Perfect Flaw (11 page)

***

A woman enters, flicks on her tablet, taps a few things, and then says, “Mr. Tilson?”

“Yeah.”

She makes a few more taps on her tablet and then frowns. “Your happy levels are low today.”

His answer comes out slowly, “I w-ill work at be-ing happ-y.”

She stares at him for a moment, her expression uncertain. But then she returns to her tablet device.

Click-Click-Click, and he can feel the starting tingle of happy drugs starting to circulate. He looks toward the window with its never changing breeze and bird songs. There must be a lawn of green grass out there. “Out-side,” Jim says, “I wanna to go out-side.

“Sorry,” she glances up momentarily, “that’s not on your schedule. But I’ll notify your Revivologist.”

And then she leaves.

Sigh. Green grass. But he’s stuck. What if he could detach himself from the Head Cart? Be free to roam? He tries wiggling just a bit. Nope. Clamped down tight.

Birds continue chirping in the background as the happy drugs creep into his brain. Just beyond the horizon, sadness is lurking. Or is it anger? He tries to relax and let the drugs do their job. Outside, he can still hear chirping.

Dr Huter enters. “Okay, Mr. Tilson, you can go outside to Paradise Garden tomorrow.”

“What?” Outside! Outside!

“That’s the spirit, Mr. Tilson. Think happy!” Dr. Huter breaks into a smile.

***

Revivologists cluster together, none looking at them, as Jim and Rob-o-Bob roll down the corridor. Here and there, other Heads sit outside their rooms, some with open eyes, others not.

One Head shoots Jim a pleading glance. Another gives him an impish smile as if to say,
Don’t we look ridiculous being wheeled around in these silly carts
?
The Head has a fuzzy layer of hair; a smooth, small face suggests female.

Jim smiles back as Rob-o-Bob whisks him by. Should he have ordered Rob-o-Bob to stop? But what would he have said? Is this your first revival? Have you been evaluated yet?

He imagines her laughing,
What a colossal joke, huh? You’re dead. But then you wake up and find all these jerks running around deciding what’s best for you. Makes you want to get a body, then come back and kick the crap out of someone
.

Concentrate on happy, happy, happy. More dopamine, please. And he mustn’t be angry.

Swuck
.

Double doors slide open and they roll into an atrium.

Sunlight floods in through tinted octagonal shaped glass panels that stretch upwards to a canopy of converging metal beams. Green leafy plants overflow large red clay pots at the base of each window. Birds chirp overhead.

Wonderful to see the sun casting pools of light intermingling with shadows on the floor.

Run, run, run. He wants to feel the ground bang against the bottoms of his shoes as he lifts his knees as high as they will go and leave Rob-o-Bob far behind. Goodbye Rob-o-Bob! Stupid machine—No, Rob-o-Bob has been good to him.

Another set of double doors slide apart and they roll outside out onto a terrace four meters above a garden.

“Arrive. Paradise Garden,” says Rob-o-Bob.

The garden stretches off. In the distance, a flat lake sits with three triangle-sailed boats floating motionless and then after that, a range of purplish mountains. A reddish sun hovers above the mountains.

To the right is a set of marble stairs, while on the other side, a Head and P.R.A. descend along a ramp towards a garden crisscrossed with chalk white paths radiating outwards. A half dozen Heads are being pushed along the pathways.

So, does he want to descend into the garden like all the other Heads? No. Just wait for a moment. And talk to someone. “What to talk to some-one,” he says.

“Specify who.”

Sigh. “Turn left, and go.”

Rob-o-Bob moves them along the terrace.

Falling–Falling–If he can’t run, maybe he could fall? Funny, yes? Wickedly funny. Dead. He lets the word echo about in his mind. Strange, it doesn’t frighten him.

They turn a corner and another Head is sitting there with its P.R.A. standing behind.

“Turn me to face him,” Jim says.

The other Head blinks as Jim is placed in front of him. Behind the other Head are the sloping mirror-like walls of the Revivology Facility.

“Hell-o. I’m Jim.”

“Oh, hi.” Pause. “I’m Lassal.” There is only a wisp of hair on the top of his head. And his sunken eyes seem tired.

“How are you?”

“Fine.” Lassal licks his thin lips and stops. Even his skin looks worn out. “What’s with you?” he asks.

“Wait-ing for my e-val-u-ation.”

“You aren’t supposed to be out here until you’ve been evaluated.”

“Why?”

