In Dark Corners (28 page)

Audio-disc excerpt from Chapters Eleven and Twelve of
Return Of The Ice Man,
a book confiscated June 7, 2052.

The next morning the Hall of Justice was filled with CFE officials and many shield residents, a sense of high drama hanging in the air. Of course there was little doubt as to the guilt of the Symbolists, especially the reader, and the writer. But would there be a Marking judgment by
MOSES
?

The personification of the computer glared down from the big screen at the fifteen Symbolists separated from the reader and writer. He found them guilty and pronounced one common judgment: "After due consideration it is my judgment that you all be remanded to the Sen-Dep tanks for Phase Four editing. And then after release, to report monthly for a year for in-depth probing. Caretakers?"

The fifteen were led away.

Without lecture or formality,
MOSES
gazed down at the reader and writer and immediately pronounced their fate. "Both defendants, guilty."

The spectators shifted for better views, and I felt a sinking sensation in my stomach.

"You will both be Marked and delivered outside the shield to roam the rest of your lives as unmasked outcasts."

Though free from come-along-stuns, neither defendant spoke. Instead they faced each other bravely and smiled. And they did something unexpected. The woman brought each of the man's hands to her lips for a kiss. Then she closed her eyes, and he leaned forward, touching his lips to each of her eyelids.

MOSES
was finishing now, "Let the Brother from the Order of Mark perform his duty in the Medcenter on the Eve-Watch."

It was over.

***

In the Medcenter I busied myself with preparations, finally removing the sacred laser tips from their silver case, only vaguely aware of the cameras, lights, and the two Medtech assistants.

I turned and faced the drugged defendants, strapped to the stainless-steel table. For a moment I hesitated, then I heard the Bishop's voice in my head:
Enemies of the Church
; and I remembered my duty.

I leaned over the man and went through the steps automatically—my mind empty of all pity—first inserting the tips into the amputation device encircling his wrists, then activating the lasers. His glazed eyes showed little expression. Turning away, I signaled for one of the Medtechs to properly cauterize the writer's stumps…Then I turned to the woman, fixed the laser tips to the blinding rods, and after placing the rods over her eyes, I triggered the device.

Staring down into her now sightless eyes, I blinked back tears, for she was mouthing inaudible words that boomed like thunder in my head: Mikey, dear Mikey.

Audio-disc from the final Chapter of
Return Of The Ice Man,
a book confiscated June 7, 2052.

Weston wakes in a strange place.

He's lying on a narrow bed in a cramped, dimly lit room. Beside the bed is a nightstand, its chipped paint matching the scarred finish of the single wooden chair. A heavy-mesh screen, bolted into the pocked cinderblock wall, obstructs both the view and light from a tiny window.

Walls, chair, nightstand, bed, everything is gray—a dull, dismal gray.

Weston feels a surge of fear.

A cell?

No
, he tells himself, it can't be a cell, the room smells too clean; and besides, the door is wide open.

Frowning, he sorts through his memory, trying to fit together the vague fragments of the previous night: a long ride…being wheeled to this room…a glass of water and a capsule…a
gray
capsule.

It occurs to Weston that he might be in a hospital. Maybe…but the room seems a bit dreary and rundown, even for a private hospital.

Still puzzled, he tries to rub his nose; suddenly, he remembers that he has no control over his hand, or arm…or any of his limbs. He takes a check: he can still move his eyes; and, though he can swallow, he's unable to make a sound, not even a cough. Moving his head, Weston learns that his neck is painfully stiff. And, clearly,
everything
below his neck is completely numb, paralyzed.

As he turns his head to look back at the window, Weston glimpses a glittering array from the corner of his eye—a reflected sparkling near the foot of the bed. With an effort, he cranes his neck to look directly at the suspected source of the reflection. Sure enough, the gray blanket has worked up, exposing his toes.

