"When we were still living in the trees, life was a lot simpler-and so were our brains. Is this a good banana or a bad banana? Monkeys that could recognize good bananas survived. Monkeys that couldn't, didn't. The evolutionary history of this species has served to put a premium on the ability to make appropriate decisions. Every time one of you chimpanzees pops out a baby, you are passing along not only your genes, but your vote on the hard-wired programming of the species. Because of our billions of years of evolutionary history, we are hard-wired to be decision-making machines. Whatever circumstance we are presented with, we make a decision about it. The decision is always reduced to its simplest level: 'Is this a good banana or a bad banana?' Yes or no? Is this a threat to my survival? Or not? If something unknown presents itself, we are hard-wired to treat it as a threat until proven otherwise. Eveything that your mind does-that whole conversation in your head, no matter what it's about-that's the mind considering its decisions for survival.
"Now, you want to notice here pay attention!-that this places an incredible burden on the mind to be right. Because in the mind's view, the alternative to being right is being dead. The mind equates rightness with survival and wrongness with dying. This is hard-wired into us. We, as individuals, have to be right whatever we do. That's why we have so much trouble with the concept of death-because Death is wrong. By the way," Foreman added, "the purpose of this process is not to change that orientation. We can't. It's hard-wired into you. The best we can do is make you conscious of it. Notice that most of you are now in denial. Notice the attempts to find the loophole, the escape, the fine print in the contract. "
Foreman sat down in his chair and looked out over the room. "Feedback?"
Several hands went up.
"What's to prevent McCarthy from walking out that door in the back of the room?"
"The door is locked and will remain so until I tell the assistants to unlock it."
"What if Marisov refuses?"
"We'll pick someone else." Foreman was emotionless.
"What if we all refuse?"
"Then I will fire the gun. Nothing will change the fact. The process continues until McCarthy is dead." Foreman pointed to a woman in the front row.
"I'm not going to argue with you," she said. "I just want to ask why? Why is it necessary to kill McCarthy for this process?"
Foreman considered his words carefully. "Remember what I told you at the beginning? We don't explain anything here. That's the mind trying to sidetrack the purpose. You want to bring a centipede to a crashing halt? Ask him in which order he moves his legs. In here, we concentrate on results. The only explanation you will ever get is: because that's what is necessary to produce the result."
"But isn't this a rather severe and heartless way to make a point? Couldn't you just tell us what we're supposed to realize?"
Foreman gave her a look. He gave her the look. "Don't you think we've had this discussion ourselves? If there were any other way to achieve the result, if there were an easier way, don't you think we'd take it?"
She sat down.
Foreman looked out over the room. "Do you see the denial at work? Do you see how you are trying to deny the circumstances of the situation? You're still not taking it seriously." He pointed at another raised hand.
A man this time. "Sorry, but I don't believe that the president of the United States would authorize this kind of bullshit. I don't believe it. If you're serious, then you're a murderer and you're asking us to be co-conspirators. And if you're not serious-if this is some kind of a trick, like Rodman said-then this is still an outrage. I'm going to take this up with Senator Brodie. When this is made public . . ."
Foreman held up a hand. "Excuse me, but Senator Brodie is one of our graduates."
"Then I'll find another senator. I still don't believe this . . . "
Foreman looked at him calmly. "I acknowledge your disbelief. Are you willing to take McCarthy's place up here on the platform?"
"Uh . . . " The man hesitated. The roomful of people laughed.
Foreman grinned. "That's the first sign that any of you in this room are taking this seriously. Does anyone want to trade places with McCarthy? Does anyone really and truly disbelieve?"
No hands were raised.
"Hm," said Foreman. "Suddenly, we have a roomful of hiders." He resumed his analytical tone. "I think most of you are still in denial. You want to notice that denial at least pretends to be a rational process." He grinned. "Wait till we get to anger. Anger is terrific. There's no pretense at all in anger. You'll see. Does anyone else want to deny the circumstances of this process? McCarthy?" He looked at me.
I shook my head slowly.
