You're still a passenger. Arla is running around hurling herself at random arms of the Grid, overcome by fury and frustration. Then she sort of collapses on her hands and knees and stays there for a while. She's losing a lot of blood from that wounded hand.
'This is no good,' you hear her mutter through the jungle noises in your head. 'Salvage something.You stupid f*%k!'
Arla bends over Klaski's body. She seems to have her head against Klaski's chest. You see her pick up Klaski's wrist and hold it, feeling for signs of life.
'Good CPR, Hendricks,' said Arla. 'I still have one subject. One last chance. Now for the fun part.'
And she rolls Klaski's inert body back into the well.
After a while Arla sits back and leans her head against a vertical slab of Grid. She dangles her feet over its bough, and her shadow falls not on the well below, but on the netting of fine fibers just above her and over her right shoulder. With one eye, you can see her shadow there. It's fractured and warped by the Grid. Below, the well glows and sparkles.
Your hearing is coming back, but one eye is completely obscured by being pressed against the Grid. Arla should be crushing you to a pulp, but it isn't possible for you to get any thinner than you already are. Gossamer's mouthparts emerge from their petal-like folds and attach to the Grid. If you could feel energy flowing as a sensation, then you would feel Gossamer's nerves blaze.
The batteries are charging.
'Oh, I can hear your footsteps, you thing, you Grid,' Arla whispers. 'I can hear you coming with that old-fashioned shoe sound, that grainy clicking walk, yeah like the cartoon Inspector at the beginning of the Pink Panther movies, and I can hear you striking the match. I wish I could disappear except for a couple of huge eyes.'
No, you don't, you think. It's not all it's cracked.
Arla's phrases come out one at a time. It's as if she's on the phone to someone else whose voice can't be heard.
'Oh my hand. Oh sh%*ohf?@k.' Deep inhale. 'Uhhhnnnn. I'm so loaded I'd probably jump in front of a freight train. You give me such good stuff to breathe. I feel better now. Thank you.'
A long pause. For a minute you wonder if she's gone to sleep.
'I can't save them. It wasn't my idea. Everything is your idea. No.'
You smell nitrous oxide. You wish she would be quiet. Gossamer's wound is starting to heal. Arla has botched it badly, probably on purpose, but simply by laying the tissue correctly across the butterfly gauze Lewis has gone a long way to solving that problem. The Grid feeds Gossamer enzymes and sugars.
Then Arla launches herself to her feet, staggering and almost falling because she can't use both hands to steady herself.
'You got what you wanted, you big bug!' she yells at the Grid in a rough, deep voice. 'Now where's my diamond ring? Where's my mockingbird?'
Gossamer has been ripped away from the Grid, only half-charged. But soon Arla sways, sits down again, puts her head between her knees.You hear her hissing and panting. Gossamer reattaches.
And Serge's daughters come creeping out of the Grid to watch Arla.
'I want to come into your world. Don't leave me out here.'
Hiss-pant.
Hiss-pant.
'Give me some sign. If Joanne Klaski steps out of that well, if you accept her, then you have to accept me. Right? Why else are you saving me?'
Hisssss...
'Jesus Christ, I just want some reassurance that it's the right thing, is that so much to ask?'
Arla gets up and looks in the well at Klaski. Again she turns, sticking her wrist under her opposite armpit and moaning. You see that Klaski, facedown, is sinking.
And Arla sees the girls.
'What do you want? Why don't you speak? Why are you doing this to me?'
Then the rhythm of her breathing breaks. Her voice is low and ragged.
'Not you.' This time you can't see who she's talking to. 'No, not you again.'
And you feel a thrum of hope run along the edges of Gossamer's wings, like an updraft.
When the newcomer speaks, her voice hasn't changed one bit.
'You said you wanted reassurance, Chicken Little. All that killing was a waste of time because I'm here to tell you that sure as marmots, the Grid is survivable. Now what are you gonna do?'
You can't actually see Serge because you're still facing the wrong way. You can still see the well-hole where Klaski got dumped, though. She's no longer floating on her face. She's vertical, and her arms are moving. It's like looking at a bug in a toilet bowl. At first you can't be sure if the motion of its limbs is down to the current, or if it's still alive.
