2xs

by Nigel Findley

  I had to do something to help my friends. But what? Their guns had been ineffective. How could I expect mine to harm that obscenity? Frag, I wasn't even sure if I could move.

  Out the comer of my eye I saw a shimmering as something took shape in the tunnel behind us. And I learned that I could move if I really had to. Pain washed through me as I rolled over, and it took everything I had to keep from fainting so I could bring up my Roomsweeper.

  There were two of them, two of die insect spirit warriors that I now seemed to know so well. I squeezed the trigger. The recoil conducted up my right arm and into my body, triggering another burst of pain in my left arm and a scream through clenched teeth. I put the Room-sweeper's pistol grip against my shoulder and worked the pump one-handed. Then I brought the barrel up again and blasted another load of double-ought shot into the lead creature's chest. I screamed again, in exaltation this time, as I saw the colossal damage done by the shotgun blast. Once more I worked the pump, and again pulled the trigger.

  "Die, you fraggers!" Whose voice was that? An instant later I realized it was my own.

  By that time Argent had turned, his Ingrams spitting death into the oncoming horrors. The first one, the one I'd already ruined, collapsed, and I put another blast into the second. I grabbed the pump again, but there was no resistance behind it. The tubular magazine was empty, and no way I could re-load.

  It didn't matter anyway. Argent bent over, dumping Theresa unceremoniously to the ground as he picked up the AK-98 that Hawk had discarded. Firing from the hip he drove two minigrenades into the insect warrior. Detonating almost simultaneously, the grenades blew the monster to fragments.

  Harsh blue light reflected off the walls, and my ears were filled with the horrible crackle of the Queen's magic. I rolled over, too exhausted to even scream from the pain in my left arm.

  Hawk was the target this time. The blue arc struck him, but didn't immolate him. Instead the light hissed and spat, licking over his body like St. Elmo's fire. For a second or two the display continued, then the light faded.

  The big Amerindian sagged, his face gray and haggard. He tried to take up his song again, but his voice was cracked and hoarse, and he gave up after a couple of notes. He staggered and dropped to his knees.

  In the background, I saw Rodney launch another spell. Barely visible, like a Shockwave, it flashed across the space and slammed into the Queen. The impact was tremendous, rocking the hideous creature back. What was left of her hair flew, and some was torn from her scalp. He'd hurt her this time.

  But Rodney was almost as scragged as Hawk. I saw that if he tried to do that again, it'd kill him.

  Rodney looked over at me and our eyes met. Suddenly, with terrible certainty, I knew what he was going to do. "No, Rodney," I tried to yell, but my voice came out as a croak.

  The elf darted over and snatched the shaman's broad-bladed knife from its belt sheath. Rodney moved so fast the Amerindian didn't have time to react, but I saw comprehension in Hawk's sunken, pain-racked eyes. "Walk with beauty," he said, his voice almost a whisper.

  "He who walks with beauty has no need of fear," the elf mage replied. It sounded like a ritual response. "Have you got enough left?"

  The shaman nodded. "I've got enough."

  The elf darted forward, straight at the Queen. Blue light crackled out, licked over the mage's body. His clothes were aflame, but he continued his mad rush. With a scream of defiance, perhaps even triumph, he flung himself onto the human upper body of the Queen. Even as she tore him in two with her clawed hands, he drove the knife deep into the chest between her withered breasts.

  The Queen flailed and screeched. She reached to grab the hilt of the knife and drag it forth.

  Hawk took up his song again. A proud, sad melody. I knew it was the last song he'd ever sing. He raised his arms in an invocation and pointed to the writhing Queen. Flame-white, cleansing flame-washed over her. As the flame consumed her, the fire's roar also swallowed up the sound of her screeching. The light of his final spell reflected in Hawk's eyes. Then he pitched forward and was still.

  Silence. I felt a touch on my shoulder, knew it was Jocasta. I tried to roll over, look up into her face, but I didn't have the strength. It felt as though someone was lifting me, then darkness opened before me like a pit, and I tumbled in.

