Stalking the Nightmare Part 4

No Driver would intentionally help a criminal escape, yet a Driver was his only possible chance of freedom.

Akisimov's bleak, hard features sagged in fright as he sensed the tentative probes of the sykops in his mind.

They had found the flower girl, and they were circling in on him, getting his thoughts pinpointed. Why had that stupid urchin wandered across his path? It had been a clean escape, till he had run out of the mouth of that alley, and stumbled into her. Why had she clung to him? He hadn't wanted to burn her down... he was only trying to get away from the sykops.

Akisimov cast about hungrily with his eyes. There had to be some way, some device to comer a Driver. Then he spotted the service entrance to the Hall. It was a dark hole in the side of the building, and he sprinted across the street, in a dead run for it. He made the comparative safety of the entrance without being openly noticed, and crouched down to wait. Wildly, he pulled the defective mesh cap tighter about his ears. It was the only thing standing between him and capture by the sykops, poor thing that it was. Had it been a standard make, not a lousy rogue cheapie model, it would have blanked him effectively, but as it was, it was the best he had.

With unfamiliar phrases he prayed to some unknown G.o.d to let the mind-blanking cap work well enough.

Well enough to keep the sykops off him till he could kidnap a Driver.

Rike Akisimov had been sentenced to Io penal colony for a thousand years. The jurymech knew such a sentence bordered on the ridiculous; even with the current trends in geriatrics, no man could live past three hundred.

The body tissue, the very fiber, just wouldn't stand up to it.

But in token hatred for this most vile of criminals, the placid and faceless jurymech had said: "We, the beings of the Solarite, sentence you, Rike Amadeus Akisimov, to the penal colony on 10 for a period of one thousand years."

Then, as the jury room buzzed with wonder, the machine added, "We find in your deeds such a revulsion, such a loathing, that we feel even this sentence is too light. Rike Amadeus Akisimov, we find in you no identification with humanity, but only a resemblance to some odious beast of the jungle. You are a carrion-feeder, Akisimov; you are a jackal and a hyena and a vulture, and we pray your kind is never again discovered in the universe.

"We cannot even say, 'G.o.d have mercy on your soul,' for we are certain you have no soul!"

The jury room had been stunned into silence. For an implacable, emotionless jurymech to spew forth such violent feelings, was unprecedented. Everyone knew the decision-tapes were fed in by humans, but no one, absolutely no one, could have fed in those epithets.

Even a machine had been shocked by the magnitude of Akisimov' s crimes. For they were more than crimes against society. They crimes against G.o.d and Man.

They had taken him away, preparing to lead him in the ferry-flit designed to convey prisoners from court to the s.p.a.ceport, when he had struck. By some remarkable strength of his wrists--born of terror and desperation--he had snapped the elasticords, clubbed his guards and broken into the crowds clogging the strips, carrying with him a sykop blaster.

In a few minutes he was lost to the psioid lawmen, had ripped a mind-blanking mesh cap from a pedestrian's head, and was on his way to the one escape route left.

To the Hall and the psioids known as Drivers.

She came out of the building, and Akisimov recognized her at once as a senior grade Driver. She was a tall girl, tanned and beautifully-proportioned, walking with the easy, off-the-toes stride of the experienced s.p.a.ceman. She wore the mind's eye and jet tube insignia of her cla.s.s-psi on her left breast, and she seemed totally unconcerned as Akisimov stepped out of the service entrance, shoved the blaster in her ribs, and snarled, "I've got nothing but death behind me, sister. The name is Akisimov..." The girl turned a scrutinizing stare on him as he said his name; the Akisimov case had been publicized; madness such as his could not be kept quiet; she knew who he was, "... so you better call a flit, and do it quick."

She smiled at him almost benignly, and raised her hand lazily in a gesture that brought a flit scurrying down from the idling level.

"The s.p.a.ceport," Akisimov whispered to her, when they were inside and rising. The girl repeated the order to the flitman.

In half an hour they were at the s.p.a.ceport. The criminal softly warned the psioid about any sudden moves, and hustled the girl from the flit, making her pay the flitman. They got past the port guards by the Driver showing her I.

D. bracelet.

Once inside, Akisimov dragged the girl out of sight behind a blast bunker and snapped quickly, "You have a clearance, or do I have to hijack a s.h.i.+p?"

