A Rage for Revenge watc-3

by David Gerrold

Probably both.

  Whatever. It made me too crazy to die. I had to keep going.

  There was a young man from St. Lutz,

  who had a remarkable putz.

  It would sniff; it would hunt,

  for it only liked cunt.

  Absolutely no lips, hands, or butts.

  55

  The Chopper

  "Of course, kick a man when he's down. It's the best time. If you're not willing to kick him when he's down, then don't kick him when he's up either."

  -SOLOMON SHORT

  The radar beeped.

  The screen said, "CHOPPER AT 6:00 HIGH."

  I stretched over and tapped the button marked "ID?" The screen said, "NEGATIVE."

  I tapped the button again.

  This time, the screen said, "HUEY VALKYRIE 111. STEALTH RETROFIT." Then it added, "UNITED STATES INSIGNIA."

  "Uh-huh. That doesn't mean anything any more." Without taking my eyes off the road, I tapped the button again.

  The screen said, "CHOPPER IS HEAVILY ARMED." It began to list the aircraft's armament.

  I tapped another button and the screen cleared to show the chopper itself. The image was jittery at first due to the motion of the van, then the logic switched in; the screen grabbed clear frames and held them for four-second intervals. Someone had painted a fierce grin on the nose of that ship.

  "Well, whoever you are up there, I'm not going to argue with you. You're packing enough artillery to level Detroit." She carried a full load under each arm. She looked like a maddened harpy.

  But just the same, I unlocked the laser guns and powered up the antiaircraft missiles.

  The computer said softly, "We're being scanned. Shall we identify ourselves?"

  "Don't bother. Either they know who we are, or they don't care." Then I added, "And they probably wouldn't believe our ID any more than we'd believe theirs. But thanks anyway."

  "You're welcome."

  I looked at the screen again. The chopper would be on top of us any moment now. I let go of the steering wheel. "Take control!" and slid out of my seat. The computer locked in. I climbed for the turret. "Unlock all weapons. Stand by for evasive action." The chopper roared low overhead even before I had finished belting myself in.

  It came in at treetop level. I could see the rocket launchers on its belly. I could read the numbers on the fins of the missiles. "Jee-zus!"

  The chopper had buzzed us like a hornet-like a hawk! The van rocked with the force of its passage. The noise was like the inside of a garbage disposal.

  It pulled up into the air ahead, turning as it did, sliding backward in the air while the pilot got his bearings. I knew when he had sighted me again because he dipped and drove straight toward the van.

  "Show-off!" I yelled.

  Again the chopper came in low, strafing like a banshee. For a moment I thought it wasn't going to clear-I had my hands to my ears-and then it was past and pulling up and . . . the road behind the van exploded with a roar! The air turned red! The van skidded sideways on the pavement, sliding before the shock wave! The computer grabbed control again and we swerved around a rocky curve. The tires screeched. I just had time enough to look behind and see the fireball. It was the size of a hangar, a blimp, a mountain, and still growing as it climbed into the air! What was that chopper armed with? That warhead must have had phosphorus in it. Bright fiery streaks were still coming out of the explosion, igniting fires all over the woods.

  "Holy shit!"

  "Missiles locked on target," said the computer. "Return fire?"

  "No!" I shouted. I slapped the safeties down, locking them into place before I dropped out of the turret. I pulled myself back into the driver's seat. "I'm taking over," I said.

  "Not advised," the computer said. "You don't have the reflexes."

  "Stuff it!"

  I stood on the brake pedal as we came around another curve and into a long straightaway down a hill. I could hear the sound of the chopper coming in behind us. Then it was overhead, and then it was climbing again ahead of us. Something fell from its belly.

  I just had time to close my eyes before the blast went off, but even through my eyelids I was blinded. I could feel the heat through the windshield. The van was lifted off the ground by the shock wave. I could feel the bang of the chassis as we crashed back into the ground and skidded backward with a screech. The wheels were still locked.

  All the alarm bells in the van were ringing. All the sirens were screaming. All the buttons were beeping. All the screens were flashing. "Damage report," said the computer. "Damage report," it repeated. "Damage report. Damage report."

