Snake Eyes by Tom Maddox (popular novels .TXT) đ
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Snake Eyes
by Tom Maddox
This story was originally published in Omni Magazine, April, 1986; and in Mirrorshades: Tthe Cyberpunk Anthology,1986
Dark meat in the canâbrown, oily, and flecked with mucusâgave off a repellent, fishy smell, and the taste of it rose in his throat, putrid and bitter, like something from a dead manâs stomach. George Jordan sat on the kitchen floor and vomited, then pushed himself away from the shining pool, which looked very much like what remained in the can.
He thought, No, this wonât do: I have wires in my head, and they make me eat cat food. The snake likes cat food
He needed help but know there was little point in calling the Air Force. Heâd tried them, and there was no way they were going to admit responsibility for the monster in his head. What George called the snake, the Air Force called Effective Human Interface Technology and didnât want to hear about any postdischarge problems with it. They had their own problems with congressional committees investigating âthe conduct of the war in Thailand.â
He lay for a while with his cheek on the cold linoleum, got up and rinsed his mouth in the sink, then stuck his head under the faucet and ran cold water over it, thinking, Call the goddamned multicomp, then call SenTrax and say, âIs it true you can do something about this incubus that wants to take possession of my soul?â And if they ask you, âWhatâs your problem?â you say âcat food,â and maybe theyâll say, âHell, it just wants to take possession of your lunchâ
A chair covered in brown corduroy stood in the middle of the barren living room, a white telephone on the floor beside it, a television flat against the opposite waIlâthat was the whole thing, what might have been home, if it werenât for the snake.
He picked up the phone, called up the directory on its screen, and keyed TELECOM SENTRAX.
The Orlando Holiday Inn stood next to the airport terminal, where tourists flowed in eager for the delights of Disney World. But for me, George thought, there are no cute, smiling ducks and rodents. Here as everywhere, itâs Snake city
From the window of his motel room, he watched gray sheets of rain cascade across the pavement. He had been waiting two days for a launch. At Canaveral a shuttle sat on its pad, and when the weather cleared, a helicopter would pick him up and drop him there, a package for delivery to SenTrax, Inc., at Athena Station, over thirty thousand kilometers above the equator
Behind him, under the laser light of a Blaupunkt holestage, people a foot high chattered about the war in Thailand and how lucky the United States had been to escape another Vietnam.
Lucky? Maybe ⊠he had been wired up and ready for combat training, already accustomed to the form-fitting contours in the rear couch of the black, tiber-bodied General Dynamics A-230. The A-230 flew on the deadly edge of instability, every control surface monitored by its own bank of micro-computers, all hooked into the snakebrain flight-and-tire assistant with the twin black miloprene cables running from either side of his esophagusâgetting off, oh yes, when the cables snapped home, and the airframe resonated through his nerves, his body singing with that identity, that power.
Then Congress pulled the plug on the war, the Air Force pulled the plug on George, and when his discharge came, there he was, lett with technological blue balls and this hardware in his head that had since taken on a life of its own.
Lightning walked across the purpled sky, ripping it, crazing it into a giant, upturned bowl of shattered glass. Another foot-high man on the holostage said the tropical storm would pass in the next two hours.
Hamilton Innis was tall and heavyâsix four and about two hundred and fifty pounds. Wearing a powder-blue jumpsuit with SENTRAX in red letters down its left breast, and soft black slippers, he floated in a brightly lit white corridor, held gingerly to a wall by one of the jumpsuitâs Velcro patches. A view-screen above the airlock entry showed the shuttle fitting its nose into the docking tube. He waited for it to mate to the airlock hatches and send in the newest candidate.
This one was six months out of the service and slowly losing what the Air Force doctors had made of his mind. Former tech sergeant George Jordanâtwo yearsâ community college in Oakland, California, followed by enlistment in the Air Force, aircrew training, the EHIT program. According to the profile Aleph had put together from Air Force records and the National Data Bank, a man with slightly above-average aptitudes and intelligence, a distinctly above-average taste for the bizarreâthus his volunteering for EHIT and combat. In his file pictures, he looked nondescriptâfive ten, a hundred and seventy-six pounds, brown hair and eyes, neither handsome nor ugly. But it was an old picture and could not show the snake and the fear that came with it. You donâf know it, buddy, Innis thought, but you ainât seen nothing yet.
The man came tumbling through the hatch, more or less helpless in free fall, but Innis could see him figuring it out, willing the muscles to quit struggling, quit trying to cope with a gravity that simply wasnât there. âWhat the hell do I do now?â George Jordan asked, hanging in midair, one arm holding on to the hatch coaming.