“This is Paradise Garden.” Lassal gestures with his tongue towards the garden, “That’s where they put us Reject Heads; you know, the ones that don’t get reattached.”

Jim feels the muscles in his jaw tightening. “Maybe I should leave you alone.”

“No, no.” Pause. “That’s Okay.”

Now he doesn’t want to talk to this fellow. But what can he do? “Why didn’t you get a body?” he asks.

Lassal pauses, collects some air into his cheeks, puckers his lips and then makes a spitting motion towards the railing. “Long story stort. In my past life, I got caught up documenting my previous life’s work. All very important stuff. But I didn’t give myself enough time plan my future life. So I got all screwed up in my evaluation session.

“It’s a real knock, you know?” Lassal continues, “But you can’t let it get you down.” Lassal’s expression hardens. “It’s the guy with the good attitude and perseverance that ends up with a body the next time.”

Jim stops, frozen. So what will he say about his future life?

***

“Bob stop,” Dr. Huter says.

Faint whirling sounds end as Jim’s cart halts. Before him five people with neck chains sit behind a curving wood-grained table.

Dr. Huter clears his throat. “This is Jim Tilson.”

“I have him now,” the middle fellow frowns as he peers down into his tablet. “I see ... Mr. Tilson is very old.”

“So why hasn’t he submitted a curriculum vita,” the woman next to him interjects.

“That’s explained in note three,” Dr. Huter replies.

“Oh yes,” Scowl agrees. “And his memory isn’t working?”

“No, his memory is functioning. However he doesn’t remember his past life. That’s in note one.”

“Oh yes,” Scowl looks over to his left. “What about the rest of you?”

A thin-faced man with snow white hair and similarly sour expression responds, “Even if he doesn’t have a Future-Life Statement, does he have some idea as to what he wants to do with his future life?”

“I think he just wants to live.”

“Live,” Jim agrees.

“That’s not much of a plan.”

“I want a body!”

“Please, Mr. Tilson,” Scowl glares at him. “No interruptions!”

“Sorry.”

“Mr. Tilson is a special case—” Dr. Huter begins.

“Yes, yes, everyone is a special case,” Scowl waves his hand, “and there are only so many bodies. Now, you have completed your research, correct?”

“Yes.”

“So doing an attachment doesn’t really add much, does it?”

Long pause, then, “No.”

White Hair glances at Jim and then turns to the others. “Mr. Tilson is rather old, so we could have approved him because of his historical memories, except of course, he doesn’t have any. So I suggest Mr. Tilson be rehabilitated as a Head, and then in two years, he can be re-vitrified and apply for a body in his next life. His prospects will be much better. Thank you.”

“Body,” Jim mutters.

Scowl looks at Jim. “Sorry. Study-up and work on your attitude and the next time you should have better luck.”

Why, he thinks as Rob-o-Bob wheels him out.

They arrive back in the room.

Rob-o-Bob clicks Jim into place.

“Why?” he asks.

“I’m sorry,” Dr. Huter touches Jim’s head, “we all don’t get bodies.”

“No. Why did you take my memories?”

Silence. “You were a suicide. Suicides aren’t usually revived as they are depressed to begin with and almost always don’t adjust. My new technique removed the memories associated with your suicide. But I couldn’t untangle them from everything else as you were depressed most of your previous life.”

Jim sobs. “Body.”

Dr. Huter looks at him. “You’re upset. Let me give you—”

“No! Leave me be!”

There is silence for several seconds. Then Dr. Huter says, “You’re not going to get a body, but at least you’re alive.”

Alive.

Alive to wheel about in a little cart with Rob-o-Bob always there watching. And with no memories.

“Jim?”

He looks at Dr. Huter. The man must be disappointed that his experiment was ruined by such a poor subject. “Do I have to live? Aren’t you finished?”

Dr. Huter looks startled. “No, no. It’s not that bad. You can learn and start planning for your next life. It doesn’t have to be as,” he hesitates, “unsuccessful as this one.”

Oh. He gets to try again. But what if he doesn’t want to?

Dr. Huter is fiddling with his tablet. “Based on your suicide note, I honestly thought you were a good candidate for my procedure. Here, let me open it up and you can read it.”

Jim Tilson: Suicide Note
is floating in front of him.

“I’m sorry.” Dr. Huter looks at him, this time softly. “I’ll leave you now.”

Sigh. “Go.”

Item: Suicide Note
.

To all and sundry,

Alas, with the recent cessation of my inconsequential day job, I am now at a crisis point. But before my fiscal capacity dwindles away, I have decided to execute my escape plan to a better world while still having the wherewithal to do so.

