Writer's Retweet

by Piers Anthony

  Bigelow put the box in Legion's handcuffed hands. "We expect you to cooperate. If you don't, we'll take your box away. Okay?"

  "That's fine," Legion said, running his fingers over the surface of the box. "First some background. This device is more advanced."

  "More advanced than what?" Paula asked alertly. "Than the eye-test-implanted receivers we have? You have to be specific."

  "Right on, cutie," Legion said, eyeing her as if he could see through her clothes. "It needs no implantation. Only brief contact."

  "No contact!" Paula snapped, blushing. Then she realized he was teasing her. "You mean with the box? We both just handled it."

  "That's right, sweetbuns. You have been zeroed in. So it can send you illusions. There are limitations, but they can be effective."

  "We've had some experience with illusions," Bigelow said. "We have learned how to handle them. How is this superior to those?"

  "For one thing, it's much easier to zero in, so a large number of people can be set up," Legion said. "Millions, maybe, in days."

  "Millions!" Bigelow said. "You couldn't get millions of people into this office within days, even just for one-second touches."

  "One second touches," Legion echoed, eyeing Paula's shirt. She crossed her arms defensively. "I like that. But no, not that way."

  "Then what way?" Bigelow asked, frowning. He didn't like the way Legion kept making Paula react. "Be specific, as we said."

  "We'll produce thousands of boxes and make them widely available. Maybe have a contest: find the hidden switch, win a prize."

  "So millions could touch them, unknowingly," Bigelow agreed. "That could do it. But sending individual illusions would be a chore."

  "Not individual illusions," Legion said. "The same illusion, sent out to everyone at the same time, wherever they are. Easy to do."

  "But people would quickly see through that," Paula protested. "If everybody saw the same rattlesnake, that's obvious illusion."

  "Ah, but suppose they saw a trailer truck veer out of its lane and hurtle directly toward them?" Legion smiled. "They'd veer."

  "Not if they were in their living rooms," Paula said. "Again, they'd know it had to be illusion, especially if they were warned."

  "And how many would be on the road," Bigelow asked. "Maybe one in ten? Many of whom would be stopped at traffic lights."

  "Sure," Legion agreed. "Say only one in a hundred is driving in traffic at that moment. Of one million. That's ten thousand."

  Now they saw it. Ten thousand desperate swerves to avoid the trailer truck. Ten thousand likely accidents. How many deaths?

  "There would be some chain crashes," Legion said. "As cars behind them plowed into the wreckage. Some fiery explosions."

  Paula winced. "The illusions might not be real, but their effects would be real and devastating. Much mischief there, I fear."

  "Other illusions, strategically placed and timed, could bring down airplanes, even ships," Legion said. "Mischief indeed."

  "Still, after the initial mayhem, folk would be warned, and careful," Bigelow said. "The damage would not be unduly persistent."

  "Subsequent illusions would be targeted to take out food and fuel supply lines," Legion said. "There'd be riots soon enough."

  "Still, that would not be enough to bring down a great nation like ours," Paula said. "We'd survive and fight back, I'm sure."

  "Not if the enemy struck at the height of the crisis," Legion said. "With the military out of food and gasoline. You'd be goners."

  "It could be bad," Bigelow agreed. "If the box can really do those mass illusions. Fortunately we have captured your box."

  "Well, let's see about that," Legion said. He stroked the box. Suddenly in his place was a crouching tiger. It looked up, growling.

  Bigelow was impressed. An illusion with sight and sound, all from the little box. He glanced at Paula, and knew she saw it too.

  Then the tiger got up and advanced slowly toward them. "It's not real," Bigelow said. "We can safely stand our ground. I'm sure."

  "But suppose Legion is crawling toward us, covered by the tiger?" Paula asked fearfully. "He could grab me and get the key."

  The key to the handcuffs. If Legion got hold of her and threatened to kill her unless Bigelow gave him the key, what would he do?

  "I think we shouldn't have given him the box," Bigelow said. "But we can separate. If he grabs one of us, the other can bash him."

