by Chris Bunch
Sten caught Bet as she leaped down. Gagging from the smell, they covered their mouths and noses. Sten recognized the stink as Sensimusk. With a mechanical groan, the bot stopped its mad whirling and moved only its stun rod, waving the weapon feebly.
Sten looked over at Bet, who grinned and stepped boldly from behind the stack directly in view of the bot. It didn't even notice her. Sten followed as she walked casually to where the others were hidden. Everyone began shoving booty into the vent. Behind them, the bot waved its weapon indecisively.
* * * *
Bet hated her doll. It was soft and cuddly and programmed to be the best friend a little girl could have. It made Bet's skin crawl when she held it close to her.
She was ten by then, and had moved to Ward B for the second stage. Love was still dispensed by the Creche Mothers, but it was used as a reward for nongroup participation—the children were encouraged to spend time with themselves. To watch livees instead of playing.
Bet never let on how she felt about the doll. She'd seen other children who maltreated or ignored their dolls punished. It seemed to be the only sin the children could commit. She didn't know why she felt as she did. Her doll was just like all the others—a little girl (boys had male dolls) with tiny, spindly legs and arms and a huge head. The face was a happy grin that Bet had decided was that of an idiot.
But one night she couldn't bear its snuggling up to her in bed and whispering in her ear, begging her to share her little-girl secrets. In a sudden rage, she hurled it to the floor. Instant horror. What had she done? “Dolly, Dolly, be all right. Don't die—” The doll opened its eyes again and began to croon. “Bet, is everything happy?” Bet nodded.
"Wouldn't you like to go lie down and hold me close and we can tell ... can tell ... can tell each other stories."
"Yes, Dolly."
She pulled it into the bunk with her and obediently lay down.
The doll seemed all right after that, even if it did repeat itself a little.
The dolls were actually highly sophisticated remote sensors for the Creche program's main computer. They were complete physical and emotional monitoring facilities. A small proximity director ensured that the computer and its human attendants would know if any child was out of range of her doll, for at night, it was very important that each child cuddle his or her doll close.Only then could the device give its injections. Injections to dull physical perceptivity, to increase emotional dependence, and to reduce physical and, most important, emotional/sexual growth.
When Bet slammed her doll against the wall, she threw its sensors slightly out of kilter. They continued to report her as being at a ten-year-old's level of mental and physical development, so she was eventually classified a rapid-peaking retard and given the bare minimum of injections.
Within two years, Bet could see the change in the other children. The boys stayed round-cheeked and undeveloped. The girls still giggled and played trivial games.
Bet learned always to be alone and last in the refresher as her breasts and pelvic area began to develop. Fortunately she was slow enough maturing that menstruation did not occur.
But Bet knew something was dreadfully wrong. Wrong with the other children and wrong with the Creche Mothers. She felt that things were coming to some kind of awful development—but was powerless to do anything about it.
* * * *
Sten thought Bet and Fadal had gone a little too far. Dressed as joygirls, they were teasing a brawny, off-duty Tech. Sten peered from his hiding place and shook his hlad. It wasn't what they were doing—that was part of the plan—it was their idea of what a joygirl looked like. He hadn't seen so much glitter since the crystal vat exploded back in the Exotic Section. He leaned closer, listening.
"You girls is a little young, aincha?” The Tech licked his lips as he looked them over.
"Don't worry, me and my sister have got lots of experience."
"Your sister, huh? Now, ain't that somethin'. You sure your daddy won't—assumin’ I was interested."
"Why should he? It was his idea. He says two more years and his Mig contract will be clear, all the credits we're bringin’ in."
"His idea, huh? Well, I heard you Mig kids grew up fast, but I thought that was just stories."
Bet and Fadal looped their arms through his and led him toward the apartment. “Come on. Let's have a party."
The Tech was half out of his clothes by the time Sten kicked in the door.
"The hell! What is this?"
