A Rage for Revenge watc-3

by David Gerrold

  "Wait a minute," I said. We were miles from anywhere. How had she gotten here? "What's your name, sweetheart? Who're you with? You're not here by yourself, are you?"

  "Is this your house? Do you live here?" she asked again. She took a few steps into the room, looking around.

  "No. And you shouldn't either." I looked to the kid. "Get her out of here."

  I waited till they were both gone before I lowered my rifle and let myself shake. My nerves were shot. I'd nearly shot him. Then I'd nearly shot her.

  Damn.

  What a mess that would have been.

  No, this wasn't working. None of it. I slung my gun over my shoulder and started after them.

  I'd have to . . .

  I heard gunshots outside-the spattering sound of an AM-280. And then I heard the kid scream.

  I was already pulling my gun off my shoulder as I ran.

  A proctologist name of McGee

  once bent over double to see;

  an eyeball of glass

  he had shoved up his ass,

  '-so I can see one that looks back at me.'

  4

  Mode: Day Two

  "Commitment isn't a chore. It's a challenge. "

  -SOLOMON SHORT

  The second day was about integrity, and the room was set up differently.

  The 498 chairs were laid out in five concentric circles around a circular dais. There were eight precise aisles dividing the chairs into neat pie-shaped wedges. The aisles pointed toward the high dais like an altar. I felt like an acolyte at some holy ritual.

  The screens over the dais were gone now. Instead there were larger ones mounted high above the center of each blank wall. As I took my seat, I wondered why they had changed the setup. It bothered me, I didn't know why. I felt uneasy.

  The seats filled up quickly with the other trainees. Today we were all wearing identical brown jumpsuits. No uniforms, no civilian clothes, no identifying garb of any kind could be worn in the training room. That was part of the rules: no outside identities. All we had to distinguish ourselves were the large-lettered name tags we wore over our hearts; last names only-no first names, no ranks.

  Some of the higher-ranking officers had grumbled about that. Foreman hadn't been interested. He merely pointed out that they were demonstrating an investment of identity in their ranks, and that rank was not only irrelevant in here, it would eventually get in the way. Leave it outside, he said. That's not who you really are. I didn't get that either, but Foreman wouldn't explain it.

  I wished I had my watch, but we'd had to turn those in too. I was certain that it was already past time for us to start, but not all the seats were filled yet. I wondered what the holdup was.

  I craned around to look. People were still filing in. I recognized the two gray-haired colonels who had sat at the end of my row yesterday and who seemed to think they had special permission to chat about the proceedings. Finally, because their chatter was such a nuisance, they had been asked-no, told to sit apart. They came in now, still talking; but instead of moving directly to their seats, they stopped just inside the door and continued their conversation. I decided they were a couple of rude old ladies. Finally, two large male assistants came over to them and took each of them by the arm and guided them to their seats-on opposite sides of the outer circle of chairs.

  But there were still empty chairs. Where were the rest of us? I counted twelve empty chairs. What was going on? Where were the missing trainees?

  The minutes stretched.

  The assistants stood quietly at attention, all around the perimeter of the room, at the logistics tables, at the doors, and at the heads of the aisles. There were at least fifty of them, all blank-faced and emotionless.

  Across the circle from me, a large heavyset man got up and strode angrily to the table at the back of the room where the Course Manager sat. "What's the delay?" he demanded. His face was ruddy, and he looked upset.

  She looked at him blankly. "Go back to your seat." Her voice could be heard all across the room.

  "I want to know what's going on."

  "Nothing is going on. Go back to your seat."

  "We were told that all our questions would be answered," he snapped.

  The Manager stood up and faced him. He was much larger and wider than she was, but she met his glare with an impassive expression. She said, "What you were told was that all of your questions would be handled appropriately. This is not appropriate."

