The Rainbow Cadenza: A Novel in Vistata Form

by J. Neil Schulman

  This included, among other things, the brainprint of every person five years and older who had set foot of Earth in the past fifty years. But a crazed terrorist (or a committed patriot) who had managed the impossible feat of exploding a thermonuclear device inside the vaults would have been sorely disappointed: copies of the entire brainprint file were available at every police Monitor station on Earth. It was not a particularly large collection of data...for any pocket computer. But as provided for in the Ninth Amendment to the Articles of Federation, such Monitor copies could not even include the names of the person to whom each brainprint belonged. They stated only that the brainprint in question belonged to a person who was legally in good standing so far as the Federation was concerned, or a fugitive wanted by the authorities, or a Touchable.

  In absolute fact, no one was required to wear the tiny radio transponder that coverted each person's unique "primary neutral modulation" into a weak broadcast signal unchanged from birth to death. But anyone not wearing the transponder was a complete nonperson, legally even less protected than Touchables, who at least still had status in the courts. Thus, while--at least, by the letter of the law--wantonly killing a Touchable was still murder, killing a nonperson was not. At worst it was cruelty to animals. Or littering.

  In a society where fingers could be transplanted, larynxes could be switched, retinas could be changed, brains could be transferred into the body of a clone, the brainprint was the only reliable form of identification.

  Only the mountain hermit might have missed getting fitted for a transponder. Probably even the hermit got one after being negatively "frisked" the first time...if the hermit survived the first time.

  The Federation sold its "immunity" cheap...to its favored customers. Mr. McIntosh escorted one of those customers to the children's section on the forty-third floor, waited in line with her for most of an hour, then presented the information-and- consent affidavit provided by her parents. He swore an oath that Joan was the person named in the affidavit, paid the one-auragram fee, then took her to a waiting room where, among crying five- year-olds and accompanying grown-ups (except for some robot governors that, presumably, didn't grow) they sat watching holovision for another half-hour.

  A robot nurse escorted them to an operating room--more like a dentist's office--and placed Joan in an operating chair, securing her head in a vise. The nurse then tied back Joan's hair and shaved the back of her head. Joan was brave about it. A human physician came in dressed in surgical greens, made some "this won't hurt a bit" sounds, and applied a local anesthetic to the back of Joan's neck.

  In fact, it didn't hurt a bit. The implantation procedure, accomplished by the surgeon with a laser scalpel, was over in five minutes. The surgeon put in the transponder at the base of Joan's skull, not very far from the spot where the spinal cord meets the brain. Actual contact with the central nervous system was not needed, as the transponder was smart enough to induce the neural modulation.

  After the surgeon tested the signal, she released Joan's head, untied her hair, and removed her own surgical mask. She told Joan what a good girl she was and gave her a lollipop.

  The robot nurse took the actual brainprint from Joan in an adjoining office while Mr. McIntosh tried to pick up the surgeon - with no success; she was used to fending off enterprising governors.

  Mr. McIntosh and his charge left the office a few minutes later. As soon as they were down in the main concourse again, Joan threw away the unopened lollipop. It may have been her first political act.

  The family's dinner was early that evening, since Vera, Stanton, and Eleanor were going out. Francois Duroux had discovered at Vera's ball that Stanton Darris was a fellow Marnie and had promised him an invitation to his next nightstalk. The invitation came sooner than expected when a Touchable, brought to Legos on various misdemeanors--working in a profession, working at a fixed location, property ownership, not wearing a red cloak while in public--had struck a plea bargain by revealing the whereabouts of a secret Touchable ghetto in Rochester.

  The plans called for the three of them to rendezvous with Duroux's hunting party in Rochester just before sundown, in the cannabistro of the New Eastman Hotel. Duroux had promised that the party would be kept small--no more than three each of commen, andromen, and women. From the hotel the Marnies would don flying belts, and their guests would follow as closely as possible in a limousine. Vera and Eleanor would be in the limousine, since neither was a licensed Marnie--Eleanor through lack of inclination, Vera because it was only since becoming a veteran that she had become eligible. "With a little Lady Luck," Duroux had told them, "this will be a large enough hideaway that none of us will have to settle for sloppy seconds."

  It was an easygoing and somewhat chaotic scene around the dinner table, since Eleanor and Stanton disliked formality as a steady diet. Vera, Stanton and Eleanor were eating fried chicken prepared by the estate's robots according to Grandma Collier's Kentucky recipe; Mark, the twins, Joan, and Mr. McIntosh ate quiches that Mr. McIntosh had picked up from the nearest Quiche Me Quick on his way back from the city. Zack ate a toddler's porridge. Mr. McIntosh ate what the children ate, when he could, since he felt it improved his rapport; on this occasion he had the added reason for avoiding the chicken that he was a strict vegetarian.

  But even quiches weren't strong enough hold to keep the older children's attention solely on dinner. "Mom," Mark asked, "can I eat later and watch Red Hunt?"

  "Me too!" the twins shouted. "Me too!"

  Joan quietly continued eating her quiche.

  Eleanor looked down the table to Mr. McIntosh. "They did all their schoolwork," he said.

