by Dave Swavely
Me: “You realize people could have been killed or wounded.”
Harris: “Torque ’em! That would have been Even Better Than the Real Thing.”
“Singing about the death of innocents?” the talking head on the news concluded. “If anyone questioned the legitimacy of evicting the squatters, those questions are gone now. And if any of us questioned the truth of Harris’s bold claims, we are now sure that he cannot be trusted.”
The news went on to another topic, but Harris left it on, staring at the screen and silently processing the effect this had on his career as a crusader, not to mention what being in jail without the net would do to his soul. I hoped he was thinking hard as I lifted the palm-size disk in my hand to where he could see it out of the corner of his eye. To the underside of the explosive, which was very similar to the one that had killed D and Lynette, I had attached the little disk containing the incriminating picture of me.
“This bomb is about to blow all your best friends into a thousand pieces,” I said, waving it at the piles of equipment. “Once I drop it, you have ten seconds to leave with me for a cyberless cell, or you can stay here and beat me to hell.”
He didn’t say anything, but just stared at the news, where the weather was currently being discussed.
I slid the trigger on the disk in three different directions until it was primed, then bowled it across a length of bare floor, much like I had done the other night at my friend’s house, while my daughter was saying hi to me from the backseat.
I turned and stepped to the door, looking back one more time to see if Harris was coming. He wasn’t, as I had expected, so I closed the door and walked at a normal pace toward my tank. When I had almost reached it, I looked at the mirrored surface of the vehicle and saw Harris sitting inside his room, staring at the screen. Then there was a fiery flash that filled the room and struck my eyes through the reflection, so bright that I was forced to close them. But not before I saw my own figure in the reflection, silhouetted against the bright glow of the blast, just like in the image I had now destroyed.
I opened my eyes again, and still looking at the reflection on the tank, I studied the big transteel wall, which had stood strong in the blast, as I had known it would. Its inside was covered with dark shards of metal and plastic that had been propelled into it by the force of the blast, interspersed with dripping patches of bloody flesh.
I was dismayed to find that my anger wasn’t gone, and now I felt sick and sweaty, too, like I needed a shower.
I turned toward the cityside exit and headed for it.
“Is there a bookstore near here?” I asked an officer at the gate. I needed to find out more about the old man’s secret project but was too paranoid to use the net and leave any kind of cyberprint related to it.
“I don’t know, sir, sorry,” he said. “Why do you ask?”
“I need to get some religion,” I answered, and stepped out into the streets of San Francisco.
12
It was starting to get dark as I wove through the crowd that had gathered around our barricades on the surface, outside the entrance to the tunnel, and the city assailed my senses.
I supposed the people who lived here were immune to the sights, sounds, and smells of this metropolis, but they always hit me like I was running into a wall. My eyes immediately tended to twirl and glaze from the unfamiliar stimuli of a thousand moving parts and the scale of the surrounding buildings. My ears almost hurt at the cacophony of voices, vehicles, and video advertisements, both flat and holo, that were being projected onto the streets and sidewalks. And the rotation of strong aromas could only be described as bittersweet—an unpleasant residue from the chemical products (natural and not-so-natural) of a million sardined humans, punctuated with refreshing bursts of sea air blowing in from the Bay.
I seldom left a controlled environment, and this was anything but. I knew that Lynn and probably Paul would have thrown fits if they’d known what I was doing. They would have told me that I was recognizable, and would be afraid that some anti-BASS gang of thugs would dismember me before the cavalry could show up. But my state of mind right now was such that I really didn’t care, and I needed to be outside the reach of BASS surveillance to do what I wanted to do.
As I studied some of the faces I passed in the crowd, however, the fear seemed unfounded. Very few recognized me (at least noticeably), none approached, and most simply went about their business, not on the lookout for famous people by any means. After all, I was the least well known of the BASS executives: the old man was a living legend, Paul was his son, and D had been our charismatic, smiling face for the media. I had hardly ever appeared on the net by choice, and the tabloid coverage had focused mostly on those three.
Nevertheless, a few people did recognize me as I walked a few blocks up Powell Street. And a woman I asked about a bookstore noticed at least one of the boas, because the breeze had blown my jacket open while I was talking to her. I closed it partially then to avoid scaring too many people, but I left the guns in front in case I met anyone that I needed to scare.
I turned a corner, looking for the Noble Virgin. The woman had said, “Can’t miss it,” and she was right. It took up half a block along this street, almost the entire first floor of a typically colossal building that stretched so high that I couldn’t see the top from this angle. I stepped in and noticed that the buzz of noise was even louder in here than on the street. This was from the conversations going on at the coffeehouses on the perimeter of the huge floor, but also from the many sampling and downloading stations spread throughout it—not that the various media itself was so loud, but people experiencing it through earphones, glasses, goggles, and headgear always tended to talk louder to their friends, as if they were hard of hearing.
I had barely stepped inside the door when I was greeted by three tense security guards and a smiling customer-service representative, or manager (he was not wearing an ID tag). The boas had undoubtedly been scanned and set off a silent alarm. The man recognized me immediately, and said my name, at which the guards relaxed considerably. I gave him a card, which he dutifully ran through his Reality G terminal as the guards continued to watch me dutifully.
