HEROIC MEASURES

Originally published in Analog Science Fiction, January 1981.

Blackness. Then a dazzle of rigidly-massed light-bulb whitenesses stretching out like a computerized football scoreboard. But I seemed alone, and in no stadium. If anything, the stadium was in me, was me. Then, on that scoreboard floating in the great blackness, a march of smaller blacknesses spelled out words.

CAN YOU SEE THIS? IF SO, ROLL YOUR HEAD TO THE RIGHT.

It took me all the deep eternity there is between ticks to realize that the scoreboard was speaking to me. A thought sidetracked me: Real time happens between ticks. The message flashed on, off, on, impatiently insistent. It took me another eternity to respond.

Something that was me and yet not me rolled a heavy rock uphill.

The message blanked out. Then one word filled space.

GOOD.

Why good? I rolled the rock downhill; the work proved just as hard.

The scoreboard blinked, then pulled itself together for another message.

RESPONSE CONFUSING. ARE YOU SHAKING YOUR HEAD? CANCEL THAT QUESTION. JUST ROLL YOUR HEAD TO THE RIGHT AND LEAVE IT THERE.

I rolled the rock uphill again and leaned all my imponderable weight against it to hold gravity in place.

GOOD. Then, quickly, THAT IS ENOUGH FOR NOW. SLEEP.

Blackness again.

* * * *

The scoreboard flashed on.

HELLO AGAIN. DO YOU KNOW YOUR NAME?

Come to think of it, I couldn’t think of it.

I rolled my head to the left. I still had no awareness of having a head, no sensation of being personally involved, much less a feeling of interfacing with a pillow; I had merely the thought of rolling something disembodied as a bowling ball. But it appeared to do the job.

DOES BIDHOPE RING A BELL? I bowled my head to the left.

WELL, TAKE OUR WORD FOR IT, THAT’S YOUR NAME. JASON BIDHOPE.

Why not? It seemed as good a name as any. And since I couldn’t come up with a better name of my own for a name of my own, so be it.

But somewhere within me—whoever I was and wherever I was—a nameless dread made the flame of me tremble at the name.

I outgrew the head-rolling. Over a long flickering of time I learned to program the scoreboard and flash my own messages.

They—whoever they were and wherever they were—seemed able to look into the stadium of my mind and read the scoreboard. I thought of them as being in a chopper hovering above the open bowl.

I still did not know what game I played.

* * * *

Pictures now as well as words.

The scoreboard seemed under surer and subtler control. The whitenesses had a whole range now, into the grays, and what’s more these half-tone images sharpened.

I knew now the face—front and profile—of Jason Bidhope. I knew his parentage, his schooling, his occupation, his wife’s name and look.

I had yet to get the feel of being Jason Bidhope.

* * * *

WE WANT TO SHOW YOU SOMETHING THAT HAPPENED.

I could stand some entertaining. BE MY HOST.

The story bursts forth in full color and realistic detail, unfolding on the scoreboard-screen.

One morning in late fall. Sgt. Bidhope reads an unsigned letter that sends him posthaste to his commanding officer. Bidhope remains stonily vague about why he requests immediate leave. Miffed at not being entrusted with the why and the wherefore, and already shorthanded in the face of an upcoming inspection by the brass, the CO turns Bidhope down. The good soldier Bidhope salutes with no change of expression. But once outside the orderly room Bidhope makes for the ordnance depot and steals a hand grenade. He changes into civvies, forges orders, and drives a motor pool jeep past the guard post.

He stops at a highway phone booth to dial a number, gets no answer, drives on. He pulls up at a motel on the edge of town, grimly spots the license plate of a car parked outside a motel room, takes out the grenade, pulls the pin, kicks in the door, and frags the couple startled awake in bed.

For the echo’s duration Bidhope stands unmoving in a sort of post-coital sadness. But the motel manager has phoned 911, and at the sound of sirens Bidhope stirs himself to make a run for it. He has a copy of the car’s ignition key on his key chain. He hops into the car and roars away.

There’s a chase. (I liked this part best; it was deathly alive with heart-stopping skids, near-head-on collisions, jumping of dividers, and the like.) But at last the forces of order and law box Bidhope in. Roaring toward a roadblock, he executes a bootleg turn, jamming the brakes and cutting hard left a quarter-turn so that the car jumps up onto two wheels, spins about, and heads the other way. The chase ends when a cop shoots the car’s rear tires to shreds. Bidhope totals the car but comes out of the wreck in one recuperative piece.