  I heard it all from a distance, from a thousand miles away. There was a roaring in my ears that wouldn't quit. I worked my mouth convulsively. I couldn't swallow. I felt nauseous. My throat kept tightening and I kept trying to throw up-but I couldn't.

  Then the computer said, "Autocontrol locked in!" And the van lurched. Amazing! We were still operative! We were rolling backward. Away from the climbing fireball.

  I blinked the tears from my eyes, wiped at my face with my sleeve. It looked like the windshield was scorched and even melted inward a little.

  The van was still rolling backward; it went bump and banged into something. It stopped. It hesitated. Then it began rolling forward again. Toward the fire!

  I slapped the panic button and shouted, "All stop!" The van clattered to a halt. Something underneath went bang and the van hissed and sighed and fell silent. I could hear my heart banging in my chest. I practically fell out of my seat. I kicked the door open and fell out onto the ground, gasping.

  The chopper was just settling down onto the highway about twenty meters away, its blades stropping the air slowly.

  I wanted to punch that pilot's lights out. And I would-as soon as I could stand up again.

  The door to the bird popped open and a trim figure in flight suit and helmet dropped out. "Are you all right?" She was running toward me with a first-aid kit.

  "No!" I said. I wished I was wearing my gun.

  "Where are you hurt?"

  "I can't breathe!" I choked out. "I can't see! I can't hear! I can't move-" I started to get up, but she pushed me back down with a gentle tap on my chest. She touched a hypo to my arm. It buzzed softly. "What was that?"

  "Preventive maintenance." She peeled back my eyelid and shined a light into my pupil. "You're okay. Stay put for a minute. Anyone else in the van?" She was already heading for it, unholstering her pistol just in case.

  She disappeared into the vehicle, then reappeared with her pistol reholstered and carrying the van's log cartridge and my duffel bag. "Can you walk as far as the chopper?"

  My knees were still weak, but I could manage. I felt a little dizzy. "Wait a minute!"

  "Jim! Stop being an asshole." She pushed up her face plate.

  "Lizard!"

  "Colonel Tirelli to you!" She was angry. Her face was flushed. "You're still a commissioned officer in the United States Special Forces, remember?"

  "I'm dead. I resigned."

  "You can't resign. It's a lifetime job. You're being recalled to active duty-"

  "Like hell I am!"

  "-or a firing squad," she said. "I came to get you, one way or the other. Your case is closed. It isn't a matter for discussion. I'm not going home empty-handed."

  I reached over and took my duffel from her. "Wait a minute. It's in here somewhere. Ah, there it is." I pulled out my own gun and pointed it at her belly. She didn't blink.

  "Colonel, you're a beautiful woman. And sensible. So why don't you get back into your bird and fly away nice and we'll both forget this whole thing happened. Okay?"

  She took a breath. She said calmly, "Cute, Jim. Very cute."

  "I mean it!" I said, waving the pistol. I wondered if I really did.

  "You won't get far."

  "I'll take my chances!"

  "I've blown up the road ahead of you and behind you. You've got maybe a quarter-mile of concrete stretched between two crater
s. By the way, those craters will be burning for three days."

  "Then I'll walk! I'll still be in better company!" This was stupid. I shoved the gun into my belt, hefted my duffel, and started to push past her.

  "Jim, you'd better hear this-"

  "Not interested," I said, still walking. Both my legs hurt, but I wasn't going to let her know.

  Something in the woods chirruped purple. It wasn't far. It sounded too loud.

  "It's the explosions," said Lizard. "They've come to see if there are bodies."

  "I thought worms didn't scavenge."

  "They do now. They're demonstrating a whole new range of behaviors." She added, "I thought you'd like to know."

  "No," I said stubbornly. "I wouldn't."

  The thing in the woods chirruped again. It was getting closer. There was a torch in the van. I wondered if I had time.

  "Better get to the chopper," she said. She wasn't moving either. She was waiting for me.

