The Year's Best SF 13 # 1995

by Gardner Dozois (ed)

  “Apparently,” said Dr. Armbruster.

  “I’m mad about your eyebrows,” I said.

  “And I’m mad about your frame,” Eleanor said.

  We spent another hour there, taking two more updates from Dr. Armbruster. I ordered an iced bottle of champagne, and guests from other tables toasted us with coffee cups and visola glasses. I was slightly tipsy when we finally rose to leave. To my annoyance, I felt the prickly kiss of a militia slug at my ankle. I decided I’d better let it finish tasting me before I attempted to thread my way through the jumble of tables and chairs. The slug seemed to take an unusual length of time.

  Eleanor, meanwhile, was impatient to go. “What is it?” she laughed. “Are you drunk?”

  “Just a slug,” I said. “It’s almost done.” But it wasn’t. Instead of dropping off, it elongated itself and looped around both of my ankles so that when I turned to join Eleanor, I tripped and fell into our table, which crashed into a neighboring one.

  Everything happened at once. As I fell, the slippery shroud of an isolation envelope snaked up my body to my face and sealed itself above my head. But it did not cushion my fall; I banged my nose on the flagstone. Everything grew dim as the envelope coalesced, so that I could barely make out the tables and umbrellas and the crowd of people running past me like horror-show shadows. There was Eleanor’s face, momentarily, peering in at me, and then gone. “Don’t go!” I shouted. “Eleanor, help!” But she melted into the crowd on the pedway. I tried to get up, to crawl, but my arms and legs were tightly bound.

  Henry said, Sam, I’m being probed, and I’ve lost contact with Eleanor’s system.

  “What’s going on?” I screamed. “Tell them to make it stop.” I, too, was being probed. At first my skin tingled as in a gelbath at a juve clinic. But these smartactives weren’t polite and weren’t about to take a leisurely three days to inspect my cells. They wanted in right away; they streamed through my pores, down my nasal passage and throat, up my urethra and anus and spread out to capture all of my organs. My skin burned. My heart stammered. My stomach clamped and sent a geyser of pink shortcake mush and champagne-curdled cream back up my throat. But with the envelope stretched across my face, there was nowhere for the vomit to go except as a thin layer down my throat and chest. The envelope treated it as organic matter attempting escape and quickly disassembled it, scalding me with the heat of its activity. I rolled frantically about trying to lessen the pain, blindly upsetting more tables. Shards of glass cut me without cutting the envelope, so thin it stretched, and my blood leaked from me and simmered away next to my skin.

  Fernando Boa, said someone in Henry’s voice in Spanish. You are hereby placed under arrest for unlawful escape and flight from State of Oaxaca authorities. Do not resist. Any attempt to resist will result in your immediate execution.

  “My name is not Boa,” I cried through a swollen throat. “It’s Harger, Sam Harger!”

  I squeezed my eyelids tight against the pain, but the actives cut right through them, coating my eyeballs and penetrating them to taste the vitreous humor inside. Brilliant flashes and explosions of light burst across my retinae as each rod and cone was inspected, and a dull, hurricane roar filled my head.

  Henry shouted, Shall I resist? I think I should resist.

  “NO!” I answered. “No, Henry!”

  The real agony began then, as all up and down my body, my nerve cells were invaded. Attached to every muscle fiber, every blood vessel, every hair follicle, embedded in my skin, my joints, my intestines, they all began to fire at once. My brain rattled in my skull. My guts twisted inside out. I begged for unconsciousness.

  Then, just as suddenly, the convulsions ceased, the trillions of engines inside me abruptly quit. I can do this, Henry said. I know how.

  “No, Henry,” I croaked.

  The envelope itself flickered, then fell from me like so much dust. I was in daylight and fresh air again. Soiled, bleeding, beat-up, and bloated, but whole. I was alone on a battlefield of smashed umbrellas and china shrapnel. I thought maybe I should crawl away from the envelope’s dust, but the slug still shackled my ankles. “You shouldn’t have done it, Henry,” I said. “They won’t like what you did.”

  Without warning, the neural storm slammed me again, worse than before. A new envelope issued from the slug. This one squeezed me, like a tube of oil paint, starting at my feet, crushing the bones and working up my legs.

