The Chromosomal Code, page 15
“I don't see that they've done much here on Earth; it looks to me as if the Rebels have been doing just about anything they want.”
“We're trying, dammit! It's not easy, you know, when you're sworn not to use violence. A few quick assassinations, or even just one, might change everything, but the Watchers are all sworn, when they join, never to knowingly harm any sentient intelligence. And security was very tight on this mission, the Watcher tells me. The Rebels weren't worried about the Watch – I don't think they even know it exists – but they were scared of Imperial spies. There are only a very few Watchers in the expeditionary force, and most of those are in positions of little power. Watcher One is first in command in the Watch here on Earth, but in the expeditionary force as a whole he's just an assistant quartermaster, as near as I can interpret his duties.”
“All right, so there aren't many of them, but there are obviously a few, and they can recruit Earthmen, the way they must have recruited you. Maybe they can't do much, but they must be doing something!”
“Of course they are! We are! You know that the Rebels have been handing out their technology like candy, to keep the natives quiet and happy; well, the Watch has been making sure that they give out more than they intend to, and that people are finding out just how everything they receive works. Not just techniques for growing better grain, but the whole theory of anti-gravity, for example. The Rebels gave out the aircars, but they never thought mere humans could understand how they worked. With a bit of coaching from the Watchmen like myself, human scientists did figure it out. Terrans were already beginning to develop decent computers, and the Watch has been training human computer experts in the design of the best the Empire's got; the Rebels' information network was put in command of all the computer and communication networks here on Earth, what people call 'Max,' but we've managed to reverse that and tapped into command of their network without their knowledge. At least, we think we have; sometimes it's hard to say just who or what controls any given computer. We've even been disseminating the plans for their weapons – we know that Earth people will build them, which is bad, but it's the only way that they can learn to defend against them, or to disable them when the time comes to take back the planet.”
“When will that be?”
“I don't know. Not yet; not while the Governor is still so firmly entrenched.”
“All right, so you're doing your best. And you've brought me here to keep me out of the government's hands, because the government of Earth is run by the Rebels and I've got the information they need to blow up stars programmed into my genes.”
“That's right.”
“You will understand, I hope, that this is all a bit much for me to take in all at once. A week ago I was living alone in the snow, thinking my only problem was finding food and dealing with Mother Nature. I didn't know that there were aliens anywhere in the universe, let alone three different factions of them here on Earth.”
“Only two, we hope. We don't think that any Imperial spies got in.”
“Whatever.” Starkman waved the correction away. “And we're all descended from a bunch of genetically engineered servants some shipwrecked alien whipped up to make his life a bit easier.”
“Right.”
“And I'm apparently the only known descendant of the one he used as a data bank.”
“So far as we know, yes.”
“So you've gotten me away from the government; wonderful. Now what happens? Do you hide me here in your apartment until I die of old age?”
“No. At least, I don't think so.”
“What do you think, then?”
“I think I'll let the Watcher explain what we had in mind.” He picked up the microphone device and said, “Watcher, have you heard what has been said?”
“I have heard.”
“Mr. Starkman wants to know what we want him to do.”
“I have heard. The Watch may not kill. Do you understand?”
“Yes, of course,” Starkman answered. “Your Watchman explained that.”
“We prefer that the information in your genetic material be destroyed. Do you understand that?”
“I understand that you want that, but you can't do it without killing me, can you? You'd have to take every single cell and cut out part of a chromosome. You can't do that.”
“We cannot. You are correct. We prefer that the information be destroyed. We prefer that you be destroyed. We may not kill you. You may kill yourself. We ask you to kill yourself. Your death may prevent a very large number of deaths.”
“What?” Starkman was shocked at the suggestion.
“If you kill yourself we will destroy your body. The information will be destroyed.”
“The hell it will! Ten minutes after I'm dead some guy with yellow eyes may turn up in Outer Mongolia somewhere!”
“We would ask him to kill himself.”
“Sure, if you got him away from the government in time! I'm not about to kill myself for you, whoever you are. I can't be sure that any of your story is true, after all. Oh, you tell it pretty convincingly, but I don't know that it's true! And I'm not convinced that I'm really the long-lost message carrier; if the original guy was so wonderful, such a great survivor and breeder, why aren't there millions of people with yellow eyes? Why just me, out of five billion people? It doesn't make sense!”
“It is true.”
“Well, then maybe the gene has mutated! Maybe the information's no good!”
“You may be correct. We do not think that the possibility is likely.”
“After forty thousand years?”
“The genetic engineer was very competent. He would make his carrier very stable.”
“Maybe so, but look here, Watcher, I'm not going to kill myself for you or for anyone. So now what?”
“We considered the possibilities. We will hide you.”
The human Watchman said, before Starkman could protest, “Not here, don't worry. We'll find a place for you somewhere where you can run your own life, if that's what you want.”
“Why don't you just take me back to Pennsylvania?”
