But I did. Constantly.
It was getting to be a burden.
For health class, one year in high school, I was given a ten-pound sack of flour, which I had to name and then carry around for a month, as if it were a baby. Bippy couldn’t be left unattended; I had to carry it everywhere or else find somebody willing to baby-sit it. The exercise was supposed to teach us responsibility and scare us off of sex. The first thing I did when the month was over was to steal my father’s .45, put Bippy in the backyard, and empty the clip into it, shot after shot. Until all that was left of the little bastard was a cloud of white dust.
The machine from the future was like that. Just another bippy. I had it, and dared not get rid of it. It was obviously valuable. It was equally obviously dangerous. Did I really want the government to get hold of something that could compel people to act against their own wishes? Did I honestly trust them not to immediately turn themselves into everything that we were supposedly fighting to prevent?
I’d been asking myself the same questions for–what?–four days. I’d thought I’d have some answers by now.
I took the bippy out from my purse. It felt cool and smooth in my hand, like melting ice. No, warm. It felt both warm and cool. I ran my hand over and over it, for the comfort of the thing.
After a minute, I got up, zipped shut the flap to my office, and secured it with a twist tie. Then I went back to my desk, sat down, and unbuttoned my blouse. I rubbed the bippy all over my body: up my neck, and over my breasts and around and around on my belly. I kicked off my shoes and clumsily shucked off my pantyhose. Down along the outside of my calves it went, and up the insides of my thighs. Between my legs. It made me feel filthy. It made me feel a little less like killing myself.
How it happened was, I got lost. How I got lost was, I went into the camp after dark.
Nobody goes into the camp after dark, unless they have to. Not even the Indian troops. That’s when the refugees hold their entertainments. They had no compassion for each other, you see–that was our dirty little secret. I saw a toddler fall into a campfire once. There were vics all around, but if it hadn’t been for me, the child would have died. I snatched it from the flames before it got too badly hurt, but nobody else made a move to help it. They just stood there looking. And laughing.
"In Dachau, when they opened the gas chambers, they’d find a pyramid of human bodies by the door," Shriver told me once. "As the gas started to work, the Jews panicked and climbed over each other, in a futile attempt to escape. That was deliberate. It was designed into the system. The Nazis didn’t just want them dead–they wanted to be able to feel morally superior to their victims afterward."
So I shouldn’t have been there. But I was unlatching the door to my trailer when it suddenly came to me that my purse felt wrong. Light. And I realized that I’d left the bippy in the top drawer of my office desk. I hadn’t even locked it.
My stomach twisted at the thought of somebody else finding the thing. In a panic, I drove back to the camp. It was a twenty-minute drive from the trailer park and by the time I got there, I wasn’t thinking straight. The civ/noncom parking lot was a good quarter-way around the camp from the Tentagon. I thought it would be a simple thing to cut through. So, flashing my DOD/Future History Division ID at the guard as I went through the gate, I did.
Which was how I came to be lost.
There are neighborhoods in the camp. People have a natural tendency to sort themselves out by the nature of their suffering. The twitchers, who were victims of paralogical reprogramming, stay in one part of the camp, and the mods, those with functional normative modifications, stay in another. I found myself wandering through crowds of people who had been "healed" of limbs, ears, and even internal organs–there seemed no sensible pattern. Sometimes our doctors could effect a partial correction. But our primitive surgery was, of course, nothing like that available in their miraculous age.
I’d taken a wrong turn trying to evade an eyeless, noseless woman who kept grabbing at my blouse and demanding money, and gotten all turned around in the process when, without noticing me, Gevorkian went striding purposefully by.
Which was so unexpected that, after an instant’s shock, I up and followed her. It didn’t occur to me not to. There was something strange about the way she held herself, about her expression, her posture. Something unfamiliar.
She didn’t even walk like herself.
The vics had dismantled several tents to make a large open space surrounded by canvas. Propane lights, hung from tall poles, blazed in a ring about it. I saw Gevorkian slip between two canvas sheets and, after a moment’s hesitation, I followed her.
It was a rat fight.
The way a rat fight works, I learned that night, is that first you catch a whole bunch of Norwegian rats. Big mean mothers. Then you get them in a bad mood, probably by not feeding them, but there are any number of other methods that could be used. Anyway, they’re feeling feisty. You put a dozen of them in a big pit you’ve dug in the ground. Then you dump in your contestant. A big guy with a shaven head and his hands tied behind his back. His genitals are bound up in a little bit of cloth, but other than that he’s naked.