He came back and returned my card. “It’s good to have you here, Mr. Ares,” he said in a low voice, to avoid any more attention than was already being lavished on me by some onlookers. “Is there anything we can help you with?” He motioned the guards away, and they reluctantly left. So did the gawkers.
“Actually, there is,” I said, hesitating to make what I was doing public, but not knowing any other way to find what I was looking for. “I want to find something in the Bible.”
“Okay,” he said, trying not to look surprised. “Veel or real?”
“Well, it was written as a real book, right? So I guess I want to see one of those.” What I really wanted was to stay away from any media where there might be a record of what I was doing.
“Oh,” he said, nodding. “So are you referring to the Old Bible?” When he saw my puzzled look, he explained. “There are … I forget the exact number right now, but … thousands of different versions of that book. Everything from obscure, homemade holos to the bestselling Open Scriptures done by top religious scholars. Most of them are in a virtual format, of course, though there are some real ones. But we have a collector’s item called the Old Bible—only a few of them in print, because there’s not much demand—that is actually translated into English right from the ancient languages, like they used to do.”
“So that’s the … true version?” I asked.
“What is ‘true,’ Mr. Ares?” he answered, shrugging his shoulders and smirking. “But some people—‘purists’ would be one of the nicer names for them—do think so.” He glanced around for a moment, as if he were looking for someone. “Would you like to see one of those? We usually don’t bring them out, because they’re so expensive, but for you I will.”
“Okay,” I said, and he began to lead me through the maze o
f stations to a back corner of the store, where the smaller selection of “real books” was kept. On the way, I saw hundreds of people of all ages sampling or buying audio, video, and holo media, by downloading it into their OutPhones, InPhones, goggles, glasses, or personal “pockets” so that they could carry it home to their net rooms. The first and last were the ubiquitous choices of most consumers at this time, because implants and goggles that worked consistently were still quite expensive, and good glasses were even more. The cyber-pocket boom started with video and game pockets (known as “vips” and “gaps”), then developed into holo pockets (“hops”), then culminated recently in all-media pockets, or “amps,” which every human being from age four up now considered one of the basic necessities of life.
There was a time not long before when it looked like all media would become downloadable by terminals at home or other wireless receptors like those mentioned above, which would have made stores like this obsolete and put them out of business. But before that could happen, the big retail companies conglomerated and made deals with the media producers to pay higher prices for the exclusive rights to their properties, and then began to charge even higher prices to the consumers, who couldn’t buy them anywhere else … an example of how capitalism was still alive and well in the West, despite the socialist experimentation of the last generation (or maybe because of it).
As we finally passed into the real-books part of the store, the buzz of noise instantly disappeared and was replaced by the hum of soft music, so that the customers reading at various tables and cubicles throughout the section could concentrate. Obviously the store was using an invisible sound barrier, like the ones we had throughout the castle where our employees had offices in or near busy floors. And not only was the atmosphere different, but the people in here were generally another breed. They were those who had enough intellectual and cultural interest to reach this back part of the store, having pressed through the gauntlet of the more popular distractions along the way. I wondered if some of them might be a part of the small but growing movement of intellectuals who protested “the scourge of modern media” by reading only real books. It occurred to me that Lynn would be a good candidate for that movement, if she had been inclined toward activism (which she was not) or considered herself an intellectual (which she did not).
My guide ushered me to a table near a transparent case containing antique and collectible volumes, then proceeded to open it with his key card. He pulled out a book with a cordovan leather cover that sagged down around his fingers as he carried it over and put it in front of me.
“Be careful,” he said, “the pages are very thin.”
I opened it and noticed that they were indeed, then asked him about ROM 717. I regretted it immediately, feeling like I was hanging out dirty laundry. He gave me a blank stare, then said he would find out if any of the other employees knew about this sort of thing. “No, wait,” I said, stopping him, an idea coming to me about someone who could help. “I’m fine, I’ll take care of it.”
“No problem,” he quickly responded, moving away. “If there is anything else you need, just say ‘service’ into your amp, phone, or glasses, and our in-store line will pick it up.”
When he was gone, I called Kim at the castle and asked him to come to the store as soon as he could get here, saying I had some questions about his religion. I couldn’t ask him what I wanted to know over the net for fear of being overheard. Fortunately, the young tech was still at work and able to slip away. While I waited for him, I paged through the old book and wondered what all the fuss was about … the parts I saw didn’t make much sense to me. I gave up well before Kim arrived and was checking messages on my glasses when he entered the real-books part of the store. He was sweating and panting from his haste to accommodate me, but when he saw the book sitting in front of me, he brightened and practically shivered with excitement. He wasn’t wearing his cyber equipment, but I guessed it was in the small case he was carrying.
“I’m looking for something in here called ROM 717,” I told him. “Whatever that is.”
He thought for a moment, then swung around behind me, flipped a few pages, and pointed at a spot on one of them.