But you think it's still alive.
Klaski. Of all people. Well, one thing is becoming clear.
Most things in life aren't real, they're in your head. When it comes to most things, you can give up and there won't be any big consequences. Like, personally, you always gave up diets. But for Klaski you can see that she can't think about giving up. She can't let it enter her mind. She's been close to dying all the time. You never knew what that meant, and you never thought about what that meant, and if you thought about it you probably thought it meant something profound. It doesn't. All it means is that the stuff inside you that has nothing to do with you, personally, takes over. Your ancestral stuff. Your biology. It's like a great invisible safety net holding you together. It's like a Grid in its own right.
And something lives in that net, something that you can't lay claim to with your ego, but something that also isn't just a relic from the past. There's a spark that gives you courage when you think there's nothing left.
Klaski has that.
It lets her fingers reach out and grasp the edge of the Grid. It recruits muscle fibers, takes their spindles past their default threshold of response, brings her whole body to breaking point, so that with an extreme effort she pulls her head out of the well fluid and takes a breath.
Once she's done that, there can be no possibility of giving up.
Arla sees nothing, hears nothing of Klaski's efforts because all her attention is focused on dealing with Serge.
'You did it,' Serge says. 'l know that now. I can remember it. You were there. You were in charge of the sexual-health clinic. You performed the abortion. You knew that ordinary mucus didn't affect the well, and you knew that blood cells and isolated tissues didn't catch, but you figured if a dead body makes a golem, then an embryo makes a golem. Am I right?'
'It was research. We thought we could save lives. Those embryos were going to be terminated anyway. They were already dead.'
'Only mine didn't die. It got adopted by a alien. And now you're still on the take. You're still looking for answers. What does it take to make you go home and turn on Wide World of Sports and open a beer?'
Arla's got her control back from somewhere. She's exited primitive mode and she's back to being the ship's doctor.
'I understand that you're angry. But I'm not your enemy. Whatever I did that you don't like, I did it for a good reason. I was working with an isolated patch of well fluid. In containment.The seals weren't supposed to be compromised. Nothing was supposed to get out, don't you see? But the system failed, and I think it failed for a reason. It's MF you should be worried about. It's them you should be angry at, not—'
'Angry? Why should I be angry? You gave me everlasting life. I can go on having a ant-free picnic here for theoretically ever. Why-hy, it's a bring-your-own-coleslaw extravaganza!'
'You were stupid,' Arla says. 'We could have pulled something out of the hat here. We could have brought evidence to Machine Front. We could have done a lot of things but you had to go playing pyro-bitch and ordering a wipeout on your own offspring. What is the matter with you?'
'You're insane.'
'You think I care about that? Do you have any idea what I've been breathing out here? I'm allowed to be insane, I'd be insane if I wasn't insane already after what I've been through. But you should know better.'
Serge is laughing. You can't see her so it's har
d to be sure why, but considering what you do see – who you do see, dragging herself out of the well looking cute and blonde and pissed-off – you figure you can take a pretty good guess what's so funny.
'Serge!' screams Arla. 'Where are you going? Come back! Tell me what it's like!'
'Thought you got me, didn't you?' rasps Klaski, spitting well fluid. She's coming up behind Arla like an unkillable horror-movie villain. Her eyes look purple but she manages to get her helmet back on as she staggers forward. Her palms are ink-black, and the lines in her hands shine pale. You feel Arla stiffen as Klaski gets her breath back and speaks again. 'Did you kill Serge, too? And what did she mean about embryos? Is that what you did? You worked at the clinic with Hendricks, does that mean you put babies in the well?'
Arla turns and sees Klaski nearly on top of her. She begins to retreat. The Grid jigs and jogs in your frame of view as she tries to get her balance.
'Don't start with the babies crap. It was an extreme situation, and my intentions were good. So don't you try to lay that at my feet, you weak little . . .little . . .' Arla falters. Klaski has backed her nearly to the edge of the well, and she's scared. She is also losing a lot of blood, to judge by the crimson trail she's leaving. She angles her body so you can see Klaski in your peripheral vision.
