The Shockwave Rider (25 page)

His reason for hitting Kate was not good. They told him why, in quiet patient tones. Deaf to their arguments, he hurled back false justification mixed with insult, until at last they glanced at one another, shrugged and left him.

It was not cold, that night he spent sitting on a stump and staring at the shell of the house. But in his heart there was an arctic chill of such indescribable shame as he had not felt since he became an adult.

In the end he simply walked away, not caring where.

And came many hours later to the place which had vomited over Precipice the Blackass tribe. It was sweaty dust from all-day walking which made his shoes loathsome to his feet, but it seemed to him like the detritus of human cruelty: the materialized version of bloodlust, its ectoplasm.

“I don’t know who I am,” he said to an incurious passerby as he entered Quemadura.

“I don’t know who the hell you are either,” the stranger snapped, pushing past.

He pondered that.

IGNORANTIA NIHIL EXCUSAT

Ted Horovitz made necessary adjustments to the form-letter program, tapped the print key, and read the result as it emerged from the machine. This, thank goodness, was the last of the thirty-seven.

“Dear Mrs. Young, your son Jabez was arrested here last night while in possession of four deadly weapons of which one, a pistol, had been used within the previous few minutes. The hearing has been set for 10:10 tomorrow. You may wish to employ counsel, in which case the enclosed summary of evidence should be furnished to him or her; otherwise you may rest assured that Jabez will be represented by a competent lawyer appointed by the court. He has declared himself unaware of the fact that under our judicial code conviction for this crime entails a mandatory sentence of not less than one year’s supervised rehabilitation during which period the convict is forbidden to leave the town limits. (There is no maximum length for such a sentence.) Please note that one of the oldest of all legal principles states: ‘Ignorance of the law excuses nothing.’ In other words neither a defense nor an appeal may be founded on the plea, ‘I didn’t know.’ Yours, &c.”

Turning hopefully to Brad Compton, who among his various other roles acted as their chief legal counselor, he said, “So that’s all until the court assembles, right?”

“Far as I’m concerned,” Brad grunted. “But don’t relax too soon. I was talking to Sweetwater this morning, and it seems she’s found something you have to—”

“Ted!” A shrill cry from outside.

“I could half believe that woman’s telepathic,” Ted sighed, tapping out his pipe prior to refilling it. “Yes, Sweetwater, come right in!”

She entered, carrying a folded stack of computer printouts, which she dumped on a table at Ted’s side. Dropping into a chair, she slapped the pile of paper with her open palm.

“I knew it. I
knew
what Sandy told us the other night at Josh and Lorna’s rang a bell in my memory. A long way back—over eleven years—but it was the kind of call you get once in a lifetime. Once I started digging, I got correlation after correlation. Take a look.”

Ted, frowning, complied; Brad came around behind his chair to read over his shoulder.

There was a long silence, but for the rustle of the concertinaed sheets.

At last Ted said, not looking up, “Any news of him?”

Sweetwater shook her head. “Nor Kate either.”

“Kate left town,” Brad said. “Took the railcar about seven thirty. But nobody knows what’s become of Sandy.”

“All of us, though,” Ted muttered, “know what’s apt to become of him … don’t we?”

They both nodded.

“Better call Suzy,” Ted said, leaning back with a sigh. “I got a councilman’s motion to submit.”

“Making Sandy a freeman of Precipice?” Sweet-water suggested. “Making our defenses his defenses?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Well, naturally you have my vote. But …”

“But what?”

“Have you forgotten? We don’t know who he is. He told us what. He didn’t think to tell us who.”

Ted’s jaw dropped. “His code?” he said after a pause.

“I checked immediately. No such. It’s been deleted. And doubtless his protective phage went with it.”

“That makes the job more difficult,” Brad said. “I still think it ought to be done. And when she reads this information you’ve uncovered, I’m certain Suzy will agree.”

COLLAPSE OF STOUT PARTY

“Interesting. Very interesting. This might save a lot of trouble. Say, Perce!”

“Yes?”

“Know that hole-in-corner place Precipice CA? Looks like their sheriff went a step too far.”

“Oh, Gerry. Oh,
Gerry.
If you weren’t new around here I guess you’d realize nothing at Precipice can go too far. The pokers from Claes who wrote the deal they have with the government were the smartest con men that ever pulled wool over the eyes of a Washington sheep. But for once I’ll bite. It would be great to undermine them. What you got?”

“Well, they arrested these here tribers, and—”

“And?
”

“Hell, look at the sentences they handed down!”

“Not to leave town for one year minimum, to accept escort by a dog apiece … So?”

“Goddammit, escort by a dog?”

“They got kind of weird dogs out there. You didn’t check, did you?”

“Well, I guess I—”

“Save it, save it. You didn’t check. So, not having checked, what did you expect to get out of this?”

“I though maybe—uh—an injunction? Grounds of cruel-and-unusual? Or even kidnaping. I mean one of the tribers is only thirteen.”

“There are four states where they routinely agree applications to be declared competent if the applicant is past his or her thirteenth birthday. California’s one. It might be educational for you to find out what the others are. As to cruel-and-unusual, you should also know there’s one city where you can still legally be burned alive provided they don’t pick a Sunday. They didn’t do it much lately, but it’s on the books, not repealed. Ask any computer. Oh, get back to work, will you? While you’ve been gabbing they probably sneaked a brand-new tapeworm past you.”

Pause.

“Perce!”

“What is it this time?”

“Remember what you said about a tapeworm?”

“Oh my God. That was a joke. You mean they spat in our eye again?”

“See for yourself, It’s kind of—uh—fierce, isn’t it?”

