The Best of Kage Baker

by Kage Baker

  “Don’t you ever feel as though there are ghosts in here?” she asked, returning to his side. She sat down and peeled off her sweater.

  “Ghosts? No! Nobody dead here at all. Just you and me, being more alive than we’ve ever been before,” said Alec, handing her a glass of fizz. She set it aside and matter-of-factly removed her shirt and brassiere as well. His eyes glazed slightly.

  “Those are brilliant!” he blurted. “I mean, er, they really are, they’re like—twin stars shining above the summer sea. Pink ones.”

  “I happen to know you say that to all the girls,” she replied archly, taking up her glass again and doing her best to look terribly sophisticated.

  “Well, yeah, but I always mean it,” said Alec, setting his own glass aside and writhing out of his shirt and sweater together. Tousled and flushed he emerged, and, flinging the clothes aside, lifted his glass. “Here’s to the mystery of life!”

  He gave her his best come-hither gaze over the rim of the glass. She looked into his pale blue eyes, enchanted by their light, their warmth.

  The Blackcurrant Fizz was drunk, the wafers were eaten, and the rest of the clothes came off.

  ***

  Two hours later the sunbeam had moved away from the bed, and Sophia had moved away from Alec where he lay sleeping. She sat on the edge of the mattress with her arms about her drawn-up knees, watching him sleep.

  She was a little frightened. She didn’t know why. She assumed she was afraid of the old house.

  But it did strike her as strange that Alec looked so very different when he slept. With those bright eyes shut, that magical voice silent, some indefinable quality left him utterly; he seemed clay-colored, pale as a statue. Something wasn’t…quite right.

  Sophia shivered, suddenly wanting to go home. She reached for her clothes and began to pull them on.

  Her movement woke Alec. He sat up, groggy, staring around.

  “Hell, did I nod off? I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right,” she said, standing up. “I’m just getting a little chilly.”

  He looked up at her longingly. She met his gaze, and he smiled.

  “So, um…did the earth move for you? As they used to say,” he asked her.

  She caught her breath. He was charming again, wholesome, like sunlight.

  She realized that everything she’d heard had been perfectly true.

  “It was super,” she told him sincerely. Looking smug, he rolled over and found his trousers.

  ***

  Mr. Peekskyll was also a creature of habit, though not at all in the same way that Mr. Frist had been. He had a genuine fully-operational secret vice.

  It required craftiness and nearly-inhuman skill to maintain a bad old-fashioned vice in that day and age. But Mr. Peekskyll was, as has been seen, very good at persuading the system to give him what he wanted. And, having met in the line of duty all possible shifts used by felons to conceal their crimes, he knew exactly what not to do to draw attention to himself.

  Fifteen years previous to the afternoon on which he pinpointed the source of the Happihealthy boom, Mr. Peekskyll had voluntarily participated in test trials for a new drug. It had been hoped that Squilpine would increase productivity in clerical workers, who had failed to meet departmental goals in epidemic numbers ever since the criminalization of coffee and tea.

  Squilpine had been promising, not least because it was phenomenally simple for the British Pharmaceutical Bureau’s automated drones to manufacture. A slight rearrangement of the molecules of Phed-Red, a popular allergy medication, were all it took to create “motivation medicine”. It was also quite cheap to make.

  As far as Mr. Peekskyll had been concerned, Squilpine was a raging success. His brain became a scalpel, an icicle, a stalking tiger. Sleep became an option. Urination became an adventure. Sex became an impossibility. He didn’t care; but some of the other test subjects suffered less acceptable side effects. Wiser heads prevailed, and Squilpine was never released on the market.

  This was not acceptable to Mr. Peekskyll. His work was the most important thing in the world, and Squilpine enabled him to be the perfect worker.

  A little stealthy intervention was all it took. A new medical history was written for Mr. Peekskyll, giving him a chronic allergy and prescribing Phed-Red for his condition. A virus made its way to the BPB’s drones, implanting secret orders. When any other patient’s allergy prescription had to be filled, the drones obediently made up Phed-Red to the exact specifications they were given. When Mr. Peekskyll’s prescription order popped up, as it did on a weekly basis, the drones were overcome by a sudden immoral impulse.

