THE FEELIES

by Mick Farren

  She turned slowly around, craning her neck to look at as much of herself as she could. Then she did it again. She noted that she carried some legacies from the previous night in the form of bruises and scratches. On another level, she looked at the marks with a certain degree of satisfaction. What was the point of spending the night with a guy if you didn't have a few bruises to show for it? She would still kick the bastard in the nuts, though, if she ever met him again and recognized him.

  With the bout of narcissism over, Wanda-Jean became busy and businesslike. She stuffed her party clothes into the closet and pulled out a red sweatshirt and a pair of white jeans. The sweatshirt had the badge of a well-known Brazilian university on the front. Wanda-Jean had never been near a university, or Brazil, for that matter, but she thought it gave her class. She laid the things on the bed and went to take her shower.

  By the time she was dressed and dry, Wanda-Jean was humming to herself. After breakfast, over her second cup of coffee, she began to think what she would do with the day. She picked up the phone to see if any messages had been left. There was nothing except some all-subscriber commercials.

  She began to feel depressed. The pills were starting to wear off. Wanda-Jean felt lonely and unloved. That was the trouble with living on the twenty-fifth floor of a faceless, downtown security block. You were always so goddamn alone. It seemed as though she only met people in order to have a bit of quick sex. Even then, they ran out in the middle of the night.

  Wanda-Jean picked up her pill box again. It was too early to take the half deck. Instead she dug out a packet of chewing gum and started unwrapping it, then stopped. Maybe something had come for her in the mail.

  She went to the door of the apartment and opened the mailbox. There were two circulars, a reminder on an unpaid bill, and a long white envelope. Wanda-Jean picked up the envelope. It was very expensive paper, not like the usual letters she received.

  She turned it over. It was correctly addressed. In the top right-hand corner was the logo of the National Cable Corporation. Why should NCC want to write to her?

  For a moment a nasty thought flashed in her mind. She'd forgotten to pay for the TV. She was going to be cut off. That couldn't be true, though. She'd taken care of the cable payment only a few days earlier. And anyway, they didn't send final demands in expensive envelopes.

  Wanda-Jean tore it open. Inside was a white, engraved card. Wanda-Jean looked at the print in disbelief. Almost in a trance she walked back into the kitchen and sat down.

  It didn't seem possible. They had only filled in the applications as a joke. She and her friends Shirley and June had been drunk one night. She had never imagined that it would go any further.

  She read the words for the tenth time.

  You are invited to audition as a contestant on the NCC game production- WILDEST DREAMS. For further details call 9000-9000 during normal office hours. This application is only valid until November 2.

  November 2 was only two days away. Wanda-Jean thoughtfully put a stick of gum in her mouth and picked up the phone. Carefully she dialed 9000-9000.

  "THE GAME SHOWS?"

  Ralph looked at Sam in contempt. "You don't believe in the fucking game shows, do you?" Sam looked at him blankly. "I was just saying that the game shows are the only way the likes of you and me are going to ever get to be lifers."

  Ralph snapped around at him. "You think you and me are ever going to get on 'Wildest Dreams' or 'Lifetime Chance'?"

  "Why not, Ralph? We got the same chance as everyone else."

  "Bullshit."

  "But why not, Ralph?"

  Ralph's patience gave out. "Because the game shows are fucking fixed. That's why!"

  Sam didn't answer. He looked glumly at the floor. Sam and Ralph sat side by side on the floor with their backs resting against the row of cases. They had given up all idea of even seeming to do any work. They just sat there, Sam with his Serenax and Ralph with his bottle.

  "Why, Ralph?"

  Ralph, who had also been staring at the floor, looked up with a jerk. "Why what?"

  "Why are the game shows fixed?"

  "How the hell should I know? Everything's fixed. It's the way the system works."

  "They don't look fixed to me."

  "What?"

  "The game shows."

  "What about the game shows?"

  "They don't look fixed to me."

  Ralph's lip curled. "What would you know about it?"