The girl stared blankly at him, smiling calmly and enigmatically. He jabbed the blaster hard into her side, causing her to wince, and repeated viciously, "I said, you got a clearance? And you d.a.m.ned well better answer me or so help me G.o.d I'll burn away the top of your head!" "I have a clearance," she said, adding solemnly, "you don't want to do this."

He laughed roughly, gripped her arm tightly. She ground her lips together as his fingers closed about the skin, and he replied, "They got me on a thousand yearer to Io, lady. So I want to do any G.o.ddam thing that'll get me out of here. Now what s.h.i.+p are you a.s.signed to snap?"

She seemed to shrug her shoulders in finality, having made a token gesture, and answered, '. I'm snap on the Lady Knoxmaster, in pit eighty-four."

"Then let's go," he finished, and dragged her off across the field.

"You don't want to do this," she said again, softly. He was deaf to her warning.

When the invers.h.i.+p took off, straight up without clearance coordinates and at full power, the Port Central went crazy, sending up signals, demanding recognition info, demanding this, demanding the other. But the Lady Knoxmaster was already heading out toward snap-point.

Akisimov, gloating, threw in the switch and knew the telemetering cameras were on him. "Goodbye, you a.s.ses! Goodbye, from Rike Akisimov! Stupid! You thought I'd spend a thousand years on 10? There are better things for me in the universe!"

He flicked off, to let them call the sykops, so the law would know he had bested them. "Yeah, there isn't anything worse than a life term on 10," he murmured, watching the planet fall away in the viewplates.

"You're wrong, Akisimov," the girl murmured, very, very softly.

Immediately the sykops and the s.p.a.ceCom sent up s.h.i.+ps to apprehend the violator, but it was obvious the s.h.i.+p had enough start momentum to reach snap-out--if a Driver was on board--before they could reach it. Their single hope was that Akisimov had no Driver aboard, then they could catch him in a straight run.

On board the Lady Knoxmaster, Akisimov studied the calm-faced psioid girl in the other accelocouch.

Drivers were the most valuable, and yet the simplest-talented, of all the types of psionically equipped peoples in the field. Their one capacity was to warp a s.h.i.+p from normal s.p.a.ce into that not-s.p.a.ce that allowed interstellar travel; into invers.p.a.ce.

Though the s.h.i.+p went through--set to snap-out by an automatic function of the Driver's psi faculty--the Driver did not. That was the reason they were always in-suit and ready for the snap. Since they did not snap when the s.h.i.+p did, they were left hanging in s.p.a.ce, where they were picked up immediately after by a doggie vessel a.s.signed to each takeoff.

But this time there was no doggie, and there was no suit, and Akisimov wanted the girl dead in any event. He might have made some slip, might have mumbled something about where "out there" he was heading. But whether he had or had not, dead witnesses were the only safe witnesses.

"Snap the s.h.i.+p," he snarled at her, aiming the blaster.

"I'm unsuited," she replied.

"Snap, d.a.m.n your lousy psi hide! Snap d.a.m.n you, and pray the cops on our trail will get to you before you conk out. What is it, seven seconds you can survive in s.p.a.ce? Ten? Whatever it is, it's more of a chance than if I burn your head off!" He indicated with a sweep of his slim hand the console port where the bips that were sykop s.h.i.+ps were narrowing up at them.

"You don't want to do this," the girl tried again.

Akisimov blasted. The gun leaped in his palm, and the stench of burned-away flesh filled the cabin. The girl stared dumbly at the cauterized stump that had been her left arm. A scream started to her mouth, but he silenced her with the point of the blaster.

She nodded acquiescence.

She snapped. Though she could not explain what was going on in her mind, she knew what she was doing, and she concentrated to do it this time... though just a bit differently... just a bit specially. She drew down her brows and concentrated, and...

blank...

The s.h.i.+p was gone, she was in s.p.a.ce, whirling, senseless, as the bulk of a s.h.i.+p loomed around her, hauling her in.

She was safe. She would live. With one arm.

As the charcoal-caped sykops dragged her in, lay her in a mesh webbing, they could not contain their anxiety.

"Akisimov? Gone?"