I left a message with one of the many acquaintances I’ve met over the years at SF Conferences. As he declined my dining invitation tonight owing to other commitments, he won’t receive said message until I have expired. However I expect to be found within time for my planned cryogenic freezing.

Please sell my apartment and place all moneys into a trust fund dedicated to maintain my frozen body. And also please investigate getting my novel published as my spectacular demise may make publishers more interested in said story.

Finally, I wish mankind Godspeed in perfecting the revival protocol.

***

They are sitting out on the terrace as the sun turns red and sinks towards the horizon. What if he had been able to remember something? Would that really have made any difference? Or would they have still said,
Sorry, you’re life was not worth remembering. Work hard, then come back and try again
.

“Scheduled Paradise Garden time finished,” Rob-o-Bob says and starts wheeling him back towards the Revivology Building.

They pass the marble stairs when Jim suddenly knows what he wants to do. “Bob,” he says, “stop here and turn me to the right.”

Rob-o-Bob stops.

Jim looks down the twenty eight steps. He grits his teeth. So how bad can the fall be? Maybe he’ll be lucky and be knocked out as he hits the first step? Sure, he has to start getting lucky at some point, doesn’t he?

“Bob,” he finally whispers, “push me forwards.”

Rob-o-Bob stops. “Potential harmful action. Cannot comply.”

“Bob!” he shouts, then stops.

No use. Rob-o-Bob is a robot.

And robots don’t have emotions.

***

“I was trying to prevent this,” Dr. Huter says.

“Didn’t mean to cause trouble,” Jim mumbles. Good old Rob-o-Bob. The whole incident was recorded in real time on the Rob-o-Bob-cam.

Rob-o-Bob, the ever present, reliable informer.

“This is a difficult choice,” Dr. Huter continues, “I can up your dosage or return you to the fridge and wait for a better protocol. Unfortunately, a higher level of drugs could make future revivals problematic. So the best solution is to return you to the fridge.”

“No,” Jim protests. “Why can’t you just let me die?”

Dr. Huter looks shocked. Then his expression hardens. “We’ll take good care of you.” Then his eyes dart down to his tablet and his fingers begin clicking away.

“No...” Jim tries again. But it is too late. Sleep is reaching up for him; a long dreamless sleep that will only end sometime in the future, in another room with another Revivologist.

GUARDIAN

BY H. DAVID BLALOCK

He couldn’t see anything through the hood, but the uneven flight of the aircar told him they had left the main settlement and were headed into the surrounding countryside. He again tested the cords holding his hands together behind his back, but they refused to budge. A cramp threatened to form in his right arm. He ignored it. He was more concerned about what they intended to do, and who they might be.

“Settle down, Krandall,” the muffled voice of one of his captors barked. “You’ll just hurt yourself.”

“No loss,” another said from slightly farther off, probably in the front of the vehicle. “Just another Guardian gone. Why are we letting him live, anyway?”

A thrill went through him at that. He tried not to show his nervousness. He didn’t mind dying. He just wanted to go down fighting, not trussed up like a sacrificial animal.

“Shut up!” the first voice snapped. “You know as well as I do we don’t question orders.”

Krandall relaxed as best he could. Better not to draw any more attention to himself, cause any more tension. Even the best soldiers could forget themselves if they were put under too much stress. He knew that from personal experience.

During the war, he’d been assigned to a front-line unit. One of their first objectives was to take the colony here on Beta Epsilon IV. It wasn’t much of a settlement, but its position afforded strategic advantage and He wanted it taken, He being Emperor Helion II, Scion of the Royal Line of Mavon, Protector of the Faith, Luminary of the Three Suns, etc., etc., etc.

The Empire had formed order out of the chaos of the Dispersal, no mean feat in itself. Humanity had just begun to use FTL technology when the killer asteroid appeared inside Jupiter’s orbit. Those that could, left Earth before it hit, a giant rock 350 miles across plummeting into the Asian continent, rendering the entire world uninhabitable in minutes. The greatest achievements of humanity destroyed and mankind itself forced into ships, orphaned, doomed to wander the spaces between systems until dying in the cold void or becoming lucky enough to find a place to eke out an existence. Human beings might have become completely extinct if not for the genius and determination of Mavon. Born on the colony of Sigma Eta III, he was the first of the second generation to believe humanity could once more rise from the ashes.

