Gerald N. Lund 4-In-1 Fiction eBook Bundle

by Gerald N. Lund

  “Oh, Clayne,” Adrienne said, slapping his leg again. “I’m so happy for you, Nicole.”

  “Thank you. I have to admit I’m pretty happy myself.”

  Then just as suddenly as she had dropped it, Adrienne picked up the conversation again. “Well, don’t be too hard on Eric. He’s going through a terrific adjustment.”

  “That’s my Adrienne,” Clayne chuckled. “Watcher of the downtrodden, protector of homeless boys, Mother Superior to the wayward—”

  Adrienne elbowed him in the ribs. “Feeder of the hungry.”

  “Right on, babe,” he agreed without rancor.

  “So,” Nicole spoke up, wanting to get off the subject of her feelings about Eric, “is he going to make it?”

  “You’re his Control Officer,” Clayne shot back, goodnaturedly. “What’s your evaluation?”

  “That he’s biding his time, waiting for a chance to run. You’re his training officer,” she countered, “what’s your evaluation?”

  “Well, he’s a very bright kid, the best all-around trainee I’ve ever seen. His training is over now. Tomorrow night we begin his first shift. It’ll be interesting to watch him in action.”

  “Honey,” Adrienne cooed, “you’re evading the question.”

  “Oh,” Clayne said in innocent surprise. “No question about it. Nicole’s right. He’s biding his time, looking for some way to beat the system. I think at first his plan was to hurry and get accepted, have the implantations for his family removed, then find some way to beat the Outer Perimeter.”

  “You say he thought that at first?” Adrienne asked. “But not now?”

  “When he lost control in his cell and ended up implanted, it blew the whole plan for him. By the time he completely proves himself to the Major, his family will be conditioned to the implantation. He’s asked me quite pointedly how long that takes. I’ve told him that if they are real careful not to trigger it too often, they’ll be good for three months, maybe four at the most.”

  “And it’ll be six, if he’s lucky,” Nicole broke in. “Perhaps even a year, before the Major frees his family.”

  “Exactly,” Clayne said. “So he’s got to find a quicker way.”

  “There isn’t a way,” Nicole said flatly.

  “I know that,” Clayne agreed with a note of regret, “and you know that, but he won’t accept it. That’s why I don’t know if he’s going to make it.”

  They were purring through the nearly deserted streets, the electric motor barely audible, as Clayne let the orange and blue squad car roll slowly along. An early evening rainstorm had buffed the night air crystal clear, with puddles here and there in the streets and a few droplets still clinging to the clear plastic bubble over their heads. Both windows of the Guardian car were down, and Eric took a deep breath, savoring the cool, moist air.

  “Beautiful night,” Clayne said lazily. It was the first they had spoken in over ten minutes, but the silence had been easy, comfortable, with no strain.

  “Yes. It reminds me of nights in the valley.”

  “Travis said it was a beautiful place.”

  “It was.”

  “So is Shalev.”

  “True,” Eric conceded. “It really is.”

  “We love it here.”

  Eric turned and gave Clayne a long, searching look. Again there was silence for almost a minute. Then Eric spoke again. “Was your application for the country club accepted?”

  Clayne’s head jerked around. “How did you know about that?”

  Eric laughed softly. “My dad used to talk about scuttlebutt in the Army. I never really understood what he meant until I started training with the Guardians. Rumors and gossip fly everywhere in that place.”

  “Yeah, that’s for sure,” Clayne grumbled.

  “So?”

  Eric noticed Clayne’s hands tighten on the wheel, but when he spoke his voice was light and nonchalant. “No, our application was deferred. We’ve been put on a waiting list.”

  “Uh huh,” Eric said gently. “And what about George Marshall?”

  “What about him?” Clayne said, more quickly than he had intended.

  “He applied after you, so they say. And he’s been accepted.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “What? That he applied after you, or that he’s been accepted?”

  “That he was accepted.”

  “Oh, George told us in the locker room a couple of days ago.”

  Clayne grunted, then turned back and stared out the window, concentrating on his driving.

  “It’s not the first time, is it.”

  “The first time for what?” Clayne snapped, obviously irritated.

