To land in Baltiplex all you have to do is contract one of the Incurables--herpes carcinoma, syphilis3, AIDS II, a nonrecoverable drug dependency--or be an embarrassment to someone important. The lie is that very few of them are incurable, but it has become easier to deal with our lepers by interring them in a coventry where we can't see them and don't have to deal with them. Baltiplex is the repository of betrayed, the end point of deception. Baltiplex is where the refuse gets dumped.
Of course, one's definition of refuse often must be fluid and somewhat parochial at times to make sense of the inmates.
The Plex itself isn't bad. Once it was a citadel of the elite, a hightech arcology that a terrorist turned into a self-contained hell with a tailored virus. It's magnificent, even in eclipse. Everything is still automated, self-repairing, and even the buzz squads of crazed motiles that keep trying can't break enough drones or smash the dispatch centers. Maybe one of these years they'll manage to disrupt service, but I doubt most of them will live long enough.
The management company cleaned the place up after the virus ate itself out, then tried to solicit new tenants. No one was interested. Baltiplex was a haunted arcology. The government made them an offer and they sold it. The Bureau of Health took over and the first "residents" were admitted a year later.
"Shouldn't o' figured anybody'd listen, Fisher."
I shrugged. "There's a report somewhere, on file in a dozen places, that'll bubble to the surface one of these days."
"By then you'll be dead, like the rest of us." He laughed and coughed. "God, I gotta find some grease."
We were walking down an empty corridor. On either side apartments rose in canyonlike slopes. Occasionally a face would appear at a window--strained, sore-ridden, ravaged--and then disappear.
"Where're we goin'?" Smithy asked.
"I want to show you something."
"Some grease?"
I scowled. "No women, Smithy. This is different."
He chuckled dryly. "Who says it's gotta be female? How come you never get greased? I never see you with anyone."
I shook my head. "I'm not interested in adding new diseases to my condition."
"Oh, like you think you're ever gonna get outta here? C'mon! You gotta know there ain't no out of the Plex! Have some fun while you're still alive!"
"There are a few terminals in here that can kill you in an hour, Smithy. I thought you liked being alive."
He shrugged again. "Where we goin'?"
I studied Smithy as we walked. I had known him Outside, long ago. We had worked together once. Few people in our profession are as romantic as the fictions the ignorant write about us. In fact, Smithy is about the only one I ever knew who could come close to matching the color of the fantasies. A slight man, deceptively frail-looking, he had saved our lives on a feeling that something was going wrong and got us out of a bad place by the most byzantine of routes. I used to think that if anyone could have found a way out of the Plex, Smithy would have been the one. But even he wasn't up to the challenge and he grew weaker by the month. I don't think he cared anymore.
"What's the thing that's most aggravating to you about being in here, Smithy?"
"Open sores."
"Seriously."
He looked up the walls of apartments. "I don't know...I guess the way it's overcrowded...and you still don't see people, y'know? I mean, the Plex is designed to house two million, right? There's four and a half million of us in here. Where are they? Go in toward the center, where the clubs and shit are, there's people. But it don't look like four and a half million. You can feel 'em, but...I don't know. What about you?"
"I didn't get to meet a novasoph."
"Aw, the aliens? You wanted to see one?"
I nodded.
"Yuch!"
"They arrived two months before I was interred. Officially, anyway. I never could convince myself that they hadn't been around a lot longer." They were made public about when my report on unexplained disappearances in Africa and Asia began winding its way through channels, I thought. The timing of that had always bothered me--well, everything about it bothered me--and I finally just put it down to the Powers That Be wanting to put on a clean face for our new visitors. It wouldn't do to have a high profile investigator raising embarrassing questions about where all the bodies were buried.
"You were the one hadda write a report that got you in here! I told you a dozen times, pursuit of the truth is foolish and dangerous and futile. Kind of like love, eh?" He laughed and it turned to a hacking cough. He spit and cleared his throat. "Where the hell are we goin'?"
"Right up here."
