Analog Science Fiction And Fact - June 2014 (22 page)

"Let me see that, Fred," the taller man said. "Huh, looks ordinary, doesn't he? Sure doesn't look like somebody who'd commit atrocities."

Fred took the handheld back. "I don't know, Chuck. He could've changed his appearance since. Maybe he's turned over a new leaf—gotten respectable and all. But I don't care if he's a God-damned saint." Fred finished his burger and wiped his mouth. "He has to pay. I don't give a crap if he can't remember; deep inside, he's still the same killer he always was."

Chuck nodded. "Maybe, but he could never hide those god-damned eyes from us." Then he noticed Mira. "Need something, sweetheart?"

Mira shook her head and moved away to mop up a spill not far down the counter, rubbing hard to remove the chilled impression of a ring as she strained to hear the rest of what the
Cazadores
were saying over the background music.

She wondered what might drive them to search for those they considered criminals. Wasn't the Amnesty about forgiveness? After all, you can't hold someone responsible for something they no longer remembered.

"I'm getting too sick of this," Fred said. "I just want to forget."

"You'll get your treatment if we get Adler," Chuck corrected and added; "But not before." He put down a small tip as he stood to leave.

Mira was nearly wetting herself by the time Mike came in to relieve her. Hadn't they said something about getting a call? Who could have called them and why?

God in heaven, what if Tony was the man they were looking for? No, that was impossible! Tony was a nice guy; kind, considerate, and somebody she felt strongly about. He couldn't have committed any war crimes. He couldn't have done that.

Regardless of his guilt, she still had to tell him what she'd overheard. She had to save him, if only for herself.

"Here, take it all," she said as she shoved her meager savings into Tony's hands. "It's enough to buy a plane ticket. I'll take you to the airport as soon as you pack."

Tony stared at the money. "I can't take this, Mira, and I'm not leaving."

"But what if the
Cazadores
are coming after you?" Mira said. "You can't just let them take you."

"They're relentless. If I go away, they'll keep searching until they find me again. Running away won't solve anything."

"How can you be so damn calm? These guys practically admitted they were coming after you. They have guns, so maybe they want to kill you. What more do you need to know, for God's sake? If you aren't leaving, then at least do something to protect yourself."

Tony smiled. "I have no intention of
protecting
myself from paying for crimes I might have committed, even if I can't remember them." A look of regret crossed his face.

"Even if you did do something," Mira answered, "didn't the Amnesty take care of that?"

Tony took her by the shoulders. "It might have let me forget whatever crimes I committed, but would that make me any less guilty? There has to be a period at the end of any sentence, Mira." He handed the money back. "Keep this. I won't need it."

"But..."

"Listen to me; whatever is going to happen doesn't concern you. I don't want you to get hurt, so stay away from me for a few days. Go!"

Mira fumed. "You don't have a few days, damn it. Don't you understand?"

"Just go."

Mira was beside herself. How could she stay away when they were after Tony? What if they intended to kill him?

She debated asking Pete to intervene. He was a good cop. She hoped he'd help, despite his jealousy.

Pete proved less than sympathetic when she called. "Can't go by what you
think,
" he argued. "Even if they are
Cazadores,
which I doubt, they'd have to do something illegal to your boyfriend before I could act."

"I imagine you'd like that, wouldn't you," she spit back. She didn't need to see his reaction to know how that had pissed him off.

"This isn't about us, Mira," he replied far too calmly and, a moment later, changed to that too-sweetly-sympathetic tone she detested. "I just want to protect you. Look, I'll go by the yard to make sure that he's all right." When Mira didn't reply, he added. "It would be best if you kept out of this, darling. I wouldn't want you to get hurt."

Mira was incensed at being patronized, first by Tony and now by Pete, and cut the connection. It was obvious that Pete wasn't going to help. She couldn't just stand by; she had to do something!

Then she remembered the shotgun Mike kept hidden under the counter. She didn't know much about guns, but she knew a shotgun didn't have to be aimed well. Maybe she could shoot that to scare the
Cazadores,
or use it to warn Tony and give him a chance to reconsider, to run, hide, and escape whatever consequence he seemed all to damn willing to face.

