The Sins of the King
A story by Keith Croes
The job came over the compsole and ordinarily I would have ignored it, but I had just gone through one of the best Octobers in my life and was one big smile. So maybe I didn't care that I hadn't heard the client's voice over a real live telephone or checked his credit disk on my own equipment. Scotch has a way of making personal standards appear quaint. Not that it would have made any difference in this case.
But I'll blame it on the Scotch anyway. When the query flashed up on the screen, I rolled off the couch and across the floor, pulled myself up to the terminal and slapped the message-load. Rich people think everyone has a compsole. The trouble with rich people is that they either don't pay or they want capital sins. Or both. Still, it couldn't hurt to look.
It looked like a pretty nice job. All I had to do was follow a woman for one night and the client was telling me where and when I'd find her in the first place. And it was a place I happened to know. I touched another button and accepted. Easy.
The back room of the Canaan Boutique at 115th and Humbard sold liquor, outlawed by the 42nd Amendment, and though I ran a risk by going there, it could hardly hurt my reputation. So, at 8:30 that Friday evening I was seated at a corner table looking for a blonde. I may have been doing that anyway, there or somewhere else, but I didn't expect Joey Coyle, who has helped botch more than one job for me in the eight years I've known him, to stick his face out of the crowd.
"They've got the sweeps out again," he wheezed.
"Get lost." He did so with an alacrity that gave me a brief shock. Then I saw her.
There are certain
rewards to being an imp in
She spent a half hour sipping on something green and I followed her into the street with Joey's words a gnat in my head. Joey may have cost me more than one fee, but he had never lied to me. And I didn't think he had enough imagination to make up a rumor that good. I pulled my collar tight and turned the heat up in my jacket.
She wore a white coat down an empty street. I could have followed her from near orbit. She walked down Humbard and turned right on 112th. I stopped at the corner for a moment. I could hear the mags coming and going from the airport about three miles west, a sound like lightning without thunder. I remember thinking for the millionth time that strange thought--that following someone was not a sin, that shadowing without malice was no more sinful than a camera. Imps get a lot of those kinds of calls. We sometimes get hired to perform what can only be described as good deeds, probably by solid, tithe-paying citizens who fear for our immortal souls.
I was thinking that she was probably heading toward the upscale projects on Oral Roberts Boulevard, a three-minute commute from the downtown dome, when I saw the postlecraft working its way up Humbard with a mindsweep in tow and three scootercraft criss-crossing in its wake. To see the speedy Chrysler chugging ahead of the lunking black trailer was by itself enough to merit forfeiture of the job, the fee, and maybe even the face of an angel, but the thing stopped at the curb before I could find my feet and Devane was out of the door and holding my collar.
"John," he growled, "you're a disgrace to your name."
"We all have our crosses to bear, Michael." A government mag leapt into the sky from a point not more than three blocks south and we both looked up, which diffused the wrath in his rebuttal. He loosened his grip slightly.
"I hear you've been in court for a few weeks, bearing false witness for some uptown Jew."
"I can't say."
"Rumor has it you made fools of some of the best prosecuting deacons in town."
"I can't say." I thought for a second he was going to let go of my collar, but he tightened his grip instead.
"We're back in business, Johnny." His mouth was inches from my nose. I could easily have given him a cold. I would sooner have given him a breath mint.
"I'm working."
"I love this town and I hate garbage," he said.
"That's the postle's creed, isn't it? Look, the mindsweeps are only going to help my business, Mike. People are going to need imps more than ever, just like last year." I glanced at his partner still seated in the postlecraft and at the three helmeted postles on their scooters. None had made a move toward us.
"You stink of sin--your own and everyone else's."
"I'm working," I said. He hesitated and I saw a new passion in his eyes.
"The Supreme Court has today given us some broad powers of which you and your brethren should be aware," he intoned. "First, mindsweep readings will be admissible in court. Second, an evil intention in itself may be considered a sin. Third, an imp may receive impunity only on behalf of others and will be held fully accountable for his own sins."
The last was as it had been since the order was established by President Falwell half a century ago.
"Doesn't it seem symbolic to you that the Apostolate hasn't equipped magdrives on these things yet? Look at this." Devane glanced at the postlecraft, which floated easily in front of the wheeled mindsweep, like a seabird moored to an anchor.
"It's dragging you down, Mike. It's a counterfeit shortcut, a convenience that will breed greater labor, a lie in the guise of truth. Another trial will keep you in court for another year. Maybe it'll be my trial. That is, if you're charging me with something."
Devane let go of my jacket and put his hands in his pockets. He was a huge man and I'd been afraid of tangling with him physically since our schooldays when we played football for a suburban high school.