  Sam looked offended. "I watch them. I watch them all the time. I watch them just the same as you do."

  "It's how you watch them. That's what counts."

  "You just watch them. There's only one way to watch a game show. You just watch. There ain't no difference between you and me."

  "The difference is that you're dumb."

  Sam's chubby fingers began to move slowly. It was the first sign of agitation.

  "I don't like for you to call me dumb, Ralph."

  "That's 'cause you're dumb."

  Sam's fingers moved more quickly. He lowered his voice. "I don't like for you to call me dumb, Ralph."

  "You want to know why you're dumb, huh? You want to know?"

  Sam's baby face was starting to get flushed.

  "I'm warning you, Ralph. You didn't ought to talk to me like that. Just 'cause you think you're smart don't give you no right to talk to me like that."

  Sam's voice went up in pitch. His breathing got faster. "You're down here, just like me. You ain't got no call to look down on me and call me dumb and shit like that."

  Ralph turned away. "Aah, take a pill."

  Sam went bright red. "Ralph, I…"

  Ralph realized he had gone too far. He remembered how big Sam was. He quickly became placating. "Listen, Sam, I was only kidding."

  Sam raised his arm as though he was going to strike Ralph. Suddenly he changed his mind and began scratching his head with nervous intensity. There was another long silence. Ralph started hitting his bottle again.

  "Are you sure, Ralph?"

  Ralph patiently put down his bottle. "Sure about what, Sam?"

  "Are you sure you were only kidding about me being dumb?"

  Ralph sighed. "Sure I'm sure, Sam."

  Again they lapsed into silence. Ralph found himself listening to the high-pitched hum that always filled the vault. Sometimes he thought he could hear voices buried in the sound. He knew he had to watch that kind of thing. Suddenly, Sam butted in on his private thoughts.

  "Tell me how the game shows are fixed."

  "Huh?"

  "Will you tell me how the game shows are fixed, please, Ralph?"

  "You really want to know?"

  "Sure I do, Ralph. I like to hear you talk."

  "Okay then, I'll tell you. Just don't interrupt. I don't want to hear you interrupting with no d-I don't want no questions. Okay?"

  "Okay, Ralph."

  "This is only a theory, right?"

  "Right, Ralph."

  "The way I figure it is that the game shows have got to be fixed. I mean, did you ever see an ordinary sort of joe on that kind of show? Huh? Did you ever?"

  "I seen a few. Not many, but a few."

  "That's where they're clever, see? They put a bum on, now and then, to fool you. Most of the time it's nice, good-looking, young people, young guys and young broads. Everyone's so busy looking at the broads' tits that they don't realize what's being done to them."

  Ralph paused to take a drink. He was moving into the drunk and belligerent phase of the day.

  "Take the Dreamroad bit. You never see bums like us get as far as the Dreamroad. They're always knocked out in the early rounds. It's only the good lookers who make it onto the Dreamroad."

  "Maybe they're the smart ones, Ralph."

  "I thought I said for you not to interrupt."

  "I'm sorry, Ralph."

  "You want to hear this?"

  "Yeah, Ralph."

  "So don't interrupt."

  "I'm sorry, Ralph."

  "O
kay. Anyway, that's bullshit about them people getting on the Dreamroad because they're smart. That's bullshit, you hear?"

  "I hear you, Ralph."

  "They get on there because they fuck the producers and directors and casting directors and studio managers and all the other pussy-mouthed fuckers who sit around in NCC and ACC and Trans National. That's why."

  Ralph was starting to get worked up.

  "You ever noticed how, once they get on the Dreamroad, there's always a good guy and a bad guy? And the bad guy always looks like he's going to win right up until the last minute, and then the good guy wins in the nick of time and all the slobbos at home go to bed pleased. You noticed that, did you?"

  "Lots of times it's a broad who wins, Ralph. You said it was always guys."

  "I know that, stupid. Good guy's only a figure of speech. Jesus Christ."

  "Don't call me stupid, Ralph."