  "Why not?" he interrupted her. "Tell me!" He put his large ham-shaped hands down on the table between them and leaned way forward. He looked like he was used to bullying his way to results. He was a hulking mountain of flesh, and the way he leaned, he looked like he was threatening her.

  It didn't work. The Course Manager was unbending. She could have been looking at a recalcitrant child. "This isn't the time," she said. "You agreed to follow the instructions, didn't you? Your instructions for this morning were to enter the room and take your seat. Have you done that?"

  "But nothing's happening-!" His technique wasn't working. He looked frustrated.

  She looked at him blankly. "Are you going to keep your agreement and follow the instructions?"

  "I want to know what the delay is!" He was getting loud and belligerent. Every trainee in the room was watching.

  I had to admire the Manager's composure. She remained unruffled by the man's anger. She said, "All of this was explained yesterday. The session doesn't begin until everybody is in his seat. There are thirteen seats empty. One of them is yours. You are the delay."

  The big man looked angrier. I could see his fists clenching. But he didn't know what to say. It was as if he could already see all of the answers he might be given. There was nothing for him to do but return to his seat.

  He exhaled loudly, scowled in annoyance, shook his head and shrugged as if to say, "You can't fight these tyrants," then turned and headed back toward his empty chair. He clumped loudly and resentfully all the way. The gesture said it all: "Fuck you too." He sat down with a righteous expression and folded his arms across his chest.

  Then, for a while, nothing happened. We sat and waited.

  We got bored.

  And after we were through being bored, we got angry. We sat and stewed. We glared at the assistants-and each other. We hated the ones who hadn't shown up yet, who were keeping us waiting for them.

  I wanted to get up and protest, but I didn't. I was afraid to.

  There were other people sitting in the room who were afraid, too. I turned around in my chair and looked. Some of the people wouldn't meet my eyes.

  One woman was crying quietly. She was weeping into her hands. Nobody went to her aid.

  I started hating the assistants. And then I was bored again.

  And then, suddenly, I realized something! I knew what was going on! This was a test! We were supposed to sit here and wait. We were supposed to discover something in the waiting.

  I began to pay attention. I started looking around to see what everybody else was doing. I wasn't the only one. There were a couple of other trainees looking around with iriterest. They recognized me and smiled. I-grinned back. We'd figured it out! This was about the way we waited!

  Somebody started giggling. Pretty soon, the whole room was laughing. I looked back at the Course Manager. She was sitting stony-faced. Or was she? She covered her mouth with one hand, and coughed, then turned to face the wall.

  As the giggling began to die away, one of the doors opened and six of the missing trainees were ushered into the room. Two assistants led them to their seats.

  A moment later, Foreman strode into the room. He came straight up the aisle opposite me and stepped onto the dais. Today he was wearing a copper-colored tunic and slacks. "Good morning," he said. He looked at his watch. "It is ten forty-five. We are starting an hour and forty-five minutes late. The instructions were that no session would start until everyone was in their seats. There are six of you still missing. Forty-two of you were late this morni
ng. That's forty-eight people who didn't keep their word, almost one out of ten! That's the integrity of this group! Ten percent of the time you can't be trusted! And you wonder why you don't produce results?"

  He was angry. Or was it a performance? I wasn't sure. He stepped off the dais and strode straight back to speak to the Course Manager. They conferred quietly together for a few minutes, then he came back to the dais and looked us over again.

  "So, you're probably wondering about your missing six members. It's this simple. They're out of the program. They quit when they didn't show up this morning. They failed the test. They're untrainable. Their commitment to failure is larger than their commitment to success.

  "There are no grades here. There's no right way, there's no wrong way to do this course. The only way to fail is to not show up. Show up, and no matter what happens, you automatically succeed. It's like life. The only way to fail it is to be dead.

  "So we asked you to make a commitment to be here and in your seat, on time, every day for six weeks. And each of you gave your word. This is how you kept it. One out of ten of you can't be trusted. This is not an impressive start.

