The Psychonaut Genesis Read online

  “No, no,” Tuttle said. “His face is always like that.”

  “It’s an affliction,” Scarn said grimly.

  “Of course, of course.” The man smiled. “We are all afflicted.”

  “I can do it,” the kid said. “Lemme deliver ’em.” He nervously snapped the safety on his weapon off and on.

  The man patted the kid on his shoulder. “Kevin, recite your beliefs for these heathens, how you believe the Five Holy Lights of the Children of the Son.”

  “I do, yeah.” Rapidly he rattled, “I believe my life in this Veil of Grief is a trial and that my reward will be commiserate with the grief I have suffered and dispended. I believe—”

  “Shut up,” their leader said. “You’re holy, Kevin. I’m convinced. Stand over there.”

  The kid stepped over and stood a little to the right of Scarn, an expectant grin on his face, weapon still lethally poised.

  “Are you ready for your deliverance, my son?”

  “What? Well— Now?”

  “Nonbelievers, observe. Kevin, in minutes you’ll have all the booze and babes you want.”

  “Well, if you think. . . . If you don’t need me. Okay.”

  “We’re overstaffed, Kevin.” The man raised his heavy weapon and made an adjustment. “Not good to use full power in an enclosed space,” he explained with a smile. “Have fun, Kev. Save some for me.”

  “Yeah! Orgasm express! Here I come!” He quickly put his weapon aside, almost an afterthought.

  The other men already had their hands over their ears.

  “Bon voyage,” the reverend said.

  The concussion made Tuttle and Loid stagger backward. The largest piece of Kevin’s body hit the back wall and rebounded with surprising force into Scarn. It staggered him sideways and down. Scarn lay there unmoving, covered in Kevin’s red and purple mess of blood and identifiable organs.

  “Scarn!” Tuttle barked. “Scarn!”

  “I’m okay,” Scarn said from beneath it, beginning to move. Smaller pieces slid off him as he began to push himself up, his hands under him.

  Tuttle discreetly stepped a half step to the left, nudging Loid in that direction.

  “Risen to ecstasy!” announced the reverend. “In eternal bliss.”

  The other men in the room dully repeated, “Risen to ecstasy.”

  Tuttle nudged Loid a little further to the left.

  A bit at a time, Scarn humped up his back and the last pieces of Kevin slid off him. Scarn stopped moving for a moment, seemed to take a breath, and then in one smooth unhurried roll, turned over, sliding through the muck with Tuttle’s confetti gun and fired onetwothree times thunkthunkthunk at the Sons of Light.

  A hit from a spaghetti gun doesn’t knock a person down. Penetrated hundreds of times by tiny metal discs, it stings for the first seconds, and the men looked irritably surprised. When the excruciating electrical grid kicked in, at first they froze, and then their blood flowed through their clothes like a lowering curtain.

  One by one, they dropped, except the reverend, who slumped in place, widened his stance, and with great effort held his chin off his chest.

  “Thang you,” he said, his voice now a guttural blur. “I go now. . . to my deliver—”

  Scarn had now got to his feet. Two steps forward and he kicked one of the reverend’s spread legs out from under him. The big man dropped on his back hard enough to rattle what was left of the house.

  “Thang you. . . for deliv—”

  Scarn pulled out his sidearm aimed it at the middle of the reverend’s face.

  “Don’t, Scarn. You’ll waste a cartridge. And you’ll make him happy.”

  Scarn put the weapon away. “He’ll suffer longer. My altruism in action.”

  Loid grabbed his radio. “Gunfire bring out alla smack-wits. Now, if we had a car. . . .”

  They headed out the back and ran down the next two empty alleys till they heard Loid gasping behind them.

  When they looked back, he wheezed, “You can. . . leave me. . . like. . . I said.”

  Each took one of his arms.

  “Why you helping me?” Loid almost pulled away from them.

  “Who knows,” Tuttle said, “we might find a car and neither of us can drive.”

  “You find a car,” Loid said with his wheezes, “I’m your man, anyplace you want to go.”

