A Rage for Revenge watc-3

by David Gerrold

  On impulse, I entered my own code. This time the hesitation was longer. Abruptly: CALL HOME. UNCLE IRA MISSES YOU. And then, just as abruptly, the screen cleared again. "What the hell?"

  Falstaff Chtrpled. "Never mind," I said.

  I had an idea. I punched in Duke's code; the one he'd given me a year ago. The terminal hiccuped and reported: READY.

  I blinked. Oh, really? The army still thought Duke was alive? Never mind. I'd figure it out later. I slid a blank memory-card into the reader and started typing out a long list of dump commands.

  The reader light blinked on. The card was recording. This would take a minute.

  I turned around and looked at the wall. We the people of the United States . . . It was an agreement.

  I remembered Whitlaw. "You don't get to vote on this agreement. You already did." I never understood what he meant. Until now. This was the agreement here-whether I acknowledged it or not.

  I'd broken this agreement. I'd promised to uphold it.

  My mind said, "Jason forced you to break the agreement. You don't owe him anything."

  And I replied; "But I can't use the breaking of one agreement to justify breaking another one. Jason loves me!"

  My eye fell on Article XIII. Neither slavery nor involuntary servitude . . . shall exist within the United States. . . .

  But I'd made my own choice. I wanted to serve Jason.

  Or did I?

  I knew how we all supported each other. You didn't get a choice. You got pushed to the extraordinary level whether you wanted to be there or not.

  I looked at Falstaff. He goggled his eyes at me. He didn't understand. He saw marks on the wall.

  I couldn't help myself. I moved to the wall and touched it. This meant something.

  I knew something about this wall. My fingers moved across it, touching here, here, and here . . .

  The wall slid sideways, revealing a narrow passage.

  Falstaff chirped curiously. He didn't know that this passage wasn't supposed to be here.

  I stepped into the passage. The wall closed behind me.

  I heard Faistaff's surprised chirp. I heard him slide up to the wall, snuffling through his mouth. "Chirrup?" he asked.

  The domes were decoys. The real base was hidden underground.

  If I could find the main control, I could open the hidden ramp. We could move the trucks and the Chtorrans down here, and when the choppers came, they'd see only the evidence of a hit-and-run raid.

  I climbed down the ladder to the underground level. The lights came on as I dropped the last few feet. The room was large and high-ceilinged. This was no tiny base. This was a major supply depot for the area.

  There were tanks and Jeeps and trucks, at least a dozen of each. There were six choppers. There were large containers of fuel against one wall. There were row after row after row of shelves, filled with weapons and ammunition and food and clothing and blankets and medical supplies and tents and canteens and missiles and silverware and knives and bandages and. . . .

  You could outfit a small city with the supplies in this base. We were rich.

  This was exactly what Jason was looking for.

  Above me, I could hear his voice, "Jim?" He had entered the dome. He was calling me. "Jim?"

  I hesitated at the base of the ladder. Where was my loyalty anyway? What was my life about?

  I could feel the indecision like a physical thing in my body-a brick in my throat.

  I ran for the main console and punched it to life-tried to punch it to life. The terminal asked, "Authorization code, please?"

  "Uh-" I punched in Colonel Buffoon's number.

  "Sorry, invalid code. Authorization code, please?"

  Through a speaker, I could hear the sounds of the camp above. I could hear Jason's voice calling, "Jim! Come on, Jim! The clock is running out! We've got to go!" He was using the bullhorn. "Come on, you slimy motherfucker!"

  I punched in Duke's number. The terminal rejected it.

  I tried my own Special Forces code. I didn't expect it to work, and it didn't.

  All I had to do was get that door open. But why?

  Why did I want that door open?

  For Jason, of course.

  But why?

  I had another notion. A stupid one, but I tried it anyway. I typed, "Uncle Ira."

  The terminal flashed. "Authorization accepted." All I had to do now was open the ramp.

  I thought of puppies. And Jessie's baby. And my ape mind. And Jason had said that we were the food of the gods.

