by T. J. Bass
Several hours later she was seated on the floor going through a set of elaborate isometric exercises. Moses ignored her while she was quiet – a little grateful for the moment’s peace. She removed the top of her garment and continued her yoga. He saw that her skin glistened slightly and assumed it was sweat. Then he saw the liqueur flask was open. She dabbed the fluid on her scalp – matting down her hair into a tadpole tail. More grenadine brought a sheen to the hair as she finger-combed it down the front of her right shoulder. Muscles tightened and relaxed repeatedly. More liquid was poured on her head. The sheen spread to her chest and back. An hour passed, during which she hardly moved.
Moses shrugged.
She finally stood up – moving slowly, she danced out of the rest of her clothes. Odd. She raised the flask over her head and let several more ounces trickle over her body. Under the glistening skin he noticed muscles he hadn’t seen on her before – the sternocleidomastoid in the neck and the rectus in the abdomen. On her legs the sartorius muscle ran from the hip to the inside of the knee. It took him a moment to understand her myotonia. When he saw that her breasts had increased in size he braced himself. Myotonia and vasocongestion of the breasts – she was well into the excitement phase.
‘Easy, now—’ he cautioned, holding up his hand.
She planted both feet firmly, eyed his sinewy forearm sullenly, and leaped. His hands slipped. She grappled hard. Her teeth bit through his clothing. Her nails dug his arms.
Locking her arms around his waist she lifted him an inch off the floor and pinned him against the cabin wall. His fingers slipped off her shoulders. Reaching back, he unlatched the port and grabbed a handfull of brine-soaked ice chips from the outside ledge. A gust of icy wind hit her alcohol-soaked body – chilling it. He smacked her on the back with the brittle ice sending small chips scattering about the floor. She stiffened, put a scissors hold on his right thigh and rolled back – pulling him down on the floor.
He felt the crunch of her teeth in his left flank and cuffed her on the head several times firmly. Slowly, spasmodically, she relaxed. He elbowed her now-limp form off his lap and stood up. She lay in the ice chips breathing hard. Her eyes glistened and there was blood on her lower lip – his blood. He stepped over to her, intending to give her a kick. She didn’t flinch. He hesitated – studying her. Her fight was gone. She was as docile as she had been after her dip in the ship’s wake. Shrugging, he tossed a blanket over her and closed the port.
‘What kind of a nut are you?’ he asked, sitting down and trying to piece together his torn shirt. There were teeth marks on his arm, chest and flank. They were purple and ecchymotic. Only in the flank had she broken the skin – two square red punctures. He dabbed an antiseptic.
The ice chips melted. Fifteen minutes later she got to her feet exhausted. He studied her apprehensively while she got dressed again – myotonia and flush gone, nipples flat. Whatever had come over her had passed.
‘If you don’t settle down, I’m going to have to tie you up again,’ he threatened.
She just smiled knowingly.
‘I don’t want to hurt you,’ he explained, ‘but these crazy fits of yours are upsetting the ship’s—’
He didn’t finish. She was ignoring him – dry-combing her hair and puttering around on her side of the room. He went out on the deck and stood behind the mast with the ship’s brain on top. He picked up the discarded tube segments which had bound her elbows, and put them in his pocket.
‘Keep a southerly course, ship,’ he said calmly.
He walked the deck checking for weapons. There were no sharps, of course, not even knives and forks to eat with. The tool kit contained nothing he could use for a hand weapon – except a spanner; but he didn’t want to use that on his prisoner. Her brains would surely splatter. He hid the heavy tool under the loading platform’s dust cover – so she wouldn’t use it on him. But there seemed to be little danger of that – her attacks had a definite sexual quality. Her little love bites were designed to stimulate, not injure. He finally realized he had a masochist on his hands.
Her refractory period ended. Eight hours later she poured the liqueur on her head and slurped her hair up into a tadpole tail. Stepping out of her clothes she poured and lubricated. She came stalking – reeking of pomegranates – nipples hard – skin mottled and flushed. He stepped to the front of the mast pulling up his collar against the icy breeze. His shoes crunched in two inches of brine and ice chips at five degrees below freezing. Smiling to himself, he thought she wouldn’t want to roll around in that – not with a naked, alcohol-soaked body.