  They jogged another ten minutes, making their way into the outer suburbs where most of the houses had been burned, but one, next to a crater, had its front half still standing. Once inside, Scarn leaned into a corner where he could see out the front window; Tuttle sprawled on the floor facing the rear; and Loid dropped on his back on the sofa, like he was back in the old days, taking a late afternoon nap.

  “Thanks. . . guys,” he said. At last, in the dusty silence, his breathing slowed. “So, the idea is to go up to Portland, to that Iris Whoever woman?”

  “That’s the plan,” Scarn said. “Walking eight hundred miles has its hazards. We probably won’t make it. On your radio, you hear of anyplace militias aren’t killing everyone?”

  “Alaska. In the winter. Said it was hard to get your heathen quota when it was dark all the time.”

  “Well,” Tuttle said, “just our luck to live in eternal summer. We’ll be leaving just after twilight, about an hour.”

  “Okay.” Loid was ready to rest. “Okay.”

  During their break, Tuttle listened to the radio for any hints of future unpleasantness and Scarn prowled through a few drawers, exchanging pieces of his blood-stiff clothing for what remnants he found.

  “Loid, where’d you find this radio? It’s a good one.”

  “A woman gave it to me.”

  “Why?”

  Loid rolled uncomfortably on the sofa and began uhhing and mmming.

  “For what, Loid? Food? Sex?”

  “Food.”

  Tuttle shrugged and continued scanning the broadcasts.

  Later, with twilight all but gone, they gathered up their few things. Before leaving, Scarn discreetly circled the house one last time to see that they were clear. His ultra-silent reentry to the house alerted Tuttle that all was not well.

  Scarn quietly racked a round into his Sepp 40 and offed the safety.

  Without interrogation, Tuttle readied his weapon and Loid rolled off the sofa onto the floor; he moaned and sounded like a creaking board.

  Tuttle and Scarn eased in positions where they could see down the street.

  “There he is,” Scarn muttered.

  The robed man approached them from the south, strolling casually, his sandals slapping a little on the pavement.

  “Everytime one of those guys shows up, people kill each other,” Tuttle whispered. “You’d think they’d learn.”

  Behind them, Loid rasped, “Is that him again? I thought they doodled him back there in the street. Maybe he came back from the dead.”

  “Fat chance.” Scarn stood up and gave a soft shout: “Hey!”

  The man who looked up and gave a little wave. “Brothers,” he called back.

  “Stay back!” Scarn called to him. “You’ll get us killed! Turn around and go away!”

  “I am the way. I am the journey made short.”

  “No kidding,” Loid muttered.

  “Lose your life and gain the world,” the man said back to them, still strolling closer, his sandals flapping on the asphalt.

  “Why do you always have to die first?” Loid whispered in a hiss. “Why can’t he just do a miracle and at least make people stop using the drills. Those drills. . . .”

  Tuttle kept watch but also patted Loid’s arm to quiet him. “Scarn, movement fifty meters behind him, left side.”

  “You need to leave,” Scarn called out to the man just loud enough for him to hear. “Go someplace else. Go away.”

  “Through my love,” the man said, drawing closer, “I will show you the way.”

  “Your way’ll get us all killed,” Scarn said. “Leave us alone.”

&nbs
p; The man strolled forward, his arms out and a beatific smile on his face.

  Scarn had his cheek against the stock of the Sepp. He hesitated and glanced across at Tuttle. “I don’t like this. He’s not armed.”

  “At least it won’t be in the back,” Tuttle observed.

  “He’s going to get us killed,” Loid said. He was ready to bolt. “He’s doin’ it on purpose. Those guys back there are with him!”

  The Sepp made a deep cough. The man in the robe stopped in his tracks. A small dark entry point appeared on his chest and a large part of his back blew away. Then he dropped forward.

  “You gave away our position again.”

  “Time to haul it,” Scarn said, slinging the Sepp over his shoulder.

  “Guys,” Loid said. “Guys, I got a confession to make.”

  “Do it fast.”