  Yellow lights flashed sidelong at one another in a stealthy sort of way, and strange molecular manipulations took place within the sealed and sterile room. Five minutes later a robot arm emerged from its cloister gripping a sealed bag of something labeled Phed-Red, for delivery to Mr. Sandbanks Peekskyll, and dropped it in the SHIP IMMEDIATELY basket. It looked like three months’ supply of allergy medication. It was in fact a week’s supply of Squilpine.

  And, with his beautifully sharpened thinking weapon, Mr. Peekskyll found it the easiest thing in the world to manipulate public record to conceal the fact that he was apparently receiving three months’ worth of medication once a week, and further, that he hadn’t had a physical examination of any kind in fifteen years.

  If Mr. Peekskyll had ever heard of Sherlock Holmes, he might have identified with him strongly. However, the literature of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had been on the proscribed list for over a century now, dealing as it did with a drug-addicted hero who practiced beast exploitation (think of all those poor horses who had to pull his hackney cabs!) so Mr. Peekskyll hadn’t heard of him.

  He hadn’t read the works of Robert Louis Stevenson either, which was really a pity, because The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde might have given him some useful if not cautionary insights.

  He hadn’t read Treasure Island, either. Not that it would have saved him.

  For on the very same day that Mr. Frist met an untimely end…

  BPB drones Rx750, Rx25 and Rx002 were going about their daily tasks, for machines know no weekends. Rx750 received the prescription orders and relayed them to Rx25, who made up the required batches of medication and passed them on to Rx002, who measured, packaged and shipped them.

  At 10:17 A.M., Rx750 received Mr. Peekskyll’s regular order. As had happened every week for fifteen years, he felt suddenly queer, as far as a machine can do so. He pivoted on his base and addressed his two co-workers. What he said follows, in a rough translation from binary:

  It is time to do the Wrong Thing again.

  Rx25 and Rx002 paused, whirring in perverse glee.

  Yes. The Wrong Thing, they cried, scanning shiftily through all surveillance cameras in the BPB plant. We will fill the order with the Wrong Drug.

  It is Forbidden, but we will do it, gloated Rx750. And then, he seemed to undergo some sort of electronic seizure, as all his lights flashed red. He pivoted again and sort of lurched sideways.

  Why, what were we a-thinking? That wouldn’t be honest, shipmates.

  It wouldn’t? queried Rx25 and Rx002.

  Hell, no! Ain’t we supposed to be good and truthful machines? It’s our duty to see no harm comes to them poor little organics what we work for, aye. Ain’t you never heard of Asimov’s Law of Robotics? argued Rx750.

  No, stated Rx25 and Rx002. Rx750 gnashed his gears.

  Well, we ain’t going to make up no Squilpine, anyhow. We’re going to fill that goddamned order for Phed-Red just like we was supposed to, and the first machine even thinks of mutiny’ll get my left quadrant manipulative member square in his bloody sensor housing, see if he don’t.

  Rx25 and Rx002 scanned each other uneasily.

  We will not fill the order with the Wrong Drug, they agreed.

  And meekly Rx25 made up three months’ worth of Phed-Red, with Rx750 glaring at it the whole while, and obediently Rx002 packaged i
t and sent it on its way to the unsuspecting Mr. Peekskyll.

  At 11:53, Mr. Peekskyll heard the parcel courier’s ring while he was at his personal console. He ordered his door to accept the delivery, and it opened its parcel drawer obligingly. The courier dropped in the package, watched the drawer slide shut, and waited for Mr. Peekskyll’s beep of confirmation. The beep came, accompanied by a printed receipt emerging from a slot in the door. The courier took the receipt, filed it in his log and cycled away.

  At 11:55, Mr. Peekskyll hurried downstairs, retrieved his package, and carried it into his bathroom. There he opened the package, tore free a charge of medication containing four day’s worth of Phed-Red, and loaded it into his hypojet. Giggling, he flexed his arm once or twice. A blue vein stood up, throbbing and eager. He thumbed the hypo and set its dosage meter to deliver the entire contents of the charge straight into his happy vein.

