Red Orc's Rage

by Philip José Farmer

  Porsena did not reply. He was leaving it up to his patient.

  "I mean, I don't know if Orc's dead, too!" Jim said. "If he is, then I've really lost! The whole ball of wax! That's more grief than I can handle!"

  "Others?" the doctor said.

  "Grief. . . grief? Well, as Orc, and he's really me, and I'm really him, I explained all that, there's my mother. . . I mean Enitharmon. Lost her. And I love Aunt Vala, too. Lost her, also. I suppose their loss would be strong. I know Orc certainly went through some grief about maybe never seeing them again. But his grief got turned into hate for his father. He. . ."

  After a long silence. Doctor Porsena said, "He. . .?"

  "He did something about it. Just didn't sit down and cry about it."

  "Was that the right or wrong way to behave?"

  "That's a. . ."

  Jim had been about to say that it was a stupid question. But he would not say that to The Shaman. Anyway, The Shaman always had a reason for voicing anything, even if it might seem irrelevant or dumb.

  "Right, of course. Except. . ."

  "Except?"

  "It was the right way in that it was action taken to solve the problem. Only, Orc was taking the most violent course. I mean, he was going to kill his father and anybody else who got in his way! Maybe he should have figured out a better way. I don't know. It could be the only way there is."

  Jim blushed. That did not escape Porsena's eye. The doctor said, "You're embarrassed."

  Jim struggled with himself, then said, "OK. After all, it's not like I'm having the incestuous thoughts Orc has. I sure never had them about my own mother. Orc means to marry his mother after he kills his father -- after some torture, that is. He's also got the hots for his aunt. In fact, Orc's hornier than a pack of minks in heat. I told you he's screwed twenty of his sisters, half-sisters, his father's children. All of them beautiful even if they are. . . oh, jeez, what am I saying?"

  "Natives? Non-Lords? What the Lords call leblabbiy?"

  "Yeah. I'm sorry. It's like the leblabbiy are ni. . . I mean, blacks. I didn't mean to use that word, you know. I don't really think blacks are subhumans. But I grew up hearing it everywhere."

  "I know," the doctor said. "What're your thoughts about the Lords' acceptance of incest?"

  "Well, look. Doc. . . I mean, Doctor. I've read a lot about the ancient Egyptians, been doing it since I saw Caesar and Cleopatra on TV. You know, the movie version of G. B. Shaw's play. With Claude Rains and Vivien Leigh. I know that brothers and sisters of ancient Egypt's ruling class married each other and had children. So did the Incan rulers. Anyway, I think Farmer had something in the Tiers books about brother-sister marriages. So, what with reading about that and reading the books on Egypt and seeing the movie, I didn't have much trouble accepting that. Anyway, when I'm Orc, I tend to accept what he accepts. It's a culture thing. The Lords don't have genetic defects, so there's no problem passing bad genes on to their children. So why shouldn't a mother marry her son?"

  When the session ended, Jim felt only a very slight lessening of the numbness and depression. Oh, well, it didn't matter. Nothing mattered.

  Chapter 22

  JIM HAD SUNK into the very center of his own pocket universe of depression. This was composed only of melancholy and self-despising, two elements that were not going to make a sun to light up his world. He did what was required of him -- except to dive through the tragil -- but slowly and tiredly. Even then, he was counting the numerals in the arithmetic of the night. He listed his flaws and failures and did not stop until he got to number thirty-seven. He could recall all of them. Why not? He had spent much time after the age of twelve contemplating them. Though there had to be more flaws, these were enough to satisfy the most self-pitying.

  He did not get any sympathy from Doctor Porsena.

  "You cannot continue to drag your chains around and whine, 'Woe is me!' like some castle-haunting phantom. You were making excellent progress -- in fact, phenomenal. Now, you've regressed. It's as if you've not only gone to the lowest previous point of lack of self-esteem in your life, you've plunged below that. Reached that personal nadir, as it were."

  Jim summoned up enough spirit to say, "As opposed to the Zenith, right? Well, I was never one for TV."

  That took the psychiatrist aback for a moment. Then he smiled, and he said, "If you've got enough fire to make a pun, rotten as it is, there's still hope for you."