The Tech nearly had a heart attack. He looked like a hairy maiden, trying to cover himself with one hand, struggling with his pants with the other. “Uh—Uh—Whaddya—Who are you?"
Sten brandished a large wrench. “They're my sisters, that's who I am."
He turned to Bet and Fadal, cowering on the bed in mock fear. “Get home."
They hurried out. Sten closed the door and took a step toward the Tech. “Gonna teach you a little lesson. Mess with my sisters, will you?"
"Uh ... listen ... they said they was..."
"What? Calling them joygirls now? My god, you have a nerve.” He lifted the wrench high, getting ready to bring it down on the Tech's balding skull.
"Wait-Couldn't we talk this over?"
Sten lowered the wrench. “Whatcha got in mind?” The Tech fumbled in his pockets and pulled out his card.
He waved it at Sten. “I got lots of credits ... lots of ‘em. Just name your price."
Sten grinned. Oron was right. This was easy money.
* * * *
Voices. Bet stirred awake; the sedative the doll gave her was no longer enough for her twelve-year-old body. She leaned out of her bunk and peered across the Creche dorm. Lights. Faint mutterings. She climbed out of the bunk, looked at the doll, and hesitated. The doll “knew” when it was being held. But could it tell by whom?
Bet lifted the blanket on the next bed. She never liked Susi much anyway. She tucked the doll into Susi's arm. Bet slipped into her coveralls and padded through the ward.
The semiforbidden door to the corridor was open. She looked around. All the children were deep in drugged sleep. Bet took a deep breath and then walked through. The central corridor was brightly lit. At one end she saw the open window of what seemed to be a lab. Keeping close to the wall, she crept up to it.
The voices began again. One was high-pitched and sounded like it belonged to a very young child. “I did all right today, didn't I, daddy? I moved that big liner all by myself all the way into the dock. Isn't that good?"
A second voice sounded. This one was deeper. “Of course it is, Tommie. You're the best handler we've got. I told the doctor that, and he promised that he'd see that you got something extra for it."
"Candy? I can have some candy? I like mint. You know I like mint, don't you, daddy? You'll get me some mint, won't you?"
"We'll see, son. We'll see."
Bet looked around the edge of the door. She almost screamed. Sitting in a wheelchair was the emaciated body of a man. It looked just like her doll. A huge head, tottering on a pipe-stem neck. Powered implements lay ready at hand. The head had the hairless face, somehow enlarged, of a young boy. From its lips came the high voice. “I saw some of those Migs you told me about today, daddy. I am glad that the Company didn't let me grow up like that. They have to walk, and they smell bad. They'll never know what it is to be like me. One day I get to be a crane, and then the next I'm behind the controls of a bot tug. They're sonice to me."
"Of course the Company's nice to you, Tommie,” the second voice said. It came from a normal man, wearing the white coat of a lab tech. “That's why we let you in the Creche, and why we help you now. We love you."
"And I love you. You're the best daddy I've ever had.” Bet let the door slip closed noiselessly, turned, and hurtled back down the corridor and out the entrance. She ran. She didn't know where she was running, but she kept going until she was exhausted. She was in a dusty, long-unused corridor. Bet huddled to the wall and tears finally came, then st
opped as she noticed the corner had broken off the floor-level ventilating duct grill. She pulled at it and slowly worked the panel loose. Bet crawled into the cavity behind it and curled up. Eventually her sobs died away, and she fell asleep.
When she awoke, the half-dead, kindly face of Oron was staring at her.
* * * *
The scrawny Delinq peered from the ductway, then motioned behind him. Six other members of the gang dropped quietly down into the empty commercial corridor.
There was a low whistle; the Delinq looked back up. Sten leaned out of the ductway and pointed out the targeted shop. The Delinq moused into the shadows and moved slowly toward it.
Sten settled back to keep watch.
He had been with Oron's gang for nearly nine months. Oron had taught him well and Sten had quickly progressed to trusted raider and now he was planning and leading his own raids. He was proud that none of his raids had taken casualties and very seldom did his Delinqs fail to return fully laden.
