by John F. Carr
My sleeproom was unlocked, unlike the one I’d spent my first night in. Perhaps someone—maybe Ural, maybe Errox—believed I could be trusted now. But trusted for what was the nagging question. It was too complex a question for me to answer; I didn’t even have answers to simple questions, such as what was my real name?
I didn’t know whether the grays crowded together in Ural’s quarters because of necessity or for companionship. If it was for companionship, I knew it wasn’t for mine. Most of them ignored me unless they were following Errox’s orders to take care of me while he was gone.
After using the lav, I examined myself in the mirror while cleaning my hands. I practiced smiling with grim results: my thin lips spread flat against slightly irregular teeth, displaying a narrow crescent beneath a long nose. The smile didn't extend to my icy gaze. I looked as if I were trying to frighten someone by appearing sinister.
I ran my hands forward over my bristly hair before leaving the lav and going to the kitchen. No one was there so I couldn’t ask about the eating schedule. I went to a room Geeter had called the gameroom; it was also empty. That was fine with me. I didn’t want to force myself on the grays who looked through me as if I were not there. Did they think my amnesia was catching? Why was there so much prejudice directed toward blancs? Or was it just me?
I sat down in one of the low-slung chairs to rest, weary of trying to make sense of my limited store of information. The chair adapted itself to my body contours. I tried to relax, wishing I could let my mind drift among pleasant memories, but all of my memories were recent and most of them were negative or, at best, neutral.
My hands rested on some controls that were built into the chair arms. Suddenly I knew with certainty that these were game controls, the devices used to play the Game. I knew what they were! Was my memory beginning to return?
The controls were familiar to my hands but new to my conscious mind. My fingers began to rotate the gyroscopic spheres with a dexterity that would have been surprising if it hadn’t felt so ordinary.
Five multicolored holographic patterns appeared in the center of the room like images summoned from another dimension. I watched the kaleidoscopic changes, delighted to have something to engage my restless mind. My fingers moved over the smooth controls in a process as automatic as removing beard bristles from my face. My capable hands merged the elements of the first image into a pattern that seemed familiar.
Fascinated, I watched a greenish blue mandala of interlocking complexity reveal its delicate detail—azure circles around aqua hexagrams and deep green triangles nested in bright blue spheres. All the details of the mandala slowly turned for five complete revolutions and then the pattern stabilized, indicating I had mastered the first level of this part of the Game.
I had stabilized the first holopattern. I can do it! I have power and competence. I can play the Game and achieve. Perhaps I do belong in this world.
Eagerly I went to work on the second holopattern. It was a blur of orange, red, and gold. My educated fingers led the outer shape into a geodesic dome made of translucent golden triangles. It felt right. I went to work manipulating the inner construction again and again until I perceived a three-dimensional maze of orange flames. Deep in the heart of the flames, at the center of the maze, I saw small bright red spheres in Brownian motion. With semi-automatic movement of the controls, I separated one red sphere from the rest and ran it through the maze. I placed it at an intersection of the triangles.
It stayed!
I picked out another red ball and began to repeat the procedure, going through another section of the maze. I was able to visualize what should happen next. I had a mental picture of the complete holopattern and understood the clues it would give me about the third pattern.
I watched the balls run and knew that I could run through the rest of the patterns. I was not as helpless as I had thought. Maybe I could become a rainbow. But first I would need my own wristlock. Was it possible I had been a rainbow before I was dropped into the Rainbow Room?
"What are you doing to me?!!" Ural screamed, as she jerked the controls out of my hands and stuffed them back into the chair. She and three anonymous grays, who I hadn’t seen come in, were all looking at me with naked hostility.
The holopatterns winked out of existence.
Surprised and confused, I angrily asked, "Why did you do that? I could have stabilized all five patterns."
"Oh, wonderful! Had you completed that last set, I would have found myself eligible for a red wristlock. I’ve been a gray for more than twenty seasons—and I never play the Game. The VIS would have brought me in for questioning before the third meal, never to return."
