* * * *
As the first days of May came and went, he was running on some unfathomed reserve deep in his being and it was almost gone. It one morning’s sunlight he took a huge breath of chilly air and found that he could not, would not return to the cabin. They were out to cut wood again for the great rusty monster that swallowed cords at a time. Or at least Orest did the cutting while Jason carried and stacked. They both knew too well what Jason would use the axe for, and with stunning simplicity, a quirk of fate, Jason’s burden was lifted. One moment he stood captive and the next Orest was flat on his back, felled by a bulletlike chip that blurred off the biting axe blade from the deep vee of the log.
Not quite that simple, for Orest never completely lost his hold on the axe. But he weaved and swayed as he groped for a tree trunk, his lids kept closing over blank eyes and his speech was thick as he waved a heavy arm, beckoning Jason to help. Cunning stirred in the boy as he moved slowly to assist, putting his shoulder under the other’s arm and guiding him. He might grab the axe and get Orest in one sweeping chop, but it was risky. Attack might rouse him enough to fend it off. Better to wait. At the cabin, Orest steered them doggedly to the storeroom, fishing with clawed fingers for his key ring. Dropping the axe inside, he locked the door and stumbled to his bunk. Jason dipped a cloth into water and placed it on the side of his companion’s head, where a swelling ugly bruise showed through matted, bloody hair. He calculated the risk as he held the cloth in place and Orest hovered on the edge of passing out. He could do it now, in one of several ways. But to his disgust some vaguely similar incident from the past woke in memory and he found himself discarding the idea, rationalising it away. After all, if he shouldn’t make it, killing Orest was a sure ticket to a wipe-out.
Reluctantly he straightened Orest’s legs and left him lying on his side, cloth beneath his head. He was breathing heavily, but it looked as if he’d sleep it off. Jason stripped the blankets from his bed and rolled them, crammed as many foodpacks into the duffel bag as it would hold and strapped the mass into a bundle, leaving loops to slip over shoulders. Quickly he filled a water container, tied it and a pot to the bundle and stuffed a box of matches into an inner pocket. Last he took the watchcase from his kit and strapped it on over the plate in his arm, reading that damned dependence with humourless irony. The tingling hit an intensity just short of numbing his whole right side, but his heart thudded triumphantly when he pulled the stem and instantly the tingling stopped. Massaging his arm, he stepped through the door and was gone.
The roadbed had run to the north of them, at the end of a series of small connecting valleys. Where there was a roadbed there were robofreights and someplace was a layover. There was probably a motorway too, he thought, with that faint queasiness that the image always brought, but not this side of the roadbed. Two or three days should get him there and the weather was good. Brilliant sunshine threw a dazzling reflection off the patches of melting snow as he made his way through light cover along a creek bank. He made good time even when he was forced to climb, breaking through heavier timber at the end of the valley. The sun moved across his left shoulder and plunged behind a rocky summit, leaving Jason in that sudden, thickening twilight which he had barely noticed before. With a light breeze in his face, he pushed forward until he could hardly see, finally fetching up in a tiny clearing under an overhanging face of granite. There he built a fire, ate a foodpack and drank. For a complete novice he managed surprisingly well, even arranging his fire so that it burned slowly and evenly until near morning. Yet when he wakened he found his feet and hands were lightly frost-bitten. The temperature had dropped well below freezing, close to zero, and until he rebuilt his fire it was painful to move.
He ate sparingly and moved off at a fast pace, the wind more brisk now and the sky overcast. The going was rough too, and he wound up boxed at the end of a canyon near noon. He had only made it across a ridge and down into the next valley when night fell again, accompanied by a sifting of dry, loose snow. It was brutally cold now and he huddled for hours, dozing fitfully, until he finally fell into a troubled sleep sitting up. A piercing scream brought him awake, trembling with cold and fright, almost too stiff to move as he stared into the darkness beyond the embers. Off to the right there was a coughing sound and he knew some predator was stalking. It was sheer agony to stir, but he shoved twigs and then some small branches into the coals and slowly brought back a flickering ring of light around him. Then in the stillness came another disturbing sound. High above him the wind was moaning through the trees and all about him was the hiss of falling snow.
