Universe 6 - [Anthology]

by Edited By Terry Carr

  I watch the muscles spasm in Fletcher’s back and the shuddering in her splayed buttocks as I pump myself in and out, methodically carrying out the sodomy. I slide one hand over her slick skin, lingering over the swell of her breast, her soft side, and the curve of her hip. With the other I jerk up the cord, and her face twists to the side. It is mottled blue, and her tongue hangs out of her mouth. I can hear her trying to gag.

  “Scream,” I say, thrusting hard. “Cry out. Let me hear your pain.” I feel something give, and I know that I have torn her inside. “Isn’t this what you’ve dreamed of? What you’ve wondered about? This must be truly exciting for you, Fletcher.”

  No answer. I shrug and renew my efforts, until her final choking gurgle comes, and I come, and then I release the cord and smile at her bloated face, the eyes open and staring.

  When we wake, she is inarticulate with rage and hatred.

  “Kill you,” she screams, teeth bared. Her fingers swoop for my eyes. “Kill you for that. Filth. Pervert.”

  I grab her hands and bend her back over the pod, holding her immobile with my body. “You had your chance in the session,” I say. “What kind of perversions did you have in mind for me? What kind of grisly death would I have undergone? Look to your own mind first for the signs of sickness.”

  I release her and step back. She still glares at me, but does not attack.

  “Don’t give me that,” she says. “You’re the one who’s sick. I should report you—”

  “And yourself? And all the others? No. They won’t punish me alone.”

  “This isn’t worth it,” she says, shaking her head. “It’s not what I want.” She looks at me accusingly. “All because of you. You twist around everything to the way you want it. You give us nothing of what we want.”

  “Just a case of the dominant mind assuming control. If you want your world, you have to work for it. Be thankful you have the chance to try at all.” I rise and turn to leave. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m tired.”

  * * * *

  They are becoming bothersome, those like Fletcher and Yamada. I can feel their eyes watching me all the time, even in the crowds at leisure or mealtime. They sit together and whisper, casting glances my way. Or they accost me in the deserted corridors or between portals, begging for another dual. It has become an addiction for them; the dream-sessions are their only desire. How pitiful to watch them degrade themselves.

  It has become so bothersome that I must escape their pawing advances from time to time, to go where it is quiet and I can be alone. Down below the living quarters, among the catwalks running alongside the food tanks and the humming energy converters—no one goes there except the technicians, checking the dials twice every shift. It is restful here; the only sounds are the purring of machinery and the whispers of my soles along the floor.

  But I am not alone this time. Ahead of me, someone bends over the indicator dials, jotting down figures on her tally sheet. I don’t recognize who it is in the darkness, until her face is illumined by the glow from a panel— Ah. It is one of us.

  I walk up to her and stop. “I see they keep you busy, Hotaling,” I say. “Not an exciting task they’ve selected you for, is it?”

  Hotaling continues to record the readings as if I weren’t there.

  “Don’t play coy games,” I say, suddenly angry. “I know you too well.”

  She looks up, then at me, as if for the first time. Finally she says, “Who are you? I don’t recall seeing you in the dining hall.”

  “And the sessions? Our duals? I suppose you don’t remember those, either?” I am shouting at her now.

  “Sessions? What are you talking about?” Genuine puzzlement appears on her face. “Who are you?” she says again, stepping toward me. “What is your station? Your job?”

  “I don’t have to tell you that,” I say. “What my job is is my concern . . .” But my voice trails off, as I suddenly think: Job? What is my job? I must have one. But what is it?

  No good. I can’t remember.

  I back away from her. “Sorry,” I say. “My error. I mistook you for someone else.”

  “Wait,” she says, walking faster. “What did you mean—”

  But I turn and run away from her, away from her calls, and I don’t slow down until they have long faded away.

  * * * *

  One hundred twenty-eight crew members. Sessions held every forty hours, in rotating groups of ten or more. There are eight of us altogether. The others: Lee, Ostermeyer, Macombray, Sedjayev, Fletcher, Yamada. And Hotaling. I am sure of it.

  Yet Hotaling does not remember. Is she deceiving me? But her ignorance seems authentic. Could it be possible I imagined a dual with her?

  And there is myself. Why can’t I remember my job, even now? Surely I have one. But on the other hand, I can remember a dual with Hotaling that might not even have taken place.

  I don’t know what it means.

  * * * *

  It doesn’t matter. All is lost. I am discovered.

  Stupid Yamada. All his fault, wanting another session long before he was ready. But so insistent I gave in just to be rid of him. So it went thus:

  He was stronger than before, much stronger. Driven by vengeance perhaps, surely by madness. And this time he forced his world on me.

