Authors: Craig Strete
The Bleeding Man
The
Bleeding
Man
and Other Science
Fiction Stories
by
CRAIG
STRETE
with a foreword by
Virginia Hamilton
GREENWILLOW
BOOKS
A Division of
William Morrow & Company, Inc.
New
York
© 1974, 1977 by
Craig Strete. All rights reserved.
by Virginia
Hamilton
Science
Fiction,
that realm of speculative
writing in which the extravagantly fanciful is commonplace, generally anticipates world history
by a few decades. SF writers have long worried over disappearing fossil fuels, overpopulation,
global economic and military conflicts and nuclear disasters while we, the more fortunate of
the world's people, daydreamed in overheated rooms. Now we've awakened to discover future shock
at the foot of the sofa, while what was once SF fantasy is featured on the six o'clock
news.
In this volume
of six stories [entitled
The Bleeding Man],
Craig Strete takes a more subjective
approach with his vision of lone individuals confronting worlds turned cold and impersonal. The
first American Indian to become a successful Science Fiction writer, Strete frequently reflects
his Amerind heritage in his stories, and concepts often are derived from that culture rather
than from Western philosophy.
"I have sat
on the good side of the fire. I have cried over young women. It is nothing but
trouble."
These words from the
title story, "The Bleeding Man," have the controlled density of feeling and the touch of
prophecy to be found in the best of Amerind literature.
All life is
continuous, Craig Strete seems to be telling us, for time and again in these stories the dead
walk the earth to speak to us, point the way, and, with the living, face the
phantasmagoric.
"A Sunday Visit
with Great-grandfather" is a wry, sagely comic tale in which a couple of space travelers have
the utter misfortune to land on earth in the vicinity of great-grandson and his
relatives.
"Into Every
Rain, a Little Life Must Fall" is representative Science Fiction depicting a grim, urban
civilization in which "wombcops" plugged into computer consoles monitor near-empty city
streets from comfortable couches. They act as judge and jury with the power of life and death
over the citizenry for infractions of an insane criminal code of law.
What is most
impressive about this collection of stories is the wide range of Craig Strete's imaginative
concerns and his ability to write difficult story ideas with brilliant clarity. The writing is
smooth and unassuming, and yet the fabric of it is always richly textured.
Foreword
There are two
stories—"White Brothers from the Place Where No Man Walks" and "The Bleeding Man"-in which the
fictional fabric seems to be woven of meaning just beyond our reach. However, this
other-worldli-ness should in no way affect our enjoyment. For Craig Strete has fused the ways
of Amerind peoples to the realm of Science Fiction in a way that has never before been
attempted.
I
punched
into the console web, linked into the
main computer. The control room was warm and comfortable, but outside it was a miserable night.
The street monitors swept my sector and all of them shot back the same story. No
action.
I'd lucked out on
assignment. Hit the graveyard shift, which is my favorite. Most of the action breaks at night.
Not this night, though.
It was cold and it
was raining to beat hell and this was one of those kinds of night that give me the womb-cop
blues.
The streets in my
sector were deserted. Very depressing. I like action. I sat there behind my monitors, audio
helmet jammed on my head, feeling like a football player sitting out a game on the
bench.
I dialed Central
to report myself in.
"Wombcop
345-45.
Stevens,
Roger Davis.
Reporting for duty, shift 2, punch in 0200, all systems functioning, nothing
to report, no shift 1 carry-overs."
It was a slow
night all over. I had only about half of my mobile street units out. Rain had the whole city
locked in. It was coming down hard and cold and nobody in his right mind was out in it, or
anyone in his wrong mind, either.
My hands itched
with inaction, toying with the trigger grips of my bank of pocket lasers.
The rain had cut
down visibility and I had all dispatched scanners turned up to the highest wide-angle scoop.
Even then, my visual range was pretty limited.
I don't feel
useful on a night like that. I like the action, like the feel of being on top of a crime,
hitting into it, punching it in and putting it down. Then if I'm lucky, burning down. I wish
there were some way of expressing the satisfaction I get when I burn down a criminal. I love my
work.
Fifteen minutes
plugged into the computer and not one peep.
Then action.
"Position," said the computer. "Pick-up 27, Monitor 7."
This was more like
it! I punched in video and audio and man, I felt alive again!
Nothing on audio
but the sound of rain coming down on the pavement so hard it was bouncing. I tapped the toggle on
my helmet. I was turning up to high again. Still nothing but the damn rain.
Visuals, the same
story. A gray side street shrouded in rain. Couldn't pierce the rain more than ten feet at a
time. I linked into the mobile unit. Scanners on high scope, still couldn't see a damn
thing.
"27-7, move toward
subject!" The monitor began moving down the street, rapidly.
The computer read
out, "Pedestrian, unidentified racial type, unidentified gender. Computing."
"Identify," I
snarled. I couldn't even begin to guess what was coming down.
The computer
hesitated and then again, "Pedestrian, unidentified racial type, unidentified gender.
Computing."
"Move in close,
damn it!"
"Acknowledged."
