by Jerry
Ted guessed she would be; Mary was different, a real triumph of what these people called genetic engineering.
Though next day she surprised him. After Arthan told him it was time, and they had a last long kiss, she stopped Ted for a second, lifting her hand up beside her cheek to detach an earring. She held it for him. “To remember me by.”
“Then you’ll only have one.”
“We’ll both have one, to remind us we were a pair.”
Ted’s eyes burned with unshed tears and his throat was too choked for him to talk while he tucked the earring in the pouch at his belt—Homo proteus might have been willing to make him clothing, but hadn’t gone as far as pockets—then he nodded and joined Arthan and the others waiting outside.
They led him through a side hall he’d never been through before and into a glowing circle on the floor. As he started to levitate Ted looked up at a corresponding hole in the ceiling. Arthan smiled beside him. “A new experience?”
Ted grinned back, calm but exhilarated. “You bet.”
The group rose more than a thousand feet, before gravity changed and they turned over neatly in midair and landed on a ring cantilevered out around the top of a blunt cylinder yards across with a spidery bridge leading to the center. Instead of railings the platform had what might be control boards around its inner and outer circumferences.
The rest stayed behind while Arthan and a lean, big-headed person he’d never met before escorted him across the bridge. On the way he saw that the cylinder below was surrounded by spiraling coils that smoked with cold.
They descended a ladder under a raised door like a bulkhead, with Ted getting heavier every rung he went down, which meant there had to be collapsed matter somewhere underneath. Finally they were in a tiny hollow, the inside of a sphere with walls two feet thick.
Arthan told him to strip, he had to go as naked as he came.
Ted stared for a moment before he obeyed, realizing he couldn’t take back even the earring Mary had meant for a remembrance. Then he shrugged and took off the belt with the pouch, handed it and the rest of his clothing to Arthan.
Once Ted was naked the stranger eased him into a metal chair, hooked tentacular wires and transparent tubes to his face and chest and groin.
“Goodbye, Ted Kinzer,” Arthan said, riding the retracting ladder up. A door in the shape of a truncated cone plugged the hole in the sphere once they were gone.
He waited, barely breathing.
A momentary flicker, and he was in the plane again, waiting for the recovery crew to open the canopy. Then Peterson leaned in and popped the faceplate, and Ted smelled dust and ammonia.
There was something about Peterson’s face, things didn’t look quite right—
Increase stimulus rate, said a voice Ted almost recognized, then forgot he’d heard.
He felt weird. Had something happened during the flight, something scary? No, it had to be just a dream, like most dreams one couldn’t remember.
Marge was waiting when Ted came out of the suit van, smiling bright as the sun. She opened her arms.
Increase stimulus rate.
DOWN ON THE 01 LEVEL
Gene O’Neill
The ancient enclosed city had many Levels, which the rules said should remain forever separate. Even in the future, however, some taboos will be too tempting to remain unbroken.
Down, down and away
out of sight
to a lower Level
of perverse delight . . .
Dyed and banished Outside,
to wander and yearn,
dreaming of a life Inside,
but, alas, never to return.
—“Bobber Blues,” Riga Maroux
THE THICK, YELLOW-BROWN HAZE CLINGS TO THE ROLLING, GOLDEN HILLS, ALMOST CONcealing the old freeway, a faded-gray, broken road, its white divider stripes long gone, only an overhead green sign left to indicate the exit to a rusted-out nowhere. Suddenly a figure appears in the polluted haze under the useless sign. It’s a man, ambling slowly—the gait of an experienced hiker. He wears old-style, threadbare clothes and carries a backpack; and there is nothing remarkable about him in any way except for his bizarre color. Every inch of exposed skin is dyed a deep crimson, the color of fresh blood. The Crimson Man pauses, then leaves the road for the shade of a lonely live oak. But before he can even remove his pack, two horsemen ride into view from the hills to the east. Both riders are heavily dressed for the muggy heat—longcoats made from blanket remnants decorated with charms and dangling amulets, faded neckerchiefs over their faces, and dirty wide-rimmed hats pulled down low. Without a word, one rider levels an old rifle at the Crimson Man, signaling for him to turn about and remain still, while the other horseman dismounts and rips open the back of the dyed man’s shirt. The dismounted man reaches up to his saddlehorn, takes off a bullwhip, and uncoils it slowly as he judges the distance separating him from the Crimson Man. Then he lashes out with the whip, splitting open the back of the dyed man. Another pair of cutting lashes and the Crimson Man slumps to his knees, his head on his chest, his red back streaked with real blood. The man with the bullwhip moves close, jerks the dyed man’s head up, and gestures with the butt of his whip in the direction of the old highway. The Crimson Man nods before letting his head drop back to his chest. Then the dismounted man curls the whip, mounts, and both horsemen ride off, kicking up a cloud of dust that mixes with the clinging filthy haze . . .