  I looked at the chopper, at her, at the van, at the tower of smoke just down the road and its twin behind us. I looked at the forest. "Shit, " I said. "That's what I love about the Special Forces. All the exciting opportunities!" We ran for the chopper.

  Lizard grabbed my duffel and tossed it in ahead of me; then she had to help me up the ramp. I fell into the first empty seat. Lizard didn't even wait for the door to finish closing. We popped up into the air just as the first worm slid out of the trees. She peered forward over her console to look down at it, and at the two more which came right after. They were raised up and waving their arms at us. "Just babies," she remarked, and touched a button on her board. Something went Ka-whump! and the ground beneath us turned scarlet. I didn't bother to look.

  She swung the chopper around then, pointed it at the van. We hung in the air like a question mark. "Did you get everything you wanted out of that van?"

  "Yeah, why?"

  "I'm gonna blow it. Wanna watch?"

  I staggered to my feet. "What for?"

  "It's too well armed to leave sitting around." She was checking something on her board. "You don't travel light, do you? I guess we trained you a little too well." She touched the red button. The van exploded as if it had been stuffed with dynamite. Then, the secondary explosions began.

  "Your armaments," Lizard noted. She swung the chopper away quickly. She pulled us up into the sky and turned into the west.

  "Hey! I thought we were going to Denver!"

  "We are! There's something I want to show you first. Come sit up here!" She thumped the seat beside her.

  I levered myself into it. She was punching something up on the main screen. It was centered so both pilot and copilot could see it easily. "There," she said. It was a terrain map. "We're here-" She pointed. "That red mark is where we left the van. Got that? Good." She touched the bottom of the screen and the image began expanding to include the surrounding terrain. The original screen was a square of lighter color in the center. It shrank steadily as the map kept expanding. When it stopped, Lizard said, "There, that's the next four hundred klicks. You want to see how infested it is?"

  "I had access to the same maps. They're on the satellite channel. "

  She smiled; it wasn't a pleasant expression. "Uh-huh. Here's what the satellite told you, right?" She tapped and tiny blotches of red appeared all over the map. "Localized pockets of infestation. Do not approach. Right?"

  "Uh, yeah. . . ."

  "And here're the areas where they say infestation may be possible. Travel only in armed convoys." She tapped again and every red blotch took on a wide pink border. Some of them overlapped. Colorado looked like a bad case of measles.

  "Now," she said, "do you want to know the truth?"

  "The truth?"

  "Your Uncle Sam is a chicken-hearted liar. He doesn't want to scare the civilians. Thinks it'll demoralize 'em. Here-this is what they're not telling you. This is a map of the known areas of infestation." She tapped and the red and pink blotches expanded to become red swathes across most of the western half of the state. "Oh, shit," I said.

  "That's what most people say. Now, let me show you the areas where we suspect infestation. And this is probably a conservative estimate. . . ." The western half of the map went pink. The eastern half was streaked.

  She pointed at the tiny square indicating where we'd left the van. "And that's where I picked you up, right in the middle of it." I started shuddering.

  "It's the mountains," she said. "We can't patrol the mountains with any certainty. Wait, you'll see."

  She looked at me. "My only question is this: how did you get as far as you did? You should have been eaten several hundred kilometers ago. God must be saving you for something awfully special." She turned back to her controls, adding, "Probably hanging."

  I didn't answer. I was still shaking. Still staring at that bright pink map. My hands were trembling in my lap. I started to cry soundlessly. I could feel the tears rolling down my cheeks. I couldn't tell if they were tears of terror or relief.

  "Oh, shit," said Lizard. "Here-" She handed me a tissue from a dashboard dispenser.

  I mopped at my face with it, till it shredded in my fingers. Lizard said, "There's beer in the cooler. Want one?"

  "No. Thanks anyway."

  "Get one for me, will you?"

  "Uh, okay." I went into the back of the ship and pulled out a can of beer for her, hesitated half a second, then pulled out one for myself. I climbed back into the copilot's seat, opened one and handed it over. I opened the second. The beer was cold. It tasted good. I'd forgotten.

  She grunted, "Thanks. You okay now?"

  "I'm fine. Considering."

