Steel Beach (66 page)

“You’re a jerk, too.”

“I know.”

He continued shoving stew into his face, looking at me with no real spark of human feeling I could detect. I turned to Smith.

“It’s time you told me what’s going on here. What’s been done to this man? If this is an example of what you were talking about on the way…  ”

“It is.”

“Then I don’t want anything to do with it. In fact, damn it, I know I promised not to talk about you and your people, but—”

“Hang on a minute, Hildy,” Smith said. “This is an example of human experimentation, but we didn’t do it.”

“The CC,” I said, after a long pause. Who else?

“There’s something seriously wrong with the CC, Hildy. I don’t know what it is, but I know the results. This man is one. He’s a cloned body, grown from Andrew MacDonald’s corpse, or from a tissue sample. When he’s in a mood to talk, he’s said things we’ve checked against his records, and it seems he really does have MacDonald’s memories. Up to a point. He remembers things up to about three or four years ago. We haven’t been able to test him thoroughly, but what tests we’ve been able to run bear out what we’ve seen from other specimens like him. He thinks he is MacDonald.”

“Damn right I am,” the prisoner chimed in.

“For all practical purposes, he’s right. But he doesn’t remember the Kansas Collapse. He doesn’t remember Silvio’s assassination. I was certain he wouldn’t remember you, and he didn’t. What’s happened is that his memories were recorded in some way, and played back into this clone body.”

I thought it over. Smith gave me time to.

“It doesn’t work,” I said, finally. “There’s no way this thing could have turned into the man I met in only three or four years. This guy is like a big, spoiled child.”

“Big is right, babe,” the man said, with the gesture you’d expect.

“I didn’t say the copy was perfect,” Smith said. “The memories seem to be extremely good. But some things didn’t record. He has no social inhibitions whatsoever. No sense of guilt or shame. He really did try to kill a man who accidentally stepped on his foot, and he never saw what was so wrong about it. He’s incredibly dangerous, because he’s the best fighter in Luna; that’s why we have him here, in the best prison we can devise. We, who don’t even believe in prisons.”

I could see it would be a tough one to get out of. If you got past the null-field, there were the toxic gases of Minamata. Beyond that, vacuum.

It seemed that “MacDonald” was the most recent of a long line of abandoned experiments. Smith wouldn’t tell me how the Heinleiners had come to have him, except to say that, in his case, he’d most likely been sent.

“Early on in this program, we had a pipeline into the secret lab where this work was going on. The first attempts were pathetic. We had people who just sat there and drooled, others who tore at themselves with their teeth. But the CC got better with practice. Some could pass as normal human beings. Some of them live with us. They’re limited, but what can you do? I think they’re human.

“But lately, we’ve been getting surprise packages, like Andrew here. We lock them up, interrogate them. Some of them are harmless. Others…  I don’t think we can ever let them free.”

“I don’t understand. I mean, I see this one could be dangerous, but—”

“The CC wants in here.”

“Into Minamata?”

“No, this is his place. You saw the water down there. That’s his work. He wants into the Heinleiner enclave. He wants the null-field. He wants to know if I’m successful with the stardrive. He wants to know other things. He found out about our access to his forbidden experiments, and we started getting people like Andrew. Walking time bombs, most of them. After a few tragic incidents, we had to institute some security precautions. Now we’re careful about the dead people we let in here.”

It was not the first time an action by the CC had turned my world upside-down. You live in a time and a place and you think you know what’s going on, but you don’t. Maybe no one ever did.

Smith had unloaded too many things on me too quickly. I’d had some practice at that, with the CC playing games with my head, but I wonder if anyone ever gets really good at it.

“So he’s working on immortality?” I asked.

“Of a sort. The oldest people around now are pushing three hundred. Most people think there’s a limit on how long the human brain can be patched up in one way or another. But if you could make a
perfect
record of everything a human being is, and dump it into another brain…  ”

“Yeah…  but Andrew is
dead
. This thing…  even if it was a better copy, it still wouldn’t be Andrew. Would it?”

