Authors: Brian Herbert
Tags: #Fiction, #Fantasy, #General, #science fiction
Sidney's Comet (10 page)
“You thirsty?” he asked, glancing at Hodges.
“And how!” came the reply. “Feel like I’m out in the desert!”
Sidney mentoed for drinks, and presently two frosty cans of Mr. Sugar popped out of a table compartment between their chairs.
As Sidney drank the icy cola, an unbearable itching sensation took over his body.
“Quickly!” Hodges said, feeling the same thing. “Mento for your Itcho-Spray! The commercial’s on!”
Sidney had barely noticed the Itcho-Spray Man on stage, and he quickly mentoed for the product.
“You DO have some on hand?” Hodges asked, near panic.
“Certainly. But I think . . . I’m going to have to scratch—”
“Don’t do it! You have to use the product! Hang tough, man! Hang tough!”
“Aaaagh!” Sidney grunted, fighting an overwhelming urge to claw his back, chest and legs.
A white ball of Itcho-Spray popped out of the table compartment and floated in the air above their heads. It exploded in a little “pop,” showering them with clear liquid droplets.
They sighed in unison as the itching crisis subsided!
“Relief is just an Itcho-Spray away!” the Itcho-Spray Man said.
The spotlight shifted to a smiling President Ogg now, who stood at a podium bearing the Great Seal of the President of the American Federation of Freeness. Sidney felt the videodome vibrate as the crowd auto-clapped and roared its approval.
“Employment and consumption are at record levels under my administration!” the President boomed. “A vote for me is a vote for prosperity!” He delivered a short speech concerning his past accomplishments and promises for the future, then short-stepped to one side of the podium and bowed. He blew kisses and waved as the curtain closed.
“Who you gonna vote for?” Hodges asked, leaning toward Sidney to be heard over the crowd noise.
“I don’t know,” Sidney replied. “Probably Ogg again. Ben Morgan may be all right, but we don’t know much about him.”
“Better the evil that we do know?”
Sidney laughed.
“Think I’ll go with a punch-in this time,” Hodges said. “I like General Munoz.”
Hodges’s last words seemed exceedingly loud to Sidney, as the crowd noises had subsided quickly. Another commercial was onstage now, a chorus line of dancing soap bubbles selling laundry detergent. “But I’ve heard he isn’t interested,” Sidney said.
“Maybe not,” Hodges concurred, shrugging his shoulders. “But I have to vote my conscience. It came to me last night like an inspiration. I’m convinced he’s the only man for the job.”
Sidney glanced at his wrist digital, mentoed it to activate the sexy-voiced time singer. She reported that it was eleven twenty-nine. “Time to get ready for work,” Sidney said.
* * *
Another holy water break approached. Before dismissing the class, Sayer Superior Lin-Ti explained the mechanics of the subliminal transmitting device:
“Following Dr. Hudson’s instructions, General Munoz established the vote percentile he desired. One-hundred percent would be too obvious, of course, so he chose something more reasonable—around fifty-seven percent. Then he touched the cross with both hands instead of the one-hand method used for weather control. While touching the cross, Munoz transmitted his auto-suggestion.
“This caused a powerful beam to enter the brains of millions of AmFed consumers, tapping their subliminal receivers and forcing them to vote as the General wished. To reinforce the auto-suggestion, he re-broadcast several times a day in the days preceding the election—
* * *
“This is much more than a room,” Onesayer Edward said as he and Lastsayer Steven rolled into the Bureau Monitoring Room at a little past one o’clock Friday afternoon. “Actually, it takes up the entire second floor of the Black Box.”
“Most impressive,” Lastsayer said. He looked around the room curiously, watched sayermen scurrying about with microcomputer printouts. Other sayermen sat on high stools at consoles along each wall, operating CRT screens, minicam receivers and computerized memory terminals. A background hum of pink sound muffled most of the noises, making the room seem relatively quiet.
“You are versed in Rosetran, I presume?” Onesayer asked.
“I know fifteen computer languages,” Lastsayer said, gazing up with light green eyes at a large “Keep the Faith” sign on one wall beneath a sun-lite panel.
“You will begin at Station Five,” Onesayer said, nodding toward a workstation along the wall to their left. A large red Arabic numeral “5” on the wall marked the station. He looked down at the smaller Lastsayer, saw him nod.
“This is a highly efficient operation,” Onesayer said as he led the way to Station Five. “We accomplish a great deal with very few sayermen. Sophisticated machines do most of the work. Sayermen scrutinize problem areas flagged by the machines.”
