THX 1138

by Ben Bova

  The skullcap slipped out of THX’s hands. “Wh… what?”

  “I’ve programmed her to level 5450. Her transfer should go through by the next series. You’re going to need a new roommate.”

  The shift buzzer sounded. Automatically, like a chrome mannequin, THX stood up. Without a word, he headed for the assembly bay, leaving SEN standing in the preparation chamber alone.

  Woodenly, THX headed for the assembly bay, walking slowly down the brightly lit corridor that linked it with the preparation chamber.

  “Uniform check,” said a voice from an overhead speaker. “Cap missing, 1138. Cannot be allowed into assembly bay area without a cap.”

  He blinked, shuffled to a stop, turned back toward the preparation chamber. If he’s still there, he found himself thinking,I’l/ kill him. I’ll put my hands around his throat and squeeze the life out of him. THX could feel his heart pounding in his chest as he slid the door to the preparation chamber open.

  But SEN had left. The cap was still on the floor where he had dropped it. Contaminated now. THX took a new one from the issue drawer, adjusted it and started back toward the assembly bay.

  “Hurry it up, 1138,” a different voice carped. “The shift’s waiting.”

  He passed a report box and stopped. With trembling hands he took out a red punch card marked PERSONAL VIOLATION REPORT. With the stylus attached to the box he punched out SEN 5241. He traced the stylus down the many categories listed on the card until he came to Illegal Programming. With a violence born of anger, he punched that slot through, then jammed the card into the acceptor slot in the box.

  Now he smiled as he headed for the assembly bay. A grim, tight smile of hatred.

  It was incredibly difficult. THX stood in front of the leaded window and worked the manipulators as carefully as he could, while a thousand voices chattered incessantly in his earphones. He tried to concentrate on the half-assembled chrome-mannequin laying inside the assembly cell, but the flashing lights from his computer readout pried at his attention, the monitor viewscreen flickered at him, gages and dials all demanded his eyes.

  The supervisor cut in on the background chatter: “Retract 1138. SB4 talmod contact… retract to 220.”

  Eyes stinging with sweat, THX tried to follow the supervisor’s orders. If they’d only leave me alone and let me concentrate… I could do it if they’d let me work alone.

  Control sat in his sculptured chair, stamping punch-cards with his personal stylus. The communicator buzzed. He flicked a lean finger at the actuator.

  The whole-wall viewscreen glowed to life. An observer sitting at his horseshoe of monitoring screens reported:

  “We are receiving an extreme respiratory count from a Magnum Manipulator in assembly cell 94107. Erratic visual behavior as well.”

  Control’s eyes narrowed as he watched the scene on the observer’s main screen. “Data file,” he murmured.

  Instantly, the other screens around the observer flashed THX’s file: ID photos, vital statistics, present physical status.

  There was something familiar about this one, Control thought. Then when he saw the listing under roommate he had it: LUH 3417, natural-born. Yes, he knew the man now.

  The observer said, “THX 1138 filed a violation report on SEN 5241 immediately prior to his shift.”

  “Violation type?” Control asked.

  “Illegal programming.”

  “Check into it. Stay with him. I’ll return to you momentarily.”

  “Yessir.”

  Control’s long fingers played with his desktop keyboard. The observer disappeared from the huge viewscreen, to be replaced by tapes of THX and LUH in their quarters.

  Control leaned back in his soft comfortable chair and watched them playing, making love.

  “Yes,” he murmured to himself. “They did fall.”

  He did things to the keyboard again and the observer returned to the screen.

  “Inform the supervisor of Magnum Manipulator 94107 of procedure to mindlock and make an arrest. Order mindlock for cell 94107; subject 1138 prefix THX.”

  The observer nodded obediently.

  Every pore in THX’s body was oozing sweat as he hunched forward, feet planted hard on the floor, hands locked inside the manipulators. He was squinting, frowning, ignoring the babble in his earphones, tunneling his vision to see only the mannequin inside the cell and the gleaming tiny cylinders of radioactives that had to be loaded carefully, so carefully, into the mannequin’s power pile.

