"Why is it pink?"
"Because some people like it pink. You can also have it green, if you want. Children like that. The fruit is banana, papaya, mango, kiwi, pineapple, strawberry, ly-chee, and China melon. I told Brownie to keep things simple, I should have been more specific. This is his idea of simple."
"Stop it. You're showing off."
Eakins put his fork down. "Okay, you caught me on that one. Yes, I'm showing off."
"I've cracked the case."
"Really?" He sipped his coffee. "You're certainly sure of yourself this morning."
"The young men—they don't fit very well in their own time, do they?"
Eakins snorted. "Who does? You never fit very well in any year we sent you to."
"No, it's more than that. They're outcasts, dreamers, nerds, and sissies. They have enormous potential, but there's no place for any of them to realize it—not in 1967. It's really a barbaric year, isn't it?"
"Not the worst," Eakins admitted, holding his coffee mug between his two hands, as if to warm them. "There's still a considerable amount of hope and idealism. But that'll get stamped out quickly enough. You want a shitty year. Wait for '68 or '69 or 70; '69 has three ups and five downs, a goddamn roller coaster. 74 is pretty bad too, but that's all down, and the up at the end isn't enough. 79 is shitty. Was never too fond of'80 either. 2001 was pretty grim. But 2011 was the worst. 2014… I dunno, we could argue about that one — "
I ignored the roll call of future history. He was trying to distract me. Trying to get me to ask. "They're not being murdered," I said. "There's no killer. You're picking them up. It's a talent hunt."
He put his coffee cup down. "Took you fucking long enough to figure it out."
"You kidnap them."
"We harvest them. And it's voluntary. We show them the opportunity and invite them to step forward in time."
"But you only choose those who will accept—?"
Eakins nodded. "Our psychometrics are good. We don't go in with less than 90 percent confidence in the outcome. We don't want to start any urban legends about mysterious men in black."
"I think those stories have already started. Something to do with UFO's."
"Yeah, we know."
"Okay, so you recruit these boys. Then what?"
"We move them up a bit. Not too much. Not as far as we've brought you. We don't want to induce temporal displacement trauma. We relocate them to a situation where they have access to a lot more possibility. By the way, do you want to meet Jeremy Weiss? He has the apartment across from here. He's just turned fifty-seven; he and Steve are celebrating their twenty-second anniversary this week. They were married in Boston, May of 2004, the first week it was legal. Weiss worked on — never mind, I can't tell you that. But it was big." Eakins wiped his mouth with his napkin. "So? Is that it? Is that the case?"
"No. There's more."
"I'm listening."
"All of this—you're not taking me out of the game. You said I was on probation. Well, this is a test. This is my final exam, isn't it?"
Eakins raised an eyebrow. "Interesting thesis. Why do you think this is a test?"
"Because if you wanted to get me off the case, if all you wanted to do was keep me from interfering with the disappearances, all you had to do was bump me up to 1975 and leave me there."
"You could have quake-hopped back."
"Maybe. But not easily. Not without a good map. All right, bump me up to 1980 or '85. But by your own calculations, you use up a year of subjective time for every three years of down-hopping. Twenty years away takes me out of the tank, but it doesn't incapacitate me. But bringing me this far forward—you made the point last night. I'm so far out of my time that I'm a cultural invalid, requiring round-the-clock care. You didn't do that as a mistake, you did it on purpose. Therefore, what's the purpose? The way I see it, it's about me—there's no other benefit for you —so this has to be a test."
Eakins nodded, mildly impressed. "See, that's your skill. You can ask the next question. That's why you're a good operative."
"You didn't answer my question."
"Let's say you haven't finished the test."
"There's more?"
"Oh, there's a lot more. We're just warming up."
"All right. Look. I'm no good to you here. We both know that. But I can go back and be a lot more useful."
"Useful doing what?"
"Doing whatever—whatever it is that needs doing."
"And what is it you think we need doing?"
"Errands. You know the kind I mean. The kind you hired me for. The jobs that we don't talk about."
"And you think that we want you for those kinds of jobs… ?"
"It's the obvious answer, isn't it?"
"No. Not all the answers are obvious."
"I'm a good operative. I've proven it. With some of this technology, I could be an even better one. You could give me micro-cameras and super-film and night-vision goggles… whatever you think I need. It's not like I'm asking for a computer or something impossible. How big are computers now anyway? Do they fill whole city blocks, or what?"
Eakins laughed. "This is what I mean about not understanding socio-tectonic shifts?"
"Eh?
"We could give you a computer that fits inside a matchbox."
"You're joking—"
"No, I'm not. We can print circuits really small. We etch them on diamond wafers with gamma rays."
"They must be expensive — "
"Lunch at McDonald's is expensive. Computers are cheap. We print them like photographs. Three dollars a copy."
"Be damned." Stopped to shake my head. Turned around to look at Brownie. "Is that what's inside your head?"
"Primary sensory processing is in my head. Logic processing is inside my chest.