  I didn't want to be food. I wanted to survive.

  I could hear Jason talking to me. "Don't buy into your programming-that's what keeps you from being a god."

  "Oh, God-" I choked on my words and collapsed in front of the console, crying. "Why me?" I curled up in a ball, sobbing hysterically. "No-goddammit. No, no, no, no, no!"

  "Jim! If you don't come out, you'll regret it bitterly! Jim! If you can hear me, come out now! Jim! You have thirty seconds, or I'll have Falstaff rip your arms off!"

  "You bastard! You lying bastard!" I stood up and faced the console. I picked up the microphone and punched for Oakland Air Base. "This is Major Duke Anderson," I said. "Priority message. Supply depot CA-145 has been attacked by renegades. Their main base of operations is . . ." I hesitated only a second, then gave the exact aerial-coordinates. I described the camp in detail, and its armaments. I knew how long it would take the trucks to get back there. "Recommend an air strike at eighteen-thirty hours tonight!"

  "Who is this?" a harsh male voice cut in. "How do you know this?"

  I cut the connection.

  I heard the sound of trucks above.

  I waited. A few moments more and I heard choppers.

  I wondered if they'd gotten away.

  It didn't matter.

  I sat down in the chair and stared at the console. I reached out and switched it off.

  I'd betrayed my country, and I'd betrayed my family. Who else was left for me to betray?

  All I wanted now was to sit here and die. I wouldn't, of course.

  I'd been too well trained. But that was what I wanted.

  The punctual Cynthia Rolen

  missed a period, (or it was stolen)

  She looked up her ass

  with a tube made of glass,

  but found only her own semi-colon;

  27

  Anger

  "Death is the best part of life. That's why they save it for last."

  -SOLOMON SHORT

  "I did not lie to you," Foreman said quietly to me. "I did not mislead you."

  He had one hand on my shoulder and he was looking straight into my eyes and I wanted to believe him more than anything else. I wanted to believe him as much as I had wanted to believe Jason Delandro.

  I didn't answer.

  "James-if I ask you to trust me, I know you'll be hearing echoes of Jason Delandro. So I won't ask you to trust me. I know that everything that's happening in here looks like a betrayal of the trust you've already given."

  I lowered my eyes and tried to figure this out. "This isn't fair," I said.

  "Yes, it is," Foreman answered. "If you were sitting out there, knowing that the worst that was going to happen to you was that you would have to watch someone else get his brains blown out, you'd think this was fair. The only person who ever says that this isn't fair is the one who wins the toss."

  "So, fuck you. So it's fair-so what?"

  "That's right. So what? You're going to die. This process is going to continue until you die. So what?"

  "What am I going to do about it? Is that what you're asking me?"

  "No." Foreman shook his head. "I'm asking you, 'So, what?' Hang out with it for a while. 'So, what?"'

  "It's not going to change anything though, right?"

  "There's nothing to change, Jim. The process continues until you die. I can't change that. Once the process begins there is no way to stop it. So, all I can do is ask you to be willing to go throu
gh the process. Are you?"

  "I'm here."

  "No. Your body is here. Your mind is still raging. You passed through denial quicker than most; but, knowing your background, I can see why. Now, you're in anger. And you'll stay in anger until you're through being angry." Foreman's voice was low and careful and patient. "That's fine with me, Jim. You should be angry now. It's normal. It's healthy. It's even right. The point is that there's something that has to happen before the process can end-and that something is that you have to be willing for the process to happen."

  "Why? So you can alleviate your guilt?"

  "No." It was odd, but Foreman was totally detached from my anger. He didn't react to it at all; he responded to my words, but his emotional tone was dispassionate. "Guilt is not an issue with me. This process isn't about me. It's about you-and when you see that, then you'll also begin to see how appropriate it was that you won the toss. I think you see the irony in it already."

  "Irony is not the word I would use," I said. "This is not my idea of a good time. "

  Foreman put his hand firmly on my shoulder again. "James, stick with the process."

