Koontz, Dean - The Fall of the Dream Machine Read online

  He flipped off the player and punched the button that brought him into direct contact with the main computer. "Latest information on the Nimron disappearance!" he said. "None," the computer answered. He flipped it off and slammed a fist into the desk. Damnit! Roger Nimron was a dangerous man. He was a romantic, collecting old books which he could not read, old movies which he could not view since there were no projectors. He should have known the man was not fit for the Presidency.

  At least he had learned a lesson. There would never be a freely elected President again. It would be a Show man who won the office from now on. A man of his choosing. Perhaps Howard Connie. Connie was afraid of him. He liked that in a man: humility.

  He looked at the wall clock, stood and set the office to lock behind him. They were waiting in surgery. Limey's genitals, they said, looked fine. He hoped so. He sincerely hoped so. . . .

  On Andrew Flaxen's estate, there was a garage.

  In the garage, the car fast-dried its new coat of paint, twirling itself about in the blast of hot air from the ceiling vent. The old paint had been flushed down the drains along with the human hair, bone, and blood. The old air system was a gleaming piece of statuary, reformed. The car stood smooth, black, and innocent.

  "Good," Flaxen said.

  "I thought so too," his chief mechanic said proudly. "You'd never know she was a killer."

  "A liquidator," Flaxen said, mouth wrinkled. "An exterminator."

  "Precisely," the mechanic said, grinning.

  "Park it outside tonight where they can get to it easily."

  They both smiled.

  The car gleamed.

  VII

  He had new retina patterns and a new blood index. McGivey had even changed his perspiration odor. He would not have thought of that himself. After McGivey briefly explained the Silver Hounds that could track a man through a city sewer on smell alone, however, the wisdom of changing his body odor struck him as extremely prudent.

  Indeed, the days with McGivey were days of change in every respect. Not only his physical self was altered, but his mental self, his attitudes, outlooks, and opinions were bending, twisting, reshaping. He was, for the first time, seeing the real world. Not the world of Show or the world Cockley's Performers lived in—one of guards, police, monitors, and the all-hearing, omnipresent microphones. The Real World. It frightened him to a degree. Cockley was slowly but very certainly taking over the control of that real world. And the idea did not appeal to Mike.

  All the world a Show, the men and women merely Performers. . . .

  Mike had only met Anaxemander Cockley once. In his earlier years as a Performer, he had refused to do a certain private scene with Lisa, thinking of all those prying eyes, sharing bodies. He had been taken to the boss's office. He had planned a big speech, very dramatic, very dignified. But there had been very little talking, and Cockley had done most of that. The only time he had managed to speak a few words of protest, Cockley had leaped across his desk, dragged him to the floor, and began to throttle him. He had escaped. But he knew that Cockley had allowed him to escape. The man had terrible power in his hands, his arms. He had never demanded to see the boss again. The pain had not bothered him so much as the knowledge that Cockley had enjoyed strangling him, beating him. Enjoyed it!

  He did not like the idea of such a man coming so close to ruling so much of the world. Anything Flaxen and his group wanted him to do in return for his freedom was not too much.

  "Anything?" McGivey asked.

  "Anything."

  The operating theater was cluttered with sparkling machines, machines with arms and hands and brains and eyes of their own.

  "Well, that is a healthy and cooperative attitude," the doctor said, sitting down on the edge of a large table dotted with culture dishes capped by plastic lids. "Especially since I'm going to have to ask you to agree to something rather important."

  Mike leaned forward, gripping the arms of his chair, tainting the air with his new odor, his new eyes glittering, new blood throbbing in his vessels. "What?"

  "We have to change your face."

  Mike felt his heart skip a beat, his temperature drop, rise, drop, rise again.

  "Get hold of yourself. I know what you're going through. No one likes to lose his face. It is the strongest blow to the ego. And you have a stronger desire than most to keep your face, for you were a Performer."