I stopped us before a big steel door. A red warning label said NO ADMITTANCE DRONE ACCESS. Beside it was a scanner. I looked up and down. Habit--no one around here could do what I did, but...
I pulled my ID chit from my pocket. I had modified it slightly. I shoved it against the scanner and waited. A few seconds later the door slid open. Smithy whistled.
"I fool the scanner into thinking I'm a maintenance drone," I explained. "Come on."
Smithy looked uncertain, but he followed me into the narrow corridor. Machine oil and ozone filled the air. Red lights ran the length of the ceiling. We came to another heavy door. Smithy kept looking back the way we'd come, absently, nervously rubbing his jaw, as if expecting to see the security drones coming for us.
I opened a panel beside the door and pulled one of the fuses, then, with a small piece of wire, I jumped the gap left from one board to another. The big door unlocked noisily and swung away from us. I grinned at Smithy.
"There's a series of reservoirs that surround the Plex," I said. "Each one has a different function--sewage treatment, organic recycling, water purification, biogasification, stuff like that."
"We get to drink some of it?"
"Yes. It's a pretty self-contained system."
I pocketed the fuse and pushed the heavy door back in place. A humid odor joined the other smells here. The corridor was much larger and ran perpendicular to the access. A dozen meters from the door was a smaller, simpler hatch. We stepped through.
At the bottom of a short ramp an archway opened into a roofless shaft. Smithy, startled, looked up at the wedge of sky. Moss covered the ground all the way up to the edge of a pool of dark water. Humus, chlorine, and methane mingled in the air.
"How'd you find this?" Smithy whispered.
"I was listening some of the time you were prattling on about how smart you are and how much you know about security systems." I closed my eyes and drew a deep breath and tried to imagine for a moment that I was outside, free. Dripping, sloshing water was a constant background symphony.
"Jees, it's...nice!"
I looked at Smithy. He was on his knees, running his hands over the moss. The parklands inside the Plex are neatly-manicured, well-maintained green patches that look magnificently fake. The drones have no sense of disorder, no imperative to leave wild things alone. I treasured this spot because it was wild, untended, free of the corruption of the bureaucratic mind that must make everything neat and meaningless.
Other small plants and a few saplings had taken root. Off to the left was a stand of willows.
A stack of crates had long ago been piled by the access and moss covered most of them. They provided a bench.
Smithy suffered a coughing fit that doubled him over. His small body spasmed and he spat up blood. When he finally controlled it, he came over and sat down beside me.
"This is nice," he said. "I can almost stop thinking about sex here."
I chuckled. "You could get that taken care of, you know."
"Yeah, but hell, it's the only part of the disease that's worth a damn." He grinned. "I had a hellacious libido before I got sick. Now...jees!"
"You're going to fuck yourself to death, Smithy."
"Already done that. I figure maybe one o'these days I'll fuck myself healthy again." He looked at me. "Y'know, I never seen you bein' sick."
I continued gazing at the green moss, the water, paying attention to the pleasantness and ignoring Smithy's inquiry. After a few seconds he grunted and shrugged. I still wasn't convinced he didn't know about my implants, but they hadn't been handed out indiscriminately and a lot of old timers in the various services had been passed over. As far as I knew, they hadn't been told, but in Smithy's case I'm surprised he never ferreted out the information anyway. In any case I decided not to talk about it. I didn't know how anybody would feel if I explained to them that I really wasn't sick. My implants counteracted the syphilis3 with which I'd been infected--just not soon enough to keep me from being thrown in the Plex. So I stayed away from most people. There were some diseases even my implants wouldn't take care of, diseases even the insinuation that someone might have infected me with intentionally would have gotten them in more trouble than they could deal with. This was effective. Eventually I may come down with one of the Terminals, my implants may fail, someone may just kill me in a fit of insanity.
"Hey," Smithy said, tapping my shoulder.
"Hm?"
He pointed. At the edge of the line of saplings a girl was undressing. I checked myself; my first impulse was to dive for cover, hide. But she didn't seem to notice us. After a few seconds I watched, rapt.
