to
do with a hit they have to make on the MGAF.
He meets them at dusk in Tompkins Square, when the day is
hottest, and the shadows are longest. The Harlequin Rigger's
name is Fly, and he is a frail twig of a man who needs a metal
walking stick to stand upright. He is known more for his
abilities as a fence than for running a good merc group.
The boys around him are typical San Angeles Ronin, they are all
six feet two inches and have deep tans, dressed in Twin Soul
Tribe garb (very baggy green jeans and hooded sweaters). Dex has
seen a million like these two muscleboys, and they don't impress
him. Fly informs him that their names are J.D. and Mavik.
"So what's business like now, Dex?" Fly speaks in a dreamy,
whispering tone, a voice much older than he is; looking at him
with eyes that are much wiser than the frail man could ever be.
"To tell the truth, the chipster business could be bottoming out
here. I might need to expand."
"Expansion's always a good thing, Dex. If you're going to think
at all, think big. A real famous businessman said that once...
But I'm damned if I can remember his name."
Fly gives a hoarse laugh and Dex joins in. J.D. and Mavik look
calmly at the decrepit housing blocks that surround the concrete
plaza of Tompkin's Square. Thermographic Sony vision scanning
the windows for possible threats. They don't even have to show
what weapons they carry. They have rewired nerves for inhuman
speed and could probably take out a potential assassin before
the hammer falls on his gun. Stuff like that doesn't come cheap,
though. Most of the Asahi Tag Team who have rewired nerves had
to go as far as the Tokyo Metroplex to find a neurosurgeon good
enough to do it. These boys have it as standard with all the
Martial Government trickery behind it. They probably don't even
know about the glitches in the triggering software that runs the
nervous system, something that Dex had to pay a lot to get
ironed out when he deserted the air force.
"Where's Man Friday? How's he doing these days? I haven't heard
from him in a long time."
Fly pulls a nicotine stick from his black denim jacket and bites
a piece off the end. "He's still trying to find out what
happened in Rio. Did he leave a girl behind there or something?"
Dex nods. "A wife, from what I remember."
"Oh. Well, we think the Feds caught up with her and she's gone
missing. He's organizing an expedition to find her, I think.
We're gonna go in with him. He wishes you were running Ether
again. Says it ain't so much fun with you not around."
"Well, I'm officially retired. Except for this stuff. Good luck,
anyway. If you need any chips for Portuguese, you know where to
find me."
Dex and Fly banter this way for only a few more minutes, as both
of them have other places to go to. Fly eventually gives him
about 400 marks' worth of yen for the data cube.
Kitty watches Dex throughout these events. She can see his life
here burning out slowly. She can see from his blue-eyed,
thousand- yard stare that his feet are getting itchy again.
Track record has proven that he doesn't stay in one place for
too long. Kitty needs him here, or at least with her. The two of
them aren't in love, not exactly, but what they have is more
than a friendship. Some kind of closeness that she can't afford
to live without.
He flicks the stop switch. Sweat pours from his face, stings his
eyes, leaves salt on his pink lips. His black hair is stuck to
his wet head. He gasps for air and finds the atmosphere is too
thin for him in this grimy little room. He pulls the trodes from
his head, rushes to the round port-hole window and wrenches it
open.
Lukewarm air hits his face, cools him down. He sticks his head
out into the night's rain. It rains every night in Manhattan.
Something to do with the high humidity during the day condensing
when the hot sun goes down.
Across East 10th Street, three Asahi Tag Teamsters in their
canary yellow jackets and purple tiger-striped skintight jeans
suck on nicotine sticks and slap with each other about previous
clashes. One of them breaks into a spurt of superhuman martial
arts to demonstrate his actions. Just visible behind the kid's
ear a mini datacube shines from his neural software port.
Chipped for Hapkune- Do, reflexes rewired and boosted by 10
percent, zen flowing from their new Sony eyes. Dex looks at
these kids and sees the future of the world. A future he doesn't
much care for.
He slides back inside and closes the window. Walking over to the
middle of the floor, he looks at the green screen of the
unlicensed Fednet computer and sees the results of this day's
work. Two tickets to Heathrow waiting for him whenever he wants.
One way. His life here is falling to pieces, and it's getting
near the time to skin out. Tiny words glowing green in a dark
room. He looks at that screen and thinks he can see his future.
4. Times Square
-----------------
"Kreskin says he'll met you outside the old Slammer Cyberena at
noon."
"Times Square."
That's where he is now. The north side, across from the entrance
to the Cyberena. He sits in the uncomfortable seat of a
magnesium alloy rickshaw that belongs to a young Irish-American
kid called Bobby, who wears a white BIG PIERROT SAYS WATCH YOUR
BACK T-shirt and a conical straw hat to keep the blazing sun off
him. Kitty's next to him, watching the windows behind the dead
neon signs. She's not happy about this choice of venue at all.
It's out of Shitamachi. Out of the protection of the Asahi Tag
Team. It's the lower end of the Tangerine Tag Team's kill zone
and it's totally open.
Dex figures the poor security of the area will work to the
advantage of everyone, but he knows that Kitty doesn't get
nervous without good reason. So when Kreskin's red rickshaw
arrives and Kitty hands him a HK pistol, he doesn't give it
back. Dex hates guns. He snaps a magazine in and loads a round,
letting the hammer down softly. Before climbing out, he stuffs
the thing down the back of his baggy red jeans.
Kreskin climbs out wearing a cheap business suit, hiding his
eyes behind a pair of Mitsubishi anti-laser glare glasses. He
keeps two of his joker muscleboys close to him, watching the
area while toying playfully with their HK uzi copies. For a
moment it almost looks like Kreskin doesn't recognize Dex as he
strides across the street. But soon he's there and the smile
creeps onto the Russian's chubby face. The huge arms extend and
the two old friends hug each other with subtle reservation.
There's a swift conversation that seems to arrange another
meeting time, and Dex hands over the data cube. Dex is full of
himself as they talk. He's given Kreskin what he wanted, made
enough money for Kreskin to sort him and Kitty out with new ID's
so they can go to London when the heat is on. He has his future
in his hands at last. A chance to create his own destiny.
There's a stifled thump and a cry and a woman's urgent shout
behind him.
"DEX!"
He spins to see the scene, pulls the HK from his jeans.
Bobby lies in a growing pool of blood, his life evaporating
under the heat of the sun. Turk has Kitty by the throat, using
her as human body armor; the cliched hostage position, with a
thick chrome revolver pressed into her temple.
"Hi there, Eastman!" Turk breaks into his dumb grin showing
bright white teeth and a piece of strawberry gum. "Think ah'd
leave heah without takin' you wi' me? Ah think not."
Dex levels the automatic at Turk's head. Behind him, he can feel
the presence of Kreskin and his boys, the sights of HK uzi
copies sending shivers along his neck. Sweat tickles his chin
before dripping off him.
"Let her go, Turk. This is you and me here."
Turk whistles and makes a face. "You been watchin' too much Big
Pierrot, Eastman. Come up wi' an ole cliche like that. You put
away your piece an' maybe, jus' maybe, Ah might let your li'l
lady go."
Dex shakes his head. His guts wrenched with the feeling of
betrayal, like nothing has happened but he's lost everything he
has. "Come on, man. I throw this away and I'm giving you the
edge."
Turk flicks back the hammer on the revolver, Kitty sucks in a
breath. "What edge, fool. Don't try an' pull that mental shit on
me, Eastman. Ah know you ain't gonna shoot me."
"Did it once before, Turk, remember? Nothing can happen without
you dying at the end of it. You run and I'll shoot. You shoot me
and I'll shoot you. You point the gun at me and I'll shoot you.
You kill her and I'll shoot you. They shoot me and I'll shoot
you. No win situation."
Dex cocks an eyebrow at Turk's expression. The smile falling
from the fat Dixie City man's face, turning to a sneer.
"What's up, Turk? Run out of choices? Then call Kreskin's men
off."
Turk licks salt from his lips.
"Better do as he says, man. You won't be quite so good-looking
with a hole in your face." Kitty's mind is racing. She doesn't
have the advantage that these boys have. All of them are
probably rewired. Dex, she knows, definitely has been, she's
seen how fast he can be. Only a 5 percent reflex boost, but it's
enough of an edge against an unmodified man. No, she can't
outrun them, so she has to outthink them. Be faster by
pre-empting them all.
"Shut up, bitch!"
"What's it going to be, Turk, eh?" Dex can feel his wired
nervous system, courtesy of the MGAF, speeding up. An effect
like pins and needles all over the body. A slight vertigo and
then the neural processor that runs it all from the base of his
spine kicks in and the world turns slow-mo.
Frame by frame, a second of violence.
Everyone is surprised because Kitty moves first. Her elbow lifts
up and back to push Turk's arm away and the revolver slips from
his grasp and Kitty is in the air, diving for the cover of the
rickshaw. Turk is a standing target, but Dex doesn't fire,
instead, he jumps at wired speed to the floor and shoots at the
red rickshaw. He empty's half a magazine into Kreskin.
Kreskin's boys are too slow, only now starting to speed up.
Their first bursts of fire are at the place where Dex was, and
find only Turk's fat body at the far side of the street,
catching him in the throat and upper torso. Bullets rip through
his spine and out the other side, pulling Turk with them like
puppet strings.
The tall Dixie City man slaps against a metal shop front and
slides silent to the ground in a bloody, crumpled heap of flesh.
One of Kreskin's boys managed to follow Dex's trajectory, and
when Dex rolls up onto his knees to fire the other half of the
magazine, bullets smash into his right arm and sends him
spinning back to the floor.
Then the boy that shot him has an instant to realize that his
boss is dead before his own head shatters sending blood and
brain matter across the red rickshaw. The last Kreskin boy is
stunned and silent. Kitty stands there with Turk's revolver in
her small hands, trained at his head. The boy drops his HK uzi
copy. Kitty walks over and kicks it away, then kneecaps the boy
to stop him from leaving.
Dex is screaming in agony. He's been shot before, but that was
just a flesh wound. He figures a bone's been hit here and it's
drawing his entire mind to it. By the time Kitty's run over to
help him, he's passed out from the pain.