  No slips now, he commanded himself. Nearly critical. You can do it. You are doing it.

  He heard LUH’s voice telling him, “You can live without sedation. You can. I know you can.”

  And then he realized that the babble of voices in his earphones was about him.

  “Current brainwave confirmation on 1138. Adrenal off point seven-four, plus or minus six. Confirm sedation depletion—analyze severe.”

  “Control requests mindlock for operating cell 94107; subject 1138 prefix THX.”

  “Magnum supervisor 94107 requests priority shift. Repeat—priority shift. Situation in cell 94107 not conducive to mindlock procedure. Subject 1138 is involved in critical maneuver.”

  THX hung in space. His hands froze in the manipulators. A deadly shining cylinder hovered above the mannequin’s inert body as the metal waldo hands froze in mid-maneuver.

  Suddenly a blaring voice screamed shatteringly in his earphones:

  “MAGNUM MANIPULATOR 1138 PREFIX THX, OPERATING CELL 94107, SUFFERING SEVERE DRUG VIOLATION. EXTENT PENDING. SUBJECT TO IMMEDIATE ARREST. MINDLOCK PENDING. MINDLOCK PENDING.”

  The supervisor’s voice was frantically shouting back, “Priority shift. Repeat, priority shift! The situation here is dangerous! 1138’s involved in a critical mass maneuver. Delay mindlock, delay mindlock… situation red; repeat, situation red. Hold, hold, HOLD…”

  A paralyzing whining shrilled through THX’s earphones. He jerked spasmodically, and in that timeless mindless instant he saw that all the other operators in the assembly bay were also being frozen by the mindlock.”

  “Who permitted a mindlock priority in magnum cell 94107? Immediate transfer of disaster responsibility to Control.”

  “Checking request for mindlock on cell 94107. What is the time make on this?”

  “Abort! Abort! All systems clear. Block it!”

  THX fought against the mindlock. With the primal instinct of a terrified animal, he battled against the screaming brain-shattering whine that paralyzed his every nerve. With every ounce of strength in him, he tried to move, to blink his fear-frozen eyes, to clench his fists, to make his feet move. The deepest, most primitive part of his brain was shrieking at him: run, run!

  And the gleaming cylinder of radioactives drifted, jerked, carried by the metal waldo hands that followed THX’s spasmodic struggles, toward the neat row of cylinders lined up at the precisely proper and safe spacing next to the inert mannequin’s head.

  Through the skull-splitting shriek of the mindlock, THX thought he could hear the supervisor:

  “Who authorized this priority? Clear the area, transfer disaster responsibility to Mercicontrol. Repeat, clear the area! Where the hell are those damned pills?”

  THX was hanging by the manipulator grips trying to run away, to hide, but held in mindlock. He fought with every ounce of strength in him to release his hands from the manipulators.

  And in the cell, the shining cylinder of radioactives fell with a soundless clatter into the row of its brother cylinders. They tumbled together, deadly little metallic children.

  The mindlock whistle stopped. “Clear… clear… 4444, 4445, 4446… EJECT… EJECT… EJECT!”

  Operators collapsed onto the floor. THX staggered backward, his hands suddenly free, his feet working from instinct, his ears still ringing painfully. He glimpsed a flash of sparks inside the assembly cell.

  “Release mindlock!” a voice was shouting somewhere.

  “Release mindlock. Replace to command mon
itor. Transfer obligation for responsibility to central monitor 898. Control center 626 holds no responsibility…”

  THX stumbled to his knees and began to crawl toward the safety door, where a baleful red light was flashing urgently at him.

  OMM’s voice flooded the assembly bay. “Everything is going to be all right. You are in my hands. I will protect you. Everything is going to be all right. Cooperate and stay calm, I am here to help you. Everything is going to be all right…”

  And intertwined with the calm voice of OMM, someone was screaming, “Get those men out of there! Where are the Mercicontrol units! Radiation alert, radiation alert!”

