Apeing Essence
… realAlbert gets sympathy from a
simian simulacrum …
Fortunately, there was a lot of traffic coming and going to the battle range, everything from big supply carryalls and triple-decker tour buses to jitneys and sportcycles. Air travel’s tightly restricted though, and the site is far enough from the city that sending a ditto all this way makes little sense. It would only have short time to loiter around before having to head back again.
True aficionados—and news reporters—are better off coming in person, which explains the row of fancy realfolk hotels, amusement centers, and casinos near the main gate, with their high observation towers gazing at the battleground proper. At night, musicians play impromptu arrangements to accompany the flash and bang effects rising over the escarpment.
Like I said, it’s a pretty typical military base. Bring the family!
We hitched a ride the final few klicks, flagging down a ramshackle mobile home with twelve wheels and a wheezing catalysis engine that reeked of illegal petrol conversion. The driver, a big fellow, dark brown with greasy locks, welcomed us aboard with a grunt.
“I’m not going all the way to the hotels,” he said. “I’ll be turnin’ offroad to the Candidates Camp.”
“We’re aimed there as well, sir,” I explained with a shallow bow, since he was real while I was pretending not to be. The driver eyed us up and down.
“You don’t have the look of soldier-aspirants. What kind of model are you, strategists?”
I nodded and the big fellow guffawed. “Some would-be generals,
wandering around lost in the desert!” His deriding tone wasn’t unfriendly, though.
I now faced yet another problem. As soon as I stepped inside the big van, a small light started flashing in my left eye. For the first time in almost two days, my implant was picking up a useful carrier wave and asking permission to respond. Three tooth clicks and I could be investigating what happened to my burned-out home and why amateur criminalists linked me to a sabotage attempt at Universal Kilns. Above all, in just moments I could be talking to Clara!
But that little flash also signaled a poison. While passive, my implant wouldn’t give away my position. But the moment it latched in, others would know I still lived … and where to find me.
Ritu and I settled into a back seat while the driver chattered about the war, which had gone through several stunning reverses, a memorable match drawing attention from all over the globe. Soon he pulled off the main highway and down a rutted track leading toward the chaotic encampment I spied earlier.
The Candidates Camp is exactly what you’d expect in an age when war is sport and countless people dream of some way to stand out from the crowd. Amid plumes of trampled dust, you quickly sniff the acrid wafting odors of simmering clay emitted by scores of souped-up portakilns, fussed over by aficionados who bray proudly about their special modifications. Crowds gather each time one opens, to stare and criticize as a new monster steps forth, zingularly equipped in ways that could get you arrested or fined in the city. Gargoyles, ogres, and leviathans … spiked, fanged, or clawed … feral-eyed or dripping caustic poisons from their jaws … yet propelled by the ego and soul-stuff of some nerdy hobbyist, woman-born, preening and posing in the background, hoping to be “discovered” by the professionals, just beyond the fence—perhaps even winning a coveted place of glory on the honorable plains of battle.
Our driver grew more talkative as he maneuvered into a parking space at one end of the encampment. “I wasn’t gonna come out this time, especially after PEZ got off to such a bad start on Monday. Sure looked as if it was gonna be over quick. Good-bye icebergs and hello again water rationing! In fact, I gotta hand it to the Indonesians for coming up with those sneaky little minidit assassin-golems. They sure played havoc with our first-wave troops. But then came our counterattack on Moesta Heights! Did you ever see anything like it?”
“Wow,” I said ambiguously, eager only to get out as soon as he shut down the hissing engine.
“Yah, wow. Anyway, I suddenly realized—I got a perfect battle-mod to counter to those Indie minis! So I figured, come out and give a demo. With any luck, I’ll be in the arena soon, making a deal with the Dodecahedron by nightfall!”
“Well, we sure do wish you luck,” I mumbled while jiggling the doorknob.
He looked disappointed by my lack of interest. “I had a hunch you two were scouts for the army, but I was wrong about that, wasn’t I?”
“Scouts?” Ritu asked, clearly puzzled. “Why would the army have scouts outside the battle range?”
“Go on, get outta here,” the driver said, yanking a lever and releasing the door, spilling us into the hot afternoon.