Dex climbs lazily out of cot and moves to the window. Looking
out, the hot sun is going down on East 10th Street and some
half- Japanese kids are playing soccer with a ball made from
rubber bands. These kids are going to grow up tough, he thinks
to himself. Street Darwinism. But there's no future for them if
they can't think, and Dex knows that being smart can just beat
being tough. He knows, cause it's not him lying in the street in
Times Square waiting for the Tangerine Tag Team to pick him up.
That's Turk, and Turk was tough; but stupid.
"Well, there go your dreams, kiddo." Kitty stands at the door,
the one place in his room where she feels comfortable.
"Not really. Turk said I may need an insurance policy. I'm going
to keep the tickets open for that."
"What about for now?"
He turns around and sees her there. He smiles. His bandaged arm
doesn't hurt much anymore. Not after Kitty pressed about 320
miligrams of endorphin analog into the bloody skin. He's as
happy as a rat in a hole. But the sudden realization in his mind
is that he needs Kitty. And he's never needed anyone before.
Dex shakes his head. "The chipster business is too slow to stay
alive here. I mean..."
"You want to be the Boy again, don't you?" Kitty seems to raise
her whole face, an expression which means to Dex that she knows
the answer already.
"Man Friday said he misses me."
Kitty's expression turns into a rueful grin. She shakes her head
and gives him a knowing look as she edges out the door.
Dexter Eastman looks back out the window, and for the first time
in years, he feels he's found home.
Ridley McIntyre (gdg019@cck.coventry.ac.uk)
---------------------------------------------
The Unified Murder Theorem (2 of 4) by Jeff Zias
===================================================
Synopsis
----------
They killed the guitar player on a Thursday night, as he sat in
the bar, playing his instrument, blue light emanating from
somewhere within. The last words the hit men said before they
shot him were simply: "Goodbye from Nattasi."
JACK CRUGER, an accordion instructor by trade, leads the mundane
life one might expect of someone in his line of work. But all of
that changed the moment that TONY STEFFEN walked in his door.
Tony wasn't like most of his clients: he was tall, blonde, and
strong. As it turns out, Tony doesn't want to learn how to play
the accordion -- he wants to hear Cruger play it. As Cruger
begins to play it for the first time, blue light begins to
emanate from inside of it. According to Tony, the accordion is
special, and will only broadcast the blue light if Cruger plays
it.
Before his next meeting with Tony, Cruger spends hours trying to
make a baby with his beautiful wife CORRINA, following it up
with a bit of time playing the strange new accordion with the
magical blue light. Much to his surprise, he begins to play
songs perfectly -- songs he has never played before.
Tony informs Cruger that the blue strands of light coming out of
the accordion are STRINGS, each representing a path, a possible
outcome. Cruger has been chosen to be a "spinner" of strings by
a special organization. According to Tony, this "Company" is
much more than an international corporation -- its job is to
create and support all worlds, galaxies, and universes. Cruger
laughs at this suggestion, but Tony is serious -- God, or "the
CHAIRMAN," prefers to have living beings "spin" the fates,
rather than just throwing dice. But there's a catch -- there's
another company, one that tends to do the work we would normally
expect the Devil to do. If Cruger spins for the "good guys,"
he'll be given protection in return -- ?other spinners will
ensure that neither he nor his family will be harmed... except
for what is beyond their control, such as intervention from the
Other Company. Cruger has no choice but to accept -- after all,
his acceptance has already been determined by another spinner.
Cruger begins to spin, arousing the suspicion of nobody, except
his next-door neighbor, LEON HARRIS. Harris, a computer
programmer by trade, is a large, strong health-nut -- exactly
what you wouldn't expect from a programmer. He is, however,
extremely nosy. He wonders why the non-descript white accountant
next door was suddenly playing the black music that Leon Harris
grew up with... and he wonders what caused the blue light that
appeared when Cruger played his accordion.
Months pass, and Corrina Cruger finally becomes pregnant for the
first time since her unfortunate miscarriage a few years before.
Jack Cruger continues to play his accordion, knowing that the
Company's "health plan" will also cover his new child. Tony,
occasionally accompanied by a beautiful young woman named SKY,
sometimes visits with Cruger.
Tony tells Cruger that many of the company's executive positions
are still held by aliens, most from the planet named Tvonen. God
-- well, the Chairman -- is a Tvonen. The Tvonen evolved in a
fashion similar to humans, right down to their ancient tale of
creation. The catch is that the Tvonen creation story is
completely true. Tvonens were created as immortal, androgynous
beings -- but then two of them fell from grace, and became
gendered, mortal creatures. To this day, Tvonens must undergo a
change and lose their immortality if they wish to gain a gender.
The Tvonens are now very advanced --?but their technology is
completely analog-based, with no digital electronics at all.
Earth, with its digital technology, is quickly becoming more
technologically adept than the Tvonens. The Tvonens believe that
human thought, with its pursuit of the Grand Unified Theory --?a
theory that could describe every detail of the functioning of
the universe --?would give the Company a giant edge in its
ability to guide the universe.
It is Tony, the teenage surfer, who is in charge of implementing
the Unified Theory into a computer system that will allow the
Company to have such control over the universe. Obviously, such
a prospect is not taken lightly by the Other Company, operated
by renegade Tvonens and shape-shifting aliens known as Chysans.
On his way to Cruger's house on a Saturday morning, Tony hears
the slightest rustle of a sound --?and turns to see something
large, colorful, and horrible. It is on him in an instant,
throwing him hard onto the concrete steps. By the time Cruger
reaches the door, Tony lays face down, a puddle of blood forming
around his limp blonde hair.
Cruger reaches down to feel for a pulse, but he knows the answer
before he even begins to bend over. The realization of Tony's
death hits him; he exhales loudly, "No... my God," and then
sinks to his knees, not knowing what to do.
Cruger then sees the black digital sports watch on Tony's wrist,
chirping its annoying repetitious chirp over and over.
Leon Harris sticks his head out of his front door, sees Cruger
doubled over in front of his young friend, who lays in an
entirely unnatural position, limp-armed and limp-legged. Harris
runs across his lawn to Cruger's front step. He bends down and
checks both Tony's carotid and radials arteries for a pulse, but
finds none.
Cruger reaches down and unstraps the noisy watch from Tony's
lifeless wrist. Using the heel of his shoe, Cruger stomps down
on the fancy blue plastic watch a few times before it is
silenced. He wants to see a spray of springs and clamps and
smoke pouting out like in the cartoons, but the watch only lays
there, in the stark sunlight, like Tony: beaten, broken, and
wasted.
Chapter 15
------------
Cruger was in shock, and Harris recognized it quickly.
"Let's go inside and call the police," he said. Harris gently
grabbed Cruger by the arm and led him into the house. Harris
spotted a phone on the coffee table near the couch, and sat
Cruger down next to it.
"Are you going to be all right?" he asked Cruger.
Cruger didn't answer. He was bent over, holding his forehead
with one hand and rubbing his eyes with the other.
"Come on, man," Harris said, checking his watch. "I'm supposed
to be playing tennis in fifteen minutes, and instead I'm finding
a dead body. What the hell happened?"
"They got him," Cruger croaked.
Before Harris could even begin to dial 911, Cruger leaped up
from the couch and bolted for the door. Harris dropped the phone
and ran after him with reflexes he had worked years to
condition. For all Harris knew, his mousy neighbor with the rock
accordion habit could be the killer.
When Harris got to the door, Cruger was down the steps and
almost on the lawn, shouting the name "Tony" hysterically.
Readying his sprint, Harris took a long stride on the entryway
-- and realized that the body was gone.
"Shit," Harris mumbled, and bolted across the lawn, gaining
ground on the smaller man with every step. As Cruger neared
Harris' own lawn, Harris decided to dive for him.
And that was when it happened. Harris reached Cruger, grabbed
his legs, and tripped him. The accordionist fell over, his head
ready to crash onto the concrete strip that divided the two
lawns. And then, without explanation, both men were _pulled_ ten
feet, onto the next lawn. Cruger's head landed softly, as if
there had been a pillow there.
"What the hell?" Harris said.
"Let go!" Cruger shouted. "I've got to find him. They've taken
Tony!"
"Calm down, man," Harris said. "Who are they? Where did they
take him?"
"Them! The other company! The ones that killed him!"
Cruger's shouts aroused the curiosity of some of their
neighbors. Harris could see Mrs. Conworth from across the street
peering at them through her kitchen window.
"Come on," Harris said. "You're attracting attention. Let's go
back inside."
Cruger swallowed, took a look around, and nodded.
Both of them stopped when they reached the entryway. Only the
small, scuffed black digital watch lay on the front steps, still
keeping time, advancing each hundredth and tenth of a second
with complete accuracy.
Cruger picked up the watch. Somehow it was comforting to know
that he could no longer see Tony's beaten body. No blood, no
sickening brutalization of body and limbs. This is good, he
thought, Tony's gone. Is this good? For an instant he thought he
might understand what had happened, but the thought escaped his
mind as quickly as it had entered.
Harris pushed Cruger inside and closed the door behind them.
"What the hell is going on?" he asked.
Cruger just shook his head. A strange twisted expression formed
on his lips. "You think I know?" Cruger shook his head in
wonder.
"Look," Harris exhaled quickly, "I saw a dead guy out there, and
now he's gone. I've seen you having strange meetings with
strange people and playing that damned instrument of yours at
all hours of the night. And strangest of all, I just got pulled
halfway across my lawn by thin air. Something's wrong here, and
I'm going to have to find out what it is. I'm involved now,
whether I like it or not."
Cruger felt more alone than he had ever felt in his life. His
one connection to what was important and exciting was now dead,
or least, inexplicably gone. His neighbor's response just
highlighted the fact that the strange unexplainable aspects of
Cruger's own life were not entirely private -- they had leaked
into the lives of others And no good explanation existed.
Cruger remained silent.
"Do you want to explain this to the police or to me?" Harris
demanded. He didn't like having to bully Cruger -- the poor guy
looked upset enough already.
"And why do you want to have this all explained to you?" Cruger
had found his voice again and it was tremulous, lacking
resonance.
"I want to understand what's going on. There must be some
logical explanation," Harris said.