She was compact, muscular, short dark hair, smooth brown skin. When she was nude she stepped away from the trees, stopped in the middle of the clearing, and turned to face the water. She stood rigidly, unmoving.
Suddenly she exploded into movement. She spun into a dance, a dance of blood and hormone, a brain dance. Whatever music she heard its only evidence was in the rhythms of her body. Her movements seemed effortless, as if there were no gravity. I saw a choreography of neuron and synapse, a fevered dervish, the rondelle of RNA from deep in the oceans of evolution. I caught my breath; beside me Smithy shifted and muttered quietly.
"Maria Holland," Smithy breathed. "I heard rumors she was in here, but you don't believe it's possible people like her can catch a Terminal."
It took me a second to place the name. Maria Holland was a ballerina who had diversified into freeform, jazz, African--for a year or so she had been a common name, even for people who knew nothing of dance. Then she had vanished. I remembered a small flurry of reports, quickly squashed, that she was in the Plex. That was three years ago.
I frowned. She didn't look sick, either. The way she moved was not the way someone three years gone with a Terminal should move. I wondered if I was looking at another "embarrassment" someone had gotten rid of.
She slammed her limbs spastically, in directions that somehow conspired to make a coherent display. Language without voice, spontaneous art.
"Jees, she's beautiful," Smithy said.
Abruptly she pirouetted, dropped to the moss, head bowed, and the dance ended.
I swallowed, waiting for more. I resisted an impulse to clap my hands and whistle. My eyes burned; it had been so long since I had last seen true beauty.
She snapped to her feet and looked down the length of the enclave, past us, her eyes wide. I followed her gaze and shuddered to see three white-suited BOH cops advancing toward her.
"Don't move," I said quietly, touching Smithy's arm, then pointing at the BOH goons.
"Shit..."
They looked like abstractions of the Perfect Knight; they were no doubt armed to the teeth, ambassadors of health prepared to kill anything diseased.
They crossed in front of us and moved toward Maria Holland. The procedure was clear, simple, direct: spray to seize her muscles, then a sedative, then wrist restraints, and an escort back into the Plex. I saw each move in my mind and waited for them to break into their own dance of rules and restrictions. But they went by her, almost without giving her a second look. I was baffled and for a moment I considered making a run for the service tunnel before they saw us.
Then I saw what they were really after. They closed in on what I'd taken for a stand of willows. Now I looked closer and saw something very different. The shafts were too thick and too pale yellow and the texture was all wrong. They sprouted from a mass of thickly-veined material that was ocher and crimson. As the three BOH cops drew nearer, the shafts began waving frantically, within and without each other, swapping places with a dancelike grace.
"Shi..." Smithy breathed. He snorted. "You wanted to see a fucking alien, man, well there one fucking is."
"Shhh!" I hissed.
One of the cops released his gas. A faint pearly cloud drifted among the spines of the novasoph. They seemed to shudder, then slow their shifting. The cops spread out to encircle it. They clearly didn't know what they were doing; this hadn't been well planned.
Suddenly the novasoph was gone. Staring right at it I did not see it vanish. It simply disappeared. For a second the cops looked around, confused.
Then it reappeared. Or, rather, three of them appeared, one beside each cop. A collection of swimming spines enclosed each one, shifting and twisting. The cops tried to step out of them. They pushed aside the stalks and took steps outside, only to find themselves stepping right back into the middle of the tangles. For a few minutes they continued working at getting out with calm deliberation. One by one, panic set it, and each of them began thrashing and kicking. It didn't seem like that difficult a thing to do, the thickets they were in didn't look that thick, but the harder they fought to escape the more impossible it seemed.
A short, gentle laugh broke the silence and I looked at Maria Holland again. She watched the spectacle, arms at her sides, feet apart, with a childlike smile on her face.
When I looked back at the BOH cops they were gone. The three sets of stalks shimmered, faded, but didn't quite disappear. They didn't move...but they merged back together and solidified again.