He was wrong. She leaped from the orange light of the doorway – catching him by the neck and rolling him into the deck’s frozen slush. Her body was actually hot to the touch! She screamed and bit as they slid against the railing. His clothes soaked and chilled. On the rough, cold deck she had a very short plateau phase – spiking almost immediately. He dragged her by one foot – into the cabin and onto the cot. Then he went back onto the deck, glancing at the chronograph. Forty seconds – that wasn’t too bad.
He cut her next attack down to thirty seconds by hitting her in the eye with his elbow.
On the third day they crossed 60:00. The ocean appeared vast and quiet. Nothing moved except the clouds and the ice. He saw the derelict body of an old plankton Harvester beached on a tiny island – its arched ribs standing tall.
As they passed the island the boat turned abrupty westward.
‘No – south,’ said Moses firmly.
The Attendant smiled smugly through her ecchymoses.
‘This trip is no longer authorized. Try your muscle on Security.’
He reached for the manual override and was knocked flat by a bright spark.
‘Field’s on,’ she grinned. ‘Boat has heard the long-distance call.
We’re going to shore.’
Moses picked up the heavy spanner and advanced on the cybermast.
‘I wouldn’t try that either,’ she continued. ‘Unless, of course, you really like to swim. If you crack the meck brain it loses control of all its sphincters. We’ll be up to here in ice water.’ She waved her hand over her head.
Moses kicked the emergency button and fat little kayaks inflated. He lifted a little lifeboat and studied the choppy frozen sea – reconsidering. His chances were better with the guards.
As they docked he swung his heavy spanner and shouldered his way through the lethargic Nebishes. His cutaneous melanin and carotenoids fluoresced. Watcher circuits tracked. The tubeway crowds could not hide him. Wrestling new issue tissue away from citizens did not help. He was too low on the thermal scale. At buckeye wavelengths he was umber against mauve. For several days he evaded capture. The Big ES assigned new Security teams as he fled from city to city. There was no time to sleep. He stole food from daydreaming Nebishes as they left the dispensers. Whenever he tried to doze off the Security people closed in. Capture was inevitable.
‘Open up,’ he shouted to the door at the top of the shaft cap. ‘Open up. Let me Outside.’
The baleful optic stared.
‘Unauthorized,’ it announced.
A class twelve door – and it blocked his escape. He sat down weakly and closed his eyes. When he opened them again there was a circle of nets and quarterstaffs – five squads had come for him. A Hi Vol shot jolted his deltoid.
When Moses Eppendorff awoke he saw images moving across a viewscreen. He was in a small cell. He gazed absently at the viewscreen for several minutes before he noticed the food – the table in his cell was piled high with generous portions of a seven-course dinner. A chill went down his spine as he realized that the images on the screen were Moon, Dan and himself. The court computer was simulating his crimes.
He jumped up and searched for gas jets. Nothing. The walls were semipermeable membranes – the toxic ions and radicals would enter through microscopic pores. The walls would sweat their poisons.
He slumped into his chair and stared at the large unappeti
zing meal. The viewscreen moved on to views of mountains, canals and fields covered with Agrifoam. He noticed little errors of detail – and some errors that were more than details. Toothpick’s importance was obviously missed. In some scenes Moon or Moses carried a staff – in others, a spear. Often, they carried nothing. The confrontation with the hunters in the orchard was badly messed up. Only the results were accurate – beheaded hunters around the craft. Other hunter bodies scattered among the trees. Old Moon and Dan had their wounds recorded, probably by the Huntercraft – and were left for dead.
The cyberjurist continued with Moses’ lonely trek to Dundas. Maps showed his straight route – obvious premeditation. Most of the optic records must have been taken at great distances. Old Moon and his dog always had white teeth. In many areas the information was very spotty – months were sometimes covered by moving an impersonal dot across a map.