  “Racial discrimination.”

  “Buzz off, Lloyd,” he said, really angry now. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Sorry. I was just wondering.”

  “Look, Eric,” Clayne said, pulling the car over to the curb. He shut off the motor, and half turned in his seat. “Why don’t we cut the innocent, wide-eyed, child-wants-to-know routine? What’re you driving at?”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you. You’re about as subtle as a pack of wolves running down a moose.”

  Eric laughed. “I get the feeling you’d be some kind of moose to bring down.” Then, cutting off Clayne’s retort, he added, “and I don’t mean that in just the physical sense.”

  Clayne’s dark face held its anger for a moment, then split in a wide grin. “I think physically, too.”

  “Yeah,” Eric said ruefully. “Did they pick you as my training officer before or after I threw the stool through the window?”

  “Before. Now stop the runaround. If you’ve got something to say, get it out.”

  “Okay, I will. Why is it everyone is so eager to talk about all the wondrous advantages of life in the Alliance, and yet every time I raise a question about some problems, defenses spring up like dandelions on a ditchbank?”

  When Clayne didn’t immediately answer, Eric pushed on. “Nicole tells me everyone here is ecstatically joyful, but she admits that an electronic fence keeps people in the Happiness Corral. The penalty for escape is merely death. Every time he turns around, the Major is pontificating on how they’ve eliminated all evil in men, and yet your family is experiencing one of the most ancient and persistent of all evils—racial discrimination. Everyone raves about what a thoroughly delightful place the AFC is, and yet the hospitals are clogged with neurotics and psychotics, and the birthrate is so low you have to drag people in by the hair to maintain a growth potential.”

  Eric raised his hands in a gesture of puzzlement. “I was just curious, that’s all.”

  Clayne looked at him, his features expressionless, then finally shook his head. “Leave it alone, Eric.”

  “See. That’s what I mean.”

  “Leave it alone, or it’s going to break you. You’re here. You’re in it. Your only hope is to get it through that boyish head of yours that this is the way things are. They’re not perfect. Nobody claims they are. But if you want to get any freedom at all, leave the rest alone.”

  Eric started to smile, about to quip something cute and deflect Clayne’s sober intensity, but then suddenly he became equally serious. “I don’t think I can, Clayne. It’s too terrible to leave be.”

  “I was afraid of that.” Clayne turned back around and started the motor. As he eased off the clutch, he looked at Eric again. “I’m just telling you, it’s going to break you. So—”

  Suddenly the radio blared. “Baker Able Seven.”

  Clayne picked up the mike and pressed the button. “This is Baker Able Seven, over.”

  “Baker Able Seven,” intoned the female voice in a bored monotone. “We are getting a three-six-six at the power substation on Overhill and Pepper Streets. Investigate and advise.”

  “Ten-four. We’ll check it out and advise.” Clayne hung the mike back onto its hook, started the car again, and accelerated smoothly.

  “What’
s a three-sixty-six?” Eric said, raising his voice over the noise of the wind rushing through the windows. “I don’t remember that one in the code list.”

  Clayne leaned the car into a curve, and then, as it straightened out, glanced quickly at Eric. “It’s what we call an interference signal. Something’s on the fence at the power substation.”

  “You mean an alarm?”

  “Kind of. Several years ago, a young boy climbed a substation fence and was badly burned when he brushed against one of the transformers. Since then any place that constitutes a danger zone has been fenced off and wired with a pressure-sensitive switch. If something pushes against the fence, a mild electrical shock is given. If it continues, the shock steadily increases until it is a pretty stiff jolt. That’s what we call a three sixty-six. It rarely happens, because the system works so well.”

  “So what could this be?” Eric asked. “An animal?”

  “Not likely, unless it’s stuck somehow. The first charge would drive it away. No, I’m afraid it’s an MC.”

  “A what?”

  “A masochist. We call them MCs.” He swung around another corner. “Okay, here’s Pepper Street. Less than a minute now.”

  “A masochist?”

  “Yes. You know, the opposite of a sadist. A sadist likes to inflict pain on others. A masochist likes to have pain inflicted on him.”