“Thanks for the ride.” I jumped to ground and quickly headed south, past a cluster of Winnebagos where families gathered together under a striped canopy, chewing barbecued snacks next to a big holo screen showing recent combat updates. If I were a true fan, I’d stop to check the score and see what odds the touts offered. But I only really care about war during the finals, whenever Clara qualifies.
I think she likes that about me.
On one side stood house trailers fronted with fold-down booths selling everything from hand-woven lumnia rugs and wondrous cleaning formulas to aromatic funnel cakes. Beyond the usual Elvis Shrine, clusters of monster truck aficionados sweated under their beloved vehicles, preparing for a rally at a nearby offroad course. There were the usual types of real-life weirdos—clippies and stickies and nudies and people walking about shrouded in opaque anonymity chadors—but all of this was secondary. Fringe stuff to the real purpose of this offbeat festival.
I was looking for its core.
Ritu caught up and grabbed my arm, trying to match my rapid pace. “Scouts?” she asked a second time.
“Talent scouts, Miss Maharal. The reason for all of this.” I encompassed the chaotic encampment with a sweep of one arm. “Wannabes and Trytobes converge here to show off their homemade battle-dits in a makeshift coliseum, hoping the pros will be watching. If army guys see anything they like, they may summon the designer inside the fence. Perhaps make a deal.”
“Huh. Does that happen often?”
“Officially, it never happens at all,” I replied while turning and seeking my bearings. “Amateur ditviolence has been deemed an undesirable
public vice, remember? It’s sin-taxed and reproved, like drug addiction. Remember how they yammered against it in school?”
“That doesn’t seem to be slowing it down any,” she murmured.
“No shit. It’s a free country. People do what they want. Still, the military can’t be seen officially encouraging the trend.”
“But unofficially?” One eyebrow arched.
We were passing an arcade where carnies touted all sorts of amusement games and joyrides, most of them mechanical and retro, designed to give a safe but scary thrill to trueflesh. Next door, a long tent sheltered stalls for bio-aficionados to exhibit home-geniformed life forms—the modern equivalent of prize bulls and pigs—amid a clamor of grunts, cackles, and braying cries. Lots of color and atmosphere, all the way down to the homey stench.
“Unofficially?” I answered Ritu. “They watch, of course. Half the creativity in the world comes from bored amateurs, nowadays. Open source and fresh clay—that’s all folks need. The army’d be stupid to ignore it.”
“I was wondering how you planned to get from here into the base proper,” she gestured beyond the exhibits and shouting carnies and whirling fun rides to the killwire fence. “Now I get it. You’re looking for one of those scouts!”
We were close enough to the killwire to feel its soul-distorting currents along our spines. It had to be nearby … the centerpiece of this anarchic fairground. The reason for its being.
Just then I caught a glimpse of my goal, beyond a big, grimy tent with slobbery elephant seal noises coming from within. A long line of archies stood patiently outside, waiting their turn to enter. But whatever was going on inside—whether violent or massively erotic—I didn’t care, and Ritu quashed her curiosity in order to keep up. I hurried, stepping gingerly past the canvas pavilion with its commotion of loud, clammy grunts.
Looming on the other side of the filthy tent stood a spindly structure of horizontal planks and slanting cables, held up by a single tensegrity spire. Several hundred onlookers crowded the grandstand, setting its spiderweb array jiggling each time they stood to cheer or sat back down with a disappointed collective moan. Their broad posteriors, clad in soft fabrics, showed they were all realfolk, with arms and necks tanned stylishly brown in the desert sun.
Between their cheers and moans came other sounds—howls and bitter
snarls echoing from the arena’s heart. Defiant insults, hurled by mouths designed for biting instead of speech. Frenzied impacts and moist tearings.
Some think we’re going decadent. That all the urban brawlers, the inload-junkies and pseudowars mean we’re becoming like Imperial Rome, with its bloody circuses. Immoral, unbalanced, and doomed to fall.
But unlike Rome, this isn’t foisted on us from above. A weak government even preaches moderation. No, it rises from below, just another branching of human enthusiasm, unleashed from old constraints.
So, are we decadent? Or going through a phase?
Is it barbarous when the “victims” come willingly and no lasting harm is done?
I honestly had no answer. Who could know?