"The precedent is set. If I find out you're not registered for a job tonight, Johnny, you better hope your readings are like the driven snow, 'cause I'd make you a test case in a minute. I know some deacons who would salivate at the thought of it." He looked down 112th and nodded toward where the mag had taken off. "What do you know about that?"
"Not a thing," I said. He smiled and got back in the postlecraft, which tugged the mindsweep up Humbard. I walked south and west a few blocks toward my own Chrysler, a personal mag outlawed by the 58th Amendment. I kept it on a ground cushion for several miles, heading north and out of the city, then pulled it straight up to 50,000 feet, too low to worry commercial mags and too high to draw postles. High, low and in between, she was not to be seen on any screen, if indeed it had been the blonde tearing away in the government mag. "Shit," I commented as the military frequency monitor began its typical baleful wink.
"You are an unauthorized magcraft." The male voice was firm and young.
"I'm a gin-crazed imp with a supercharged postlecraft and I'll be long gone by the time your gunmag reaches 25 percent operating temperature. So tell me Jesus says I can't enjoy the view at 50,000 in my own mag, you son of a bitch."
"Private ownership of magcraft is a sin, scumbag." It was a deeper, older male voice.
"Give me a break. Scumbags like me are allowed to sin so scumbags like you can keep your necks out of the state guillotine."
"Imps are responsible for their own sins."
My responsibilities were quite the topic of conversation this evening, it seemed. I cut the transmission and dived straight down through a light cloud cover, thinking of my lost quarry's perfect mouth. A bored wife meeting her lover? A thief double-crossing another thief? A Junior Christian leader on her way to a den meeting? Nothing was sure except that I'd lost her and half of a $5,000 fee. I always get half up front. Nonreimbursable.
I drifted silently to the roof of my apartment and even as I flicked the mag off I felt the elevator taking us down, where we disappeared under two sliding roof panels. Making my way downstairs to the refrigerator, I realized I was also sure of one other thing: this job, no matter how it looked, was not over.
A gray dawn was pushing by a dream when the phone next to my bed rang. It was Joey Coyle.
"John, the
postles got almost everyone in
I felt a stab of guilt. I could've called the club from my mag after I left Devane, but I simply hadn't thought of it.
"What's the charge, Joey?"
"Sinful substances. There must be 30 of us, and some were hit with other charges--mindsweep charges."
"Yeah. You were right." I was so close to saying it--Should've heeded your own warning, dipshit. But I thought of the phone call I could have made and didn't.
"Your buddy Devane was there."
"Yeah. How much?"
"The usual. Who was the blonde?"
"I don't know. Look, Joey, I've got a few things to wrap up. Give me an hour." The usual was a $2,500 fine.
Downstairs, I sat with a cup of coffee at the compsole and brought up the client's file. His name was Alfred Comstock. I called up the photo he had included with the original job order and realized it didn't do her justice. But it wasn't bad either, a head shot that caught soft blue eyes, cascading yellow hair, and more sexiness at the corners of her mouth than any 20 Christian videowives you could name, the ones who stare lovingly at their evangelist husbands over the endlessly boring government network.
I switched to a
routine report template, though failing to complete a job was not quite routine
enough to make it easy, and dictated: "Female subject spotted 2038 hours,
11/15/62, at
I saved the file and accessed the mag memory. On a hunch I called up an infrared on the low-altitude scan and superimposed it on a map of the city. A ragged line could be seen with its wavering origin near 112th and Oral Roberts Boulevard.
Routine wouldn't be routine unless there was something to compare it to, such as breaking routine. Ninety-nine percent of the time I fill clients in on material clues and conjecture. But not this time. I gulped the last of my tepid coffee and returned to the template.
Additional information: "None."
Sins committed: "None."
Balance due: "None."
I punched the report on its merry way to Alfred Comstock, wherever he was, and called up the compsole's message memory. There had been 45 calls, which I quickly erased, thinking of Joey sitting under the dome. Then I called up the front-page menu of the Omaha Testament-Star.
1. Apostolate reactivates sin sensors.
2. Catholic rebels
bomb
3. Kaplan taking
business to
4. Keenan tithing message today.
5. Arms talks with Godless Chinese discontinued.
6. Standards board continues fight for metric system.
7. More miracles reported in Mexican border wars.
Kaplan was the Jew who hired me last month, found innocent of a number of theft charges stemming from his tangled financial dealings. In reality, the big sticking point had been several Christians on his payroll, since only Jews could lend money and charge interest. He hadn't deserved what they were throwing at him, so I was glad my testimony had helped. I liked him.