Lastsayer noticed it was a bit warm in the room, and said, “I believe I am familiar with everything here. We had a mockup on Pleasant Reef.”
One of two stools at Station Five was occupied by a hooded sayerman who sat with his back to them mentoing entries on a console keyboard. The keys moved up and down without being touched. Onesayer and Lastsayer stopped a meter behind the occupied stool, continuing their conversation.
“Every citizen of the American Federation works for the government,” Onesayer said. “So they regularly pass through our electronic security monitors. There, cell readers pick up every memory in their lifetimes. . . . ” He paused at Lastsayer and smiled broadly. “I am sorry. You did mention being familiar with everything.”
Lastsayer smiled in return, nodded confidently.
“You understand the drawback of the electronic monitors, do you not?” Onesayer asked.
“The delay factor. Citizens who do not pass through the cell reader for a time have a gap in their lifelog files.”
“Right. This gap can range from a few hours to several days. Even today, people stay home sick with common colds.”
Lastsayer looked at Onesayer closely, noted a red streak in the corner of one eye. “Odd is it not, Onesayer Edward? All the terrible diseases modern medicine can cure, but the common cold remains a mystery.”
The sayerman on the stool turned abruptly at the mention of Onesayer’s name, looked startled. “Oh!” he exclaimed, nearly falling off his stool in an effort to stand up. “I did not see you there, sir!”
“Quite all right, Ninesayer,” Onesayer said.
Ninesayer stood up straight to face Onesayer and extended his left hand. Onesayer and Lastsayer extended their hands as well, and the three men touched class rings, murmuring in unison, “Peace be upon you.”
Ninesayer had large, loose cheeks and tiny blue eyes which peered back at Lastsayer from beneath an oversized hood. He seemed a friendly sort, and smiled pleasantly while Onesayer introduced them.
“Lastsayer will be working with you,” Onesayer said.
“I could use some assistance,” Ninesayer said, glancing at his battery of electronic equipment. “We have two rather large problems at the moment.”
“I had not heard,” Lastsayer said, wrinkling his brow in concern. “Life on Pleasant Reef is rather sheltered.”
Onesayer explained about the garbage comet and told of the plot to overthrow the AmFed government. Then he turned to Ninesayer and said, “Show us General Munoz. He worries me.”
Ninesayer nodded, mentoed Munoz’s consumer identification number. A darkened minicam screen on the wall flickered on, revealing General Munoz seated alone at his desk. Munoz rubbed the cross which dangled from his neck with both hands, smiled craftily.
“Run the tape back five minutes,” Onesayer instructed. “Let us see what he has been up to.”
Ninesayer mentoed the machine, causing the tape to roll back.
“All right,” Onesayer said. “Hold it right there!”
The sayerman watched as General Munoz closed his eyes and held both hands to the cross. An intense expression came over the General’s mustachioed face, and he sat motionless for perhaps a minute.
“He is using the subliminal transmitter again!” Onesayer said excitedly, “making voters punch in his name for President!”
“We obtained details on its operation from C.M. . . uh, from cell memory readings on his co-conspirator, Dr. Richard Hudson,” Ninesayer explained, glancing at Lastsayer. “Munoz’s first broadcast occurred last night.”
“You can use the term ‘C.M.R.’ around me,” Lastsayer said.
“Munoz is power-mad,” Onesayer said, “and has access to dangerous technology. According to his C.M.R., he intends to destroy Afrikari and the Union of Atheist States with earthquakes and other . . . ‘natural’ . . . disasters the minute he feels he can get away with it.”
“Without regard for the economic havoc it will cause to the AmFeds?” Lastsayer exclaimed. “Hoovervilles will spring up all over the landscape!”
“The man is extremely dangerous,” Onesayer said, closing his olive eyes momentarily in abhorrence. “Eighth generation radical Christian.”
“A direct descendant of Cardinal John of Atlantic City,” Ninesayer said.
“And the last in his line,” Onesayer said. His words were measured and angry.
“Homosexual,” Ninesayer explained, glancing at Lastsayer.
“Oh,” Lastsayer said.
“And . . . he will he dead within seventy-two hours,” Onesayer said. “Uncle Rosy has placed a contract on him. It will be a nasty accident.”
“Product failure?” Lastsayer asked.
“Of course!” Onesayer said, smiling. “Uncle Rosy never misses an opportunity to help the economy!”