Still, he knew such luck couldn't last. Sooner or later, the Delinqs would be picked up by a sweep and destroyed. It was a fact of life. He'd seen the results of a sweep one time whilescouting. The Sociopatrolmen hadn't even bothered to dispose of the bodies. Even though the remains were blackened and half skeletal, he could tell that some of the Delinqs hadn't died easily. Particularly the girls.
He thought about Bet. She was still—despite his friendship with Oron—the only reason he stuck with the gang. Sten loved her. Although he had never had the nerve to tell her. She was—She was ... He shook himself out of his momentary reverie and went back to watching.
The Delinqs had reached the shop. Small cutting torches flared and the bars fell away. The scrawny
Delinq—Rabet—reversed his torch and smashed the window. The Delinqs crowded in, scooping the display contents into their packs. Sten looked back up the corridor. His eyes widened. Creeping down the corridor was a Sociopatrolman, stun rod ready.
Sten licked his lips, then reversed position. The Sociopatrolman slid into view directly under Sten. Sten levered himself out of the duct, crashing down on the big man, feet slamming into his neck. The Sociopatrolman thudded to the deck, stun rod spinning away.
Big as he was, the Sociopatrolman moved quickly, rolling to his feet, unclipping a riot grenade. Sten landed, spinning over one shoulder, feet coming back under him. Lunging forward, one foot reaching high up, then clear of the ground, the other foot joining, legs curled, snapping his legs out to full lock, as the Sociopatrolman's fingers fumbled with the grenade ring.
Sten's feet slammed into the Sociopatrolman's head. His neck broke with a dull snap. As the man dropped, Sten twisted in midair, bringing his legs back under him, landing, poised and turning, knife-edge hands ready. There was nothing more to do.
The Delinqs looked at the dead Sociopatrolman, then hastily scooped the rest of the window display into their bags and dashed back toward the vent.
As Rabet clambered into the duct, he gave Sten a thumbs upand a flashing grin.
* * * *
Sten shifted uncomfortably in his bunk. He couldn't sleep. He kept thinking about the Sociopatrolman he had killed and the scattered long-dead bodies of the Delinq gang. He had to get off Vulcan. He had to take Bet with him. But how? Plans swirled in his head. All carefully considered before. All doomed to failure. There had to be a way.
Something rustled. He turned and Bet slid through the curtains and into his room. “What are you—?"
A soft hand went over his lips, silencing him. “I've been waiting every night. For you. I couldn't wait any longer.” Very slowly, she removed her hand, then took Sten's and guided it to the fastener of her coverall. A moment later, she lifted the coverall off her shoulders and let it fall. Underneath, she was naked.
Bet moved up against Sten and began to unfasten his garment. He took her hand away.
"Wait.” He reached behind him, and pulled something from under his pillow. A small bundle. He shook it out. It was a long, flowing glasscloth robe. It danced and gleamed with a kaleidoscope of colors. “For you. A gift."
"How long have you had it?"
"A long time."
"Oh ... I'll try it on. Later.” Then she was in his arms and they sank back into the bunk. Locked together. But still in silence.
* * * *
Bet followed Sten down the narrow ductway. It narrowed twice and they had to squeeze through. She had no idea where they were going. Sten had said it was a surprise. They turned a corner and the duct ended in a blank metal wall.
"This isn't a surprise,” she said. “It's a dead end."
"You'll see.” His pocket torch flickered into life and he began cutting. In a few moments he had cut a “door,” with only a small piece of metal holding it in place. “Close your eyes."
Bet obeyed and heard the hissing sound of the torch cutting again and then a loud thump as the “door” fell away.
"You can open them now."
And Bet saw “outside” for the first time in her life. A gentle lawn sloping toward a tiny lake. Tall green things that Bet thought were probably trees and at the edge of the lake a small—was it wooden?—house, built in the style of the ancients. Chimney, curl of smoke, and all. Sten tugged at her and she followed him out in a daze.