By morning the wind was howling, driving solid sheets of snow into his eyes. The footing was treacherous in the undergrowth that whipped across his face and tore at his pack, for the little gulleys were filling in, inviting the step that would plunge him hip-deep. Wet, clinging snow soaked through his leggings, his parka, until it seemed to lie against his flesh and freeze it to the bone. The wind had changed. He came on tracks, spun about, and realised that they were his own. And the temperature was plunging below zero. He fell once, got up and pushed on, fell again, got up again, knew that his fingers in the mitts were sticks of ice. Many falls later he couldn’t get back up and it was easier, much easier, to lie there drowsing, slipping off into ... He brought his head up by a tremendous effort, opened eyes caked shut by snow and crawled. Around the next trunk and into the next hollow. Pulling himself along a little slope he rolled over on his back, arms and legs splayed without control, looking upward at the unfocused face far above him. Faintly he mouthed the words that should have come long ago: ‘Help me, Orest, help me.’
* * * *
Another April first. Eighteenth birthday. He had been right, back there in the bush cabin, for it had meant the end of the old Jason Berkley. The new Jason, however, had found freedom in submission, a marvellous world which held more than he could ever embrace in his great hunger for life, for experience. After Orest had hauled him back an excruciating ten miles to complete the great circle he’d run, he’d come to know true dependence. For weeks he had lain motionless, fever coursing through him, dependent upon Orest for life itself. And later, he had found himself unable to do the slightest task, make the smallest decision, without Orest’s guidance. The most brilliant accomplishment was without meaning or pleasure unless Orest approved.
Of course it couldn’t go on that way. But Orest had given him what he needed unstintingly, given so much of himself that they were closer than father and son, or brothers. And the immense rewards had grown day by day to fill him with never-ceasing wonder. The studies which he had undertaken at the start were the merest fundamentals. With Orest to explain, suggest, he had mastered and enjoyed the full range of his programme. More important, he could count as friends all the boys in his wing and a host of others. He and Orest had moved to paired sports, mixed groups, and he could talk respectfully to the other men, receiving warm courtesy in return.
His seventeenth birthday had been a step forward too, for he had found out what made up the other half of the circle—the mirror half of his, save that it housed girls. Frightening at first, they were, until he saw that some of them were just as apprehensive as he was. He still hadn’t been comfortable, but as Orest pointed out they made up half the world. Eventually Orest had given him a choice: take them or leave them. But he knew Orest was pleased when he doubled with him on weekend evenings. When sex education had been added to his programme it had become acutely embarrassing, seeing these creatures with double vision, so-to-speak, as biological organisms and as feeling, thinking human beings. It had finally penetrated that he was really being prepared for the outside world. The idea was shocking, but he now wondered at how naive he could be, when all the clues had been there from the start.
The outside world indeed. This morning he and Orest had been summoned to the great hall again. They had stood in front of the door to the indoctrination chamber and Jason noticed that he was taller than Orest, though still lighter. Shoulder t
o shoulder they had faced the TriVid cube, charged with excitement. The ceremony was over so quickly that Jason felt a bit cheated. The same three men had appeared, greyer, or was it his imagination?
‘Jason Berkley,’ announced the first, ‘you have completed Phase One and, coincidentally, achieved majority. By so much, the law is satisfied.’ Immediately the second said, ‘You will now be given an opportunity to respond to open society and to begin the productivity which will eventually repay society’s investment. You will be sent to the metropolis of Edmonton, where you have been assigned a job as Electronics Design Engineer. This is a high-skill position, with accompanying high-credit deposits. After deductions against repayment of debt, you will have sufficient to rate a stretched ELS, and one has been rented for you.’ The third man had leaned forward and said with a minute hint of warmth, ‘Such an Efficiency Living Space denotes status in the world you are entering. Do not be misled. This is still a learning situation and the ledger is far from balanced.’ He paused and watched the puzzled Jason. ‘You are free, for the time being, to make your own way. Peace and unity be within you. Please wait outside.’ Orest stepped forward as Jason left.
