Dreams That Burn In The Night (13 page)

My hands itched
with inaction, toying with the trigger grips of my bank of pocket lasers.

The rain had cut
down visibility and I had all dispatched scanners turned up to the highest wide-angle scoop. Even
then, my visual range was pretty limited.

I don't feel useful
on a night like this. I like the action, like the feel of being on top of a crime, hitting into
it, punching it in, and shutting it down. Then if I'm lucky, burn-down. I wish there was some way
of expressing the satisfaction I get when I burn down a criminal. I love my work.

Fifteen minutes
plugged into the computer and not one peep.

Then action.
"Position," said the computer. "Pickup 27, Moni­tor 7."

This is more like
it! I punch in video and audio and man, I feel alive again!

Nothing on audio
but the sound of rain coming down on the pavement so hard it's bouncing. I tap the toggle on my
helmet. I'm turning up to high gain. Still nothing but the damn rain.

Visuals, the same
story. A gray side street shrouded in rain. Can't pierce the rain more than ten feet at a time. I
link into the mobile unit. Scanners on high scope, still can't see a damn thing.

"27-7, move toward
subject!" The monitor begins moving down the street, rapidly.

The computer reads
out: "Pedestrian, unidentified racial type, unidentified gender. Computing."

"Identify," I
snarl. I can't even begin to guess what's coming down.

The computer
hesitates and then again: "Pedestrian, uni­dentified racial type, unidentified gender.
Computing."

"Move in close,
damn it!"

"Acknowledged."

I tap the trigger
grips impatiently. This seems like it's taking forever. I feel like I am playing pin the tail on
an invisible don­key.

Finally, audio
picks up the sound of footsteps, the sound of feet splashing through puddles. A fraction of a
second later, video picks out a bedraggled figure moving slowly through the rain. Heat scanners
must have sensed him a long way off.

"Identify." The
scanners freeze-frame his face, code and trans­mit the image automatically to Central.

"Caucasian, male.
No information. No identity card, no arrest record. It does not compute."

Has to be a
computer foul-up. Maybe fifty years ago it might be possible for someone to exist without an
identity card but not now. Somebody in programming deserved a long vacation without
pay.

"Pursue and
monitor," I order, stalling until Central rings in with the correct information. That's the best
I can do.

"It does not
compute. Lack of data," clacks out Central.

"Telephoto zoom.
Target, hands and fingers. Positive print I.D. check," I order the mobile unit, which immediately
begins cir­cling subject, clicking extreme close-up telephoto freeze frames. I punch in the
information direct to Central.

"Information
acknowledged," reads out Central. "No print rec­ord. Information does not compute."

What can I do? Damn
programmers! I punch in: "Check programmer error!"

Central beat me to
it. "Possibility programmer error elimi­nated. No identity card. No file tapes. Detain and
identify. Viola­tion of Identity Code, Section 348. Hold for questioning." One entire panel
lights up on my console. My computer units all lock into Central. They're functioning full-gauge
on this one. Damn!

I've been a womb
cop for ten years, ten years and I've never run into anyone who didn't have an identity card, who
didn't have an identity tape on file! It's not only illegal, it's damn impos­sible! This was
something new we had on our hands.

Two more panels
switch in. The computer is going crazy on this one. As far as it's concerned, the impossible has
happened.

I've got my eyes
riveted on my monitors and I'm really giving our boy a looking-over. He's no beauty.

"Detain," I punch
in, and the mobile unit which has been keep­ing pace with this character moves in and cuffs him
to the deten­tion cable on the side of the unit. No resistance, no reaction at all. Subject seems
unaware of the monitor circling around him.

It's an old man,
video observation indicates. Frayed overcoat. About 5'4", pants too big and ragged. Looks like an
alcohol ad­diction case, a wino, unshaven. Eyes, on full zoom, look blood­shot. He's unconcerned.
Looks like he doesn't care one way or the other about being stopped. Alcohol probable cause of
brain
damage indicated by subject's lack
of interest, negative display of emotional response.

"Who are you?
Please identify yourself," my voice comes through the mobile unit speakers. Tapes being filed, a
direct line to Central. All my panels are lighting up. My console looks like a computer light
show. Central is really shooting sparks over this.

The old scarecrow
looks directly into the monitor. Gaunt fea­tures, eyes sunk into his head. Deathly white face.
I'd swear I was talking to a corpse. No expression on the face, just kind of cold and withdrawn.
No answer.

"Repeat. This is
womb cop Davis. You are in violation of the Identity Code, Section 348. Please identify
yourself." Not a flicker of anything from the old man. Central punches in:  "Section
Commander Hartmann on the line. What the blue hell is going on down there?" I beep in
acknowledgment of his call. "Checking, sir. We have a man with no identity records, sir." "That's
impossible!" Hartmann sounds fit to be deprogrammed. "Please identify yourself," I try again.
Jesus, this is really one for the tapes!

"Plug in your lie
detector monitors!" snapped Hartmann, his voice booming through loud on the line.

"They're already
plugged in, sir! I can't get a response from subject, sir." Damn, I feel like an idiot. He knows
I haven't got a response, that order about the lie detector was just to prod me into getting one.
This action is plugged into every section of Cen­tral. My console panels flash with a thousand
simultaneous plug-ins. Everybody's interested in this one.

My eyes stayed on
the monitor. The old man turned away from the monitor and looked back over his shoulder, as if
looking for someone, as if someone were following him.

"It's raining,"
said the old man. He turned around and looked straight into the monitor again.