* * *
It was early morning on Pleasant Reef, following the daily prayer to Uncle Rosy, and Sayer Superior Lin-Ti stood considering the lesson. A youngsayerman entered the ordinance room late, taking his seat sheepishly under the glare of Lin-Ti. It was the tall, fat one whose appearance was so reminiscent of Onesayer Edward. Lin-Ti scowled at the offender, then opened his history primer, removing a bookmark ribbon. . . .
Chapter Four
B
ACKGROUND MATERIAL, FOR FURTHER READING AND DISCUSSION
Dr. Hudson: “I started where Uncle Rosy left off, so the mento transmitter is as much a credit to him as it is to me. Uncle Rosy was a brilliant man of science, you know. He made many pioneering discoveries in the area of thought-transmission for the purpose of operating consumer products.”
Student: “Uncle Rosy was motivated by economics, was he not, Doctor Hudson?”
Dr. Hudson: “Mentoing and increased consumption go hand in hand. But in reviewing copies of his lab diaries, I detected a reverence for the mysteries of the brain. Listen to this excerpt: [after pause] ‘Our technology cannot begin to approach the beauty, the precision, the wonderful balance of the human brain.’”
Minicam transcript from Dr. Hudson’s Boston College classroom, October 8,2587 (six months prior to Hudson’s appointment as Bu-Tech Minister).
Saturday, August 26, 2605
Garbage day minus six arrived without Sidney’s knowledge. Understandably, this information was kept on a “need-to-know” basis.
Sidney awoke early in the morning to a jangling telephone next to his bed. When he opened his eyes sleepily, a cordless tele-cube floated in the air above his face. Carla was on the line, announcing she could not make it to the reunion. Her doctor had diagnosed a virus.
“Why don’t you take two Happy Pills?” Sidney suggested as he stared up at the cube. He brushed a lock of hair out of his eyes. “Maybe you’ll feel well enough to—”
“I don’t want any more pills for awhile,” Carla’s tele-cube voice said firmly. “I need rest.”
“There are sleep-sub—”
“Real rest,” she interjected.
This sounded strange to Sidney. He could not recall a day when she did not take a pill. But he decided not to argue.
“Goodbye,” Carla said.
Sidney watched the tele-cube float back to its cradle on the phone, thought,
Our relationship stinks!
He and Carla had known each other nearly all their lives. Their parents had been close friends, and he had been her datemate since high school. But Carla always seemed to treat him more like a brother than a boy friend . . . and there had never been any physical intimacy. Sidney had been counting on the reunion to put their relationship on a new track. He had planned it all out.
I was going to be so suave and sophisticated,
Sidney thought.
He felt his entire body shaking.
I mustn’t become upset,
he thought. Sidney closed his eyes and lay back on the bed, recalling his father’s exact words, spoken so many years earlier. . . .
“. . . It is absolutely imperative that you remain calm. The incorto injector I have surgically implanted in your body is not available to the public.”
“I have the only one?” the nine-year-old Sidney had asked.
His father had nodded. “Its development was ordered stopped many years ago as a Bu-Med Job-Support measure. The device has not been perfected.”
“Why not?”
“The injector has a major deficiency. Its operation can be blocked if your adrenalin level rises too much. This would result in a massive breakdown of your nervous system—”
Sidney sat up on one elbow and as he recalled the conversation he gazed at a picture of his father on the dresser. A glint of synthetic sunlight touched the shiny gold electroplate frame and reflected off the polished plastic surface of the dresser top. He saw the same eyes and nose as his own, but the features were not so soft as Sidney’s. His father smiled faintly in the picture, but there was deep concern in the eyes . . . possibly a fear of what the world had in store for Sidney.
I don’t want a massive breakdown,
Sidney thought.
Unable to return to sleep, he lay back and watched artificial dawn sunlight filter into his bedroom module through a single overhead sun-lite panel. He longed for the mercy of slumber. How attractive to remain there and not face the world! Like a whirligig, this thought rotated in his mind. But then he recalled the strange voices which had interrupted his ego pleasure dream two nights before.
When will they come again?
he wondered.
Old thoughts mixed with new ones.
I wish I had a dashing career in the Space Patrol,
he thought.
Carla would be my permie then,
This brought on a disturbing realization, as it occurred to him that his latent disability was the key to all his problems. If not for the affliction, life could have been so perfect!
In his despondency and anger, Sidney mentoed for his pleasie-meckie. The closet door popped open, and the scantily-clad meckie began to roll forward. But Sidney felt an inexplicable surge of guilt and resolved to overcome his sexual cravings.
