by Allan Cole
"You're lucky I came along," she said. "Most runners are caught after the first month."
"You a Delinq?"
She gave him a disgusted look.
"I wouldn't be alive if I weren't. We know how to duck the sweeps. We know the places to hide, where they almost never look. A good Delinq can last. . .maybe five years."
Sten was shocked.
"How long since you ran?" he asked.
"Three years now."
She shouldered the Sack and headed for a ventilation duct. "Come on. I'll take you to Oron."
She slid into the duct, motioned him past her, then replaced the filter screen. Then she pulled what appeared to be a tiny headband from her coveralls, flicked the light on, and wriggled by Sten to take the lead. The soft brush of her body against his turned Sten's mouth dry. He took a deep breath and crawled after her.
The Delinqs paid no attention to Sten and Bet as they dropped from the duct into the long-abandoned warehouse.
About thirty of them, dressed in the stolen finery of Vulcan's warehouses, were celebrating a raid on a particularly rich warehouse, and most of them were drunk or drugged. It was one of the strangest things Sten had ever seen: a party in almost absolute silence. Whispering—even in the safety of home base—was second nature to a Delinq.
Stranger still, they were all children. The youngest, he estimated, was no more than twelve—a girl rubbing oil on the body of a boy about thirteen. The oldest person Sten saw, as Bet led him through them, was in his late teens. Sten felt like an old man.
Oron was sprawled in the office section of the warehouse. At first glance, he appeared to be in his forties. A closer look showed that the white hair and withered arm belonged to a man only a year or so older than Sten.
His face was the worst. Half of it was mobile. The other frozen like a deathmask.
Beside him sat a pudgy girl, busily working her way through a pile of fruit. Behind him, on a fur-piled bed, were two naked girls. Both beautiful and sleeping—or drugged.
"This is Sten," Bet said. "He's a runner."
Oron turned to the fat girl and pointed at Bet. "Who is she?"
"Bet. You sent her out last shift to the hydroponic farm," the girl said, not missing a bite.
Sten froze, arced his wrist, getting ready to spring out his knife. If this was Bet's gang, why didn't Oron know—? Oron caught Sten's expression. Half his face smiled.
"Fadal is my memory," he said, gesturing at the pudgy girl. "I am—am a. . ." His brow furrowed. "Brainburn," Fadal answered for him. "Yes. I did something wrong when I was young, for which they. . .brainburned me. But something went wrong. It didn't. . .take. Or rather. . .it only partially worked."
He motioned at his face and withered arm. "My body. And part of my mind. . .So I am an. . .amnesiac."
"Then how do you—?" Sten began. "All that happens this shift is very clear to me. But the next shift, I do not know what went before. I remember how to talk. That I am a Delinq. That I am Oron. Although sometimes I forget that. And that I am the leader of these people. But. . .I must be reminded of. . .of. . .yes. . .of their names. And what I asked them to do."
"He's the leader," Bet said, "because he can always figure out where to raid. And when to move just before there is another sweep."
"Oron has been a Delinq for twelve years," Fadal said.
She seemed to think it was a compliment. Sten guessed it just might be.
"So you are a runner," Oron said. "And you want to join us?"
Sten hesitated, looked at Bet, and then shrugged.
"Sure. Why not?"
"Do you vouch for him, Bet?"
Bet was surprised. Usually there was a test—and questions. Why was Oron willing to rely solely on her word? She glanced over at Sten, who was waiting for her answer. Then she could see it. The look on his face. He didn't care about the Delinqs or Oron. He was obviously confident in his abilities to survive without them. He was here for. . .her.
Sten felt his heart jump as she nodded.
"Do we team him?"
Bet met Oron's eyes. Suddenly she laughed.
"Yes."
"Bet will be your team partner," he said to Sten. "Do what she. . .shows you. . .and you will live. Now, sit. . .have wine. And tell me. . .your story."
Sten accepted a glass of wine and sprawled on the floor. He began his story, glancing over at Bet now and then as he spoke.
CHAPTER TWELVE
"I WANNA WATCH livee, mommie, I wanna watch livee."