'You can't do it, can you, Major?' Klaski says. 'You can stick your toe in and you can make other people go in, and you can flash your eyes at it and you can wear Gossamer on your back like a cloak, like a hunter wears a bearskin coat only you're no hunter, you're just some lady who bought a mink stole at the Fur Vault. If the Grid is so wonderful and if it's all so mind-blowing, why don't you just go in and join the party?'
'I was only trying to protect you,' Arla says, showing the palms of her gory hands to Klaski, to the sky, appealing. 'You were pointing a gun at me. You shot off my hand!'
'You said you were going in the Grid. I tried to stop you. That was my big mistake. If you really want to go in, then let's see it.'
'I don't!' blurts Arla. 'I was only fooling. And I was wrong what I said. I was naive. I made a mistake. Joanne, you got to forgive me – we're all alone out here, we got nobody else, nobody on our side. We got to make this right and be friends.'
Klaski looks up. The Grid hangs overhead, jewel-bright, like the web of a giant neon-spinning spider that wishes it lived in a cathedral and keeps trying in a low-budget way to make it so. It's horrible. She keeps shivering. Well fluid slides off her face and plops on her boots.
'I want to go home,' she says. 'Where are the others?'
And you can see it. She has capitulated. All Arla has to do is make reassurances, lie cozily, offer help in her beautiful, soft voice.
Arla makes a sinuous little movement with her head, almost imperceptibly.
'So . . . what was it like in there?' she asks. You recognize the tone. You know it well. It's the sound of an alcoholic asking the way to the bathroom so that he can check out the contents of the liquor cabinet en route, just to know what's in there. It's the sound of the junkie wondering if his grandmother has cashed her social security check yet, and of the compulsive eater sticking a couple of Hostess cupcakes in my – I mean, her – purse 'for emergencies.'
Klaski doesn't hesitate.
'What was it like? I'll show you,' she says, and launches herself at Arla.
_______
Arla doesn't want to go in the Grid, after all. She doesn't want to die, either. Klaski has to beat her repeatedly about the head with Lewis's socket wrench, and then strangle her with a nylon packing cord, before Arla finally gives up and her heart stops.
Klaski has a big rage then. She storms up and down, kicking Arla's body for good measure every time she passes. You feel the blows shudder through Arla's flesh. Klaski is screaming at the dead Arla.
'What is happening to us? How could this get so out of hand? I never wanted this. I bet you never wanted it either. This has to stop. Now. I'm going to make it stop.'
She freezes.
Something has rolled out of Arla's dead hand. You can see it. It's the thing you thought was a grenade. While both of you watch, it rolls slowly, wobbling, until it drops into the well.
Klaski goes down on her hands and knees and peers into the depths of the well fluid. You can just about see what she sees. There is a cluster of black hand-sized oblongs in the well, all identical. You're pretty sure you know what they are.
They are logic bullets.
Klaski says: 'Holy Toledo.'
company picnic
It was painful to listen to the tapes that I'd liberated from Gunther's (or should I say Dr. Stengel's?) office, but after a while it became cathartic. One pattern became clear: Gunther was uncomfortable with what he was doing. That didn't excuse him, but it made me realize he too was vulnerable. I gathered that 'Bob' was our Vice President in charge of Development, Bob Hagler. I didn't really know him well enough to recognize his voice, but Gunther tended to spend a lot of time with him so the connection made sense.
On Friday Dataplex was having a half-day because the computers were all being serviced and were going to be down. Gunther had scheduled his annual summer office party for that afternoon; I knew because Gloria was going, and she had invited me. My initial instinct was to refuse totally, but after a few days of listening to the tapes and training with the Okinawans, my aching limbs and hungry stomach made me angry enough that I decided I would go. I called Miles and asked him to meet me there.
'When are you going to tell me what was on the tapes?'
'Tomorrow,' I said. 'It's all going to come out.'
'Cookie, don't be stupid. You don't know how to handle this. You're going to mess it up. Talk to me, and we can plan a strategy together.'