  Jim did not think so. That remark was the last flicker of a dying flame.

  "What if Orc is dead?" Jim said. That question caught him by surprise. It had shot out of his mouth as if something had exploded in him.

  Porsena's lips formed the ghost of a smile. He was, Jim thought, not only The Shaman. He was The Sphinx. That expression was exactly like the smile on the stone face of the Great Sphinx of Giza. Jim could see the pyramids and the palm trees beyond him. The wisdom of the ages was behind that age-cut face and behind the doctor's, too.

  "What if Orc is dead?" Porsena said. "You select someone else to become."

  At least Porsena had not argued with him that Orc was only a fictional character. He must think that Orc was, but he was going to play by Jim's rules. Never invalidate. That was the Golden Rule, and Porsena was the Golden Ruler.

  "I don't want to be someone else," Jim said.

  "Then find out if Orc is dead or alive."

  "I'll do it," Jim said. "I'll do it for you."

  "No. You'll do it for yourself. You'll do it because it's the thing to do for you and you only."

  He leaned forward over his desk, his bright blue eyes locked onto Jim's. "Listen up, Jim. I'm aware that I'm an authority figure to you, perhaps a father/mother substitute. That's good in one sense because you've reacted differently to me than you have with other authority figures. You've done your best to please me, though that is not necessarily desirable. But I am here only to guide you through your therapy. Perhaps that's too cold a way to put it. I like you, and I think we might eventually become friends after your therapy is complete. I do have authority, and I'm not your peer. At the moment, I'm your superior, though I won't take advantage of that -- unless it's for your good.

  "But we may have to work a bit to temper your attitude toward me. I'm not God, I'm not your parents. I expect you to hear my advice and then to use your judgment concerning its value. Nevertheless, there'll be times when I'll override your judgment. I am older and wiser, and I am a thoroughly trained professional. However, I am human. I can make mistakes and errors.

  "On the other hand, I'll be far less likely than you to do so. Keep all this in mind. We'll do some work on your attitude, as I said. But your therapy is the big thing here. So, I insist that you reenter Orc or pick another character to enter. If you don't, your therapy will be ended. Do I make myself clear?"

  Jim nodded.

  "What would Orc do if he were in your shoes just now?"

  "Huh? Oh, I see what you mean! Sorry, I was thinking of something else. If he was me, he'd've jumped right back through the tragil. But I'm not him, not yet, anyway. Orc never would've been in a depression. Not for long, anyway. I know him, and. . ."

  "Do what he'd do, even if it seems to be against your nature, no matter how hard it is to do. This isn't easy work, you know."

  "I'll try. Hard," Jim said.

  He did not think he could do it, not in his state of mind. But there were ways to alter those states. Porsena would not approve those ways. In fact, taking any drugs except those prescribed was forbidden on pain of immediate expulsion. But desperate situations demanded desperate means. Before the group session that afternoon, Jim got Gillman Sherwood to one side in the main hallway.

  "I hear you're dealing, Gill."

  "Not at all," Sherwood said. "I wouldn't do that. Hell, I'm here to get rid of the monkey, among other things."

  "Let me put it this way," Jim said. "I understand you may have access to certain cures for what ails me. I'd like to get hold of one, preferably one of the speedy kind."
<
br />   "It could be," Sherwood said. "But there are a lot of rumors, mostly false, running around this place."

  "Speed's the word," Jim said.

  "Might be what the doctor ordered. However, nothing's free in this harsh world."

  "I know the price," Jim said. "I got the wherewithal."

  That morning, the mail had brought him a ten-dollar bill along with a note from his mother. At first, he was tempted to send both back. Yet, he needed money badly, so he had put the bill in his pocket after tearing up the note. And here he was, spending half of the ten on amphetamine when every cent he had should go for absolute necessities. He despised himself. At the same time he was looking forward to the rush through his body and mind.

  Gillman Sherwood put his hand on Jim's shoulder. "There are other ways to pay debts than with money."

  "Forget it!" Jim said. "I told you last time, no way!"