They read her thoughts, so the girl said nothing. She nodded slowly, the pain in her stump shooting up to drive needles into the base of her brain. She moaned, then said, "He didn't get away. He thought the worst was a term on Io; he's wrong; he's being punished."

They stared at her, as her thoughts swirled unreadably. They stared unknowingly, wondering, but d.a.m.ning their own inefficiency. Akisimov had gotten away.

They were wrong.

blank...

The s.h.i.+p popped into invers.p.a.ce.

blank...

The s.h.i.+p popped out... In the center of a white-hot dwarf star. The sun burned the s.h.i.+p to molten slag, and Akisimov died horribly, flamingly, charringly, agonizingly, burningly as the slag vaporized.

Just at the instant of death...

blank...

The s.h.i.+p popped into invers.p.a.ce.

blank...

The s.h.i.+p popped out...

In the center of a white-hot dwarf star. The sun burned the s.h.i.+p to molten slag, and Akisimov died horribly, flamingly, charringly, agonizingly, burningly as the slag vaporized.

Just at the instant of death...

blank...

The s.h.i.+p popped into invers.p.a.ce. blank...

The s.h.i.+p popped out...

Over and over and over again, till the ends of Time, till Eternity was a remote forgotten nothing, till death had no meaning, and life was something for humanity. The Driver had exacted her revenge. She had set the s.h.i.+p in a moebius whirl, in and out and in and out and in again from invers.p.a.ce to out, right at that instant of blanking, right at that instant of death, so that Forever would be spent by Rike Amadeus Akisimov in one horrible way--ten billion times one thousand years. One horrible way, forever and ever and ever.

Dying, dying, dying. Over and over and over again, without end to torment, without end to horror.

blank...

SCENES FROM THE REAL WORLD: I

The 3 Most Important Things In Life

I've looked everywhere, and I'll be d.a.m.ned if I can find it, but I know I read that pa.s.sage somewhere; I think in Kerouac; but I can't locate it now, so you'll just have to go along with me that it's there.

Would I lie to you?

It's a scene in which a young supplicant, an aspiring poet, somebody like that, seeks out this knowledgeable old philosopher--kind of a Bukowski or Henry Miller figure--in Paris or New York or somesuch bustling metropolitan situs... and the kid comes to the old guru in his ratty apartment, and he sorta kinda asks him that old saw about the meaning of life. Correction: LIFE. He squats there and says to the old man, "What's it all about? What's it mean?

Huh?"

And the old man purses his lips and beetles his brow; he perceives the kid is really serious about this; it's not just j.e.r.k.-.o.f.f. time. So he nods sagely, and clasps his hands behind his back, and he walks to the window and stares out at the deep city for a while, just sorta kinda ponders for a while. And finally, he turns to the kid and he says, with core seriousness, "You know, there's a lotta b.a.s.t.a.r.ds out there."

Now that's pretty significant. I think. On the other hand, I have never made my residence in a stalact.i.te-festooned cave high up on the northern ma.s.sif of Ch.o.m.olungma (Everest to you). I have never been sought out by fawning sycophants, whimpering to abase themselves before my wisdom, hungering to prostrate themselves and to offer oblations at the altar of my Delphic insights. In short, unlike the Great Thinkers of Our Time who appear regularly on talk-shows--Merv Griffin, Debbie Boone, Zsa Zsa Gabor and Jim Nabors leap instantly to mind--I doubt that the Oxford Encyclopedia of Philosophy will ever crib from my notes.

Nonetheless, having become something of an ingroup cult figure among those with a high death-wish profile and a taste for cheap thrills, I am often asked, "What's the big secret, Ellison?" At college lectures, for instance, bright-eyed young people, the great hope of our society, come up to me and murmur in reverential tones, "Wanna buy a lid of tough Filipino Scarlet?"

Naturally I try to demonstrate a certain humility in the face of such trust and innocence. I try to explain that Life is Real, Life is Earnest. In my own toe-scuffling fas.h.i.+on I attempt to encapsulate in three or four apocryphal phrases the Ethical Structure of the Universe. The better to aid these fine young people as they set out to change the world.

And from this long, terrifically fascinating life of encounters and adventures, I have selected three examples of what I think are the most important things in life. Notes should be taken; this will count as sixty percent of your grade.

1. s.e.x.