The words 'logical explanation' stuck with Cruger, playing an
obscene parody in his mind. The fact that this guy was thinking
of anything to do with logic nearly made Cruger laugh out loud.
At that moment Cruger wished he had never heard of Tony, of
Tvonens and Chysa, or of spinning. All that had been important
and joyful now seemed to be meaningless and chafing. With Tony
had come the confidence in The Company, the ties to other worlds
and better things and to progress itself. Without Tony ... what
was there?
Cruger looked at Harris. He wants in. Maybe this guy should get
what he deserves. The line 'Be careful of what you ask for --
you may get it' played in Cruger's mind.
"OK," said Cruger. "I can show you something that will explain
everything. It's in Tony's" -- his throat stuck -- "office. Can
you drive? I don't think I could handle it right now."
"Sure," Harris said.
"The whole thing's on a computer," Cruger said as they got into
his car. "Can you work one?"
"Neighbor," Harris chuckled, "that's what I _do_ for a living."
Chapter 16
------------
Humanity i love you because you are perpetually
putting the secret of life in your pants and
forgetting it's there and sitting down
on it
-- e. e. cummings
"I'm still not sure this is going to work," Cruger said. He was
still wary of the deception they planned. Harris seemed calm,
not worried at all. He had handled Tony's computer the same way,
like a pro. And he knew the computer system inside-out -- it was
as if some spinner, somewhere, had planned to provide Cruger
with a computer programmer. Judging from Harris' reaction to
what he found on the computer, he could continue with Tony's
work on the unified theorem. Maybe more than continue it, Cruger
thought. Maybe make Tony's work mean something.
"What are they going to do if they don't like our story? Take
away our birthday?" Harris pulled the car around the corner and
merged neatly into traffic. "We've got nothing to worry about,"
Harris said.
"Are you kidding? First thing they can do is call the cops. Then
we have lots of questions to answer. No thanks."
"Let me review our position on this," Harris said. "We don't
have anything to cover up because there is no body, no evidence,
no crime reported as far as we can tell, and nothing to guide us
except that we know what we saw. As far as the authorities go,
we're not involved in a murder or any other type of crime."
Cruger stared out the car window. "We know that we saw a murder
-- or the results of a murder. That's good enough for me."
"Well," said Harris, "you have to protect your own biscuits
because no one else is going to. The police aren't going to
believe any of your story without proof ... evidence. They would
laugh at this whole thing -- possibly put you in the nut house."
Cruger shrugged. The only crime that existed so far seemed to be
in the minds of two witnesses: he and Harris. Since the incident
Cruger had wondered if Tony's death was meant as a threat -- a
threat to him. Could this have been some kind of warning? Was
someone trying to manipulate him?
Or the whole thing could easily have been an optical illusion.
The people -- or whatevers -- that they were dealing with could
be capable of many types of trickery. Cruger hoped that it was
in fact a threat or a brutal hoax. He would enjoy seeing Tony
sitting at school in class as if nothing had happened, oblivious
to his "death" that they had witnessed.
Harris pulled in to Tony's high school and parked near the main
entrance. Then they found the Principal's office and walked in
as if the world revolved around their every action. They had
decided that to act like detectives meant to act like
aggressive, cocky, arrogant bastards. Cruger wished he had a
toothpick to let hang out of his mouth. Or maybe a smelly cigar.
That was the image on detective shows, and that was the image
the Principal and others would expect.
In the Principal's outer office was the small overflowing desk
of the Principal's assistant. Behind the desk was a portable
partition with the nameplate "Vernal Buckney, Principal."
The kids must get untold mileage out of the name Vernal, Cruger
thought. Good old Vernal must have been born to be a Principal.
Most likely, plenty a spitball had Vernal's name on it.
The kids at this school would enjoy sitting outside the
Principal's office, too -- his assistant, Shirley Randolph
according to her nameplate, was a tall, shapely young lady. Her
makeup was just right, expertly applied, highlighting her high
cheekbones and creamy, tan complexion. Cruger noticed that her
skirt was short, revealing a long pair of very tan legs. In the
corner of his eye, he saw Harris noticed that too.
Harris spoke first, just like they had rehearsed it. Being a big
tall black guy, they figured Harris would be rather
intimidating. Cruger, on the other hand, only looked threatening
if you thought he might try to sell you life insurance.
"Hello, Ms. Randolph," Harris began. "I'm Mr. Harris, and this
is Mr. Cruger. We're investigating a child custody case and we
may need the assistance of Mr. Buckney."
Harris managed to say it all without even blinking. Cruger was
impressed -- but he was more impressed that she didn't sound an
alarm, scream for help, or laugh. So far so good.
"Hello," she said. "I take it that you gentlemen don't have an
appointment then?"
Shirley Randolph's eyes twinkled and she smiled easily at
Harris. Harris smiled back, seemingly concentrating on the
underlying extent of Ms. Shirley Randolph's grade-A tan.
So Cruger spoke. "We really don't need too much time. We only
have a few questions." Just then Harris noticed that Vernal was
in his office. Vernal's bald head bobbed up above the partition
and then down again.
Vernal Buckney, M.A. in Education was, as usual, busy in his
office. His job required hard work, the skills of a serious
educator and a trained politician, plus the ability to win the
support and encouragement of parents, teachers, as well as the
educational board and superintendents. On top of that, the job
of Principal demanded a solid technical foundation that could
facilitate the development of the most effective teaching
methodologies, as well as the precise application of these
techniques. For this reason, Vernal spent most of his time in
his office with his golf putter in hand, putting into his
electric, auto-return golf cup. Stress reduction was top
priority for Vernal.
"I'll bring you in," the secretary said. "He has no appointments
now."
"Thank you very much, Ms. Randolph."
She smiled back at Harris. "Shirley," she said. It was the most
inviting 'Shirley' that Cruger had ever heard. Chances were that
it wasn't the most inviting one Harris had heard.
Shirley knocked on the Principal's flimsy excuse for an office
door and introduced the two of them in the most professional of
manners.
When Cruger and Harris stepped into Vernal's office, they saw
the shocking decor. The floor was covered with old educational
journals, magazines, and various trinkets such as small wooden
animals. A few golf clubs lay against the file cabinet, and the
floor was littered with golf balls, pencils, and pens.
"Nice to meet you gentlemen," Vernal said. He had a high-
pitched, wheezy, bureaucrat's voice that sounded like a band saw
on wet wood. His eyes darted around like a monkey's. Nothing
made him more nervous than meeting men from the Superintendent's
office. She had said that's where they were from, hadn't she?
"We just have a few simple questions, Mr. Buckney," Harris said,
sticking to the plan nicely.
"Now, Ms. Randolph did say you were from the Superintendent's
office, didn't she?"
"Oh, not at all. We're investigators, working on a child custody
case." Harris said it fast and gruff, as if meager child custody
cases were only what the two did between busting crack houses
and handcuffing Uzi-toting Colombians.
Vernal was visibly relieved. His eyes slowed their wild pace and
focused on Harris. "Yes, I see. Well, how can I help?"
"We need information on two of your students. I must tell you,
Mr. Buckney, that all of this must be kept completely
confidential. In fact, I must request that only you and Ms.
Randolph know of our visit. You are the only two that we can
trust," Harris said. "We can trust you, can't we?"
Cruger looked as tough as possible and nodded his head. He
wished he had that cigar to grind into the carpet -- it would
match the decor.
"Certainly you can trust us to keep it quiet," Vernal said. His
cheeks had become a little flushed.
"First of all, a student named Tony Steffen. Senior class. We
need his whole file," Harris said.
Cruger chimed in. "And a female senior named Sky. No known last
name." Cruger emulated the old Dragnet rerun tone of voice: just
the facts, Vernal.
"Okay, I can do that. I need Ms. Randolph to check the files for
me."
Vernal tried to ask Shirley to get the files, but he told her to
look up a boy named Tony Griffin and a girl named Sigh. Cruger
corrected him on each count.
When Shirley was gone, Vernal scratched his hairless head and
asked, "Are you sure you guys aren't from the School Board?"
"No, not there, not the PTA, the teacher's union or the Girl
Scouts either. How many students in the senior class here?"
Harris said, changing the subject and putting Vernal on the
defensive, a posture he was born for.
"We have 400 this year. The number's been dropping each year
since five years ago, when we peaked with 600." Vernal was still
nervous, his eyes moving quickly from Cruger to Harris to the
cluttered mess on his office floor. He preferred to look at the
floor.
"Yeah, the post baby-boomer years are here," Cruger said. "Do
you know what percentage of the kids go to college?"
"We have a very high college after graduation rate here. Last
year 35 percent went straight to a four-year college or
university, 40 percent to a Junior college or trade school, and
the rest are unaccounted for, probably employed, skilled labor
or what-not."
"Not bad."
Shirley came back into the office. She carried a thin manila
folder in the crook of her right arm; she held it like a
football. Harris took the folder from her and there was a mutual
flash of white teeth.
"No file on Tony Steffen," Shirley said, still smiling. "Must
not be a student here."
"Oh yes, he is," Harris said.
"No, I'm afraid your information is incorrect," she said. "He
appears in none of the records. Nobody by that name has ever
been a student here."
Cruger and Harris exchanged a look but no words. At least they
had the information on Sky -- they could get the rest later.
They said their thank-yous and good-byes and headed out toward
building L, room 116, where Sky's next class would begin in
fifteen minutes.
"I think Shirley had a soft spot in her heart for you," Cruger
said, as they walked down the hard red-top hall.
"She had some great soft spots, all in the right places; very
nice, soft and smooth, like a seal -- a foxy seal." Harris said
it straight and sounded detached, like he was a judge in a
bikini contest.
"But she screwed us on the Tony Steffen info."
"Mmm," Harris commented. "Yeah. Screwed."
Straight faced. Cruger loved the way Harris could say all that
stuff straight-faced.
They cut across the quad to find the L building. Cruger spotted
Sky at a picnic table. She was surrounded by classmates, but
Cruger was still able to distinguish her from a distance. As he
and Harris got closer, Cruger almost began to doubt if it was
Sky. She seemed different, wearing calf-high boots, a leather
skirt, and a black t- shirt with torn sleeves.
