Apprehensions and Other Delusions Read online

  “How long will this go on? It’s not going to last,” said Ashe in a forlorn voice. “You’d think he’d have more consideration for his father than to put Brier through this right now when she’s—”

  “He’s convinced he’s right,” said Marris, more saddened than disgusted. “He’s right and everyone but Almeini is wrong.” He began to eat his sausages. “I hope that no one takes him seriously enough to dignify his stance. It’s so close to religion, I doubt he will be allowed a hearing.”

  “Um,” said Ashe, putting her attention on her mung bean pastry.

  * * *

  Ashe apologized for weeping. “He was your child,” she said to Marris. “How do you manage to keep a dry eye?”

  “I don’t; I just don’t have any tears left,” said Marris stonily as he held the door open for his friend. “There are Guards everywhere, and graffiters. Come in, hurry.”

  Ashe did not argue. “I saw many streets blocked when I came; the Guards are out in force all over, not just here,” she said, going to sit down on the wide couch. She did not look at the window. “I never thought it would come to this, not for Denny, and not for Almeini.”

  “The riot,” said Marris. “It was just what Almeini wanted.” His hands clenched. “He used my son to get it.”

  “Surely you don’t think this was deliberate?” Ashe asked, sitting up as abruptly as her pregnancy would allow.

  “Of course it was deliberate. Almeini wanted a martyr to his cause, and Denny was willing to oblige. He said he would rather die than have to transfer, and he proved it, with Almeini’s blessing. And now Londyl is saying she’ll remain female the rest of her life to honor Denny’s memory, and Almeini is praising her for her decision, just as he is praising Denny’s death as heroic.” Marris was staring at the graffiti screen, seeing nothing. “I have to bury my son because of Almeini’s inhuman, inhumane theories.”

  Ashe swallowed hard against the constriction in her throat. “You can bring an action against him,” she suggested tentatively.

  Marris shook his head. “That would only add to the attention he commands. I can’t do that. It would make all this worse. Brier is ... angry. She says something should have been done to stop him when he first began to agitate.”

  “But what?” Ashe wondered aloud. “No one thought his crazy ideas would be taken seriously, any more than that fellow in the Balkans who advocates ending weather manipulation is.”

  “But look what’s happened,” said Marris in a flat tone. “The lunatic no one took seriously has more than a million followers and is about to gain more because my son poisoned himself in protest to transferring. We all thought our traditional values would protect us from monsters like Almeini.”

  Ashe tried to find a more comfortable position, one that would ease her back and let her raise her feet. “He won’t get away with it. The public won’t stand for it.”

  “Maybe,” said Marris, his eyes desolate. “But no one thought Almeini would get this far, did they?”

  For once, Ashe could think of nothing to say.

  About Traditional Values

  Sometimes when I work late with my radio on to a station that usually carries classical music, I run into a half-hour program devoted to “explaining” what the preacher calls Natural Law as revealed in the Bible. Most of the time, it is a pseudo-religious justification for sexism and bigotry, although occasionally it attempts to address international politics. One of the most exasperating of all the broadcasts I heard was one that attempted to say that only heterosexuality was natural, and any other behavior was unnatural and therefore reprehensible at best, and heretical at worst, which leaves geese in a lot of trouble.

  That got me to thinking—in the slightly out-of-kilter way one does at three a. m.—of how one could get around this biology-is-destiny stricture without actually going against it. This story was the result.

  THAT LAST explosion is too big for any doubt: you are the only one left that’s functional. The rest are gone.

  Speed is the one thing that can save you now. If you can get out of the field and out of the range of Their artillery, then you can fight Them on your own terms, at least for a while. A solitary A.F. model-4 soldier in the open hasn’t a chance against Them, so find some cover. Then you might be able to hunt Them. You might have a chance.

  You are running clear now, the air too cold, your body too hot. You can hear the rough sounds of your running, the steady pounding of your legs. Grain stacks glass-brittle with frost crystals break against your legs and crunch under your feet making too much noise, too much; They’ll hear you. How can you run through a winter field steaming like a volcano, your bones molten with the heat of battle, your joints hissing, and be quiet? How can you get away if you do not conceal yourself?

  You trip; stumble.

  You’re falling. Catch yourself! If you’re down, you’re out.

  Your ankle twists and your sinews wrench all the way up to your hip. You nearly drop your beamer, and you clutch at it.

  Hang on. Hang on. You’re going to need it and the rest of your weapons when you find Them. Never mind limping—run! Run for cover.

  There are trees—or whatever the plants are in this anemic place that look like trees—over there on the left. Up on a little rise and you’re safe. There are trees, not Capuchin trees, the safe kind. You’ll be out of range once you reach the trees. You’ll be safe. Go on. Go on.

  You scramble, slip up the rise, your ankle functioning badly, your foot unsteady, the boot-straps loosened from the fall. You cradle your beamer and run.

  Top of the rise.