  "You've got his ceramic knife," Paula said. "If he grabs you, use it on him without mercy." She paused. "Which leaves me."

  "You take the knife," Bigelow said, pressing it into her hand. "I'll use my fist, maybe." He was bluffing; he didn't want to fight.

  "You're so brave," Paula said. "I love you." Then she kissed him and walked quickly across the room. She stood there nervously.

  Meanwhile the tiger had stopped just out of reach. Bigelow could guess why: it was illusion, and Legion remained tied on the floor.

  Bigelow pondered. He was not brave, but he was desperate. Maybe he should charge across and grab Legion and yank the box from him.

  Then the tiger faded out. They looked to the wall where Legion had been. He was not there. "Oh, darn," Paula breathed. "He's gone!"

  "He can't be gone," Bigelow said. "He must have crawled to a place of hiding while we were distracted by the tiger. Cunning knave."

  "Then we've got to find him before he gets away," Paula said. "He didn't use the door; it never opened. Maybe behind the desk?"

  They looked all around the desk. No Legion. But where else was there? "Maybe the bathroom," Bigelow said. "Waiting in ambush."

  They went to the bathroom door. It was a unisex facility, for this small office, with one sink, one urinal and one toilet stall.

  "I'll go in," Bigelow said. "You stay out here. That way I will be sure that whatever is in there is either illusion, or him."

  "You're so brave," she repeated nervously. "I'm terrified. But if I hear anything, I'll come in with the knife ready. I love you."

  That was the second time she had said that, but it helped. If she said it a hundred times, it would help a hundred times. "Thanks."

  Bigelow nerved himself and pushed open the bathroom door, ready to strike out. Legion must still be shackled, but still dangerous.

  There was nothing. The bathroom was empty. He could see all of it, because one wall was a large mirror. No fugitive. No Legion. Where could the man have gone? If he was not in the office, and not in the bathroom, where was he? Then Bigelow got an idea.

  "He made an illusion of the floor and wall without him there!" he exclaimed to himself. "He's still where we left him!" He hoped.

  Bigelow pulled open the door, which had swung closed behind him. He took one step forward and paused, appalled. There was Legion! The killer was standing where Paula had been, his hands still shackled, his legs free. He must have untied the nylon cord.

  What had he done with Paula? She was nowhere in sight. Somehow Legion had caught her and disposed of her. Now it was just they two.

  Blind rage swept Bigelow up. He no longer cared about the danger or his lack of training. He charged Legion, his fists balled. But Legion dodged, and Bigelow's shoulder caught him a glancing blow. He whirled, grabbing the man about the waist, lifting him. Bigelow staggered back into the bathroom door, pushing it open, and through, trying to get a better hold on him. Paula screamed.

  Paula screamed? That meant she was alive, and close by. Bigelow shot a glance at the big mirror. And froze. Because he saw—

  He saw two Legions grappling each other. Neither Paula nor Bigelow were reflected in the mirror. Which was impossible.

  "Bigelow!" Paula said in his ear. "It's us! We're fighting each other! Because the illusion makes us both see Legion instead."

  It had to be true. Now he realized that the person he held was not large and muscular, but small and slender. It was Paula.

  "I love you too," he said. Then he kissed the rough face of Legion the killer. Appearance be da
mned! It was definitely her.

  "I could do this forever," she said. "But we must catch him before he gets away." She wriggled free. "But we'd better hold hands."

  So they would not mistake each other again. He could have bashed her, and she could have stabbed him, because of the illusion. What a deadly ploy it had been! To make each of them think the other was Legion, and make them attack each other, and maybe—

  Bigelow banished that thought. Hand in hand they ran out of the bathroom. Now Legion was there, almost to the office door.

  "No you don't!" Bigelow cried, tackling him. He wrestled the man down while Paula grabbed the illusion box. They had him.

  Deprived of the box, and still manacled, Legion was helpless. He had untied his feet, but that wasn't enough. They retied him.