  "What does that have to do with it?" he snapped. There was an unreasoning fear burgeoning within him, a fear that his psyche would be next, that they would drain him of all that was once Jorgova and fill him with something strange . . . a cream puff flooded with arsenic pudding. The depths of his mind rebelled against giving up his face. And he could not understand why.

  "You have been taught—sleep-taught and wake-taught —from birth to protect your face while doing dangerous things. The audience does not want to identify with a deformed Performer. You were taught to use your face to evoke emotions in other Performers so that those emotions could be transmitted to the folks at home. You were taught to register disgust, hatred, love, sorrow, oh so many things with your face muscles. And all that training has rooted in your mind and will not easily let go."

  "But why does it have to be changed?" He was suppressing the urge to run.

  "The irrationality of that question should prove your fears are resting on shaky ground. It must be changed so that you can walk in the world again. There are seven hundred million people who have been that face."

  He looked at the machines.

  Some of the fingers held knives . . . that would dig into his face. . . .

  "You step outside of here with your real face, and you will be back in Cockley's circus again. And for good this time."

  The blank eyes of the machines stared at him, waiting.

  "And Cockley might decide that the people at home would like a little sado-masochistic entertainment. Like feeling your toenails being pulled out. Only the toenails will be yours."

  "You don't have to get ugly," he said, forcing down a lump in his throat. "Do I get to pick my new face?"

  McGivey smiled. "Good, and yes. I can make you anything you want. Dashing, plain, or ugly."

  "Dashing, please."

  "Egomaniac."

  Jorgova smiled. "Butcher."

  "The machines will do it all," McGivey said. "No room for human error. You don't have to worry about a sloppy nose or too thin lips."

  "Could we get it over with, please?"

  "Surely."

  And then McGivey was all efficiency. He picked up the programming microphone and began giving the machines all sorts of technical instructions. Mike thought that it would have been easier if the doctor had done the surgery himself. But then machines do not sneeze when shaping a cheek. . . .

  "Lie down there," McGivey said, pointing to a cot that evidently slid into the wall where the dark wielders of blades rested. "All your clothes off."

  "For a face job?"

  "You'll be completely sterilized first. Clothing isn't as easy to sterilize as skin."

  He followed instructions, lay down on the bed without legs.

  "Feet stiff and straight," McGivey said.

  He straightened them just as the needles plunged into the heels of his feet. All colors were overly bright for a moment, all sounds a tiny bit sharper, all smells of antiseptics more pungent.

  And then there was darkness . . .

  And then there was light. . . .

  He raised a hand to shield his eyes from the glare, and his fingers grazed the jelly bandage that encased his face. Bit by bit, things came back to him, fell into order. His face had been changed. First his blood, then his eyes, then his smell. Now his face. He fought the panic, surveyed the room.

  It was the same room he had been in before the operation. The slope-backed chairs, psychedelic paintings, the velvet curtains were all the same. The curtains, he knew, hid a wall and not a window. As he moved his head to the left, he saw McGivey sitting in the recliner, his h
ands clasped behind his head. "Good morning," the doctor said.

  He tried to move his mouth, found it too was covered with jelly. He reached quickly for his nose, discovered two tubes that broke through the bandage to get air for his lungs.

  "I had to reshape the lips, replace your fine teeth with firmer broader ones that are better fitted to your new face. The bandages come off tomorrow evening. You have been asleep two days."

  Feeling like a degenerated idiot, Mike pointed at his eyes, ran a hand over the bandage.

  "You can't see anything anyway," McGivey said.

  He repeated the motion insistently.

  "Okay," the tall man said, walking to the dresser for a mirror. "You must be a narcissist."

  He grasped the mirror by the mother-of-pearl handle, trembled as he raised it. He looked into his eyes. They were blue. They had been brown. The semi-transparent jelly concealed the rest of his features. There were two dark holes where the tubes met the nostrils. There was a black and crimson slash down in there that would be a mouth. He could detect the faint trace of eyebrows. That was all.

  He handed the mirror back.

