A Rage for Revenge watc-3

by David Gerrold

  I just didn't know what their definition of friend was.

  I was sitting under a tree, watching two millipedes chewing at what looked like a hambone-something left over from the last president?-when Jessie waved to me from across the yard and called, "How're you doing, Jim?"

  I didn't know whether to answer or not. It was probably rude not to, so I shrugged and waved halfheartedly back. She came over to me then and put her hand on my shoulder. "Relax, Jim. I promise you, nobody wants to hurt you."

  "Mm-hm. Sure. You're not going to hurt me. You're just going to reprogram me."

  Jessie sighed and rolled her eyes heavenward. "Jim, we're not going to do anything. You're going to do it. We can't make you do anything you don't want to do."

  "I don't want to be reprogrammed."

  "That's the army talking, that's not you. When you know what's available to you, you'll feel like a jerk for having waited so long to take the plunge. And we don't reprogram people here, Jim. We unprogram them. But you're going to have to be willing to let go of all that old programming before anything can happen." She patted my arm and let go. "Don't worry about it-and don't be impatient. It'll happen when you're ready for it to happen. You'll let us know when you're ready. You'll ask to join the Tribe."

  "Not bloody likely," I said.

  Jessie laughed. "Obviously, you're still not ready yet. Why don't you go and help Valerie and Loolie pull the weeds out of the garden. At least you can make yourself useful that way."

  "What if I don't?"

  She shrugged. "If there's no food, we all go hungry."

  "I've seen what you eat. That's not a threat."

  "Try being hungry-really hungry-for a while, Jim. Then we'll see how you feel about it."

  She was right.

  I went and pulled weeds. Falstaff followed me. At one point, Orson joined him and the two of them spread out across the grass like big fat hairy water balloons. They crooned and farted and waited for me to do something stupid.

  I was just starting on the second row of weeds when Jason came looking for me. "What are you doing that for, Jim? You're a guest. "

  I straightened up, brushing the dirt from my hands. "Jessie said if I don't work, I don't eat."

  Jason shook his head, frowning. "I doubt she said it that way, Jim. But I'm sure that's the way you heard it. Forget that for now. Come take a walk with me."

  He took me by the elbow and we walked along a shaded lane that circled the main part of the camp. Falstaff followed grumpily behind at a distance.

  "I know this is rough for you, Jim. It's always roughest on the military mind-set. Ask Ray about it. He used to be in the service. Let him tell you how he came to the light."

  I shrugged. I probably would talk to Ray. How could he violate his sworn oath to uphold, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States?

  "You have a question, Jim?"

  "No," I said.

  "Don't be a liar, Jim. You have a lot of questions. Listen to me. All we have-the only thing we have-is our language. If you use the language with precision, you'll be astonished at the results you can produce. If you use the language for imprecision-to hide behind, to befuddle, to confuse, to justify, rationalize, or excuse-then what will happen will be frustration and upset and hurt, for yourself as well as everybody around you. Of all the ways to misuse the language, lying is the most obscene misuse of all." He looked at me with intense blue eyes. His expression was very hard and very cold. There was no place to hide from that look. "Please, don't ever lie to me again."

  I didn't answer. I forced myself to meet his gaze.

  "Don't worry about hurting my feelings, Jim. I don't have any. If you have anything at all to say to me, ever, then all I ask is that you tell me the truth."

  I nodded. "All right."

  "So, what's your question?" he probed.

  I looked around, I looked at my shoes, I looked back at Falstaff, I looked back to Jason. I shook my head. "I don't like being held prisoner. "

  "You'ro not a prisoner. You're a guest."

  "If I'm a guest, then I should be able to leave whenever I want, shouldn't I? What would happen if I just started walking away from here? What would Falstaff do?"

  "Try it and see," said Jason. "Go ahead." He pointed toward the road. "Go on."

  "Okay," I said. "Come on, Falstaff. Let's go to the road."

  Falstaff said, "Browr, " and followed me. His body humped and flowed.

  We got halfway up the sloping dirt drive when Falstaff decided that was far enough.

  "Nrrrt," he warned.