When Mira left the diner she found that a towel-wrapped shotgun made an awkward and heavy bundle that was continually in danger of slipping out of her arms. She'd checked both barrels to make certain the gun was loaded and put some of Mike's extra shells in her coat pocket.

She knew Tony would still be at work at the scrap yard this late in the day, so she headed there. There were enough hulks lying about that she'd be able to find some place to keep watch.

She hadn't seen a squad car parked nearby, so Pete had probably lied about checking on Tony.

She heard the racketing clatter of Tony's metal shredder coming from the back of the yard and the pounding of a crusher off to her right. Their racket masked any other noises. She glanced right and left for a glimpse of the
Cazadores.

Where were they? Could she have been wrong?

The sun began to throw long evening shadows. The pounding noises stopped, but the shredder continued screeching. The sound set her teeth on edge.

There was a f licker of movement to her right and, when she caught a glimpse of Pete's brown uniform, felt relief that he was doing what he'd promised for once. Maybe she had misjudged him after all.

As Pete walked toward the shredder, apparently unaware of her, she spotted Chuck and Fred, the
Cazadores,
coming through the gate with their guns. Unless Pete was careful, he'd be caught right between them and Tony's machine.

She lifted the shotgun and put a finger on the triggers. Should she fire a warning shot or not? If so, when, and just who would she be warning?

The noise of the shredder abruptly ceased. She watched Tony climb down from the large machine and wipe his scarred hands on a greasy rag. He spotted Pete and stopped. "Come by for a rematch, Pete?"

Pete's reaction was immediate. "You bastard," he snarled. "They should have jailed all of you God-damned killers instead of letting you off scot-free. I told you to keep away from Mira!"

"Well, that's really her choice, isn't it?"

She crept closer to better hear what they were saying. What was going on? Was this all about Pete's jealousy?

Pete was clearly working himself into a rage. "I
know
what you people did in the war, all of you! They couldn't hide what you soldiers did, not when the accounts passed across my desk.

"The Amnesty might have been about forgetfulness, but it sure didn't mean we should forgive anyone. Some things can never be put behind us, not so long as anyone remembers."

Tony shook his head. "I agree. Every sentence needs a period, Pete."

Mira sucked in her breath. Tony had said that earlier. Did it mean something more than the words implied?

"Well, I'm the one who's going to punctuate your god-damned sentence if you don't leave," Pete hissed.

"And how are you going to do that?"

Pete pulled his pistol. "Maybe I shoot you. Like I warned everybody—rehabs like you go crazy all the time. I'll just say that you attacked me, and who's to say different? Everybody saw you jump me in the park."

Pete's behavior puzzled Mira. Was that just posturing or was he so upset that he'd actually shoot Tony? She suddenly realized that it must have been Pete who called the
Cazadores.
She had a sick feeling in her stomach. Oh God, what if he
wanted
Tony to jump him?

Pete laughed as he waved the pistol. "Maybe I'll even say you were an escaped war criminal." He aimed at Tony's chest and snarled; "Maybe I'll just do that." He sounded as if he really meant it.

Mira couldn't believe this was happening, that Pete would go through with his threat, but it didn't sound as if he was bluffing any more. If she did nothing Tony might
die.
She had to stop this.

As she stood she accidentally squeezed both triggers. BLAM! Both barrels roared as the double load of buckshot tore into the ground three meters away. The shotgun kicked back so hard that she nearly dropped it.

Before the echo of the shotgun's blast died away there was a shot and Tony staggered back. Pete swung toward her and crouched, his eyes squinting as he brought the gun up with both hands.

At that moment there was a clatter of gunfire that threw Pete backward. Mira had barely recovered when she saw the two
Cazadores
running toward Tony.

She fumbled at her pocket for more shells. Her trembling fingers dropped one as she broke the barrel, but managed to insert the other. She snapped the breech closed. "Keep away from him," she shouted, trying to steady the shotgun, hoping that she'd at least be able to shoot one if they tried anything.

Blood was pouring down Tony's left arm. Pete wasn't moving. Gods, why was
he
dead when Tony...