  “Please,” I begged, “let me pass out.”

  * * *

  I didn’t pass out, but I went somewhere else, to another room, where I could still hear the storm raging on the other side of a thin wall. There was someone else in the room, a man I halfway recognized. He was well-muscled and of middle height, and his yellow hair was streaked with white. He wore the warmest of smiles on his coarse, round face.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, referring to the storm beyond the wall, “it’ll pass.”

  He had Henry’s voice.

  “You should have listened to me, Henry,” I scolded. “Where did you learn to disobey me?”

  “I know I don’t count all that much,” said the man. “I mean, I’m just a construct, not a living being. A servant, not a coequal. But I want to tell you how good it’s been to know you.”

  * * *

  I awoke lying on my side on a gurney in a ceramic room, my cheek resting in a small puddle of clear fluid. I was naked. Every cell of me ached. A man in a militia uniform, a jerry, watched me sullenly. When I sat up, dizzy, nauseous, he held out a bundle of clean clothes. Not my clothes.

  “Wha’ happe’ me?” My lips and tongue were twice their size.

  “You had an unfortunate accident.”

  “Assiden’?”

  The jerry pressed the clothes into my hands. “Just shut up and get dressed.” He resumed his post next to the door and watched me fumble with the clothes. My feet were so swollen I could hardly pull the pants legs over them. My hands trembled and could not grip. I could not keep my vision focused, and my head pulsed with pain. But all in all, I felt much better than I had a little while ago.

  When, after what seemed like hours, I was dressed, the jerry said, “Captain wants to see ya.”

  I followed him down deserted ceramic corridors to a small office where sat a large, handsome young man in a neat blue uniform. “Sign here,” he said, pushing a slate at me. “It’s your terms of release.”

  Read this, Henry, I tongued with a bruised tongue. When Henry didn’t answer I felt the pull of panic until I remembered that the slave processors inside my body that connected me to Henry’s box in Chicago had certainly been destroyed. So I tried to read the document myself. It was loaded with legalese and interminable clauses, but I was able to glean from it that by signing it, I was forever releasing the National Militia from all liability for whatever treatment I had enjoyed at their hands.

  “I will not sign this,” I said.

  “Suit yourself,” said the captain, who took the slate from my hands. “You are hereby released from custody, but you remain on probation until further notice. Ask the belt for details.” He pointed to the belt holding up my borrowed trousers.

  I lifted my shirt and looked at the belt. The device stitched to it was so small I had missed it, and its ports were disguised as grommets.

  “Sergeant,” the captain said to the jerry, “show Mr. Harger the door.”

  “Just like that?” I said.

  “What do you want, a prize?”

  * * *

  It was dark out. I asked the belt they’d given me for the time, and it said in a flat, neuter voice, “The time is seven forty-nine and thirty-two seconds.” I calculated I had been incarcerated—and unconscious—for about seven hours. On a hunch, I asked what day it was. “The date is Friday, 6 April 2092.”

  Friday. I had been out for a day and seven hours.

  There was a tube station right outside the cop shop, naturally, and I managed to find a private car. I climbed in and eased my aching self into the
cushioned seat. I considered calling Eleanor, but not with that belt. So I told it to take me home. It replied, “Address please.”

  My anger flared and I snapped, “The Williams Towers, stupid.”

  “City and state, please.”

  I was too tired for this. “Bloomington!”

  “Bloomington in California, Idaho, Illinois, Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Maryland, Minnesota, Missouri, Nebraska, New York…”

  “Hold it! Wait! Enough! Where the hell am I?”

  “You’re at the Western Regional Militia Headquarters, Utah.”

  How I longed for my Henry. He’d get me home safe with no hassle. He’d take care of me. “Bloomington,” I said mildly, “Indiana.”

  The doors locked, the running lights came on, and the car rolled to the injection ramp. We coasted down, past the local grid, to the intercontinental tubes. The belt said, “Your travel time to the Williams Towers in Bloomington, Indiana, will be one hour, fifty-five minutes.” When the car entered the slipstream, I was shoved against the seat by the force of acceleration. Henry would have known how sore I was and shunted us to the long ramp. Fortunately, I had a spare Henry belt in the apartment, so I wouldn’t have to be without him for long. And after a few days, when I felt better, I’d again reinstall him inbody.

