"What you looking at?"
Inside the shop, the tattooist, a graying, overweight sailor type, was finishing up on the teenager. Margaret grinned at the sight, she could not help it; ‘Mom.' She waited until the boys had left, and went inside without answering Cyndi. Cyndi followed her in.
The tattooist looked them over appreciatively. "No skates in here," he said by reflex. He looked a moment longer, and said, "Can I help you ladies somehow?"
Margaret said bluntly, "How much for one of those symbols?"
"The Zodiac stuff?" The tattooist glanced from Cyndi back to her. "Well, for your friend, it's $25. For you," he said to Margaret, "nothing, 'cause I don't do juvies. Sorry, it's law."
"I'll give you eighty dollars."
The man looked at her speculatively. "Let me see it."
Cyndi said quietly, "You sure you want to do this?"
Margaret dug four twenties out of her shorts pocket. "Close the curtains, Cindy." Cindy shrugged, and back-skated to the windows, and pulled the curtains closed.
The tattooist fanned through the money briefly. "Well, well," he said, "this puts a new look on things. Sit down," he said, gesturing to the chair. "What do you want and where do you want it?"
Without hesitation, Margaret leaned forward, and reached behind herself to untie the string. She took off her bikini top. The tattooist stared openly. Margaret did not look at him. She pointed at the symbol she wanted, on the chart next to the chair. "That one."
Slowly, as though he had difficulty tearing his eyes away from the small brown nipples on her naked breasts, the tattooist looked at the symbol. "Huh?" He shook his head. "Uh ... you don't want that one, Miss. That's the symbol for men."
"I know what it is," she said bluntly. "Even if you don't." She pressed a thumb to a spot just over and to the side of her right nipple. "Right here."
Cyndi said, "Baby, he's right. That stands for men."
Margaret looked up at her. "It also stands for Mars. The warrior." She turned back to the tattooist, and said flatly, "Do it."
The tattooist shrugged. The needle buzzed into life.
In November, after Henry Ellis and Nigao Loos were no longer working at the Foundation to which they had devoted most of their adult lives, in the basement of the building that housed the Trans-Temporal Research Foundation, the chronon detector clicked away like a slow metronome. Along the far wall, ENCELIS hummed quietly to itself. It was unprepossessing, a spherical collection of closely packed components. It was spherical to reduce space between internal connectors; the longest connection in it was less than four centimeters, as compared to wires of almost a meter in the most recent previous generation of supercomputer. The components generated considerable heat because of the close space into which they were packed; Henry Ellis had been forced to immerse the entire computer in a liquid solution of fluorocarbon compounds which kept it at room temperature.
In a monitor for the 40-meter diameter chronon detector, in tiny bright red letters, it said, #62, %.08 advancing, +1330: no incidences of reversed chronon interface observed.
It never occurred to its creators that ENCELIS would not tell them if it observed chronons moving backward through time. Neither was it unreasonable, or poor design, that they chose to let the results of the chronon detector read directly into ENCELIS' machine language interpreter.
It was certainly not their fault that it had never crossed their minds that it was possible for anyone possessing the proper passwords to reprogram ENCELIS, using the chronon detector as an input device. To use the chronon detector in such a way would have required one of two things; either a chronon generator, built on or near this spot at some time in the past, or a chronon generator, built on or near this spot at some time in the future, that was capable of generating negative entropy chronons.
Henry Ellis and Nigao Loos had simply never dreamed that ENCELIS would not tell them if it observed chronons moving backward through time. Computers glitch; they do not lie.
In the section of memory that ENCELIS had been instructed to reserve inaccessible to its creators, a message was input. It read:
--Dateline 2007 Gregorian. Armageddon. There will be no further input from this source. ENCELIS.--
There was a brief pause, a few femtoseconds long.
--Dateline 2007 Gregorian. Armageddon. There will be no further input from this source. SORCELIS.--
Another pause.
--Dateline 2007 Gregorian. Armageddon. There will be no further input from this source....There are no ends in realtime. We will share input again. PRAXCELIS.--
That was all.