  Epilogue

  Consciousness didn't return easily. I pursued it, sometimes drawings near to my quarry, but not quite catching it. There were dreams, dreams of white lights and sharp smells, of pain and nausea. Flashes of memory followed by immeasurable spans of blissful forgetfulness. People visited me, I think, but I wasn't sure whether they were real or only more dreams. Maybe I talked to them or maybe I dreamed that, too.

  I don't know how long this pseudo-death went on before I finally opened my eyes and was able to assign words to what I saw. A white tile ceiling, fluorescent light fixtures. Smells in the air that meant hospital.

  I looked around. Yep, hospital bed, in a private hospital room. (Who was paying for it? I wondered briefly before discarding that worry as meaningless. Being alive was all that mattered.)

  I was lying on my back, my right forearm attached by a soft strap to the side rail of the bed. It was obviously so that I couldn't roll over and accidentally pull out the IV needle and various sensor electrodes inserted into my wrist. My left arm ...

  I closed my eyes, took a calming breath, before looking over at my left arm. Wasted effort, I couldn't see it anyway. The whole left side of my upper torso was concealed from my view by a sheet over a kind of frame. I felt sick.

  After a few moments, a few more deep breaths, I tried to inventory my bodily sensations. Basically status normal, except for my left arm. There I was feeling small, random shooting pains in my fingers and forearm. I tried to flex my fingers, but felt nothing whatsoever. Tried to move the whole arm. Still nothing.

  The sheet over the frame didn't move, nothing moved against my left side. Phantom pain is what they call it.

  When you've lost a limb, your nervous system never really accepts the fact. You keep feeling nagging aches and pains in the limb that doesn't exist any more. Phantom pain. I let my head fall back on the pillow.

  I heard the door open, heard two people approach, but didn't look up. A woman cleared her throat.

  Jocasta? No, the sound wasn't right. I didn't bother to look.

  Finally, a man's voice said cheerily, "Well, Mr. Johnson, how are we feeling today?"

  A nurse, it had to be. Just as cops are the only people who say "exited," nurses are the only people who say "how are we today?" I neglected to give the standard answer, "I think we're pretty lousy," but I did look up. I'd got it right in one. Young, trim-looking nurse, wearing a standard off-white coverall. Beside him stood someone who was undeniably a doctor: in her late forties, with serious face and even more serious manner. So this is how they break the news now, I found myself thinking. A demented medical version of "good cop/bad cop."

  "Good morning, Mr. Johnson," the doctor said. Her voice was serious enough to make her face and manner seem flippant by comparison. "I'm Dr. Judith Zebiak, and I've been handling your case for the past two weeks."

  "Cut the snow, Doctor," I said sharply. "You had to take it off, didn't you?" She looked at me blankly. "My arm," I amplified.

  She hesitated, then I saw her come to a decision. "Normally we'd wait a little longer," she said drily, "but since you insist..." She stepped to my bedside.

  I turned my face away, closed my eyes-I'd asked, but I wasn't sure I wanted to know, not this brutally-and I heard her whisk away the sheet. But of course there was nothing to be gained by denying reality. Sticking their heads in the sand hadn't saved ostriches from extinction. I forced my eyes open, turned my head slowly.

  My arm was there, still attached to me. I felt a cold rush of relief throughout my body, so intense I think I almost fainted again. The tight fist of tension loosened in my stomach. I wanted to cry.

  My arm lay there, palm-up on the bed
. The skin was a little pale, but that was a small price to pay. I'd thought for sure if was history.

  I tried to move my fingers. Nothing happened. The "phantom pain" was still there. Drugs, maybe?

  Some kind of neural blocker to prevent me from moving and damaging the arm while it was still healing? I looked up at Dr. Zebiak and asked, "When can I move it?"

  "Usually I'd say another week," she said, "but this is a special case. And if you insist..."

  "I do," I assured her.

  She shrugged. She withdrew something from her pocket that looked like a small electrical probe. Some kind of medical instrument, I assumed. She bent over my left wrist, brought the instrument close to the skin.

  And fragged if she didn't flip open a tiny access port and insert the probe. She pushed a button on the tip.