  "I want to demonstrate something," he said. He looked around the group as if he were looking for someone. "Who were the people who were late this morning'? Would you stand up please?"

  About thirty people stood up.

  "There were forty-two people who were not in their chairs at nine A.M. If you were not in your chair as you agreed to be, would you stand up please?"

  A few more people stood up, then another and another. Finally, forty-two people were standing at their places.

  "Good, thank you." Foreman circled the dais, looking them over. "Would you come up here please? And you? And you? Stand in a line please." One of those he picked was the large red-faced man who had made such a scene with the Course Manager, another was one of the gray-haired colonels who never stopped talking.

  "The rest of you can sit down please. Thank you. Now, before we do this, I want all of you to know that it could be any of you up here. I'm going to ask them some questions. I want you, in your seats, to look at your own answers to these questions."

  Foreman turned to the line of trainees. They looked nervous. "Can you keep your word?" he asked them.

  They looked uncertain. Should they answer?

  Foreman started at one end of the line. It was the chatterbox gray-haired colonel. He asked her, "Can you keep your word?"

  She said, "Yes, I keep my word all the time."

  "That's bullshit. You didn't keep your word this morning. You weren't in your seat at nine A.M. No, the evidence is that you don't keep your word. What I want to know is if you're able to keep your word. Are you?"

  She hesitated, then nodded.

  Foreman looked at her. "That's what you'd like me to believe, isn't it? Well, we'll find out in a minute." He looked to the back of the room, and signaled to the Course Manager. "Would you bring me the integrity tester please?"

  The Course Manager came up the aisle carrying a flat wooden box. Foreman opened it and took out a deadly-looking black .45 caliber service revolver. "Can you all see this?" he asked, holding it over his head. He circled the dais, so everybody could get a look at the gun. The overhead screens zoomed in for a close-up. Out of sudden curiosity, I looked for the cameras. They were mounted behind glass slits at the top of the walls.

  I turned back to Foreman. He was pointing the gun at the gray-haired colonel.

  "If I pulled this trigger, would you die?"

  She couldn't take her eyes off the gun. "It's not loaded," she said. "You're just trying to scare me."

  "I'm not trying," said Foreman. "Really." He turned away from her and faced the distant wall of the room. He stepped forward and took a stance. He spread his legs slightly and gripped the gun in both hands, raised it high and aimed for the farthest corner. He squinted and pulled the trigger. The gun popped like a cannon! The bullet spanged off the ceiling, thwocked off the wall, spattered a small explosion of plaster and dust, and then clattered to the shiny hardwood floor. The sound of the shot still echoed back and forth across the room.

  Foreman turned back to the lady. "Now, then," he asked her again, "if I pulled this trigger, would you die?"

  "You wouldn't," she said. She didn't look certain. The other trainees beside her looked nervous.

  "You don't know that," said Foreman. "Are you willing to bet your life on it?"

  "You're just trying to make a point," the woman guessed.

  Foreman turned to face the rest of us. "As a matter of fact, I have the written permission of the President of the United States to take any actions I deem appropriate-up to and including the termination of any trainee in this room." He glanced to the back of the room. "Would you put the authorization up on the screens, please? Just in case anyone is doubting."

  The screens flashed to display an official-looking document. I recognized the presidential seal and signature. "Thank you," said Foreman. "Now, I would prefer not to exercise that authority, for obvious reasons, but that is one of the options available to me." He turned back to the gray-haired colonel. "So you might be right that I'm only trying to make a point. The question is, how far will I go to make that point? You really don't know if I would pull this trigger or not, do you?"

  "Uh, I would hope not."

  "I didn't ask what you hope. Do you notice that you don't answer questions? You comment on them. That's how you avoid responsibility. All I'm asking from you are simple yes or no answers. Can you handle that?"

  "I think so-"

  Foreman looked annoyed.

  "-I mean, yes," she corrected, hastily.