  "Then don't consider. If that's what keeps you from being fine, don't do it."

  "I'm fine," I said.

  "Good. 'Cause I'll need your assistance on weapons when we get there."

  "Get where?"

  "Where we're going." She pointed to the map, to the largest, darkest red spot. "I want to show you what an infestation looks like today."

  Sally's sex life was carefully planned.

  Said she, "I prefer to be manned.

  Things that are anal,

  are always so banal,

  but things that expand are just grand."

  59

  Colonel Tirelli

  "Malpractice makes malperfect."

  -SOLOMON SHORT

  I watched the ground slide past beneath us. The countryside grew ever more rugged. The rolling hills turned into rocky crests and Lizard kept pulling the chopper higher and higher above each advancing ridge. Soon, we were swooping and swerving through steep canyons of brush and pine. The slopes were dry and brown, and close enough to touch.

  "Why are you staying so low?" I asked.

  "I don't like being tracked."

  "Tracked? Worms don't have the technology-"

  "Hmph." She just grunted.

  I didn't pursue the subject. After a moment, I said, "I suppose you want me to thank you."

  "You suppose wrong. I don't care what you do."

  "Well, you came after me."

  "No, I didn't. You were just a stopover." We lifted up to the crest of a ridge, then dropped down the opposite side. It was like riding a roller coaster. My stomach was about two loops behind. "This is what I came to do. I do this as many times a week as I can get fuel and armament."

  She said, "You still have an inflated idea of your own importance, Jim. You think we care about you. Truth is, you're not worth the fuel to make a special trip." She looked at me. "Really."

  "Then why did you bother?"

  "You had one of our vans. I was curious. Who were you? How did you get it? Where were you going with it? According to our satellite tracking, you were headed straight into the thickest worm infestation on the North American continent. We had you figured for a renegade. We almost pushed the button on you a week ago."

  "Huh? How?"

  "You have to ask?" she said. "Those vans have satellite phone links, right? Your computer was alw
ays in constant communication with the network. The network always knew where you were."

  "I thought I disconnected the links."

  "You did. But that's a military van. It just switched over to one of its backups."

  "That's not possible! I disconnected every link on the schematics."

  "That's right, you did. You got every transceiver that shows on the schematics. That's one of the reasons we thought you were a renegade, delivering arms to worms."

  I didn't notice the second part of that statement, I was still realizing the implications of the first. "Those vans have secret channels?"

  Lizard grinned at me. "Do you like secrets?"

  I shrugged. "Not particularly. All my experience with secrets is that they're a damn nuisance."

  She said, "You're right. They are." Then she asked, "Do you want to know the greatest American military secret of the past twenty years?"

  My impulse was to answer yes, then I thought about it. That took about ten seconds. I said, "I don't think so."

  "Actually, it doesn't matter," Lizard said. "Because it's not a secret any more."

  "All right, I'll bite. What isn't?"

  "This: every piece of military equipment manufactured in this country in the past twenty years has been a Trojan horse."

  "Huh?"

  "It's in the microchips. There are certain extra circuits-a piece in this chip, a piece in that chip-they look like they're supposed to do something else. Most of the time they do. Except every so often, they emit a random piece of low-level electronic noise. It's a spurious thing, nearly impossible to trace."

  "I remember reading about that. The Israelis noticed it. They said the electronics were flawed. And we acknowledged that there was a problem with spurious signals."

  "Right-except the problem wasn't the signals. It was the fact that they weren't supposed to be detectable. Those signals were coded responses to high-level electronic queries from stationary satellites. For twenty years, we've had the ability to scan the entire planet, querying the weapons we've built to let us know where they are. Not only weapons we've built, but weapons other people have built that we've supplied parts for. We've been doing it almost since the very first serial number was coded into a chip. The day that it became possible for chips to identify themselves, the technology became practical. The weapon listens for its own serial number or its category code. When it hears it, it responds within twenty-four minutes. It gives a distinct electronic beep or buzz, on one of several hundred randomly chosen microwave channels. Most receivers tune out those signals automatically. Most technicians have never even heard our noises except as static. "