“Because the Rebels would find you again if we did. No, we've got to put you someplace where they wouldn't think of looking for you, someplace they think everyone's accounted for.”
“Where?”
“Well, as far from here as we can manage. Have you got any friends or relatives who might shelter you?”
“I had a sister once; I don't know where she is.”
“No, I don't think that would do; they'd check with her if she's your only relative. What about friends?”
“It's hard for a freak to make friends,” Starkman answered bitterly. “Any I might have had once are probably dead, and if they aren't they've probably forgotten I ever existed.”
“We'll just have to do what we can, then. We can drop you off in New Denver, if you like; that's an American colony in the Andes that's accepting new arrivals.”
“Wonderful. The first person who sees me will call the cops.”
“No, he won't. We'll help you blend in – get rid of that coat, clean you up, cut your hair, and give you some decent modern clothes, give you a few lessons in how things work, loan you a few units – that's the money now, units.”
“I appreciate that, but what are you going to do about my eyes? Anyone who sees my face will turn me in.”
“I know. There's not much we can do about that; we don't have any contact lenses on hand that can do the job, I'm afraid. I'll see if we can't locate some, or have some made, but it'll be tricky, having to color both the white and the iris. I don't think they'll be looking for you in New Denver; they'll assume you're still here in Capital. For now, just keep your sunglasses on.”
Starkman shrugged. “I always have,” he answered.
Several hours later and several hundred kilometers away, the aircar slowed to a stop, hovering a few centimeters off the ground. Starkman gathered together his gear and clambered out onto the empty plaza.
The eastern sky was red with the coming dawn, and high overhead the top of the city dome sparkled in the first rays of the sun. The streets and buildings that stretched away to the west looked slightly unreal in the dim light and their clean bright newness.
“Welcome to New Denver,” the Watchman said. “You shouldn't have much trouble in finding a place; I hear that the city's still about a quarter empty. It's one of the government's least successful projects.”
“Right. You told me that already.”
“Just reminding you.”
“Thanks.”
“I don't think they'll think to look for you here.”
“I hope not.”
“Got any final questions?”
“No. I'll manage.”
“I'm not so sure about that. Look, I've got something I want to give you, in case you change your mind.”
“What's that?” Starkman paused, clutching the shoulder bag the Watchman had provided him with, and looked at the two little objects that gleamed on the man's palm.
“The bullet-shaped one is a beeper, a locating device; if you ever decide you need to get hold of the Watch, and you can't use the comnet code I gave you, push down on the top and turn it ninety degrees. Someone will hear it and come get you.”
Starkman looked at it, and shook his head. “No. Keep it. If I get in trouble I'll get myself out or not without dragging you people in. You probably couldn't get there in time to do any good; it'd just compromise your organization. And if I'm not in trouble, I'll just phone – use the comnet, whatever you want to call it.”
“All right, I won't insist. You may be right.”
“What's the other one?”
“I was about to tell you. If you change your mind and decide that the Watcher was right, or if you're ever in a spot where you can't possibly get away, you may want it. It's a flashbomb.”
“A what?”
“A flashbomb. It will vaporize anything within a radius of about a meter and a half – silently, too, though there is a bright flash. You can use it to suicide, and be sure that there won't be enough left for genetic analysis.”
Starkman stared at the little thing, shaped like a disposable cigarette lighter. The form struck him as slightly odd, since he hadn't seen any sign of tobacco in use in the past decade; he suspected the weed was extinct. “How does it work?” he asked.
“There are two ways you can set it off; press this down,” he said, indicating a tiny metal tab just below the nozzle, “And then flick the wheel, and it'll go off immediately. Or turn this,” indicating the control that would ordinarily have adjusted the size of the flame, “and then flick it, and you've got a timed explosion. It's not calibrated very accurately, but if you turn the dial as far as it will go, you've got about thirty seconds after you flick the wheel.”
Starkman accepted the little gadget and turned it over in his hands. “Where'd you get it?” he asked.
“The Watch gives them to all their Terran recruits, just in case, so they can destroy evidence or suicide if necessary.”
“I thought they didn't believe in violence.”
“We don't.”
“Suicide by bomb-burst isn't violent?”
“Maybe the method seems violent to you, but suicide is the right of any sentient being, and something like this leaves no traces that might give away secrets. It's a small confined explosion, and the timer is designed to let you get away from anyone else – or to get clear if you're destroying something, like computer memory or papers.”
Starkman stuck the flashbomb in his pocket. “Thanks,” he said. “I don't plan on suicide, but I might find a use for this.”
The Watchman looked worried. “It's not a weapon,” he said. “We don't want to promote violence.”
“Don't worry about it,” Starkman said. “I know you're all sworn not to harm anyone.” He stepped back, waved, then turned and began walking down the nearest street.
Behind him the Watchman watched him go, then turned the aircar around and headed it back out through the city airlock.