"Ural, you could tell them I did it."
"You don’t own a wristlock!" she cried. "You’re a blanc, a non-person. YOU HAVE NO IDENTITY! If they believed me, I’d face correction for not reporting your existence to a nu-blanc reporting center. Damn Errox and his blasted schemes! I told him it was dangerous to move you from that locked room. I curse the day I ever agreed to take you in."
Two of the three grays appeared agitated during Ural’s outburst, while the third one eyed me warily. Was this because I had upset Ural, or because I played the Game so well? I didn’t know but I knew enough not to ask.
Ural looked me straight in the face as if her pale blue eyes were drills that could penetrate my skull. In a barely controlled voice, she said, "Some of the people here are loyal to me. If you ever touch these controls again I’ll have them break your arms and then toss you onto the slideway. If you do anything to bring the VIS around, I’ll have you tossed off it—Errox or no Errox."
I couldn’t think of a safe reply. There were currents and riptides all around me, but I had no sense of direction. Nor was there a safe harbor. I’d been cast adrift in a world of mystery. Until I learned to navigate it better, I would have to float along on the surface and be wary of every current and undertow.
I sat in silence until a fat man came in and said, "Time to eat."
I joined the grays in the dining area. I ate my servings in silence. The conversations around me were bland and superficial, too dull to be contrivances designed to shut me out.
When I finished eating I went to the sleeproom and got into bed. My head was full of questions: What were Errox’s plans for me? How would Errox react when Ural told him about how she caught me playing the Game? Just who were the Variation Investigation Service and what rules did they enforce? Would I ever get a chance to pursue a rainbow wristlock of my own?
Later I heard a babble of voices greeting Errox. I left the sleeproom just in time to see Ural whispering intently to his ear. He brushed the others aside and followed Ural into her sleeproom. The door slammed behind them.
My concern about Errox’s reaction intensified. I went into the empty dining area and paced back and forth. I didn’t have enough data to predict Errox’s reaction to my playing the Game.
My mental stage became crowded with unbidden images—the one that wouldn’t go away was of Errox cutting off the wrist of the woman in the Rainbow Room. I wondered if that was a harbinger of things to come.
The images vanished as Errox came into the room. He looked around to make certain we were alone and said, "Rathe, I’ve got good news for you. I’ve made arrangements to get you a wristlock."
"That's great," I said, hiding my concern and wondering what kind of favor Errox would ask of me in return.
"After you get your own wristlock, I’ll take you to another dwell where no one will know you were a blanc."
I felt relief tinged with wariness. I also knew this wasn’t the time to ask questions. I said, "That is very good news, Errox."
He smiled as if he had some secret knowledge and said, "Wait here."
I waited for what seemed a long time. I was feeling anxious by the time he returned. He came in, jerked his thumb to indicate I should go with him. I followed him wordlessly, out of Ural’s dwell, out of the building and onto a series of slidestrips, keeping my nak
ed right wrist concealed in the folds of my tunic. Our route took us through the grid of multi-hued pyramids with their windows as opaque as my past. If my situation weren’t so precarious, it might have been a holiday outing.
Feeling more confident now that I was about to get a wristlock and a different dwell, I attempted to talk with Errox, being careful not to ask questions, but leaving openings for volunteered information. "Your knowledge of this area is impressive. I’ve lost track of all the directional changes and couldn’t find my way to Ural’s dwell without help."
"You will pick up navigational ability once you have a wristlock and can move around freely."
"The only landmarks I’ve seen are the Color Wheel and the autofactory sector. Other than their different colors, all these urbodes seem identical on the outside."
"Yes." he replied. "That’s why some of the permanent grays function as runners, spotters, and messengers. Some have fantastic memory systems and others used knotted strips of old tunics as memory aids. A fortunate few like me have an inner location sense and always know where they are."
