Visions of the Future (37 page)

She did. He got her back to the stockroom without attracting any notice. He pushed her into it and was closing the door, fishing the keys out of his pocket, when she blurted, “There’s no need for you—”

“You be quiet in here, understand?” he said as harshly as he could.

“We’ll help you, you’re not ready to—”

“To get filed away in a slot. No, I’m damned well not. Not ready.”

“No, no you—”

Carlos thunked shut the door, snapped the locked over. He walked away fast, heart thumping wildly, and felt a rising fear.

He was near the exit when the banging started. He looked back. The nurse was pounding on the door with something solid. People in white coats stopped in the corridor, puzzled.

Carlos turned and hurried out the exit. He was at the edge of a parking lot with no vehicles in it, exposed. He crossed it, stretching his legs in a pleasurable way, working out how to do this in an inverted world. He walked along a sidewalk until a man’s high voice behind him called, “Hey! Hey!”

He rounded a corner and tried running. His bare feet slapped on the warm concrete and he gulped fresh air greedily. Overriding his fear he felt a rush of power in his body, a sudden zing in the pull of his legs as he sprinted down the sidewalk between tall, tan buildings.

More shouts behind him. He worked his way between slabs of concrete, around a wall, and jogged downhill through oleander bushes on a steep hillside. The inverted vision made balance hard, but he was learning to deal with it. He kept his head down and managed to move quickly, bent over, working his way down the slope. With luck the bushes would screen him from pursuers above. He was panting but not rapidly.
Putting me in the slots, eh? They think we’re sheep.

A siren shrieked in the distance. Carlos reached the bottom of the slope and glanced around to get his bearing. Nausea still clutched at him if he moved his head too fast.
Lets see, hard to tell upside down, the streets look so different.

He had always walked up to the Center from Wilshire. He peered at the rosy warm sun. He was facing north. So there should be a little dogleg to the south if he turned. But a massive marbled wing of the Institute blocked that way.

No time to plan. He surged ahead, through more of the Institute grounds, parts he’d never seen. Then he angled west, keeping in the shelter of eucalypts. He inhaled their scent, enjoying the feel of it penetrate his throat and lungs. In a hundred meters the trees ended, and he came out onto sidewalk. It wasn’t Wilshire. He must have gotten turned around. It was a narrow little street, a few cars zooming quietly by. No pedestrians. A lucky break; he was pretty damned conspicuous.

He rushed down a block and crossed the street, not paying much attention to anything except the way he had come. The sirens wailed and cops would pick him up. He looked for a restaurant or something to duck into, but there were only faceless apartment buildings along this cramped little street. He tried some foyer doors but they were locked. Ahead, though, was a little city park he remembered. He could cut across there, maybe make a call from one of the phone booths by Wilshire and Rodeo Drive.

He crossed the street and entered the park, crossing the dry, beaten grass. It was surprisingly empty for this time of day. He circled around the scummy duck pond and trotted under a long line of sycamores. At Wilshire he turned left, angling back toward—

The Conway building wasn’t there. In its place was a strange sculpted thing made of glass and blue, rubbery-looking stuff.

Carlos stood frozen for a moment, trying to get his bearings. This was Wilshire, that was for sure; wasn’t Rodeo off that way?

The damned inverted vision had probably screwed up his sense of direction. In the distance towered the Sapporo building, but next to it was something that fanned out into an outrageous plumed top.

Feeling dizzy, he looked around. Now that he looked closely, he noticed that the people were kind of odd, wearing clothes that bagged in funny places and were cut the wrong way.

Carlos backed away from the street, into the park. He ran back toward the duck pond. It was easier to run than to try to straighten out his swirl of emotions and questions.

He reached the pond and looked up at the looming bulk of the Center. Something about its roof—

Two policemen were walking toward him, coming around the pond. He turned without thinking and fled.

Around a stand of eucalyptus, down a path—and there were two more police, weapons drawn. It was hard to read their expressions, inverted, but they were looking at him.

“Okay, easy, fella.”

He turned back, saw them closing in behind.

“Just let us have that knife.”

Carlos yelled hoarsely, “Only if you don’t take me back in there.”

“Can’t guarantee anything ‘til you drop the knife.”

“I’m not going back!”

“C’mon. They say you’re not even halfway through your cycling,”

“Not halfway
dead
, you mean.”

“Hah?” The nearest cop stopped, puzzled. She lowered the baton in her hand.

Her partner said roughly, “The knife, fella.”

“No, look,” the woman cop said. “I think I know what’s going on.” She pointed at Carlos. “Pull up those sleeves. Unzip that sensor fabric.”

Carlos hesitated, turning to see that the two behind him kept their distance. They could rush him easily, but they didn’t seem to be preparing for that. But once he gave up the scalpel—

“Come on, we haven’t got all day.”

Carlos pulled aside his sleeve and the mesh and peered at his right hand. He had avoided looking at his own body because that had disoriented him even worse. Now he saw that his skin was bone white. No speckling of liver spots. No lines or creases. What…?

“See what I mean?” the woman policeman called.

“No, I… what’d they do to me?”

“You’ve got a whole new body. Not just the old one without the cancer.”

“What…”

“The knife, fella.”

“Huh? Oh.” Carlos pulled the scalpel from his pocket and offered it, hilt first.

The woman took it and said, “Look, you got a major deal. Grew you a fresh body, cloned off your own cells. Gave you one of those self-patches, read out your brain, transplanted the memories and self-sense into it.”

“Then this…” He felt dizzy, reeled; the cops grabbed his arms and steadied him. He gasped, “How long has it been?”

“Thirty-eight years, the tech said.”

“Thirty-eight…” He rolled up his sleeve further. The arm was young, powerfully muscled. No wonder he’d been able to escape. The way his body had responded, crisp and sure, the heady pleasure of bunching muscles, the tang of fresh tastes and smells, the pure zest of it—

“Man, you’re sure something,” the nearest cop said, eyeing Carlos. ‘‘Toughest case they ever had. Nobody ever did that—ran, got off the table, out through their system. Man! Once you get out, fella, you’re gonna tear this town up.”

Carlos smiled. They led him down to Wilshire. His head was spinning, the world still upside down. He looked back at the Center, towering over the lush green park. Carlos remembered waking up—how long ago? Half an hour? Not much more.

And the first thing he’d thought was that his settled, comfortable life might get interrupted. He’d been afraid of getting sleep-slotted, afraid of the future—of losing his neighborhood, his friends, the skills he had. He had an old man’s habits of mind. Just holding on, out of fear.

But thirty-eight years wasn’t so long. He could pick up the threads. Find old friends, make new ones. Learn a skill. Maybe even romance… with a new body.

He’d have to stop jumping to conclusions about himself. Stop living inside the cramped horizons of an old man.

Carlos sucked in a rich lungful of aromatic, humid air. He was here, now. And the future was all he—or anyone else—had left.