One of Cruger's buddies from high school, Steve Spitelli, had
developed a theory that the world really only contained fifteen
types of people. Some people were tall and thin, some were pudgy
with wide faces, and so on. All people fell into the category of
models of one of the fifteen different types. These types became
known as Spitelli- types. Cary Grant and Rock Hudson were the
same Spitelli-type. Judy Garland and Cher were different
Spitelli-types. Spitelli's theory more or less took the cake for
oversimplification. Cruger had not thought about Spitelli-types
for more than ten years -- until this moment.
Sky sat on a picnic table next to a tall blond guy that was
Tony's Spitelli-type -- an exact image, but not quite. The eyes
were a little too far apart; the eyebrows arched up on the sides
in a perpetually hostile look. Cruger tensed as they approached
the table, knowing that the sick feeling that the young man's
looks stirred within him would only worsen as they got closer.
He felt like a beetle in an ant colony.
"Hello, Sky," Cruger said.
The girl gave them both a questioning look. "Yeah, that's me."
She sounded defensive and her face registered a look void of
recognition.
"You don't remember meeting me before?" Cruger asked, trying
hard to avoid sounding like an insulted distant relative.
"No, mister, I'm afraid I don't."
The blond kid next to Sky was monitoring the whole conversation
like a radar operator. He slid over and put his arm around Sky.
"What do you guys want?" he said.
Harris, putting his leg up on the table bench, said "We want to
ask you some questions about Tony Steffen."
There was a pause. Sky looked at the guy and he looked back.
They independently shrugged: Sky's shrug was more convincing.
"I don't know any Tony Steffen," the blond kid said. The kid had
an attitude of the first degree. He probably practiced that
sneer at home, in front of the bathroom mirror. It was an
exceptionally well- rehearsed sneer.
"Yeah," said Sky, "he doesn't go to this school anyway -- if he
did, we'd know him."
Harris smiled a pathetic grin and shook his head. Cruger just
let the response seep in. These kids were either very good
actors, or ...
"And your name is?" Cruger asked the blond kid.
"What's it to you?" His lip curled. The kid enjoyed his
rebellious act.
"Rick," Cruger said. The boyfriend or ex-boyfriend that Tony had
mentioned.
His eyes became dark pools of surprised hatred. His facade was
replaced by a look of disdain mixed with pomposity. He knows,
thought Cruger, he knows about Tony.
"Yeah, so you know who I am? Are you guys cops or something?
Ooh, tough guys gonna come around and hassle high school
students?" Rick laughed and squeezed Sky around the shoulder.
She looked uneasy and didn't laugh.
"Sky, you really have never heard of Tony Steffen?" Harris
asked.
Sky shrugged and shook her head. Cruger, watching intently, saw
that she was the same Sky that he had met before. She had none
of the "attitude" that Rick had. To Cruger, she was just keeping
poorer company these days. She was a young girl struggling to
develop the maturity to handle what life threw at her. Cruger
figured she was probably telling the truth. He motioned to
Harris and turned to go. In a moment, Harris followed.
The drive home was strained silence. Both men were afraid to
come to conclusions or to let their imaginations run wild since
reality seemed wild enough.
"So, it looks like Tony Steffen never went to school -- where do
you think he is?" Harris said.
"I hate to harp on the obvious," Cruger said, "but we saw him
disappear before our eyes, remember?"
Harris sucked in his breath. "And according to what we just
heard and saw, Tony never existed. He's not only dead, but
erased from the memories of everybody -- except for us."
"So it seems," Cruger said. "Deleted, that's what he is. It's
like he never lived and the world we currently live in is one
that never knew Tony Steffen. But for some reason we know that
it's not true. We remember seeing Tony, we remember what he did
and who he knew. I remember every interaction I had with Tony;
the world we live in, right here and right now has Tony's
imprints on it because I remember what Tony did and said. What's
confusing is that other people don't know or remember. The
school, Sky, and everything seem to indicate that they are
operating in a parallel plane, a reality that thinks it never
knew Tony Steffen."
Cruger stopped and sat in silence, staring out the car window,
dreamily exploring the evidence and the possible conclusions. He
looked at the endless succession of speed-blurred lawns and
sidewalks they passed.
"Sounds to me like a mistake," Harris said, his jaw tensed in
determination. "Maybe we should have no memory of Tony. Once he
disappeared, he was erased from existence. We probably weren't
meant to retain his memory."
Cruger shook his head. "More likely that we were meant to
remember for some reason. Either that, or you and I are
operating in our own little parallel plane of the Universe. My
wife tells me I'm in my own little world all the time."
"And who would be motivated to get rid of Tony but allow us to
remember? I know that the Other Company would like Tony out of
the picture, but why wouldn't they want us gone, too?"
"That insurance policy of mine, the one that pushed us across
the lawn," Cruger said. "I'm betting that Tony had one, just
like me. And he told me that it was possible to kill people with
insurance policies. But I bet it's not easy, and it's probably
even harder to erase their existence wholesale. They probably
couldn't have killed both of us, and figured that I'd be lost
without him."
"So they didn't kill you this time. There's always next time.
We'd better watch our backs."
"Yeah. Yeah, you're right."
Everything was moving so fast that Cruger just wanted to
withdraw, to take time to let this simmer and steam and cook a
little until it made sense -- if it ever could. Times like these
you either get philosophical or go crazy.
"Is it better to have lived and then died than to have lived and
then been erased -- like never living at all?" Cruger said.
"This is one of those 'If the tree falls in the woods and there
is no one around to hear it fall, does it make a sound?'-type
questions," Harris said, trying not to sound cynical but
failing.
"It's almost that exact question except it is more like: 'if
nobody remembers the sound that it did make -- that lots of
people did hear -- when it fell, did it ever make a sound'?"
Cruger said. "Although this it is not the same issue. If you
live and then become erased, like Tony, you actually did have a
life and have an impact, at least on some level in some
Universe. That is definitely different than never having lived."
"What if that point in the time/space continuum doesn't exist
any longer? What if the erasure was clean and thorough?" Harris
said.
Harris was able to pierce the heart of an issue with a needle,
draining the romance out and filling in with logic. What an
engineer.
Chapter 17
------------
The telephone rang, and Cruger picked it up. Tony's voice was
strange and faint -- he wheezed over the cracking phone line.
Cruger grabbed the phone tighter and pressed it hard against his
ear, desperately trying to hear Tony's faint voice.
"Far away," Tony said weakly.
"What."
"Far away, cold, very cold, very far..."
Cruger screamed, "What, Tony, what?!"
Cruger strained to hear Tony again, but the harder he tried, the
less he could hear.
Two hands were on his shoulders and Corrina's warm skin pressed
against his tight neck. His ear hurt. Cold sweat skated across
his wrinkled brow.
"What were you dreaming, honey?" she asked.
"Oh," Cruger said, "nothing, something weird, I can't really
remember."
He was lying. She wouldn't understand.
"Poor baby, you were screaming."
"Well, I'm okay now. Thanks." But he wasn't really okay. He
could feel his hands shaking, feeling weak and insubstantial
under the thick comforter.
They put their heads back down and settled into seemingly
comfortable positions. Cruger listened to Corrina's soft, steady
breathing break across the cold and lonely darkness of the
bedroom. He continued to listen to the steady silence.
A while later he heard it again.
"Far away, cold, help me ... ," Tony said. His voice was
stronger but tremulous as if he were shaking, his teeth
chattering.
And just then Cruger heard the beeping, chirping sound of his
watch alarm. Tony's distant voice dissolved into the stark
morning light. Cruger was awake in a fraction of a second,
reaching over to turn off the alarm.
Chirp... chirp... chirp. He grabbed the watch and quickly
depressed the tiny plastic button, turning off the alarm.
Now he was more awake than ever.
"I never could trust them."
"You mean your parents?" Dr. Frederick said.
"Well, sure, I guess that's what I mean."
"You just said you 'guess' you mean your parents." Dr.
Frederick, against his will, was getting a little frustrated
again. "Does that mean it was your parents?"
"Yes, yes."
She frequently vacillated between self-assured and reticent.
Often she acted as if no one, including Dr. Frederick, could
possibly understand what she meant. He needed to build a
foundation of trust before he would really be able to draw it
all out of her. Trust was the key.
"The worst part is, I don't know if I could really trust them,"
she said.
She gave him a sly, knowing grin. Being a man of science -- a
man of medicine, by God -- he knew that her coincidental
reference to the word trust must be just that: a coincidence.
What bothered him was that she was so damned attractive. Made it
tough for him to be objective, and to keep his mind on his work.
He was glad, very glad, that he was a medical doctor as well as
a psychotherapist. His strong academic background enabled him to
deal with these situations in a professional manner.
God, she's got great legs, he thought.
"Your time's about up," he said.
Chapter 18
------------
It was Harris's thirtieth birthday. Cruger had celebrated his
thirtieth a year ago, and had realized the potentially
frightening road of a new decade stretched before him. Thirty,
thought Cruger, an age of thinning hair, a thinning list of
single friends, and thinning muscle fibers. Either that or a
decade of great sex -- what the hell, may as well think
positive.
Cruger knocked at Harris's door. He had surprised Harris by
asking to join him on his morning run. Harris knew he, the poor
flabby guy from next door, wouldn't be able to last too long or
hack the normal pace, but like any good fitness freak, he had
appreciated that Cruger was beginning to take an interest in
getting in shape. Cruger wondered: would Harris be one of those
guys who sweeps the fear of turning thirty under the rug like so
much sawdust, or would he stagger under the burden of advancing
years?
Harris got the door.
"Hey, old man," Cruger said.
"I'm not bad for an old man, though. Run five miles a day,
strong as a Tibetan Yak."
"An Afghan Yak," Cruger said.
"Say what?"
"Afghanistan. That would be closer to your peoples, your
homeland."
"Has anyone told you," said Harris, "that for an accordion
player you have the personality of an accountant?"
"No, but thank you. I'd prefer being known for a mastery of
amortization tables than for playing a mean 'Hava Nagila' on the
Bar Mitzvah circuit."
"How about 'Moonlight Serenade' verses depreciation tables?"
