The Shockwave Rider

by John Brunner

  2: As a result of the failure of Mr. Breadloaf’s mission a strike has been authorized against Precipice CA at 0130 PST tomorrow by aircraft based at Lowndes Field near San Diego. Since this is to be carried out with junior nukes (USAF Code 19L-12) Mr. Breadloaf is not expected to survive.

  (N3: part 2 of the foregoing message is a cybernetic datum published in direct contravention of DoD Regulation #229RR3X3, as being conducive to the physical, psychological and/or social well-being of the population.)

  EXTREMELY CROSS SECTION

  “Wipe that grin off your face! You knew the company was going broke and I can prove it!”

  “Precipice? Where’s that?”

  “My sister went blind, near me? Blind! And she never used any eye makeup except your brand!”

  “Bomb an American city? Oh, it must be a mistake.”

  “It was my money, and I sweated blood to earn it, and it went to feather your stinking nest!”

  “Precipice? Seems to me I heard that name before.”

  “Christ, what you did to the poor little slittie! She hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in months, she always wakes up screaming and howling, and I was fool enough to bring her back for more. I could never look her in the face again if I didn’t ruin yours.”

  “What was that about Precipice?”

  “Damn right I voted for him. But if I’d known then what I know now I wouldn’t have cast a vote. I’d have cast a brick.”

  “A strike? With nukes? My God, I know Hearing Aid isn’t exactly popular, but—!”

  “Jim, I don’t believe you know my lawyer Charles Sweyn. He has something to give you. Charlie? Fine. You’ll notice the summons mentions damages of fifty million.”

  “I thought we were talking about some town called Precipice.”

  “I read what it said on that tax form and I swear to God I’ll pay you in buckshot if you show your filthy nose around my place!”

  “Really? I always wondered where their base was.”

  “Precipice?”

  “Hearing Aid?”

  “Nukes?”

  “My God! Do you think they know about this? Where’s a phone? Quick!”

  TOUCH AND GO

  Past one a.m. at the headquarters of Hearing Aid. Ordinarily a dead time of night because most of the continent had orbited into sleep and only a handful of the most lonely, the most dismal, the most despairing were still anxious to talk to an anonymous listener.

  Tonight was different. The room was crackling with restrained tension. The goal to which since its foundation Precipice had been dedicated was upon them, and they had never expected it to be so soon.

  Solemn expressions were on the faces of the dozen people present. Only half of them were engaged in listening duty; other calls were being relayed to private homes. The remainder were monitoring the progress of their super-tapeworm.

  To them generally Nick said, turning away from his board, “News from Paul Freeman. He got that body-and-soul program on the move, the one he hoped to adapt from the existing federal resources-allocation program. He said it was tough.”

  “That was the postwar one?” Sweetwater inquired.

  “Right.” Nick stretched his long arms. “Consequently it was drafted to ensure that only people the government approved of would be allotted food, medicine, clothing and power.”

  “You mean,” Kate supplied, “it was built to make certain that the people fool enough to drag us into a major war would wind up on top again afterwards.”

  “So they could screw us up the next time, right. But Paul managed to peel away that factor by substituting a half-like basis for entitlement to credit, and left the rest intact to run the net with even more authority than it had when it was an arm for Weychopee. He was there when it was written. Spotted its weaknesses right away.”

  “So what does it do now?” Brad Compton demanded.

  “Not a few good things. If people vote for Proposition #1, no greedy shivver will get his wall-to-wall three-vee so long as anybody’s homeless. He won’t get his round-the-planet airship cruise so long as people are dying from any disease we know how to cure.”

  “Smooth enough for starters,” Sweetwater said. “But has there been any progress on your side, Nick—rationalizing the tax structure? That’s what I want to know about. When I think how angry I got paying off the croakers in Oakland because of their local ordinance against mediums … !”

