Double Vision

by Tricia Sullivan

  They seem happy.

  That's the first impression you get, and it will never quite go away, no matter what's to come.

  Of the rest: you crawl underneath a blanket of dread. This is too much like everything you never wanted. No seven-course meal is going to take this away.

  Because they're all young. Very young. Too young to be soldiers; too young to be out at night; too young to be left without a babysitter. They come out of the well and disperse into the Grid like a hatching of spiders. You count eight as they swarm around the campsite. They make no sound. You can't even hear them breathing.

  They have long toes, and there's something odd and primeval in the flicker of their hands - something familiar - but you can't quite place it.

  They're scary.

  Yes, you did mean that: you're scared of them. Isn't everyone afraid of children? Of their lawlessness? Their inability or refusal to recognize the forms and masks of adult status? But this is something else.

  You're scared ofthem because you're scared for them.

  And who ever heard of a child golem?

  You alert Machine Front, and Machine Front sets an alarm shrieking inside Klaski's ear. Her drooping head snaps up and she grabs for her gun. A golem is standing a few yards from her. Klaski and the golem stare at each other. ‘Oh my God,’ breathes Klaski.

  The golem breaks the tableau by laughing, then scurries sideways and slides between Klaski and the purple lump that was Lewis.The sound of the golem's laughter is watery and joyous, a glissando of high spirits that makes no sense in its context. Klaski seems to take it like a personal insult. She comes up onto her feet, fast.

  ‘Ma'am Captain Serge ma'am, there's golems in the woods!’

  In a shutter-fast flicker of movement, the golems ascend and vanish among the shadows. The equipment enclosure opens a slit and Serge's head shoots out, obscenely. She doesn't look sleepy.

  ‘I don't see anything, Klaski. You had a nightmare.’

  ‘They're only babies, ma'am! Only little girls. I couldn't shoot. But they're watching us. I bet any money they're sitting just out of range of our lights, watching.’

  ‘If they are they don't show up on my scope,’ Serge answers coolly, poking at her Swatch. ’You check your air filters lately? Gossamer's showing some sh#*t's almost the same as quaaludes, there's a funny old edge in the air. Or maybe you been too busy knitting booties for Hendricks's babies to check your air-quality meter.’

  ‘I know what Isaw, ma'am.’ Klaski is shivering and her upper lip is wet with snot.

  ‘You like flow charts, don't you, Klaski?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I can tell. You're that type. I bet your accessories always match your outfit, too. I bet you know what gifts to give people depending on what anniversary it is. True?’

  ‘What?’ Klaski repeats. She draws the back of her hand across her nose, disarmed into perking up. ’You mean paper, clocks, stuff like that?’

  ‘Yeah. You want everything clear. You read the instruction manual before operating.’

  ‘No-oh-oh. Not necessarily, ma'am. Just because I don't like being in a place where your shit could attack you if you don't bag it right, or if you drop a Lifesaver it could turn into a bullet - I mean, I don't think that makes me a dweeb.’

  ‘I never said you was a dweeb, I said you like flow charts. You want to know what you're dealing with. It ain't like that here, Klaski. Take it from me. You got to open your mind.’

  ‘I have an open mind! I believe in UFOs and astrology and stuff—’

  ‘Ah, that's just the same shit as flow charts but dumbed down for the masses. People sitting in a room trying to see each other's auras? Seeing what they want to see? F%@king self-delusion, Klaski. The Grid knows what you want to see. It knows what you're afraid to see. It'll feed you it on a spoon.’

  ‘Ma'am, if you don't believe me, you can check with the Gossamer.’

  ‘And I will. Go to sleep, Klaski.’

  Then Serge turns to you, checking your records, just in case.

  You weren't recording, so there are no images. Serge routes through Dante to ask you what you witnessed. You tell Dante you saw them. Dante relays the information to Serge.

  ‘We can recall Gossamer and have the visuals checked,’ he offers.

  ‘Yeah, and go the Grid blind? Pffff!’

  Serge snaps the Swatch shut.