The arena’s main entrance bore an archies-only symbol and a wary guardian—somebody’s pet monkey, perched on a stool, armed with a spray bottle of solvent non-toxic to trueflesh. Ritu and I could have slipped inside without harm, except possibly to our makeup. But I still had use for the pretense. So we walked by, seeking a place among the non-citizen onlookers who pressed under the grandstand, peering through a shuffling maze of archie feet. Many of the dittos were combatants, garishly hoofed, taloned, and armored, awaiting their own turns on the gladiatorial grounds.
It stank down there. Slobbering, grunting, and farting dense colored puffs from their hyped-up metabolisms, contestants exchanged good-natured jibes while swapping bets and opinions about each round of grotesque slaughter. But not everybody. One fellow was actually reading from a cheap web-plaque, through a pair of outsized spectacles perched on his tyrannosaur snout. When a trumpeted blare called him forth to the arena that ersatz dinosaur tossed his lit-plaque to the ground but gently plucked the eyeglasses between two pincers and slipped them onto one plank of the grandstand, between the feet of an archie who picked up the specs and pocketed them without a word.
Well, some people like to make the most of their time, whatever body they happen to be wearing.
Clara had told me about this place, though I never visited during any of my earlier trips from the city to watch her platoon in action. She didn’t think highly of the “innovations” that bright amateur designers concoct to show off next to the killwire fence.
“Most are too gaudy, based on legendary monsters or personal nightmares,”
she said. “They may be fine for a scary movie, but no damned good in combat. A frightening leer won’t help much when the enemy has a particle beam weapon sighted between your horns.”
That’s my girl. Always ready with tender wisdom. I found myself actually breathless with anticipation, getting close to her at last. Beyond just missing Clara, I also knew she’d have insights about my predicament with Kaolin, Maharal, and Universal Kilns. Anyway, I wanted to reach her before word got through that I’d been killed in my home by a terror missile. Maybe she’s been too distracted to watch any news, I hoped. The last thing I wanted was for her to be worried or in mourning while she still had a job to do for team and country.
“Oh my,” Ritu Maharal commented while peering into the arena at a maelstrom of bellowing carnage transpiring within. “I never realized all this could be so—” She fell short, breathless, unable to find words.
I was peering, too. Not at the fight but the surroundings, seeking a particular entity. The object of my quest wouldn’t have fangs. It wouldn’t be an archie, either. Professionals have better things to do with realtime than attend this amateur exhibition in person.
“You never realized all this could all be so what?” I asked, making conversation absently. There were some big forklift-type dittos on the other side of the ring, assigned to haul away losers before their smoldering bodies could turn into slurry. But no. That was a lot of pseudoflesh to invest. I was betting on something more compact, economical.
“So exciting! I always felt a kind of aloof superiority toward this kind of thing. But you know, if I imprinted one of these combat dittos, I bet I’d actually stay interested in the same thing for a day … both of me, I mean.”
“Hm, great … unless your monstrous alter ego turned around and bit you in half,” I commented. Rita blanched but I continued to scan. The one I sought would need a good vantage point, yet shouldn’t be obvious to all the aficionados flocking round this place. What if they don’t send anybody? I worried. Maybe the professionals just use some hidden camera to keep an eye on—
Then I spotted the guy. I felt sure of it. A small figure, shambling about the edges of the arena, poking at each fallen warrior, reading their pellets with a narrow stick-probe. He looked like a chimp or gibbon. You see little fellows like him all over town, so common they almost fade into the background.
Of course, I thought, the tax collector.
“Come on,” I told Ritu, pulling at her when she tried to stay and watch the end of a bout. I swear, I almost left her right there, so anxious was I to move on. Fortunately, one contestant struck the other a fatal blow just then, sending its massive body crashing with a thud that set the whole amphitheater vibrating and the crowd frenetically cheering.
“Let’s go!” I shouted.
This time she came.
The ape grunted and spat when I called to him from behind the arena. He squatted on his haunches atop a wooden pillar, idly watching the next event.
“Go ’way,” he muttered, in a voice only a little more clear than a real chimp’s.
Naturally, I wasn’t the first to have figured out his guise. It must be a nuisance when amateurs come over and try to influence him with direct appeals.
“I need to talk to a member of the 442nd,” I said.
“Sure. You an’ every other fan, after the assault on Moesta Ridge. But sorry, no autographs till after the war, pal.”
“I’m no fan. This message is personal and urgent. She’ll want to hear it, believe me!”