  Ralph took a deep breath. "Okay, okay, you're not stupid. But don't that sound like a fix to you? Like they ain't putting on a real show but one that'll keep the dumbbells watching? Huh?"

  "I'm not sure, Ralph."

  "What ain't you sure about?"

  "I don't know, Ralph. All I know is that I'd sure like to win one of those shows." He nodded toward the never-ending rows of cabinets. "I'd sure rather be dreaming like a stiff than sitting here."

  "At least sitting here is real. You see what happens. You really want to be hooked up to a lot of tubes and wires and all, being fed with garbage all day?"

  "You wouldn't know about any of that, Ralph. You'd be getting laid and having adventures and all that sort of thing."

  "Only inside your head."

  "Isn't that where it counts, Ralph?"

  Ralph finally lost patience.

  "When are you going to get it through your head that you ain't never, ever, going to get inside one of these cabinets?''

  Ralph banged his fist on the nearest cabinet. Sam suddenly beamed as though a wonderful idea had just struck him.

  "I could always win a game show."

  Ralph practically screamed at him. "I've been telling you for the last fucking hour, the game shows are fixed! Got it? Fixed!"

  Sam thoughtfully shook his head. "I ain't sure about that, Ralph."

  HELEN MCDONALD HAD BEEN HOOKED to a feelie for so long that her own memories and personality never drifted to the surface. In the private, subjective world of her own mind she was Thongar the Planet Waster, the scourge of the galaxy. Helen McDonald had always wanted to be a man. That was the one thing that her wealthy family and expensive upbringing had been unable to change, until, that is, the feelies had come along.

  "First on the block in a box," she had told her friends gaily as she had left for her lifelong appointment at the feelie office. She had been a hundred percent sure that she would rather spend the rest of her life as Thongar the Planet Waster than as Helen McDonald.

  Thongar was no ordinary man. Physically he was a giant. He stood over seven feet tall in his black space armor. His IQ was well into the two hundreds and he commanded the three hundred crew of the starship Vixen with a will of iron.

  Thongar was one of the last free privateers of the galaxy. Lesser men called him a pirate, but Thongar cared nothing for the opinions of lesser men. Thongar took what he wanted without hesitation or regret. It didn't matter if it was a woman, a treasure, or even an entire planet.

  For years, the Federation starfleet had hunted him in vain. Only two days earlier Thongar had outthought, out-maneuvered, and outgunned the captain of the heavy cruiser Exeter. The Exeter now hung in deep space, a dead, silent hulk of fused metal. The Vixen moved, like a black-hulled, monstrous vulture, in a tight orbit on the night side of yet another unsuspecting planet that was marked by Thongar for rape and plunder.

  He sat tensely in his command chair on the Vixen's bridge. His strong features betrayed none of his anxiety. Absently he fingered the deep white scar that ran vertically down one side of his face. The sword cut that had made the scar had also cost him his right eye. The empty socket was covered by the black lens of an implanted sensor.

  The helmsman turned and looked at Thongar. "Beam down minus ten seconds, Captain."

  Thongar hit the communicator stud on the arm of his chair. "Transporter room?"

  "Yo!"

  "First wave of ground attack ready to beam down?"

  "All ready, Skipper."

  "Commence."

  "Aye, Skipper."

  The planet that lay beneath the Vixen was a small, arid world. It had been halfheartedly colonized during the years of the great exodus. All that remained of that were some half a million inhabitants. About a third of these lived in the only city that had grown up around the planet's single shuttle port.

  The rest of these displaced Earthmen were spread over the surface of the planet. They were ragged prospecting miners looking for instant wealth in the rich but scattered lodes of dilithium crystal that were this world's only resource.

  Thongar also intended to find himself a fortune in dilithium. He was simply going about getting it in a much more direct way. If it had been a bigger planet it might have been necessary to subdue it with prolonged phaser fire from out of orbit. As it was, with such a small population, no storm of fire was needed. A sudden surprise attack by ground-level shock troops would be more than enough to seize control.

  Thongar stood up. "I'm going to join the second wave down planetside. Take over, Number One."