  "We've got him," Bigelow told the phone. "And the box. Now get your people over here to pick up both. We have what you need."

  "Congratulations," the phone said. "Our people are already on the way. You have saved the situation. You are heroes."

  Bigelow and Paula exchanged a glance. They knew they had not only salvaged the office, they had enabled the Project folk to win. Because with their prisoner and the illusion box, they would soon have all the information they needed to stop the enemy attack.

  But somehow right now all they cared about was each other. The rest could wait its turn. However long it might take. They were heroes for the hour. Even if their lives became dull again, Bigelow and Paula knew they would be happy together.

  “Dull Stree

  t Incident”

  This commences the fourth Tweet story, titled "Dull Street Incident." It is mainstream, not Fantasy, but maybe has its points. The characters are all nameless, to protect the guilty from possible retaliation, even though they did nothing wrong, maybe.

  A newspaper investigative reporter was running low on scandals and needed something local and spicy. He had a nose for news. He got wind of something that happened on Dull Street, where nothing interesting ever occurred. Was that an oxymoron? He would damn well find out. He checked Dull Street on the city map. It was only three blocks long with no intersections. It was in a boring medium-scale residential neighborhood: single story houses, unkempt yards, flaking paint, tattered fences. Most residents worked in the nearby industrial complex, drawing salaries that were losing the race against inflation. Their children attended the local lower-tier schools, and few went on to become even moderately successful or educated. There was essentially nothing to do on Dull Street: no movie theater, no dance hall, no skating rink, no shopping mall. There was no sign of any fire or car wreck or other interesting disaster. Nothing had changed in years on Dull Street. There were only two things of even remotely possible interest nearby: the county prison and the city dump. No help there.

  But maybe there was a lead. The reporter checked the prison records, and learned that recently a prison work group had been there. They had gone the length of the street hacking out weeds, clearing discarded junk, scrubbing off the sidewalks, erasing graffiti. In one day they had made Dull Street look slightly less unkempt, then gone on to the next street. It was strictly routine.

  Could a prisoner have slipped away, robbed a house, and rejoined the crew, nobody else the wiser? Most houses were empty by day. But there was no report of any robbery there that day. The work crew prisoners were rough, tough, brutal men, but none had strayed. Of course not all crimes got reported. The theft might not even have been discovered. But then, what was the source of the rumor?

  The reporter researched the records and got the names of all the members of that day's prison work crew. He interviewed them all. The crew leader was a small man, a would-be promoter who had fallen on recessionary times and taken what work he could get. The prisoners were all big, strong, tough men of several races, in for crimes ranging from, yes, theft to reckless violence. It seemed unlikely that such a small, inexperienced guard could maintain order among brutally experienced prisoners.

  In fact, the situation smelled of a prison authority that wanted to be rid of a seeming weakling, giving him rope to hang himself. So they had sent him out on a work crew with the worst of the worst, anticipating his loss of control and a firing-caliber foul-up. But there had been no trouble. In fact the rough prisoners seemed to respect this weakling guard. They had worked well for him. There had been no complaints from the residents of Dull Street. In fact they appreciated the good job the crew had done.

  The reporter questioned every prisoner on that crew, trying to provoke some telltale reaction. There was none. Yet they were lying. The reporter had an innate sense, an invaluable aid to his business of sniffing out scandal. He could almost literally smell a lie. And they all were lying. They said the day had been completely routine. They had cleaned up Dull Street and moved on. Untrue.

  What were they hiding? It must be big, to evoke so determined a cover-up. Why were none of the prisoners willing to squeal? The reporter was supremely frustrated. He knew there was something, but he could not get at it. He returned to Dull Street. He walked up and down the length of it, finding only a neatly cleaned up neighborhood. The crew had done its job well.

  Then a boy rode up on a skateboard, enjoying the cleared sidewalk. He looked at the reporter. "I know what happened."

  Was this a joke? "What?" the reporter asked.

  "I'll tell if we make a deal."

  "What deal?"

  "I want a newspaper tour."

  "For what?"