The chimp spat again, brown slip with a touch of arsenic glaze. “And why should I believe you?”
Frustration boiled inside, but I kept my voice even.
“Because if Sergeant Clara Gonzales finds out that you kept me from getting through to her, she’ll grab you by the archie and give you a memory you’ll never get rid of.”
The ape blinked at me a couple of times.
“You do sound like you know Clara. Who are you?”
It was a dangerous moment. But what choice did I have?
I told him … and those dark eyes stared at me. “So, you’re the ghost of poor Albert the ditective, come all this way to bid her good-bye. Damn shame what happened to you, man! Getting torched by a hoodoo missile always hurts. I can’t imagine what it must’ve felt like in person.”
“Uh, right. I kind of hoped to reach Clara before she found out about it.”
The pseudochimp tsked and shook his head. “I wish you had, fellah. ’Cause you wasted your remaining span coming out here. The minute Clara heard the news, she took off!”
It was my turn to stare in surprise.
“She … went AWOL? In the middle of a war?”
“Not only that, she snatched a guv’ment copter and flew straight to the city. Our team commander’s in a funk over this, let me tell you!”
“I can’t believe it.” My legs felt weak and my heart beat hard.
“Yeah, ironic. She drops everything rushing to town, only to miss your ghost who rushed out to console her.”
The observer-scout leaped off his perch to land next to me and held out a hand. “I’m Gordon Chen, corporal in the 117th Support Company. We met once, I think, when you came down for last year’s playoffs.”
An image came to mind, of a rather tall half-Oriental fellow with perfect posture and a gentle smile … about the least simian-looking human being I ever saw. Yet he wore this body with ease. “Yeah,” I answered absently. “At a party after the Uzbek semi-final match. We talked about gardening.”
“Uh-huh. So it really is you.” His ditto-teeth looked formidable when he grinned. “Gautama! I often wondered how it must feel to be a ghost. Is it weird?” He shook his head. “Forget I asked. Is there’s anything I can do for you, Albert? Just ask.”
There was something he could do for me. But asking could wait a few seconds. Or minutes. I still had to let it all sink in. My disappointment at having missed Clara. Plus surprise that she could be so impulsive. But above all, one transfixing fact.
I always knew she cared for me. We’re great friends. good in bed. We make each other laugh.
But for her to pull a crazy stunt like this! Dropping everything to go sift the ashes of my house. hoping and praying that I wasn’t there when it blew up … Why, she must actually love me!
Over the course of the last two days I had learned that I was both a crime suspect and a target for assassins. I’d been ambushed, left for dead, then endured a harsh desert trek, and faced even more disappointing setbacks. Yet, despite all that, I suddenly found myself feeling rather … well … happy.
If I survive the efforts of my enemies, and don’t wind up a corpse or in jail, I’m going to have to talk to her. Rethink our reluctance to—
Just then, the ongoing background noise of grunting combat gave
way to a loud sizzle, followed by a wet-heavy swatting sound. The crowd of ecstatic archies stood up all at once, roaring and setting the spiderweb grandstand jiggling as a spiky round object soared out of the arena in a high arc, dripping trails of gore behind it.
“Sherds!” Corporal Chen cried, leaping back with apelike agility. Ritu and I hurried after, barely dodging as a fanged and glowering head struck just meters away, rolling to a stop near my feet.
Rapid golem-dissolution was already setting in as smoke and slurry poured out both ears, staining the moist sand. The owner of this head better fetch it quick, if he wanted a complete inload. All those barbs and horns and stingers might be part of a hobbyist’s loving, homemade combat design, but I sure wasn’t bending over to touch the huge, snaggle-toothed thing!
And yet, even after what it had just been through, the head still clung to consciousness. Crocodillian eyes blinked for a few seconds, focusing briefly with an expression more disappointed than tragic. The jaw moved. Trying to speak. Against my better judgment, I bent closer.
“Wow …” the head whispered, while light still glinted in those feral eyes. “What … a … russshhh … !”
The chimpanzee soldier snorted, a sound tinged with grudging respect.
Stepping back, I turned to Clara’s comrade and asked, “Did you mean what you just said—about being willing to do something for us?”
“Sure, why not?” The ape-ditto shrugged. “Any buddy of Clara’s is a bud of mine.”