  I parried a sword blow, just in time, though its force knocked me to the ground. I looked up to see him ready to plunge the bayonet in. I rolled out of the way; the long steel blade sank into the ground next to me. I got to my feet, facing him, and ducked under the whistling steel net. I flattened to the ground again and felt the wind from his battleax as it arced through the space where my head had been.

  I felt anger and frustration. This was what they all must have felt before. Now it was happening to me, and I didn’t like it.

  “Enough,” I said, furious. “This must stop.”

  Yamada’s face wore a death’s-head grin. “The words I said last time,” he said. “But now from you.” He began whirling the bolo in his hand. “All right. I’ll end it. The way you did for me.” He hurled the bolo and moved forward, a dagger appearing in his other hand.

  But I moved quickly, ducking under again, and appeared behind him. A kick, and he dropped the dagger, then to his knees. I grasped him about the neck. All the surging passions —anger, fear, hatred—seemed to overwhelm me.

  “Die,” I said, clubbing him with my fist. “Die. Die.” My words became shouts, then incoherent screams in time with my blows smashing his teeth, his nose, cracking the cheekbones and the jutting jaw, turning his face into shapeless pulp. Over and over I struck him, my first rising, falling, rising—

  I sit up against the open pod, my arm upraised, sweating and gasping for air. The sudden coolness is like a shock against my skin. The heavy silence screams at me.

  I look at Yamada’s pod. The cover is ajar. His hand juts out from under it.

  I walk over to it, lift the cover, and look down at him. Into his open staring eyes, wide with—horror? shock? surprise? The muscles are twisted as if in agony. His body is arched and stiff. I check his pulse and respiration. He is dead.

  “In there. I heard a shout.” The voice comes from outside. I hear fumbling at the locked door.

  I look here and there wildly. What to do? Where to hide? I try behind a pod. No good. No room.

  “Come on, get it open.”

  “I’m trying, damnit. Somebody’s put on the triple security lock.” Now I hear a babble of voices, many people trying to get in.

  There, behind the console. I squeeze through the space behind the metal shelf, mindful of the metal leads and the sharp edges against my skin. I press my back against the wall, sticking as if my perspiration were glue.

  “Okay, it’s open.” I hear the door slide, and the voices now in full chorus.

  “Look, someone’s in the pod—”

  “It’s Yamada.”

  “Come on, Yamada, what are you—”

  “He’s dead.”

  “What
!”

  More babble. “How did—” “What’s he doing—” “By himself? Can’t—” “Look, another pod’s open.” “Someone else, then?” “Come on, let’s look.”

  I hear them searching behind the pods, through the showers, their voices rising and falling as they pass. I press harder back, trying to blend into the wall and become featureless metal.

  “No one here.”

  “Wait. What about behind there?”

  I hold my breath.

  “I’ll check.” Steps come closer, fast.

  They stop by my hiding place. Something blocks the light to the side. I can only stare, wide-eyed, not even able to breathe, as Lopez’s head pokes in, and his eyes peer into the darkness. The light flicks on and its beam catches me full in the face.

  He looks. Straight at me. Straight through me.

  And finally turns. “No one there,” he says, and the beam is gone.

  “All right. Keep looking,” I hear someone say. The babble grows, becomes fainter, and then all is silent again after they leave.

  I ease out of the space and stand there, trembling. It is several minutes before I can think clearly.

  Even then, I can’t quite comprehend what has happened. They heard us; they discovered Yamada dead. But they did not see me. Lopez has no reason to cover up for me. To him I actually did not exist.

  I am grateful for that, to be sure. My apparent invisibility barely saved me from Elimination. But underneath my gratitude, I feel uneasy about it, for it is still another strange circumstances I can’t explain.

  They must have some explanation—some end, some purpose. But what is it?

  * * * *

  To those not part of our little group I am, in effect, invisible. But the others can still see me. They must be careful now that no outsiders are around when they talk with me. That is, if they talk with me at all.

  “Hello, Macombray. What’s new?” I slide into the chair next to him at the rear table of the dining hall.

  He is startled at my presence, then looks quickly to either side. “What do you want?” he says, in an undertone full of malice.

  “Why, just to make conversation,” I say, spreading my hands. “Small talk. Passing some time. You know.”

  “Get away from me. You’re poison now.” He turns his back.

  “Now that’s not a nice thing to say,” I say in an aggrieved tone. “You might hurt my feelings. Then who’ll have duals with you?”

  He turns back to me slowly. “You unspeakable monster. You killed Yamada in the dual session, and you expect us all to go on as if nothing happened? How can you be so inhuman?”

  I shrug. “He had a weak mind. Too weak to take the risk or the consequences. I have no patience with anyone like that.”

  “This is a human life you’re talking about,” he says with barely controlled rage. “Don’t you feel any guilt? Don’t you have any feelings?”

  “Why should I? He knew it was dangerous. We all do. He just wasn’t equipped to handle it, that’s all.”