  “Oh, yes. Proposition #2 is cooking as nicely as #1,” Nick said, and tapped a quick code into his board. “It went back to have a couple of loopholes deleted, and if there’s no further snag … Ah, good. Coming up in about two minutes.”

  Suzy Dellinger said absently, “You know, I always wondered what democracy might smell like. Finally I detect it in the air.”

  “Curious that it should arrive in the form of electronic government,” Sweetwater murmured.

  Brad Compton glanced at her. “Not really, when you think about the history of liberty. It’s the story of how principle has gradually been elevated above the whim of tyrants. When the law was defined as more powerful than the king, that was one great breakthrough. Now we’ve come to another milestone. We’re giving power to more people than have ever before enjoyed it, and—”

  “And it makes me feel,” Nick interrupted, “the way they must have felt when they started the first nuclear chain reaction. Will there still be a world in the morning?”

  There was a short pause, silent but for the hum of the electrical equipment, as they contemplated the continental pre-empt scheduled for the day after tomorrow. From 0700 local until 1900 every veephone on the continent would display, over and over, two propositions, accompanied by a spoken version for the benefit of the illiterate. Most would be in English, but some would be in Spanish, some in Amerind languages, some in Chinese … the proportions being based on the latest continental census. After each repetition would follow a pause, during which any adult could punch into the phone his or her code, followed by a “yes” or a “no.”

  And according to the verdict, the computers of the continent would respond.

  Proposition #1 concerned the elimination of all but voluntary poverty. Proposition #2—

  “Here it comes,” Nick said, scanning the columns of figures and code groups appearing on his screen. “Seems to be pretty well finalized. Categorizes occupations on three axes. One: necessary special training, or uncommon talent in lieu—that’s to cover people with exceptional creative gifts like musicians or artists. Two: drawbacks like unpredictable hours and dirty working conditions. Three: social indispensability.”

  Brad slapped his thigh. “What a monument to Claes College!”

  “Mm-hm. There’ll be a footnote on every single printout explaining that if we’d paid attention to what the Claes group discovered by working among the Bay Quake refugees this could have been settled a generation back. … Hmm! Yes, I think this balances out very nicely. For instance, a doctor will score high on special training and social importance too, but he can only get into the top pay bracket if he accepts responsibility for helping emergency cases, instead of keeping fixed office hours. That puts him high on all three scales. And a garbage collector, though rating low on special training, will do well on scales two and three. All public servants like police and firemen will automatically score high on scale three and most on scale two as well, and—oh, yes. I like the look of it. Particularly since a lot of parasites who were at the top in the old days will now pay tax at ninety percent because they score zero on all three axes.”

  “Zero?” someone demanded in disbelief.

  “Why not? People in advertising, for example.”

  The questioner’s eyebrows rose. “Never thought of that before. But it figures.”

  “Think they’ll stand for it?” Kate said nervously, patting Bagheera who lay at her side. Since meeting Natty Bumppo he had refused to be left out of sight of her, although he and the dog had exhibited mutual tolerance, as favorable a reaction as might have
been hoped for.

  “Their choice is to close down the net,” Nick said, and snapped his fingers. “Thereby breaking their own necks. Suzy, you look worried.”

  The mayor nodded. “Even if they don’t deliberately blow the net when they find they can’t interfere with our pre-empt, to make some kind of grand suicidal gesture … there’s another and more disturbing question.”

  “What?”

  “Are people scared into their right minds yet?”

  The following silence was broken by the soft buzz of an incoming call. Kate switched it to her board and put on her phones.

  Seconds later she uttered a loud gasp, and all heads turned to her.

  Peeling off her phones again, she spun her chair, her cheeks as pale as paper and her eyes wide with fear.

  “It can’t be true! It simply can’t be true! My God, it’s already twenty past one—the plane must have taken off!”

  “What? What?” A chorus of anxious voices.

  “That caller claimed to be a cousin of Miskin Breadloaf. The would-be bomber you arrested, Ted. She says Precipice is going to be attacked with nukes at 0130!”