I suspected that this ability was one of the reasons the other grays deferred to Errox. "Wouldn’t it be simpler to identify all the structures and slidestrips?" I asked, and then realized that I’d done a no-no—asked a question.
"The VIS label any attempt to post directions a defacing offense." Errox said in a forbidding tone that ended the conversation.
I wondered what the VIS agents thought about the scratched symbols I saw on Ural's door. Or were they too insignificant to be an offense? I hated that I knew so little about this world and my own past.
I followed Errox's lead as he moved from one slidestrip to another. Previously, I'd thought the many changes of direction might be to keep me dependent on Errox for orientation. Now I knew that Errox followed some inner compass that I would never know. Was I doomed to be a lost soul in this world of multi-colored pyramids for the rest of my days? No, I'd find my way. If the grays in Ural's dwell could find their way around, certainly someone like myself who appeared able to master the Game should find it possible.
I wondered why directional signs and markings were forbidden. What purpose could such prohibitions serve? I was certain that the answer to that question was critical to my making any sense of this world. Once I had my wristlock and my new dwell, I would try to learn my own routes, work toward traveling independently, and start digging for the answers to the hundreds of questions that filled my waking mind to the bursting point.
Errox motioned for me to follow him as he moved to the right to the slowest strip. I kept my bare wrist hidden in the fullness of my tunic, not knowing where the VIS were but aware that people were expected to report all blanc sightings. We moved from the slowest slidestrip onto the walkway in front of a row of urbodes.
I suspected that Errox was counting to himself in order to find a particular urbode but I saw no sign of it on his face. His lips didn't move and his eyes gave nothing away. He stopped before the portal of one of the identical looking gray urbodes and I realized that we had reached our destination.
A stocky woman stood guard at the entrance. With monotonous regularity she raised herself up on her toes and then lowered herself down on her heels. She did it as if it were a ritual or an old habit. Below her tunic, her bulging calf muscles were as big around as my thighs. All of her muscles that I could see looked as hard as Errox’s eyes. There were also the usual gray spotters and knot weavers that seemed to be a constant before every urbode. She stared at Errox with a challenging expression.
He said one word to her. It sounded like "Hushel" to me. I had no memory of ever having heard the word before; I didn't know whether it was a name or a code word. But whatever it was, it was the right word. The tough looking woman moved aside to let Errox press his wristlock against the door plate.
The door opened. I crowded in closely behind him, eager to be off the walkway. We passed the elevator banks and continued down the corridor to the fifth cross passage. We turned right and passed eleven doorways, when we reached the twelfth, Errox said, "Wait here until I come back."
Errox entered a door a few steps away. As that door closed, I saw another one farther down the hallway open. A woman stepped out of the opened door and into the corridor. She was tall, almost my height, and slim. She stared at me with a provocative intensity.
Unlike everyone else I’d met, she was looking at my face, not at the naked wrist I kept concealed. She drew nearer, still examining my face. In a throaty whisper she asked, "Vargan, is it you?"
"I don't know…?"
"It is you. I could feel your presence in the building. You didn't know that would be one of the side effects, did you?"
"I've lost my memory. I don't remember you and I don't know what you're talking about. You know me?"
"Come closer." I moved toward her. She looked deep into my eyes. "Yes, it's you. What's this about your memory? Is this some new game you've devised to taunt me?"
"I'm not playing any game with you. My memory's gone."
"You've changed...I knew they would catch you sooner or later because you're a danger to them. You're thinner too and look like you've suffered. But you haven't suffered as much as I have."
"Are you sure you know me?"
She smiled and said, "Of course. I'd know you in the dark at a love feast." She took me by the hand to lead me through the open door and into her abode. "Come in. Come with me, Vargan. I will help you remember. I haven't forgotten a single thing that you taught me."
Fascinated, I followed obediently.
FOUR
"I want the door to stay open," I said, "I need to see the corridor."
"That's the Vargan I know, always one eye looking for an opportunity. Put your foot forward on that button and it will keep the door open."