  I kept walking.

  "Nrrrr-Rrrrt," he warned me again.

  I glanced back at Delandro. He was watching with an amused smile. He waved. I waved back and kept walking.

  Falstaff said, "Brrrrattt," and flowed up beside me. One of his long gangling arms unfolded from his body, reached up and over toward me. The claw at the end of it came down and clamped gently, but firmly, around my shoulder. Still being gentle, Falstaff turned me around to face him.

  He held me before him. I could have reached out and touched his face. He cocked his eyes, one up, one down, in a half-familiar, lost-Muppet expression. It would have been ludicrous if it hadn't been so terrifying.

  He said, "Nrrr-Rrr-Rrrt."

  I didn't understand the phrase, but I sure understood the tone. He was telling me no.

  He slid his claw-hand down my shoulder. I thought it would feel cold and metallic, but it didn't. His hand felt like the soft pads of a dog's foot; a little rough and leathery, but warm.

  I said, "I got it, Falstaff. Thank you."

  I reached up to my arm and took his claw-hand in mine. He let me. I looked in his eyes, then I looked at his paw. It was a remarkable piece of biological machinery. I touched the soft part of it with my finger. There was pink fur growing between the pads, just like on a dog's paw. I spread two of the pads and looked at the dark flesh between. It was smooth. Falstaff giggled.

  At least it sounded like a giggle.

  "I beg your pardon?" I said. I looked at him. His eyes were huge and black and remarkably patient. He was a fascinating creature. If I had ever doubted it, there was no question about it now; the Chtorran gastropedes were far more intelligent than any of us had given them credit for. The best guess of the scientists at Denver was that the gastropedes ranked just above apes or baboons or dolphins. I suspected we'd been underestimating them. Again.

  Falstaff took my hand then. He turned it over between his two claw-hands and examined the pads of my palm the same way I had examined his. He stroked the sensitive part of my palm with a touch as gentle as a feather-and I giggled at the softness of it.

  I almost wanted to hug him. He smelled spicy.

  And then the moment was over and I realized I was playing handsy-footsy with a half ton of man-eating worm, and I pulled back. "Come on," I said. "Let's go back."

  Falstaff burped and purred and followed me.

  At the bottom of the hill, Delandro was smiling proudly. "You did good, Jim. The very first step is the hardest, but it's the most necessary. You have to stop seeing the worms as your enemy."

  I said, "And see them instead as my jailers?"

  "Oh, no. Falstaff stopped you for your own protection. There are wild worms out there. They don't know that you're friendly. They'd kill you. Falstaff would let you go if he thought you'd be safe, but he knows you're not. His job-and Orson's too-is to protect the camp from marauders. You're our guest, so that protection includes you. You should talk to him more often, Jim, like you just did. Tell him thank you. He likes it. Good job, Falstaff. "

  Delandro turned to the worm. "Gimme five," he said, and held out his hand. Falstaff slapped it gently with his right claw. Delandro laughed and hugged him fondly. He began scratching the beast vigorously just ahead of his brain-bump. Falstaff arched his back and made a rumbling sound.

  "Go ahead, Jim, he loves to be skritched. Try it." He stepped out of the way.

  I stepped up beside
Falstaff. He looked as big as a horse. I began scratching his back gently. One of the claw-hands unfolded then, took my hand and moved it forward, just to the base of the eyestalks.

  "He's showing you where he likes it," Delandro said. "He likes you, Jim."

  "I'm-uh, flattered." I started scratching again.

  "Harder. You can't hurt him: He likes it hard."

  I was skritching Falstaff as hard as I could. He rumbled and burped. I recognized the sound as one of pleasure. Falstaff's flesh was thick and firm and felt like corded muscle. I began working my way up the eyestalks. The skin here was a loose furry envelope enclosing the two eyestalks-thus the silly hand-puppet effect of the eyes as they swiveled back and forth. I could feet the thick cartilage and supportive musculature like a framework beneath the skin. Both of the eyestalks were enclosed in this warm pillowcase of fur. There was an almost sexual feeling to the strength and stiffness of them, the way they were enclosed in this silky wrap.