  “Ten minutes? We can’t possibly evacuate the town in ten minutes!” Suzy whispered, clenching her fists and staring at the wall clock as though willing it to show some earlier time.

  “We’ll have to try!” Ted snapped, jumping to his feet and heading for the door. “I’ll get Nat to rouse everybody and—” He checked. Nick had suddenly launched into a burst of furious activity, punching his board with fingers that flew faster than a pianist’s.

  “Nick! Don’t waste time—move! We need everybody’s help!”

  “Shut up!” Nick grated between clenched teeth. “Go on, wake the town, get everybody away that you can … but leave me alone!”

  “Nick!” Kate said, taking an uncertain pace toward him.

  “You too! Run like hell—because this may not work!”

  “If you’re going to stay then I—”

  “Go, damn it!” Nick hissed. “Go!”

  “But what are you trying to do?”

  “Shut—up—and—go!”

  Suddenly Kate found herself out in the chilly dark, and at her side Bagheera was trembling, the hairs on his nape raised and rough under her fingers. There was incredible noise: the dogs barking, Ted shouting through a bullhorn, everybody who could find any means of banging or rattling or clanging using it to create a racket no one could have slept through.

  “Leave town! Run like hell! Don’t take anything, just run!”

  From nowhere a dog appeared in front of her. Kate stopped in alarm, wondering whether she could hold Bagheera back if he was frightened and confused enough to pounce.

  The dog wagged its great tail. She abruptly recognized Natty Bumppo.

  Head low, neck in a concave bend, in a wholly uncharacteristic puppy-like posture, he approached Bagheera, giving a few more ingratiating strokes with his tail. Bagheera’s nape hairs relaxed; he allowed Nat to snuff his muzzle, though his claws were half-unsheathed.

  What was the meaning of this pantomime? Should Nat not be on duty, waking people with his barking?

  And then Bagheera reached a conclusion. He stretched his neck and rubbed his cheek against Natty Bumppo’s nose. His claws disappeared.

  “Kate!” someone shouted from behind her. She started. Sweetwater’s voice.

  “Kate, are you all right?” The tall Indian woman came running to her side. “Why aren’t you—? Oh, of course. You daren’t let loose Bagheera!”

  Kate took a deep breath. “I thought I couldn’t. Nat just set me right.”

  “What?” Sweetwater stared incomprehension.

  “If human beings had half the insight of this dog … !” Kate gave a near-hysterical laugh, releasing her grip on Bagheera’s collar. Instantly Natty Bumppo , turned around and went bounding into the darkness with Bagheera matching him stride for stride.

  “Kate, what the hell are you talking about?” Sweetwater insisted.

  “Didn’t you see? Nat just made Bagheera a freeman of Precipice!”

  “Oh, for—! Kate, come with me! We only have seven minutes left!”

  There was no chance to organize the flight; the Precipicians simply scattered, taking the shortest route to the edge of town and continuing into the surrounding farmland. Gasping, her feet cut by sharp grass and stones, Kate was overtaken by a bitch loping easily with a screaming child astride her back; she thought it might have been Brynhilde. Then a branch whipped across her face and she almost fell, but a strong arm caught and steadied her, hurried her another dozen paces, then hurled her to the ground in what shelter was offered by a shallow dip.

  “No point in trying to go on,” Ted’s gruff voice said out of darkness. “Better to be closer behind a good solid bank of earth than further away and on your feet in the open.”

  Two more people tumbled over the rim of the hollow. One she didn’t know; the other was the restaurant keeper, Eustace Fenelli.

  “What is all the panic?” he demanded with a trace of petulance.

  Rapidly Ted explained, and concluded after a glance at his watch, “The strike is scheduled for 0130, in about a minute and a half.”

  For a moment Eustace said nothing. Then, with magnificent simplicity, making the single word into a whole encyclopedia of objurgation: “Shit!”