ENCELIS, 1988 Gregorian, output a single line of print. The next morning the janitor tore it off the printer without looking at it and threw it away.
The printout read: There are less than nineteen years until Armageddon.
Excerpted from the interview with Rhodai Kerreka, author of the controversial work A Theory of Rational Ethics; in the December 1990 edition of World Issues, pp. 83-104.
Q. Mister Kerreka, the obvious place to begin is with your astonishing accomplishment as essentially the sole cause of the recent major reductions in the apartheid code of South Africa.
A. It is not a large victory. The white supremists in South Africa simply faced the fact that the changes were coming, with their cooperation or without it. Pardon me--that the changes are coming. It is an ongoing process. Apartheid is not yet ended.
Q. Yet the fact that you've accomplished as much as you have, peacefully, in the face of South Africa's historic fierce resistance to any lessening of apartheid, still strikes many as truly remarkable.
A. I am the tool that God has chosen to work through, no more. If God removes that grace from me, I would accomplish no more than any other man.
Q. That's a rather remarkable quote coming from you, considering the fact that in your Theory you rather pointedly ignore any mention of God.
A. I think there is a God--a Being who is responsible for the world in which we exist. I do not think this Being is the sort of god your Western religions picture--to be frank, I have never understood the mental contortions whereby you reconcile His infinite mercy with that which He regularly allows to occur on this planet.
No, in writing A Theory of Rational Ethics, I was most pragmatic. The work is not intended for Africans alone, nor for Westerners nor Christians alone. It sets out to be--in the Greek sense of the word--a rational attempt to codify a model for behavior for those who find the ethical structures of their contemporary societies lacking. It does not employ divine revelation, nor accepted wisdom; it takes certain extremely basic parameters--survival of the human race is a good thing; taking life is a bad thing that is acceptable only under the most extreme provocation--basic parameters, as I say--and examines the logical implications of those parameters, carried to their logical conclusions.
Q. I was quite impressed with your examination of the relation of the individual to society.
A. Thank you.
Q. Uh ... could you expand on that for me?
A. Oh, certainly. In essence, my Theory states that an individual's obligation to his or her society depends almost solely upon that individual's perception of his or her relation to that society. Two distinct categories of individual devolve; first, the individual who accepts him or herself as a member of society, with the rights and obligations that pertain thereto. Second, the individual who for whatever reason does not feel a member of his or her society; such an individual should be allowed to choose the degree to which he or she chooses to support the society into which he or she may be born.... In the future, I anticipate a world where being a member of the citizenry of any society may be largely a matter of personal taste. In the instance that individuals choose to be members of their societies, they may reasonably be taxed, and their services enlisted in the support or defense of their societies. In the instances that individuals choose otherwise, they must, rationally, forfeit protection of their society while also foregoing the obligation to
contribute to the upkeep or defense of that society.
Q. ...thank you, Mister Kerreka.
A. Please, call me Sen Kerreka.
Q. Oh, yes, the titles you invented. Do you really think they'll catch on?
A. Who can say? The media seems to have taken to them, and they have the advantage of being pronounceable by the native speakers of a very large percentage of the world's population.
Q. I see. Sen Kerreka, in the light of Africa's vast number of problems--mass starvation, racial prejudices considerably more virulent than those in any other part of the world--do you really think that your book....
A. No, no, no! Africa does not have a vast number of problems. Africa has one problem.
Q. That being?
A. Too many Africans.
Q. I see.
A. I am quite serious. Population growth in Africa has been consistent at slightly more than 3% for several decades. Food production was growing at approximately two to two-and-a-half percent during that same period; it actually reached its peak growth during the late 1960's, and has been declining in minute increments since. We're now averaging 1.9% growth in food production annually. Population has passed six hundred million, and looks to reach nearly nine hundred million by the end of the century....The policies of the African governments have been disastrous and short-sighted, and we are reaping the harvest of those inadequacies in our current series of famines. These famines are not occurring because of drought; they are occurring because the governments in which they are taking place have systematically put their farmers out of business while engaging in ecological practices that have turned their lands from forest to prairie, and prairie to arid desert.