The final scenes taken in the tidal caves were quite sketchy. Evidently Toothpick had been successful in blocking most of the sensor readings. Data seemed to have been gleaned from such dull-witted sources as boat-displacement readings and calories missing from dispensers. The role of the female Attendant was left open – victim or accomplice – there was no accusation, yet. However, with Toothpick’s abilities missing from the record, the Attendant had some explaining to do. Court had found nothing in Moses’ background as a Pipe that would equip him to do alone what had been done.
He relaxed a little. Even his own biased eye could see many defects in the case against him. Where was his defense? Court ended its simulation with the death statistics – a quarter of a million had died. A similar number had survived and were now safely resuspended. But an additional quarter of a million were still in doubt. Hundreds of Resuscitators and white teams of Mediteck/mecks were on the scene. The final count would be days in coming in. Big ES was pushing for a public execution for this crime – preferably a multiple execution. Everyone who had ever known Moses Eppendorff was under suspicion.
Simple Willie sat fondling his cube. Scars had further distorted his left eyelid, giving him an asymmetrical gaze like an 18-trisomy. Five security agents had crowded into his quarters to make the arrest. Now they stood nervously along the wall watching the ramblings of an obviously demented citizen. The agent with the Tee scanner watched the indicator wander about randomly. Willie had no concept of the truth. They were about to leave when the interrogator stimulated Willie with a question about Moses. The Tee scale stabilized. The asymmetrical eyes focused.
‘Moses?’ mumbled Willie. His memory macromolecules stirred. A tear welled up in his left eye and clung to a lash. ‘I knew him. We used to talk a lot. He was my friend. Henry lives there now. Henry isn’t nobody’s friend.’
‘Reading in the Tee zone,’ said the agent with the scanner. ‘Some psychogenic overlay and confusion, but solidly in the Tee zone. Willie! Did Moses ever discuss the Outside with you?’
Willie froze. Little warning reflexes were activated deep in his basal ganglia – thoracolumbar autonomies flared.
‘And you didn’t report the conversations to the Watcher?’ continued the agent.
Willie’s shoulders slumped. He had run afoul the Big ES again.
‘Bring him along.’
The Dundas Harbor Attendant sat stiffly in her cell, heaping curses on Moses and denying vehemently that she helped him. Josephson, agent of the court, enjoyed watching her squirm under the repeated grilling. Fear kept her in her seat. She knew the scanners were on her. Any question might be her last if her answer – or nonanswer – satisfied Court’s criteria for guilt. Her biolectricals filtered through the cyberjurist’s Psychokinetoscope as Josephson asked his questions.
‘Did you assist the Assassin of Dundas?’
‘No.’
‘Did you offer to help?’
She hesitated . . . remembering her offer to finger one political victim if they spared the rest of the patients. She tried to explain. Her biolectricals were inconsistent. Josephson leered at her skin resistance tracing.
‘Did Moses ever touch you?’
‘Only to hurt me,’ she spat.
Skin resistance dropped, but the needle stayed in the Tee zone. Josephson and Court were puzzled by the readings.
Moses sat nervously in his cell. Hours had passed since the Mediteck had taken the blood sample. Josephson knocked.
‘May I come in, Moses? I’ve been appointed your defense Attendant – if you want one. Court has the crime simulated to a probability factor of .6 – high enough to execute on physical evidence alone. However, a .6 leaves room for acquittal on several grounds. Do you want to talk?’
Moses eyed the heavy door. His muscles bunched. Adrenalin flow registered on sensors in the cell.
‘Now, now. Relax,’ cautioned Josephson. ‘Your brain stem status is being closely monitored by Court. Your only chance is the legal one – through me.’
Moses tried to relax.
‘Come in,’ he grumbled.
A door closed behind Josephson before the cell door opened. Moses saw no guards. Court apparently controlled the cyberjail. Moses stepped back in an obvious gesture of retreat.
‘No need to be formally submissive,’ said Josephson. ‘I’m not afraid of you. I’m sure you are innocent. We can sit down right here in front of the viewscreen and give your defense together. All we want – Court and I – is the truth. And the truth will set you free.’