The Creche nurse hustled over to the boy, a warm smile on her face. She hugged him and palmed a button; the wall flickered, became a screen, and cartoon characters scampered in across it. The fourteen-year-old boy giggled in delight.
Bet's parents had sold her to the Company a few cycles before. The price: Their contracts were torn up and the Mig couple was free to leave Vulcan. It was considered a remarkable bargain on both sides.
Normally the Company preferred Mig children to grow up into Mig men and women. But there were exceptions officials constantly sought. The Company psych who tested Bet whistled at her raw intelligence scores. Company reps approached Bet's parents, who told her she was going away to a much better place. They kissed her and put her to bed. Bet woke up in a Company Creche, surrounded by mostly younger children. The Company usually started with children of five, but Bet's score had been impressive. It decided to take a chance with the eight-year-old.
For the first time in her life, Bet was smothered by love and attention. The Creche Mothers hugged her, kissed her, and gave her toys. Very few things brought punishment or harsh words. Still, Bet never trusted the Mothers for a minute. No one ever discovered this, because Bet had learned very young to keep quiet, give answers only when asked, and always do what she was told.
It took Bet a long time to figure out what was terrifying her. It was the other children. . .her playmates.
Sten crowded past Bet and looked down into the warehouse. It was exactly like Oron's model. Towering stacks of crates and shipping tubes filled with everything from clothing to luxury food items for the Techs and Execs. It was a place that a human—on legal business—never had to visit as all functions and work were handled by bots, from tiny inventory clerks to giant, idiot-brained skip-loaders.
Bet and another Delinq began looking for the alarm system.
Oron had gone over the plan with him and then asked for suggestions.
"No, Sten," he had said after listening. "That way. . .there is no. . .escape. Look."
His fingers traced the model of the warehouse's interior.
"Block the exits with crates. But even if you know they are blocked, you must still. . .think someone will come through. You must be prepared to. . .counter that. To have another. . ."
He fumbled for a word.
"Tactic. . .To be a Delinq, you must know tactics. Even when your plan is. . .perfect. . .you must assume it can go wrong. You must never get in a situation from which there is no. . .escape."
Sten nodded. And Oron began showing him how to protect their backs.
"We will make a backdoor here. . .station lookouts here. . .and here."
Bet had found the first alarm and disarmed it. Another Delinq was already unbelting the duct screen. A rope slithered downward and moments later they were on the floor of the warehouse.
Bet motioned for Sten to follow her to a computer terminal. The other three Delinqs began checking for other alarms.
"We can't leave any sign that we were here," she whispered.
Her fingers flew over the terminal keys. First, she called up the SECURITY INSTRUCTIONS program and ordered the human body detector to ignore their presence. Then she called up the WAREHOUSE INVENTORY. She studied it carefully, made a few notes, and then altered the list.
"We can only take these items. No one will miss them." She signaled to the other Delinqs and they went to work, gathering their loot.
As a Delinq was lugging the last crate toward the piled loot near an opened vent,
the Delinqs heard a slight squeaking noise. They leaped for cover as it grew louder. The security bot rolled around a corner, feelers extended for signs of human life. The Delinqs held their breath as the feelers waved around in the air. Finally they retracted and the bot rolled toward the exit.
Suddenly, the bot squeaked to a halt. One of the Delinqs smothered a moan. He had left a crate standing in the middle of the warehouse floor when he dove out of sight. The security bot's power-hum rose. A stun rod snicked into view and the bot's sensors peered about, looking for the cause. No alarms. It wasn't sure yet. Although unlikely, a faulty worker bot might have left the crate unstacked.
Bet motioned to Sten. She pointed upward to a high stack of crates. They eased from their hiding place and slithered toward the stack. She clambered up Sten's shoulders, found a foothold and then picked her way up the stack of crates. She reached the top, then flattened as a crate creaked loudly underfoot. The bot rolled toward the sound. In a blur, Bet lifted a heavy crate and hurled it downward. The bot's stun rod came up and the crate smashed into it. The entire warehouse clouded with the most horrible odor Sten had ever smelled. Liquid gushed out of the crate, soaking the bot. It immediately began whirling around and around.
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 so nice 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 stopped 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.