Relaxing his neck, Weston eases his head back to the pillow. The transition is almost complete, he thinks, chuckling silently; and soon, he'll be very special. He'll count! Excitement wells up, almost choking him.

Slowly the glee subsides.

Curious, Weston gazes out the door into the well-lit hallway. He sees a man hurry by, carrying a small tray. Presently another figure passes the doorway. Both men are wearing neat white uniforms with plastic nametags.

Nurses?

Weston decides the place
must
be a hospital.

Inwardly, he smiles, thinking that Addie had finally noticed the change and panicked, calling an ambulance; but he doesn't know for sure. He tries to visualize his wife's shocked expression at the moment of recognition…but for some reason, Addie's features remain blurred.

Dammit! He'd tried to tell her. She wouldn't listen. Addie
never
really listened to him.

Weston swallows, trying to work up moisture and wash away the dryness in his mouth. Christ! he thinks, twenty-two years with the woman—half his life. And now he can't even recall her image.

The thought dampens his elation.

Taking a deep breath, Weston shifts his attention to the narrow bed. Even though he's unable to roll over, he doesn't feel uncomfortable. No, he's quite relaxed, considering the progress of the transition. Well, perhaps a little warm, he admits, but that's to be expected in a hospital. Anyway, he's amazed by his relative comfort. He thought he'd be stiff and cold by this stage, and probably feeling deeply depressed. But, no, that isn't the case at all. In fact, he feels the opposite…euphoric, that's the word—the best he's felt since the change began.

Of course, he hadn't recognized the start of the transition. Christ, who could've guessed what was happening? Certainly not him. No, he didn't have an inkling—not until after the dream.

But he knew now! Another wave of excitement.

Weston's mind drifts back to the start: the numb shoulder at Murphy's Ivory Cue…

***

Weston paused just inside Murphy's, letting the saloon-style doors fan his back. To his right, two guys, sitting on stools at the closed grill, smiled and waved.

"Hey, Trim."

"How's it going, man?"

Weston nodded. Then he let his gaze wander around the huge hall: grill, bar, and snooker tables along the right wall; two billiard tables at the far end; vending machines and pool tables to his left. Recalling the photo in the
Mercury
a few years back, he kicked at a wad of gum stuck to the dirty carpet at his feet:
Constructed in the shadow of the GM Western Assembly Plant near Fremont, Murphy's Ivory Cue caters twenty-four hours a day to off-shift auto workers…with plush wall-to-wall burnt-orange carpeting, the ornate pool emporium was built and furnished in the grand style of the late forties.

Well, the big layoff had changed a few things, Weston thought, staring at the nearly empty pool hall. Now Murphy opened the Cue late and closed it before midnight, keeping the grill open only for lunch…not even keeping the rug clean anymore.

Weston shrugged and checked the two customers at the bar…both from the plant, but neither a shooter. He ambled over and ordered a Coors draught from Murphy, who had let his bartender go. The little Irishman served mostly beer—and not much of that—to laid-off GM boys.

Sipping the cold Coors, Weston turned the stool to his left, idly surveying the empty snooker tables. He glanced at his watch, thinking: still early, maybe some shooters will be in later. Nervous, he got up and moved to the row of loge-like chairs behind the snooker tables. He slumped into a seat and stared across the hall at the noisy foursome shooting on pool table No. 2. The loud but inept game of eight ball failed to hold his interest. His attention shifted to the other occupied table: a two-man game of straight pool. He sipped the beer, watching a good run. As the shooter, a tall man in a Billy Ball tee shirt, racked up the score, Weston cupped his hand to his mouth, saying: "Nice, Ed."

The tall man, a spot welder at the plant, flashed Weston a grin. "Thanks, Trim. Say, you aren't interested in straight pool tonight?"

Weston shook his head.