As usual I used the last word of the front-page menu as my compsole lock: Wars.
I went upstairs, got dressed and was headed out the door when I remembered that I still hadn't registered last night's escapade with Religion. No sooner was my registration swallowed by the compsole than the telephone rang in the kitchen.
"You're in trouble, asshole."
It was Religion. Specifically, it was Huston of Religion, my so-called supervisor.
"What now?"
"Don't you ever read your compsole messages? Devane inquired whether you were on a job last night."
"So, did you cover for me?"
"I couldn't cover for you. He posted an official query right into the databanks."
"I've got 48 hours to register."
"Forty-eight hours from the time you accept the job. According to this registration, which you filed about 30 seconds ago, you accepted this job on Tuesday. Whatever you did last night, you were on your own. Asshole. Tell me you weren't murdering someone."
"You know I don't do murder. Huston, were you sitting there waiting for little old me to register?"
"Look, John, right now I'm worried about every imp in town, especially ones who register whenever they feel like it. Things are getting crazy. The mindsweeps..."
"I know, I know."
"How about finding time to come in for your monthly briefing this month. Monthly briefings are supposed to be monthly."
"I know, I know. I'll drop by Dante's later."
"Dante's is not a monthly briefing!"
"Huston, you're yelling. I'll see ya."
The dome extended
as far as 30th Street and kept
Joey Coyle was not quite so philosophical.
"Shit, man, they almost had me ready to eat lunch," he cried.
The desk sergeant chuckled. "How do you plan to pay?" he asked.
"I'll pay," I said. "I'll have to access my account."
"What's your name?"
"John Perry."
He looked thoughtful for a second and handed me a keypad. "Go ahead. It's $2,500."
While I transferred the funds, Joey grinned and the desk sergeant reached under the counter and pressed a paging button. I watched my credit verification appear on his compsole and turned to Joey. "The least you could do is look humble." His grin widened, then disappeared.
"Well, Johnny."
I turned and Devane held out a ham hand holding a yellow summons.
"See you in court, imp. Tuesday. Reverend Biggs. Same reverend who had to let Kaplan go. What a coincidence."
Out on the street Joey made a feeble attempt to apologize and I stopped him.
"Don't worry about it, Joey."
"I owe you."
"My mag needs another tune-up. Warm-up's taking an extra 15 seconds. Think you could drop by Monday?"
"You got it, boss. What's the charge?" He looked at the yellow sticking out of my fist. I hadn't even glanced at it, but I knew already.
"Lying."
"To Michael
the
"Yeah, I was working," I lied. He looked satisfied. "Joey?" I asked. He peered straight in my eyes. "Joey, do you realize you're the only person I know who wears a coat in the dome?"
"I like to sweat," he shrugged.
I walked the ten
blocks to Dante's, delighting in the smells and sounds and sights, and feeling,
as I always did under the dome, a warm sensuality extending up over the trees,
where monkeys and birds outchattered each other among glass buildings. Crabs
ran sideways across the sidewalk near the park and the ponds. When the dome
first went up, there was talk about how the chariots wouldn't be able to get
through, nor the souls of those who rose with the Coming. Now that banana trees
grew in
Dante's was at the top of the First Nebraska building, where Matt, the maitre d', had maintained his post for a decade. I was glad to see him, mainly because he was glad to see me.
"Mr. Perry," he said, "it's been too long."
"Thanks, Matt.
Wow, what a crowd," I answered. There were 1030 imps in
"Yes, it's quite a scene, isn't it."
"Yeah."
That had been President Falwell's dictum when he established the Order. I knew the proclamation by heart:
Man is sinful, and because the enforcement by a Christian government of Christian law, as accorded to man by God Himself through the prophets and through Jesus, His son, in the Old and New Testaments of the Holy Bible, would find each lacking, certain men must be exempt, these receiving impunity in God's eyes. These men shall be ordained of the Order of Impunity and shall assume the petty sins and the great sins of the poor and of the rich, of the meek and of the king. Whosoever commits his sins through the Order of Impunity shall be forgiven, so that his soul may be saved from damnation and his deeds from prosecution. Whosoever shall be a member of the Order of Impunity shall be spared the sins of others and be held accountable only for sins of his own commission. The Order of Impunity shall number one man for every ten thousand.
"You've been a topic of discussion around here, you know," Matt said.
"I imagine they've found something else to talk about now."
"Yes." He looked down at the rug. "There's a strange wind blowing."
"Yeah," I said.
Dante's was an imps-only club. The last time the place had been as crowded was the month last year when the mindsweeps were running.
