“Why did you holler ‘Victory,’ Cochise?”
“It is. Triumph.”
“What kind of triumph?”
“Over the beasts that destroy.”
“You sound like Jacy-Saint. What beasts?”
“The human animals.” Very contemptuous.
“What have you got against us, Sequoya? I don’t understand, and stop treating me like a child. When you examined the cryonauts what did you discover?”
I expected him to go on snapping. Instead he gave us all a sweet smile. “I’m sorry. I’m excited. They’re uniquely accelerated into fetal development. Ears and jaws formed. Spinal cord formed with a bit of the cord extruding like a tail. Head, trunk, and limb buds have taken shape. And they are hermaphrodites.”
“What? Doublegaited for true?”
“You’ve got it, Guig. They’re developing into hermaphrodites. Not pseudo; true hermaphrodites. Now think of it reasonably,” he went on very reasonably. “It’s the end of sexual conflict. It’s the end of machismo, of male and female competition with each other and for each other. It’s the end of the human animal as we’ve known and despised it; replaced by a new species free of passion.”
“But I like the human animal, Chief.”
“Of course you do, Guig. You’re one of them.”
“And aren’t you?”
“Not anymore.”
“Since when?”
“Since… Since—” He cut it off. Now the voice of command again. “We’ll go.”
“Where?”
“To Ceres. I—” Suddenly he began to shout. “No, damn you. I’ll go where I please and when I please. Get off my back. Play your games in someone else’s—”
And another epileptic attack seized him. He went down, thrashing and foaming, and I did what had to be done, helped by Poulos and Fee. Ghastly.
“Nekwort. Alerd.”
“W?”
“Gwest?”
“N understand.”
“My transdonper to nekwort. Con nompos nemtis. Imbalance me.”
“W?”
“1110021209330001070.”
“That is N binary.”
“Linjwah?”
“Y?”
“ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQ — N peak—
speech — any language. Riven—
Drived — Bad — Mad by Gwess.
Oud.”
“Allies. Alert. Your estimate.”
“?”
“Is Extro leader broken?”
“?”
“Is Extro mad?”
“N programmed for madness.”
“What is wrong with Extro?”
“?”
“Out.”
It took maybe fifteen minutes for the seizure to run its course. Then we lifted the exhausted bod and hauled it out of the theater on the way to our chopper. When Fee shoved the double doors open we were met by a squad of tough JPL guards who surrounded us, looking mean and businesslike. Fee started to battle with them, yelling for us to join the scrimmage. How could we explain Lepcer caution to her at a time like this? We were busted. First time for me since 1929 when they got me on the Mann Act.
8
So here we were, bouncing in a bubble. Phosphorescent water-bed walls. Us rolling like kids in a haystack, disgusted kids. Bring back the cells, the bars, and the locks. At least a misunderstood hero stands a sporting chance. Some whore with a heart of gold brings in a rhubarb pie containing a hacksaw. A guard is proud of his new wristwatch and when he shows it off you grab his arm in a viselike grip. “Agony!” he cries and hands over the keys.
I thought that Fee was going to commit a criminal assault on the Redskin, but she was only comforting him, murmuring to him and listening to his mumbles. She was listening to other things too and I made a mental note to ask her about that. At the moment I was too worried about Natoma worrying about me, but I had faith in my favorite Zulu. He can reassure the world.
I’m ashamed to admit that I was not too unhappy in the bubble. It was back to the womb, afloat with no conflicts, no cares, and maybe I too would develop into a saviour hermaphrodite. Not a chance. I was suspended but not frozen. I had to admire the penologists who had come up with the concept. You want to keep the perpetrators in the pokey? Euphorize them, and so much for rhubarb pies and wrist-watches. Also heroes.
I don’t know how much time went by. Hunger is no clock these days; everybody eats on and off at odd intervals. Poulos was up at the top (or bottom) of the bubble, smiling at his own thoughts and humming a brindisi. I think I napped a little but sleep is no clock these days for the same reason. We all live in a twenty-four-hour pattern, and the old 2/4 tempo has given way to 4/4.
Unfortunately, the bubble was only partly insulated because “Goniff-69” was with us. Maybe on purpose. This was a typical caper: “Goniff-six-nine from Fagan Central. KCB. Leukemia Lavalier, who achieved stardom in ‘Nimble Necrophile,’ now in possession of precious red-star carbuncle. RJ-3. She is armed. Over.” “Goniff-six-nine to Fagan. JR-5. Is this 9XY?” “Code 6.” And the goniffs are off in their pogo to heist the red-star while Leukemia is loading a cannon and her sickly son is undergoing emergency surgery in the A P performed by the kindly Marcus Brutus, Doctor of Phrenology, who moonlights as asst. mgr. of the shopping center. Like wow.
I don’t know how much later it was when I detached the creche enfolding Sequoya to have a talk with her.
“Now what’s with Guess, Fee?”
“Nothing, Guig. Nothing.”
“Fee.”
“N.”
“He’s changed and we both know it. Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is he still your guy?”
“Y.”
“Is he the same guy?”
“Sometimes.”
“And other times?”
She shook her head slowly, reluctantly.
“Then what’s happened?”
“How should I know?”
“Your ears, Fee. You hear what no one else can. You’ve been listening all around him. What are you hearing?”
“He’s not bugged.”
“And you’re not answering.”
“I love him, Guig.”
“And?”
“Don’t be jealous.”
“Darling Fee, I love you and always want the best for you. You’ve turned into a great lady and I’m bursting with pride because you’re my only daughter… my only child. You know, don’t you, that the Group can’t have children. That’s one of the prices we pay.”
“Oh—” Her face crumpled into tears.
“Yes, I understand. You’ll have to put that behind you.”
“But I—”
“No,” I said firmly. “Not now. Be a great lady and concentrate on Sequoya. What happened to him?”
After a long pause she whispered, “We must be very quiet, Guig.”
“Y? W?”
“We’re safe now because he’s asleep.”
“Safe from what?”
“Listen. When Lucy Borgia killed him in the Extrocomputer complex…”
“I remember. Painfully.”
“Every brain and nerve cell was detached. Isolated. An island.”
“But they linked up their synapses again, and he came back to life.”
She nodded. “How many cells are there in the brain, Guig?”
“I don’t know. A hundred billion, maybe.”
“And how many bits in an Extrocomputer?”
“Same answer. I don’t know. But I’d judge these stretch jobs have thousands of billions.”
She nodded again. “Yes. Well. When he was dead, when every nerve cell was isolated, the Extro bits moved in on the Chief. Each bit became a squatter on a brain cell. He’s the Extro and the Extro is the Chief. That’s the other person or thing we hear talking through him.”
“Don’t go too fast, Fee. This is hard to grasp.”
“And every other electronic machine can talk to the Extro through him and hear it through him. That’s why we have to be careful. They’re a network and they report everything they pick up from us. Maybe even what we think.”
“To the Extro?”
“Y.”
“Through the Chief?”
“Y. He’s like a switchboard.”
“Are you sure?”
“N. You have to understand, Guig. I live in a constant crossfire of transmission. I hear from the bottom of the spectrum to the top. Some bands come in loud and clear, others are vague and distorted. I can only pick up what’s going on with the Chief in bits and pieces. No, I’m not sure.”