  "Tomorrow," McGivey said.

  He nodded his head.

  Tomorrow . . .

  You dream of me often. Right? You know you do. I'm Zombie. They used to call me by a name that rhymes with my new one. They used to call me Society. It was a bad term. It was too comprehensive and too general, just as the new one is. But doesn't Zombie fit me? I mean, what with all the vacant stares, routines, patterns. Think of the vacant stares through the years. Go way, way back. Go way, way back to that girl—all names forgotten now, lost in the mists of Time—that got stabbed in some state called New York in some city of like name. There she is. See? Lying there on the doorstep of that house while he brings the knife up and down, up and down, up and down like the horses on a merry-go-round sliding on their oiled poles. Nothing merry here, though. Look in the picture window of that house. There at the corner of the pink drape. There are people standing there, staring, watching. Vacant, empty eyes. And take a peek, sly like, at all those other windows in all those other houses and buildings. Similar people with similar eyes. Fish stares. Ever see fish lying in shallow water, dying? They flop around a lot at first, but then they just lie there, staring sort of empty and at nothing in particular. These stares in these faces are like that. And all those faces on the subways and in the airplanes. The eyes of a nameless man sitting in a tower with a rifle across his lap, licking his lips over and over. And the eyes of the people he killed: vacant. And you dream of me often, don't you? And maybe once in a while you dream of a time when you saw life in all those vacant eyes around you. You were on a tour of one of those quasi-world fairs. You had waited in line for three hours and twenty minutes and ten seconds; you knew it had been exactly that long, for the big light board overhead told you so. And all that time, those people spoke only two hundred words or so, mostly telling lads to shut up, requesting wives and/or husbands to hold the place while they went to the bathroom or to get a drink. And vacant stares. Then, after so many blinks on the light board, everyone stepped through the double bronze doors that were like two metal lips, into the tunnel-like hallway— everyone smashed next to everyone else like layers in a human sandwich, staring at exhibits. And one exhibition put' light into all those faces. You remember it. It was a display —educational—reproducing via models the fertilization of the female egg by the male sperm. There was a complete educational construction of all organs and parts involved that maintained the ancient, before-God rhythm of the act. Regularly (every ten minutes on the ten minutes!) fertilized the damn plastic egg. All those eyes were lighted up, watching the perfect machines demonstrate the human function. And you did not think it was lust in their eyes, did you? You were suddenly very damn afraid it was envy. Envy of the chromium male and the plastic female. After that, their eyes did not brighten, except when they passed other machines and other computers and the echo of the mechanical love-making sparked something momentarily in the dark corners of their minds. You dream of me often, don't you? You know you do.

  He came out of the anesthetic as McGivey said, "Bandage off and all is well!"

  He looked into the proffered mirror and knew it was so. His forehead, under a thick cropping of hair black as a darkened stage, was broad and lightly lined. His blue eyes sparkled intelligently. His nose was Roman, his lips straight —not too thin and not so full as to clash with the nose. His chin was firm. His ears lay flat against his head. He was striking—dashing.

  "Congratulations!" he said.

  "Not me. The machines."

  Then began a period of eating well and sleeping soundly. There were sessions in the mechanical psychiatrist to obliterate all traumas accrued through the changing of identity. The food was good, the bed soft, the mechanical psychiatrist soothing. And he retained himself, what was Mike Jorgova. As the days wore on and new things were brought into his world—such as books that he was taught to read, music that was not filled with subliminals—he began to hate Anaxemander Cockley more and more. Harder and harder. He hated him for ruining the first twenty-six years of his life.

  And the first twenty-four of hers. . . .

  She was with him wherever he went, through whatever he did. She was at the distant edge of all his thoughts, ready to speed to the front if he wished. She lurked, waited, inspired.

  There was the memory of bringing her flowers when she was twelve and he fourteen. And of the picking of the petals and the things the picking foretold.

  There was the memory of the first kiss . . .

  And of the first sharing of love. . . .