Then you let them fight it out. The rats leap and jump and bite and the big guy tries to trample them underfoot or crush them with his knees, his chest, his head–whatever he can bash them with.
The whole thing was lit up bright as day, and all the area around the pit was crammed with vics. Some shouted and urged on one side or the other. Others simply watched intently. The rats squealed. The human fighter bared his teeth in a hideous rictus and fought in silence.
It was the creepiest thing I’d seen in a long time.
Gevorkian watched it coolly, without any particular interest or aversion. After a while it was obvious to me that she was waiting for someone.
Finally that someone arrived. He was a lean man, tall, with keen, hatchet-like features. None of the vics noticed. Their eyes were directed inward, toward the pit. He nodded once to Gevorkian, then backed through the canvas again.
She followed him.
I followed her.
They went to a near-lightless area near the edge of the camp. There was nothing there but trash, the backs of tents, the razor-wire fence, and a gate padlocked for the night.
It was perfectly easy to trail them from a distance. The stranger held himself proudly, chin up, eyes bright. He walked with a sure stride. He was nothing at all like the vics.
It was obvious to me that he was an Owner.
Gevorkian too. When she was with him that inhuman arrogance glowed in her face as well. It was as if a mask had been removed. The fire that burned in his face was reflected in hers.
I crouched low to the ground, in the shadow of a tent, and listened as the stranger said, "Why hasn’t she turned it in?"
"She’s unstable," Gevorkian said. "They all are."
"We don’t dare prompt her. She has to turn it in herself."
"She will. Give her time."
"Time," the man repeated. They both laughed in a way that sounded to me distinctly unpleasant. Then, "She’d better. There’s a lot went into this operation. There’s a lot riding on it."
"She will."
I stood watching as they shook hands and parted ways. Gevorkian turned and disappeared back into the tent city. The stranger opened a radiant door and was gone.
Cause and effect. They’d done ... whatever it was they’d done to that woman’s daughter just so they could plant the bippy with me. They wanted me to turn it in. They wanted our government to have possession of a device that would guarantee obedience. They wanted to give us a good taste of what it was like to be them.
Suddenly I had no doubt at all what I should do. I started out at a determined stride, but inside of nine paces I was running. Vics scurried to get out of my way. If they didn’t move fast enough, I shoved them aside.
I had to get back to the bippy and destroy it.
Which was stupid, stupid, stupid
. If I’d kept my head down and walked slowly, I would have been invisible. Invisible and safe. The way I did it, though, cursing and screaming, I made a lot of noise and caused a lot of fuss. Inevitably, I drew attention to myself.
Inevitably, Gevorkian stepped into my path.
I stumbled to a halt.
"Gevorkian," I said feebly. "Linda. I–"
All the lies I was about to utter died in my throat when I saw her face. Her expression. Those eyes. Gevorkian reached for me. I skipped back in utter panic, turned–and fled. Anybody else would have done the same.
It was a nightmare. The crowds slowed me. I stumbled. I had no idea where I was going. And all the time, this monster was right on my heels.
Nobody goes into the camp after dark, unless they have to. But that doesn’t mean that nobody goes in after dark. By sheer good luck, Gevorkian chased me into the one part of the camp that had something that outsiders could find nowhere else–the sex-for-hire district.
There was nothing subtle about the way the vics sold themselves. The trampled-grass street I found myself in was lined with stacks of cages like the ones they use in dog kennels. They were festooned with strings of Christmas lights, and each one contained a crouched boy. Naked, to best display those mods and deformities that some found attractive. Off-duty soldiers strolled up and down the cages, checking out the possibilities. I recognized one of them.
"Sergeant-Major Pathak!" I cried. He looked up, startled and guilty. "Help me! Kill her–please! Kill her now!"
Give him credit, the sergeant-major was a game little fellow. I can’t imagine what we looked like to him, one harridan chasing the other down the streets of Hell. But he took the situation in at a glance, unholstered his sidearm and stepped forward. "Please," he said. "You will both stand where you are. You will place your hands upon the top of your head. You will–"
Gevorkian flicked her fingers at the young soldier. He screamed, and clutched his freshly crushed shoulder. She turned away from him, dismissively. The other soldiers had fled at the first sign of trouble. All her attention was on me, trembling in her sight like a winded doe. "Sweet little vic," she purred. "If you won’t play the part we had planned for you, you’ll simply have to be silenced."
"No," I whispered.