  “You’ll get caught. Don’t worry about that.”

  “How?” I say, leaning forward. “They can’t see me. They found no traces of anyone else in the dream-chamber. They didn’t even find the settings changed. As far as they are concerned, I don’t exist. Better this way, too. It’ll make our arrangements easier.”

  “You actually expect us to go on?” Macombray looks at me with astonishment.

  “Of course. You just do as I say, and everything will go smoothly.”

  “There will be no more duals.” He spoke in a determined tone.

  “That’s what you say. Let’s see how long you can stay away.”

  “No. No more,” he repeats—but I can see the conflict on his face.

  “Think about it,” I say, and get up and leave.

  Perhaps they do feel that way—afraid, scared off. But their need is greater. Though some will stay away, there are still others who will go on. Whether it is because of their need, or perhaps a thirst to strike a return blow, it doesn’t matter, as long as they come back.

  And later, when Fletcher accosts me in a darkened corridor, tight-lipped but assenting, I know I am right.

  * * * *

  “You believed, didn’t you?” I say. “You actually thought you could win this time. Oh, you had some good moments, that’s true. But you proved wrong in the end. Do you realize that now?”

  Fletcher can only moan. Her mouth gapes open, revealing the blackened cavity where her tongue used to be.

  “What? I can’t understand you, dear Fletcher.” I edge the knife blade a little deeper, scoring along the edge of her rib cage. I thrust myself up into her rhythmically, hypnotically. Her body jerks and writhes, and her hands clench in the tightly knotted ropes above her head.

  “I must keep this calm and methodical,” I say to myself. “No fiery emotions. No fits of passion. Clinical and meticulous, that’s what I must be.”

  Fletcher does not answer. I continue.

  But when I wake, I find it has happened again, and Fletcher’s corpse is sprawled half out of the coffin. I can only dress hurriedly and flee.

  * * * *

  Running. Hiding. They all search for me now, all those I once dominated. I have avoided them up to now, but who knows how close they are on my heels? Two deaths— awakened their sense of decency, it seems. They will have no more of me.

  Decency? In them? I could laugh.

  But not now. No time for that. Only for reprisal and what they call justice.

  There—the dream-room. —No. First place they’d look. Someplace else, but where?

  “There he is. Get him!” Footsteps coming quickly.

  I dodge around the corridor as Sedjayev appears at the other end. “Come on, he’s getting away.” But I don’t see them as I run wildly to the staircases, then duck inside and slam the security locks tight behind me.

  I hear their muffled blows on the other side of the door. “Open up, Yang.” “Try it.” “No good.” “To the records. Get the correct sequence. Hurry!” I hear their voices, too, but I don’t answer. I’m too busy throwing back the safety hatches; once those are open, I climb through, and begin descending toward the inner core of the Ship.

  The stairs stop at the catwalks, and I walk among the humming machines again. I feel more secure here—doors and hatches locked behind me, none of the technicians able to see me, except for that damnable Hotaling. But it’s not her shift now. Safe, yes. Safer than if I locked myself in my—

  Room? Where is my room? I can’t remember the number. I can’t even remember what it looks like.

  Again this uncertainty. What is this? Why can’t I remember?

  Calmly now. Take my name: Yang, first name—what?

  Occupation—what?

  Pre-Ship life—what?

  I feel panic now, and sudden sweat on my forehead and under my arms. My hands tremble almost uncontrollably, and I want to scream. Steady. Easy now. I force the fear down, with great effort. At last the trembling stops, and I breathe more easily, leaning on the catwalk rail for support.

  I try to think clearly. Facts. I need some to hold on to, to prove my own existence to myself. Ship name? Voyager I. Remember that. Launchtime—unknown. Try another. Duration time? I check my chronometer. Between forty and fifty— forty-seven. Yes. Forty-seven periods Ship-time. I have that, at least. That must be how long since launch-time, then. Converting back into earth years, that’s—

  The sound of slamming metal, and I start at the sudden beam of light down the catwalk. “Yes, I heard him going down here—” One voice comes, out of a loud babble. They have found me again.

  I turn and run. The narrow catwalk curves and swoops around the great metal bulks; my fleeing footsteps ring in the cavernous engine chambers, along with their pursuit. I glance back at every turn, wasting a precious fraction of a second each time. They are gaining on me.

  Damn them and their conspiracy! I can only think that as I whip past branching corridors, the
ir lighting blinking on my dark path like beacons. I don’t know where I’m going—or do I? I haven’t been here before, I’m sure, but I am heading somewhere definite. Where, I don’t know; I don’t think about that—only about getting away.

  There. That corridor. Down four doors, left at the next branch. I hear them still behind me. Four more doors, through the double palmprint-activated hatches—then unlocking the four complicated locks on the door with the title NO ADMITTANCE OF UNAUTHORIZED PERSONNEL UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES.