Flux Tales Of Human Futures Read online

  Page 26

  Card, Orson Scott - Flux Tales Of Human Futures.txt

  He slapped his hand against his own head. "This ain't exactly a sausage biscuit,

  either, but you know and I know that when you give me all them exact numbers it's

  all guesswork anyhow. You don't know the odds on this beakrat anymore than I do."

  "I don't know the odds on him, Walker, but I know the odds on me. I'm sorry you

  don't like the way I sound so precise, but my crystal memory has every P-word I ever

  plumbed, which is to say I can give you exact to the third decimal percentages on

  when I hit it right on the first try after meeting the subject, and how many times I

  hit it right on the first try just from his curriculum vitae, and right now if I

  don't meet him and I go on just what I've got here you have a 48.838 percent chance

  I'll be right on my P-word first time and a 66.667 chance I'll be right with one out

  of three."

  Well that took him down, which was fine I must say because he loosened up my

  sphincters with that glass-smashing table-tossing hot-breath-in-my-face routine he

  did. He stepped back and put his hands in his pockets and leaned against the wall.

  "Well I chose the right P-man, then, didn't I," he says, but he doesn't smile, no,

  he says the back-down words but his eyes don't back down, his eyes say don't try to

  flash my face because I see through you, I got most excellent inward shades all

  polarized to keep out your glitz and see you straight and clear. I never saw eyes

  like that before. Like he knew me. Nobody ever knew me, and I didn't think he really

  knew me either, but I didn't like him looking at me as if he thought he knew me

  cause the fact is I didn't know me all that well and it worried me to think he might

  know me better than I did, if you catch my drift.

  "All I have to do is be a little lost boy in a store," I says.

  "What if he isn't the kind who helps little lost boys?"

  "Is he the kind who lets them cry?"

  "I don't know. What if he is? What then? Think you can get away with meeting him a

  second time? "

  "So the lost boy in the store won't work. I can crash my bicycle on his front

  lawn. I can try to sell him cable magazines."

  But he was ahead of me already. "For the cable magazines he slams the door in your

  face, if he even comes to the door at all. For the bicycle crash, you're out of your

  little glass brain. I got my inside girl working on him right now, very complicated,

  because he's not the playing around kind, so she has to make this a real emotional

  come-on, like she's breaking up with a boyfriend and he's the only shoulder she can

  cry on, and his wife is so lucky to have a man like him. This much he can believe.

  But then suddenly he has this little boy crashing in his yard, and because he's

  paranoid, he begins to wonder if some weird rain isn't falling, right? I know he's

  paranoid because you don't get to his level in the fed without you know how to watch

  behind you and kill the enemy even before they know they're out to get you. So he

  even suspects, for one instant, that somebody's setting him up for something and

  what does he do?"

  I knew what Dogwalker was getting at now, and he was right, and so I let him have

  his victory and I let the words he wanted march out all in a row. "He changes all

  his passwords, all his habits, and watches over his shoulder all the time."

  "And my little project turns into compost. No clean greens."

  So I saw for the first time why this street boy, this ex-pimp, why he was the one

  to do this job. He wasn't vertical like me, and he didn't have the inside hook like

  his fed boy, and he didn't have bumps in his sweater so he couldn't do the girl

  part, but he had eyes in his elbows, ears in his knees, by which I mean he noticed

  everything there was to notice and then he thought of a few things that weren't even

  noticeable yet and noticed them. He earned his forty percent. And he earned part of

  my twenty, too.

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  Card, Orson Scott - Flux Tales Of Human Futures.txt

  Now while we waited around for the girl to fill Jesse's empty aching arms and get

  a finger off him, and while we were still working on how to get me to meet him slow

  and easy and sure, I spent a lot of time with Dogwalker. Not that he ever asked me,

  but I found myself looping his bus route every morning till he picked me up, or I'd

  be eating at Bojangle's when he came in to throw cajun chicken down into his

  ulcerated organs. I watched to make sure he didn't mind, cause I didn't want to piss

  this boy, having once beheld the majesty of his wrath, but if he wanted to shiver me

  he gave me no shiv.

  Even after a few days, when the ghosts of the cold hard street started haunting

  us, he didn't shake me, and that includes when Bellbottom says to him, "Looks like

  you stopped walking dogs. Now you pimping little boys, right? Little catamites, we

  call you Catwalker now, that so? Or maybe you just keep him for private use, is that

  it? You be Boypoker now?" Well like I always said, someday somebody's going to kill

  Bellbottom just to flay him and use his skin for a convertible roof, but Dogwalker

  just waved and walked on by while I made little pissy bumps at Bell. Most people

  shake me right off when they start getting splashed on about liking little boys, but

  Doggy, he didn't say we were friends or nothing, but he didn't give me no Miami

  howdy, neither, which is to say I didn't find myself floating in the Bermuda

  Triangle with my ass pulled down around my ankles, by which I mean he wasn't ashamed

  to be seen with me on the street, which don't sound like a six-minute orgasm to you

  but to me it was like a breeze in August, I didn't ask for it and I don't trust it

  to last but as long as it's there I'm going to like it.

  How I finally got to meet Jesse H. was dervish, the best I ever thought of. Which

  made me wonder why I never thought of it before, except that I never before had

  Dogwalker like a parrot saying "Stupid idea" every time I thought of something. By

  the time I finally got a plan that he didn't say "stupid idea," I was almost drowned

  in the deepest lightholes of my lucidity. I mean I was going at a hundred watts by

  the time I satisfied him.

  First we found out who did babysitting for them when Jesse H. and Mrs. Jesse went

  out on the town (which for Nice People in G-boro means walking around the mall

  wishing there was something to do and then taking a piss in the public john). They

  had two regular teenage girls who usually came over and ignored their children for a

  fee, but when these darlettes were other-wise engaged, which meant they had a

  contract to get squeezed and poked by some half-zipped boy in exchange for a

  hambuger and a vid, they called upon Mother Hubbard's Homecare Hotline. So I most

  carefully assinuated myself into Mother Hubbard's estimable organization by passing

  myself off as a lamentably prepubic fourteen-year-old, specializing in the northwest

  section of town and on into the county. All this took a week, but Walker was in no

  hurry. Take the time to do it right, he said, if we hurry somebody's going to notice

  the blur of motion and look our way and just by looking at us they'll undo us. A

  horizontal mind that boy had.

 
Came a most delicious night when the Hunts went out to play, and both their

  diddle-girls were busy being squeezed most delectably (and didn't we have a lovely

  time persuading two toddle-boys to do the squeezing that very night). This news came

  to Mr. and Mrs. Jesse at the very last minute, and they had no choice but to call

  Mother Hubbard's, and isn't it lovely that just a half hour before, sweet little

  Stevie Queen, being moi, called in and said that he was available for baby-stomping

  after all. Ein and ein made zwei, and there I was being dropped off by a Mother

  Hubbard driver at the door of the Jesse Hunt house, whereupon I not only got to look

  upon the beatific face of Mr. Fed himself, I also got to have my dear head patted by

  Mrs. Fed, and then had the privilege of preparing little snacks for fussy Fed Jr.

  and foul-mouthed Fedene, the five-year-old and the three-year-old, while Microfed,

  the one-year-old (not yet human and, if I am any judge of character, not likely to

  live long enough to become such) sprayed uric acid in my face while I was diapering

  him. A good time was had by all.

  Because of my heroic efforts, the small creatures were in their truckle beds quite

  early, and being a most fastidious baby-tucker, I browsed the house looking for

  burglars and stumbling, quite by chance, upon the most useful information about the

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  beakrat whose secret self-chosen name I was trying to learn. For one thing, he had

  set a watchful hair upon each of his bureau drawers, so that if I had been inclined

  to steal, he would know that unlawful access of his drawers had been attempted. I

  learned that he and his wife had separate containers of everything in the bathroom,

  even when they used the same brand of toothpaste, and it was he, not she, who took

  care of all their prophylactic activities (and not a moment too soon, thought I, for

  I had come to know their children). He was not the sort to use lubrificants or

  little pleasure-giving ribs, either. Only the regulation govemment-issue

  hard-as-concrete rubber rafts for him, which suggested to my most pernicious mind

  that he had almost as much fun between the sheets as me.

  I learned all kinds of joyful information, all of it trivial, all of it vital. I

  never know which of the threads I grasp are going to make connections deep within

  the lumens of my brightest caves. But I never before had the chance to wander

  unmolested through a person's own house when searching for his P-word. I saw the

  notes his children brought home from school, the magazines his family received, and

  more and more I began to see that Jesse H. Hunt barely touched his family at any

  point. He stood like a waterbug on the surface of life, without ever getting his

  feet wet. He could die, and if nobody tripped over the corpse it would be weeks

  before they noticed. And yet this was not because he did not care. It was because he

  was so very very careful. He examined everything but through the wrong end of the

  microscope, so that it all became very small and far away. I was a sad little boy by

  the end of that night, and I whispered to Microfed that he should practice pissing

  in male faces, because that's the only way he would ever sink a hook into his

  daddy's face.

  "What if he wants to take you home?" Dogwalker asked me, and I said, "No way he

  would, nobody does that," but Dogwalker made sure I had a place to go'all the same,

  and sure enough, it was Doggy who got voltage and me who went limp. I ended up

  riding in a beak-rat buggy, a genuine made-in-America rattletrap station wagon, and

  he took me to the for-sale house where Mama Pimple was waiting crossly for me and

  made Mr. Hunt go away because he kept me out too late. Then when the door was closed

  Mama Pimple giggled her gig and chuckled her chuck, and Walker himself wandered out

  of the back room and said, "That's one less favor you owe me, Mama Pimple," and she

  said, "No, my dear boy-oh, that's one more favor you owe me" and then they kissed a

  deep passionate kiss if you can believe it. Did you imagine anybody ever kissed Mama

  Pimple that way? Dogwalker is a boyful of shocks.

  "Did you get all you needed?" he asks me.

  "I have P-words dancing upward," says I, "and I'll have a name for you tomorrow in

  my sleep."

  "Hold onto it and don't tell me," says Dogwalker. "I don't want to hear a name

  until after we have his finger."

  That magical day was only hours away, because the girl-- whose name I never knew

  and whose face I never saw-- was to cast her spell over Mr. Fed the very next day.

  As Dogwalker said, this was no job for lingeree. The girl did not dress pretty and

  pretended to be lacking in the social graces, but she was a good little clerical who

  was going through a most distressing period in her private life, because she had

  undergone a premature hysterectomy, poor lass, or so she told Mr. Fed, and here she

  was losing her womanhood and she had never really felt like a woman at all. But he

  was so kind to her, for weeks he had been so kind, and Dogwalker told me afterward

  how he locked the door of his office for just a few minutes, and held her and kissed

  her to make her feel womanly, and once his fingers had all made their little

  impressions on the thin electrified plastic microcoating all over her lovely naked

  back and breasts, she began to cry and most gratefully informed him that she did not

  want him to be unfaithful to his wife for her sake, that he had already given her

  such a much of a lovely gift by being so kind and understanding, and she felt better

  thinking that a man like him could bear to touch her knowing she was defemmed

  inside, and now she thought she had the confidence to go on. A very convincing act,

  and one calculated to get his hot naked handprints with out giving him a crisis of

  conscience that might change his face and give him a whole new set of possible Ps.

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  The microsheet got all his fingers from several angles, and so Walker was able to

  dummy out a finger mask for our inside man within a single night. Right index. I

  looked at it most skeptically, I fear, because I had my doubts already dancing in

  the little lightpoints of my inmost mind. "Just one finger?"

  "All we get is one shot," said Dogwalker. "One single try."

  "But if he makes a mistake, if my first password isn't right, then he could use

  the middle finger on the second try."

  "Tell me, my vertical pricket, whether you think Jesse H. Hunt is the sort of burr

  oak rat who makes mistakes?"

  To which I had to answer that he was not, and yet I had my misgivings and my

  misgivings all had to do with needing a second finger, and yet I am vertical, not

  horizontal, which means that I can see the present as deep as you please but the

  future's not mine to see, que sera, sera.

  From what Doggy told me, I tried to imagine Mr. Fed's reaction to this nubile

  flesh that he had pressed. If he had poked as well as peeked, I think it would have

  changed his P-word, but when she told him that she would not want to compromise his

  uncompromising virtue, it reinforced him as a most regular or even regulation fellow

  and his na
me remained pronouncedly the same, and his P-word also did not change.

  "InvictusXYZrwr," quoth I, to Dogwalker, for that was his veritable password, I

  knew it with more certainty than I had ever had before.

  "Where in hell did you come up with that?" says he.

  "If I knew how I did it, Walker, I'd never miss at all," says I. "I don't even

  know if it's in the goo or in the zoo. All the facts go down, and it all gets mixed

  around, and up come all these dancing P-words, little pieces of P."

  "Yeah, but you don't just make it up, what does it mean?"

  "Invictus is an old poem in a frame stuck in his bureau drawer, which his mama

  gave him when he was still a little fed-to-be. XYZ is his idea of randomizing, and

  rwr is the first U.S. President that he admired. I don't know why he chose these

  words now. Six weeks ago he was using a different P-word with a lot of numbers in

  it, and six weeks from now he'll change again, but right now--"

  "Sixty percent sure?" asked Doggy.

  "I give no percents this time," says I. "I've never roamed through the bathroom of

  my subject before. But this or give me an assectomy, I've never been more sure."

  Now that he had the P-word, the inside guy began to wear his magic finger every

  day, looking for chance to be alone in Mr. Fed's office. He had already created the

  preliminary files, like any routine green card requests, and buried them within his

  work area.

  All he needed was to go in, sign on as Mr. Fed, and then if the system accepted

  his name and P-word and finger, he could call up the files, approve them, and be

  gone within a minute. But he had to have that minute.

  And on that wonderful magical day he had it. Mr. Fed had a meeting and his

  secretary sprung a leak a day early, and in went Inside Man with a perfectly

  legitimate note to leave for Hunt. He sat before the terminal, typed name and P-word

  and laid down his phony finger, and the machine spread wide its lovely legs and bid

  him enter. He had the files processed in forty seconds, laying down his finger for

  each green, then signed off and went on out. No sign, no sound that anything was

  wrong. As sweet as summertime, as smooth as ice, and all we had to do was sit and

  wait for green cards to come in the mail.

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  Card, Orson Scott - Flux Tales Of Human Futures.txt