Get back!
he mentoed angrily.
After the pleasie-meckie returned to its closet station, Sidney lay in bed thinking and wishing for the rest of the morning. During several moments, he even found himself questioning the AmFed Way . . . for the first time in his life. Maybe his disability was not to blame after all. Maybe it was the system.
I can function in society!
he thought, tormented.
But the system won’t allow it, won’t give me the opportunity!
Eventually he discarded such thoughts, trying to see the good side of things. For deep inside, Sidney Malloy believed in the AmFed Way. And in the Doctrine of Greatest Good.
When Sidney finally arose, he felt numb and more down than up. Thinking of the voices and of his depressed state, he considered going to a drive-in psychiatrist’s window. But he discarded the idea in favor of a Happy Pill. There had been rumors that the psychiatric windows actually were fronts for therapy recruitment, that the resident analyst could declare anyone incompetent and have him sent to a therapy orbiter.
People had been known to disappear.
He felt better after the pill, and kept himself busy that afternoon inside the videodome. The dome was a room-within-a-room, a place where reality could be forgotten. Sidney Tele-Charged several products that were advertised on the screen. He felt better with each purchase.
Early in the evening of the same day, Sidney rolled off the elevator at Parking Level One wearing a black paper tuxedo with no hat. He unlocked the autosedan door with its plastikey and slid into a bucket seat which swiveled invitingly to meet him. The seat clicked into place as the door closed. A shoulder harness snapped shut across his body. Dashboard dials lit up . . . green, red and blue.
Sidney mentoed a destination into the car’s computer, felt cool vinyl against his paper clothing as he sat back in the soft seat. The vehicle’s sexless computer voice blared, its tone high-pitched and irritating to him: “Destination . . . Sky Ballroom . . . thirty-nine twelve American Boulevard. Confirm please. . . . ”
Sidney did not hear the instruction, was thinking about the reunion and about Carla.
“Confirm please,” the computer insisted. “Confirm please. . . . ”
“Yes, yes,” Sidney said irritably, sitting forward and focusing his eyes on a red “
CONFIRM
” light that blinked rapidly on the dashboard. “Confirmed.”
The autosedan began to move, and Sidney again sat back. It darted up a ramp to street level and surged unhesitatingly through automatic doors, its collision sensors probing the darkness ahead.
Minutes later, he moto-shoed off an elevator at the entrance to the Sky Ballroom. A gold and blue wall banner above a long reception table carried this announcement:
WELCOME NEW CITY HIGH GRADS! CLASS OF ’85.
Sidney paused at the reception table, and in a moment was watching himself in the magik-mirror while a woman fastened a plastic nametag to his lapel. It was a full-length mirror, showing a reflection of the side of his body that was away from the glass. Sidney concealed his right hand from the mirror, held it behind his protruding stomach and wiggled the fingers. The image wiggled its fingers. When the woman finished fastening his nametag, Sidney faced the mirror and stuck out his tongue. It reflected only the back of his head and body, as if he were standing behind himself.
Sidney became aware of a fair-haired man in a Space Patrol uniform who stood along a side wall. The man seemed to be watching Sidney with pale, unfocused eyes, and Sidney recognized the eagle pin of a full colonel on his lapel. A nametag below that read: “
PEEBLES
.”
Is he really looking at me?
Sidney wondered.
Or at something else?
Sidney turned his head the other way, saw only a bare wall.
Sidney put the man out of his mind and rolled through double swinging doors into the main ballroom. There were happy crowd sounds in this room, and a band tuning its instruments. He searched for familiar faces.
It was a crystal clear night, with twinkling stars and a crescent sliver of moon which shone through an overhead glassplex dome. People played talking video games, electronic dice and galactic pool along one wall. Sidney paused to watch as a man he did not recognize auto-shot a ball into one of the side pockets of the galactic pool table. A wallscreen above the table lit up with brilliant flashes and spades of orange and blue as the ball disappeared into the pocket.
“The synthetic black hole pockets are clever, don’t you agree?” a man to Sidney’s left asked. “They consume matter almost as voraciously as real ones.”
Sidney turned toward the voice, nodded to a tall, amber-haired man in a white, long-sleeved Greco tunic. Trimmed in gold braid, the tunic had military epaulets and a Space Patrol crest on each sleeve. “Tried to bring back a real black hole one time,” the man said, studying Sidney’s round face closely. “Damn near killed me!”