Cruger relinquished a half smile. "Now that's a tough call."
They began jogging slowly down Henderson Street.
"I usually start out really slow to warm-up."
"No argument here," Cruger said.
"If you get tired or need to go slower, just let me know. It
takes time to build-up to longer distances and faster speed."
Cruger's strides were much shorter than Harris's. His feet moved
in a fast shuffle to keep up with the easy loose stride that
Harris established.
Cruger hadn't run much since high school, right after his
physical education class administered the President's National
Fitness Test. It was the worst humiliation of Cruger's life, the
"six-minute test." All the boys in class were required to run
around the track as fast as they could for six minutes. The
number of laps you completed in the six minutes time indicated
your fitness level. The fast boys were able to do well over four
laps -- more than a mile in six minutes. The vast majority did
between three and three-and-a- half laps. Cruger, chest heaving
and stomach clamped into a tight knot of muscle spasms, only
finished two and one-quarter laps. The single student who did
worse than Cruger was Roger Sabutsky, the 200- pound class
flab-ball. Roger clocked in with less than two laps.
The next week, Cruger began to run every day after school. He
couldn't live with the fact that he was the worst runner (except
for Roger) in the entire class. Cruger yearned to be an average
runner -- that would be nice.
The running practice worked. Within a couple months he could run
an eight-minute mile; this was even slightly better than average
for the class. Unfortunately, his running dropped off a year
later, since the need for avoidance of near-fatal embarrassment
had ceased to exist.
Cruger now remembered the torture of running when out of shape.
They had run for about 8 minutes, 23 seconds, and 35 hundredths,
according to Harris's watch.
"I really can't believe what we're involved with," Cruger said.
"especially when we're running down the street here, leading
what seems to be otherwise normal lives. This business of the
Other Company and everything is really Kafkaesque," Cruger said,
between gulps of air.
"Huh? Kafkaesque?"
"You don't read Kafka, I take it. What do you engineers read
anyway?"
"We read computer magazines with centerfold pictures of graphics
accelerator cards. And I hate it when the staple covers up the
video ram."
"How can a guy with big muscles like yours be such a nerd?
Amazing," Cruger said. Talking while running was starting to get
more than difficult.
"All this stuff happening is like a dream I keep having," said
Harris.
Cruger despised him for being able to run and talk with such
ease.
"In the dream," Harris continued, "everything is going bad for
me. My car expires, the furnace explodes. The next day, I get a
giant pimple on my nose and my shower faucet starts leaking. My
life is falling apart. I'm being picked on. I finally go to
church and get down on my knees at the alter and pray and pray.
"All of a sudden, the ceiling opens up and the clouds part. A
ray of light shines down and a strong, deep, resonant, booming
voice says 'YOU JUST PISS ME OFF.' "
Harris laughed and Cruger made a slightly higher pitched
wheezing noise than the wheezing noise he had been making. The
guy can run, talk and tell jokes too, Cruger thought. I hate
him.
"Hey, I'm going to walk for a while, why don't you meet me back
on Franklin street," Cruger said.
Keeping the air moving wasn't easy for Cruger; his breaths were
desperate gulps of air followed by involuntary exhalations. His
legs were beginning to shake uncontrollably.
"OK, meet you going that way in about fifteen minutes."
Harris picked up his pace as Cruger slowed to a walk.
Cruger moved his legs in slow, deliberate strides. He didn't
need to be a great runner, just a consistent one. If he kept
this up every day after a while he would be in pretty decent
shape. Slow and steady, he thought. His arms swung at his sides
and his legs kicked forward in long even walking strides. He
felt strong; he felt invigorated; he felt nauseous.
Cruger walked half across the nearest lawn, and, bending over
the small shrubs, he spat up; it wasn't something you'd see in
_Runner's World Illustrated_.
Soon he returned to the sidewalk and started walking again. Slow
and steady. Not bad for a first outing.
A few minutes later Harris came running -- it looked like
sprinting to Cruger -- around the corner, his legs lifting high
as his thighs bulged out underneath his running shorts.
"OK, I've done my five miles," Harris said, barely short of
breath. "Let's walk out the rest."
They were turning the corner on Blaney street when they saw two
men in sports jackets and sunglasses.
"Those guys look like Eagle Scouts to you, Jack?" Harris asked.
"Not unless they earned special merit badges in knee-breaking
and mugging."
"Get out your insurance policy, then."
The two goons were already walking towards them. The big one
must have been a good six foot three, maybe 230 pounds. The
other guy was smaller but possibly even more trouble. He had a
bodybuilder's physique, complete with waspish waist and thick
trapezius muscles. They both looked like flesh-built tanks ready
to enter battle.
"What to do, _kemo sabe_?" said Cruger, trying to stay cool and
failing.
"Let me handle this," said Harris, a hint of false bravura in
his voice. "I have some modest experience in these matters."
Cruger didn't doubt it. Damned good thing I'm not alone, he
thought. The smaller guy, who was pretty damn big, looked like a
composite of Pee-Wee Herman's face pasted on a muscular thug's
body. The juxtaposition of the innocent, almost feminine face on
the tough's body was more than frightening, it was nearly
sickening.
The big guy looked like a refrigerator with veins. He also had a
big mouth.
"Hi, gentlemen," he said. His tone was a malicious one, with a
sprinkle of sarcasm thrown in. "Just a little message for you
guys from Mr. N, our fearless leader."
"And who might that be?" said Harris.
"Just shut up and listen, dark meat. Your little amateur
investigation is over with, comprende?" It was not a question.
"And if we decide to forget your helpful advice, assuming that
we eventually stop trembling?" said Harris.
The Pee-Wee Herman thug moved toward them, shoulders raised,
fists in front of his face. A boxer. Not a good sign.
Just as Harris was planning the trajectory of his first kick,
Cruger jumped forward and landed two quick left jabs into
Pee-Wee Herman's chin. Pee-Wee swung a hook at Cruger. Cruger
ducked and placed his knee in Pee Wee's groin.
Refrigerator, from behind, got his hands around Cruger's neck.
Cruger flung his elbow backwards into Refrigerator 's kidney and
donkey-kicked him in the solar plexus.
The flurry lasted four seconds. Pee Wee and Refrigerator were on
the ground, groaning. Harris, finding himself standing there,
jaw dropped, looking like a mannequin with arthritis, stepped
forward and placed his foot on Pee Wee's Adam's apple. Cruger
followed suit with Refrigerator.
Cruger said, "Tell us, who is Mr. N, your 'fearless leader?'"
Before a second passed Cruger's foot sunk down to the hard
asphalt. Harris's foot also clacked down -- Refrigerator and
Pee-Wee were gone, leaving behind only thin films of steam
rising into the cool air. Harris looked at Cruger and they said
nothing. Whoever they were pitted against wasn't playing fair:
this disappearing act was getting tiresome, Cruger thought.
Besides, who knows what tantalizing conversationalists the two
fine young gentlemen may have turned out to be? Their sunglasses
and sport jackets certainly had been attractive.
Harris and Cruger hoped ideas would come to their stunned minds.
Harris scratched his head, perplexed with more than one issue:
he was 6-3, 210 pounds, could bench press 360 pounds, and had a
black belt in Karate. Cruger was a pudgy 5-10 couch potato.
"You really handled those guys, I mean before they poofed away.
Shit, I don't want to run into you in a dark alley," Harris
said.
"I don't know how..."
"No, I mean you were _awesome_." Harris had seen his fourth-
level masters of the martial arts at work, albeit in a
tournament setting, but, he had never seen anything like this.
"Listen to me," Cruger said in a high wheezy voice. "That wasn't
me. I can't do that. I don't know how it happened but I've never
done anything like that before in my life."
"The insurance policy?"
"Must be," Cruger said.
"Hell, all those years of Karate and pumping iron for nothing,"
said Harris. Cruger squeezed his right arm as if to check if he
was dreaming. They continued to walk, Cruger with a special
bounce in his step, feeling like a younger, stronger man.
"Why?" Harris asked. "Why not just blow us away? Erase us,
explode the planet, whatever. They probably are capable of all
these things -- and I'm afraid to think what else."
Cruger stared at his toes -- his best thinking posture. A smile
began to creep over his recently gloomy face. His eyebrows
lowered while his eyes widened and brightened.
"A cat and mouse game," he said.
Harris stroke his mustache. "Who's the cat and who's the mouse
-- or need I ask?"
"Both have whiskers -- tell me, do you think we have furry tails
or prehensile ones?" Cruger said.
"You've always seemed to be a prehensile kind of guy to me,"
Harris said.
They walked on with silly grins on their faces. The
inappropriately hot November sun beat on the cracked sidewalk.
Cruger enjoyed the heat against the top of his head. He reached
up to feel whether his skin had reached frying pan temperature.
Do mice go bald, he wondered. Regardless, if one is to be a
little rodent, one may as well enjoy it.
...She looked especially good today, and acted especially
jocular.
"I'll tell you doctor, I've been feeling pretty good."
"I'm glad."
"What I need to talk about today is sex."
Goddamn her if she didn't wink at him when she said that. A wink
so fast it could only be felt, not seen. He felt uncomfortable
and self-conscious again. Only she could make him feel this way.
"When I have sex," she continued, "I'm afraid to let go, you
know what I mean?"
He cleared his throat.
"When you say 'let go'," he said, "what exactly do you mean?"
"Well," she began, "I'm talking about orgasms. I mean, I can see
myself just ripping loose like a wild animal, screaming and
everything, but I'm afraid."
He crossed and uncrossed his legs.
"I see."
He made a note in his book: 'detachment, alienation.'
She raised her arms up, pulling her hair up behind her head. She
exhaled deeply.
She heard the familiar voices from her past. They sang out in a
mellifluous flood of improvised poetry. She loved the nostalgia
of those voices; but, the beauty of the voices and the
environment also ushered in the thoughts of the boredom, the
cold, and the staid heterogeneous groups. She was where she
belonged now -- let me stay, let me be one of them, she thought.
Why had they told her that she would be like an animal in a zoo
display? They told her she would never truly fit in, be counting
the days until return. Liars! She fit in better than humans
themselves; by God, she was seeing a shrink -- what could be
more California human than that?