I tapped the
trigger grips impatiently. This seemed like it was taking forever. I felt like I was playing pin
the tail on an invisible donkey.
Finally, audio
picked up the sound of footsteps, the sound of feet splashing through puddles. A fraction of a
second later, video picked out a bedraggled figure moving slowly through the rain. Heat scanners
must have sensed him a long way off.
"Identify." The
scanners freeze-framed his face, coded and transmitted the image automatically to
Central.
"Caucasian, male.
No information. No identity card, no arrest record. It does not compute."
Had to be a
computer foul-up. Maybe fifty years ago it might have been possible for someone to exist without
an identity card, but not anymore. Somebody in programming deserved a long vacation without
pay.
"Pursue and
monitor," I ordered, stalling until Central rang in with the correct information. That was the
best I could do.
"It does not
compute. Lack of data," clacked out Central.
"Telephoto zoom.
Target: hands and fingers. Positive print I.D. check," I ordered the mobile unit, which
immediately began circling subject, clicking extreme close-up telephoto freeze frames. I punched
in the information direct to Central.
"Information
acknowledged," read out Central. "No print record. Information does not compute."
What could I do?
Damn programmers! I punched in. "Check programmer error!"
Central beat me to
it. "Possibility programmer error eliminated. No identity card. No file tapes. Detain and
identify. Violation of Identity Code, Section 348. Hold for questioning." One entire panel on my
console lighted up. My computer units all locked into Central. They were functioning full gauge
on this one. Damn!
I'd been a wombcop
for ten years—ten years, and I'd never run into anyone who didn't have an identity card, who
didn't have an identity tape on file! It's not only illegal, it's damn impossible! This was
something new we had on our hands.
Two more panels
switched in. The computer was going crazy on this one. As far as it was concerned, the impossible
had happened.
I had my eyes
riveted on my monitors and I was really giving our boy a looking over. He was no
beauty.
"Detain." I
punched in and the mobile unit that had been keeping pace with this character moved in and cuffed
him to the detention cable on the side of the unit. No resistance, no reaction at all. Subject
seemed unaware of the monitor circling around him.
It was an old man,
video observation indicated. Frayed overcoat. He was about 1.63 meters tall, pants too big and
ragged. Looked like an alcohol addiction case, a wino, unshaven. Eyes, on full zoom, looked
bloodshot. He was unconcerned. Looked like he didn't care one way or the other about being
stopped. Alcohol probable cause of brain damage indicated by subject's lack of interest, negative
display of emotional response.
"Who are you?
Please identify yourself?" My voice came through the mobile-unit speakers. Tapes being filed, a
direct line to Central. All my panels were lighting up. My console looked like a computer light
show. Central was really shooting sparks over this.
The old scarecrow
looked directly into the monitor. Gaunt features, eyes sunk into his head. Deathly white face. I
would have sworn I was talking to a corpse. No expression on the face, just kind of cold and
withdrawn. No answer.
"Repeat. This is
wombcop Davis. You are in violation of the Identity Code, Section 348. Please identify
yourself."
Not a flicker of
anything from the old man.
Central punched
in. "Section Commander Hartmann on the line. What the blue hell is going on down
there?"
I beeped in
acknowledgment of his call.
"Checking, sir. We
have a man with no identity records, sir."
"That's
impossible!" Hartmann sounded fit to be deprogrammed.
"Please identify
yourself?" I tried again. Jesus, this was really one for the tapes!
"Plug in your
lie-detector monitors!" snapped Hartmann, his voice booming through loud on the line.
"They're already
plugged in, sir! I can't get a response from subject, sir." Damn, I felt like an idiot. He knew
I hadn't got a response, that order about the lie detector was just to prod me into getting one.
This action was plugged into every section of Central. My console panels flashed with a thousand
simultaneous plug-ins. Everybody was interested in this one.
My eyes stayed on
the monitor. The old man turned away from the monitor and
looked back over his shoulder, as if looking for someone, as if someone were
following him.
"It's raining,"
said the old man. He turned around and looked straight into the monitor again.
I went to split
screen, turned the console camera on me and put my picture in the bottom half of his screen.
Standard interrogation procedure.
"This is wombcop
Davis. You are in violation of ... ."
He nodded once,
rain pouring from the battered brim of his hat. "I know who you are."
"Please identify
yourself." He could see me in his monitor, could see my hands resting lightly on the trigger
grips of my pocket lasers. That threat gives me a psychological edge when questioning suspects.
Seeing the burn-down triggers makes the threat more real to them.
No fear reaction
in close-up video scan of his face. But there was something so strange about this old man that I
found my own face tightening a little. I found my hands sweating on the trigger grips.
"Have you seen a
man on this street? Did a man pass through here tonight?" asked the old man.
Stunned, I
automatically shook my head no.
"Was you here last
night? Did you see a man come through here last night? Did you see a man here after
curfew?"
"Hartmann here."
Audio cut in. "Play along with him. Keep him talking. We've punched in voice prints, visual
factors. We're running everything through the mill again. We have to have a computer error
somewhere, possibly a circuit breakdown."