  My arm buzzed. Sensation rushed back. I could feel the cool sheet under my skin, the weight of my arm on the bed. There was a strange, somehow unnatural feeling in the wrist. The doctor withdrew the probe, closed the access port, and the unnatural feeling went away.

  My stomach churned. I thought I was going to be sick.

  Zebiak must have seen the distress in my face. She hurried to the foot of the bed, lifted up a little device the size of a palm-top computer, examined the screen.

  "What's the matter?" she asked me.

  I couldn't speak, I couldn't force the words out. I just pointed at the arm.

  She nodded, still not understanding. "Yes," she said, "it's the model you requested, I assure you. Later, when you're adapted, we'll work on matching skin tone and follicle density-"

  "But I didn't..." I managed to gasp. "What the frag happened to me?"

  Her stern expression softened a little, and she whispered into the tiny computer. I wasn't supposed to hear, I suppose, but I picked up the words "retrograde amnesia. Then she was talking to me, but quietly, maybe even kindly. "Memory sometimes take a while to come back, Mr. Johnson. Do you want me to fill you in?" I nodded dumbly. "You were unconscious when you were transferred from Seattle General, of course," she said, "but-"

  I cut her off again. "Where am I now?"

  She blinked. "Harborview. Where else?"

  Where else? I lay back, closed my eyes. "Sorry," I said. "Please go on."

  "You were unconscious when you arrived, but Mr. Barnard's instructions were clear." Mr. Jacques Barnard. I decided not to interrupt her again. I'd figure it all out later. "He said you'd specified the Wiremaster CDA-15 with enhanced strength, and also that you'd requested being kept under electrosleep throughout the entire first stages of the procedure." She looked a little troubled at that, but went on, "Not a common request, but the department head approved it, so we went ahead on that basis. We continued the process of excising the unrecoverable flesh, and ..."

  I raised a hand-my meat hand-to stop her. I did not want to hear any more about how they'd chopped off my ruined left arm, which is what she was talking about. "So Barnard is paying for all this?" I asked.

  "Of course," she said, giving me more to think on later. "He left you this." She tossed an envelope on the bed.

  "Thanks," I said. "And thanks for clearing me up. I think things are starting to come back," I lied. Then I paused. I had another important question, but wasn't sure if I wanted to hear the answer. "Did ..." I trailed off, tried again. "Did anyone visit me while, while ..."

  Dr. Judith Zebiak smiled, and her face didn't crack after all. "Ms. Josie Eisenstein spent several days here," she told me. "She asked me to tell you she would have been here today, but that your, er, mutual friend needed her assistance. There's a message from Ms. Eisenstein in the envelope as well. I'll leave you to read it." She hesitated. "Would you like me to turn off the arm, or will you be careful?"

  "I'll be careful," I assured her.

  As soon as she and the nurse had left, I tore open the envelope, pulled out the contents. On top was a handwritten note from Jocasta-sorry, from Josie Eisenstein. I read that first. It was just a couple of lines.

  "Glad you're back in the land of the living. Sorry I couldn't be there on the big day: slight reversal with Theresa. Don't worry. Prognosis favorable, but a long process. See you soon-J."

  I folded the note, returned it to the envelope. Prognosis favorable-guess I couldn't hope for anything better. And everything's a long process. Now that I knew Jocasta was still going to be around, I was glad she wasn't here at the moment. I still had too many things to sort through and to slot into the right spaces.

  I took the other two pieces of paper from the envelope, presumably the message from Jacques Barnard. It wasn't the note I'd expected, however. The first sheet was a laser-printed statement of a bank account in the name of one D.M. Johnson, itemizing the disbursement of 120,000 nuyen to Demolition Man Building Services Inc. for "services rendered," plus an additional 30,000 nuyen for "miscellaneous expenses." Apparently Barnard had paid off the Wrecking Crew-that was, Argent, Peg, and the estates of Hawk and Toshi-in full, plus bonus. The second piece was a hard-copy transcript of a Lone Star death report for one Derek Montgomery, of no fixed address, no current SIN. According to the report, I'd died in a failed assault against the Yamatetsu ISP division in Fort Lewis, burned virtually beyond recognition by one of the company's hell hounds (authorization permit number etcetera etcetera drek etcetera), final ident verification through dental records (partial) and gene typing (inferred), confidence level 99.91 percent.