I could have started with one of the more esoteric of the three, but I know your attention-span is short and, in lieu of playing The Saints Go Marching In, I decided it was best to catch your notice with instant sleaze.

s.e.x is one of the most important things in life. It comes built into the machine. Understanding s.e.x is real important, y'know. And it's not enough just to say, "All men are s.h.i.+ts," or "What the f.u.c.k do women want?" That's good for openers, but one must press on to deeper insights. As an aid for your greater search, I offer the following anecdote from my own humble experience: an only-minimally exaggerated retelling of the single kinkiest s.e.xual encounter I ever had.

When I got to Los Angeles in 1962, I was well into terminal dest.i.tution. Poverty would have been, for me, a sharp jump into a higher-income bracket. Consequently, I wasn't getting laid much. More astute observers than I have charted the correlations between one's D&B rating and one's attraction for members of the same or opposite s.e.x.

Anyhow, I met this young woman at Stats Charbroiler one afternoon, and somehow conned her into accepting a date. It has been fifteen years since that encounter, but I remember her name today as clearly as if it had been intaglio'd on my brain with a jackhammer. Brenda.

A substantially constructed female person, honey blonde of hair, amber of eye, insouciant of manner and expansive of bosom. We exchanged pleasantries, I explained that I was new to L. A. and was, in fact, a published author.

She went for it.

I took her phone number and address, and promised to pick her up the following Sat.u.r.day night around 8:00 for a rollicking evening of camaraderie and good times, cleverly scaled to my nonexistent finances. Long walks in the bracing night air, that kind of thing.

Came Sat.u.r.day, and I hand-washed the wretched 1951 Ford that had brought me to California from Chicago and New York. I dressed as spiffily as I could manage, aware at all times of the fact that having postponed a good number of meals had dropped my weight to about ninety pounds and I was beginning to take on the appearance of a card-carrying rickets case.

I drove to her home, which was in the posh Brentwood section of Beverly Hills. I walked to the ornate apartment door of the garden lanai, and rang the bell. Nothing happened. I waited and rang again. Nothing happened.Minutes pa.s.sed, and I began thinking unworthy thoughts about Brenda's ethics. Finally, I heard footsteps from within, and the door was flung open.

There stood Brenda in her slip, with machines in her hair. "Come in, come in," she said huffily, as if I had interrupted her at the precise moment when she had been decoding the DNA molecule or something equally as significant. "I'm running a little late. I have to finish doing my hair. Well, come in already."

I stepped into the foyer, standing on a ribbed plastic runner that stretched out into the distance. As she closed the door behind me, I began to take a step off the plastic stripping so the door wouldn't hit me. My foot was poised in mid-step as she let out a shriek. "Aaarghh! Not on the carpet! Mama had the schvartze in today!" I spun, widders.h.i.+ns, barely managing to balance myself on one leg like a flamingo. I steadied myself on the plastic runner and looked to my right, the direction my errant foot would have carried me.

There, stretching off to the distant horizon, flooring a living room only slightly smaller than Bosnia and/or Herzogovina, lay the pluperfect lunatic symbol of the upwardly-mobile, nouveau-riche household: a white carpet, deepest pile, a veritable Sarga.s.so Sea of insane white carpet--who but nutcases would carpet a room in which human beings are supposed to relax in white, fer chrissakes?--with the nap pathologically lying all in one direction, clearly having been carpet-swept by Nubian slave labor so it was a.n.a.l retentively flowing in one unbroken tide. Hours had been spent making sure each b.l.o.o.d.y fiber lay in that north by northwest direction.

"Stay on the runner. I won't be long," Brenda commanded.

"I've got to stay on the runner?"

"Sure. Just stand there. I'll be out in a minute."

And she vanished. Back into the bowels of that cyclopean domicile, leaving me standing frozen and tremulous in my baggy pants while she went off to complete her toilette. The plastic runner extended out beneath my feet, back into the dim and vaulted interior. To my left a closed door. To my right the inviolate expanse of white carpeting and a living room in which Xerxes could easily have a.s.sembled his armies for an attack on the Hot Gates.

I stood there, s.h.i.+fting from one foot to the other like a grade school troublemaker waiting for his audience with the Princ.i.p.al. And time went by. Slowly. I waited and waited, and heard nothing from the back of the residence.