  One of Falstaff's eyes turned sideways and looked straight down at my hand. I had the feeling he approved. The eye turned and looked at me, studying-memorizing my face. Falstaff's arm unfolded and wrapped around my shoulders. It rested there while I skritched.

  "All right, Falstaff!" Delandro slapped his flank. "That's enough; next you'll be wanting to climb into his bed, and I don't think he's ready for that yet." Falstaff unwrapped himself from me and pulled himself back to form a big pink meat loaf. He said something that sounded like "Barrruuupp."

  "He likes you, Jim. You should be complimented."

  "I am," I gulped. "I'm hysterical with joy. Or something."

  "I know," Delandro said. "It's confronting at first. There's a lot of beliefs you have that you don't want to give up. You've got a lot of survival invested in those beliefs. It's not easy to discover that everything you know is wrong."

  "Well, if somebody had told me that it's possible to play huggy-face, kissy-body with a Chtorran I sure wouldn't have believed it. I don't know how I could tell this to anyone else who hasn't seen it and have them believe me."

  Delandro nodded. He put his arm around my shoulders then and began to lead me down toward a sheltered clearing. Falstaff huffed and puffed and followed us. "Jim," he said. "I know that a lot of what we do here is confusing to you. Because you're trying to filter it through a belief system that doesn't allow for the possibilities you're actually seeing. Look, I want you to understand just one thing." He stopped and looked into my eyes. His gaze was direct and penetrating. I felt impaled. "What happens out there-in what we call the real world-that's ordinary. People live ordinary lives. And what they call communication-that's like two TV sets yammering at each other. Both are making noise, but neither is hearing what the other is saying. What we're up to here is functioning on the extraordinary level. Do you know that results are produced only by functioning on the extraordinary level?"

  "No, I don't know that."

  "You go through life, from day to day to day, and you live your life in an ordinary way. Will you produce results? No. You'll just get older. But if you take a stand, if you commit yourself, if you create a context out of which to operate, then results are inevitable. That's the extraordinary level, a level that most people hardly ever reach, except in rare moments of anger and even rarer moments of joyousness that some people call love. What we're up to here is keeping ourselves committed to the deliberate and continuous creation of the joyousness of life. That's the level out of which extraordinary results are produced."

  He was incredibly sincere. I couldn't hold onto my anger and hostility in the face of such sincerity.

  "I guess . . . I don't know," I said.

  He looked delighted. "That's good. Because that's honest. Most people don't admit it when they don't know. They make something up instead. You just crashed that program. Listen, here's what you need to know. You're already functioning at the extraordinary level. Ordinary people don't have this kind of conversation. Ordinary people don't talk about extraordinary experiences-so even talking about it is an extraordinary experience."

  I was beginning to see what he meant. And something else. I was beginning to realize that I was going to have to become a part of this group if I wanted to learn the secrets they knew about the Chtorrans.

  Jason must have seen the shift on my face, for he said, "Jim, I've been waiting for you for a long time. I didn't know who you'd be when you showed up, but I knew I'd recognize you when you did. I'm so glad that you're here now. You can make an incredible contribution here. I know it takes time to give up that filter of beliefs. I can wait. Time is on our side, the side of the new gods. Here's what you need to know. You're responsible for yourself. Nobody else. You probably learned that in Global Ethics, right?"

  "Right. "

  "You believe that, don't you?"

  I shrugged. "Sure."

  "Of course. Here, Jim, we don't believe it. We simply experience it. There's a difference between belief and experience. You'll see. Once you can experience your own responsibilitythat you are the source of everything that happens in your experience-then you will begin to demand results from yourself. Incredible results.

  "That's what's happening here. We've upped the ante on ourselves. We've increased the gradient. We've made the challenge harder, so that the satisfaction can be that much more profound. When you can begin to recognize that what you believe is irrelevant, that the universe doesn't care what you believe, then you have the opportunity to put aside those beliefs and actually begin to live out of your natural ability to experience living. You see, belief---0f any kind-is a lie. It's like an out-of-date road map. And using your beliefs as a set of rules by which to operate is like insisting that the road map is still true, even when the road is no longer there."