  “The woman who gave me the radio, she was real pretty and clean, not like she was from around here. Since you’ve saved my butt several times, I thought I should tell you—”

  “Get to it,” Scarn said. They were ready to run.

  “The woman gave me the radio if I would stay with you guys.”

  Silence.

  “What? Stay with us? Why?”

  “That’s all I know! That’s all I know! You can have it, the radio!”

  Scarn and Tuttle looked at each other. Then Tuttle put the radio on the floor and Scarn stomped it.

  “Let’s go.”

  They went out the back, through another row of ruined homes, and into an undeveloped area. In the night’s skylight, they could see the slow-rolling landscape began to elevate into the arid peaks of the Tehachapi Mountains.

  “How we get across those?” Loid said.

  “We’ll go north about five miles and turn left,” Scarn said and began to walk.

  “Well, okay. Eight hundred miles begins with the first step, right?”

  They had got a hundred meters from the last backyard fence, beginning their walk across the dry flatland to the hills, just starting to settle into a rhythmic hump, when the lights came on.

  All the lights came on.

  Six overhead drones put spots on them.

  They went into a defensive crouch, weapons ready, with Loid cowering between them.

  Floodlights glared to life on both sides, and in front, out of the gloom, a dozen people emerged from their camouflage covers and went to work lifting panels, shoving them into position, hauling out smaller items, arranging them, and hurrying away to do more. Gasoline engines and electric motors kicked on and hummed in the background. More lights came on.

  In less than a minute, the activity stopped, and the workers stood back to look over the video set they had instantly assembled: A desk, three comfortable chairs and several casual clusters of background foliage.

  “Scarn?” Tuttle whispered. “Do you know what’s happening?”

  “I seen this! I seen it before!”Loid said and stood up. He was tickled. “A year ago, I seen this! It’s a true-life show! They’re going to make us famous and give us stuff!”

  In the background a small voice said, “Hit it,” and above the instant set, fifty meters wide, the name flared in explosive colors:

  TRASHLIFE NOVA!

  TRASHLIFE NOVA!

  TRASHLIFE NOVA!

  “Welcome!” a thunderous voice said loud enough to have an echo. In the middle of the set, a stylishly dressed man in his early thirties stood with his arms spread wide.“Welcome, Mr. Scarn, Mr. Tuttle, and Mr. Loid Urman! My name is Lance Graff! And welcome to. . . ’Trashlife Novaaa!’”

  Thunderous applause and cheers erupted around them, although they saw no one but the set crew.

  Where the three of them stood it was brighter than day and without shadows.

  “I guess we should hold off shooting our way out,” Tuttle said.

  “No, no, don’t shoot anything,” Loid said. “They picked us! Now they’re going to put us on their show and give us prizes or maybe a vacation.”

  Three very small young women in identical tutus and brilliant glitter suits came out of nowhere and each took one of their arms.

  “Just come right up here, gentlemen,” Lance Graff announced, “because tonight is the beginning of the rest of your life!”

  “What night isn’t,” Scarn muttered as he went along with the little woman.

  Their escorts left them at the foot of three steps that would put them on stage with the manicured and excited Lance Graff.

  “Come up! Come up and have a seat, gentlemen.”

  Tuttle went first but moved cautiously. Once Loid saw him, he went for the nearest chair and dropped in it like an exhausted person. Scarn still held back.

  Lance Graff cocked his head a little to the side and asked slyly, “Gentlemen, when was the last time you had a meal that someone else hadn’t thrown away?”

  Tuttle looked over at Scarn. “Tuesday?”

  Scarn finally came on stage and made his way to the remaining chair; he did not look at ease.

  “How about. . . .” Lance Graff gestured toward the wings and then said grandly, “. . .a little snack?”

  The three sparkling little women instantly appeared, each carrying a small side table topped with a dish of steaming food. They placed one by each chair.

  Loid instantly had his face in it to breathe in the smells.

  Over the growing applause, Lance Graff said, “How about a little something to drink with that?”

  The three women had scurried away and now scurried back out with half-liter glasses of beer which they personally handed to the three men.