  To her astonishment Kate had to giggle.

  “I’m glad someone finds it funny!” Eustace grunted. “Who—? Oh, Kate! Hello. Is Nick here too?”

  “He wouldn’t come,” she said in the steadiest voice she could achieve.

  “He what?”

  “He stayed behind.”

  “But—! You mean nobody could find and tell him?”

  “No. He … Oh, Ted!”

  She turned blindly and fell against the sheriff’s shoulder, her body racked with dreadful sobs.

  Faint in the distance they could now hear the teeth-aching whine of electric lifters, the superpowerful type fitted to low-level short-range strike planes. It grew louder.

  Louder.

  Louder.

  THE LINE OF MOST RESISTANCE

  To the President of the United States

  URGENT AND MOST SECRET

  Sir:

  Copied to you herewith is a signal received at Lowndes Field at 0014 hours today, purporting to emanate from yourself as commander in chief and ordering a nuclear strike at coordinates that manifestly are within the continental United States.

  In view of the fact that it was superficially convincing, being properly enciphered in a one-time cipher scheduled for use today, it came close to causing a disaster, specifically the death of approx. 3000 civilians in the town of Precipice CA. I regret to have to advise you that the mission was actually initiated, and only by a miracle was it aborted in time (on receipt of DoD signal #376 774 P, which warned all naval, military and air force bases that saboteurs might have gained access to the data net).

  I have taken steps to discipline the officer who authorized inception of the mission, and upon my own responsibility have issued a signal summarizing the matter to all West Coast bases. I respectfully suggest that the some be done on a national basis, and at once.

  I remain. Sir,

  (signed)

  Wilbur H. Neugebauer, General

  AFTER TOUCH AND GO, GO

  They saw the plane as it swooped. They saw it clearly by the eerie blue glow around its repulsors, gulping vast quantities of air into electrical fields so fierce that were a man to put his arm incautiously within their shining ring he would withdraw a stump after mere seconds.

  They heard it, too: a howl as of a banshee.

  But as it crossed the town … it let fall nothing.

  After an hour of waiting, teeth chattering, fists clenched, scarcely daring to raise their heads in case the threatened attack should after all take place, the inhabitants of Precipice rediscovered hope.

  And through the dark they stumbled and staggered homeward to an orchestra
of wailing children.

  Somehow—Kate never knew quite how—she found that she was walking with Bagheera at her side again, while next to Ted and a couple of paces ahead was Natty Bumppo.

  Bagheera was purring.

  It was as though he felt flattered at being declared an honorary dog.

  Cautiously Ted opened the door of the Hearing Aid headquarters, while Kate and Sweetwater craned to look past him. Behind, half a dozen other people—Suzy, Eustace, Josh and Lorna, Brad, those who had begun to guess the explanation for their salvation—waited in impatience.

  There was Nick, hands on arms, slumped forward fainting over his board.

  Kate thrust past Ted and ran to his side, calling his name.

  He stirred, licking his lips, and sat upright, putting his right hand to his temple. He seemed giddy. But on seeing Kate he forced a smile, and continued it to the others who by now were flooding into the room.

  “It worked,” he said in a thin, husky voice. “I never dared believe it would. I was so scared, so terrified. … But I was just in time.”

  Ted halted before him, gazing around the room.

  “What did you do?”

  Nick gave a faint chuckle and pointed to his screen. On it a signal from someone called General Neugebauer to the president was cycling over and over in clear text, there being too much of it to display all at once.

  “It was a close call,” he added. “Damned close. The duty officer at Lowndes must be used to doing as he’s told and no questions please. … When I realized the plane was already on its way I nearly collapsed.”

  Sweetwater, pushing her way through the crowd, stared at the screen.

  “Hey,” she said after a moment’s thought. “Was there a Department of Defense signal number whatever?”

  “Of course not.” Nick rose, stretched, stifled a colossal yawn. “But it seemed like the quickest solution to invent it.”