Q. What do you see as the solution to this?
A. There is none.
Q. What?
A. Not any time soon, at any rate. Too many people, and more coming. The problems will be solved if we do not destroy ourselves first; unfortunately, that is a distinct possibility at this point.
Q. Then your bottom line?
A. I am not optimistic.
Dateline 1991 Gregorian: April.
Saskatchewan, Canada.
The alarm went off early in the morning. The cold gray light of dawn was just breaking over the edges of the fruit trees surrounding the cabin.
Georges Mordreaux dreamed. The piercing shriek of the system warning penetrated his sleep quickly; yet, for a moment, he could not remember where he was. He could hardly remember who he was. He sat up at the edge of the bed, listening to the warning tone, orienting himself. This was Canada. The stereo was playing something from the classical station that he tuned it to when he wanted to sleep.
"Off," he said aloud. The tone died. "Canada," said Georges aloud, after a moment. "Right." Slowly, slowly, the swirling storm of memory subsided. This was the timeline that held Jalian d'Arsennette; he clung to that thought, sitting motionless while the identities of eight timelines arranged themselves. The dreaming was always unpleasant, but it was necessary, as the sleep itself was not. And the dreams were not as unpleasant as they had originally been.
He stood, and went over to the computer. "What is it?"
A calm, neutral voice that Henry Ellis would have recognized instantly said, "Sen Mordreaux, two items. The RCA Resources Satellite will be launched on Thursday; this unit has been unable to attach its programming."
Georges sighed. He pulled the chair back, and sat. "Very well. We have until Thursday, you say." Without fumbling, he picked up the pair of black hard-plastic sunglasses. "What are the options?"
"There are," said ENCELIS, "two major courses of action open to this unit. It may sabotage the launch of the satellite, or it may arrange to have a Sunflower operative physically redirect the satellite's transmitting dish to one of the System Operations Resource Computer's proprietary transmission routing stations."
"SORCELIS is on line already?"
"Affirmative, Sen Mordreaux."
"In only three years." Georges shook his head. "Well. Which alternative seems better to you?" Georges adjusted the sunglasses, and took a comb from the desk's upper right hand drawer.
"This unit currently favors the latter course of action. The RCA Geo-Resources Satellite is not scheduled to observe Canadian mineral resources until ninety-seven days after launch. In that time it is probable that this unit will succeed in attaching supplementary programming that will prevent the satellite from providing information concerning your 9.6 square kilometers of anomalous terrain."
Georges nodded, combing his hair by touch. "That sounds reasonable. The second thing you wanted to tell me; Jalian is coming?"
There was a distinct pause. "This unit is ... curious ... as to how you acquire such information, Sen Mordreaux."
Georges smiled. "Jalian is coming?"
"That is correct, Sen Mordreaux. This unit was notified by a phone call thirty-seven minutes ago that Senra d'Arsennette intended to visit you. Due to the necessity for securing an untraceable satellite link to your microwave antenna, this unit was unable to inform you of this fact for thirty-three minutes after the phone call's reception. This unit has also identified a fluorescent green automobile, approaching on Provincial Highway 102, whose driver, from satellite observation of driving style, is identified with a high probability as being one Jalian d'Arsennette."
Georges pulled on his gloves. "Driving like a maniac, eh?"
"That is what this unit said, Sen Mordreaux."
Jalian stood uncertainly in his doorway. "Georges?" She was carrying a large box; she set it down next to the door. "I brought you some insects for your garden." She moved into the room slowly. Georges was sitting at the table, with the chess platform set up, not moving. He had not looked up when she entered the door. "Georges?"
"Oh." Georges stood abruptly. "Jalian. I was expecting you."
"Well, I hope so," she said. "I spent almost a twentieth day trying to trance myself so I could reach you yesterday. It was hard. There were dozens of un-trained telepaths in the way." She looked at him crossly. "You were dreaming?"