It became an honor to be part of that effort, and Krandall was humbled by the privilege of becoming a Guardian of the Empire on his graduation from the Imperial University on ΣΗ III. He had served faithfully for almost nine years on ΣΗ III and then here, on BE IV after its liberation from the enemy, for another three. There had not been any evidence of enemy presence since then, at least, not until now.

The vehicle slowed. Krandall heard the man nearest him shift his position.

“What’s going on?” he said.

“Roadblock.”

The man cursed. “Have they seen us yet?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Spin. We’ll have to find a way around.”

Krandall felt the vehicle lift and turn as it headed in a different direction.

“Pursuit?”

There was a moment’s pause. Krandall didn’t let himself hope the men at the roadblock had noticed the vehicle’s behavior and decided to investigate. He knew how even his own unit had come to believe BE IV was secure.

“None.”

“Good.” Krandall heard the man settle back beside him. “Your friends don’t know it, Krandall, but they almost rescued you there.”

Krandall bit back a sharp reply. Best not antagonize the man while his hands were tied.

“That’s one thing in our favor nowadays,” the man went on. “The Guardians don’t believe we’re still here.” Krandall grunted as the man poked him in the ribs. “But you do, don’t you?”

He made no reply and the man eventually stopped goading him. The rest of the trip went quietly, Krandall going over the events of the last few hours, trying to figure out what was going on. It was hard to think, nearly as hard to breathe, in the blackness of the hood. He remembered being thrown into the back of the aircar and before that...

* * *

Guardian Krandall signed out his weapons at the duty officer’s station and checked it for proper charge before tucking it away. He didn’t really expect to need it. The colonists were becoming used to their presence, although Krandall suspected it would take some time before they would forget the bloodshed and realize the Empire only meant to help them, to bring them the best available from the far reaches of the systems. The Imperials put them to work building schools, roads, and hospitals. BE IV went from a backward settlement to an important military outpost. Couldn’t they see how much better they had it now?

True, once in a while the odd criminal had to be handled. Attempted vandalism of the military installation was still a nuisance, but after the last incident the public execution of five of the conspirators seemed to have made an impact. Order had been restored and the colony had been quiet for nearly a year. The population was increasing, the schools provided the necessary education in the Imperial curricula, and the local constabulary had actually begun to adhere to the uniform standards.

He made his way out of the Command Center and walked down the main road, turning toward the rear of the compound past the troop barracks. BE IV’s sun was setting as he walked by the mess hall. The smell of the night meal was just starting to waft out of its chimneys, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Well, he’d check on the guards at the ammo dump and then run back for a bite.

There are very few things more boring than guard duty on a munitions depot. Krandall found the main entrance guard nodding against the wall of the building.

“Crowley!”

The man snapped awake and yanked himself to attention. “Guardian Krandall!” he yelped, saluting.

“I assume you were patrolling and noticed something on the ground just now?”

“Uh... yes, sir!”

“Have you checked the perimeter in the last hour?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Check it again.”

The other scurried off and soon disappeared, occasionally glancing nervously over his shoulder. Krandall forgot about him almost as soon as he dismissed the man. Crowley was a local colonist, part of a conscripted detail used for the more mundane duties. The Guardians, imperial elite soldiers, were the officers and commanders.

He started his own patrol circuit around the depot. There were four other stations to check, all manned with the locals. One dozing might be overlooked, but if he found another one shirking duty there would be consequences.

The structure was a simple design, rectangular with one story above ground and two below. The entrance was secure and armed by autoguns. Anyone approaching the front without the proper subcutaneous implants would be eliminated without warning. He walked around the building clockwise, checking the walls for an evidence of breach, not really expecting to find anything. The colonials kept well clear of everything on the military compound anyway, mainly because there was nothing civilian-friendly there.

It was his lack of expectations that gave them the opening.

Of a sudden, everything went dark as the hood dropped over his head, then totally black as something crashed into his head and consciousness fled.

He woke in the back of the aircar.

* * *

They arrived.

Two of his captors grabbed him and hauled him from the vehicle. Krandall did his best to keep up as they half-shoved, half-carried him along. He heard crowd sounds come and go as they moved. Probably down a long hallway in a big building. He was surprised no one challenged them, two men escorting a hooded third. Just how large was this organization, anyway?

They stopped briefly as a door opened and he was shoved through. Krandall stumbled, fell, skidded on the floor, tasted blood as he bit the inside of his cheek on the impact.

“Shut the door and lock it behind you,” first voice said.

“Want anything else?” The second voice was the driver, apparently more than a little annoyed.