  Duck your head so that the sharp spines scratch only your shoulders and your pack. Decaying pods mash, stinking, beneath each faltering step. You blunder against a branch and fall back on a trunk, your ankle all but giving away. Steady. Steady. Slow there. Stop.

  Wait. Watch. Don’t assume anything.

  All right; They haven’t followed you. It’s going to be your turn now. Slow down the violent jerking in your chest. Assess the damage done to your leg. Restore a little order. Lean on the body of the tree-thing, press against the rough scalings and rest. Listen to your chest over the respiration of the trees, feel the cold, cold air on your face. There is damage. All over, there is damage; damage to your legs, to your shoulders and back. You have a burn on the side of your face that has left a raw patch. You want to take off your boot and realign your foot, but without the right equipment, you could make it worse, so that your foot will not function at all. Never mind. Let it go. Don’t touch it. You probably couldn’t get the boot back on right in any case. Lean on the tree. Try to relax.

  You’re safe; for the moment They can’t find you—because They don’t want to.

  For the first time you think about why. Why wouldn’t They want to find you? Why would They let you escape? What happened to your squad? Why don’t They have to bother with you at all? Well, where are your lines, your guns, your forces now? What direction is safe for you? Why should They search for you? What can one A.F. model-4 soldier do? What happened to your squad?

  You’re lost. You’re just as lost as the other.

  Don’t think about that. Try not to think about that. But they were your squad, weren’t they? You were cut from the same piece of cloth, all A.F. model-4 soldiers. They were just the same as you. You are just the same as them.

  Forget it.

  You’re functioning better now, everything still a little too fast, but better. Your thoughts are more ordered. Your chest no longer feels as if it contained a caged animal. You feel your heat turn cold.

  There is a smell to you now. You know that smell, inescapable. You know it from other battles. All A.F. model-4 soldiers have it when they fight, as if they carry the stench of death before it claims them.

  “Forget it,” you tell yourself. Put it aside. There are othe
r things to do. There is no point in worrying about smell. It’s time to look around, to find out where you are, if you can, and where They are. With any luck, you can ambush some of Them, beat Them at Their own game. Time to check your weapons. Look at the distant sun, that star with the old, old name.

  The sun is behind a sheet of grey clouds and too near setting. It will be night soon, and A.F. model-4 soldiers do not see that well in the dark.

  You’ll have to forget about Them for now. It’s time to find shelter; it’s getting late and it will freeze tonight. It always freezes. The freezing here is something brand new and too grim to risk. You can go after Them later—right now, you have to protect yourself.

  Rest a minute longer. Give yourself a break. No, don’t move yet. Stay another minute.

  But you force yourself to move on, to go cautiously through the quietly breathing forest, stepping carefully, watching where you step because of your damaged ankle, and because you want to make as little sound as possible. The dead pods are wet and make a soft, flatulent whistle when you step on them, eerie instead of funny in the oncoming dark.

  Careful; keep your eyes open. Sure, They can’t see you now, but you can’t see Them, and there are more of Them than you. And you’re the one that’s lost. So watch. Listen. Ignore the ankle. You will fix that later, when there’s time and equipment. The leg isn’t so badly damaged that you can’t go on. Keep moving. Easy. Keep the feet going and the beamer ready. Move.

  Remember that you can’t refuel your weapons until you get back to your lines; don’t waste shots on shadows. Better to keep out of sight. You be the hunter, you wait Them out. Count your steps as you go. Anything to keep you walking.

  The tree growth is different here, thinner and newer, by the look of the scales on the trunks. There’s a sort of clearing ahead and on your right, down the hill from where you are. Stop. Look at it. Make sure you know what you’re getting into.

  There’s some sort of pioneer building in the clearing. At least it looks like a pioneer building, but it might be something else, something They’ve built to trap you. Is the building what it appears to be? Is it safe? Be very careful. You cannot afford to make a mistake, not out here by yourself. The light isn’t strong and it’s colder. Look around for signs of Them: tread marks, skimmer slicks, anything.

  Drop onto your belly and slide forward. Easy. Get in close, but keep in the cover of the branches as long as possible. Your hands are stiffening with cold. If you could put down your beamer you could get your hands going again, but that wouldn’t be safe, and so you don’t do it. Look at the ground, look at the walls of the building. Look for some kind of clue.

  And there are tread marks. Theirs, probably. The pioneers don’t use tread machinery. But if there are tread tracks and no machines, it means They’ve gone, doesn’t it? And the pioneer building—you think it might be a thawing shed—could be empty, could be shelter. And it could be a trap. You know They are clever and ruthless. You’ve fought them in six different wars. They might have the shed set to blow up, or filled with deadly gas, or set to signal if anything—anyone—gets into it.

  The freshest tread marks are only about forty meters away. Inch over there, inspect them; they might be a deception. If you are convinced they’re all right, then slide up to the side of the shed. There is a low-lying mist in the clearing; keep inside it and use it as you near the shed. Make no sound, disturb nothing. If anyone or anything is watching from inside, make sure They won’t see you. Not first.