  On the fourth day of his recovery, McGivey summoned him over the intercom to come to the pool area, on the entertainment shelf. He said there was a particularly important segment of Show that they should watch. He said to hurry.

  The pool and overhanging entertainment shelf were marvels of engineering ingenuity and artistic taste. The pool was a giant, shimmering gem set in volcanic rock which had been imported from who-knew-where and which was sprinkled with plants similar to those on the fountain in the living room—green and orange. The pool was free-form, filled with hideaway corners, the complexity making it appear larger than it actually was. The shelf that hung above was railed in black iron except for a brief opening from which a swimmer might dive into the deepest part of the water. Further back from the edge were conical, limited-sound areas where one could sit and listen to music without disturbing anyone else in the general area. Behind that were bookshelves—with real books by the hundreds. This was a rarity, a thing owned only by the richest. But the books here were read. And that was even rarer. That was unheard of! Finally, there were three Show aura chairs. They were illegal, homemade jobs from Flaxen. They served two purposes: the doctor's place could be kept secret, for no Show serviceman would be needed to install the illegal set; secondly, these auras were not equipped with the standard snooper mikes that allowed Show to tune into any home, anywhere. It gave them a one-way window onto the rest-of the world—something which only Anaxemander Cockley, perhaps, had.

  McGivey was sitting in one of the chairs, aura off.

  "What is it?"

  "They are going to transmit your capture to the viewers."

  "My—"

  "Not really your capture. They cannot let the people think you have gotten away scot-free. You have to suffer. Besides, it gives them a chance to transmit some rougher action than usual. No one will care whether you are hurt, for you cheated everyone by running away."

  "But who—"

  "Watch it and decide for yourself." McGivey flipped on the toto-experience aura. It shimmered all colors around him, engulfing him. After a moment, Mike did the same.

  The emotions of the police are not terribly clear, for they are not trained Performers with conditioned minds, muscle-flexed ids and egos. But they transmit something like hate. . . .

  And you/he, Mike Jorgova, are sending back hate to them.


  There is an alleyway to his/your left. There is an alleyway to his/your right. In front, the open highway where the sound of sirens echoes foggily through the night mists.

  Left?

  Right?

  He/you is full of hate, bubbling and frothing. He/you is full of fear, bitter and sweet and tingling through his/your mind and heart. Blackness within and without. Visions of the Waters of Oblivion . . .

  He/you turns right, suddenly moving with a great deal of speed. Legs pumping up and down, arms swinging, he/you tries to outrun Fate. But Fate, in the guise of police, appears at the end of the alleyway.

  And they are big—and armed.

  He/you turns and sees police at the other end too. Police with broad, bland faces, rather obscure. Then his/your face is rather obscure too, for the machines can hardly handle all of that hate and fear.

  There is a blue beam from a police weapon.

  It hits his/your ear.

  His/your ear splits open like a shredded lettuce leaf from a very ancient, wilted salad. It begins spitting blood. He/you cries in agony as the beam from the other direction chars away his/your other ear. Yet he/you can hear things with his/your dead ears: the roaring of mysterious oceans, the screams of animals with horns where eyes should be, the rushing of cold wind. From the right, they blast away his/your nose, send him/you to the pavement babbling and gushing various liquids. And from the left, they stop the babbling by searing away his/your lips. They are advancing—constantly and steadily. He/you tries to stand. A beam strikes his/your legs, splits trousers and flesh alike. Blood and chunks of meat cascade down his/your leg, form a slick puddle on the alley macadam. He/you screams, but has no mouth. He/you is weeping. They burn out his/your eyes. But he/you is still transmitting: hate and fear. So they rupture his/your brain and—

  Mike turned off the aura, sat quivering. There was a taste of partially digested things in his mouth. He fought the urge to be ill. "That wasn't a Performer. That was just a man in fear of his life. Anyone in dire enough straits would transmit that well; a Performer, however, would have put clear edges to it, brought minor emotions to the surface. Are the audiences really fooled?