  “I know what the word means. I just don’t understand what—”

  “Occasionally we find people who deliberately seek to create pain for themselves. They get some kind of sick satisfaction out of it. I haven’t seen one for several years now.” He flicked the lights on bright. “There’s the substation, coming up.”

  He braked down hard, and the car slid a few feet on the wet pavement. The headlights illuminated a small fenced area and a heavy-set figure with his back to the light, arms outstretched and fingers interlocked into the fence. As Clayne flipped on the spotlight, the figure whirled around.

  “Well, I’ll be—” Clayne breathed. “It’s Charlie Bird. I thought he was still in the psycho ward of the hospital.”

  He swung open the door. “Bring the stun gun,” he commanded, “but don’t use it unless I say.”

  Eric got out of the car, taking the long pistol off its rack underneath the dashboard.

  The man was peering at them, blinded by the lights. He was young, probably less than twenty-five. His hair was wildly tousled, his eyes wide and glassy.

  “All right, Charlie,” Clayne called easily. “The fun’s over. Come away from the fence.”

  The hands snaked backward and grasped the chain links. Eric saw the man’s arms stiffen slightly and his eyes widen.

  “Who is it?” the man cried. “Who knows Charlie Bird?”

  “It’s Clayne Robertson, Charlie.” Then to Eric, more softly, he said, “Call Central Control. Tell them to cut the juice here.”

  As Eric obeyed, he saw Clayne move forward, talking softly. Eric called in quickly, then got out of the car and moved forward, the stun gun ready.

  “Come on, Charlie,” Clayne soothed, approaching slowly.

  Suddenly Charlie gave a little cry of dismay and released his hold on the fence. “No! Don’t turn it off. Don’t!” It was almost a sob, as from a child deprived of a favorite toy. Then he leaped at Clayne like a clawing tiger. Eric ducked into a half crouch, looking for a clear shot with the stun gun, but Clayne saw him and shouted, even as he spun Charlie around and flung him off his shoulders. “No, Eric! Don’t!”

  Charlie bounced off the fence and lit on his feet, quick as a cat. He launched himself again, his fists flailing, but this time Clayne was waiting for him. He side-stepped the rush, then swept up Charlie from behind in his massive arms.

  “Get the cuffs, Eric,” he grunted, trying to hold himself clear from the kicking feet. “They’re in the glove box.”

  In a moment they had Charlie’s arms pinned behind him and the cuffs on. The fight went out of him, and he wept quietly.

  “All right, Charlie,” Clayne said gently, “it’s all over.” He brought him back to the car and gently pushed him into a halfsitting position on the fender. “Just stay right there for a minute, then we’ll take you home.”

  He jerked his head at Eric. “Watch him for a minute. I think he’ll be okay now.” He slid into the driver’s seat and picked up the mike.

  Ten minutes later, as Eric watched the ambulance drive away with Charlie Bird, Clayne turned to him. “Well, Mr. Lloyd, that’s more excitement than I’ve had on shift for months. Welcome to your first night as a Guardian.”

  “I don’t understand,” Eric said. “How can he attack you like that?”

  “Oh, he was infuriated that we turned off his pain. He’s not a bad kid, just a very sick one.”

  “No, that’s not what I mean. How can he do that with implantation?”

  “Oh, I see. The MCs have their implantation removed.”

  “They do?”

  “Sure. Otherwise they could constantly create pain for themselves deliberately. With their problem, you want to avoid any and all pain. That’s why I didn’t want you to use the stun gun.”

  “And why you can’t use the Punishment Mode in his wrist computer.”

  “Exactly. That’s what makes them such a challenge to handle.” Suddenly Clayne brightened. “Tell you what. Since I did all the work on this one, I’ll let you buy me a malt to celebrate. Okay?”

  Eric laughed. “All right, you’re on.” Then gradually the smile on his face died away, and he looked upward. The clouds were scattered and broken now, and the stars glittered with startling clarity through the gaps in them. Finally, he turned back to Clayne. “I’ll only say this once, then I’ll drop it.”

  Clayne sighed. “All right. Say it.”