A GENTLE BUMP AGAINST MY SHOULDER AND a barely audibly whispered “Sandoval!” near my ear interrupted my concentration on the Outside confrontation between the two Freemen and dyed murderer.
I tapped the spectacles, which opaqued briefly as the re-creation disappeared. On the other side of the cleared-off dining table, Kinjo and Sedalia, who were both smiling, stared back, apparently expecting some kind of response from me.
So I grinned and nodded; and the pair, apparently satisfied, turned back to each other, chuckling as if I were a slow student finally making the appropriate response, and continued their conversation. I sighed under my breath and glanced sheepishly at Oberon, who sat next to me and had bumped my shoulder.
She made a stern face, nodding in the direction of the couple on the other side of the table.
Feeling a little guilty about activating the spectacles during the supposedly important dinner interview, I looked at the other two across the table and tried to concentrate on their conversation. It was no use. Again they were involved in another tidbit of gossip about some obscure medical administrator. Both Kinjo and Sedalia were highly-placed bureaucrats at the Medcenter, and had spent the evening discussing their jobs, bosses, and associates.
But I had to admit they were attractive people, especially Sedalia, her intricate silver facial and body tattoos forming a fascinating arabesque against her dark, almost, indigo skin color. Potentially they would’ve made a physically exciting quad-bond with Oberon and me . . . except they were both so incredibly boring!
And now they were giggling loudly, their behavior attracting the attention of several nearby quads, also dining in the elegant Terrace Cafe. I looked over at Oberon.
She lifted her eyebrows, as if asking: Well?
Making an exaggerated grimace, I shrugged.
Oberon nodded and grinned wryly. She obviously agreed with my assessment.
Looking again at Kinjo, I almost: laughed aloud. The iridescent dragon adorning the man’s athletic body glared fiercely with ruby eyes, snorting puffs of fiery smoke from its flared nostrils, a frighteningly powerful masculine image that contrasted sharply with his high-pitched giggling. I glanced back at Oberon, who looked as if she’d like to borrow my spectacles. I leaned close and bumped her shoulder.
She stuck her tongue out at me.
Oberon worked in the Great Library, a historian/sociologist like myself; but she was able to understand all the major languages of the last century and did research almost exclusively on old-time vids. I was an associate reader, working with English print from
various Levels, seeing only an occasional old-time book from Outside. She, too, was unusually attractive, but in a garish kind of way, her facial and body tattoos a patchwork of clashing images in glowing neon colors—almost a harlequin. And her personality complimented her gaudy appearance, always alive and upbeat, constantly finding something challenging and fascinating to do or talk about, Yet it was her almond-shaped, dark blue eyes that I found especially provocative—so promising of sexual adventure. And despite the prohibit ion of sex outside a sanctioned quad-bond, we had been together numerous times.
Yes, Oberon would make an ideal fern in a quad-bond. But so far, no luck finding the other two, and we’d been interviewing the last year. Half-jokingly she said it was all my fault, the bad luck caused by my strict upbringing that made me too judgmental, requiring standards too demanding on others. Of course she’d agreed with all my vetos. But she had a point about my background.