  Gillman's smile was aloof and haughty, so superior. Jim hated it, and he hated having to deal through this big prick. Gillman said, "Don't knock it until you try it."

  "Jesus Christ!" Jim said. "You've hit on every boy and girl in the place! Do you love being turned down? Is that part of your problem?"

  "Hey, there's more than one here knows an offer they can't refuse! I don't need you, Grimson, any more than I need a wart on my ass! I'll slip you what you need when we're alone next time. Bring the wherewithal. Otherwise, no tickee, no shirtee."

  What would Red Orc do? Probably kill Sherwood and take his entire supply. Couldn't do that.

  Though Sherwood's parents were wealthy, they sent him little money. Thus, if he wanted extra cash, he had to deal in nickel-and-dime stuff. His father had been a steel magnate. Despite the shutting down of the industry in the Youngstown area, he had interests in other businesses and was said to own half of Belmont City. His only son had seemed destined to be one of those tall, athletic, blond, and handsome scions who would sweep through life untroubled by the anxieties and dire straits of the great unwashed, the rabble, the seething masses.

  Not so. Even the extremely rich had problems they shared with the lowly poor. Gillman was bisexual, with a leaning toward males. If his gay-hating father had known that, he would not have been so eager to make him into a businessman. Gillman was passionate about becoming a painter. The senior Sherwood was appalled by this. He insisted that Gillman go to Harvard to get an M.B.A. and then become his partner. If he wanted to paint as a recreation, fine, though he should not brag about it to anyone who might think only a pansy would be an artist. If he wanted to be a patron, that was different.

  Gillman, like so many now in therapy, had gone berserk. He had slashed his wrists and painted a self-portrait with blood. Then his drug-addiction had been revealed, and here he was in the mental ward of Wellington Medical Center.

  Jim would have empathized with Gillman if he did not act as if he were the Duke of Kingdom Come. Jim also thought that Gillman's choice of Wolff as his persona was a hoot. Wolff would spit in the son of a bitch's face.

  A few minutes later, he was talking to Sandy Melton. She had not been able to get into a long conversation with him since she had entered the project. She was classified as schizoaffective and was now taking lithium carbonate. She adored her Caucasian father though she did not see him enough to satisfy her. He was a traveling salesman for a large pharmaceutical company with headquarters in Belmont City. Sandy detested her mother, who was Korean. From early childhood. Sandy had suffered because so many of her grade-school classmates had called her "slant-eyes," "Chink," "Jap," "gook," and "Mongolian idiot." Her high-school friends had refrained from this, but her acquaintances were not so discreet.

  Yet, her long glossy black hair, uptilted eyes, and high cheekbones made a beautiful whole. And, though only five feet two inches tall, she had relatively long legs and a petite but full-busted figure. Despite this, she thought that she was ugly. Though shy, she had been a very energetic, sometimes overzealous and near-frenzied business manager and agent for the Hot Water Eskimos. But when she suddenly became depressed, she was very withdrawn and lethargic. She would then let her duties slide.

  From an early age. Sandy had not liked her mother, mostly because her mother had not seemed to like her. Kuo Melton was surly, untalkative, and a bad housekeeper who spent most of her time watching TV soap operas and game shows. Though she had been in the United States for twenty years, she spoke English very poorly.

  Sometimes Sandy was in a forgiving mood, and she would explain to her friends that her mother had had a hell of a childhood and youth. She had been sexually abused and half-starved and homeless for years before Abe Melton married her. At that time, she was beautiful and looking for a way out of her country. Sandy's father had told her that Kuo was genuinely fond of him and he of her during the early years of their marriage. That was certainly no longer true.

  Sandy's method of entering the World of Tiers was unique. She would take all of her clothes off while chanting the first four lines of the Buddhist Lotus Sutra over and over. Then she would press her palms against the full-length mirror on the wall of her room. While doing this, she would use Jim's ATA MATUMA M'MATA chant. Two chants were better than one. After about seven minutes (seven was a magical and mystical number), and while she concentrated on the entry point five inches inside the mirror (five was another mystical number), the glass would turn soft and rubbery.