She looked up and saw a bright blue artificial sky. She shrank back, uneasy. It was so open. Sten put an arm around her and she relaxed.
"For a second I thought I was going to fall ... off ... or out."
Sten laughed. “You get used to it."
"Where are we?"
"This is the private rec area of Assistant Personnel Director Gaitson. He left today for a two-cycle recruiting program offworld."
"How do you know?"
"I played with the computer. I'm getting pretty good at it, if I say so myself."
Bet was puzzled. It was nice, but—she looked around—"What are we raiding?"
"We aren't. We're on a vacation."
"A vacation? That's—"
"For the next two cycles we are going to do absolutely nothingexcept enjoy all the things that Gaitson has laid in. We'll eat the best, drink the best, and play. No raids. No patrolmen. No worrying. No nothing."
Sten led Bet to the lake. He stepped out of his coveralls and slowly waded out. “And right now, I'm taking a bath.” He waded out a few meters. Bet watched, waiting for something to happen. Sten turned around and grinned. “Well?"
"How is it?"
"Wet."
Bet smiled. And the smile became a chuckle. And then laughter. Shouting out, loud, full-bellied laughter. The way she used to when she was a child. Before the Creche. It was very un-Delinqlike.
She reached for the fastener of her coveralls.
* * * *
"Sten?"
"Ummmm?"
"You awake?"
"Ummmmm ... yeah."
"I was just thinking."
"Yeah?"
"I don't want to ever leave this place."
Long silence.
"We have to. Soon."
"I know that. But it just seems so ... so..."
He hushed her and pulled her close. Brushed away a tear. “I'm getting off,” he said."Off? What do you mean?"
"OffVulcan."
"But that's impossible."
"So is living like a Delinq."
"But how?"
"I don't know yet. But I'll find a way.” Bet took his hand. Held it. “Want me with you?” Sten nodded. “Always.” Then he took her in his arms and they held each other all night.
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CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Mahoney arced off the slideway, over the barrier and into the machine shop's entrance. Balled in midair, hit on his feet, and was running.
He dashed down the assembly row, dodged a transporter, and rolled up onto the waste belt. The belt carried him from the shop, and a few feet over a second, southbound slideway. Mahoney slid to the side, went over the edge, hanging by his hands.
&n
bsp; He let go, and rebounded onto the slideway. Took several deep breaths, and dusted off his coveralls. Shucking that tail, he thought, was getting harder and harder. Thoresen and his security section were entirely too interested in the movements of Quartermaster/Sergeant Ian Mahoney, Imperial Guards, Field Ration Quality Control subsection.
So far his tags were nothing more than Vulcan's routine paranoid surveillance on any offworlder. He hoped. But if they nailed him now, he'd be, at the very least, blown. So far Mahoney had managed to borrow a Mig's card long enough to produce an acceptable forgery, scrounge a set of Mig coveralls and head south.
He was miles below The Eye. Far off limits for anynon-Company employee.
Down there, if he was uncovered by Security or any Sociopatrolman, the Company would probably find it simpler just to cycle him through the nearest food plant than go through the formalities of deportation.
Mahoney had put himself into the field quite deliberately. He'd been somewhat less than successful in recruiting local agents. Stuck in The Eye, all he had access to were obvious provocateurs and Migs so terrified they weren't worth the bother. At any rate, going operational was possibly less hazardous than red-lighting his mission and heading back for Prime World.
The Emperor, he felt, would be less than impressed with Mahoney's progress to date:
1. Thoresen was, indeed, in a conspiracy up to the top of his shaved head, and letting no one, including his own board of directors, in on the operation. Big deal. That the Emperor knew a year ago, back on Prime World.
2. Thoresen was working a gray and black propaganda campaign against the Empire, specifically directed at the Migs. But since he was using Counselors as the line-out, and had so many cutouts between himself and the campaign, he was still untouchable. Mahoney figured that operation had been going on, and all he'd been able to get was specifics and intensity.