Fred, the short one, had a rifle pointed at her. "Lower the damn shotgun, lady," he shouted. "It's all right. I won't shoot you."

"First, you put
your
gun down," she answered and kept the shaking shotgun pointed toward him. Surprisingly, he did as she asked and knelt beside Pete.

"Why did you shoot Pete?" she asked as she lowered the shotgun. "He's the sheriff."

"He was going to shoot," Fred answered. He nodded to Chuck; "Call EMT. This one's still breathing." Then he turned to Mira. "Couldn't take the chance he wouldn't shoot without looking to see who it was. These rehabs sometimes react automatically."

"Give it a rest, Fred," Chuck warned as he called for an ambulance.

Mira was shocked. "But Pete's not a rehab—veteran," she corrected herself. "He said he didn't take the Amnesty."

Fred had moved on to check Tony, pressing his fingers to the handheld, and scanning his eyes. "We checked records when he called.

He'd been a sniper. Tried to avoid the Amnesty but couldn't live with the guilt, I guess."

No, no, no! "Pete's mean, but he couldn't have been a cold-blooded killer." Not Pete. Not the man who'd shared her bed. "He said he'd only been an office worker."

Chuck shrugged. "You mean like Tony here said he worked in a factory? Some treatments go deeper than others, lady."

Fred spoke up; "Not everybody accepted the Amnesty. Most of the
Cazadores
chose to remember the war, remember what the real criminals did and..." His voice died off, as if even mentioning it was too hard to bear. "Anyhow, we're only supposed to catch those bastards," he snarled.

"But if they took the Amnesty...?" Mira wondered as she looked at the two wounded men.

"It only erases memories, not actions. There are some things that can never be forgiven. Not ever." The approaching ambulance could be heard in the distance. "We're not
supposed
to shoot them," he said with a smile that belied his words, "unless they force our hands by threatening innocent civilians." He kept his hand on Tony's chest and watched his handheld.

Tony grimaced. "Will you at least tell me what I did? Don't I deserve to know, for God's sake?"

Fred looked at his handheld. "Retinas, fingerprints, and image don't match Alder's." He snapped the handheld closed. "Another false alarm, damn it!" He stood. "If you'd done anything seriously wrong I'd have gotten a flag."

Mira knelt. "Then he's all right?" Mira wondered why she didn't feel as much concern for Pete. "Will we be all right?"

Chuck waved the EMT crew over before he answered. "All right? I don't know. Just try to get on with your lives—all of you."

Mira wondered about that: would Pete hold his job, stick to his false memories, or would he, like Tony, find the knowledge that he had buried a guilt too much to bear? Would Tony come to terms with the fact that his crimes, however terrible, were no worse than any others?

And could she find forgiveness enough for the both of them?

Probability Zero

It's hard to run TurboTax when your laptop is sinking through the table. I sighed and thumbed speed-dial.

"Quantum Computers—Everett speaking."

I introduced myself and described my Toshiba and my problem. "The last time this happened, it took ten minutes and only got half an inch through the tabletop before auto-rebooting and reversing the process. This time, it's almost completely submerged, with no sign of rebooting."

"Did you try turning it off?"

"I can't reach the power switch any more. And if I pull the plug, some peripherals hang on restart." I'd learned that the hard way after a power outage—the next morning, it took me three hours to locate my mouse: neatly suspended from a miniature gallows that had materialized below the printer.

"Okay, the power switch is gone. Can you reach any part of your computer at this time?"

"Yes, the top left corner of the cover is still visible."

"Touch it and tell me what happens. I recommend using your nondominant hand."

I poked the rapidly descending plastic—and yelped as if I had touched dry ice. With difficulty I pried my fingertips away and warmed that hand in my armpit. "I heard that," crackled Everett's voice. "Sounds like your computer is frozen."

The laptop continued its journey: passing between the molecules of the table, it picked up speed, sliced through the floor, and collided with the concrete of the basement below.

"Sounds like you've got a truly nasty crash. Probably a quantum superposition malfunction—those early-model Schrödinger drives collapse at the least excuse. I'm afraid it's gone down permanently."