I shifted positions so I could watch the door that Errox had entered. That was where I'd get my wristlock. Then Errox would take me to different dwell, one where I wouldn’t be known as a blanc.
She pressed her body against mine as if magnetized, molding herself against me like a second skin. Her warmth was comforting, her ardor disconcerting and appealing at the same time. She was attractive and willing. Her breasts were spherical and firm; I could feel them pressing against my ribs. If it wasn’t my imagination, her nipples were hard.
Keeping my foot on the door cell in the floor, I put my arms around her. I couldn’t remember the last time I had sexual relations. I had no memory of sexual experiences but I could recall the sensations. I felt sure I would know what to do and how to do it, but now wasn't the time. She writhed against me as if possessed by an all-consuming passion, saying Vargan over and over in an erotic incantation that sent waves of desire through my flesh.
I was lost in her seductive wiles. She had me enveloped in her sensuality and sounds. Was I Vargan? The name grew more familiar with her continuing repetition, but had it been familiar when I first heard it? I couldn’t remember….
With both hands I moved her upper body so I could look into her face. I asked, "What's your name?"
Her eyes snapped open. She asked, "You don’t remember? After all the things you've done to me, you don't remember my name!"
She stopped grinding her pelvis against me. My eyes were trapped by her gaze. She had strange-looking light brown eyes, eyes that looked like gray stones with a translucent brown overlay.
"I'm sorry. I don't remember anything about me either, not my name or anything else."
"Your name is Vargan and you're a riplocker. I don't love you, but I must have you as a lover. You possess me, now and forever. We are bound together by more than the ties of our lust."
"Please tell me your name."
"Lyonella. Look me in the eye and tell me that you never heard my name before, that you don't remember the time of sexual enchantment, our time of intoxication and decadence."
I stared intently into her face. Her eyebrows were perfect arcs above large eyes that slightly protruded from hea
vy lids. Her eyes appeared out of focus and I noticed an intensity that didn’t appear normal.
"I have no memory of ever saying or hearing the name Lyonella before you just spoke it. Nor do I have any memory of being Vargan. I want you to believe me. I need your help to learn about myself and who I am. Please?"
"I see you still have the ability to tell the boldest lie while appearing sincere, but you forget who I am. I am a woman for all cycles, not a perm-gray voluptuary fresh out of the House of Rebirth suffering from transit fugue."
"This is no game. I don't know who I am. I don't know you. Why won't you believe me?"
"Because you were watching the entrance of the dwell of Hushel, the wristlock smitty, and because you're not wearing your wristlock. Who are you hiding from?"
Lyonella's statements confirmed that Hushel dealt in wristlocks. I looked at her wrist again and realized that she was the first person I'd talked to who wasn't a gray. She was different from them. Was that difference caused by her knowledge of me or was it that she was delusional or crazy?
"It's true I'm here for a wristlock. I don't deny that, but I was brought here. I don't know any more about where I am than I know who I am."
"Can you deny the flesh, Vargan?"
Before I could frame a response, Lyonella pressed her body against mine so strongly that I almost lost my balance. Her lips devoured my mouth. Her tongue explored the inside of my cheeks, my palate, my teeth, and strained to reach my uvula. Automatically I responded with an embrace that lasted until we both gasped.
As soon as she caught her breath, she said, "There has to be a way for us to be together. We can get away from this backwater. I'm going to get better. The time between severe attacks is lengthening. We'll go someplace where they aren't organized enough to check immigrants. They won't have to know who you are and what you've done."
Every sentence she uttered made me more aware of how much I didn't know. I couldn't ask intelligent questions because I didn't understand the context. I didn't know what her problems were or even if they were connected to my unremembered past. The sexual desire I felt for her was warping my perspective. I had to keep focused on my first priority, getting a wristlock. I didn't know what to say to her. I could tell by the look on her face that she sensed my confusion. I wondered if I was so obvious that anyone could tell I was confused, or if she knew me well enough to be familiar with all my reactions.