Optical connects for near-instantaneous reflexes. My fuel cells are in my pelvis for a lower center-of-gravity. I can show you a schematic — "
I held up a hand. "Thanks." Turned back to Eakins. "Okay, I believe you. But it still doesn't change my point. There are things you can't do in '67 that I can do for you. So my question is, what do I have to do? To go back? What are my real options?"
Eakins grinned. "How about a lobotomy?"
"Eh?"
"No, not a real lobotomy. That's just the slang term for a general reorientation of certain aggressive traits. That business with Matty's dad, for instance, that wasn't too smart. It was counterproductive."
"He had no right beating that kid — "
"No, he didn't, but do you think breaking his nose and giving him a myocardial infarction produced any useful result?"
"It'll stop him from doing it again."
"There are other ways, better ways. Do you want to learn?"
Considered it. Nodded.
Eakins shook his head. "I'm not convinced."
"What are you looking for? What is it I didn't say?"
"I can't tell you that. That's the part you're going to have to work out for yourself."
"You're still testing me."
"I still haven't found what I'm looking for. Do you want to keep going?"
I sank back in my chair. Not happy. Looked away. Scratched my nose. Looked back. Eakins sat dispassionately. No help there.
"I hate these kinds of conversations. Did I tell you I once punched out a shrink?"
"No. But we already knew that about you."
Turned my attention back to my plate, picked at the fruit. Pushed some stuff around that I didn't recognize. There was too much here, too much to eat, too much to swallow, too much to digest. It was overwhelming.
What I wanted was to go home.
"Okay," I said. "Tell me about Matty. Why is he irrelevant? Why isn't he on the list?"
"Because he didn't fit the profile. That's one of the reasons you didn't spot the pattern earlier. You kept trying to include him."
"But he still disappeared."
"He didn't disappear."
"Yes, he did — "
&n
bsp; "He committed suicide."
"He what—?" I came up out of my chair, angry—a cold fear rising in my gut.
"About three weeks after we picked you up. You didn't come back. The rent was due. He had no place to go. He panicked. He was sure you had abandoned him. He was in a state of irreparable despair."
"No. Wait a minute. He didn't. He couldn't have. Or it would have been in the file Georgia gave me."
"Georgia didn't know. Nobody knew. His body won't be found until 1987. They won't be able to ID it until twenty years later, they'll finally do a cold-case DNA match. They'll match it through his mother's autopsy."
I started for the door, stopped myself, turned around. "I have to go back. I have to — "
"Come back here, Mike. Sit down. Finish your breakfast. There's plenty of time. If we choose to, we can put you back the exact same moment you left. Minus the Mustang though. We need that to cover the costs of this operation."
"That's fine. I can get another car. Just send me back. Please — "
"You haven't passed the test yet."
"Look. I'll do anything—"
"Anything?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I need to save that kid's life."
"Why? Why is that boy important to you?"
"Because he's a human being. And he can hurt. And if I can do anything to stop some of that hurt—"
"That's not enough reason, Mike. It's an almost-enough reason."
" — I care about him, goddamnit!" The first person I've cared about since the land mine —
"You care about him?"
"Yes!"
"How much? How much do you care about him?"
"As much as it takes to save him! Why are you playing this game with me?"
"It's not a game, Mike. It's the last part of the test!"
I sat.
Several centuries of silence passed.
"This is about how much I care… ?"
Eakins nodded.
"About Matty?"
"About Matty, yes. And… a little bit more than that. But let's stay focused on Matty. He's the key."
"Okay. Look. Forget about me. Do with me whatever you want, whatever you think is appropriate. But that kid deserves a chance too. I don't know his IQ. Maybe he isn't a genius. But he hurts just as much. Maybe more. And if you can do something—"
"We can't save them all — "
"We can save this one. I can save him."
"Do you love him?"
"What does love have to do with it—?"
"Everything."
"I'm not—that way."
"What way? You can't even say the word."
"Queer. There. Happy?"
"Would you be queer if you could?"
"Huh?"
Now it was Eakins turn to look annoyed. "Remember that long list of things I rattled off yesterday?"
"Yes. No. Some of it."
"There was one word I didn't give you. Trans-human."
"Trans-human."
"Right."
"What does it mean?"
"It means —this week—the transitional stage between human and what comes next."
"What comes next?"
"We don't know. We're still inventing it. We won't know until afterwards."
"And being queer is part of it?"
"Yes. And so is being black. And female. And body-modded. And everything else." Eakins leaned forward intensely. "Your body is here in 2032, but your head is still stuck in 1967. If we're going to do anything with you, we have to get your head unstuck. Listen to me. In this age of designer genders, liquid orientation, body-mods, and all the other experiments in human identity, nobody fucking cares anymore about who's doing what and with which and to whom. It's the stupidest thing in the world to worry about, what's happening in someone else's bedroom, especially if there's nothing happening in yours. The past was barbaric, the future doesn't have to be. You want meaning? Here's meaning. Life is too short for bullshit. Life is about what happens in the space between two people —and how much joy you can create for each other. Got that? Good. End of sermon."
"And that's trans-human — ?"