There was no way I was telling Miles at this stage. He'd only try to take over. And anyway, it was time I started fighting my own battles, right?
Getting to talk to Gunther wasn't so easy, though. His backyard was mobbed with people and he'd acquired a couple more stray dogs, there were no less than three barbecues in operation, and then there was the above-ground pool which seemed to overflow frequently because people's kids were doing cannonballs into it. Gunther was busy grilling ribs and drinking Samuel Adams – no expense ever spared at Gunther's parties.
I went over to him and he looked genuinely glad to see me.
'How are you?' he said solicitously. 'Can I get you a beer? I'm so glad you came. The ribs are gonna be done in, like, two minutes. Gosh, you've lost a lot of weight.'
I didn't look him in the eye. All my wimp instincts would have kicked in. Instead, I read the notes I'd made from the tape. My voice cracked and broke. Gunther tried to stop me several times, and then he steered me away from the barbecue, looking around in a paranoid fashion – not that anyone could hear anything over the shrieking of Gloria's daughter and the barking of Gunther's various dogs.
'—'Broken Wings' by Mr. Mister?' I finished. Are you guys kidding me? I get shot down by a madwoman so I can't fly anymore, and I'm supposed to believe it's all about the fact that you were running a market test for some video? About martyrdom and angel wings? Oh, my God. I could puke. I have puked.'
'Well, actually, we had moved you out of video for the most part but this is going to be a special debut. I have a friend who does PR in the industry who asked me to do him a favor and find out if the hype was going to deliver.' Gunther drew his eyebrows together and gave me his sincere look. 'You were very good, you know, Cookie.'
'You don't deny it, then.' I was spitting mad. Gunther blinked and swallowed some beer. He was smaller than me; we both noticed it right about then.
'I've always said you were a terrific Flier. The best.'
'I don't mean that. Darn it, Gunther, you know what I mean.'
Gunther wrinkled his forehead and tried to take my arm. 'You want to go inside and talk privately?' he began, putting down his beef skewer. I shook him off.
'Cut it out.' My voice was getting higher and louder. I couldn't help it. 'Ar
e you really admitting all of this?' I waved the notes. All of this is a fake? What the hell are you paying me for, then?'
People were looking at us. One of Gunther's stray dogs was stealing a chunk of raw meat from the plate by the barbecue.
'We pay you for your insights,' said Gunther in measured tones. 'You're our best source of information about what actually penetrates to a viewer's psyche. We're also paid a generous grant to study the UFO phenomenon, which provides you with a stipend.'
'My hazard pay?' I said. 'Is that what you're referring to?'
'Whatever terminology makes you most comfortable.'
'But. . . but. . . this makes me sound like a loony bird. I'm a real psychic. Don't you people understand that?'
'We know your history with the Hasbrook Heights Police Department. They didn't actually characterize you as a psychic, as you probably know.'
'I can't deal with this,' I said. 'I never volunteered to be a guinea pig in somebody's experiment.'
'Actually, you did. It's just the wording of the experiment that you don't like. The connotation, as opposed to the denotation.'
'Don't throw your intellect around with me, Gunther. I read books, you know. I'm not stupid.'
But of course I felt distinctly stupid, and he knew it. He was quiet for a moment and I had the impression that I was expected to gather up the shreds of my dignity.
'You know, Gunther, when you gave me that survey to fill out? For Bob Hagler? I blew it on purpose.'
Gunther looked at his shoes.
'I did. Did you think I just lost it? Because I'm telling you, I could fly just fine until I got shot down. But I won't fly for you. No way.'
I could see Gunther's brain smoking as he took this in.
'And I don't want your disability pay.'
'Look, Cookie . . .'
'That's Karen to you.'
He inclined his head regally in apology. His tone became formal. 'Karen. Ms. Orbach. I can appreciate that you're feeling unhappy with the current situation, but I would urge you not to burn your bridges with us. Your condition – being unable to get up there and see what you see – is probably temporary. We would be happy to review your status in, say, six months. You don't have to throw away your career.'
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