  I tried to nap, but was too sick. My head kept swimming, and I had to keep my eyes open, or I would have vomited.

  It was after 10:00 P.M. when I arrived under the Williams Towers, but the station was crowded with residents and guests. I felt everyone’s eyes on me. Surely everyone knew of my arrest. They would have watched it on the nets, witnessed my naked fear as the shroud raced up my chest and face.

  I walked briskly, looking straight ahead, to the row of elevators. I managed to claim one for myself, and as the doors closed I felt relief. But something was wrong; we weren’t moving.

  “Floor please,” said my new belt in its bland voice.

  “Fuck you!” I screamed. “Fuck you fuck you fuck you! Listen to me, you piece of shit, and see if you can get this right. I want you to call Henry, that’s my system. Shake hands with him. Put him in charge of all of your miserable functions. Do you hear me?”

  “Certainly, sir. What is the Henry access code?”

  “Code? Code? I don’t know code.” That kind of detail had been Henry’s job for over eighty years. I had stopped memorizing codes and ID numbers and addresses, anniversaries and birthdates long ago. “Just take me up! We’ll stop at every floor above 200!” I shouted. “Wait. Hold it. Open the doors.” I had the sudden, urgent need to urinate. I didn’t think I could hold it long enough to reach the apartment, especially with the added pressure from the high-speed lift.

  There were people waiting outside the elevator doors. I was sure they had heard me shouting. I stepped through them, a sick smile plastered to my face, the sweat rolling down my forehead, and I hurried to the men’s room off the lobby.

  I had to go so bad, that when I stood before the urinal and tried, I couldn’t. I felt about to burst, but I was plugged up. I had to consciously calm myself, breathe deeply, relax. The stream, when it finally emerged, seemed to issue forever. How many quarts could my bladder hold? The urine was viscous and cloudy with a dull metallic sheen, as though mixed with aluminum dust. Whatever the militia had pumped into me would take days to excrete. At least there was no sign of bleeding, thank God. But it burned. And when I was finished and about to leave the rest room, I felt I had to go again.

  Up on my floor, my belt valet couldn’t open the door to the apartment, so I had to ask admittance. The door didn’t recognize me, but Eleanor’s cabinet gave it permission to open. The apartment smelled of strong disinfectant. “Eleanor, are you home?” It suddenly occurred to me that she might not be.

  “In here,” called Eleanor. I hurried to the living room, but Eleanor wasn’t there. It was her sterile elder twin, her chief of staff, who sat on the couch. She was flanked by the attorney general, dressed in black, and the security chief, grinning his wolfish grin.

  “What the hell is this,” I said, “a fucking cabinet meeting? Where’s Eleanor?”

  In a businesslike manner, the chief of staff motioned to the armchair opposite the couch. “Won’t you please join us, Sam. We have much to discuss.”

  “Discuss it among yourselves,” I yelled. “Where’s Eleanor?” Now I was sure that she was gone. She had bolted from the cafe and kept going; she had left her three stooges behind to break the bad news to me.

  “Eleanor’s in her bedroom, but she…”

  I didn’t wait. I ran down the hallway. But the bedroom door was locked. “Door,” I shouted, “unlock yourself.”

  “Access,” replied the door, “has been extended to apartment residents only.”

  “That includes me, you idiot.” I pounded the door with my fists. “Eleanor, let me in. It’s me—Sam.”

  No reply.

  I returned to the living room. “What the fuck is going on here?”

  “Sam,” said the elderly chief of staff, “Eleanor will see you in a few minutes, but not before…”

  “Eleanor!” I yelled, turning around to look at each of the room’s holoeyes. “I know you’re watching. Come out; we need to talk. I want you, not these dummies.”

  “Sam,” said Eleanor behind me. But it wasn’t Eleanor. Again I was fooled by her chief of staff who had crossed her arms like an angry El and bunched her eyebrows in an angry scowl. She mimicked my Eleanor so perfectly, I had to wonder if it wasn’t El as a morphed holo. “Sam, please get a grip and sit down. We need to discuss your accident.”

