Demolition Man Page 10

  Suddenly, Lenina Huxley was at his side. "Such reckless abandonment!" she said, her eyes glowing in admiration. "Looks like there's a new shepherd in town."

  "Sheriff," said Spartan, watching the last of the Scraps escape. "That's sheriff."

  "You were magnificent, John Spartan!" she cried.

  "Who were those guys?"

  "We call them Scraps," said Cocteau. He was striding toward Spartan, and it was plain that he was not happy. Associate Bob scuttled along at his side. "They are voluntary outcasts. They cower beneath us in sewers, in abandoned tunnels-creatures of the darkness."

  Associate Bob took his cue from his boss. "They're nothing but thugs and hooligans," he said vehemently. "A society of thieves."

  "Thieves?" said Spartan. "I thought there weren't any thieves here in paradise."

  "They are the last criminal element in the entire megacity," said Associate Bob. "Plans are in progress to purge this peril once and for all."

  Cocteau nodded appreciatively. His underling had quoted perfectly from the collected speeches of Mayor-Gov Dr. Raymond Cocteau.

  "Peril? They didn't seem so perilous to me," said Spartan. "They just seemed hungry."

  Lenina was still high from watching her hero in action. "That's only because you are used to much greater dangers, John Spartan. You were even better live than on laser disc. Oh, and the joy-joy way you paused to make glib witticisms before doing battle with the strangely weaponed Scrap. It was so ... so . . .

  Spartan shook his head. "Hey," he said, angrily. "This isn't the wild west. The wild west wasn't even the wild west. Hurting people is not my idea of a good time."

  "It isn't?" asked Lenina. All of her research had caused her to believe that John Spartan was a violence professional who genuinely enjoyed his work. How could she have been so wrong about him?

  "Well..." admitted John Spartan. "Sometimes it is. It all depends on who it is. Simon Phoenix is fair game. But when it's a bunch of guys who are hungry . . . That's wrong. Dead wrong." He shook bis head sadly. "You know, I think I liked it better when we were all supposed to fry in a nuclear holocaust. It was . . . fairer."

  Spartan shot an angry glance at Cocteau, then walked away. Lenina Huxley gasped and swallowed. She could not believe that anyone would dare to talk to the Mayor-Gov in such a disrespectful manner. She looked to Dr. Cocteau who was glowering at Spartan as he strode away.

  Lenina chased after him, determined to stop him from making another terrible mistake.

  It took her a while to calm Spartan enough to coax him into her car. She drove him through the darkened city, glancing worriedly at him as he sat in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead.

  Finally, he took a deep breath and did his best to quell his anger.

  "Look," he said softly. "I'm sorry I lost my temper, back there-"

  Lenina shook off his apology. "No need to make a dehurtful retraction. I've assimilated too much contraband, and I made a mistake about you."

  "You did?"

  Lenina nodded. "I fleshed you as some 'blow up the bad guys with a happy grin he man' type, but I realize now that you're the 'moody troubled past gunslinger who only draws when he must' type."

  Spartan sighed heavily, shaking his head wearily. She just didn't get it. "Huxley. Stop. I'm not any of those things. I just did my job and..." he shrugged. "Things got demolished. It just happened that way."

  Lenina just stared at the enigma seated next to her. Then she picked up a small-flat box and handed it to him.

  "Hey, here's a subject change. Here's what you asked for." She passed it to him. "Why do you need this?"

  Spartan pocketed it. "Thanks. It's just a hunch."

  "You don't want to tell me about it?"

  Spartan shook his head. "Too soon."

  Leninaguided the car on to the off ramp of the freeway, and the car whirred up to the forecourt of a huge, gleaming silver geometric building.

  Spartan gazed up at the huge tower. It seemed to reach into the clouds. "This is where you live?"

  "You live here, too," said Lenina with a smile. "I have procured you a domicile just down the corridor from my own."

  The elevator shot them up to the high floors, as if it had been fired from a field piece, then Lenina led him down a long corridor to her apartment.

  "Everything is voice coded," she explained, walking into the dark apartment. "So if you need something . . .just ask. Lights!"

  The lights came up immediately. In a day filled with surprises, it may have been Lenina's apartment that surprised him most. There was little of 2032 here-she had tried to re-create the ambiance of a 1990s apartment. However, like someone who has learned everything from books without experiencing the real thing, she had just missed getting it right.

  There was a shag rug on the floor, and all the furniture was upholstered in a riot of crushed red velour. Posters of monster trucks covered the walls, and odd nickknacks were scattered on the tables and bookshelves. If Huxley had hoped to decorate her apartment like that of a 1990s sophisticate, she was way off; the effect was more preteen meets smalltime drug dealer.