  She keeps watching, but they don't come out. Towards the end of the sleep cycle she drags out a Marlboro and smokes it, distractedly.

  trailbreaks

  Gloria was waiting for me when I came out of my assignment room.

  ‘I heard you clocked Cori!’ she said, squeezing my forearm. ‘What happened?’

  I shrugged, preoccupied with the Grid and everything. ‘Nothing much. She was acting like I was her punchbag, and I hit her.’

  ‘Well. . . good for you.’

  ‘Yeah, well, you're the only one who says so. Sensei told me off in front of the whole class. Big speech about bushido.’

  Gloria giggled. ‘Bushido,’ she repeated, mocking a Japanese accent. ‘Bull-sheet-oh. I'll bet she was asking for it.’

  I was fuming, though. It was all coming back to me. I said, ‘He made me go sit in the corner for half the class.’

  She took a long look at me, and I realized I sounded incredibly bitchy. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Not really,' I said, and felt tears welling up in my eyes. ‘I'm not having a very good day.’

  In fact, I felt dizzy and I had a headache. The taste of orchids was even stronger. I wasn't sure if it was all because of what had happened in the nex, or if I was just faint because I hadn't eaten since lunch yesterday. I felt pretty sorry for myself, though. ‘Who told you?’ I asked.

  ‘Bob Baroni called me and asked if I wanted to be on the demonstration team, and I said only if you were, too. That's when he told me.’

  'I doubt I'll be allowed on the demonstration team after last night,’ I said. ‘You should do it, though. I bet it'll be fun.’

  ‘Not without you. Besides, I don't have time. All that extra training.’

  I took a deep breath and let it out. ‘Thanks, Glow.’

  ‘Thanks, schmanks,’ she said. ‘Whatcha doing tonight?’

  ‘Lifting weights,’ I said. ‘Remember, the pact?’

  'I thought you might want to go for a drink after work. Gunther's in a meeting in Paramus all day, so we could sneak out early.’

  ‘Uh ... maybe I better not.’

  I could tell that Gloria was halfway between worried about me and hurt by my refusal, but she didn't ask me why I didn't want to go. I didn't want to tell her. I thought if I kept quiet about the fact that I couldn't eat, I could keep control. She said something about going to the Xerox room, but I wasn't really listening. I was worried about my debriefing with Gunther. After Gloria walked out, I decided to get it over with and dragged myself to Gunther's office, only to find him gone.

  Stupid. Gloria only just said Gunther wasn't here. What was the matter with me?

  I sat down at Gloria's desk for a minute. It was 2:30 in the afternoon. I needed to eat. I felt weak and tired.

  Gloria kept a candy tray on her desk. It was full of snack-size Baby Ruths and Mounds bars. Normally I'd find these irresistible. But not with the orchids on my tongue. My stomach pitched. I was sure I'd feel a whole lot worse if I tried to eat any of them.

  Then I remembered that I owed Gunther sponsorship money for his MS walkathon. I had said I would give him a dollar a mile and he had walked nine miles so I owed him nine bucks. Gunther is always doing stuff for charity or for kids or both.

  He keeps the paperwork on his desk, next to his in-box underneath a photo-cube filled with pictures of his nieces and nephew and his bloodhound Andy Rooney. I picked up the envelope with the cash in it and slid a ten-dollar bill in, then put a check mark next to my name and returned the papers to their place.

  Then I spotted my own name on a memo. It was the second page; I couldn'
t find the first page so I didn't know who it was to or what the date or topic was.

  without doing a pyramid, search, which doesn't fit within the Ghent's budget. I enclose a brief list of test targets filtered from the most recent Karen Orbach transcript, with accompanying numeric accuracy ranks from 1-10 with 10 being a perfect hit.

  I've never seen five tens before, and I think I'm safe in guessing that you haven't, either.

  Trailbreak Granola Bars 10

  Max Factor Mascara1 9

  Radical Crunchies Snacks8 1

  Swatch 10

  Dune: the movie3 4

  Charmin 10

  Max Headroom4 3(?)