  “My what? My accident? That’s the same word the militia used. Well, it was no accident! It was an assault, a rape, a vicious attack. Not an accident!”

  “Excuse me,” said Eleanor’s attorney general, “but we were using the word ‘accident’ in its legal sense. Both sides have provisionally agreed…”

  I left the room without a word. I needed urgently to urinate again. Mercifully, the bathroom door opened to me. I knew I was behaving terribly, but I couldn’t help myself. On the one hand I was relieved and grateful that Eleanor was there, that she hadn’t left me—yet. On the other hand, I was hurting and confused and angry. All I wanted was to hold her, be held by her. I needed her at that moment more than I had ever needed anyone in my life. I had no time for holos. But, it was reasonable that she should be frightened. Maybe she thought I was infectious. My behavior was doing nothing to reassure her. I had to control myself.

  My urine burned even more than before. My mouth was cotton dry. I grabbed a glass and filled it with tap water. Surprised at how thirsty I was, I drank glassful after glassful. I washed my face in the sink. The cool water felt so good, I stripped off my militia-issue clothes and stepped into the shower. The water revived me, fortified me. Not wanting to put the clothes back on, I wrapped a towel around myself, went out, and told the holos to ask Eleanor to toss out some of my clothes for me. I promised I wouldn’t try to force my way into the bedroom when she opened the door.

  “All your clothes were confiscated by the militia,” said the chief of staff, “but Fred will bring you something of his.”

  Before I could ask who Fred was, a big, squat-bodied russ came out of the back bedroom, the room I used for my trips to Chicago. He was dressed in a conservative business suit and carried a brown velvet robe over his arm.

  “This is Fred,” said the chief of staff. “Fred has been assigned to…”

  “What?” I shouted. “El’s afraid I’m going to throttle her holos? She thinks I would break down that door?”

  “Eleanor thinks nothing of the kind,” said the chief of staff. “Fred has been assigned by the Tri-Discipline Board.”

  “Well, I don’t want him here. Send him away.”

  “I’m afraid,” said the chief of staff, “that as long as Eleanor remains a governor, Fred stays. Neither she nor you have any say in the matter.”

  The russ, Fred, held out the robe to me, but I ref
used it, and said, “Just stay out of my way, Fred.” I went to the bathroom and found one of Eleanor’s terry robes in the linen closet. It was tight on me, but it would do.

  Returning to the living room, I sat in the armchair facing the cabinet’s couch. “Okay, what do you want?”

  “That’s more like it,” said the chief of staff. “First, let’s get you caught up on what’s happened so far.”

  “By all means. Catch me up.”

  The chief of staff glanced at the attorney general who said, “Yesterday morning, Thursday, 5 April, at precisely 10:47:39, while loitering at the New Foursquare Cafe in downtown Bloomington, Indiana, you, Samson P. Harger, were routinely analyzed by a National Militia Random Testing Device, Metro Population Model 8903AL. You were found to be in noncompliance with the Sabotage and Espionage Acts of 2036, 2038, 2050, and 2090. As per procedures set forth in…”

  “Please,” I said, “in English.”

  The security chief said in his gravelly voice, “You were tasted by a slug, Mr. Harger, and found bad, real bad. So they bagged you.”

  “What was wrong with me?”

  “Name it. You went off the scale. First, the DNA sequence in a sample of ten of your skin cells didn’t match each other. Also, a known nastie was identified in your blood. Your marker genes didn’t match your record in the National Registry. You did match the record of a known terrorist with an outstanding arrest warrant. You also matched the record of someone who died twenty-three years ago.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I said. “How could the slug read all those things at once?”

  “That’s what the militia wanted to know. So they disassembled you.”

  “They! What?”

  “Any one of those conditions gave them the authority they needed. They didn’t have the patience to read you slow and gentle like, so they pumped you so full of smartactives you filled a swimming pool.”

  “They. Completely?”

  “All your biological functions were interrupted. You were legally dead for three minutes.”

  It took me a moment to grasp what he was saying. “So what did they discover?”