Foreman looked at me oddly, then he looked to Marisov. "What about you?"
Marisov spoke in carefully measured tones. She said, "I won't fire the gun. I can't. I won't. McCarthy has committed no crime. He does not deserve to die."
"Agreed: he has committed no crime. He does not deserve to die. But he's going to die anyway. We are all going to die someday. So what? Will you fire the gun?"
She whispered, "Nyet."
"Thank you. You may resume your seat."
Marisov climbed down off the platform and found her way back to her chair in the audience. She put her face in her hands and began weeping quietly.
Foreman waited until an assistant had verified that she was all right, then he turned back to me. "Unfortunately, McCarthy, you don't get off so easily. What's going on with you?"
I shook my head again.
Foreman turned to the rest of the trainees again. "All right. Marisov won't fire the gun. Who will?"
No hands went up.
"Oh, come on!" said Foreman, annoyed. "We're going to be here all day! There must be some one of you blood-crazed baboons who wants to get this over with."
Three hands went up.
"I thought so. Morwood, you had your hand up first. Do you want to blow McCarthy's brains out?"
Morwood stood up, grinning. "Sure. I never liked him anyway."
Foreman looked sideways at me. "You want to notice, McCarthy, Morwood has an excellent justification." He turned back to Morwood. "Justification is what we use to avoid being totally responsible for our actions. Sit down, Morwood. You're enjoying this too much." Foreman pointed to a black man. "Washburn?"
Washburn nodded. "I'll do it."
"Why?"
"Why not? Washburn shrugged. "You say it has to be done. Somebody's got to do it. I'll do it."
"Interesting," said Foreman. "Remain standing." Foreman pointed to the angry-looking woman. "Takeda?"
"What if I take the gun and shoot you?" she asked. "Would that end this silliness?"
"No, it wouldn't," answered Foreman. "Miller, the Course Manager would take over and the process would continue. You can sit down. I'm interested enough in my own survival that I don't feel like testing your ability to follow instructions." There was a little laughter at Foreman's candid admission. "All right, Washburn. Come on up and take Marisov's place."
Foreman turned back to me again. "You see, James, the universe has no shortage of executioners." He stopped and studied me. "Okay, what's going on with you? It's all over your face. What's that about?"
"You lying, supercilious, manipulative, cock-sucking, shit-eating, morphodite!" I exploded. "You asshole! You motherfucker! You know what I've been through! You know this isn't fair! You made promises to me! Your promises are worthless! You want us to keep our word, but you can't keep yours! You're a goddamn, lawyer-loving liar! You make Jason Delandro look like a fucking saint! If I had the gun, I'd kill you! You scum-sucking, son of a bitch! You-you . . .!!" I stopped only for breath, and only because I couldn't think of anything else to call him.
Foreman was still grinning at me. He. shared his grin with the room. "Now," he said. "Now, we're at anger."
Miss Wilkerson thought it her duty
to maintain her conjugal beauty.
She mixed up a paste
of industrial wa
ste,
and applied it to her sweet patootie.[2]
26
Atascadero
"If this be reason, make the most of it."
-SOLOMON SHORT
There were fourteen domes, two rows of seven out of shelterfoam, and enclosed by the familiar chain link fence. The gate was locked. A sign on the gate said
UNITED STATES ARMY
EMERGENCY SUPPLY DEPOT #CA-145
WARNING: NO TRESPASSING PATROLLED BY ROBOTS
Jason looked at the sign with interest. "What are the robots armed with, Jim?"
"If they're standard, then they'll have modified 280's. They might also have rockets and grenades. If they have a working service bay, they're getting regular maintenance. They could be trouble. "
Jason nodded. He looked to George, "What do you say, George?"
George rumbled, "Jim speaks true."
"All right," Jason made a decision. "Have everybody move back. We'll blow the fence and see who comes running. Let's have Falstaff and Orson be the welcoming committee."
George said, "If the robots have grenades or torches, we could lose them. Or if they've been programmed to aim for the soft spot at the base of the eyestalks."