  As soon as she felt the mirror become just a Jell-O, she would begin muttering swiftly the words of the song "Over the Rainbow." What was good enough for Dorothy of Oz was good enough for her. And three chants were better than one.

  Her ectoplasm, as she called it, would travel through the palms of her hands. It would fall forward through the ever-thinning substance into the universe she had chosen. When she had passed completely through, she (as ectoplasm) was in a male body. She had long wanted to be a male because her father was, though she also felt that this desire was morally wrong.

  The universe beyond the mirror was like nothing described in the Tiers series. It was flat, and she could fall off its edge if she got too close to it. Its human inhabitants were all Caucasian males, except for one gigantic female kept under guard in a huge castle. She was like the queen termite in a nest and was force-fed with a honey that made her so large and so fat that she became larger than the kitchen in a mansion. The queen was the mother of the entire human population and bore five male babies in a single birth every three months.

  Once a year, a tournament was held -- Sandy was a great reader of medieval romances -- and the champion became the queen's lover and the begetter of that year's babies. After he retired, he had to help other ex-champions take care of the babies, dust the castle, wash dishes, and do other household tasks. Being permitted to do this service was a great honor.

  Sandy, in her persona as Sir Sandagrain, roamed the world in quest of the man who held the secret to everlasting happiness. While wandering, she had to joust with innumerable knights, bad or good, and invade the many castles of evil warlocks and robber barons. Like all males in this world, they wore masks. So far, Sir Sandagrain had not found The Man with the Golden Mask, he who had the secret.

  These adventures as the questing knight, though bloody and perilous, helped to protect her against the sometimes overwhelming stresses of Earth. When she felt she had had enough relief from her terrestrial life, she pressed her palms against the mirror. She repeated the same three chants in reverse order. The Jell-O-like softness crystallized. At the moment of complete hardness, it was ready to admit her ectoplasm back to her female body.

  Sandy was making some progress in her quest for a stronger persona and lack of confusion about her sexual identity. She was beginning to come out somewhat from the wild swings of mood and her withdrawal tendencies. Like Jim and most of the others, she was slowly surrendering her own private and uncontrolled delusions to the controlled delusions of the World of Tiers.

  "Jim, I've talked to my dad twice," she said excitedly. "He's always talked about divorci
ng Kuo, but it was just talk. He's very resistant to the idea of divorce. But now, I don't know, he may be coming around to it. He knows how much I hate leaving the hospital and going back to that house. It's terrible. But only because Kuo's there!"

  Sandy never referred to Kuo as her mother.

  "Aren't you thinking about adapting yourself to Kuo?" Jim said.

  "No. I couldn't do that unless she went into therapy, too, and did some changing herself. Takes two to tango, you know. She would never do that."

  The dining hall was noisy, though it had quiet spots occupied by withdrawn juveniles. Jim and Sandy sat down across the table from a lovely, gentle, and fragile girl, Elizabeth Lavenza. Her stepfather had been sodomizing her since she was ten years old. Several months ago, the monster, as Elizabeth always called him, had tried to kill her when he had caught her phoning the police. She had managed to fight him off by jamming the receiver into his mouth and then hitting him over the head with a poker. These were the only violent acts she had ever committed, and she was suffering from guilt because of them. (This reaction was totally incomprehensible to Jim.) She had then run out of the house and down the street. Despite her stepfather's injuries, he had lurched after her swiftly enough to catch her. He was strangling her when the squad car arrived.

  Elizabeth used what she called her "powerpack" to enter the Lords' universes. This was the five books of the series taped together, forming her battery to energize the opening of the way. Several others in the therapy did the same.

  Near Jim was another table at which sat the members of a group in which he was particularly interested. These were whispering, their heads as close together as they could get them. Their universe was one they had made up with the help of Doctor Porsena. Though it was nominally in the World of Tiers, it was not one that its author would have been likely to create. This was ruled by a Lord called Kephalor. He was a brain the size of a pocket universe because he was also the universe. Its inhabitants were electrical entities whose forms were the neural impulses of Kephalor's brain. In fact, the group called itself The Neural Impulses. (Jim thought that this would be a great name for a rock band.)