“I think you mean seven seventeen, sir, not seven one seven,” he said proudly, “in the book of Romans.” I looked at the words near his finger, which had the figure 17 in front of them. It said, “I am no longer the one doing it, but sin which indwells me.”
“Yeah. That looks like the one,” I said, then asked him what it meant.
“That’s a good question,” he said; and then, observing how I was craning my neck up to see him, he asked politely if he could sit down across from me. I said yes, and watched him do so. He still seemed very excited but was now trying not to show it too much.
“I thought this was a vision at first,” the man said with his self-conscious smile. “But it’s real.” I directed a puzzled stare at him for a few moments, but then simply nodded my head twice. Then he asked, “Why did you want to find that verse, sir?”
I hesitated, thinking, I’m investigating the murder of my daughter and best friend, which I myself committed. But I answered, “A friend mentioned it to me. It may have some significance for something that’s happening in my life. So I want to know everything I can about it.”
“Well, that could take a while,” he said, seeming even more excited. “But I can give you the short version.”
I said that would be good.
“First, read the other verses around it, and you might be able to figure out a lot of it.” I felt like a child in school, but did as he suggested.
For that which I am doing, I do not understand; for I am not doing what I would like to do, but I am doing the very thing I hate. But if I do the very thing I do not want to do, I agree with the Law, confessing that it is good. So now, I am no longer the one doing it, but sin which indwells me. For I know that nothing good dwells in me, that is, in my flesh; for the wishing is present in me, but the doing of the good is not. For the good that I want to do, I do not do; but I practice the very evil that I do not want to do. But if I am doing the very thing I do not want to do, I am no longer the one doing it, but sin which dwells in me. I find then the principle that evil is present in me, the one who wishes to do good. For I joyfully agree with the law of God in the inner man, but I see a different law in the members of my body, waging war against the law of my mind, and making me a prisoner of the law of sin which is in my members. Wretched man that I am! Who will set me free from the body of this death? Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord …
“The guy is torn apart inside,” I said, looking back up at Kim. “Something is making him to do what he doesn’t want to do.” The tech nodded, and I was realizing that old man Rabin must have picked this out from perusings in this book because it described the nature of his black op. Maybe he also thought it somehow gave credibility to what he was doing, but that didn’t matter to me. And it didn’t provide any help regarding a solution; Christ had been the deliverer for this ancient religious writer, but I couldn’t expect any help from him.
“If Jesus knew how some people were using his Bible,” I said to Kim, “he would roll over in his grave.”
“But he’s not in his grave,” he responded too quickly, holding his breath in excitement (or maybe fear?). “He rose from the dead—that’s how he can help us with our sins.”
Oh boy, here we go, I thought, remembering the complaints I had heard about this variety of fundamentalists, that they insist on ramming their beliefs down everyone’s throat. I was about to close the book and the discussion, but then a thought hit me and I looked down at one of the verses again. It reminded me of the internal struggle I had been having.
“Why does he call himself a wretched man,” I asked, “when he never intended to commit the crime?” I started to regret the minor slip, but then relaxed when I realized it was likely that Kim cared more about his faith than my reasons for being here.
“W
ell, I can’t remember what I’ve heard about that ‘I’m not doing it’ part,” the tech said, thinking furiously. “But he does plenty of other things wrong, he’s guilty for them at least, and he needs to be forgiven.” He paused, and when I didn’t cut him off, he went on. “We do what is wrong because of the evil in the world around us but also because of the evil that’s in us, or else sin would have no appeal to us. But it does, and even when the evil is being done to us, we don’t love our enemies in return like we should. So we’re to blame no matter how you slice it, and we still need to be justified by God. Have you ever heard of justification?”
I didn’t respond, because I was thinking how that might indeed be the reason I felt such guilt from what I had done, even though it had not been a conscious act. I had willfully chosen to live in the world of BASS, and I definitely did have hatred and murder brewing inside me as a result of my suffering.
“Justification is the best thing I ever learned about,” Kim continued. “Being justified is just as if I’d never done wrong, and just as if I’d always done everything right. And we get it as a gift from God, by believing in Jesus, because he took our place on the cross. See…” He lowered his finger toward the page in front of me, as if he wanted me to read more, but I squinted and smiled at him.
“Are you trying to convert me to your thing?” I said.
He looked deflated for a moment, sinking back into his chair, then said, “I just get excited about it, sir. You see, I’ve done a lot of bad things … things like Mr. Anthony did with that woman. In the Twotter file, remember?” I nodded, remembering. “In fact, that’s how I met my wife, believe it or not.” He exhaled sharply and looked away. “I’m just so glad that’s all gone.”
I was startled initially to hear the man confess this, because I had always thought that religious people lived a “clean life.” I didn’t think they visited prostitutes, nor did I think they would marry one, even if she was supposedly reformed. Then my mind drifted to D’s womanizing, no doubt because Kim had mentioned him, and it occurred to me that I had taken pride in the fact that I was with either Tara or Lynn the whole time I had known him, and had not cheated on either of them. But now it also occurred to me that I was essentially no better than my friend, because I approved of his lifestyle and entertained similar thoughts in my own mind.