  "You may watch it after you finish eating," Eleanor told them.

  "But the Holy Guide says it's on the satellite now."

  "The holy won't forget the show, so you can just finish your quiche."

  "I don't see why you let them eat such junk food," Vera said to Eleanor.

  "When you have your own children," Eleanor told her, "you'll find out that you feed them whatever scat they'll eat."

  "I don't want to eat scat," Vic said.

  "You don't have to, dear," said Eleanor. "Just eat your quiche."

  The children ate their dinners rather more quickly than usual. Afterwards they were allowed to take their desserts--pieces from yesterday's birthday cake--into the den to catch the holovision show they wanted to see. Zack remained with the adults.

  "As I started saying before..." Stanton reached for another chicken breast. "Burgess Carlisle renewed his invitation to visit him in Cair Paravel. I think he's trying to sell me a partial interest in his ferrofoam factory, now that St. Clive's restrictions on stock ownership by Federation citizens have been lifted."

  "It would be a lovely vacation," Eleanor said, "before we start making Stan Junior this fall. And it would be nice seeing my grandparents again."

  "Especially if your grandmother still makes the original recipe of this chicken."

  "It wouldn't be fair to Mac, though--would it, Mac?"

  Mr. McIntosh shrugged. "I admit, the children are a handful at times."

  "Mac doesn't have to go it alone." Vera was speaking. "I'll be here for the summer."

  "Mr. McIntosh began paying close attention.

  Eleanor looked delighted. "I thought you wanted to do some traveling yourself."

  Vera shrugged. "You know me--I've never been much for sight- seeing. Oh, maybe I'll spend a few weeks sunbathing on the Riviera, but I'll be back before you're ready to leave. When would it be, June?"

  "Certainly not till after Midsummer," Stanton said. "No sense bucking the holiday crowds."

  Eleanor pushed her plate away and lit a joynette. "Vera, are you sure? You really want to do this?"

  "Very much, Mother. It will give me a chance to find out what it's like to have a family of my own."

  Eleanor frowned slightly. Stanton said quickly, "This is your family, Vera."

  A robot hurried over to begin removing plates.

&
nbsp; "I mean a family with me as the mommy," Vera said. "So I'll have some experience knowing what scat to feed them."

  "A mommy implies a daddy," Mr. McIntosh suggested hopefully.

  Vera regarded him coolly. "Not in my experience," she said.

  While the family's adults were getting ready to leave--they had to be in Rochester by six-thirty--the children and Mr. McIntosh watched Red Hunt--"A Mark Quimm Production, based on actual cases released by the Federation Bureau of Immunity." This week's episode was more banal than usual...even by holy standards.

  Two Federation Monitors, Wong and McCoy, are on sky patrol in the Miami area when a report comes into their cruiser that a Marnie hunting party--bird-dogging various people by scanning random transponders and linking with Monitor computers for a status check--has alerted the computers that something fishy is going on. The computer says that a brainprint they've just read - though listed as a citizen in good standing--was picked up less than an hour ago in Budapest...too far away in too short a time for even a shuttle flight. The computer has answered the Marnies: "Wanted by the authorities," and the Marnies have placed the suspect under citizen's arrest, holding him until the Monitors arrive.

  When the suspect is examined, it turns out that instead of a transponder, he is wearing a tiny transmitter giving a reading of another person's brainprint.

  End of Act One. Eleanor came into the den to say good-night; then she, Stanton, and Vera left for Rochester.

  Act Two. When the suspect's brainprint is taken at Monitor headquarters, he turns out to be a Touchable after all, using the false brainprint to masquerade as a citizen in good standing.

  Act Three. The Touchable confesses to being part of a ring of renegade Touchables. With a little "persuasion," he tells how renegades kidnap people without family connections--lonely old commen, lesbians, divorced andromen--record their brainprints, then icarate them, making sure the victim's brainprint isn't filed as inactive in the Liberty Street archives. Then they sell the dead person's brainprint to Touchables at exorbitant prices.

  Act Four. The entire Touchable ring is tracked down, and McCoy--the young recruit who superiors thought didn't have any guts--proves his courage in hand-to-hand fighting with the Touchable ringleader, killing the Touchable by smashing his nose into his head and propelling a brain splinter up into the brain.

  Epilogue. The entire Touchable ring is condemned to the microwave ovens in time for the final commercial, a public- service message in behalf of "the Blue...the Butch...the Marnies."

  Joan stayed awake through the entire show, but just barely, since she found it boring. The twins loved it. Mark started pointing out plot holes, asking Mr. McIntosh why the first Touchable's brainprint had been recorded from a person who hadn't been kidnapped or icked, and where did Touchables--who could earn barely enough to feed themselves--get enough money to buy stolen brainprints at exorbitant prices?

  Duroux's hunting party didn't do quite so well as Wong and McCoy. His plea-bargaining Touchable hadn't lied outright--he had been much too smart for that. But when the Marnies got to the reported Touchable hideway, it had--from the look of it -- been abandoned for at least two days. Duroux figured that the group probably scrammed automatically whenever one of their own disappeared for more than twenty-four hours...the amount of time it had taken for the informer to "crack".