Starkman paused as he heard the automatic lock-door cycle, and turned back to be sure that the Watchman was gone. He pulled the flashbomb out of his pocket, looked it over carefully, then returned it. “Maybe they're sworn not to kill,” he muttered to himself, “but I'm not.”
Chapter Ten
Starkman had no very clear idea of where New Denver was, save that it was atop a peak in the Andes. The mountaintop had been sliced off flat and the city built in its place, with the dome to keep the air at a comfortable pressure and temperature. The buildings were clean and new and very boring, row after row of neat concrete-and-glass boxes on straight numbered streets and avenues, like the ideal city of fifty years earlier – an ideal that had proven unlivable. The Watchman had told him that it was supported by hydroponic farms that took advantage of the increased exposure to ultraviolet at high altitudes, but had no real industry to speak of; transportation of raw materials would require anti-gravity, and that wasn't yet cheap and widespread enough.
He himself had reached it by a long and uncomfortable ride in the aircar, a ride that wound up and down and back and forth, looping recklessly through the dying jungles, dodging trees, soaring over mountains, following rivers, doubling back on itself, and in general designed to be untraceable even with the best equipment the Governor could produce.
Toward the end of the ride he had very much regretted giving the Watchman his old coat and flannel shirt; the open car had been cold and windy, and the low-necked, short-sleeved shirt he now wore – which was made of something akin to very thin lavender velvet – was not particularly warm. He knew that he was not actually any colder than he had been many times before, while living in the wastelands, but he was no longer accustomed to it, having been spoiled by his brief stay in warmer climates.
Now that he was inside the dome he was warming rapidly, aided by the brisk walk he was taking down the street, looking for a place to stay.
Gold lettering in a window caught his eye, and he read: rental agency. That was exactly what he was looking for.
The office was decorated in red and orange and reminded him of an old-fashioned fast-food joint, and the young man at the red-and-orange desk was delighted to help him. The agency, he was told, could provide just what he was looking for – whatever it was.
“An efficiency apartment, six-month lease,” Starkman said.
“Ah, another new arrival!”
“What?”
“You're newly arrived from up north, aren't you? I can always tell. Where did you straggle?”
“What makes you think I'm new?”
“Nobody calls them efficiencies any more, sir; they're just called 'standards.'“
“I'm just old-fashioned, all right? I've been staying with friends in Capital, not talking to rental agents.”
“Whatever you say. We have plenty of standard units, sir; what would you like?”
“What are the choices?”
“Oh, what floor you'd prefer, and color scheme, and service. Oh, did you want furnished or unfurnished?”
“Furnished, near the ground, and I'm not picky about color, but nothing too bright.”
The clerk punched buttons on a keyboard set in his desk, then asked, “Would brown and tan suit you? And what about service?”
“Brown's fine. What kind of service? I don't need a maid, if that's What you mean.”
“No, of course not; I mean the comnet. What sort of Max do you want?”
“I don't want maximum anything.”
“No, sir, not maximum, Max. That's the name for the central computer.”
“Oh.” Starkman suddenly remembered events in Dr. Curtis' examining room, and other mentions of the computer network. He mentally chastised himself for not realizing what the clerk was talking about, but reminded himself that he had been a long time without sleep. “I don't need any, thanks.”
“No phone?” The clerk was audibly surprised.
“I'll want a phone, but no computer.”
“Sir, the phone system is part of the computer; you can't have one without the other.”
“Oh.”
“I think you'd better take it step by step, if you don't mind.”
“Maybe I should,” Starkman admitted.
Five minutes later he had signed himself up for phone service, audio only, and small-screen video with news and bulletin service. He had turned down a bewildering array of other options, including hardware from keyboards to voders and holographic video walls, and software from simple four-function calculation to interactive theater.
He wanted to keep his contact with Max to an absolute minimum. He had no clear idea of who controlled what aspect of the comnet, and he wanted as little data about himself as possible to be accessible. He was wary of anything that allowed for input from his end; once he realized that phone service was inextricably linked to the network as a whole, he even doubted the wisdom of having that. The lines were, he was sure, something that the government would monitor carefully. He intended to use the phone as little as possible.
When he had that settled, the clerk smiled, turned the form around, and held out a pen. “Sign here,” he said.
That caused an instant's hesitation; Starkman had settled on a cover identity, but he was not fully convinced he could get away with it. The society he was attempting to enter seemed to be far more complex and interrelated than he liked, thanks to Max; he was unsure just what the authorities were capable of, and whether they might be able to detect his little fraud. Would the use of a fictitious name be checked somewhere against some master memory bank? Would the government check it out when it was spotted?
That, he decided, was surely paranoid. The government had a world to run; it couldn't take the trouble to check out every single rental record, or to investigate every adulterous spouse or incognito celebrity who registered somewhere under a false name. He took the pen and signed himself “John Stanford.”