I’d been raised on a hydroponic farm, out near the rim of the Level. It. was very conservative; I was taught to obey all the rules. My favorite quad mother, who smelled faintly of fresh lemon leaves, had often admonished my transgressions, leaning close and gently whispering in her soft melodic voice: The rules, the rules, Luis, they are made to protect us. And I’d often asked: From whom or from what? She’d always raised her eyebrows and remained noncommittal, like a professor awaiting a student’s answer to his own question. Of course back then I was sure she meant one of the many horrors from Outside. But she’d never responded to any of my answers; and the mystery remained . . .
So, I’d come to Central Level as a young man with the burden of a finely-developed conscience, and had often spent a sleepless, guilt-ridden night after a wet and wild sexual encounter with Oberon, my mother’s melodic whisper ringing in my ears.
“Oh, no, not tonight!” Kinjo said, twisted around in his seat and pointing, the mix of disgust and horror in his tone destroying my reverie.
The Terrace Cafe jutted out a story above the plaza, and just beyond our balcony I spotted the Tattletale that had blinked into existence, the holographic face of a masked Companyman revolving slowly. “Emergency, emergency,” it blared over the crowd looking upward. “Make way for the Companymen near the north side of the plaza fountain!”
All four of us moved close to the railing, leaning out to catch a better view of the hubbub taking place near the fountain on the plaza.
“Bobbers, bobbers,” the Tattletale warned. The crowd, reacting as one, reeled back from two figures dashing by the far side of the fountain, both wearing colorful funmasks but naked of garment or tattoos, their pale, bare bodies more revelatory of their lower Level status than the screaming Tattletale. In pursuit were three black-clad Companymen. Then another lawman appeared, cutting off the pair of nude runners.
“Bobbers,” Sedalia said, swallowing and making a face as if the word were a bitter pill.
“Get ’em . . . yeah,” Kinjo yelled down, as if rooting for a side in a game. The Companymen had caught the bobbers, beat them to their knees with batons, and were now hooking up come-along-stuns. The entire chase and capture had lasted about 30 seconds. A rumble, then a cheer finally went up from the plaza crowd, before everyone began to return to their routine.
“Filthy, naked, disgusting, low-level, perverted . . .” Sedalia said, apparently unable to come up with anything else vile enough to describe her feelings.
“I’d hate to be in their places, now,” Kinjo added, a slight frown marring his facial tattoos. “A color judgment for those two, banishment Outside—”
“Maybe not,” Oberon said, shaking her head, a kind of sexual excitement evident in her husky tone. I noticed her eyes seemed unusually bright. I wondered what she was thinking.
“Oberon’s right, Kinjo,” I finally agreed, after looking back down where the crowd had closed in around the fountain. The Companymen and their charges were gone. “If they have done nothing but streak across the plaza, then they may just be sent to the sen-dep tanks for a little reprogramming. They appear to be only youngsters by their immature bodies, lack of apparel and markings . . .”
“Dreadful nakedness and probably carrying some kind of disease,” Sedalia murmured, her attractive features regaining their normal expression, as she glanced in my direct ion.
I shook my head, as we took our places back at the table. I knew that bobbing was a kind of rite of passage for several of the Lower Levels’ adolescents. Still it was extremely unusual for them to pick the Top Level to streak, with its high degree of security and monitoring devices. The lower the Level, the less security, and the less chance of being apprehended so soon after surfacing. All, well, I thought—
“What do you mean, no?” Sedalia challenged me, anger evident in her tone.
“Yeah, what are you saying?” Kinjo added, both staring at me directly, as if demanding an answer.
“They’re just boys up from a lower Level, probably not sexually active yet. In any event they are probably both sexually inhibited, if they haven’t bonded yet—”
“Probably, probably,” Kinjo said mockingly. “You don’t know a damn thing, Sandoval. If they’re up from 01, inhibition is strictly voluntary. They could both be carrying Frost, that’s why bobbing is such a serious sexual crime.”
I almost laughed at the paranoia evident in his tone.
