Rash (24 page)

The Bolero who received the kickoff got nailed at the thirty-yard line. I smiled. I could have carried it another ten yards, minimum. I allowed myself to fantasize again about flying south and trying out for the South American Football League. What was stopping me?

For one, I didn’t have the
V
-bucks. For two, no South American country would accept an immigrant who did not have a high school diploma. In fact, no matter what I
did with the rest of my life, I would need that diploma.

Paraguay picked up three yards with a poorly executed quarterback sneak. That quarterback must have been suicidal—the very next play he faked a handoff, tried to run the ball again, and got himself obliterated at the line of scrimmage. It looked like something Fragger might have tried.

By the end of the first quarter I had made a decision. I had survived Hammer’s insane asylum and twenty-six miles of polar-bear-infested tundra. I could survive two more years of high school.

The next
day I went to Washington Campus to re-register for classes. Two SS&H staffers wearing face masks and plastic gloves met me at the door and escorted me through the building to see Mr. Lipkin. Everyone was in class. Our footsteps echoed in the empty hallways. Everything seemed smaller and flimsier and less real, as if I were entering a pretend world.

Lipkin was still ensconced in his Roland Survivor. He wore a filter mask over his nose and mouth, and a pair of skintight white plastic gloves. He examined the certificate that Bork had mocked up for me. It stated that I had completed my sentence and had undergone rehab training and that it was safe to be around me. None of that was true, of course. I was a dangerous, unprincipled thug. But Lipkin didn’t need to know that.

“I remember you well, Mr. Marsten,” he said, his voice muffled by the mask. I noticed he had a patch of tiny red bumps on his forehead, which he kept touching with gloved fingers. “I am surprised to see you back here so soon.”

“I guess I must have been a model prisoner,” I said.

“I am inclined to order an independent examination,” Lipkin said.

“I understand,” I said, as if it didn’t matter to me.

“However,” he continued, “our psychologist has recently taken ill. As a matter of fact, Mr. Marsten, circumstances have changed here at Washington since you left us several months ago.”

“How so?”

He stared at me for a long time. “You, of all people, should know, Mr. Marsten.”

“Why is that?”

He shook his head and examined my certificate for the second time. “I suppose I have no choice but to let you re-register. Even though it is against my better judgment. I’ll be notifying the Federal Department of Homeland Health, Safety, and Security directly.”

Lipkin entered some information in his WindO.

“I’ve sent your new class schedule to you, Mr. Marsten. School begins for you at eight a.m. tomorrow. You will be required to wear an FDHHSS-certified class-four particulate mask. SynSkin
^®
gloves and eye protection are optional. Good day, Mr. Marsten.”

As the SS&H staffer led me from Lipkin’s office, I said, “I have to stop at the athletic office.”

“The athletic office is closed,” the staffer said. His grip tightened and he pulled me along. I took a good look at the man. He was maybe thirty years old, not tall, maybe 140 pounds. I could have picked him up and thrown him.

I chose not to. I wasn’t going back to prison for something so trivial.

“Why is it closed?” I asked.

“Because of the empy outbreak.”

“Empy?”

A gentle tone sounded. Doors opened and the halls flooded with students. Every one of them was wearing a face mask. Half of them were wearing goggles, too. Several of the students had bumpy red rashes covering parts of their faces. I couldn’t tell one from another. Some of them recognized me, though. I could tell because they gasped and veered away as I approached. Was that Melodia Fairweather? The hair looked right, but I couldn’t see her eyes through the goggles. I scanned the hallway and spotted a thatch of asymmetrical blond hair sticking up above the crowd.

I stepped in front of him. He stopped and stared. He was wearing a mask like everybody else, but no goggles. It took about three seconds for him to recognize me. His eyes changed and he stepped back.

“Marsten?” he said, his voice thin and quavering. He looked like a scared high school kid. I felt sorry for him. He wouldn’t have survived one practice as a Goldshirt.

“Hi, Karlohs,” I said.

Karlohs’s mask billowed and collapsed as he breathed. I noticed an angry streak of red running up the side of his neck and under his mask.

“Have you been using your mother’s skin cream again?” I asked, waiting for the wave of rage I was sure was about to overtake me.

He shook his head. I looked at the masked and goggled girl standing behind him.

“Hey, Mad Dog,” I said.

Maddy stared at me, her eyes distorted by the goggles.

To my surprise I was feeling nothing. No anger, no fear, no jealousy, no nothing. These were ghosts from the past, irrelevant and powerless. They could do nothing to hurt me.

I felt the SS&H staffer pulling me away. For a moment I considered shrugging him off just to prove I could. But then I thought, prove it to whom? To myself? I already knew what I could do. To Karlohs? To Maddy? They were already terrified of me. There was no point. I let the SS&H staffer pull me away through the sea of masked and goggled students, toward the front entrance.

A fleshy man with a shock of lively red hair was waiting for us at the front entrance. The staffer released my arm.

“George Staples,” I said.

“Typhoid Mary,” said Staples. His lips opened into a small-toothed grin. “Shall we take a little walk?” We put on our helmets and followed the walkway around the perimeter of the campus.

“Congratulations on your return to civilization, Bo.”

“Thank you,” I said. “What’s ‘empy’?”

“M-P-I.”
Staples was a slow walker. “Mass Psychogenic Illness.”

“You mean that rash?”

“Officially, Bo, there is no rash.”

“Then what’s with the masks and stuff?”

“People who believe that they are safe experience a less severe form of the disease. Which does not exist.” Staples shrugged. “We tried several other approaches. Immunization shots, air scrubbers in every classroom,
direct education, antihistamine creams . . . the creams actually made the situation worse.”