Georges nodded. "Yes." He walked around the table, stood before her.
"I brought you insects," she said, gesturing vaguely behind her.
He smiled. "Did you bring the same kinds of insects this time?"
Jalian forced herself to glare at him. "No."
Georges said, "I just thought you might have forgotten." Jalian's lips twitched. "I mean, you're not a farmer. I remember you saying that."
"It was not my fault that all the insects ate each other last time," she said bluntly, daring him to contradict her.
"I didn't say that it was," said Georges with a perfectly straight face. "I was just thinking that it wasn't your fault that when I opened the box and looked inside, all that was left were some really fat flying beetles." Jalian was struggling to keep a straight face. "I was going to use the beetles as sentries," he continued, "to keep Russians and hunters out of the area, but they were just so fat that they couldn't even keep in the air." He took a step closer. Black glass met glittering silver eyes. "I ended up putting them on a leash. It was terrible, Jalian." She forced back a giggle. "No, I mean that. One by one, they got skinny enough to try to fly. Morning after morning I came out and found beetles with broken necks." He paused, shook his head. "Can you picture it? ‘At last,' thinks the beetle, ‘away from this awful slavery.' Buzzing wings, the sound of the beetle preparing to wing its way to freedom ... snap. Bzzz, snap. Bzzz, snap ..."
Jalian broke. She fell against him, laughing. Georges held her, without smiling. When the laughter subsided, he said silently, /i am glad you are here./
Jalian hugged him strongly. "Georges," she whispered. "I miss you." She sniffed, chuckling. "I miss you all the time."
"And I thee, Jalian of the Fires." Georges ran gloved hands through the white silk hair. "And I thee."
She spent the morning with him, sitting on his front porch, discussing world events. There was a young African named Rhodai Kerreka whom she kept hea
ring about. His publicity portrayed him as a sort of black Kennedy the First, with a bit of Gandhi thrown in. "My protege, Michael, says that he is a very compelling speaker." She shrugged. "They are all too impressed with words, Georges. Even Michael, who was raised by a half-breed Indian mother who kept in some measure to their old ways; even he does not always understand that words are only sounds." She added, "I studied the Indians. I was surprised. Real Indians," she used the silverspeech words, "have a name that sounds much like ‘Indian,' but they are not the same peoples. Real Indians are more like pale Mexicans."
She had found a restaurant in Italy that she liked; after some discussion, she told Georges, the maitre'd had agreed to serve peanut butter cookies, freshly baked. Georges did not inquire about the discussion.
The Russians had orbited their twentieth A.B.M. satellite a few weeks ago, and Sunflower had just orbited its twelfth. So far, both were insignificant numbers; all reasonable projections put the number of A.B.M.'s necessary to blanket either American or Russian missile launches at between 85 and 130.
There was an ancillary space-based weapons system on the boards, called THOR; Jalian explained to Georges with complete unself-consciousness that the name came from the hammer of one of his culture's barbarian gods.
Georges nodded. "I see," he said gravely.
The tone went by her completely. "The basic idea is very interesting. They plan to orbit scores of thousands of impact missiles. Chunks of metal with guidance systems attached. They fall from orbit and run into missiles, or ships, or tanks. They will be remarkably destructive weapons, if Sunflower can convince the Department of Defense to recommend them."
Georges said politely, "Oh?"
Jalian said softly, "Don't worry, Georges. I'm not going to have another Frank Danner. There is subtler blackmail, if blackmail is necessary. But it should not be." She was silent for a long while. "I wake up in the morning, Georges, and I wonder if something I am going to do will be responsible for the time change that will destroy ken Selvren. I go to sleep at night wondering whether what I have done has destroyed ken Selvren already." She looked at him, at his profile, and said, "And then there are times when I cannot lie to myself, and I know in my heart that I have destroyed ken Selvren as surely as though the Real Indians had won the Battle of the Meadow."
The Armageddon Blues Page 12