She touched my wrist. I was helpless to stop her. "You and I are going to go to my office now. We’ll have fun there. Hours and hours of fun."
"Leave her be."
As sudden and inexplicable as an apparition of the Virgin, Shriver stepped out of the darkness. He looked small and grim.
Gevorkian laughed, and gestured.
But Shriver’s hand reached up to intercept hers, and where they met, there was an electric blue flash. Gevorkian stared down, stunned, at her hand. Bits of tangled metal fell away from it. She looked up at Shriver.
He struck her down.
She fell with a brief harsh cry, like that of a sea gull. Shriver kicked her, three times, hard: In the ribs. In the stomach. In the head. Then, when she looked like she might yet regain her feet, "It’s one of them! " he shouted. "Look at her! She’s a spy for the Owners! She’s from the future! Owner! Look! Owner!"
The refugees came tumbling out of the tents and climbing down out of their cages. They looked more alive than I’d ever seen them before. They were red-faced and screaming. Their eyes were wide with hysteria. For the first time in my life, I was genuinely afraid of them. They came running. They swarmed like insects.
They seized Gevorkian and began tearing her apart.
I saw her struggle up and halfway out of their grips, saw one arm rise up above the sea of clutching hands, like that of a woman drowning.
Shriver seized my elbow and steered me away before I could see any more. I saw enough, though.
I saw too much.
"Where are we going?" I asked when I’d recovered my wits.
"Where do you think we’re going?"
He led me to my office.
There was a stranger waiting there. He took out a hand-held detector like Sergeant-Major Pathak and his men had used earlier and touched it to himself, to Shriver, and to me. Three times it flashed red, negative. "You travel through time, you pick up a residual charge," Shriver explained. "It never goes away. We’ve known about Gevorkian for a long time."
"US Special Security," the stranger said, and flipped open his ID. It meant diddle-all to me. There was a badge. It could have read Captain Crunch for all I knew or cared. But I didn’t doubt for an instant that he was SS. He had that look. To Shriver he said, "The neutralizer."
Shriver unstrapped something glittery from his wrist–the device he’d used to undo Gevorkian’s weapon–and, in a silent bit of comic bureaucratic punctilio, exchanged it for a written receipt. The security officer touched the thing with his detector. It flashed green. He put both devices away in interior pockets.
All the time, Shriver stood in the background, watching. He wasn’t told to go away.
Finally, Captain Crunch turned his attention to me again. "Where’s the snark?"
"Snark?"
The man removed a thin scrap of cloth from an inside jacket pocket and shook it out. With elaborate care, he pulled it over his left hand. An inertial glove. Seeing by my expression that I recognized it, he said, "Don’t make me use this."
I swallowed. For an instant I thought crazily of defying him, of simply refusing to tell him where the bippy was. But I’d seen an inertial glove in action before, when a lone guard had broken up a camp riot. He’d been a little man. I’d seen him crush heads like watermelons.
Anyway, the bippy was in my desk. They’d be sure to look there.
I opened the drawer, produced the device. Handed it over. "It’s a plant," I said. "They want us to have this."
Captain Crunch gave me a look that told me clear as words exactly how stupid he thought I was. "We understand more than you think we do. There are circles and circles. We have informants up in the future, and some of them are more highly placed than you’d think. Not everything that’s known is made public."
"Damn it, this sucker is evil."
A snake’s eyes would look warmer than his. "Understand this: We’re fighting for our survival here. Extinction is null-value. You can have all the moral crises you want when the war is won."
"It should be suppressed. The technology. If it’s used, it’ll just help bring about ..."
He wasn’t listening.
I’d worked for the government long enough to know when I was wasting my breath. So I shut up.
When the captain left with the bippy, Shriver still remained, looking ironically after him. "People get the kind of future they deserve," he observed.
"But that’s what I’m saying. Gevorkian came back from the future in order to help bring it about. That means that time isn’t deterministic." Maybe I was getting a little weepy. I’d had a rough day. "The other guy said there was a lot riding on this operation. They didn’t know how it was going to turn out. They didn’t know."
Shriver grunted, not at all interested.
I plowed ahead unheeding. "If it’s not deterministic–if they’re working so hard to bring it about–then all our effort isn’t futile at all. This future can be prevented."
Shriver looked up at last. There was a strangely triumphant gleam in his eye. He flashed that roguish ain’t-this-fun grin of his, and said, "I don’t know about you, but some of us are working like hell to achieve it."
With a jaunty wink, he was gone.
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Document creation date: 03.06.2008
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