Now it was afternoon and he was looking forward with mixed feelings to his future. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ Orest called as he entered the hall. He was carrying a case identical to that at Jason’s feet and a package under his arm. Smiling broadly, he handed the package to the tall young man, who unwrapped it with happy wonder. ‘I notice a little fuzz, Jase,’ Orest chuckled, ‘and it might not go down well with the women.’ It was a razor like Orest’s and Jason’s throat clogged as memories, good and bad, swept through his mind. The older man turned him towards the door as he slipped an AP Card into his hand. The heavy doors slid silently back, to some unseen bidding and they stepped together into spring sunlight. As Orest entered a robocar he waved and offered a last word of advice. ‘Roll your sleeve up, Jase, and take a look. Work hard and know yourself best of all. See you.’ With that he was gone, and Jason gazed at the metal plate in his tingling arm. Beneath its surface shimmered—independence.
* * * *
Four
Edmonton should have seemed relatively small and uncomplicated, with a mere million inhabitants, yet Jason found his apprehensions had been at least partly justified. He had come in by monorail from Red Deer, near the school, and the trip had been pleasant until the last few minutes, when he’d watched the gap narrow between himself and the motorway stretching back to Calgary. The hairs had risen on the backs of his arms and neck, under his new swagger suit, as he watched northbound traffic beneath, moving nearly as fast as their own 200 kph. Even moving along the pedexpress to Leacock Manor, his new home, he felt vaguely uncomfortable, as if after all this time he should still be somewhere prowling the sub-levels. The lobby of the Manor was no help either. He’d been escorted to the office by a supercilious and disapproving manager, obviously put out at having to come and open to his ring.
Safe in his own ELS, he had looked about at the decor, in the same garish taste as that of the lobby and decided that no amount of fatalism could make him accept it. Changes would be made when he could afford them. Meanwhile, he needed time to familiarise himself with the most basic routines. Orest had prepared him and yet he fumbled and hesitated over many little things. Using his AP Card, he dialled a menu, lingered over it, and chose his meal. He went to bed with a late newsfax and read every line— especially the ads.
Morning brought him early to the gates of Western Safety Electronics, Ltd., where the roboguard checked him through Security and took him to the office of J. T. Monihan, Design Manager. Jason’s AP Card went into a slot by his desk scanner and a cassette into the other side. Without comment Monihan read carefully and completely till, with a grunt, he tossed Jason’s AP Card back. Startled, Jason dropped it into an ashtray, where a cigar curled fragrant smoke upward. He jerked the card out, flushing, while the grey-haired, steely-eyed Monihan reached forward and retrieved his stogey. ‘Damn things are indestructible,’ he said in a deceptively mild voice. ‘Don’t suppose they told you that at Diamond Willow.’ Jason reddened again, but the stocky, middle-aged man waved a casual hand. ‘Seen ‘em all,’ he said. ‘The EVR boys who haven’t left their own homes since they started courses. Videotape for brains. The red-hot grad-schoolers, gonna turn our organisation upside down. And one or two like you ... or at least from your school.’ He looked sharply at Jason. ‘Says here you’re cleared to level three security. Pretty far for wet ears. Says, too, that you’re really high-skill.’ He paused, waiting for a reaction, and continued when he got none. ‘Well, doesn’t matter here anyway. Got great new designs to show me? Keep ‘em. Everyone starts on the line. Know the plant, follow the system from start to finish and maybe someday you’ll get your scriber back.’