'I'll show them, I'll show them,' she whispered to herself in
the gentlest of her intense, breathy whispers.
Chapter 19
------------
He still heard the sound of the Corrina's shower water running.
Cruger sat at the breakfast table, eating his cereal and staring
at the multicolored box. When he was finished reading the
ingredients, he read the nutritional information and then the
trademark registration. Some mornings he couldn't handle
newspapers, television, the radio, or conversation. Some
mornings only the mindless reading of a hyped-up cereal box
would do.
He especially liked brands that made claims such as: 50 percent
more real bran, 25 percent fat free, or no cholesterol.
And that's what was bothering him. The dishonesty factor
concerning his business with The Company.
He had not been able to tell Corrina about his spinning, the
situation he had with Tony, or anything. Concealing such an
important part of his life was stressful. It was starting to
wear a hole in his self-respect.
He reasoned that most of the shame, disgrace, and humiliation of
an extramarital affair was the sheer deception. If no deception
were involved, it would be called -- what's that term that was
big back in the seventies? -- an "open marriage." Wasn't he
guilty of a similarly large deception that involved an important
part of his life? He knew he wasn't guilty of the same 'crime'
that an affair was -- but he certainly felt guilty of something.
He decided that he would tell her about the spinning, Tony,
Harris, the whole thing. If she didn't believe and chose to
laugh, or worse yet, thought he was insane, then so be it.
Ten minutes later she came down, fully dressed, her hair wet.
"I'll grab a quick breakfast -- we have any bran muffins left?"
she said.
"Yeah, right in here. Two left."
"Great. I'll just have some orange juice and then I'm out of
here."
"Corrina, I need to talk..."
"Oh yeah," she said, remembering something. "What's the name of
that tune-up place on Stevens Creek? I need to have my oil
changed, maybe on the way home."
"It's APD Tune-up, near Woodhams," he said. "Now what I started
to..."
"Hey, I'm low on cash, too, honey. Do you have any? Otherwise
I'll have to stop by the bank before lunch."
"Yeah, sure." He fished down through his wallet and saw that he
could give her a ten without leaving himself too short for a
couple of days. He handed her the bill.
"Thanks," she kissed him on the cheek. She started to leave.
"Honey," he said, "I need to talk to you about something."
"Well, can it wait 'til tonight? I'll be home by seven."
"Okay. Have a good day." he said.
"Bye."
And she was out the door. Was it always like this in the
morning? She was gone in less than an instant.
He still felt the burden: white lies layered to a certain depth
became a single darker lie. No untruth was entirely transparent,
not staining the tint of the layered truths. Nothing was so
perfectly innocent and necessary as to qualify as spotless,
indisputably necessary: the perfect white lie. These off-white
lies combined to form a darker one; the dark consequence was a
cloud over Cruger's conscience, deflecting the sanctimonious
beams of correctness cast down from his superego.
If you believe Freud, he thought.
He wondered if he would feel like telling her about everything
that night. Maybe the time had come and gone. He looked out the
kitchen window and watched the morning wind blow the fallen
leaves across the back patio. The leaves tumbled and interacted
randomly, forming small ephemeral patterns on the cement. His
body held him to that position, eyes transfixed on the landscape
that kept changing so swiftly, so subtly, and so constantly.
"What do you think, Doctor Frederick," she asked. "Am I normal?"
He smiled meaninglessly and looked her in the eye. He didn't
realize that it came off as an entirely condescending gesture.
"In my field, normal is most certainly a relative term." He knew
she was starting to play with him, again. She was a manipulative
bitch deep down, the classic case of a borderline personality.
"However we decide to classify people must be considered to be
quite arbitrary, you understand."
"But, really doctor, you and I have become quite close, I
think." She leaned forward, pretending to adjust her shoe,
squeezing her breasts between her outstretched arms. She looked
him in the eyes as she did it, hoping he would get that look on
his face again. Sometimes he would even bite and chew his lower
lip. "Don't you think I come across as a pretty normal human,
or, I mean, person?"
He wanted to kill her, that bitch. He wanted to throw her down
on the floor -- God, how could she have this stupid power over
him. He needed to be in control, not her... for God's sake, not
her.
"Doctor," she said, her voice husky, her tone urgent. "I want to
throw you on the floor, Dr. Frederick. I'll tear your clothes
off you, I'll rub you and lick you all over, let me Doctor, let
me..."
"Shut up!" he yelled. "Shut up... quiet! " He stood up, face
beet red, and pointed at her. "You bitch."
"I know you want to kill me," she said. "Let me tell you
something. I kill -- I kill all the time. That's why I'm here.
How about them apples, mister doctor?" She smiled and walked
over to him, in his face now. "I kill and I seduce and I rape.
And it's your job to help me, you horny little toad. Help me,
make me a real woman."
She sat back down and slumped back into the arms of the big
leather chair. Look at him sit there all scared, shocked. The
Doctor's thoughts were still mixed, crazy, hard to read. He was
a wimp, but she figured he was really like all the others. A
planet full of wimps with no mental toughness, no control, no
intuition.
Barbarians.
Chapter 20
------------
About the size of a large pizza box, the clock on the wall swept
a steady course with its delicate hands. Framed in black
plastic, it hung on the stark white wall, looking like a large
dark insect. Other than the clock, the lack of decor in the
office was startling. The wooden desk and contoured chair barely
gave the room an occupied air. Cruger still thought of it as
Tony's office.
"You been working too hard? You look pale -- I mean pale for a
black guy -- and tired. Where have you been?
"Shut up."
"Hey, don't get touchy..."
"No," Harris explained, "I mean I've been shut up in this room.
Working 'round the clock. This computer system had a nasty virus
in it."
Harris was sitting at the desk in front of the computer,
pointing at a display of numbers on the screen.
Cruger knew almost nothing about computers. He feared it could
be a long evening of listening to Harris talk about things that
made Latin seem intuitive.
"Ungh," Cruger said, grunting in a way that he felt was a fairly
intelligent sounding grunt; a grunt that could possibly signify
some level of appreciation for Harris' point.
"I found it when I was looking through code resources --
basically every program on the system -- and I found a few
suspicious ones."
"Ungh," Cruger said. The first grunt had been better.
Unfortunately Harris took it as an encouragement to go further
into detail. "I took a close look at each suspicious code
resource I found. Shit, it took a lot of time, but it was worth
it. I disassembled the code resources and found four of them
that were affecting the program Tony had set up."
Cruger's eyes had glazed over for the part about "code
resources," but he understood the part about affecting Tony's
program.
"What was it doing to Tony's program?" he asked.
"A number of things. To begin with, it added a security layer
for a certain set of people. I haven't broken the code to enable
me to know exactly who these people are, but I think this
protection layer explains what we saw with the two toughs that
disappeared."
"The code in there made them disappear, deleted them?"
"Yes, it looks like a set of people -- I would assume that they
all are Other Company -- get automatically deleted if they get
close enough to discovery."
"Isn't that stupid?" Cruger asked. "The minute they get deleted
you know for sure that they were Other Company. It serves as a
validation. And how would they know that they're 'close to being
discovered?' Isn't that a subjective thing?"
Harris raised an eyebrow. "I commend you on your insight. Yes,
that and almost everything having to do with the algorithmic
solution to this Unified Theorem deals with the subjective. Life
isn't digital, it isn't black-and-white with no gray areas; the
model is a digital approximation that knows how to directly
interpret and derive what you call 'subjective'."
Cruger frowned. "I lost you back around the word _the_, I
think."
"The details are unimportant -- for you, anyway. What matters is
that I eventually completely understand these algorithms. And I
don't... at least, not yet."
"Well, do you understand how someone is deleted?"
"I've been looking at that. I could isolate that code because it
appeared in several of the code resources that have attached
themselves to Tony's work. In a nutshell, deleting is similar to
programming a black hole: it's just that the boundary conditions
are different."
"Unh." Cruger thought the grunt would serve him well again.
"Thing is," Harris went on, "we aren't connected to anything. We
aren't part of a network, as far as I can tell. We probably have
some kind of downlink to the company's home office -- uh, home
planet -- that I don't understand yet, but that's probably it. I
don't think we're connected to anywhere else on Earth Tony was a
one-man show."
They sat in silence for a while, thinking about their task,
thinking about who else was out there, who their friends were,
who their enemies might be.
"Tony left comments in his code, so the parts that he wrote are
well-described and easy to figure out. It's this other mess --
the stuff written by someone else or a whole crew of other
people -- that's tough for me to figure out. And here's the
worst part," Harris continued, "some parts of this stuff are
incredibly difficult to decipher."
Harris pulled a pad of paper over and began to scribble
something.
"Here, this is the kind of stuff I find written across the
comment fields in some of the code I read."
The sheet of paper had a set of symbols written across it;
symbols that didn't seem to be a part of any alphabet Cruger or
Harris could recognize:
"Okay, in a way this makes sense," Cruger said. "We know that
the Tvonens started this process; we also know that the basic
technology was adopted from the theoretical physicists' work and
converted to an implementation by a group, probably a
combination of Tvonens and humans. So, at least one and maybe
more of the original people working on this were Tvonen."
"Right, and I wish those damned aliens would have commented
their code in English, assuming they added comments at all.
Maybe that's the problem with their own technology they
developed at home. Remember, they're analog electronics all the
way and don't have a good feeling for digital logic design,
Boolean algebra, or computer algorithms."
"That's true to the extent of what they knew before they came
here and decided Earth would become the technology leader. Then
they must have started learning -- at least the ones from the
Company that they had stationed over here -- to use our digital
technology," Cruger said.
Harris yawned loudly and then sucked in a very deep breath.
"That's a really important point. I should be looking for some
computer code to be very slick and polished -- and that is
easily defined as Tony's work, especially since most of it is
commented. But the other stuff I should look for to be
amateurish, possibly error- prone and full of bugs. I hadn't
approached it that way before. I had been looking at everything
as if it were written precisely."
"Nah, look for some sloppy alien work, that's my guess."
Harris smiled and stretched, raising up his arms and twisting
his neck around until the small little cracking sounds subsided.