FR-ST, Fatal Rickettsia-Sexually Transmitted, had been a hideous disease, but only one of many old-time Outside terrors, and I hadn’t heard the spoken acronym in a long time. But it had been very appropriate, the disease very soon after contact causing a telltale, pale-bluish, frosted countenance in its victim, similar to the chilling effect of being unprotected in sub-zero weather.
“Hey, drift back, Kinjo,” I finally said, still smiling. “Frost is over; there hasn’t been a case reported in years.”
“Uh-huh,” he replied, a kind of half smirk on his face as he leaned forward pugnaciously, “there was a skullmask reported on this Level at the Medcenter only last week.”
Skullmask? He was referring to the final stage of the old disease, when the victim’s face changed from the telltale frosty paleness to an atrophied, skeletal deathhead. “Last week? I’d heard nothing. And I’d seen nothing like this in the recent records. “Who reported it? Or did you actually see the patient?”
Kinjo leaned back, his upper body losing some of its aggressive posture. “No I didn’t see the victim, and I’m not sure who did . . . ah, Sedalia?”
“I heard it after a staff meeting last Friday,” she said, but her tone lacked confidence. “Apparently, a case manager heard it from a medtech who works on the critical ward of the center—”
“More gossip,” I snapped, “just like the rest of the evening. Is that all you both know?” I was angry, now. “Look, I haven’t read of a case of Frost in over two decades. It would be published at least in one of the medical or health journals.” I shook my head and frowned dismissively. “And those boys bobbing . . . why that’s little more than an adolescent prank. The laws are really archaic, you know . . . Come on, Kinjo, Sedalia, admit that you’ve both considered bobbing. Seeing how lower Levels, other classes live. It’d be intriguing, fascinating even—”
“Enough!” Sedalia cried out, bouncing to her feet. “That’s heresy, criminal, and should be reported to Central Control . . . As far as me considering you in a quad-bond, Sandoval, forget it.” She looked at Oberon and snapped unsincerely, “Sony, my dear.” Then she began to walk off. “Coming, Kinjo?” They both left without looking back.
I just sat there for a moment, then looked at Oberon, who had remained remarkably quiet during the angry interchange. She nodded, putting her hand to her mouth, tying to restrain a grin.
Then we were both laughing, so hard tears streamed down our cheeks. I pulled myself together. “Can you imagine being bonded to those two, really?”
This stimulated another round of laughter.
Then, Oberon’s expression grew sober, and she asked kind of cautiously, “Did you
really mean it, about bobbing? You know, trying it?”
I stared at her a moment. She was indeed serious.
“Sure I meant it.”
She smiled. “How about right now? Anything planned?”
I hesitated for a moment. I’d really meant what I said about dropping down to another Level. After all, I was part sociologist. But right at this moment? What if we were caught? We could be dyed blue as sexual criminals and banished to roam Outside. I stared back silently for a second or two, realizing I was caught.
“Hey, why not,” I finally replied, tying to feign a nonchalance I really didn’t feel. “Start our four days off right.”
“Okay,” she said simply, standing and taking my hand. “Let’s do it.” In the street beyond the restaurant Oberon stopped, her eyes bright with mischief, and after looking about cautiously, she took out a pair of metallic cards from the purse attached to her hip.
Once they had been blue and gold, but much of the color had worn off.
“What are they?” I asked curiously, knowing they had something to do with bobbing.
“They open the door of a transporter booth—”
“A what?”
Of course I’d heard of the booths, but I’d assumed they were just part of the mythology of the Levels. They didn’t really exist. The Levels had been sealed off by the Company many years ago, right after t he just few cases of Frost had been discovered on the 01 Level. And it was assumed bobbers from below came up through the old power ductwork, ventilation shafts, or some such way, a grueling ordeal requiring days and the carrying of water and rations. But a number of times I’d thought of color judgments, and I couldn’t help wondering how dyed criminals were transported Outside.
Oberon was nodding, as if privy to my silent speculation. “They’re real and I know the location of one. I also know where we can bob, have a wonderful time, and never be caught.” She had her hands on her hips, her gaudy tattoos and stance indicating her silent dare: How about it, big mouth?