I handed Matt my coat and shouldered my way between two women at the bar. Women were admitted to the Order during Falwell's second term when he put the Order under the Department of Religion and made the Secretary of Religion a cabinet-level post. There had been opposition to admitting women--in fact, Falwell himself is said to have opposed it--but it soon became obvious that only women could commit the sexual sins of other women. Since imps were allowed to hire other imps--or each other--I always thought that was one of the better decisions of the Falwell Administration. We called it trading fees. I'll do your sin if you do mine.
The room was full of low, intense conversations. No one paid attention to the large video screen on the far wall. I ordered a ginger soda from a bartender who was a stranger and carried it over to a table near the video screen. Harry Rubino and two other familiar faces huddled together at the table next to me. Rubino glanced up.
"Perry. Join us," he said.
I picked up my drink in one hand and swung the chair over to his table with the other. I didn't like Rubino much. There wasn't one Commandment he hadn't broken. But he had good instincts for bad news--or at least the way bad news would affect business. Several years ago, when atheism joined the list of abuses punishable by public execution, Rubino predicted that, God or no God, atheists would rush to imps. He was right. And last year he found out more about the mindsweeps than any imp I knew.
"What do you think, Perry?" he asked.
"I don't know. I had 45 messages on my compsole this morning." The others laughed.
"Ours were full," Rubino snorted. "You know Jim Fielding and Frank Knowles." I nodded at them.
"So what's going on, Harry?" I asked. "Why don't these things have magdrive yet?"
"Let me tell you what I know," Rubino said. Fielding and Knowles looked at their drinks as though they'd heard it before but were willing to hear it again. "There are about ten on the street, and they haven't touched them since last year. They have a range of about a hundred yards, so people in buildings over nine or ten stories high can't be probed. Like us, for instance."
He looked at me. "They're working on a unit that can be adapted to magdrive; in fact, installed right in a postlecraft. The old units are just too heavy. The energy required to operate them is enormous. Basically, each of those black trailers is simply a mass driver--an engine. The controls and readings are mounted on a panel in the cab of the postlecraft. Have you taken a close look at those tires? I'd bet that trailer weighs 30 or 40 tons. You could lift it, but it would take a military-class mag.
"They record basic emotions, which appear as a color spectrum. All a postle has to do is aim it and match your color against a standardized chart. Your individual brain scan is recorded simultaneously, so there's no question that you were the one experiencing that emotion."
I thought of the yellow summons in my pocket and shifted uneasily in my chair. "That sucks. What about the new units?"
"Well, I've heard that the Apostolate has sought permission to tap into the city's power generators. That would eliminate the trailer but would require strategically placed beam stations around the city. You'd need a clear shot at each mag carrying a mindsweep unit. With only one beam station, for example, you couldn't fly around a building and retain mindsweeping capability; you'd lose it on the other side."
"One beam station at the top of the dome would pretty much let you cover the city, wouldn't it?" The three looked at me, then at each other. Rubino shrugged. "Outside the dome," I added, "they'd have to use the old units until they got beam stations situated throughout the suburbs."
One of the government network's news announcers was mouthing silently on the video screen. Even though the audio was too low to hear and even though I only watched him idly, I felt myself become immediately skeptical--a reflex action.
"Okay, Rubino,
but what's it mean?" I asked. "The way I understand it, Carey versus
the District of Omaha upheld the validity of mindsweep readings in determining
the commission of coveting. How about somebody who is contemplating murder? Can
a mindsweep tell the difference between someone who is thinking of murder and
actually committing it?" The video had switched to
"I'm no deacon," Rubino said, "but I'd guess that the mindsweep could be used as supporting evidence for other sins. Most sins start with coveting anyway. That's why people charged with capital sins are automatically charged with coveting. Shit, the thing probably picks up people's dreams. Can you be arrested for coveting in your sleep?" The men looked at one another. Rubino continued. "What it comes down to is, who gives a crap about coveting? People covet spontaneously for themselves; they don't hire imps. But think of all the people who are considering capital sins and who will now be afraid that the mindsweeps will find them out. We all know that far too many people are committing their own sins, and these are the ones we'll pick up. We're talking big sins and big fees."
Knowles and Fielding were looking at Rubino intently, and as far as I knew no one else in the place saw what I saw on the video screen. A postlecraft towing a mindsweep had pulled up to the Square from one of the intersecting streets--it may have been Humbard--and was stopped at the corner. The crowd was large but hadn't yet overflowed the Square, so the street was empty. Three men at the periphery of the crowd, whom I immediately took for Council security imps, ran up to the mag, pulled out the driver and killed him. The postle's partner started to get out of the other side and he was dropped too. It was the bright blue killing beam, not meant to stun. The action occupied only a small portion of the screen in the far distance of the picture, which changed to a close-up of Keenan making his tithing speech.
