F. Wilson - Dydeetown World

My stomach did a little flipflop.

"I see." Decided this was a good time to change the subject. "By the way, what does 'B.B.' stand for, anyway?"

"Baby Boy."

"Oh."

My throat was suddenly tight and achy.

Just then we had a visit from officialdom: Complex Security came calling. Recognized the uniform and the droopy-lidded face that went with it. Had seen him around the complex over the years.

"You Sigmundo Dreyer?" he asked from the threshhold after the door had been cued open. He was staring at my neck brace.

"Who wants to know?"

"We had a complaint about a foul odor coming from this end of the corridor."

"Really? What kind of odor?"

"Said it smelled like something dead."

A chill raced through my bloodstream. "Well, sniff for yourself. You smell anything?"

He shook his head. "Not a thing."

"Who made the complaint?"

Already knew the answer, but wanted to hear it confirmed.

"Anonymous."

Thought so.

"Consider the source," I said.

He smiled, gave me a little salute, and left.

"We got trouble."

"S'wrong?" B.B. said.

I'd been talking to myself — sometimes I think better out loud. Decided to bounce my thoughts off the urch.

"That wasn't a crank complaint, or a mistake. That was somebody checking up to see why I haven't been reported dead."

"How they know you not?" His face screwed up in concentration. "And how they find out where you live so they can wire door?"

Held up my right thumb. "The cashless society. You'll never have the problem, but every time a Realperson uses his credit, he leaves all sorts of vital statistics behind — name, address, credit record. They've doubtlessly been checking with Central Data to see official confirmation of my death. Naturally, it hasn't appeared. They figure my body's rotting in here so they try to get the complex's security force to do their checking for them. When my name fails to be listed as deceased tomorrow, they'll come by to finish the job."

Didn't know what to do. Still too weak to take the battle to them, but didn't want to go back to the hospital.

B.B. was suddenly very agitated.

"You think they c'mere? Really try again?"

"That's what I'd do. But don't worry," I said with a confidence I didn't feel. "We'll just keep the door sealed tight and wait till I'm fully healed up."

"W'if they blow door?"

Hadn't thought of that.

"That would make a little too much noise, I'd think."

Tried to sound confident, but if they wanted me bad enough, it was an option: Show up dressed in a holosuit, blow the door, strafe the room with blaster fire, and take off.

"N'good, san," B.B. said, up and pacing about. His speech was deteriorating by the minute. "N'good, n'good." He turned and darted for the door.

"Hey! Where're you going?"

"Y'stay, san. I go. Gots go now."

And he was gone.

Thought he'd be back soon but dark came and still no sign of him. Missed two treatments for the first time since coming home from the hospital. Finally it got late and I got sleepy and so I turned in.

Had trouble sleeping. Not much. Just a little. Kept thinking how I'd been smart all along to be alone. Have somebody around all the time and before you know it, you're depending on them. And then what? The first sign of trouble, they run out on you. Should have known better. The whole thing made me mad. Wasn't hurt. Just damn mad.

Thought I heard someone at my door during the night. Worked my way to the transparency control, hoping to see B.B. there but found the corridor empty. Probably my imagination. Besides, B.B. had the key I'd given him. He didn't need to fiddle with the door.

This whole situation was getting me spooked. Decided to sleep in the chair for the rest of the night. Left the door transparent. Usually the light from the corridor bothered me when I was trying to sleep, but tonight it was comforting.

Awoke later to the sound of the door sliding open. The pale-faced, fat-nosed fellow who had mollied my neck was standing in the hall behind the redheaded tech. His eyes were wide as he looked me up and down.

"You're really alive! It's dregging impossible!"

Felt like a half-crushed roach pinned in a flashlight beam. But all I could see was the little stub of plastic in the redhead's hand. My mouth was dry as I spoke.

"My key…?"

He smiled. "Your little friend sold it to us for a meal credit."

My fear was suddenly washed away in a gush of abysmal sadness. B.B. had sold me out for another soysteak dinner. As the pale-faced guy nudged the redhead into the room, I found I didn't really care all that much about dying. Too tired, too weak, too many troubles, too much disappointment. Sick of everything. Almost welcomed her.

As she moved toward me, her eyes suddenly bulged in alarm. She started to turn around, and as she did I saw fine crimson lines appear across her throat, across the white of the uniform overlying her breasts, abdomen, and legs. She began to fall, and as she went down she came apart like an overbalanced stack of boxes. The crimson lines quickly bloomed to blotches which became geysers and torrents of red as her head toppled to the left, her lower arms dropped straight down, and the other pieces tumbled to the right. In a matter of seconds the ceiling, the walls, the pale faced guy, and I were all dripping warm red sticky fluid. But most of the red was pooled around the still twitching horror just inside the doorway.

Wiped my eyes and looked up. Saw the guy staring dully at his former associate. Swallowed back my stomach contents and tried to think of a way out of this. An idea of what had happened here was forming in my brain and suddenly I was very anxious to stay alive.

Figuring it was now or never, I started my chair toward the drawer where I kept a small popper. The movement must have shaken Paleface out of his shocked stupor. Suddenly he was reaching into his jump and pulling out a mean-looking blaster. As he raised it, I heard a shrill cry from down the hall. He turned, I looked.

B.B. was in full charge toward Paleface. The kid caught him off balance half way through his turn. He fell backward, his arms whirling like flywheels. Did him no good. He stumbled through the wired doorway and went to pieces. More pumping, twitching sections of body bounced and rolled along my compartment floor.

Looked away in time to see B.B. skid to a halt at the threshhold, then to my horror, saw him slip on a splatter of blood and lose his balance. One hand grabbed onto the jamb while the other flailed — and crossed the plane of the door.

Saw his hand fly off, saw him drop to his knees and stare stupidly at the geysering stump of his wrist.

Without even thinking I had the chair in motion toward the door but it caught up on the bloody meat all over my floor.

"Grab it!" I shouted. "Squeeze it off!" But he didn't seem to hear.

Stumbled out of the chair and up onto my feet. My legs gave out after two steps so I crawled on hands and knees through the gore, praying that my brace would hold my head on and that I'd healed up enough inside so that nothing would slip around. Shouted encouragement all the while, but he just sat there and stared at the stump.

Reached the threshhold and stretched my arm through, holding my breath and hoping I was between the wires. When none of my fingers fell off, I grabbed his forearm just above the amputation site and squeezed, working my fingers and thumb into the scant flesh, trying different spots until the blood stopped pumping out, then held onto that spot with every ounce of strength.

He looked at me and blinked. His face was death white and his eyes seemed to have retreated into his skull. "Got'm, yeh. Won't hurt y'no mo, san."

Then he slumped to the floor in a heap.