  I don't know why I did, but I nodded. I guess I wanted to see how it ended.

  I guess I still wanted to trust someone. Anyone.

  Foreman turned to the rest of the trainees in the room. "Who else is angry?" he asked. "Stand up if you're angry."

  More than half the room stood up. Foreman waited.

  While he waited, a few more people rose. And then a few more. And a few more after that. They just kept on standing.

  "All right, let's see how fast we can work this through," he said. "Here are the instructions. Without leaving your seats, I want you to tell me how angry you are. Just shout it out. All at once. Let's hear your anger about death. Not just Jim's death-most of you will get over that so quickly it'll be embarrassing for you and insulting for McCarthy-but for your own deaths. Let's hear it. How angry are you about your own deaths?"

  They started slowly. Some were muttering. Some were screaming. Some were raging. Several started calling out curses.

  I looked up. I looked out over the room and noticed that there were assistants stationed in the aisles to keep the trainees from hurting themselves, or each other.

  Many of them were furious now and unafraid to let it show. Some of them yelled and screamed; others wore hate stares hard enough to blister the paint on the walls. Several were stamping their feet. I noticed a couple banging their chairs up and down, until the assistants came over and made them stop.

  "Just scream it out," coached Foreman. "You don't need any props. Just scream out how angry you are."

  It sounded like Auschwitz. It sounded like Hiroshima. It sounded like Show-Low.

  It sounded like hell. The anger. The anguish.

  "I don't want to die!" from all those throats at once, over and over and over and . . .

  . . . then it was over. And nothing had changed. The process will continue until McCarthy is dead. "McCarthy, what are you angry about?"

  I told him. "Why do you have to draw this out into one long incredibly annoying drama? Why not just shoot me and get it over with?"

  "Because, as tempting as that may be, that's not the way the process is done. First, there was denial; we've done that. Now, we're doing anger, and after anger. . . ."

  After anger, came boredom.

  I was bored with being angry. I was bored with Foreman. I was bored with Mode. And I was tired of having my life threatened. "Let's cut to the chase," I said, letting my annoyance show. "What do you really want of me?"

  "Nothing, Jim. Nothing at all."

  "No, maybe I didn't make myself clear, Dr. Foreman. There's something you want me to realize, something you want me to say

  "No. However you do this process is up to you. The way you do The Survival Process is the way you do The Survival Process. You do it until you're through doing. The process continues . . . "

  "-until I'm dead." I finished the sentence for him. "I got all that. But after all the other head games you've played on us, I'd be pretty stupid not to expect another one of your stupid tricks here."

  "They aren't stupid tricks, Jim-they're exercises, designed to bring you through the experience of how your mind works. The purpose is to have you become conscious of the operating modes of the mind, so that you can move beyond your present condition of operating in an unconscious mode to one in which you can create truly appropriate operating modes."

  "Huh"

  "Let me say it again. The purpose of The Mode Training is to have you become conscious of the operating modes of the mind. That's all. You can't change the operating modes. The best you can hope for is to notice when you're in a mode. That, at least, allows you to own it-to be the source of it, to be responsible for it. "

  "Okay, I got that."

  "Good. Operating in the domain of ownership will allow you to create new modes, as necessary. Right now, you can only operate in your unconscious modes, all those modes you've been programming into your head for the last three billion years. Only when you start to become aware of the modus operandi of your mind can you start creating new modes. That's the mode that the training is about: the mode of no modes at all; the mode that allows you to create modes."

  I thought about that for a while. Foreman waited patiently. "So, how do I do that if I'm dead? Wouldn't it make a lot more sense to keep me alive?"

  Foreman turned to the rest of the trainees. "I thought so. We have now achieved a new state. Bargaining. Negotiation. 'Don't take me. Take my mother. She's old. She's useless. Take anyone but me. Take a lawyer."' Foreman gave me a look. "Sorry, but Hell has a full quota of lawyers already."

  "This doesn't make sense. Why should I get enlightened if I'm only going to die?"