  “If you’re hungry, dig in!” Lance Graff said.

  Loid was already eating.

  Scarn sat next to Tuttle and both eyed their food.

  “Scarn,” Tuttle said from the side of his mouth, “you think they’d poison us for entertainment purposes?”

  “Don’t make me think you’re impaired,” Scarn said.

  Tuttle looked closer at what he had been served. “Oh god, Scarn. Look at it.”

  It was actual fresh food—golden-seared meat of some kind, slathered with a glistening sauce, a green vegetable that didn’t have dirt on it, a dozen grapes and a handful of fat strawberries. But next to it. . . Tuttle hesitated as he reached for it. . . next to it was the tall glass of beer with fine lines of bubbles rising inside it.

  Tuttle caught his breath in little gasps as he held the glass.

  “Scarn. . . it’s cold.”

  Scarn’s face went through subtle shifts of attitude as he looked at the food and reached toward his fork.

  They both knew they were had.

  Trashlife Nova had done this before, often, and the introductory show was set up to get numerous shots of the stunned inductees as they saw the train of fabulous wonders coming their way. Sometimes they would be given exotic vacations with unexpected trials or put on peculiar jobs as the audience enjoyed their discomfort.

  “We’ve been following you gentlemen for ten days, and, good gosh, what we’ve seen—your resourcefulness and your toughness and all you’ve been through qualify you as two of our most exciting contestants.” His voice rose. “Tonight,” Lance Graff announced, “due to the generosity of United Tarassis, we will be following our selectees as—” (Millions held their breath—this was the Big Reveal.) “—as they are given psychonaut training and explore the alien beings and alien worlds of our galaxy!”

  Extended applause, hoots and cheering rang across the set.

  Tuttle and Scarn looked at each other.

  “After their training. . . .” (Lance Graff gestured into the air like a magician and a space station materialized over the set.) “. . .they will be assigned to the United Tarassis probe station Alpha, seventy light years above the hub of our Milky Way, exploring alien worlds and finding the most advanced technology in the galaxy for the benefit of the human race.”

  After his grand gestures, Lance Graff leaned a little toward Scarn and said faux-confidentially, “What are you
feeling about all this, Mr. Scarn?”

  “Less hungry.” He continued eating.

  Lance Graff took a moment with that and then turned to Tuttle.

  “And you, sir, how does it feel to know that in a week you’ll be in space, in the United Tarassis probe station, looking down on millions of stars and billions of worlds, that you’ll be a personality known across the human span, throughout the arms of the galaxy?”

  Tuttle chewed slower and looked less sure as the question had gone on.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “I guess.”

  The old man almost came out of his chair when Lance Graff took a breath for his next question.

  “I don’t want to be a psychonaut.” He waved his hands as though he were circled by insects. “I don’t want to do that, nuh-uh. The eats here are great, but I’m too creeped out by people to deal with aliens.”

  “Mr. Urman, fear not! We have made special arrangements for you.”

  The old man’s face went from alarmed to hopeful to suspicous.

  “Mr. Urman,” Lance Graff said in his biggest here-it-comes voice, “welcome to your new life as—” (He held the moment for a count of four.) “—a debonaire man-about-town, a puh-layboy!”

  “What?” He was without a clue.

  “Mr. Urman, here is your new home!”

  The artificial audience gasped and oooed at the image that formed over the stage: It was almost a castle, with spacious rooms, a bar, glass walls opening on a private pool and decorative jungle growth trained around the three stories.

  Loid looked at the image as though it wasn’t making sense.

  “And for all the yard and housework, and for keeping tabs on your schedule, here is your. . . staaaff!”

  “Staff?”

  His entire staff came up on the stage while doing a little side-step shuffle. There were six of them, all female, twenty-five to thirty, dressed in the skimpiest clothes, all cutely designed to reflect their duties around the mansion—one with a tiny chef’s hat and a crotch-hugging apron, another wearing only a tool belt, pasties, and a smile.

  Loid looked quickly from Tuttle to Scarn and back. “Noo, I don’t. . . .”