  Pop Rocks 10

  The Gap 10

  Shape of product resembles torpedo, reflected in transcript.

  We all know that this product bombed before it even hit the shelves. This was our control, and it worked: Orbach didn't even register it.

  Our software analysis interprets the transcript as showing awareness of the product coupled with rejection of it. Orbach refers to the book Dune but not the film.

  Our software analysis indicates the introduction of a character called Dante, whom we believe may be Max. We don't take the low number as a predictor of failure. This is the only truly unknown quantity on our list, and although the number is initially low we believe hit potential exists.

  Naturally, Bob, I'm in full agreement with you that our goal is to be 100% system-driven and that we can't rely on agents like Orbach indefinitely. But I'm a practical man and these numbers speak for themselves.

  On the basis of Orbach's recent performance, I propose that she be escalated to Tier One. Simultaneously, we will analyze her performance and initiate software development to mimic it. Coupled with the low-risk, low-gain methods we have been using up until now, the deployment of Orbach could boost our numbers by as much as 71%. In light of the fact that Western Syndicates are talking to Hope Industries, our direct competitors, I suggest we take advantage of this opportunity to retain their contract and to move ahead of the pack.

  I hope we can discuss this further at the meeting tomorrow. I will bring additional studies and graphs to back-up what I'm saying. Looking forward to seeing you then.

  G.T. S.

  GS/gl

  A voice said, ‘I don't think it's a good idea to go in somebody's office when they're not there.’

  I turned and stared at Priscilla, executive secretary to Vice President Bob Hagler, hardly believing my ears. She was standing there in a purple knit suit, black stockings and patent leather shoes, a goddess of corporate uptightness.

  ‘Oh, if s OK,’ I said, laughing and wanting to believe that she was joking, too. But I could feel my face burning with some kind of guilt — I wasn't really sure what kind. The memo was about me, so in a sense I had a right to read it. 'I was just putting in my money for the MS walkathon. It's cool.’

  She inclined her head and gave it a little toss, body English for Come out of there at once, underling.

  My response was automatic and I didn't really think about it until later. I hurried out of the room. I could feel my boobs bouncing up and down and my thighs swinging from side to side, I moved so fast.

  'I hang out in Gunther's office all the time when he's not here,’ I said, trying to sound confident. ‘We're buddies.’

  Priscilla looked at me like I was a roach. She closed the door behind me and locked it.

  I tried to pretend that nothing had happened. I went back to my assignment room, but I wasn't ready to go on the nex. Instead, I went home.

  While I was driving I had that feeling again. I call it the I Want a Cookie feeling, and I guess it grew out of my childhood nickname. I Want a Cookie is that babyish feeling you get. When things go wrong, you want a cookie to make you feel better. When things go right, you want a cookie to celebrate. When you're bored or flat, you want a cookie. When you're nervous. Tired. Sentimental. Watching TV. In a hurry. Killing time. In the car. You want a cookie and you have one, but instead of feeling better, instead of everything changing into happy cookieland, you just get fat and then you hate yourself, which of course calls for more cookies.

  In this case I guess it was down to my conversation with Priscilla. I am one of those people who never knows what to say during a confrontation — or what should be a confrontation but in this case had been a non-confrontation thanks to me not knowing what to say. Usually, rather than get upset, I just pretend nothing's happening and wait for it to be over. Afterward, I think of several plausible responses on my part that would have ended with me feeling satisfied with myself, if only I'd had the presence of mind to speak up.

  But it's always too late.

  So I left work early, thinking about food. I stopped off at A&P to pick up a few things for dinner. Well, it started out as afew things but pretty soon I had a whole shopping cart full of goodies for Nebbie and me. This very cute guy got in line behind me with only a bag of Fritos and a six-pack of Coors, so I let him go ahead.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, and smiled briefly as he squeezed past me and my stuff. He was about six-two, lean, with fluffy brown hair and a strong jaw. He had blue eyes and a tan, which always looks good but looked especially good on him, and he was dressed like a construction worker right down to his boots. It's too bad they were the lace-up kind, because I love old-fashioned boots like from The Three Musketeers or medieval times, where the leather kind of comes up over the calf and then folds over. I wish they'd come back in style. He'd look so good in clothes like that. I started fantasizing that he was F'lar from Dragonflight and he was just about to go out and risk his life flying Thread on Monarth. I'd be Lessa: tiny, fierce, indomitable and beautiful — also risking my life on a daily basis despite F'lar's efforts to tame me.