"Jesus, Fisher, I don't want to go mental first!"
"I saw it, too, Smithy."
He laughed. "I guess that proves you are sick!"
"I'm--"
"God, I wish I could dance like that..."
I glanced at Smithy. He was staring at Maria Holland, his mouth open slightly. She stared at the alien. There was something tentative, anxious in her attitude, as if she waited for a response.
The alien was still. The only sound now were the faint, hollow drippings of water echoing around us.
Suddenly its stalks spread open, like an improbable peacock, and I needed to go to it, step into its arms. The urge was intense, specific, and I closed my eyes for a moment. When I looked again I saw Maria Holland, smiling gratefully, walking toward the alien.
"An audition..." I said.
Smithy glanced at me. "Shit, I do things! I can dance!"
He jumped from the crates.
"Smithy! What are you--"
Maria Holland stopped outside the perimeter of the stalks and turned. She watched Smithy scurry toward her, her face mildly puzzled. Smithy stopped a meter away, coughed raggedly, then said something to her that I couldn't hear. She nodded and held out her hand.
Smithy grinned at me and waved. "See you in the next life, Fisher!"
They stepped together into the center of the alien stalks. The slender spines closed and Smithy and Maria Holland vanished.
You are welcome to come, too...
It wasn't exactly a voice in my head, more a realization. But I also knew it had come from the novasoph.
"To where?" I asked.
Away from here. Away...
"Why?"
In answer I felt myself suffused with a deep satisfaction, almost satiation, pleasure at some...performance...well given. It was profoundly moving. I closed my eyes and moaned. A collage of images scampered through my mind--painters painting, sculptors sculpting, musicians playing, singers in song, dancers...
And all healthy.
I shook myself and got to my feet.
"You're aesthetes." That seemed to amuse it. "Why Smithy? He can't do anything."
It pleased the graceful one. We care for our wards...
I stared at it, my mind carefully empty. Slowly I shook my head.
"I have nothing to offer," I said. "Thank you anyway."
A few moments later the novasoph shimmered out of existence.
I made my way back into the Plex. The timing was too good. In fact, it was ridiculous, but lesser gains have been made from worse coincidences. The novasophs arrive about the time my report hit the right--or the wrong--people. It was just possible...
I went to the internal administration office and requested an outside line. Normally, no resident gets an outside line. I used a code that the AI warden recognized and gained access.
"This is Fisher," I said. "I can explain how the disappearances detailed in my report number AA4955 are related directly to the novasophs."
It didn't take a day. BOH cops came in and got me and the next thing I knew I was on my way to Washington, a clean bill of health from the CDC in my pocket, and traveling money from my old agency. For all I knew, though, I could be back in Baltiplex the next night, having failed the auditon.
Baltiplex is, after all, the repository of betrayers, of betrayed, a cathedral of betrayal.
I have no idea how this will affect relations with the novasophs. We might shut them out. We might--and this thought only occurred to me after I was on the transport--shut Baltiplex down and use them as the way to get rid of our problem performers.
I'll miss Smithy, but I think he'd be proud of me for finding a way to work this to my advantage. I know how to dance, too. It's just that no one ever gets to see me perform. My dance is done in the dark, in a constant night of lies and evasions and arrangements, away from all but a few eyes. In that sense, humans were very like these novasophs, if I understood them the way I thought I did. We love a good performance, and the powerful can't resist a private recital.
THE END
by Mark W. Tiedemann © 2006
About the author: Mark W. Tiedemann is the author of more than 50 short stories and nine novels, including his Isaac Asimov's Robot Mystery trilogy (Mirage, Chimera and Aurora) and his critically acclaimed Secantis Sequence, which includes Compass Reach (nominated
for the prestigious Philip K. Dick Award), Metal of Night and Peace and Memory. BenBella Publishing released his latest novel Remains in 2005. More books and short fiction will follow, including a new Secantis novel. Stay tuned to www.marktiedemann.com for news, updates and other things of interest.
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