“Hey, Hildy,” Andrew said. When I turned to face him I got a big glob of cold, canned beef stew right in the kisser.

He never looked more like an ape as he capered around his cell, hugging himself, bent over with laughter. It showed no signs of stopping. And the funny thing was, after a brief flash of homicidal intent, I found it impossible to hate him. Whatever the CC had left out of this man, he was not evil, as I had first thought. He was childish and completely impulsive. Some sort of governor had not been copied right; his conscience had been smudged in transmission, there was static in his self-control. Think of it, do it. A simple philosophy.

“Come on next door,” Smith said, after giving me some help getting the worst mess off me. “You can clean up there, and I have something to show you.”

So we went through the null-field again—Andrew was still laughing—walked eight or nine steps further to cell #9, and stepped in.

And who should I see there but Aladdin, he of the magic lungs, standing on this side of a barred cell identical to the one we’d just left. Only this one was not occupied, and the door stood open.

“Who’s this one for?” I asked. “And what’s Aladdin doing here?” Some days I’m quick, but this didn’t seem to be one of them.

“There’s no assigned occupant yet, Hildy,” Smith said, displaying something that had once been a flashlight but had now folded out into what just
had
to be a Heinleiner weapon—it had that gimcrack look. “We’re going to ask you some questions. Not many, but the answers may take a while, so get comfortable. Aladdin’s here to remove your null-suit generator if we don’t like the answers.”

There was a long, awkward silence. Being held at gunpoint is not something any of us had much experience of, from either end of the gun. It’s a social situation you don’t run into often. Try it at your next party, see how the guests handle it.

To their credit, I don’t think they liked it much more than me.

“What do you want to know?”

“Start with all your dealings with the Central Computer over the last three years.”

So I told them everything.

Gretel, that sweet child, would have invited me in the first weekend, as it turned out. It was Smith and his friends who held up the approval. They were checking me out, and their resources for doing so were formidable. I’d been watched in Texas. My background had been researched. As I went along there were a few times when I missed this or that detail, and I was always corrected. To lie would have been futile…  and besides, I didn’t want to lie. If anyone had the answers to the questions I’d been asking myself about the CC, it was surely these people. I wanted to help them by telling everything I knew.

I don’t want to make this sound more dire than it actually was. Fairly early we all relaxed. The flashlight was re-folded and put away. If they’d been really suspicious of me I’d have been brought here on my first visit, but after the things they had told me it was only prudent for them to interrogate me in the way they did.

The thing that had upset them was my suicide attempt on the surface. It had left behind physical evidence, in the form of a ruptured faceplate, and set them to wondering if I had
really
died up there.

And as I continued talking about it a disturbing thing occurred to me: what if I
had
?

How could I ever know, really? If the CC could record my memories and play them back into a cloned body, would I feel any different than I did then? I couldn’t think of a test to check it, not one I could do myself. I found myself hoping they had one. No such luck.

“I’m not worried about that, Hildy,” Smith said, when I brought it up. In retrospect, maybe that wasn’t a smart thing to do, pointing out that they couldn’t be sure of me, either, but it didn’t matter, since they’d already thought of it and made up their minds. “If the CC has gotten that good, then we’re licked already.”

“Besides,” Aladdin put in, “if he’s that good, what difference would it make?”

“It could be important if he’d left a posthypnotic suggestion,” Smith said. “A perfect copy of Hildy, with a buried injunction to spy on us and spill her guts when she went back to King City.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Aladdin said, looking as if he wished the flashlight hadn’t been put away so hastily.

“As I said, if he’s that good we might as well give up.” He stood, and stretched. “No, my friends. At some point you have to stop the tests. At some point you just have to go with your feelings. I’m very sorry to have done this to you, Hildy, it’s against all I believe in. Your personal life should be your own. But we’re engaged in a quiet war here. No battles have been fought, but the enemy is constantly feeling us out. The best we can do is be like a turtle, pull into a shell he can’t penetrate. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I wanted to talk about it, anyway.”