"I've been here too long already," Harris said. "But I have to
admit, this is actually bordering on being fun. It's like
playing detective, albeit electronically, walking through a maze
of clues. It's time consuming but fun."
"I'm glad you're doing it. In fact, that point scares me. What
are we going to do if -- excuse my distasteful scenario -- you
go away or take off or disappear or something like that? Right
now, you're the man running the show."
"I've thought about that. Hopefully, soon, I will have made the
program fairly understandable and easier to use. Someone pretty
knowledgeable in programming could come in and pick up where I
let off. Why, you have any plans to get rid of me?"
"Well, you know," Cruger said, "if you mouth off at me or
anything I may need to do something."
"Nice guy. Thanks."
"Any time. Now the other thing I've worried about is this: is it
too easy for someone we don't want to have involved to come in
and take over the whole mess?"
"Good question," Harris said. "I've thought of that one myself
-- in depth. That scenario is what I am most afraid of,
actually. We know that this system, the way it stands, can be
infiltrated pretty easily, so I've taken a few precautions. Most
of them are a complete secret, but, a couple of them I will
share with you only, since you may be around if I happen to get
blown away or something.
"As you may have noticed, I've added a scanner to this whole
setup," Harris said.
Cruger pointed to the nearly flat, rectangular box next to the
computer.
"Yes, that's it. It can be used for many things, but in the
context of what we are discussing now, I have programmed it to
scan my hand to allow entry into the source code files. I could
extend this to allow you and your hand entry also."
"Pretty good idea, except the fact that the Chysa could probably
imitate the shape of your hand with no problem," Cruger said.
"Assuming they knew ahead of time that they needed to have my
hand shape and texture and my password to go along with it. I
know it's possible, but the best we can do in these situations
is make it difficult to get in. Making it impossible to get in
probably is impossible."
Cruger ran his hand across the top of the flat plastic box,
feeling the contours and minute corrugation on the slick plastic
box.
Harris said, "I'm building in protection for us in addition to
the protection the Company gives us now. I figured that may be
one of the first things we need to finish this project."
And Cruger thought, protection. Yeah, they were up against
something or someone's they couldn't touch, feel, or sense. It
didn't feel good but it didn't feel too bad either, because the
danger was everybody's danger; if they didn't succeed, no one
would. Made life exciting. Just right if your heart could take
it.
His TV, with the volume up, blared away. Harris sat on his
couch, thinking. Even if there were a set of complete equations
that accurately described the beginning, end, and maintenance of
the universe (or universes, whatever that may mean), what did
this say about the time before the creation of the universe?
What existed then?
Harris opened the refrigerator door and pulled out a beer. He
opened the utensil drawer, pulled out a can opener, and popped
the top off the Moosehead.
If there were a supreme being, or beings, able to create worlds
and planets and species and everything, how did it or they come
about? The real problem with a quantitative definition of the
universe was the boundary conditions, or more aptly, the
inability of a human to conceive of something before the
creation of the universe or the inexplicable nothingness after
the end of the universe.
Harris's nose itched and he scratched it with the bottle,
rubbing the edge of the label against his itch.
How could there be nothing? What if this nothing were something?
What is outside the bounds of the universe right now? When the
universe expands, what is it expanding into?
One easy explanation -- too easy -- might be that there always
was and always is something. If a Big Bang started the Universe
and a contraction of the everything into a tiny black hole ends
the universe, this could be a continuous cycle that keeps
reoccurring every, say, trillion years or so. The nothingness
outside of the current expanding bounds of the universe could be
time folded back on itself: the same universe at another time,
during contraction, in a state of nothingness.
Harris walked over to the TV and flipped on a game show he had
seen before. The contestants spun a wheel and guessed letters
and giggled a lot. The host cracked inside jokes and the hostess
pointed to flashing boards and flashed her thighs and cleavage
at the camera.
Harris sat down and put his feet up on the coffee table.
A soft drink commercial came on. Quick one second-camera close-
ups flashed pictures of bikini lines and men's rippling
abdominal muscles. Faceless bodies held cola cans and darkly
tanned legs of both sexes flexed and stretched and sweated. All
this to sell sugar- water.
Harris exhaled. Some things are just too hard to figure out, he
thought. The whole universe especially. But it was there, in the
computer code, somewhere in there, all the answers embedded. He
was glad someone had already done most of the work for him.
"Doctor, I've been thinking about what really bothers me and I
want you to hear it. You see, when they first sent me on this
mission, I really didn't want to go."
He wondered if she were actually further out of touch than he
had previously thought. Maybe she's had a schizophrenic episode?
"But," she continued, "they kept telling me it was good for our
planet, Earth being so close and all. It was actually a matter
of protection for my people."
He double checked his tape recorder and scribbled down what she
had said in his note pad. Definitely a psychotic episode.
"You see, your people are already crawling through space. It is
only a matter of time before you would discover us and ruin our
way of life.
"Frankly," she said, "you people are disgusting. There is only
one advantage to the way you live."
She licked her lips. Now she goes for the manipulation, he
thought.
"When I meet people for the first time, I think they're pretty
interesting. The problem is, then I get tired of them."
Now she had turned sweet, phony, pretending to be forthcoming.
Flashing those damn eyes, dimples, and gorgeous shoulders at
him.
"What do other people do to stay interested in people?" she
asked.
"Many things, like common interests. Do you have any friends
with common interests?"
"Sure, I have lots of interests... strong interests."
She thought it would be funny. She put a couple of thoughts in
his head: he was easily within her range here. Thoughts of she
and him, together. She made the thoughts strong, vivid,
realistic; but not too strong because he wasn't a well man, she
had decided. In the thoughts she was on him; her smooth skin
pressed against his chest and her round breasts bounced across
his writhing torso.
His eyes rolled up as he sat there in his chair, and he gasped
loudly, "Oh my God..." Sitting there in his chair, alone, his
orgasm was so strong and so thoroughly taxing to his body that
he lost consciousness.
His weakness disgusted her. She decided right there and then
that he was to be a dead man. A man who never lived.
And tomorrow I'd better find a new shrink, she thought.
Chapter 21
------------
Garbage trucks. They were the great equalizers, clamoring
through the worst slums as well as the most affluent
neighborhoods. No matter what your station in life -- unless you
lived in a rural area or a veritable oasis -- you couldn't avoid
being awakened by the vociferous sounds of garbage trucks from
time to time.
It was Cruger's time.
He lay in bed listening to the trucks. The deflected light of
early morning crept across the down comforter in the form of
yellow stripes of light. Bizarre thoughts and fantasies swept
through his mind like a hurricane through an Atlantic harbor.
The existentialists almost had it right, he mused. The life of a
man certainly can be defined as the sum total of his
experiences. Yet, that's not a full definition of a life.
Doesn't the life also correspond to boundaries painted by
non-experiences? What a person _does not do_ is just as
important as what he _does do_. A life must be characterized
using a careful consideration of all experiences as well as all
the paths not taken. The potential verses the kinetic. And of
course the potential can always continue to live throughout time
-- who knows what strings will lead where?
Although Cruger saw hints of sunlight shining into the room, he
also heard the pitter-splat-splat of a light early-morning rain.
Rain was another great equalizer. It soaked unprepared street-
people, millionaires, communists (wherever you could find one
anymore), and Rotarians. It probably even rained on the Other
Company, wherever they may be, if not everywhere.
He slipped back to dreaming. Is life a zero-sum game? Certainly
not. What a joke. Some may pack into five minutes of life what
others may take 20 years to do.
And the strings, they prove it, don't they? They reek of balance
and harmony. Isn't everything in life a cycle, a circle, a
beginning leading to an ending and another beginning?
But, if we don't have a zero sum, are the winners and leaders
truly a floating variable, unbiased by kitsch polar opposites
such as good and evil, truth and deception? If a point on a
string defines a time and a place, a plane of existence, can
that time then be arbitrary based on the artifice of our
definition of time? The strings must hold the answer...
"Wake up, sleepy-head," Corrina said with saccharine morning
cheer.
"Ugh."
"Wake up, lazy shit."
"Whad you call me?" Cruger droned. His eyelids fought to open.
"Wake up before I get downright profane. If you don't show signs
of life within 5 seconds, I'll be forced to begin CPR."
Cruger felt sly as well as tired -- he couldn't let the
opportunity pass. He played dead, and when Corrina's count got
to four-one-thousand he rolled over and gave her a big kiss.
Corrina whispered, "Who's reviving who?"
"I just thought you needed a little morning cheer"
"No, I need more than that."
Corrina rolled on top; their mouths met in a soft embrace.
Cruger punned, "Back to the business at hand?"
"Just checking out the merchandise." Corrina's voice was a
breathless husky growl. "Everything seems to be, ah, nicely in
order."
"Very nice."
Their voices stopped as attention to the incipient passion
robbed them their powers of speech. The pitter-patter rain
helped. It was a pleasurable morning free of inhibition, full of
sensation, garbage trucks or no.
When Corrina left for her early shift Cruger walked the hundred
feet next door to Harris's house.
Harris wasn't his usual impeccable self. He had on a terry cloth
robe that looked frayed and wrinkled. Harris himself was
unshaven and had only half-open eyelids.
"A late one last night?" Cruger said, trying to sound as
annoyingly perky as possible.
Harris ran his large hand over his lopsided hair, even his
muscled arms looking slacker than usual. "You're a wise-ass --
you'll get your butt kicked," he said.
"No," Cruger said. "My ass can't be kicked. I have a uniquely
unkickable ass."
Harris smiled. "Don't let your unkickable ass go to your head,"
he said.
"Somehow I don't like the sound of that," Cruger said, "but I'll
keep it in mind, thank you."
Harris went to pour himself some coffee, a cup of instant that
smelled cheap and industrial to Cruger.
"So, you think they can do this whenever they want, erasing
people, I mean?" Cruger said.
Harris slapped the plastic cup down on the tiled kitchen
counter. "Not only whenever they want, but with the skill and
precision of a surgeon. All the interdependencies, the numerous
intersections of lives, times, and even physical objects would
have to be considered -- or at least dealt with somehow."
Cruger reflected on this so called 'surgery'. The ability to
control reality in this way had applications beyond belief.