  THX reached the door and grabbed at the handle, used it to pull himself up. Leaning against the door, he felt the emergency lock yield and the door swung open. He half-fell into the decontamination room as the door snapped shut behind him. Yellow lights blinked at him and a cleansing spray hissed out from the walls, hard enough to make his skin tingle, even under the clothing. His eyes stung momentarily and automatically, in response to preconditioning training, he stripped and stepped away from the contaminated clothes.

  The outer door of the decontamination cell clicked open. THX pushed through and found fresh clothes and a shelf of sedation doses. He dressed, staring at the pills. Then he turned and activated the polarized window on the other side of the narrow locker. The supervisor’s command post was still in chaos. Silently, because of the soundproof window, the workers of the assembly bay and a team of Mercicontrol people in radiation armor were rushing back and forth, dragging operators still unconscious from the mindlock away from the cells and toward the shielded command post. No one payed the slightest attention to THX. The supervisor himself was standing at his console, earphones askew on his head, swallowing handfulls of pills.

  The mindlock must work better if you’re on sedation, THX realized as he watched his unconscious fellow-operators being dragged away from their manipulator stations. Then his eyes caught the emergency monitoring gauges on the supervisor’s console and he saw why the man was taking pills by the bottle. All the gauges were way up in the red.

  There could still be an explosion!

  THX pushed through the outer door of the decontamination chamber. A chrome policeman, tall and firm, was standing out in the hallway waiting for him.

  “THX 1138, you are under arrest for drug evasion.”

  For a flash of a second, THX sagged into defeat. Then, without his even thinking about it, he slammed both hands palms open into the police robot’s chest. The machine staggered backward and then toppled, clattering noisily to the floor.

  Top heavy, THX’s memory told him. They’re all built that way. Barely stable.

  He was running down the corridor, running, not away from the police. Toward LUH. He had to find her, warn her. Maybe they could get away. Get to the superstructure. Find her. Maybe at least she could get away, even if they caught him.

  No time for the corridors or even the slideways. He pounded down the corridor, into a main thoroughfare where the constant press of people swallowed him immediately. He rushed along, letting the crowd carry him toward the tramway.

  Chapter 8

  Running blindly, not even daring to look behind him to see if the police robot followed, THX bolted into the tramway and jumped into the first tram car on the platform. The door slid shut behind him and the motors hummed smoothly, accelerating the tram until the rapid transit tunnel outside was nothing but a blur of occasional lights streaking by the window.

  The tram was sleek, glistening white, built to whisk silently from one end of the vast underground city to the other.

  And it was impossibly crowded. THX was flattened against the door, barely able to breathe in the press of silent impassive people jammed against him.

  “Approaching academy facilities 80A. Please remain seated until the tram has come to a complete stop.”

  Remain seated. Only fifty of the hundred-some people squeezed into the tram car had seats.

  Then THX saw over the heads of the crowd the white helmet and chrome face of a police robot working slowly through the silent, uncomplaining, thoroughly sedated people. The robot was heading toward him.

  He pushed away from the door, nudging people aside, worming through the crowd like a man in a nightmare trying to flee some unknown horror, and unable to run no matter how hard he tried. Run? THX could barely move in the crowd.

  There was another door at the farther end of the tram car. THX made his way toward it, slowly, painfully, like a man swimming in quicksilver. Every time he glanced over his shoulder he saw the robot’s white helmet heading inexorably for him.

  “Academy facilities 80A. This is the termination of intra-urban link DD neck 08. This tram will return to the central web in five minutes.”

  The tram was slowing down. The blurred lights in the tunnel outside took shape, became round, single lights. Up ahead, through the forward window, THX could see the terminal platform.

  And four police robots standing on it.

  Desperately, he looked around for a way out. Any way. A red handle marked EMERGENCY EXIT. FOR USE IN EMERGENCY ONLY. He lunged at it, pushing aside a half-dozen people. He pulled the handle and a whole window section popped out.

  The tunnel was roaring outside, the tram still hurtling along unbelievably fast now that the blast of its slipstream wind shrilled at his face. The solid walls of the tunnel stared at him. A woman screamed. With a final look over his shoulder at the still-advancing robot, THX leaped out of the tram.