Rubino had finished talking and the three men at the table were staring at me. "Why," I said slowly, "would Council security kill two postles on a live network broadcast?" They turned and watched Keenan's 15-foot face.
If that wasn't enough to ruin the day, when I got home my compsole was strobing like a backroom disco. Somebody had broken into my command program.
On Sunday morning I attended mandatory worship services at a suburban courthouse along with the rest of the neighborhood, then spent the remainder of the day and most of the night trying to assess the damage to my computer system. True to his word, Joey Coyle showed up Monday afternoon and fiddled with the mag. By late Monday night I had a new command program and, according to Joey, I also had regained a 10-second liftoff.
Like the rest of the clergy, Tuesday through Friday Reverend Biggs conducted optional worship services in the morning, then presided over cases the rest of the day. Capital sins were his specialty, so I could only imagine that Devane had something to do with his taking on a misdemeanor sin. On Tuesday at 1330 hours I stood in the great chamber of the Ecumenical Council under the dome. Charged with lying. Mine was the first case on the docket.
"John Perry," the bailiff shouted, and before the echo died Devane walked in through one of the side doors by the altar.
I stood.
Biggs was a multichinned cleric and well-known patron of Artists for Christ, an egocentric baritone capable of dramatic verbiage and cold-blooded rancor. Head bowed toward his paperwork, he asked quietly, "Mr. Perry, are you represented by counsel?"
"For a misdemeanor sin?"
Biggs looked up. I had been in disguise during the Kaplan trial, as allowed by law, but his piercing eyes under a healthy crop of black hair left little doubt that someone had filled him in on my role. "Yours is the first lie based solely on mindsweep recordings to be filed by the Apostolate under the new precedent of Carey versus the District of Omaha. This court prefers to retain jurisdiction and I would suggest that you retain counsel. If you cannot afford a deacon, one will be appointed you. Unless, of course, you wish to plead guilty at this time."
I could see Devane with his beefy arms folded. "No, your honor, I'd prefer to talk to counsel first." Both Biggs and Devane smiled. It was exactly the same smile.
My plan that afternoon was to take a stroll through the park, stop at Dante's for an overpriced dinner, and head home for a quiet evening. But when the front doors of the Council building zipped open to the warm, moist air of the street, I found myself three paces behind the mystery woman. That same electricity tingled behind my ears as I realized that I'd quite probably follow her blonde head into the gaping maw of Hell. So much for plans.
Four blocks away,
about a half block from
She wore a pair of beige jungle shorts and a loose-fitting short-sleeved white shirt and carried a cylindrical beige bag with a shoulder strap. She smiled, I smiled, certain I would short-circuit every mindsweep in the dome. She pressed the button for the 30th floor and I stepped back from the panel. She smelled so good that I sighed audibly with relief when we passed the 10th floor--out of mindsweep range.
As the elevator slowed, she edged toward the door and stepped out immediately after it opened, but I stood for a second, surprised by the layout. I had expected an office arrangement, perhaps with a receptionist's desk, but the place was a research facility of some kind with a large open area containing rows of lab tables and glass-enclosed rooms lining three sides. Despite the size of the room, only a few people were working at the tables.
A distinguished gray-haired man was walking toward the open elevator, and as I stepped out he stuck a gun in my side.
"This way, please." He had an unidentifiable accent and a salt-and-pepper mustache, and he pushed me toward a long hallway that led away from the main room. We walked like Siamese twins until he stopped and opened an office door, gesturing me inside. The blonde was sitting near the window.
"Please accept my apologies, Mr. Perry. We tried to have you over Friday night when we could have talked with more...privacy, but apparently you had some trouble following Miss Myers." Miss Myers smiled and looked out the window. "Becky Myers," the man said. I recognized the name. The man sat behind the desk, carefully placing the gun in a drawer. He left the drawer open.
"And you're Alfred Comstock, I presume?"
"Alfred Swanson." I knew that name also. Swanson had developed the sin sensors and as far as I knew still headed the entire project. He had testified in the Carey case. "Please, sit."
"You sure played hell with my computer system," I said, but Swanson shook his head.
"I don't know what you're talking about. Mr. Perry, we've brought you here because you hold the key to something that is absolutely vital to national security."
"Does it have anything to do with two dead postles hauling a mindsweep?" Swanson and Myers exchanged the startled glance I'd hoped for. "Obviously, you want to keep mindsweeps away from the President."