  "For telling you what happened," the boy said.

  The reporter didn't trust this. "What happened where? When? To whom?"

  "What happened here on Dull Street that day the prisoner work crew came by. I sneak read my big sister's diary. I know it all."

  This seemed authentic. "Are you free now?" the reporter asked.

  "Sure."

  "Then tell me while we tour the newspaper."

  "Okay!"

  The reporter took the boy to the newspaper and showed him everything from the front offices to the printing press. They talked. Now at last the reporter learned about the Dull Street Incident that no one else would talk about. His feelings were mixed. He questioned the boy, filling in what details he could. There were gaps, but in due course he had enough of it to be satisfied. The reporter was able to interpolate likely aspects the boy was missing, to complete the story. To grasp the delicate nuances.

  The prison guard knew he had been sent out on a virtual suicide mission. The men were surly and eager for trouble. Worse, the prisoners knew they had him at their mercy. They had little to lose, while he needed this job. Any little incident...

  Still, if they got him fired, he would be replaced by a more experienced and cynical guard. A tougher one. They knew that too. So it behooved them to keep it nice, if their underlying viciousness didn't get the better of them. But would they? Doubtful.

  It started calmly enough. The truck dropped them off at the end of Dull Street: a dozen big rough men. One small guard.

  They took the tools and started in, knowing what to do. All the guard had to do was stay out of their way. If they let him. They hacked the weeds, using the swinging tool that could as readily slice through an ankle. They chopped out fallen branches. They clipped out matted vines, shoveled out dirt, made piles of rocks and discarded junk. Slowly they advanced along the street.

  But the guard knew they were just biding their time, looking for their opportunity to mess up spectacularly, blaming him for it.

  Then he saw something. Two rather pretty teen girls were crying at the edge of a yard, trying unsuccessfully to console each other.

  Now he voiced his first direct command. "At ease." The men paused, having been given leave to rest a moment. They looked around.

  The guard approached the girls. "Excuse me, young women," he said. "We are a prison work detail, doing our job. Is there a problem?"

  The two girls were glad to share. "We made a deal to clean up a back yard today, to earn money for the school dance tonigh
t. But—"

  "Yes?" he asked sympathetically.

  "But look at it," the cute little blonde said. "It's such a mess we'll never get it done in time!"

  "And just trying it will get us all sweaty and scratched and dirty, ruining us for the dance anyway," the buxom brunette concluded.

  "We hadn't seen it before we got here," the blonde said. "We thought it would be easy. Just some grass to mow, weeds to pull."

  "We were fools," the brunette said. "We should have checked it out before making the deal. Now we're stuck. Utterly screwed."

  An idea burst like a bright light. "Ladies, perhaps we can solve your problem. But there is a price."

  "Price?" the blonde asked.

  "Let me explain," the guard said. "You don't have to do it if you don't want to and I appreciate why you might not want to." Then he explained.

  The girls considered, consulted, and smiled. "We can do that," the brunette said. "Provided no one tells."

  "No one will tell," the guard promised. Then he returned to the prisoners. "Men," he said quietly. "Trust me for an hour." They looked at him, committing to nothing. "We are going to make a small detour," he continued. "We will see nothing."

  The big rough prisoners considered. What did this weakling guard have in mind? Then the biggest brute spoke. "One hour."

  "Follow me," the guard said. He led the way into the yard the girls needed to clean up. "Police the area. You know how." They shrugged and went to work with their assorted tools. What was impossible for the girls was routine for them.

  Meanwhile the two girls fetched clothing and supplies from their car. They went to an outdoor shower nestled behind the house. They laid out their things. Then they began to strip. "We see nothing," the guard murmured. "Keep working." Surprised, the men did. The work crew prisoners were coming to understand the deal the guard had made. All they had to do was keep working, and looking.

  The girls stripped nude, put on shower caps, and stepped into the shower. "Eeeek!" they screamed as the cold water hit them. They washed each other off, their shapely young bodies bouncing freely. They pretended the watching prisoners did not exist.