  Juno the Cruel moved toward the control chair. She was a tall, statuesque woman. Her skin had the distinctive blue tinge that was characteristic of those who had grown up in the Vegan settlements. Many years before, she and Thongar had been lovers. Now they were just comrades in arms.

  At the door to the ship's elevator, Thongar was met by his servant Y'dug. The tiny figure bent under the weight of the black-winged pressure helmet and the heavy belt that held Thongar's hand phaser and power ax. These made up the rest of Thongar's battle equipment.

  As Thongar entered the transporter room, the second wave of shock troops were preparing to beam down. The privateers wore no regular uniforms. That was for the lackeys of the Federation. Although all of the privateers' armor was similar in design, the function dictated this, each had embellished his own in unique individual style. The space armor was painted, engraved, and decorated with baroque figures. It was as though super technology and barbarian splendor had clashed head on.

  A huge man in red armor with inlaid, and mainly obscene, figures all over it detached himself from the mass. Two horns curved out from his helmet. It was Hengist the Red. He and Thongar had been together since their earliest days on the privateer space lanes. He clapped a huge mailed hand on Thongar's shoulder.

  "Are you coming down with us for the kill, Skipper?"

  Thongar looked at the man who even towered over him. He knew that the body inside the red armor was at least half made up of artificial replacements for flesh and bone that had been blown or hacked away in a thousand privateer battles.

  Thongar smiled one of his rare smiles. There was no humor in it. "Yes, I'm coming down with you."

  Hengist looked around at the other men waiting to board the transporter. "You hear that, lads? The skipper's coming with us."

  Thongar's helmet radio was jammed with cheering and laughter as he strode toward the transporter. The machine flickered and glowed with static as the warriors were beamed down in groups of ten.

  It was a scene from hell that met Thongar's eyes as he reassembled on the surface of the planet. Punching the servo controls on the hip of his suit, and thumbing off the safety of his power ax, Thongar instantly became a part of it. With the suit's motors boosting his own combat-hardened muscles, he made for the thickest of the fighting with great twenty-foot bounds.

  Already the battle was almost over. Buildings were burning and most of the civilian population was running in aimless panic, looking for a place to escape the phaser beams and swinging blades of the savage invaders. The o
nly real resistance was coming from a few small groups of uniformed men. Thongar presumed they were either local police or militia.

  Some way to his left, five of them were attempting to set up a photon cannon. Thongar swerved in midstride and raced toward them. He smiled grimly at the men's agitation as they worked desperately to assemble the weapon before the deadly figure in black armor and winged helmet could reach them.

  The power ax seemed to take on a life of its own as Thongar squeezed the grip. It struck the first defender on the shoulder and, with hardly any effort on the part of the wielder, almost cut him vertically in two.

  A second defender pulled a phaser from his belt. Thongar manipulated the grip on his ax. The man's arm was transformed into a bloody stump. On the return swing a third man lost his head. Seeing the fate of their companions, the remaining two began to run. Thongar coolly burned them down with his own phaser, then he sprang away in search of fresh slaughter.

  He rounded the corner of a high-rise building. Flames gushed from the upper stories, causing a sinister flickering glow to illuminate the fighting. He was poised to launch himself on another superhuman leap when a girl burst from the building and ran straight into him. Almost as a reflex Thongar seized her in one steel-gloved fist. Two armored privateers came storming out of the building in hot pursuit. They pulled up short when they saw Thongar holding her. If he had been another privateer, they might have argued over the girl. Nobody argued with Thongar.

  For the first time, the Planet Waster looked down at the girl who still fought against his merciless grip. She had flaming red hair and an attractive, independent face. Her clothes were sufficiently torn and disheveled to reveal that her body was pliantly rounded and very desirable. Thongar laughed one of his humorless laughs.

  Dragging the still resisting girl behind him, Thongar started off in a new direction. His objective was a small, almost undamaged, single-story building. He kicked in the door with a power-assisted foot and routinely sprayed the interior with rapid phaser fire.