He held out his hand, and I took it, and for the first time in many, many years, I felt like I belonged to something. I wanted to shout “Death to the CC!” Unfortunately, the Heinleiners were short on slogans, membership badges, that sort of thing. I sort of doubted I’d be offered a uniform.

Hell, they didn’t even have a secret handshake. But I accepted the ordinary one I was offered gratefully. I was in.

What did you do during the Big Glitch?

It’s an interesting question from several angles. If I’d asked what you were doing when you heard Silvio had been assassinated, I’d get back a variety of answers, but a minute after you heard ninety-nine percent of you were glued to the newspad (twenty-seven percent to the
Nipple
). It’s the same for other large, important events, the kind that shape our lives. But each of you will have a different story about the Glitch.

The story will start like this:

Something major in your life suffered a malfunction of some kind. Depending on what it was, you called the repair-person or the police or simply started screaming bloody murder. The next thing you did (99.99 percent of you, anyway), was turn on your newspad to see what the hell was happening. You turned it on, and you got…  nothing.

Our age is not simply information-rich. It’s information-saturated. We expect that information to be delivered as regularly as the oxygen we breathe, and tend to forget the delivery is as much at the mercy of fallible machines as is the air. We view it as only slightly less important than air. Two seconds of down-time on one of the major pads will generate
hundreds of thousands
of complaints. Irate calls, furious threats to cancel subscriptions. Frightened calls. Panicky calls. To turn on the pad and get nothing but white noise and fuzz is Luna’s equivalent of a planet-wide earthquake. We expect our info-nets to be comprehensive, ubiquitous, and global, and we expect it
right now
.

To this day, the Big Glitch is the mainstay of the counseling industry in Luna. Those who deal in crisis management have found it a fabulous meal ticket that shows no signs of expiring. They rate it higher, in terms of stress produced, than being the victim of violent assault, or the loss of a parent.

One of the things that made it so stressful was that everyone’s experience was different. When your world-view, your opinions and the “facts” you base them on, the events that have shaped our collective consciousness, what you like (because everyone else does) and what you don’t like (ditto), all come over that all-pervasive newspad, you’re a bit at sea when the pad goes down and you suddenly have to react for yourself. No news of how people in Arkytown are taking it. No endless replays of the highlights. No pundits to tell you what to think about it, what people are doing about it (so you can do the same). You’re on your own, pal. Good luck. Oh, and by the way, if you choose wrong, it can
kill
you, buddy.

The Glitch is the one big event where nobody saw the whole thing in an overview provided by experts whose job it is to trim the story down to a size that will fit a pad. Everybody saw just a little piece of it, their own piece. Almost none of those pieces really mattered in the larger scheme of things. Mine didn’t, either, though I was closer to the “center” of the story, if it had a center, than most of you. Only a handful of experts who finally brought it under control ever really knew what was going on. Read their accounts, if you’re qualified, if you want to know what
really
went on. I’ve tried, and if you can explain it to me please send a synopsis, twenty-five words or less, all entries to be scrupulously ignored.

So know going in that I’m not going to provide many technical details. Know that I’m not going to tell you much about what went on behind the scenes; I’m as ignorant of it as anyone else.

No, this is simply what happened to
me
during the Big Glitch…  

Afterwards, when it became necessary to talk about Delambre and the colony of weirdos in residence there, the newspads had to come up with a term everyone would recognize, some sort of shorthand term for the place and the people. As usual in these situations, there was a period of casting about and market research, listening to what the people themselves were calling it. I heard the place called a village, a warren, and a refuge. My particular favorite was “termitarium.” It aptly described the random burrows in the Delambre trash heap.

Pads who didn’t like the Heinleiners called the residents a cabal. Pads who admired them referred to Delambre and the ship as a Citadel. There was even confusion about the term “Heinleiner.” It meant, depending on who you were talking about, either a political philosophy, a seriously crackpot religion (eventually known as “Organized Heinleiners”), or the practitioners of scientific civil disobedience loosely led by V. M. Smith and a few others.