  "What if the road is still there?" I asked.

  He grinned. "You know the answer to that one already. The map is not the territory." He put his hands on my shoulders. "I have an invitation for you. Every evening, we have a circle. Sometimes it's a seminar, where we go over data. Sometimes we play games or do exercises or processes. Sometimes we share ourselves. All of these circles have only one purpose: to keep us functioning at the extraordinary level. I'd like to invite you to join the circle tonight."

  My natural reaction was to resist. I could feel my body beginning to stiffen under his grip. Jason didn't seem to notice. He kept looking into my eyes. It was as intense as if he were making love to me. And in fact, I wondered if . . .

  "Do you want to join us?" he asked.

  I hesitated. "I'm a little scared."

  "Uh-huh. You have fear. What's underneath that?"

  "I don't think I can trust you."

  "Thanks for being honest. Anything else?" I might have told him he had two eyes for all the reaction he showed. He didn't seem to react to anything. It was as if all of his instinctive reactions had been somehow disconnected. It was almost mechanical, the way he maintained that unfailing good nature. It was annoying. And it was terrifying.

  "You're-too smooth."

  "Uh-huh. Good. Thanks for acknowledging that too. Anything else?"

  "I've seen what Chtorrans can do."

  "The wild ones?"

  "Yeah."

  "So you have a belief about what all Chtorrans will do, right?"

  "Uh, yes. I'm scared of the Chtorrans. I hate them."

  "Yes, I know. Anything else?"

  "No. I think that's it."

  "Good: Thank you. Do you want to join the circle tonight?"

  "I thought I just told you all my reasons why not."

  "Yes, you did. You told me all your reasons. Now, listen carefully. I'm not asking you if you will join us. I'm asking you if-in addition to having all those reasons, all those fears and considerations-you also have a curiosity or a desire to participate? You still don't have to, but I want to know how you feel about it. Do you want to?"

  "Uh, yes; I'm curious:"

  "Good. Curiosity is interest. It's the mildest form of want."

 
"Oh. So, you're saying I sort of want to?"

  "No, you said it. Tell the truth. Do you want to?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. So there's your choice: You can sit in your room tonight and practice all your reasons, all your fears, all your considerations, all your excuses, all your explanations, all your beliefs, all your rationalizations, all your justifications, and play patty-cake with all that bullshit until you bore yourself to death. Or you can get off your ass and come down to the circle-which is what you want to do anyway-and find out the truth."

  "Do I have to answer now?"

  "No. I'll know your answer when you show up. Or not. Let me just give you this one question to consider. What's the worst that can happen?"

  "I could die."

  "You could die anyway, and your curiosity still wouldn't be answered, would it?"

  "Yeah." I had to laugh. He might be a scoundrel, but he was a charming one.

  He said, "I know you still have the thought that I'm some kind of a cult leader, some kind of a Manson, don't you?"

  I admitted it with a nod.

  "You think that underneath all my wonderfulness, I'm really a monster, right?"

  It was hard to look at him. He glowed. "Uh, right," I admitted.

  "Let me tell you the truth, Jim." There was an honesty in his voice that was undeniable. "I am a monster. By any human standards. I don't fit into any of those old belief systems, so you can't help but see me as something inhuman. I'm a threat-not t0 you, but to what you believe. Your mind has so much identity invested in the belief system that it has to destroy any threat to that system. That's me. I am that monster. And I know it.

  "Do you know what makes me a monster? The fact that I'm committed to excellence. Most of the people on this planet are still committed to survival. They'll do anything to survive. That's what's monstrous: the things that people do to survive. There's a dreadful conspiracy for mediocrity in the world; the unwritten agreement is that mere survival is enough. But it's not enough, Jim. It's insufficient. I'm committed to excellence. I'm committed to human godliness.

  "Jim-look at me. Can you honestly tell me that in the world you were living in yesterday, you were surrounded by people who were committed to the next step in human evolution? Or were they simply committed to survival? Come on, Jim; don't fade out on me. Is your experience of the United States Army that they are committed to human godliness?"