Jason nodded. He looked at George. "Do you have a better idea?"
"No. I just want you to be aware of the possible consequences."
"Thanks," Jason sounded annoyed. He nodded to Marcie. "Blow up the gate."
She nodded back and began unpacking her explosives.
Jason walked over to the truck with Falstaff and Orson in it. He chirruped, and they poured out of the truck and meatloafed up in front of him. Orrie flowed over too.
"All right, boys," Jason said. He began to talk to them. He used English sentences, interspersed with chirps and signs and gestures. The Chtorrans bobbled their eyes.
Marcie had six gobbets of plastic explosive. She stuck them to the hinges of the gate and its base. She stuck a tiny radio-detonator into each glob. "All right," she waved. "Everybody move back."
George came up carrying two rocket launchers. He handed one to me. "When the robots come, try to take them out before they can do anything to the worms."
"No problem."
George moved off a bit and began setting up. I did likewise. Marcie stepped toward us with a cheery smile. "Everybody ready? Jason?" she called.
Jason nodded, put his hands in his pockets and waited expectantly.
Marcie pulled the detonator out of her pocket and unlocked it. She punched in a code number, then looked around one last time. "You might want to hold your ears," she warned. "Three . . . two . . . one." She pressed the last button.
The gate exploded inward, toppling flat on the ground. Almost immediately, an alarm went off and six flat rolling tanks came bursting out of two nearby domes. Their laser beams whirled and pointed. They focused on Marcie, on George, on me, on the Chtorrans-but they didn't fire. They wouldn't fire unless we entered the fence. We had maybe thirty minutes before the choppers arrived. If that.
We'd picked this base because there was an empty warehouse nearby. We'd be gone in twenty minutes and hidden in the warehouse by the time the choppers were overhead.
If necessary, we could take the choppers out. We had twelve ground-to-air missiles, but we didn't want to use them. It was too dangerous to call that much attention to ourselves.
I targeted on the first robot's treads and launched. The explosion toppled the beast and it was helpless. We could finish that one with the torch.
George launched a grenade at the second robot. The explosion rocked the machine, but it remained upright, its turret swiveled and targeted. It began firing back. Immediately, the four remaining robots also began firing at George. He dove into the ditch, gobbets of earth exploding all around him.
The robot turrets swiveled to focus on me. I didn't wait to see if they would fire or not, I dove after George. I was smart. The ground exploded behind me. Apparently, they'd programmed these monsters to be more aggressive in the past few months. The bastards. We were only trying to liberate some supplies. It wasn't like we wanted to kill someone.
Falstaff and Orson flowed into the camp then. The robots twirled their turrets and opened fire on them. Orson shuddered as the laser beam touched the base of his eyestalks, but he raised up in a challenge and took the burst of machine gun fire in the belly. He came down hard on the robot and toppled it. He rolled away, bleeding profusely. I wasn't worried. He came up charging the next robot. Yay, Orson.
Falstaff went banging headfirst into the same robot. I saw the torch nozzle coming out of its side and screamed. We were going to lose both of our attack-trained worms. Orson hit the robot sideways and the flame missed Falstaff by a hair, scorching across his back. Falstaff leapt and pushed on the robot and it toppled like a fat chess piece. Its turret swiveled back and forth, sending a spume of flame arcing across the compound.
The last two robots were trying to shoot at everything in sight, but they were confused by the flames of their fallen comrade. Apparently, they had infrared detectors. I rose up from the ditch and hurled a grenade. George came up beside me and hurled one as well. We threw ourselves flat-
The blast went over our heads, spattering us with clods and rocks, and when we looked up one of the robots was twirling in a circle, its target beam waving drunkenly. The other one was smoking and still. Falstaff came up and toppled it. He had lost half his tail in the blast. He waved his arms and screamed his rage over the fallen robot.
Marcie screamed. "Orson!"
Orson was aflame. He'd been torched. He writhed across the ground, enveloped in fire. He screamed and shrieked in agony. "Falstaff! Watch out!"