  "Why not? Why die stupid?" Foreman laughed. "Why do anything at all if you know you're going to die? It doesn't matter, Jim. Bargain all you want. The Survival Process continues until you're dead."

  Foreman sat down in his chair and stared at me. "Are you getting any of this yet?" he asked.

  "No;" I admitted. "How much longer does this go on?"

  "Until you're dead, Jim. Until you're dead."

  A short-organed fellow named Kevin

  used a vacuum to stretch it to seven. then to eight and to nine,

  and though ten was divine,

  there will be film at eleven.[3]

  28

  Inferno and Brainstorm

  "When you pass the buck, don't ask for change."

  -SOLOMON SHORT

  After a while, I got up. I walked down to the far end of the hangar and found a Jeep. I powered it up and began driving slowly up and down the aisles, loading it with supplies.

  I issued myself a new uniform, new underwear, a new helmet. I gave myself a new torch, a set of grenades and a launcher, three AM-280's and a case of ammunition. I took three weeks' worth of food, a first-aid kit, three canteens, and two gallons of distilled water. It was Christmas. New binoculars.

  New dog tags. New ID's. I stopped at the security console and invented six new identities. All the way from Lieutenant to General. I doubted I'd ever use the General, but it would be nice for clearances. I gave myself clearances. I wondered how much of this stuff would actually work. I made a new set of ID's for Duke, but with my picture. There were a lot of valuable things I'd learned in Special Forces.

  I had to get out of here quickly. There would be a recon team dropping in here any minute.

  I looked through the security cameras: There were no choppers around. No trucks. No worms.

  I opened the ramp and drove like hell.

  I drove in the opposite direction of Jason and his goddamned Revelationists, and the tears began streaming down my face.

  I was confused, I didn't know what to believe and I hated the entire human race!

  I wanted to be safe again. I wanted to go home. And there was no safe place, no place on the planet. I was dead. I might as well be.

  I wante
d my mind to stop chattering in my head. I wanted absolution.

  Finally, I drove the Jeep into someone's living room, crashing through the picture window, taking out half a wall and crunching furniture on both sides.

  I fell out of the Jeep onto the torn-up carpet and sobbed into the floor. Why was I so crazy? Why was I crying? Jason was right. Jason was wrong. I was crazy.

  I pried open the medical kit and hypoed myself into insensitivity.

  I did that for three days, I kept myself sedated and zombied. I hardly moved. I lay in my sleeping bag and shivered and wept and trembled in fear. I knew they had followed me. I knew they were looking for me. I knew they would find me. I knew I was dead.

  I forced myself to eat. I turned on the radio and listened to the news. The election returns were coming in slow, but the president was going to be reelected. There'd been a satellite receiving station failure. No details. The army had wiped out a major infestation of renegades in California. The red sludge had reached the coast of Virginia. The puffball clouds in Texas were easing up, but local air traffic would not be resumed for at least a week. The Zimmerman child had been found alive.

  I listened to music. Beethoven. The fifth symphony. The sixth. The seventh. Brahms. The first symphony. Mozart. A Little Night Music. Dvorak. The New World Symphony. Bach. Toccata and Fugue in D minor. All the familiar pieces that would bring me back. '

  I tutned on the TV and watched I Love Lucy reruns. I remembered the episodes as if I'd never seen them before. "I know this one . . ." And then I'd watch to see how it turned out. I forced myself to wallow in the world I'd rejected.

  I powered up the terminal. There were games here. Inferno and Brainstorm. I knew these games. My father had written them. You couldn't lose in Inferno-because you had already lost. The game started when you died and went to hell. You had to find your way out. It was filled with devilish traps.

  Brainstorm took place inside the human brain. You had to find the room with the secrets of the mind. There was a key here; you could use it to unlock the monsters from the id. It had been a game filled with old jokes and startling surprises. My dad's games were usually very serious, but this one had been written for outright silliness. If you weren't careful in your choices, the program gave you a prefrontal lobotomy, and then all the judgment circuits switched off. The program wouldn't give you any help at all in your decision making.