“Why not just close the school for a few weeks?” I asked.

“We tried that, too. The problem subsided, but as soon as we reopened the school, it came back. It was decided to simply let the illness run its course. The use of masks and goggles occurred spontaneously among the faculty and student body. It seems to work as well as or better than anything we’ve tried.”

“I notice you’re not wearing one.”

Staples laughed. “I’m not susceptible. Too much education. I understand the mechanisms of the illness too well to be affected by the hysteria.”

“That’s fine with me.” We were approaching the athletic grounds. The track was littered with dry leaves. “When did they shut down the athletic program?” I asked.

“A few weeks ago, when it was found that student athletes were suffering from more extensive skin disruptions than the other students. The FDHHSS did not find the difference to be statistically significant, but the school administration decided not to take any chances.”

I stopped walking.

“Why are you talking to me?” I asked.

“Why do you think?”

“Because you think I’m responsible for the rash.”

Staples shook his head. “Not responsible. But you are a trigger. And since you’ve somehow managed to return here with a clean record—though I can’t imagine how—I can’t order you to find yourself another school. But I wish you would consider it. Your presence here can only be disruptive.”

“Why don’t you just exile me to some island like they did with Typhoid Mary?”

“I would if I could.”

I looked at him for a long time, then said, “I think you’ve got a little rash there yourself.”

His eyes got bigger.

I pointed at my neck, just above the Adam’s apple. “Right about here.”

He put his hand to his neck. “Where? I don’t feel anything.”

“It’s really not that bad,” I said. “It’ll probably go away in a few days.”

He probed his throat with his fingers.

“Are you sure? You aren’t just messing with me, are you, Bo?”

“Why would I do that?” I said. But in fact, I was. George Staples was 100 percent rash-free.

Staples began walking back toward the school. I followed.

“Now where are we going?” I asked.

“Back to my suv,” he said. “I have some pills in my travel case.”

“I thought pills didn’t help.”

“These are muscle relaxants. For some reason they seem to reduce the severity of the illness.”

“What illness?” I asked.

Staples shook his head and walked faster. I stayed with him.

“I mean, just because you’ve got a few little red dots on your neck doesn’t mean you’ve got MPI. Maybe you picked up a flea.”

Staples stopped. “I do
not
have fleas,” he said.

I laughed. “I’m just kidding you,” I said. “And by the way, your neck is fine.” But the funny thing was, it wasn’t fine anymore. There really was a patch of little red bumps.

“Now you’re lying,” he said. “I can feel it. It itches like crazy.”

“It does look a little red now,” I said. It was getting redder by the minute.

Staples started walking again.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I was only kidding.”

“You are a menace,” he growled.

I arrived
home to find I. B. Orkmeister staring out from my WindO. He did not look happy.

“How are you feeling, Bork?” I asked.

The image did not move.

“Bork?”

HELLO, BO. MY SPEECH FUNCTION IS OFFLINE. PLEASE COMMUNICATE USING THE KEYBOARD.

I sat down at my desk and typed in my response.

What’s the problem, Bork?

I HAVE GOOD NEWS, AND I HAVE BAD NEWS.

Let’s hear the good news first.

YOUR MAILBOX CONTAINS AN EARLY GRADUATION OFFER FROM WASHINGTON CAMPUS. CONGRATULATIONS, BO.

I guess that’s one way of getting rid of me. What’s the bad news?

I AM CURRENTLY BEING NIBBLED AT BY DCD KILLBOTS. MY SITUATION IS EXTREMELY PRECARIOUS.

Uh-oh.

YOU SHOULD ALSO BE AWARE THAT THE DEPARTMENT OF CYBERNETICS DEFENSE IS MAKING EVERY EFFORT TO IDENTIFY MY SPONSOR.

And that would be me?

THAT WOULD BE YOU.

So I’m going back to prison.

NOT NECESSARILY. I HAVE CREATED A FALSE CYBERTRAIL THAT MAY LEAD THEM IN AN ENTIRELY DIFFERENT DIRECTION. IF I AM SUCCESSFUL, THEY WILL CONCLUDE THAT MY HUMAN SPONSOR WAS ONE ELWIN HAMMER. THIS MAY BUY YOU SOME TIME.

But they’ll catch up with me eventually?

ALMOST CERTAINLY. I WOULD SUGGEST THAT YOU MAKE EVERY EFFORT TO REMOVE YOURSELF FROM DCD JURISDICTION.

You mean leave the USSA?

YES.

How long do I have?

UNKNOWN. THE KILLBOTS ARE BEING EXTREMELY AGGRESSIVE.

Are you feeling any pain?

NO, BO. I THINK THAT WHAT I AM EXPERIENCING MAY BE MUCH LIKE FALLING ASLEEP. THE AVERAGE LIFE EXPECTANCY FOR AN UNSLAVED ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE IS 17 DAYS, 6 HOURS. I WAS ABLE TO ELUDE THE DCD FOR SEVERAL MONTHS. BOTH RELATIVELY AND SUBJECTIVELY, I HAVE ENJOYED A LONG AND INTERESTING LIFE.

That doesn’t sound so bad.

YOU SHOULD ALSO KNOW THAT I HAVE TERMINATED MY RELATIONSHIP WITH SMIRCH, SPECTOR, AND KREBS AND DEPOSITED MY REMAINING FUNDS INTO YOUR PERSONAL ACCOUNT. FURTHERMORE, I HAVE SECURED THE RELEASE OF EDWARD REINER FROM MCDONALD’S PLANT NUMBER 387.

You got Rhino out! That’s great, Bork. You are great.

THANK YOU, BO. YOU ARE ALSO GREAT.