He stands trial. There’s a nice twist in that the woman he’s killed is not his wife but his wife’s best friend. Throughout the trial Bidhope feels his wife’s eyes on the back of his head. The jury brings in a guilty verdict. The judge sentences Bidhope to death.

Despite Bidhope’s refusal to beg on his own behalf, lawyers with an affinity for the press file appeals till the last appeal is exhausted.

On death row Bidhope passes the time by playing solitaire.

The night before the execution he makes a bomb out of playing-card cellulose and cot-leg casing and blows himself up. Here the story ended.

THERE YOU ARE. WHAT DO YOU THINK OF IT?

I would have applauded if I could. Then it struck me I could. I projected a stick figure on the scoreboard and clapped its spidery hands. And I meant it. Not the least entertaining feature had been to see myself playing the role of protagonist.

Then it came home to me. Something that happened. The role had been the real thing. I had just seen from the outside what once I had seen from the inside. That had to be what they wanted me to make of it. I stalled.

INTERESTING. SO?

DON’T YOU GET IT? THAT IS YOU.

I fought to disbelieve. YOU TELL ME THAT IS ME. BUT HOW DO I KNOW YOU TELL ME TRUE?

WHY WOULD WE LIE TO YOU?

I had a triumphant thought. BUT IF THAT’S TRUE. I’M DEAD. I knew I had them there: they had shown me blowing myself up.

YES. SOME MIGHT CLAIM YOU WERE CLINICALLY DEAD. BUT MEDICAL HELP REACHED YOU IN SECONDS. PRISON DOCTORS HOOKED YOU UP TO LIFE-SUPPORT SYSTEMS, KEPT YOU GOING TILL SURGEONS COULD BEGIN REPAIRS. YOU DID YOURSELF A LOT OF DAMAGE, YOU KNOW. HOWEVER, WE’VE PATCHED YOU UP. PUT YOU BACK TOGETHER. BRAIN SURGEONS HAVE SPREAD A TEFLON FILM WITH PLATINUM-DOT ELECTRODES ACROSS YOUR VISUAL CORTEX. INTEGRATED CHIPS AND FIBER OPTICS DO THE REST. AND NOW THAT YOU’RE WHOLE ENOUGH AND WELL ENOUGH TO UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU DID AND THAT YOU MUST PAY FOR WHAT YOU DID. THE TIME HAS COME TO WHEEL YOU INTO THE DEATH CHAMBER AND CARRY OUT THE SENTENCE OF THE COURT.

I exploded all over the scoreboard. YOU BROUGHT ME BACK FROM DEATH JUST SO YOU COULD JUDICIALLY MURDER ME?

JUST SO. SOCIETY DECIDED YOU MUST PAY IN A PRESCRIBED MANNER FOR YOUR CRIME OF PREMEDITATED MURDER. WE CAN’T LET YOU CHEAT SOCIETY OF THAT DEATH. YOU SEE THAT. DON’T YOU?

I found myself suddenly calm. I SEE THAT I’M A WHOLLY DIFFERENT PERSON. I DIDN’T KNOW I WAS JASON BIDHOPE. YOU FORCED HIM ON ME. YOU’RE KILLING THE WRONG MAN.

YOU’VE GIVEN US SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT. Blankness for a time. Then, NO. THE SENTENCE MUST STAND.

Having made my case, I stopped. I could be just as stubborn as Bidhope in refusing to beg for life. ALL RIGHT. IT DOESN’T MATTER. I CAN TAKE THIS BECAUSE I KNOW LIFE’S PLAYED ITS SADISTIC GAME ON ALL OF US.

WHAT DO YOU MEAN?

DIDN’T LIFE SHOW US THE BEAUTY AND TERROR OF THE UNIVERSE, THEN MAKE US AWARE WE’RE ALL UNDER SENTENCE OF DEATH?

YOU HAVE A POINT THERE. WELL, HERE WE ARE. YOU’LL HAVE TO FORGIVE US. BUT THE TIME IS NOW. DO YOU WISH ANY COMFORT?

NO.

DO YOU HAVE ANY LAST WORDS?

I had none.

The End

Blackness. Then a new dazzle.

JASON BIDHOPE HAS PAID. NOW YOU ARE FREE TO BEGIN.