  For an instant he was spinning, tumbling, wind ripping at him and noise blasting. He hit the very solid wall, shoulder first, and fell to the tunnel floor, scraping face and hands against the rough wall surface.

  For a moment he lay there dazed, ears ringing, face starting to burn where the skin had been scraped, shoulder throbbing. He looked up and saw that the tram had stopped at the terminal, several hundred yards down the tunnel. He was in darkness, a pool of shadow between two lights recessed in the tunnel walls.

  “1138 prefix THX, on warrant. Drug evasion. Fled tram in transit. Presume destroyed. Investigate.”

  “Check 0463. Proceeding.”

  He could see two of the chrome police robots heading for the end of the platform. There were steps leading down to the tunnel floor. Between the steps and THX was nothing but darkness.

  THX hauled himself painfully to his feet. Stumbling, holding his injured shoulder, he ran deeper into the tunnel.

  They won’t stop until they find me. Or my body.

  He scuttled along the wall, trying to stay in the shadows. Then his hand felt a recess, an open hatchway. Blindly, he stepped into it and fell down a metallic chute. Despite himself, he screamed in surprise and fear.

  He landed jarringly in a pile of refuse. It stank. It was churning, moiling, gurgling obscenely. Absolute darkness. But THX could feel the mass of evil-smelling garbage surging slowly, like a turgid river of rot. He floundered in it, tried to claw his way out. But he could find nothing to grasp, no walls, not even a solid footing, only a mushy, quicksand-like ooze beneath his frantically treading feet.

  He was sinking in it. Deeper and deeper. And then his foot struck something. Metal, sharp, it cut into his heel with a nerve-searing pain. Blindly, THX pushed his way upward. This was another chute of some kind—There’s light up ahead!

  The chute was narrowing. He could now see in the faint bluish glow up ahead that there were walls and a ceiling that necked down constantly, forcing the river of slime to move faster, faster, flow toward the light.

  And then he knew what the light was. Fusion torch! This was a garbage incinerator, where the refuse of the city was burned by the star-hot tongue of fusion flame, purified into elemental atoms, for recycling as new raw material.

  A billion-degree fusion plasma was waiting for him, so hot that it was nearly invisible. THX scrambled to one side of the chute, tried to stand against the flow that pushed him inevitably toward the fusion torch. Now he could he
ar its voice, the low steady roar of thermonuclear power, the throaty song of a man-made star that sang of death, not life.

  The bluish glow was strong enough now to hurt his eyes. But in its fierce light, THX saw a single hand grip projecting downward from the ceiling of the chute. He reached out for it, missed it once, tried again and grabbed it.

  A hatch. Painfully, his injured shoulder shrieking along nerve paths, he held onto the grip and worked the release mechanism. The hatch creaked open.

  THX pulled himself upward, an agony of exertion, and then lay exhausted, stinking, panting but alive on the metal flooring above the garbage chute.

  LUH.

  His body wanted to stay there, to sleep, to take time to heal and rest. But his mind repeated, LUH. Got to warn her. Get away…

  He forced himself to his feet and staggered down the corridor in which he found himself. At the end of it was a sanitary station and locker room.

  I’ll never make it out in the open like this.

  The sanitary station was empty. He stripped and showered, then put on a fresh set of clothes. There was a row of stimulants, bright little vials chock-full of pills, stand-big on one side of the locker area. THX shuddered looking at them. But he left them alone.

  It seemed like a century before he got back to his own apartment. He was on the wrong side of the city, but he didn’t dare try the tram again. He kept to the crowded shopping levels, stayed on the busiest pedestrian passageways, used the slideways as much as he could.

  Every time he saw a chrome police robot his stomach twisted inside him, but the robots merely plodded stoically along, ignoring him.

  He got to the apartment at last and flung the door open.

  “LUH!”

  He rushed in, looked frantically through each room, calling her name.

  But she wasn’t there. The apartment was empty.

  He stood in the middle of the living room, turning in slow helpless circles. Where can she be? Does she know? Did they arrest her? Is she safe?

  And then there were three chrome police robots standing at the still-open door. They stepped inside. They were all carrying long chrome rods.