“Is that right?’ Sidney said, interested.
“Say,” the man said, looking down at Sidney with an eyelid flicker of recognition, “aren’t you Sidney Malloy?”
“Yeah. I am.” Sidney noted the man had deeply-set blue eyes and a straight, sharp nose. The features were distantly familiar. Suddenly the identity jumped out at him. “Tom!” he said, half yelling with excitement. “You’re Tom Javik!”
“How ya been, buddy?” Javik asked, embracing his old friend.
“All right,” Sidney said as they pulled apart. “Who else is here tonight?’
“Just got in. Let’s find a table.”
They selected a window table. From his chair there, Sidney could see why this was called the Sky Ballroom. It “kissed the very boundary of the heavens,” just as the advertisements had promised. New City stretched out below in all directions, “a sea of lights beneath a universe of stars.”
A dance floor and slightly elevated stage occupied the center of the room. Above the floor a delicate aquamarine crystal chandelier seemed sky-suspended. Fifty-one musicians onstage tuned their guitars and practiced the hip gyrations they were allowed to perform.
“Whatcha been up to?” Javik asked. He rubbed an ingrown hair sore on the side of his neck.
“Not much. I’m a G.W. seven-five-oh in the Presidential Bureau. Central Forms. You’re still in the Space Patrol, I see.”
“Naw. I borrowed this tunic from a friend. I got in big trouble—had to take garbage shuttle duty in the Transport Corps.” Javik wrinkled his nose angrily.
“At least you’re flying,” Sidney said, furrowing his dark eyebrows thoughtfully. “I’d trade places with you in a minute.” Sidney studied a swiveling song request panel mounted at the table center. “They’ve got old tunes here,” he said. “Remember the Space Boogie?”
“Hey hey!” Sidney detected sadness in Javik’s tone. “How about the Gimme Gumbo Rock Waltz?” Javik asked.
Sidney searched the list, pointed. “Yeah. It’s here.”
Javik laughed and looked around. He squinted to look across the room, then pointed and said: “Near the wall. That guy in the blue tux is Jerry Sims!”
“Oh yeah,” Sidney said, unenthused. “I didn’t know him as well as you did.” Sidney looked back at the song request panel, mentoed it to see another reader-card.
“Excuse me a minute, Sid,” Javik said, rising to his feet. “I just want to say ‘hello.’” He moto-shoed to the table and spoke with his friend for several minutes.
When Javik returned, he asked about Carla. Sidney thought of his pleasie-meckie which resembled Carla, and he smiled with some difficulty. “We’re still datemates,” he said. “She was supposed to be here tonight, but called and said she wasn’t feeling well. Had a new dress picked out, too.”
“Too bad.” Javik’s deeply-set blue eyes flashed mischievously. “Hey, we should have bought renta-dates for the night!”
“Naw,” Sidney said, laughing. “Those girls giggle too much.”
“Know what you mean.”
Just then, a waitress in a striped black and yellow tigress outfit rolled over, flopping her pointed mechanical ears joyfully. “Good evening, gentlemen,” she purred. “What would you like to have?”
Javik glanced at Sidney and winked, then replied, “Raspberry fizzle.”
“Make it two,” Sidney said. He studied her figure when she was not looking, then glanced at Javik and saw him wink back. They watched the waitress’s long slinky tail drag behind her as she left.
“Know what I wanted to say to ask her for,” Javik said, smiling as he locked gazes with Sidney.
Sidney smiled uneasily in return, watched Colonel Peebles slide into a seat several tables away. Peebles stared at Sidney with unfocused, glazed eyes.
“That guy over there,” Sidney said, nodding his head to one side. “He seems to be staring at me.”
Javik turned in the direction Sidney had designated, then quickly snapped back to look at Sidney. “Peebles,” he hissed. “What’s that bastard doing here? He wasn’t in our class!”
Sidney shrugged, stared at the song request panel. “Where do you know him from?” he asked.
“The a-hole testified at my discharge proceedings. Made the Space Patrol toss me out on my butt. He’s a fairy, you know, like the pretty-boy Major I punched out.” Javik glanced around nervously.
Sidney did not ask for further details. The two men fell silent, then looked up at the stage where a man in a white tuxedo spoke into a microphone: “We are about to begin your program, grads! Make your song requests now. Keep in mind that musical performance is a Job-Support profession, and as such is exempt from the Conservation of Motion Doctrine. . . . ”