Bored, he stared at the unoccupied billiard tables. They reminded him of the Louisville scene from
The Hustler
: When the mark invited Paul Newman—a straight pool hustler—to his home for a high stakes game: Newman's shocked look when the mark uncovered a
pocketless
table, saying, "My house…my game." Of course it was all typical Hollywood bullshit—no straight-pool hustler would gamble on another game, especially not billiards. Still, Weston smiled to himself, remembering George C. Scott and Piper Laurie. He drained the Coors and set the glass under his seat.

As he looked up, Weston saw George Chacon come through the doors with a huge black guy. George had been a friend at the plant before he quit to run a body and fender shop in Milpitas with his father-in-law. The black dude was a stranger: heavyset, shaved head, skin almost apricot-colored.

George spotted Weston and guided the big guy over.

"Hey, Trim," he said, "this is Buddha Jackson, an old friend from San Jose." George punched the black guy's shoulder. "We played freshman ball at City College, until they found out we couldn't read—right Buddha?"

"Right on, brother," the big man laughed, exposing two gold-capped front teeth. He offered Weston his hand.

Buddha? The guy did look Asian, Weston thought, kind of like a sumo wrestler, except for the shaved head. He shook the man's thick hand.

"Buddha's a player," George explained, "looking for some action." He grinned. "I told him I knew
the
man in Fremont."

Weston nodded, accepting the compliment. He eyed the big guy more carefully, asking: "Wild or straight?"

"Say, whatever," Buddha answered casually, stripping a C and H wrapper from a sugar cube and popping it into his mouth. He sucked on it greedily, continuing to grin.

But Weston sensed coldness in the man's dark eyes, at odds with the warm smile. "Wild is normal here."

Buddha nodded slowly, as if he were making a concession, and continued sucking on his sugar cube.

"—Shoot the pink anytime," Weston continued, describing the local wild-snooker rules, "down it, you bead six, miss it, you lose six. Got it?"

"How much?" For the first time, the big man's smile disappeared, his expression matching his cold eyes.

Anticipating a big game, Ed and his partner moved into spectator seats behind Weston.

"Oh, the usual here is a quarter a point, dollar on the game, loser pays table fees."

The grin edged back on Buddha's face. "Say, buck a point? Keep the bookkeeping down." He chuckled and took another C and H cube from his pocket. Deftly, he unwrapped it and tossed it into his mouth, dropping the wrapper on the floor.

Weston hesitated, glancing at Chacon.

"He's no hustler, Trim," George said, shaking his head, "you're both in the same league."

Making up his mind, Weston rose from his seat. You got a game, Buddha." Again he shook hands with the big man. Moving to the rack of locked cues on the wall, Weston noticed his hand was sticky. He wiped it on his pant leg, then took out his key, and unlocked his cue slot. He removed a beautiful cue: A No. 18, handmade from birch.

Whistling his admiration, Buddha held out his hand. He tested the cue's trueness, rolling it on the snooker table; then he aimed down the rail line, taking a few strokes. "Say, nice. Set you back much?"

The cue felt sticky now. Irritated, Weston snapped: "Two fifty!" He stepped back to the talc dispenser, mounted on the wall near the open cue rack, and dusted his hands.

Buddha followed and selected a house cue from the rack.

Weston rubbed goose bumps on his arm—maybe Murphy had the AC on? He took a couple of practice strokes; and, even with the talc, the cue felt gummy. Damn sugar cubes, he thought, kicking at the C and H wrappers on the rug. A few spectators had gathered behind table No.1. Weston could hear their whispers.

"Say, call." Buddha flipped a quarter.

Weston said: "Heads." It landed tails on the table.

The big man broke, making a red; then he dropped the blue five (which Weston spotted), another red, the black seven (spotted), and finally missed on a banked red. Fourteen points—a good opening run with reds cluttering the table. As Buddha had moved gracefully around the table, Weston watched analytically: good smooth stroke—nice shot selection—always leaving himself in good shape. Grudgingly, Weston admitted to himself that the heavyset black man was indeed a player, as George had said.