He obviously expected a comeback and seemed almost disappointed when Jason merely nodded. ‘All right, then,’ he said as he butted the cigar. ‘I’ll give you the grand tour.’ He moved with exceptional grace for one his shape, and size. Jason stayed one step behind until Monihan turned and took his arm. ‘Come on,’ he growled, ‘you’re not with the ancient Royal Family.’ They strode along in silence until they reached the entrance to a huge room where rows of figures sat hunched over long benches. Down the centre of the first few, conveyor belts moved silently and in the background was a pleasant sound not quite like music. They stopped at the end of the first row and Monihan stabbed a stubby finger forward. ‘Assembly line,’ he said quietly. ‘Bread and butter.’ He picked up a partly-finished piece. ‘Standard citizen’s electronic lock. Frequency keyed. Made by the million and jimmied by the thousand.’ They moved on. ‘Luxury lock,’ he intoned. ‘Voice pattern keyed. Takes a multi-frequency scrambler to jimmy. Also takes multi-credits to purchase.’ Jason had known only one Picker with the know-how and equipment to get past one of those.
Now they were at the end of a bench with no belt. Monihan reached past a woman intent on her work and picked up an oblong case, about one inch by a half, wafer thin. ‘You’re a micro-circuitry specialist. Attaché case lock. Thumbprint keyed.’ He gestured towards a glassed room where a roboguard prowled restlessly. ‘Personal fitting.’ There were similar items at the next benches, some clearly for vanity rather than security. A key in a diamond neckcloth pin, a lock in a hot water button, for a safe beneath the basin. ‘Some characters have more credits than brains, even today,’ the manager quipped sarcastically.
‘We also do priority AP Card locks,’ he continued. ‘Only two other firms have that clearance from the Continental Computer people. And you’ve heard of our ultra-special lock, for the AmeriCanadian Government. The one-of-a-kind with three keys, in Washington, Ottawa and Hemisphere Defence?’ Jason hadn’t. Monihan swung around and looked down the room. ‘You’ve seen all you’re cleared for,’ he finished. ‘This afternoon you start on the first belt and you do every operation in this room to my satisfaction before you set foot in my design section. It can take three months or three years, or you can drop your skill rating and push buttons. Welcome to Western.’ He licked his lips wolfishly.
* * * *
So began another succession of days. Jason worked quickly through the assembly lines, more slowly in micro-circuitry. At home he studied, grudgingly doling credits for a leased scanner, until he was driven by loneliness to wander the malls of this new-old western city. Just under the two-month mark Monihan called him to the office again.
With a tinge of grumpy respect the manager walked Jason down the hall and into the design wing, showed him to a large cubicle and introduced him to several other men. ‘You’ll do touch-ups on final-draft layouts to start,’ Monihan said. ‘Draughtsmanship never came easy. And never question a design.’ He stood in the doorway and threw a parting shot. ‘We should never have brought those robo-picks in. Builds character to sweep up and empty baskets. See you in a year. Maybe.’ He whistled as he paced briskly up the hall.
Again it was a good bit less than that
, for Jason stuck doggedly to his work and mastered it. He hadn’t been concerned with draughtsmanship at Diamond Willow, but there was a peculiar satisfaction in producing perfect layouts; pulling scattered unit diagrams into a comprehensive, compact whole. He became more than efficient: he was first-rate. And he made friends. Some of the loneliness disappeared as he sat chatting in the autoteria over lunch or coffee. He joined the Men’s Athletic Club, minutes from the Manor, played squash and basketball with his new friends, even visited occasionally.
Perhaps it was their cramped standard ELS’s that made him check one day, to learn with amazement how many credits he had on deposit. Or perhaps it was the people who eyed him distastefully in the lobby, sniffing at his plain swagger suit and conservative neckcloth. Mustering courage, he went shopping. He compromised not one whit once he had embarked on it, even though his tastes ran to a high credit range. He found that he enjoyed certain good wines, learning to choose them for particular dishes. And he nearly went on to the red when he slotted his AP Card for a complete multi-function homerec set. But it was worth it to have access to live music, cassettes, video, good books. Gone forever was the cheap scanner with its hookup to limited local microfiles. He had the resources of a continent at his fingertips.
New Writings in SF 20 - [Anthology] Page 11