The robot that was still upright was laboriously trying to target on him now. Apparently, its gyros had been damaged by the blast but its weaponry was still working. Given enough time, it would lock onto him. It wheeled in his direction jerkily.
Someone was firing at it-Marcie! George hurled a grenade. I threw myself flat. There was another blast.
And then it was over. The robot was still.
Falstaff chirped at it, plowed over and toppled it. Then he whirled around and raced toward Orson, still writhing-skidding to a halt halfway there. The heat of the flames held him back. He hesitated, tried to reach Orson again, then backed away. And then he screamed. He raised up and wailed. It was the most incredible sound of anguish I had ever heard from any living creature. I had never known before this that a worm could mourn a companion. Falstaff came down on the ground and beat himself on it. He raged. He raced back and forth from one robot to the next, charging at them, beating on them, rolling them across the compound like toys.
"Don't go in there-" George grabbed my arm. Marcie was standing now. So was Jason.
Jason stepped forward. "We may have to kill him."
"No . . ." I put my hands to my mouth.
"Orrie!" Jason pointed.
Orrie started for Falstaff, then hesitated. He looked back toward Jason questioningly. Jason pointed again. Orrie didn't look happy. He moved toward Falstaff.
Falstaff saw him and raised up in a challenge. "Chtorrrrr!" he screamed. "CHTORRRRRRRRR!"
Orrie raised up in front of him and hurled the challenge back. He screamed even louder. All his purple fur stood out from his body as if he were electrified. His eyes bulged from his skin. "CHTORRRRRRRRRR!"
Falstaff clacked his mandibles at Orrie and then, still raging, he threw himself flat on the ground before the other Chtorran. He made a sound that was neither a scream nor a sob nor a whimper, but had the feeling of all three at once.
Orrie came back down to the ground in front of Falstaff. He flowed forward. He rolled up and over Falstaff, and then the two of them were rolling together across the ground, writhing as if they were wrestling or copulating or fighting-then they stopped and held for a long moment. The tension in the two bodies was incredible.
And then-abruptly-they relaxed and a moment later, parted.
Falstaff chirped softly
, almost lovingly at Orrie. Orrie chirped back at him.
"Good," said Jason. "Let's go. The clock is running."
We charged for the compound. My job was to find the main dome, access the computer-I would use Colonel Buffoon's code, Marcie had taught it to me-and dump onto disk the latest maps of California and the locations of all safe enclaves not presently claimed.
Falstaff came charging with me. "You okay, boy?"
The worm chirruped at me as happily as if he'd just opened a bus full of Boy Scouts. I shrugged and kept going.
The main dome was locked. No problem. I pointed at the wall. Falstaff flowed up to it and began munching; within seconds he had chewed open a hole large enough for both of us. Shelterfoam was good, but it had its limits.
Falstaff backed away from the hole and I dove in. He followed. "Lights," I commanded, and they came on brightly. I'd forgotten. There were three desks and terminals. They smelled military. I'd forgotten so much.
The wall facing me was twelve feet high. It was a mural of the Constitution of the United States. I was frozen facing it. I could hear my own voice reminding me: "I vow to uphold the Constitution of the United States of America." I'd made that commitment before I'd made my commitment to Jason.
Which commitment counted for more? I took a step toward the wall.
No.
I wasn't in the army any more. That commitment had been made before I'd been awakened, before my transformation. It didn't count.
Or did it?
I turned away and sat down at a terminal with my back to the mural. I logged in, punched in the code of a dead man, and accessed the central banks. This probably wasn't going to work, but I had a whole list of identities to try: people who'd disappeared recently in this region. I hadn't asked about that. I presumed they'd failed the "Live or Die?" test.
Colonel Buffoon first. The terminal hesitated. SORRY. ACCOUNT INACTIVE. PLEASE CONTACT SYSOP.
Next, I tried the code for Colonel Buffoon's aide-de-camp: SORRY, etc.
Uh-oh. This might turn into a problem.
A Rage for Revenge watc-3 Page 23