"My, my." Swanson stood agitatedly. "Was it that obvious? We have to work fast." Myers nodded. "Yes, Mr. Perry." He leaned on the desk and I noticed that even the hair on his arms was salt and pepper. "The foibles, the vices, the petty wickedness of all men play also through the mind and soul of the president."
"So whoever said he was perfect?" I said. Myers tried to cut off her laugh with the back of her hand. I caught her eye for an instant before she gazed back out the window.
"It would be no joke," the gray-haired man continued icily, "if the President's mindsweep recording were passed around the nation's living rooms, his documented wandering from the Way of Christ becoming a public spectacle."
Swanson sat slowly and placed his hand in the open drawer of the desk. "Since Falwell, the Christian Party has dominated both houses of Congress, a solid and moral majority that has appointed the last 11 presidents and transformed the hedonistic society of the previous century into history's most magnificent theocracy. When the populace watches sinners die in Jimmy Swaggart stadium, they know that the word of God is indeed the law of the land. There are many Americans who believe that we begin the millennium. And yes, there are many Americans who believe that the President is perfect--that perhaps he is the Christ of the Second Coming. In fact, Keenan plans to make that claim to Congress as part of his campaign for reappointment next year."
"Jesus," I said. "So why doesn't Keenan just pull the rug out from under your brainsucker program? Why does he let the research proceed in the first place?"
Swanson's hand rustled in the drawer impatiently. Swanson was dangerously insane. "The program started in the Apostolate. The Apostolate supports it all the way to the top. Most of the clergy, to the top of the Council, sing its praises. The President has no choice."
"But he doesn't want it pointed at him," I said.
"The Christian Party has its opponents." Swanson pulled the gun out of the drawer and stood. "It's only a matter of time before the technology is stolen or reproduced by these opponents. The President wants to be protected. That's where you come in."
I could see the gun's energy setting, so my response was clipped by a gulp. "Is that so?"
"Your brain is different." It was Myers talking in a voice like educated sunlight. Swanson sat down again. "You were scanned several times last year, again during the Kaplan trial, and every day for the past two weeks. Actually, we're not sure if your brain is different, organically speaking, or if it just processes moral decisions in a different way. It's not my specialty, but whatever kind of wiring you have, it's only important that we learn how to reproduce the readings."
Against the window, the outline of her hair was a halo. "You don't really sin, at least not very often, at least not according to the mindsweeps. Even when you're working, even when you're supposed to be sinning for someone else, you're not usually sinning. You maintain a consistent blue reading on a mindsweep."
I hesitated. "That's impossible. I'm awaiting trail right now for lying."
"No one said you were perfect," she grinned, "just consistently blue." She looked at Swanson. "We've talked about it and we think you draw a line between morality and the law. Your moral system seems to have developed independently of Christian dogma, which is pretty much unheard of except in sociopaths, which you are not and which is detectable in a mindsweep. If you don't perceive a law as having moral validity, you register no sin when you break it. And you seldom compromise your own morals. On a mindsweep, you appear simply as a very good man."
Imp training is the same as clergy's for the first several years, and I thought back to school, to a time when I was not an imp but a student. Morality seemed to me then to be bricks, real objects, and truth was a building. I could never get the bricks to resemble a courthouse. I considered the clergy and rejected it.
"You could also be a monster," Myers said.
"But then, this isn't your specialty," I replied.
Swanson waggled the gun across the desk. "Monster or saint, we need to record your brainwaves into a plastic matrix we have upstairs. It's a new method I've developed myself and it's worked on several people so far, not to mention a host of nonhuman primates."
It was my turn to stand. "No thanks. You want several thousand reasons or just one? I don't want to."
"The process is just a modified brain scan," Myers said quickly. "It's what we do with it that's unique. The matrix not only records the energy patterns but should be able to reproduce them, retransmit them, in a sort of continuous loop--a continuous blue loop, we hope, on a mindsweep. And Swanson is right--this is a national security priority."
I reached for the door handle. "I'm leaving," I said, and pointed at Swanson. "And if you kill me, you'll get shortened at Swaggart stadium like any other murderer. I've never heard of a case where the Apostolate or the Council looked the other way for an unauthorized capital sin. What makes you think you'' re any different?"
Swanson examined the gun, flicked on the safety, and tossed it to Myers. "Becky's an imp. In fact, she's one of the President's imps. She can do it for me."
The phone jangled me slowly awake and I reached for the receiver automatically, holding it against the floor for a moment until I figured out I was in my bed God knows how many hours after having my brain drained by a plastic matrix. I put it to my ear and muttered something.
"Hello, is this John Perry, the imp?"
"Huh," I answered.