  "Thank you." He pointed the gun at her again. "Now, if I pulled this trigger, would you die?"

  "Probably."

  "Probably. . . ?" Foreman said it with as much amusement as startlement. He looked around at us to share the joke. There was nervous laughter in the room.

  "Well, it depends on where you hit me."

  He looked at her again. "You see-you can't give me a simple yes or no answer, can you?"

  "Well, you're not being precise. The chances are pretty good that I would die if you shot me-"

  "I'm not being precise-?" Foreman gaped at her astonished. "This is a .45 caliber service revolver. The chances are one hundred percent if I shot you at point-blank range you would die. Do you see that?"

  The lady still looked defiant. "Well, that's what you say."

  "All right," sighed Foreman. "Let me make it even more precise for you-so that there is absolutely no doubt." He stepped abruptly forward and placed the barrel of the gun firmly in the colonel's mouth. Several of the men in the room were suddenly on their feet, shouting--

  Foreman turned around, bellowing. "Sit down! You agreed to follow the instructions! If you don't follow the instructions, you won't get the results! Now, sit down!"

  They sat.

  I started shivering. I knew what was going to happen next. Foreman turned back to the colonel, put the gun in her mouth again and said, "Now, then-if I pulled this trigger, would you die?"

  The colonel's eyes were wide. She stared down the barrel of the gun and there was terror in her face. She nodded her head as best she could and managed to get out a muffled, "Umh-hmh."

  "Good. That was a very clear answer. So now we're clear about the consequences, right?"

  "Umh-hmh. "

  "Good. Now-if I told you that you had to keep your word and be in your seat on time every day, or else I was going to blow your brains out, would you keep your word?"

  The woman hesitated. I was trembling for her.

  "It's a simple question," said Foreman. "But take your time. I want you to be certain of your answer. Because that may be the agreement I'll ask you to make." He repeated it carefully. "If you knew that you had to be here, in your seat, on time, every day-or else I was going to blow your brains out-could you do it?"

  The colonel nodded and said, "Umh-hmh!"

  "Sure, you could-an
d you would too. You'll do whatever is necessary to ensure your survival. If you knew that keeping your

  42DAVID GERROLD

  word was absolutely necessary for your survival, you would keep your word, wouldn't you?"

  "Umh-hmh!"

  "Good. Thank you." Foreman took the gun out of her mouth. "So now we know that you can keep your word. The real question is will you?"

  The woman didn't answer. She collapsed in a faint.

  Foreman went down with her. He said quietly, "That won't work either, Colonel Irving! You don't get to hide out in here. The question is, will you keep your word?"

  Colonel Irving was sobbing loudly. Two assistants started up the aisle toward the dais. Foreman held them back with a hand. "You agreed to follow the instructions. If you don't get up right now, Colonel Cop-out, I will blow your brains out!" The sound of the hammer cocking on the gun was loud in the room.

  Colonel Irving scrambled to her feet so fast she looked jet-propelled.

  "Thank you," said Foreman. He turned to the rest of us. "Do you see what it takes to get some of you to keep your word? Are you beginning to see what some of you do instead?"

  I was shaking so hard now, I could barely stay in my chair. Foreman put the "integrity tester" back in the box. The Course Manager returned to the back of the room. Foreman turned to face the rest of us. "Do you get the point? You can keep your word-and you don't! You'll only keep your word when your survival is at stake. You think so little of the words that fall out of your mouth that you'll say anything, you don't care, just so you'll look good. Well, this course is not about looking good-"

  "I thought this course was supposed to be about the nature of humanity!" someone called out.

  Foreman turned to face the man. "You have an agreement not to speak unless you're called on. And this course is about the nature of humanity-but we can't even begin to have that discussion while you're still functioning at the level of chimpanzees."

  "I was here on time!" the man insisted. He stood up. I craned my head to see. The man was on the opposite side of the room. He was thin and red-faced. And very angry.