  “Somehow, it seems as though everything in Shalev is covered with a highly polished veneer. But I suspect that if you pry up any corner of the box, the stench of something rotten would bowl you over.”

  Chapter 13

  Eric signed the check-in forms and returned the warm smile the brunette clerk gave him. Clayne followed suit, then frowned at Eric. “How come I don’t get the flashing white teeth and fluttery eyes when I step up to that counter?”

  Eric grinned, his eyes full of innocence. “From Carol, you mean?”

  “From Carol, you mean?” Clayne mimicked in a high voice.

  “She’s a nice girl.”

  “Not to me, she isn’t. All I ever get is a polite, ‘Sign here, Lieutenant Robertson.’”

  “Well, if you didn’t come up to her like a porcupine with a migraine headache, maybe she’d smile at you too.”

  “I treat her just like I do everybody else,” he rumbled.

  “Like I said…”

  Eric jumped as the massive elbow nearly knocked him against the wall. “Keep it up, and you’ll spend your day off in traction,” Clayne retorted.

  Eric just grinned and pushed open the locker room door, but Clayne stopped in the hall. “Nope, sorry. I’ve got a short staff meeting before I can call it a day.”

  “Oh? Do you want me to wait and give you a lift home?”

  Clayne rolled his eyes in mock terror. “Are you kidding? I’d rather face the whole front line of the Dallas Cowboys.” He pulled a face. “That’s a football team, or was.”

  “Hey,” Eric said, with a wounded look, “my driving isn’t that bad. I’m learning fast, I think.”

  “True. I can see some real improvement. Now I don’t worry until you start the motor. “ Then he touched Eric’s arm. “No, really, Adrienne’s coming for me.”

  “Okay. See you tomorrow. Tell Adrienne and the kids hello for me.”

  Five minutes later Eric came out of the locker room, waved to the men going on shift, and started for the parking lot. As he opened the door into the garage, Nicole Lambert came around the corner, her head down, and nearly collided with him.

  “Oh!” she blurted, looking up. “Oh, hello, Eric.”

  “Hello, Nicky,�
�� he said, bowing slightly as he held the door for her. “And how is my illustrious Monitor today?”

  “Weary of being called Nicky, actually.”

  He sighed, his face contrite. “That’s right. You must forgive me. It just kind of slips out. Nicole it is. Or would you prefer Miss Lambert?”

  “Nicole is fine.” She tried to push past him.

  “I hope you brought a book,” he said, smiling at her stiffness.

  “A book? Why?”

  “Because I’m going to bed, and I’d hate for you to sit in front of Big Mama all day with nothing to do.”

  “You flatter yourself if you think I sit and watch the tracking screen and your every movement all day long.”

  “Tell me, is Big Mama sensitive enough that you can tell when I turn over in my bed ?”

  “Big Mama, as you so flippantly call it,” she said acidly, her eyes snapping with anger, “can even tell me if you’re having a bad dream.” This was a slight exaggeration, but not much. She started away, then spun around. “And the sooner you start taking Central Monitoring and our abilities seriously, the sooner you’ll get some serious consideration for release from implantation.”

  “Why, Miss Lambert,” he drawled, “what ever made you think I don’t take Big Mama seriously?” A sudden glint of hardness darkened his eyes. “I can’t think of anything I have ever taken more seriously.”

  “Well,” the Major said, looking around the table, “shall we begin? Clayne, you’re on. By the way, is your wife glad to have you back?”

  He chuckled. “It’s been three days now. I think it’s starting to wear on her.”

  “I’ll bet,” Nicole interjected. “I saw her down at the supermarket the other day with a flatbed truck getting ready for his return.”

  “I know, and that was only for my welcome home dinner. Well, anyway,” he said, turning back to the Major, “I really don’t have much to say. Eric is a model trainee. He learns fast and is quick to take the initiative. If it weren’t for the other question, I’d recommend that he be transferred to the Perimeter Forces.”

  “But unfortunately,” Travis spoke up, “there is the other question.”

  The Major tapped his pencil on the table thoughtfully. “He was in training for four weeks and has been on regular duty for two more. Has he at any time acted in a way that is erratic or unacceptable?”