"Look, I got your number from a friend, Andy Boone. He works at Christian Motors? You embezzled the company for him?"
"Yeah."
"I've never done this before--called an imp."
"That's okay. Look, could I get you to call back?" My tongue felt oddly foreign.
"It's just--well, this is a big one. I mean, for me."
"Yeah. How about..."
"He's got it coming, though, the little jerk. Could you do it?"
"Who?"
"My son. He's got it coming, the arrogant bastard, smartass punk."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Beat him. Beat him up bad. Kick his ass. Beat the crap out of him. Throttle the living shit out of him. Put the fear of God in him, is what I want. You do felony sins, don't you?"
"Some. Not this one. Sorry. Bye."
I hung up and my foot brushed against something warm and smooth.
"You actually have...one of those audio phones--a telephone. I heard about it, but I don't believe it."
It was like working my way up a cliff to get to a sitting position, where I held the pillow in my lap. Becky Myers way lying next to me. I had a feeling she was naked under the covers.
"I must have missed something," I said after a long pause. "Last I remember, you were recording my brain waves against my will."
"You were a basket case when we got done. I brought you home in the tube. I live in the dome, you know, and it's cold out here." She tucked the covers up around her chin and mock-shivered.
"When is it? What day?"
"The next day. It's morning--the morning after. Do you respect me?"
I tried to frown. I tried to smile. I got out of bed and pulled on my pants.
"We traded fees," she said. My heart slipped up my neck.
"We've got 48 hours to report it," I said, then walked into the living room. The compsole screen stared darkly; my computer banks hadn't been entered. My mind tried to race for an appropriate course of action. I went into the kitchen and made coffee, then took a cup and sat in front of the compsole. Wearing nothing but the blouse she had on yesterday, Myers came out of the bedroom, found herself a cup of coffee, and sat in the living room on the couch.
"I've got a
home in the
"Hmm, yes,
"It's under the coffee table. You broke into my system?" I nodded toward the compsole and she nodded back. "Then why aren't the postles here?"
"It was...unofficial. I did it on my own."
"Swanson doesn't know?"
"There's a lot Swanson doesn't know."
I turned on the compsole and summoned the front-page menu of the Testament-Star. The last word of the last headline was "crucifixions." Old habits die hard. Besides, the code had nothing to do with the way Myers entered the system in the first place. I typed crucifixions into the lock and looked over at the woman, not liking the rage that stoked a fire in my chest. It was too incongruent. Looking at her with anger was like getting pissed off by a sunrise.
"Why don't you tell me what's going on, lady, so I know whether or not I should throw your ass out in the cold." And she told me. The words came out with thoughtful precision. Swanson had completed a prototype of a portable mindsweep. A transmitter had already been installed at the top of the dome and in several "blind spots" under the dome. Soon the Apostolate would be able to sweep the entire downtown population. But there was more. President Keenan was a sexual deviate and mass murderer. And she needed me.
"Why me?" I asked. By that time, we were sitting together on the couch. She reached over and held my hand.
"Because..." She looked away and spoke softly. "We didn't trade fees last night. But I thought about it." She looked back at me. "You're a white knight. You're perfect for the job. I've been studying you since last year's mindsweeping. And you have a mag."
"What job?"
"We need to stop Keenan. We need to get a sweep of his naked, loathing brain before Swanson figures out a way to block it--using your sky-blue mind loop." Speaking of blue. In her gaze I figured out the rest of her plan.
"So why don't you take the portable sweep to Keenan by yourself?"
"It's not that portable. It weighs 250 pounds," she said. She looked away again, then down at her hands. "Though Lord knows I've had the opportunity."
Not only did I know the plan then, but knew that I'd do it--knew that I'd soon be flying my mag through Council security particle beams to get a recording of the prurient musings of the President of the United States.
"How do I get into the dome?" I asked.
"You fly through the tube. It's the only way," she answered.
"Well, then you better have the damn shuttle schedule figured out." I already knew that she had.
Huston was surprised when I called Religion that afternoon and made my report, even before the 48-hour deadline.
I hated the thought of it, but Joey Coyle was the only man I knew who would don a postle uniform and buzz the nation's capital in an illegal magcraft. I needed somebody. Postles always patrolled in two's, and I figured I'd need help to pick up the portable sweep.
Two days later,
decked out like God's own soldiers, we took the Chrysler on the ground up to
the
We hit top speed at
The
"Be there, baby." I thought I prayed it, but I must have voiced it because Joey looked over and chortled, "Becky? Is that her name? Who is this Becky, man? How'd you meet her again? She pulled a blaster on you? Nice gal." He exhaled sharply and shook his head. He hadn't met her and I hadn't told him much more than her name. He'd been itching for more.