"You think virtually anyone could become -- ah, let's say, an
unperson?" asked Cruger.
"Yes."
"Or anything?"
"Yes."
"Like nuclear waste?"
"Yes."
"Hazardous chemicals and pollution?"
"Yeah."
"Murderous dictators?"
"Yes."
"Old Jerry Lewis films?"
"Probably not. The French would hang on to them somehow."
"Someone with this type of power would be playing God. I spin,
but, I don't really know what I'm doing when I do it. This is
different, this is complete pinpoint control of the future,
present, and maybe the past."
Harris gave Cruger a stern look. "The person, or being, that
controls this is not only _playing_ God, Jack."
"You've got the skills for it. It's _all_ going to be computer-
run, and you're the man," said Cruger.
"I don't want to be God -- when would I work out?" said Harris.
Cruger laughed at that response. "You've got to think big, man.
When would you work out? You wouldn't have to worry about
mundane things like death or taxes or whether your
cardiovascular system is finely tuned. We will have transcended
that."
Cruger looked at the pot of English ivy that Harris had on his
coffee table. The vine twisted upwards, working its way around
the redwood stake that was firmly anchored in the soil. The
top-most branches of the plant departed from the stake and
reached out into the air, seemingly to groping for more light
and nutrients, without the support of the stake.
"At this point, I would almost have to say we don't have a
choice," said Cruger.
"Oh, there are always choices," Harris said. "Just that they're
not necessarily _good_ alternatives to choose from."
Cruger felt good and worried that he felt better than he should.
His mind played its dirty trick of listing things to worry
about: people disappearing, Tony gone, Corrina and their baby on
the way, the Other Company, his spinning and what the hell it
all meant. There, the list isn't so long after all, is it?
"Anyway, are we gonna run this morning or what?"
Chapter 22
------------
Against the Word the unstilled world still whirled
About the centre of the silent Word.
- T.S Eliot
Uraken observed Cruger's developments closely. It was his job.
Uraken reflected on his own career -- who would have known he
would go so far?
Educated at the top five Shops (humans called them
Universities), he had been off to a good start. Indeed, wasn't
Tigaten -- the top Shop east of the divide -- the equivalent of
Earth's Harvard? Wasn't his first shop, Vonsten, similar to
Berkeley, complete with student protests and extremist radical
factions?
But the politics, the absurd politics that he had endured during
his struggle up the corporate ladder -- that was the great
difference. The earthlings would just happen into their top jobs
with The Company, if all went well. But for him, the favors, the
promises...
He had been like a great human politician, kissing babies,
shaking hands (and even vice versa) -- whatever to took to get
the votes and to obtain the respect and trust needed to become
number one.
These days Uraken just observed from his unique vantage point.
More than anything, Uraken enjoyed watching American football.
Australian football wasn't bad, but the NFL, with the playoffs
and the Super Bowl, was great. Uraken was intelligent enough to
know that viewing the Earth through surveillance microphones and
satellite television was not that accurate. But, from his point
of view, football was tops. Joe Montana was his favorite player,
accurate as hell, the all-time best. And the pageantry, the
contact, the athletic conditioning, the cheerleaders -- what
could better.
Uraken thought soaps sucked but he did like some of night-time
soaps, like "L.A Law". A few cartoons, like Road Runner and
Deputy Dawg, were among his favorites. None of that new Slimer,
Beetlejuice and New Kids stuff, though. It sucked.
Since he couldn't breathe their atmosphere -- the oxygen would
cut through him like a knife -- Uraken circled the Earth in his
space vehicle, a late model Oonsten. He only occasionally
landed, and then it was always in some rural area where only a
few soon-to-be loonies could witness his saucer-shaped Oonsten.
The Southern states of the U.S. were always a good choice for a
landing. The rest of the world considered them to be idiots,
evidently, and even if they snapped a few pictures of the
Oonsten, they were never taken seriously.
On a few occasions, Uraken put on his air-tight protective gear
and left his Oonsten to walk on the Earth. His English, Russian,
German, French, Italian, Spanish, Hebrew, Japanese, Chinese, and
Latin were good, but he still could not communicate well with
the few humans he encountered. They all seemed to drop their
jaws open and shake a lot -- but then they would make strange
mumbling noises and do very little talking. They were hard to
warm up to. Maybe they were trying an old form of Swahili on
him, he joked to himself. Better brush up the African languages.
He longed for the day when he would relinquish his command and
return to Tvonen to become a _sensien_, to taste the good life,
to drink tikboo, to use foul language, and to have _sehun_ with
a hot- looking young _gruchen_ until he passed out.
Uraken had been the Chairmen of the Company for roughly two-
thousand earth years. The office was humbling -- God, Yahmo,
Lord, Master of the Universe; these titles were heavy duty.
Embarrassing even. His position was so important that he labored
for years in deciding the title on his business card. Uraken
finally decided on what turned out to be his singularly most
politically sagacious move: Uraken e Tvonen, Servant of all the
People.
His early studies of Earth people had led him to the Tao
philosophy of leadership, which he held close to his hearts:
leaders were to serve and to teach, to hold the development of
their people in their humble and gentle hands. This was Uraken's
way. He had been criticized for being a non-leader of a leader,
for being a delegator and allowing the _Other Company_ to gain
more control of Earth. On the Earth his presence was not
hands-on -- thus the 'God is dead' bumper stickers. But Uraken
felt he could only lead in the style of leadership that he felt
most comfortable with.
He could see Cruger in the position next -- but just barely.
Only from Earth could a Jack Cruger have a shot at the top
position. His lack of education, his almost disgusting white
skin, and his total disregard for the political process, all
combined to make him a candidate that would be automatically
rejected on the planet of Tvonen.
Leon Harris was another story. He, in fact, was technically
trained, attractive (almost as dark as Uraken himself) -- an
organized, effective, person.
However, this would be no election. Uraken's own ascent to the
position of power was based on politics, public relations, and
good old-fashioned intergalactic marketing. The next Chairman
would be the Earth's first representative in the office, elected
only by his connection to the all-important discovery and
implementation of the Unified Theorem. Then Earthlings would
have accomplished the greatest evolutionary intellectual
development ever in the history of the Universe.
Even recently, common Tvonen thought said it would take another
hundred years, maybe another thousand, before the humans were
ready for their chance. However, humans made great recent
advances in their thoughts on theoretical physics and their
implementation of digital electronics. The original estimates of
hundreds or thousands of years soon compressed to a mere
handful.
Uraken marveled at the human's theories that had come so close
to defining the bounds and origins of the universe. They had
acquired new stature in the great "scheme of things." The humans
deserved the office of God. A little more progress and their
science and technology would rank them tops, even more advanced
than the Tvonen's in their electronics and physics. Very
impressive, Uraken realized, considering that these humans
started out as tiny-little-slimy singled-cell things not all
that long ago.
Of course, when they were slimy little sea creatures, the
Earth's entire company was run by sentient beings, all Tvonens.
After Homo Erectus began strutting his stuff, the company began
hiring the locals and promoting from within. People like Tony
and Jack joined the company. Unfortunately, many humans also
joined The Other Company. Like that Jack Nicholson movie, Uraken
thought, where Jack plays Satan. Uraken had just seen it on a
cable frequency -- such a convincing performance.
And now, as the original members of the company's Earth startup
team left to create job opportunities for the locals, Earth
would come closer and closer to being wholly regionally managed.
Tvonens remember the earth terminology for it: Darwinism. A
species evolves to the point of becoming its own God. Very
impressive; the essence of Darwinism; Uraken loved the poetic
justice involved.
Uraken reflected that although impressive, this was not unusual.
Everything in life is a cycle. The company had always promoted
from within and taken on new characteristics and management
styles.
It was risky, though. Things could go downhill. But, after all,
one must think _cycles_. Things get better, they get worse, they
constantly change -- this is the essence of life itself.
Interesting though that the Other Company was mostly stagnant.
Yes indeed, the essence of stagnation. Things had been the same
there for -- as far as Uraken knew -- since the beginning of
everything. Disadvantages to this are many. But, the Other
Company was steady, very steady. The cycles, if they existed,
had a periodicity great enough to have disallowed the empirical
detection of them. Uraken laughed: he was thinking like a human
now -- 'empirical detection'.
But the future lay in the hands of the Crugers and the Harrises.
A new crop of talent to lead the way.
Uraken had never expected his current organization to last
forever. Someone would come along who could do a better job, add
a modern touch. Harris or Cruger would do just that.
If the _Other Company_ didn't stop them.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Jeff Zias (ZIAS1@AppleLink.apple.com)
---------------------------------------
Jeff Zias has begun a stint with the spin-off software company
Taligent after a ten-year stint writing and managing software at
Apple Computer. Jeff enjoys spending time with his wife and two
small children, playing jazz with Bay Area groups, writing
software and prose, and building playhouses and other assorted
toys for his children to trash. Having actually been a studious
youth, Jeff has a BA in Applied Mathematics from Berkeley and an
MS in Engineering Management from Santa Clara University.
FYI
=====
Back Issues of InterText
--------------------------
Back issues of InterText can be found via anonymous FTP at:
> ftp://ftp.etext.org/pub/Zines/InterText/
and
> ftp://network.ucsd.edu/intertext/
You may request back issues from us directly, but we must handle
such requests manually, a time-consuming process.
On the World-Wide Web, point your WWW browser to:
> http://www.etext.org/Zines/InterText/
If you have CompuServe, you can read InterText in the Electronic
Frontier Foundation Forum, accessible by typing GO EFFSIG. We're
located in the "Zines from the Net" section of the EFFSIG forum.
On GEnie, we're located in the file area of SFRT3, the Science
Fiction and Fantasy Roundtable.
On America Online, issues are available in Keyword: PDA, in
Palmtop Paperbacks/Electronic Articles & Newsletters.
Gopher Users: find our issues at
> ftp.etext.org in /pub/Zines/InterText
....................................................................
And don't forget...
When life gives you lemons, use 'em as projectile weapons.
..
This issue is wrapped as a setext. For more information send
email with the single word "setext" (no quotes) in the Subject:
line to <fileserver@tidbits.com>, or contact the InterText staff
directly.