  I stared at him, but I tried not to be obvious. I hasten to add that I would have let him go first even if he was the ugliest person I'd ever seen. I was just being courteous, and I wouldn't want anybody to be standing behind me with two items, seething that they were stuck behind some big fat moose buying half the store. But as I looked at him I could feel him pulling my eyes like a magnet. I followed him out of the store and watched him get in his pickup. There was a German Shepherd in the front seat, too. It licked his face when he got in.

  I got in my own car and told myself to forget the guy in the store. If I really think about it, I guess one reason I was so frustrated with Priscilla's bitchiness had to do with the people I'm working with in the nex. Flying with Gossamer is one thing: I mean, OK, she's not emotionally bonded with me. In fact, she doesn't even have emotions that I know of, she isn't sentient, and I don't get to ride her like a dragon. Fair enough. But flying with Gossamer is still the most exciting thing I've ever done, and I love it. On the other hand, being down there with people like Serge and her team, fighting a war over this planet that everybody wants a piece of, wants to tear up, build roads on, steal its raw materials, and generally render tame and boring — that's not my idea of a good time. They're so ... base. There's nothing heroic about what they're doing that I can see. They aren't even nice, except maybe Lewis, and she has her nose buried in Ladies Home Journal half the time. I admit the golems are nasty and scary, but they're also somehow sad and nobody seems to see that. I don't even know whose side to be on. With Commander Galante I felt like I was working under a real leader. With Serge I just feel off-balance all the time. And frustrated.

  When I'm frustrated, I eat. And eat. I put food in my stomach like a bricklayer trowels cement, brick by brick building my wall.

  I put the car in gear. I decided to go home and have a really good meal. I'd feel better. I wasn't going to let them get to me. I know there's such a thing as good. I know there are real heroes out there. I just don't know how to find them.

  The guy in the A&P might be hero material. I doubted it, though. Now that I did karate, I knew that you had to be a black belt before you were anything special. When I first saw the black belts, I knew I'd finally found my own people. I'd finall
y come home. They were a cut above. They were people of honor. They were special. And I'd do anything to be like them. Maybe then my real life could start to be as interesting as my life on the nex — and with me acting in it, not just watching.

  I got home in plenty of time to iron my gi and get ready. I had my dinner all planned out. A sirloin steak, baked potato with sour cream and two or three ears of local Jersey corn on the cob, smothered in butter. I didn't worry about the pact with Gloria because I had, after all, been fasting since yesterday and I owed myself some calories. So I had also picked up a seven-layer cake for dessert, with a little tub of Haagen Dazs on the side. I normally don't cook on a Wednesday night, I just pick up a TV dinner or something, and it felt a little strange to go to all this trouble just for myself, but I needed something big and delicious after the day I'd had.

  I figured what I'd do would be eat the main meal, digest for an hour, go to karate and then afterward I could come home and have my chocolate cake and curl up with Nebbie and a good book.

  My stomach was growling away while the steak cooked, so I decided to eat the corn first. I spread butter on a piece of bread and then rubbed it over the corn. I threw plenty of salt on there, too. Then I picked up the corn-holders and brought the pale, gorgeous ear to my mouth.

  For some reason, I paused. My mouth remained closed. I could smell the corn, and the steak cooking, and the butter. But I couldn't seem to take that final step. I couldn't bite into the food.

  Strange. Annoying. I was really hungry. With all my will, I closed my eyes, opened my mouth, and put the ear of corn between my lips. The salt stung my lower lip where it was a little chapped. I tasted the butter. And I tasted the orchid flavor of the Grid. I started to take a bite and instead found that I'd put the ear back down.