  The party had returned to the cannabistro at the New Eastman, and the family was back at Helix Vista by midnight.

  Chapter 7

  From the sky, the two of them could see only a green-copper bubble encircled by seven smaller green bubbles; from the street, Eleanor and Joan saw the green of a monastic courtyard surrounding an ivy-strangled stone building. An iron portcullis, raised during daylight hours, lent further medieval atmosphere, protecting the courtyard from its neighbors. This had not been a fashionable area even before the War, but now it was just short of being a slum, separated by only a landing strip from Vaginatown, a walled ghetto where Touchable mothers with small children were allowed to live unmolested.

  Eleanor knew firsthand that this institution had been here before the Colonial War, when the neighborhood had been part of the old borough called Brooklyn. But the domes had been golden orange, and there hadn't been any ivy, the first time she'd come here, just a little younger than Joan's current age, with her own mother. Eleanor couldn't help thinking of The Picture of Dorian Gray whenever she visited here; it always seemed to her that the place had aged in her stead. Nonetheless, aside from oxidation and ivy, the Malcolm Institute of Lasegraphy stood, as it had always stood, on the northern perimeter of the neighborhood called, since the War, Rainborough Park. By luck or providence, the school had been built in one of the borough's few neighborhoods left completely untouched by meteors in the Rain of Terror.

  Between the ages of four and nine, Eleanor had taken lessons here from Jules Malcolm, before the War had killed him and displaced her to the farm in Kentucky. The Colliers were not particularly disposed to much besides work and prayer; they had felt that taking in their orphaned granddaughter was charity enough, without wasting money on lessons in how to give people headaches with flashing lights. The result was that when Eleanor had come back to Newer York at eighteen, she had found that nine years away from the console had been cruel, and she just didn't have the heart to begin all over from scratch.

  So she had brought one daughter here to study the laser, and now, each Tueday at 6:15 P.M., she began bringing another.

  Jack Malcolm was an aristocratic-looking comman in his early seventies who, as his one concession to natural aging, had allowed his wavy brown hair to turn white. His elegance resulted primarily from slenderness combined with almost two meters of height. Eleanor thought that he now looked much as she remembered Jules Malcolm looking, but when she had first known him, he had been a gangly thirteen-year-old who always seemed to be in the way at his father's academy. Eleanor had briefly had a crush on Jack when she was nine, just before the War took her away; she had consummated the crush three decades later when she began bringing Vera for lessons. He was still unmarried.

  Eleanor had not wanted to delegate to Mr. McIntosh the responsibility of bringing Joan to her first lessons, since Jack, his traumatic experience with Vera seared into memory, had not seemed eager to see Joan at all. Eleanor knew it was only because of their long friendship--and the Darris Foundation's continued aid to the institute--that he had reluctantly agreed to see Joan at the end of April--two days before Beltane--for the first time. Even so, he seemed prepared to brush them off until Joan scored so remarkably well on the Piaget tests. But he would not come to Helix Vista for her lessons, and he would not teach her by remote hookup. Jack Malcolm was a lasemeister in his father's mold: it was face-to-face lessons on the dual console in one of the lesser domes, each Tuesday from six-fifteen to seven-fifteen without fail, or it was nothing.

  And Lady help the pupil who didn't practice in between.

  Joan needed little of the Lady's intercession.

  It would be untruthful to suggest that there weren't days when Joan didn't feel like practicing, that there weren't afternoons she would rather have spent with her pony, or even drawing with her old thermocrayons. The chromatic laser is not a rewarding instrument for a beginner: it is horridly complex and apt to discourage anyone with the sensitivity to compare one's first clumsy efforts with the soaring graces seen in a master and imagined for oneself. But Joan was too young to worry about such discrepancies--few with the sensibilities needed for virtuosity began playing over six--and she learned the instrument neither so slowly that she found the challenges overwhelming nor so quickly that endless repetitions between lessons--necessary to develop control--bored her to tears.

  Some things came to her more easily than others. She familiarized herself with the thirty-six-color scale almost immediately, and was found to have the ability to identify each shade not only relative to the five hues in each of the seven color keys (not counting, of course, the thirty-sixth, invisible ultra
violet used for phosphorescence), but also discretely, absolutely. Nontheless, it took weeks of daily practice before she was able to run her fingers, with any accuracy or fluidity, over the console's thirty-six touch-sensitive color panels. She took to the thirty-six scanning panels easily, learning to form an image's shape by FM and its size by AM. Neither did it take her long to master the step-changes controlled by foot pedals -- how to bring up an interference lumia or a diffraction pattern. But to learn the basic raw-scan lissajous--the cycloids and the spirals--the mandalas, the auroras, the lightnings--took time and patience.

  From her first lessons with Malcolm, Joan began learning to read and write Scholastic notation, the basic scoring for lasegraphy. Malcolm, unlike many of his contemporaries, believed that early lasegraphic training had to involve the conscious mind as well as the unconscious reflexes. Joan learned how each circle on the lasegraphic staff was a complete description of a moment's frame up in the dome--the duration of each frame marked under each circle--the markings inside for type of image, its color, shape, amplitude, location, speed, direction, and dozens of other variables.