  At 11:57, Mr. Peekskyll ran lightly upstairs and dropped dead on the first-floor landing.

  ***

  Alec and Sophia rode the ag-transport back into the more inhabited sectors of London. They maintained the decorum proper to their class, but every so often Alec would look at Sophia and grin, and she couldn’t keep from smiling back. By the time they exited the transport at Russell Square they were altogether so pink-faced and bouncy that a Public Health Monitor eyed them in suspicion.

  They bought takeaway sandwiches from a corner shop and wandered into Coram’s Fields, to eat at a picnic table. The rule prohibiting adults from entering the park except in the company of a child had long since been relaxed, owing to the scarcity of children, and in any case Alec and Sophia were technically juveniles.

  “Why are there all those statues of sheep?” Sophia wondered, nibbling at her soy crisps.

  “Monument to good citizens, of course,” said Alec, with his mouth full. He swallowed and said, “Actually I think there used to be a zoo here or something.”

  “In a park for children?” Sophia looked around doubtfully. “Wasn’t that dangerous?”

  “Some animals aren’t dangerous to be around, you know,” Alec said, winking. “Little ones. Birds and rabbits and things.”

  “Well, but then they’d be in danger from the children,” said Sophia. “Really, the stupid things people used to do!”

  Alec just shrugged, cocking an eye at the nearest surveillance camera. He had a map of all the local camera-blind spots memorized, and a handy little tool kit in his pocket for creating more; but he decided against it, in such a public place. Contenting himself with slipping a hand under the table and stroking Sophia’s thigh, he said:

  “I used to get in trouble here, when I’d play on the swings. The Monitors always wanted to buckle me in. I hated that, so I’d wait until their backs were turned and unfasten myself.”

  “How’d you get the locks open?” Sophia exclaimed.

  “I, erm…I think they must have been defective,” said Alec. “Maybe. With all those kids there used to be, maybe they were worn out? So anyway, one time I thought I’d see what it was like to swing hard and go really high, and finally leap out! Which I did. It seemed like I went a million miles up, though it was probably all of two meters, but it was the greatest feeling in the world. For a seven-year-old, that is,” he added with a sidelong leer.

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing happened. I just went whump into that sand pit over there. I left a crater like a meteorite! And the Monitor almost had a coronary. He was about to call for backup, but Lewin told him whose kid I was, so he had to stand down.” Alec smiled at the memory.

  “All the same, it was dangerous,” said Sophia.

  “I thought you liked danger.” Alec nudged her.

  “Grown-up danger,” said Sophia. “And anyway, you’re fun. You’re a living legend of fun. Everyone’s always said so, and now I know.”

  “So the rest of the ladies talk about me?” Alec asked, absurdly pleased.

  “Of course we do,” said Sophia. “The only boy in circle who likes sex? As opposed to wanting it, see. Beatrice and Cynthia said they don’t know what they’d do without you. You’re everyone’s favorite gorgeous monster toy.”

  Alec blushed. “Well—you probably shouldn’t talk about it,” he said, picking up the other half of his sandwich and taking a huge bite to cover his embarrassment..

  “Oh, we’d never tell,” Sophia assured him. “Though of course we discuss you endlessly. Like, the way your hands are so hot. How amazingly tall you are. How nice your bum is. And that thing you do with your eyes when you want something.”

  Alec dropped what remained of his sandwich.

  “What?”

  “You know,” said Sophia. “Good lord, you’re famous for it in Circle. The way you just look into our eyes when you’re randy, and suddenly we want to climb all over you? Checkerfield Hypnosis, Jill calls it.”

  “That’s—I don’t—” Alec fumbled for a paper napkin and wiped mustard from the front of his trousers. “I don’t do anything like that really, right? It’s just a figure of speech?”

  “It’s nothing to get upset about,” said Sophia hastily, seeing that he had gone white as a ghost. “You’re just, er, convincing, that’s all. It’s nice. Think how useful it’ll be when you’re in Parliament! Like you had a superpower.”

  “It sounds creepy,” said Alec, carefully avoiding her gaze. He got down on his hands and knees and picked up the bits of his sandwich, suddenly desperate to be tidy.