  Keep the beamer ready. Move quickly. The ankle can wait. Run!

  And you do run, skidding a little on the ice already forming in the deeper ruts. The mud is hard and cakes to your boots, sucking. You hope your ankle holds up for three more steps as you run.

  You slide, your shoulder slams against the shed.

  You wait. If They are in there, They will have heard you. Wait and listen. Wait.

  Wait.

  Okay. So far you’re probably safe, No noise. No sound. Nothing to make you think They are aware of you.

  Wish yourself invisible and start around the shed toward the door. Careful. Watch your feet. That ankle is not functioning at all well. Watch for signs. In case. Not that it would matter if you stepped on anything They’ve buried. You’ll be blown to bits before you know or care.

  Pleasant thought. Maybe it was like that for your squad, poor dumb soldiers. You know better if you let yourself think about the ambush, about the pellets with the bone-burning stuff in them. A.F. model-4 soldiers burn easily. You warned them about that. They didn’t understand enough to be afraid. All they knew was that the enemy was ahead. Your fear kept you alive, keeps you alive. You are afraid now.

  Move easy, you say to yourself. Move easy. Slow and easy. Your squad doesn’t matter any more—it’s gone. This is what matters: that you have rounded the corner and the door to the shed is about twelve meters away. It is almost closed. Almost.

  What if They’re in there? What if They know you’re here? What if They’ve been watching you from the start and are waiting until you’re a nice dark figure in the lighted door-frame. They see well at night. You’d be a good target. They would not miss.

  The wind picks up; the heavy door groans on its hinges but nothing more.

  Either They’re very cool in there or They aren’t in there at all.

  This is the hard part. Keep the beamer ready, up where you can use it, but not so high that you can’t use your arms if you have to. Move with ease. Up next to the door.

  Wait now. Listen, for something, anything that might tell you if someone is inside. Try hard. Listen with all the fear gnawing at you.

  Be sure you’re ready. All ready.

  Go!

  You scrape your sleeve on the weathered frame as you pull round the door to land crouched out of the light. Your ankle almost collapses. You keep ready.

  It’s all black. Then there are shapes becoming more solid in the dark.

  “Drop everything. Weapons down and hands up.”

  One shape is in Their uniform, sprawled on the floor.

  One of Them. It makes a sound like a sick animal. A young animal dying, and dying without reason or comfort.

  The other shape moves. It is supporting the head of the dying one. It makes a sound.

  You’re ready. “Weapons down and—”

  “Don’t bother,” is the reply and the voice is a woman’s.

  The dying soldier moves, aware of a stranger, the stranger you are. He tries to focus his eyes. He mutters something to the woman in Their tongue. She answers him gently, with reassurance, in that language you don’t know. You watch, listen. This must be her lover, her brother, someone.

  There is a quick movement. The soldier has an automatic aimed at you.

  “Stand back!” you yell to the woman, aiming your beamer, your hand stretching for the trigger.

  “Why waste the fuel? He’s got two 90s in him already. He can’t hurt you.” As she speaks, she removes the automatic from his hand, wiping his forehead almost as a benediction.

  “How can you be certain they’re enough?” you ask, keeping the beamer trained.

  “Because I shot him,” she answers with no particular emotion; she throws the automatic into the loft.

  “Hey—”

  “It was empty and jammed. It wouldn’t fire. Do you think I’d let this boy die this way if there were a better alternative? God, look at him.”

  You have seen that look before. “Let me,” you offer.

  “No.” That’s all she says: just “no.”

  For some reason you ask her why not.

  “Because this is between him and me. I suppose I could use this if I have to”—she touches something strapped to her boot. You know she has a knife—“or my automatic, but it isn’t right, not after what he did.”

 
The soldier moves. He is young, his face almost smooth. Funny, dying all blond and young makes him a boy instead of a soldier. He stopped being a soldier when he started dying. You watch him as you lower your beamer. How could you consider him one of Them now? You’re safe now. They’re far away. You’re in a pioneer thawing shed, the cold is outside, and you are safe. That boy is dying and you’re going to live. Sit down and rest. Everything is going to be all right. For the time being, everything is all right.

  “Tired?”

  You say something: you are.

  “Allied Federation soldier?”

  “Yeah,” you say. “A.F. model-4 foot soldier. Cyborg group 722.” You watch her. “You?”

  She shakes her head. “You don’t need to know that.”

  You stare at her. “Why?”

  “You don’t need to know that,” she repeats with more determination, her eyes on the dying boy.

  “Why?” you repeat suspiciously.

  “Because, friend, I am a spy. A saboteur.”

  You think a moment, evaluating what she has said. But you know that women don’t go around hiding in thawing sheds in freezing weather because they are spies. That isn’t reasonable, not in any way you’ve learned. This is a soldier’s war—an infantry affair, like all wars worth the name.

  “You doubt me?”

  “When my company gets here”—and you hope that eventually your company will arrive—“we’ll take this up with the Commander. In the meantime hand over—”