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Authors: David Marusek
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would. “First, let’s get you caught up on what’s happened so far.”
“By all means. Catch me up on what’s happened so far.”
The chief of staff gave the floor to the attorney general who said, “Yesterday morning, Thursday, 3 April, at precisely 10:47:39 EST, while loitering at the New Foursquare Café in downtown Bloomington, Indiana, you, Samson P. Harger, were routinely analyzed by a Homeland Command Random Testing Device, Metro Population Model 8903AL. You were found to be in noncompliance with the Homeland Acts of 2014, 2064, and 2087. As per procedures set forth in—”
“Please,” I said, “in humanese.”
The security chief took over and said in his gravelly voice, “You were tasted by a slug, Myr Harger, and found to be bad. So they bagged you.”
“Why? What was wrong with me?”
“Name it. You went off the scale. First, the DNA sequence in a sample of ten of your skin cells didn’t match each other. Also, a known NASTIE was identified in your bloodstream. Your marker genes didn’t match your record in the National Registry. You did match the record of a known terrorist with an outstanding arrest warrant. You also matched the record of someone who died twenty-three years ago.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “How could the slug read all those things at once?”
“That’s what the HomCom wanted to know. So they disassembled you.”
“They! What?”
“Any one of those conditions gave them the authority they needed. They didn’t have the patience to read you slow and gentlelike, so they pumped you so full of smart agents you could have filled a swimming pool.”
“They—completely?”
“All your biological functions were interrupted. You were legally dead for three minutes.”
It took me a moment to grasp what he was saying. “So what did they discover?”
“Nothing,” said the security chief, “zip, nada. Your cell survey came up normal. They couldn’t even get the arresting slug, or any other slug, to duplicate the initial readings.”
“So the arresting slug was defective?”
The attorney general said, “We forced them to concede that the arresting slug might have been defective.”
“So they reassembled me and let me go, and everything is good?”
“Not quite,” continued the security chief. “That particular model slug has never been implicated in a false reading. This would be the first time, according to the HomCom, and naturally they’re not too eager to admit that. Besides, they still had you on another serious charge.”
“Which is?”
The attorney general said, “That your initial reading constituted an unexplained anomaly.”
“An unexplained anomaly? This is a crime?”
I excused myself for another visit to the bathroom. The urgency increased when I stood up from the armchair and was painful by the time I reached the toilet. This time the stream didn’t burn me, but hissed and gave off some sort of vapor, like steam. I watched in horror.
When I finished, I marched back to the living room, stood in front of the three holos, and screamed at them, “ What have they done to me? ”
“You’ve been seared, Myr Harger,” said the chief of staff.
“Seared? What is seared?”
“It’s a fail-safe procedure. Tiny wardens have been installed into each of your body’s cells. Any attempt to hijack your cellular function or alter your genetic makeup will cause that cell to self-immolate. Roll up your sleeve and scratch your arm.”
I did as she said. I raked my skin with my fingernails. Flakes of skin cascaded to the floor, popping and flashing like a miniature fireworks display.
The chief of staff continued. “Likewise, any cell that expires through natural causes and becomes separated from your body self-immolates. When you die, your body will cook at a low heat.”
I was stunned.
“Unfortunately, there’s more,” she said. “Please sit down.”
I sat down, still holding my arm out. Beads of sweat dropped from my chin and
“By all means. Catch me up on what’s happened so far.”
The chief of staff gave the floor to the attorney general who said, “Yesterday morning, Thursday, 3 April, at precisely 10:47:39 EST, while loitering at the New Foursquare Café in downtown Bloomington, Indiana, you, Samson P. Harger, were routinely analyzed by a Homeland Command Random Testing Device, Metro Population Model 8903AL. You were found to be in noncompliance with the Homeland Acts of 2014, 2064, and 2087. As per procedures set forth in—”
“Please,” I said, “in humanese.”
The security chief took over and said in his gravelly voice, “You were tasted by a slug, Myr Harger, and found to be bad. So they bagged you.”
“Why? What was wrong with me?”
“Name it. You went off the scale. First, the DNA sequence in a sample of ten of your skin cells didn’t match each other. Also, a known NASTIE was identified in your bloodstream. Your marker genes didn’t match your record in the National Registry. You did match the record of a known terrorist with an outstanding arrest warrant. You also matched the record of someone who died twenty-three years ago.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “How could the slug read all those things at once?”
“That’s what the HomCom wanted to know. So they disassembled you.”
“They! What?”
“Any one of those conditions gave them the authority they needed. They didn’t have the patience to read you slow and gentlelike, so they pumped you so full of smart agents you could have filled a swimming pool.”
“They—completely?”
“All your biological functions were interrupted. You were legally dead for three minutes.”
It took me a moment to grasp what he was saying. “So what did they discover?”
“Nothing,” said the security chief, “zip, nada. Your cell survey came up normal. They couldn’t even get the arresting slug, or any other slug, to duplicate the initial readings.”
“So the arresting slug was defective?”
The attorney general said, “We forced them to concede that the arresting slug might have been defective.”
“So they reassembled me and let me go, and everything is good?”
“Not quite,” continued the security chief. “That particular model slug has never been implicated in a false reading. This would be the first time, according to the HomCom, and naturally they’re not too eager to admit that. Besides, they still had you on another serious charge.”
“Which is?”
The attorney general said, “That your initial reading constituted an unexplained anomaly.”
“An unexplained anomaly? This is a crime?”
I excused myself for another visit to the bathroom. The urgency increased when I stood up from the armchair and was painful by the time I reached the toilet. This time the stream didn’t burn me, but hissed and gave off some sort of vapor, like steam. I watched in horror.
When I finished, I marched back to the living room, stood in front of the three holos, and screamed at them, “ What have they done to me? ”
“You’ve been seared, Myr Harger,” said the chief of staff.
“Seared? What is seared?”
“It’s a fail-safe procedure. Tiny wardens have been installed into each of your body’s cells. Any attempt to hijack your cellular function or alter your genetic makeup will cause that cell to self-immolate. Roll up your sleeve and scratch your arm.”
I did as she said. I raked my skin with my fingernails. Flakes of skin cascaded to the floor, popping and flashing like a miniature fireworks display.
The chief of staff continued. “Likewise, any cell that expires through natural causes and becomes separated from your body self-immolates. When you die, your body will cook at a low heat.”
I was stunned.
“Unfortunately, there’s more,” she said. “Please sit down.”
I sat down, still holding my arm out. Beads of sweat dropped from my chin and
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