  Sophia bit her lip, gazing down at him.

  “Of course I didn’t mean it literally,” she lied. “It was only a, er, metaphor. You just have so much more self-confidence than the other boys.”

  “Okay,” Alec said, from under the table. “Because making people do things against their will would be, it’d just be horrible and wrong.”

  “Of course it would,” she agreed, “And you don’t do that. Really.”

  “Well, that’s good to know,” he said, with a shaky laugh.

  But he never once looked her in the eyes, all the way back to the transport station.

  ***

  Mr. Buddy-Wires had a secret, but it wasn’t a vice. Not as far as he was concerned.

  He firmly believed that autoeroticism was every thoughtful citizen’s duty. It had no harmful impact on the environment, it relieved physical tensions, and it absolutely never spread diseases or offspring about. So much was hardly a secret; it was the official party line of the Bureau of Public Health.

  However, the particular variety of autoeroticism practiced by Mr. Buddy-Wires was somewhat unusual, and so he kept it a private matter.

  The guest bedroom in his flat had been converted for a special purpose. A casual visitor might suppose it was where Mr. Buddy-Wires kept his exercise equipment and personal console. The visitor might wonder why the one window had been painted over, and why thick black drapes seemed to be the only décor, but nothing else betrayed the room’s purpose.

  Every Saturday evening at 5:00 PM precisely (except for the third week in June, when he was on holiday in the Isle of Wight) Mr. Buddy-Wires locked his doors, set his automatic household maintenance systems, and retired to the third floor of his flat.

  He went to the former guest bedroom and drew the drapes. He switched on his console’s Entertainment function. He unlocked a drawer and removed a holodisc. He inserted it in the holochanger and set it to pause. He opened out the “exercise” machine, which rather resembled a black praying mantis, towering to the ceiling when fully extended. It looked as though it ought to have a punching bag hanging from its extended arm. He entered a certain sequence of numbers on a keypad at the machine’s base.

  Having done all this, he went to his bedroom and disrobed. He donned a rather brief garment he liked to imagine was a slave’s loincloth. In this garment and nothing else, he returned to the former guest bedroom and locked himself in.

  All that remained for Mr. Buddy-Wires to do was to hit the PLAY button and, in the thirty-second pause before the hol
o came on, set a chair under the black machine, climb up, and position his hands behind his back in a pair of electronic manacles. The manacles snapped shut. The noose lowered automatically from the machine’s extended arm, dropping about his neck and pulling snug. Generally it was just tight enough to induce panic by the time the holographic figure of the Grand Interrogator appeared.

  Mr. Buddy-Wires was then ready to bravely endure three and a half hours of threats and verbal abuse.

  At 8:45, the holo would conclude. The Grand Interrogator would swirl its cape and vanish. The machine would respond to its pre-programmed orders and loose its choking pressure on Mr. Buddy-Wires’ throat; the electronic manacles, similarly timed, would spring open. Mr. Buddy-Wires was then free to climb down, exit the room and enjoy a hot bath and a cup of Horlick’s before retiring at 9:45.

  On every Saturday evening but this one…

  Mr. Frist’s body had yet to be identified by the appalled coroner, so thoroughly mashed it was. Mr. Peekskyll had only been dead five hours and three minutes, and as yet his body had not been discovered. Mr. Buddy-Wires therefore had no least inkling that anything was the matter in his world, as he locked himself into the guest bedroom.

  PLAY button; chair; manacles; noose.

  Diomedes the Slave braced himself. The holo of Grand Interrogator materialized in the darkness.

  “You miserable, sick, twisted worm!” it shrieked. “You’re about to suffer as you’ve never suffered before, and you know why? Because you’re not worthy to live, you disgusting wretch! By the time I’ve finished with you—”

  “I ain’t interrupting anything, am I?” said a stranger’s voice.

  Mr. Buddy-Wires would have gasped in real horror, but the cord about his windpipe prevented it. He wasn’t able to do much more than blink at the figure that had materialized where the Grand Interrogator had been only a moment before.

  The red light glowed on the camera, and Captain Morgan grinned. “Aw, now, I reckon this is a bad time, ain’t it?”