“Fierce is only half of it. Well, I guess it better claim its first victim. You found it. You go tell Mr. Hartz to abandon the attack on Hearing Aid.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Carry the good news from Y to X! Tamper with this thing, and—and my God! The data-net would be in chaos in one minute flat or maybe sooner!
Hurry!
”

BIG TOP

Belly sour with hunger, throat dry with dust, he wandered the darkening streets of Quemadura, scarcely aware that he was part of a trend. There were people and vehicles converging. He went with the crowd. Drained, passive, he ignored reality until suddenly he was spoken to.

“Damn it, shivver, you deaf and dumb or something?”

What?

He emerged from his chrysalis of overload, blinking, and discovered where he was. He’d seen this place before. But only on three-vee, never in reality. Above all he had never smelt it. The air was foul with the stench of frightened animals and eager people.

Many signs, hurtfully bright, flashed on and off to confirm his discovery. Some said circus bocconi; others stated more discreetly that a Roman-style show would start in 11 minutes. The 11 changed to 10 as he watched.

“What kinda seat you want?” rapped the same grumpy voice. “Ten, twenty, thirty?”

“Uh …”

He fumbled in his pocket, finding some bills. As part of the ambience, tickets for this show were issued by a live human being, a scar-faced man missing fingers from his right hand. On seeing cash he scowled; however, the machine at the side of his booth decided it was genuine and parted with a ten-dollar ticket.

Wondering what he was doing here, he followed signs saying $10, $10, $10. Shortly he was in a hall: maybe a converted aircraft hangar. There were bleachers and boxes surrounding an arena and a pit. Machines were hanging up phony-looking decor, banners with misspelled Latin slogans, plastic fasces bundled around dull plastic axes.

Making his way with mechanical politeness to a vacant seat in a high row with a poor view, he shamelessly listened to what the earlier arrivals, the keen ’fishes, were saying.

“Wasting those ’gators on kids,
hell!
I mean I hate my kids as much as anybody, but if you can get real live ’gators—well,
hell!
”

“Hope they got some whites on the menu. Sickan-tired of these here blacks, allatime wanna make like grandpa, fight a lion singlehanded and clutched but clutched on
the
heaviest dope!”

“Course it’s all faked, like they got radio implants in the animals’ brains so they don’t get to really hurt anybody ’cause of the insurance being so stiff and—”

A hugely amplified voice rang out. “Five minutes! In just five short minutes the great spectacle begins! Absolutely and positively no one will be admitted after the start of the show! Remember only Circus Bocconi goes out live live
live
in real time up and down the whole West Coast! And we record as well, retransmit to the unlucky portions of the continent!”

Suddenly he was vaguely frightened, and cast around for a chance to leave again. But the customers were coming thick and fast now, and he was unwilling to push against the flow. Besides, there was a camera coasting his way. It rode a jointed metal arm, like a mantis’s foreleg, dangling from a miniature electric trolley on a rail under the roof. Its dual eye, faceted, seemed to be focusing on him. He was even more reluctant to attract attention by leaving than he was to stay and watch the show.

He folded his arms close around his body as though to stop himself from shivering.

It would only be an hour, he consoled himself.

The introductory acts he was more or less able to disregard though some nausea gathered in a bubble at the base of his gullet during the second item: imported from Iraq, one genuine snake-eater, an ugly man with a bulging forehead hinting at hydrocephalic idiocy who calmly offered his tongue to a snake, let it strike, then drew in his tongue again, bit off its head, chewed and swallowed, then rose shyly grinning to acknowledge the audience’s howls of applause.

Then came a stylized match between gladiators, a nod to the ostensible “Roman” format of the show, which concluded with the retiarius bleeding from a leg wound and the gladiator proper—the man with the sword and shield—strutting around the arena prouder than a turkeycock, having done nothing to speak of.

Dull resentment burgeoned in his mind.

It’s disgusting. Butchered to make a Roman holiday. A cheat from start to finish. Filthy. Horrible. This is where parents learn to raise the kids who get their kicks from tribaling a stranger’s home. This is where they get taught you should remember how you killed your mother. Cut off your father’s balls. Ate the baby to stop mom and dad loving it more than you. Sick. All sick. Crazy sick.

At Tarnover there had been a kind of subcult for circus. Something to do with channeling aggression into socially acceptable paths. The memory was a dim echo. There was a dreadful confusion inside his head. He was hungry and thirsty and above all miserable.

“And now a short break so our sponsors’ messages can reach the world,” boomed the master of ceremonies over the monstrously loud PA. “Time for me to let you know about a unique feature of our Roman shows. Al Jackson, who’s our champion gladiator, that you saw a minute back …”

Pause for a ripple of renewed clapping and shouting.

“Yea-hey! Tough as they come, with family following in his footsteps—y’know his son is warlord of the Blackass tribe?”

Pause. This time not filled. As though the speaker had been waiting for a scream and yell from the tribers, who weren’t present.

But he covered the hiatus expertly.

“Al issues a real-time challenge on all these shows—yes, literally a challenge in real time, no fixing, no prearrangement. Want to try your skill against him, take over the net and trident for the final slot? You can, any of you! Just stand up and holler how!”

Without intending, he was on his feet.

“
He
raised the warlord of the Blackass tribe?”

He heard his own voice as though it were coming from light-years’ distance.

“Yeah
man!
A son to be proud of, young Bud Jackson!”

‘Then I’m going to take Al to little tiny pieces.” He was leaving his seat, still listening to himself shout at the top of his lungs. “I’m going to make him weep and beg and plead for mercy. I’m going to teach him all the things his son taught me, and I am going to make him howl, and blubber, and plead and moan. And it’s going to go on for a lot longer than this show.”