âRelax. Iâll get you.â Innis pushed off and swooped across, grabbing the man as he passed, taking them both to the opposite wall and kicking to carom them outward.
lnnis gave George a few hours of futile attempts at sleepâenough time for the bright, gliding phosphenes caused by the high gâs of the trip up to disappear from his vision. George spent most of the time rolling around in his bunk, listening to the wheeze of the air-conditioning and creaks of the rotating station.
Then Innis knocked on his compartment door and said through the door speaker, âCome on, fella. Time to meet the doctor.â
They walked through an older part of the station, where there were brown clots of fossilized gum on the green plastic flooring, scuff marks on the walls, along with faint imprints of insignia and company namesâICON was repeated several times in ghost lettering. Innis told George it meant the now defunct International Construction Orbital Group, the original builders and controllers of Athena. Innis stopped George in front of a door that read INTERFACE GR0UP âGo on in,â he said. âIâll be around a little later.â
Pictures of cranes drawn with delicate white strokes on a tan silk background hung along one pale cream wall. Curved partitions in trans-lucent foam, glowing with the soft lights placed behind them, marked a central area, then undulated away, forming a corridor that led into darkness. George was sitting on a chocolate sling couch; Charley Hughes lying back in a chrome and brown leatherette chair, his feet on the dark veneer table in front of him, a half inch of ash hanging from his cigarette end.
Hughes was not the usual M.D. clone. He was a thin figure in a worn gray obi, his black hair pulled back from sharp features into a waist-length ponytail, his face taut and a little wild-eyed.
âTell me about the snake,â Hughes said.
âWhat do you want to know? Itâs an implanted mikey-mike nexusââ
âYes, I know that. Itâs unimportant. Tell me about your experience.â Ash dropped off the cigarette onto the brown mat floor covering. âTell me why youâre here.â
âOkay I had been out of the Air Force for a month or so, had a place close to Washington, in Silver Spring. I thought Iâd try to get some airline work, but I was in no real hurry because I had about six months of postdischarge bennies coming, and I thought Iâd take it easy for a while.
âAt first there was just this nonspecific weirdness. I felt distant, disconnected, but what the hell? Living in the USA, you know? Anyway I was just sitting around one evening, I was gonna watch a little holo-v, drink a few beers. Oh man, this is hard to explain. I felt real funnyâlike maybe I was having, I donât know, a heart attack or a stroke. The words on the holo didnât make any sense, and it was like I was seeing everything underwater. Then I was in the kitchen pulling
things out of the refrigeratorâlunch meat, raw eggs, butter, beer, all kinds of crap. I just stood there and slammed it all down. Cracked the eggs and sucked them right out of the shell, ate the butter in big chunks, all the bologna, drank all the beerâone, two, three, just like that.â
Georgeâs eyes were closed as he thought back and felt the fear that had come only afterward, rising again. âI couldnât tell whether / was doing all this ⊠do you understand what Iâm saying? I mean, that was me sitting there, but at the same time, it was like somebody else was at home.â
âThe snake. Its presence poses certain ⊠problems. How did you confront them?â
âHoped it wouldnât happen again, but it did, and this time I went to Walter Reed and said, âHey folks, Iâm having these episodes.â They pulled my records, did a physicalâŠbut, hell, before I was discharged, I had the full workup. Anyway they said it was a psychiatric problem, so they sent me to see a shrink, It was around then that your guys got in touch with me. The shrink was doing no goddamn goodâ you ever eat any cat food, man? â so about a month later I called them back.â
âHaving first refused SenTraxâs offer.â
âWhy should I want to work for a multicomp? Christ, I just got out of the Air Force. To hell with that. Guess the snake changed my mind.â
âYes. We must get a complete physical pictureâa superCAT scan, cerebral chemistry and electrical activity profiles. Then we can consider alternatives. Also, there is a party tonight in cafeteria fourâ you may ask your room computer for directions. You can meet some of your colleagues there.â
After George had been led down the wall-foam corridor by a medical technician, Charley Hughes sat chain-smoking Gauloises and watching with clinical detachment the shaking of his hands. It was odd that they did not shake in the operating room, though it didnât matter in this caseâAir Force surgeons had already carved on George.
George ⊠who needed a little luck now because he was one of the statistically insignificant few for whom EHIT was a ticket to a special madness, the kind Aleph was interested in. There had been Paul Coen and Lizzie Heinz, both picked out of the SenTrax personnel files using a psychological profile cooked up by Aleph, both given EHIT implants by him, Charley Hughes. Paul Coen had stepped into an airlock and blown himself into vacuum.
No wonder his hands shookâtalk about the cutting edge of high technology all you want, but someoneâs got to hold the knife.
At the armored heart of Athena Station sat a nest of concentric spheres. The inmost sphere measured five meters in diameter, was filled with inert liquid fluorocarbon, and contained a black plastic two-meter cube that sprouted thick black cables from every surface. Inside the cube was a fluid series of hologrammatic waveforms, fluctuating from
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