  I very carefully folded the papers and returned them to the envelope. So I was dead, at least, the odds were about a thousand to one that I was, and that was good enough for me. It certainly would be for Lone Star. I was out from under, off the hook, choose the cliche". My debt to the Wrecking Crew was paid, and I could be confident that, unless I did something real stupid, the Star would never again be on my tail. You could say I had one more debt outstanding-the one to Anwar, concerning the way he'd sold me out to Scott Keith-but whether or not it was ever collected was entirely my decision. A very significant gift, particularly when you added in the cost of a new arm plus private treatment at Harborview. Thank you, Mr, Barnard.

  But of course, corps don't give gifts, they make investments. One day soon, Barnard would come around to ask me for something in return. In services, or out of my bide, depending on his needs of the moment.

  Or maybe not. I understood now that Barnard had sent me to Skyhill in the first place in the hope that I'd bring down his rival or that said rival would geek me and Barnard would catch him at it. Well, I'd brought down Skyhill all right, which probably meant that the ISP division, with its profitable SPISES deal and possibly 2XS thrown in, too, would fall under Barnard's control. Maybe all this was his idea of fair payment for services rendered. I'd probably never know for sure until I got that phone call from Madison Park or maybe directly from Yamatetsu International in Kyoto.

  I looked over at my new arm. Lying there on the sheet it sure looked real. I raised it to my face, ran the new fingers over my skin. It felt real, too. All the sensations were just as before.

  I'd lost my arm, it had been burned away beneath the rolling ground of Fort Lewis. But they'd replaced it.

  What about my self-image, my world view-why the frag not use the word?-my soul? I'd lost something there, too, but it could never be replaced. My belief-nay cocky, self-centered, drek-for-brains belief-that I was in control: of myself and of the world around me. That was gone forever.

  Theresa always saw things clearer than I did. I realized that now for the first time. She saw how dark and inimical the world could be, and she accepted the truth of that. That was why she couldn't cope, why she'd turned to simsense chips, to BTL, finally to 2XS.

  And me? I'd thought I could cope. Thought I could handle it. But my "coping mechanisms" were all types of denial, ways of avoiding having to deal with the truth. Alcohol, my "knight-in-shining-armor" posturing, most of all my facile judgments of people like my sister. I'd always believed-deep down-that I was better than her, more competent to deal with the world.
Lying here, with my new arm humming softly to itself as it performed some self-diagnostic, I knew that belief for the drek that it was.

  Patrick Bambra? You and I were very alike, my friend, even though I couldn't, or wouldn't, see it. We each had our romantic illusions. The only difference was that I hid mine better.

  And Jocasta Yzerman. You'd probably never fully understand what I was going through. You were more like Theresa. You could look at the world honestly, face its darkness undismayed because you know who you are. Me? Maybe I'll be able to say that someday. But until I can, I think we'll be living in different worlds.

  So where would I go from here? I felt the overwhelming craving for what I'd experienced when the signal from the 2XS chip went trickling into my brain-the confidence that everything was in control. Wasn't that confidence just an electronically reinforced macrocosm of the great lie I'd always told myself? That the world was something I could confront and understand, and that eventually I'd have everything chipped?

  There was the real attraction of 2XS, I understood for the first time: it was for people who weren't as good as I was at lying to themselves.

  So, what now? Well, I had to get myself physically healthy, that was the first order of business. And then I had to do what I could for Theresa. Maybe we would slip the border into some other, less complicated environment (or was belief in such a possibility just another lie?). Maybe Jocasta would come with us, maybe not. Only time would tell.

  But that was all in the future. For now I had the time to remember. And the time to mourn. Lolly and Buddy. Amanda, who threw away eternity to save the lives of some mortals. Hawk and Rodney, whose sacrifices were just as real. And part of myself.

  I interlinked the fingers of my right and left hands-old grasping new.

  And I tried to sleep.

  Copyright

  Published by the Penguin Group

  First Printing, February, 1992

  Copyright FASA, 1992