“Just do it.”

The hood came off and Krandall flinched at the sudden light. It took a few moments to adjust, but the room wasn’t much to look at anyway. Barely more than a six by six cell with a single door, a military cot, and a metal sink moulded into the wall. His captor sat on the cot, looking at him with a dour expression. The man couldn’t have been more than twenty years old. Krandall was startled to see he wore the uniform of a local conscript.

“What do you want?” Krandall managed, struggling to sit up.

The man scowled at him for a moment, watching him finally get into an upright position. Slowly, he rose, placed his foot on Krandall’s chest, and pushed him back down. Krandall grunted in pain as his head bounced on the hard floor. The other looked at him for another long moment, then returned to the cot. Krandall lay partially stunned.

“Three years ago, the land where this building now stands was a farm,” the man said. “It wasn’t large. It didn’t produce tons of crops. It belonged to a single family who subsisted off what it gave them. Do you know what happened to them?”

Krandall shook off the headache and struggled into a sitting position again. Once more, his captor knocked him down and returned to the cot.

“You and your kind came, burned down the farm, murdered the parents, and then pressed the children into your work camps,” he went on.

“I had nothing to do...” Krandall started to protest.

“Quiet!” He waited until Krandall’s mouth closed, then spoke. “Since you lot came, life has been hell. We came here to live the simple life. We were happy.”

“The colony was failing,” Krandall growled.

“So you say!”

“So said the colony organizers,” Krandall countered.

“Imperial collaborators!”

Krandall started to try to get up again, but abandoned the attempt when the other raised an eyebrow. “You’ve bought yourself more trouble than you can handle, you know. I’ll be missed soon.”

“That’s up to you,” the man said. “We brought you here to see something.”

“Nothing you can show me would make any difference. You’ve signed your own death warrants.”

The man smiled grimly. “We’ll see.” He went to the door and knocked twice. As the door opened, he turned back. “I just want you to know, the only reason you’re still alive is because of one of those children. Think about that.”

He left and two other men came in. So did the hood.

Krandall stumbled and staggered blindly between the men, cursing under his breath at each lurch. They seemed to navigate an endless number of doors and rooms, bouncing left and right off door jambs and thresholds. His escort remained silent and unforgiving, pushing and shoving whenever he felt as if he might recover his balance.

Fresh air. They were outside now, crossing a hard pavement. There was the sound of a large door opening. He was hustled inside an echoing building, heard the door shut behind him. The hood lifted to reveal he was standing in a storehouse filled with chemical containers. Above the containers, attached to the ceiling, was a structure Krandall didn’t recognize.

“It’s a machine to disperse the chemical into the atmosphere,” his captor said from behind him. Apparently the man had followed them, because Krandall didn’t remember hearing the door open again. “Those containers are filled with the same nerve gas you lot used against the colony when you pushed our defense forces into their last stand. In a single battle, without even one casualty on your side because you were all huddled in your ships in orbit, you slaughtered more than 50,000 of our able-bodied men and women. People who, until you came, had been simply farmers and merchants, craftsmen and wrights.

“There is a very ancient proverb. Perhaps you’ve heard it. ‘What goes around, comes around.’ At an appointed time, bases like this one all over the colony will simultaneously release their charge. Everyone unprepared will die within a few minutes of exposure.”

“You’re insane!” Krandall said, shocked. “You would kill your own people?”

“Our people will be safe. Shelters are prepared and the plans spread to the faithful. Only the Imperials and their collaborators will die. Beta Epsilon will be free again.”

Krandall stared at the man in disbelief. “Why are you showing me this?”

“Because I want you to take the word back to the Empire once the deed is done that Beta Epsilon will not concede to Imperial tyranny,” the man replied, his face dark. “You will be held here until it is done, then released. We know you will scurry back to your masters and bleat everything you’ve seen here. It will make them think twice about coming back.”

Krandall shook his head. “You really don’t understand, do you?”

“Understand? What is there to understand? You are invaders, murderers, tyrants. You deserve no better than death.”

“We may be that in your eyes, but we certainly are not fools.”

An explosion knocked them all off their feet as the door flew inward. As the Imperial Guardians poured into the building, Krandall looked at the dazed face of his unnamed captor.

“Guardians are implanted with subcutaneous transmitters,” he told the man. “The moment I was missed, they activated its locator. It was simply a matter of time.” He smiled at his captive. “Love Live the Emperor!” he shouted as the conspirators were gathered together.