Josephson pushed some of the dishes aside and put several standard forms on the table. Court focused a ceiling optic on him. Moses sat down dumbly on the cot. Josephson took the chair.
‘As a mass murderer your obvious defense is the Mass Murder Syndrome – a recognized psychosis resulting from crowding. Now, you were a citizen. Less than four years ago you lived in a standard shaft city – 50,000 population. Right?’
Moses nodded.
‘You were sent on a Climb by this man?’
J. D. Birk’s square face appeared on the screen. It was a live communication, not a record. Birk smiled sheepishly at Moses.
‘I thought you were dead,’ muttered Birk.
‘Why did you send Moses Outside?’ asked Court.
Birk began to whine his answer.
‘He was showing early signs of category nine deviation – tactless achievement, anti-ES pride, self-seeking enthusiasm—’
Court reviewed its own memories on Moses’ work record.
‘He even tried to claim the Amorphus truffle, tried to attach his own name to it, even though it was discovered on routine patrol,’ added Birk.
‘Moses’ Melon—’ said Court. ‘Certainly self-seeking. No evidence that he shares the collective soul.’
Moses glared at the exchange between his boss and the cyberjurist . . . adding his own biolectricals to confirm the truth of the statements.
Josephson watched playbacks of the first Moses’ Melon being unloaded from the Sewer Service sub. He smiled. Truth was what he was after.
‘That is a big help,’ said Josephson. ‘It establishes that your trip Outside was related to category nine – a common category among our over-achievers. Certainly nothing to hint of the subsequent Dundas affair.’
Court acknowledged the deduction. Josephson continued.
‘Moses was born with the bud of a fifth toe – a gene for Immunoglobulin A. He over-reacted to the nest factor producing antibodies that interfered with his brain serotonin metabolism.’
Flow diagrams showed a five-toed human living in ectodermal debris – loose dust of skin scales, hair and skin oils. The house dust mite, Dermatophagoides farinae, ate the skin debris – slightly altering its antigenic qualities. Subsequent dust contained the mite and sensitized the human. The antibodies tied up the serotonin buttons on neurones causing personality changes – Inappropriate Activity. The mass murderer was considered very inappropriate.
‘Society is to blame. Crowding caused the crime. Moses had no free will once his IA took over,’ concluded Josephson.
Court waited
until the defense plea ended and spoke didactically: ‘Moses had a negative skin test for house dust. His Immunoglobulin A level is five-toed, but he shows no increase in antibodies against the nest factor. Do you have an alternate defense?’
Josephson was perplexed.
‘Do you?’ repeated the viewscreen.
It took Moses a moment to realize that Court was speaking directly to him. The truth. Bad gases would fill the room if his autonomies established his guilt. He tried to sort through his story for a version that would be the safest.
‘I’ve never killed anyone.’
Tee zone. So far so good.
‘I’ve been Outside for over three years. I admit to being a crop crusher and a defector from the Big ES.’
Still Tee zone. Josephson and Court seemed satisfied.
‘I traveled with an old man and a dog who are now deceased. I also traveled with a two-thousand-year-old class six cyber named—’
‘A renegade meck?’ asked Court, reviewing the records.
‘I’m not sure he was a renegade. He told me his chains of command had been broken. He was a lost meck, perhaps.’
Tee zone. Court told him to continue.
‘Toothpick – my cyber – did kill sometimes, but I’m sure he had a good reason for—’
‘There is no record of a class six cyber in your travels,’ said Court. ‘Where is your Toothpick now?’
‘He remained behind in the tidal caves. I left him in a socket of the Life Support control. He isn’t mobile. Your Security people have him, I’d guess.’
There was a long delay while Court rechecked the new details of Moses’ story. The viewscreen switched to a workshop. Josephson stood up and squinted at the scene – a group of tecks bent over a segment of tubing which had been opened lengthwise. Three homogeneous cylinders were exposed – as peas lie in a pod – one quartz, one black and one white. A teck glanced up.
Court asked: ‘The device found in the LS unit at the Dundas murder scene – have you analyzed it?’
The teck pointed to the dismantled tube. Moses’ stomach sagged.