"That's one of the side effects. Life isn't about the lines we draw to separate ourselves from each other—it's about the lines we can draw that connect us. The biggest social change of the last fifty years is that even though we still haven't figured out how to get into each other's heads, we're learning how to get into each other's experience so we can have a common ground of being as a civilized society."
"It sounds like a load of psycho-bullshit to me."
"I wasn't asking for an opinion. I was giving you information that could be useful to you. You're the one who wants to go back and save Matty. I'm telling you how—"
"And this is part of it—?"
"It could be. It's this part. The psychometric match is good. If you want to marry him, we'll go get him right now."
"I'm missing something here — ?"
"You're missing everything. Start with this. Our charter limits what we can do. Yes, we have a charter. A mission statement. A commitment to a set of values."
"Who are you anyway? Some kind of time police?"
"You should have asked that one at the beginning. No, we're not police. We're independent agents."
"Time vigilantes?"
"Time ravelers. The real ravelers, not that pissy little stuff you were doing. What we have is too important to be entrusted to any government or any political movement. Who we are is a commitment to—well, that's part of the test. Figuring out the commitment. Once you figure out the commitment, the rest is obvious."
"Okay. So, right now, I'm committed to saving Matty, and you say—?"
"We can do that—under our domestic partner plan. We protect the partners of our operatives. We don't extend that coverage to one-night stands."
"He's not a one-night stand. He's — "
"He's what?"
"He's a kid who deserves a chance."
"So give him the chance." Eakins pushed a pillbox across the table at me. I hadn't noticed it until now.
Picked it up. Opened it. Two blue pills. "What will this do?"
"It'll get you a toaster oven."
"Huh?"
"It will shift your sexual orientation. It takes a few weeks. It reorganizes your brain chemistry, rechannels a complex network of pathways, and ultimately expands your repertoire of sexual responsiveness so that same-sex attractions can overwhelm inhibitions, programming, and even hard-wiring. You take one pill, you find new territories in your emotional landscape. You give the other to Matty and it creates a personal pheromonal linkage; the two of you will become aligned. Tuned to each other. You'll bond. It could be intense."
"You're kidding."
"No. I'm not. You won't feel significantly different, but if your relationship includes a potential for sexual expression, this will advance the possibility."
"You're telling me that love is all chemicals?"
"Life is all chemicals. Remember what Brownie said? It's empty and meaningless —except we keep inventing meanings to fill the emptiness. You want some meaning? This will give you plenty of meaning. And happiness too. So what kind of meaning do you want to invent? Do you want to tell me that your life has been all that wonderful up to now?"
I put the pillbox back on the table. "You can't find happiness in pills."
Eakins looked sad.
"I just failed the test, didn't I?"
"Part of it. You asked me what you could do to save Matty. You said you would do anything…" He glanced meaningfully at the box.
"I have to think about this."
"A minute ago, you said you'd do anything. I thought you meant it."
"I did, but—"
"You did, but you didn't… ?"
Glanced across at him. "Did you ever have to — "
"Yes. I've taken the blue pill. I've taken the pink pill too. And all the others. I've seen it from all sides, if that's what you'
re asking. And yes, it's a lot of fun, if that's what you want to know. If you're ever going to be any good to us, in your time, in our time, anywhen, you have to climb out of the tank on your own."
I stood up. I went to the balcony. I looked across the basin to where an impossibly huge aircraft was moving gracefully west toward the airport. I turned around and looked at Brownie —implacable and patient. I looked to Eakins. I looked to the door. I looked at the pillbox on the table. Part of me was thinking, I could take the pill. It wouldn't be that hard. It would be the easy way out. The way Eakins put it, I couldn't think of any reason why I shouldn't.
But this couldn't be all there was to the test. This was just this part. I thought about icebergs.
"Okay." I turned around. "I figured it out."
"Go on — "
"Georgia gave me an assignment. Four assignments. I had to prove my willingness to do wetwork. That was the first test of my commitment. And if I'd never said anything, that would have been as much as I'd ever done. But when I said I didn't want to do any more wetwork, that was the next part of the test. Because it's not about being willing to kill—anybody can hire killers. It's about being able to resist the urge to kill. I might be a killer, but today I choose not to kill."
"That's good," Eakins said. "Go on."
"You're not looking for killers. You're looking for lifeguards. And not just ordinary lifeguards who tan well and look good for the babes—you want lifeguards who save lives, not just because they can, but because they care. And this whole test, this business about Matty, is about finding out what kind of a lifeguard I am. Right?"
"That's one way to look at it," Eakins said. "But it's wrong. Remember what you were told—that Matty isn't part of this case? He isn't. He's a whole other case. Your case."
"Yeah. I think I got that part."
Eakins nodded. "So, look—here's the deal. I honestly don't care if you take the pill or not. It's not necessary. We'll send you back, and you can save the kid. All we really needed to know about you is whether or not you would take the pill if you were asked—would you take it if you were ordered, or if it was required, or if it was absolutely essential to the success of the mission. We know you're committed to saving lives. We just need to know how deep you're willing to go."
The Year's Best Science Fiction: Twenty-Third Annual Collection Page 155