I went to split
screen, turned the console camera on me, and put my picture in the bottom half of his screen.
Standard interro­gation procedure.

"This is womb cop
Davis. You are in violation of . . ." He nodded once, rain pouring from the battered brim of his
hat. "I know who you are."

"Please identify
yourself." He could see me in his monitor, could see my hands resting lightly on the trigger
grips of my
pocket lasers. That threat
gives me a psychological edge when questioning suspects. Seeing the burn-down triggers makes the
threat more real to them.

No fear reaction in
close-up video scan of his face. But there was something so strange about this old man that I
found my own face tightening a little. I found my hands sweating on the trigger grips.

"Have you seen a
man on this street? Did a man pass through here tonight?" asked the old man.

Stunned, I
automatically shook my head no.

"Was you here last
night? Did you see a man come through here last night? Did you see a man here after
curfew?"

"Hartmann here,"
audio cut in. "Play along with him. Keep him talking. We've punched in voice prints, visual
factors. We're running everything through the mill again. We have to have a computer error
somewhere, possibly a circuit breakdown."

"I was on duty last
night. I saw several men but none after cur­few. We had a woman after curfew but no men," I
answered, beeping in an affirmative to Commander Hartmann's call.

The old man's eyes
burned in my monitor. The old man may have looked like a corpse but there was something fierce
and wild about his eyes. They seemed to look right through me.

"Who are you
looking for? Perhaps I can check with Central and locate him for you?"

He shook his
head.

"I could send out a
mobile unit to locate him for you."

"I'll find him
first. I don't need you to find him. I'll find him first and then . . ." He let the sentence
trail off.

"Does this friend
of yours have a name?" I asked, trying an in­direct tack. If we could pin down an associate,
maybe we could trace back to him.

"He's no friend of
mine!" snarled the old man, an edge of vio­lence in his voice. "I've got a
message
for
him."

There was an
unspoken threat in his manner, in the way he em­phasized the word "message."

"Perhaps we could
help you deliver the message," I volun­teered.

"No! Not yet. The
only message I got for him is under my coat."

He tapped one of
the bulky pockets of his overcoat.

I punched into the
mobile unit, X-rayed him, scanned him with a metal detector. The unmistakable outline of a knife
came from the pocket he had tapped with his unmanacled hand.

I debated immediate
confiscation but tabled it. As long as he was talking, and since he was manacled to the mobile
unit and couldn't go anywhere, there was no sense in taking any overt ac­tion that might make him
stop communicating. Nothing forced here, just playing along, hoping he would give out some useful
in­formation.

Central punched in
again: "Hartmann here. There is no, repeat, NO record of this man anywhere!" There was a note of
panic in his voice. I could tell he was shook up and I didn't blame him. A contradiction like
this could disrupt our entire society.

I wiped my hands
against the armrests of my womb couch. I was sweating like a bandit caught on a monitor! At
least, this night wasn't boring anymore, I'll say that much. It was turning out to be one hell of
a strange night.

The old man looked
back over his shoulder again. He seemed to be waiting for someone.

I piped into
Central with a query: "No possibility of pro­grammer error?"

Hartmann punched
right back: "None! We've checked and double-checked! We've got a file on every living human
being! We've got everyone but him!" In the background of Hartmann's signal, I heard the sound of
voices in heated argument.

"Who are you?
Please identify yourself," I asked again, at Hartmann's insistent urging.

To my surprise, he
told me.

"My name's Farris.
Jonathan Farris." Again the old man looked back the way he had come and shivered in the rain. He
was cold and wet and miserable. If there hadn't been something so wrong with him, so evil, I
guess is the word I'm looking for, maybe I would have felt a little bit of pity for the old man.
But there was something very much wrong with this old man, some­thing terrible and grim which
stopped any pity I might have felt toward him. Besides, I'm a womb cop. I don't have much pity
for anything or anybody.

"Shall I bring him
in?" I queried Central.

Before I got an
answer the old man spoke again.

"Bantam is his
name. Michael Bantam is the one I'm looking for. He's behind me, I'm sure. I might have passed
him in the rain but he'll be along."

"Checking on
Bantam," clacked my computer linkup.

"I've got to meet
him. You've got to let me go," said the old man, shaking his manacled hand. "I'll be late and I
mustn't be late." A shadow of worry moved across his haggard face.

"But..." I started
to say through the mobile speakers.

"Release him
immediately!" Hartmann's terse command snapped across the relays. "Have him followed! We want a
record of everyone he meets, file tapes on everything he does or says!"

My hand jumped off
the console board, curling into a fist with shock. I was stunned by the command, contrary to
everything I had ever been taught. I've never let a violator go free! Not once in ten years! Not
once!

"Damn it, Davis!
That's a direct order! Snap to it!"

I shook myself into
action, punched in the release command. I had a sick sensation in the pit of my stomach as my
fingers tapped in the order. This was contrary to everything I stood for, everything I believed
in.

The manacle
automatically came unsnapped. The old man nod­ded his head and backed away from the mobile unit,
massaging his free wrist.

"At least, let me
confiscate the illegal concealed weapon?" I asked Central. "My God, I can't let. . ."

"Denied." Central's
reply was immediate.

"You're free to
go," I heard myself say. My hands shook on the console and I fought with myself to keep from
automatically reaching for the laser triggers. My mind was crying for a burn-down. My trigger
fingers twitched instinctively.

"I've got to get
going. He'll be coming along and I've got to find him," said the old man, touching his overcoat
pocket. "If you see him, you tell him that Jonathan Farris is going to get him. I'll see him
killed for what he did to me."