"There she is, Joey. Don't slobber."
As the magcraft settled on the roof, I saw Becky standing next to a body and a box I took to be the portable mindsweep. She ran toward us, her face ashen. I opened the hatch.
"I had to kill Swanson," she cried.
"You got it up here, didn't you. Help us get it on board."
Joey was already tugging on a handle; I grabbed the one on the other side and ended up pulling most of the weight as we dragged it to the Chrysler's rear hatch. "We've got to lift it, Joey." Becky stood next to him and helped him heft his end up and in.
She grabbed my hand. "He's at the spa. Do you know how this damn thing works?"
"Yes," I said. "Are the transmitters on?"
"Yes."
We left her there because that was the plan. I admired the fact that she didn't ask to come along.
"She's somethin'," Joey said, gazing out the window at the incredible sight of the city, green and brown and warm under the dome.
"She's a whore and a murderer," I said. Joey tugged on the rim of his postle cap. "And I think I'm in love with her. Look, get the lid up on that thing."
He opened the box. I heard a snap and the throb of power. The two of us had spent about 20 hours in the past two days memorizing Becky's sketches and instructions for operating the unit.
"I been meanin' to ask ya," he said. "Why is a small-time imp like you stickin' his neck out like this? I just can't understand why someone who's made a good livin' committin' minor sins is gonna get all worked up by some politician."
We were drifting down toward a palm-lined boulevard that stretched alongside the health club. Ecumenical Council security imps were stationed two to a corner at both ends of the long block. In the middle of the block, the building cut back to form a small courtyard, and we settled down at the outer edge of it, but back from the street. Our angle of entry should have kept us from the view of the imps. On the other side of the street were quiet condominiums full of people not unfamiliar with the sight of cruising postlecraft. The Chrysler faced the room Becky had described.
"Keenan lends Becky out to his friends--those who subscribe to a similar brand of Christianity. Some of them aren't his friends, and she kills them. She's been doing it because it's her job. She's an imp," I said. "It's that room on the corner, straight ahead of us." Joey was bent over the back of the seat, adjusting the directional controls.
"Have you ever heard of the Gestapo?" I asked. Joey screwed his head around and peered out the windshield, then back at the controls, trying to visualize the invisible line of the mindsweep. "Or the CIA? Becky says that Keenan uses imps for political assassins--that he's got imps killing off his enemies all over the world. Among other unspeakable things."
"There's only one person in there, John," he said. "The sweep is reading him."
"Everyone knows that imps are used for jobs that may require killing, like Council security. Even postles aren't allowed to kill. But Becky says that Falwell formed the Order of Impunity for the sole purpose of having an untouchable league of trained killers, someone to do the country's dirty work--this fundamentalist Christian country's necessary dirty work." I knew the man inside was Keenan. He was taking a steam. Becky said it was the only time of day he was alone.
"The sweep is making identification, John. This thing is fantastic."
"Necessarily sinful dirty work."
"We've got 'em, John. Brain wave ID matched to mindsweep. It's Keenan. It's recording."
"Every president since Falwell has used imps to wreak as much terror as possible," I said. "I am one, and I never fucking knew that. What color is he?"
"Blue. Just plain blue," Joey answered, looking up at me uncomprehendingly. "We did all this for nothin'?"
"No way, partner. Hang on." Neither Joey nor anyone else knew about the missiles, one on each side of the hull, installed by a Grenadian mercenary when I was in that country perpetrating untruths concerning a property dispute.
"The sins of the meek and of the king, Joey." The first missile opened the wall and Joey and I could see Keenan and his bare ass running toward a door at the back of the room. The second one took him between the cheeks. I was glad he had been alone. I couldn't have done it otherwise.
"Holy shit," Joey yelled. I was proud of him. It had been over an hour since he had had a cigarette, outlawed by the 89th Amendment. "Jesus H. Christ," he hollered. "You better fucking register!"
"I already did," I said. "Ahead of time."
"But...but...you can't do this by yourself!" He blubbered. "Whose sin is it? Whose sin did you register?"
"Yours. You know that $2,500 you owe me? Forget it."
Joey's mouth snapped shut and he sat quietly for a moment. "Cool," he said finally. "Really fuckin' cool."
I nodded at him and smiled. Joey looks incredibly stupid in a postle uniform.
As the Council security imps surrounded the mag, I decided to plead not guilty to the lying charge. Even if the Apostolate is determined to use the mindsweep readings against me, which I doubt, I think I can beat the rap. And it's worth the risk just to see Devane and Biggs lose that damn smug smile.
THE END
keith@croes.com