  Of course Spartan was far too polite to say anything that might hurt her feelings.

  "What do you think?" she asked proudly. "I clicked off a lot of credits to create the perfect twentieth-century apartment. Nice, huh?"

  "It's very . . ."He wasn't sure just what, but it certainly was very. He nodded, hoping he was implying approval.

  "Isn't it?" she said with a smile.

  "Absolutely!"

  She seemed to glow with pleasure. Then she looked down at the floor. "John Spartan," she said. "There is, of course, a well-known and documented connection between sex and violence."

  "There is?"

  Lenina shrugged. "Well... not so much a causal effect, but a state of general neurological arousal."

  Spartan stared, wondering just what the hell she was getting at now.

  "After observing your behavior at the Taco Bell and by analyzing my resultant condition, I was wondering if you would like to have sex."

  She was looking right at him now, a slightly lascivious cast to her lips.

  There would never be an end to the weirdness of this day, he thought. "Sex?"

  LeninaHuxley nodded. "That's right."

  "With you?"

  Lenina nodded. "Affirmative."

  "Now?"

  Lenina laughed. "Of course! Why should we delay? Seize the moment!"

  This was one piece of the twenty-first century that Spartan liked. No more fussing around with dinners and flowers-get straight to the point. It had been a long time since John Spartan had had sex, and he could definitely use some action right now. But his upbringing and basic instincts told him not to appear all that eager.

  "Ahhh . . . ahhh . . . mmmmm . . . yeah," he said with a shy grin, "I'd love to have sex."

  "Great!" said Huxley perkily. She turned quickly and pulled two strange silver-toned helmets and a fluffy white towel from a cabinet in a corner of the living room. Rapidly, she slipped the helmet over Spartan's head and buckled it on tight. She flicked a switch on the side of the helmet and the device hummed quietly and a red light blinked for a few moments before shifting to green.

  Lenina Huxley settled on the sofa, slipped into her helmet, and turned it on. She placed the towel between them. A slightly dreamy look crossed her pretty face.

  "Now you have to relax," she said softly. "We'll start in a few seconds."

  "Start what?"

  "Having sex, of course. Just wait."

  Suddenly, the helmet's power kicked in, and Lenina appeared before Spartan's eyes, floating a few inches off the ground. Her image was wearing a diaphanous gown, the filmy material blowing gently around her slim body.

  She wafted toward Spartan, slowly peeling off pieces of her dress, which seemed to dissolve into thin air, vanishing in a matter of seconds. She unwound the upper part of her gown, revealing her firm, full breasts ...

  Spartan stared in openmouthed a
mazement-and enjoyment-until he realized what was going on. He pulled off his helmet and threw it aside, confusion and anxiety on his face.

  The erotic, provocative image vanished, and he saw that Lenina was still sitting on the couch, fully clothed.

  "What's wrong?" she asked. "You broke contact."

  "Contact?" said Spartan. "I haven't even touched you yet!"

  Lenina removed her helmet. Now it was her turn to look confused and hurt. "Touch?"

  Spartan was completely flummoxed now. "Right."

  "But I thought you wanted to make love."

  "Is that what you call this?" Spartan waved the sensory helmet in her face.

  Lenina was flustered now. She jumped to her feet, red in the face with anger and rejection. "Vir sex has been proven to produce higher orders of alpha waves during digitized transference of sexual energies!"

  "Well, that's just great," said Spartan, laughing. "But what do you say we just do it the old-fashioned way?"

  She stared at him, backing away in shock and disgust. Lenina couldn't believe he had even suggested such a thing.

  "Ugh!" she said, sickened at the very idea. "Are you suggesting ..." She could hardly bring herself to say the words. "Fluid transfer?" she said with a shudder.

  Spartan grinned. "I mean boning, doing the wild mambo, you know"-he pumped his hips like a bad Elvis impersonator-"the hunka chunka."

  "That is no longer done!" Lenina gasped. "It is out of the question!"

  Spartan looked at her as if she had finally, ultimately, lost her mind. "No longer done? How is that possible?"

  "Exchange bodily fluids? Do you know what that leads to?"

  Spartan grinned. "Yeah. Sure. It leads to having kids, smoking, a desire to raid the fridge ..."

  Lenina refused to be amused. "The rampant exchange of bodily fluids was one of the major reasons for the downfall of your society." She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. "After AIDS there was NRS. After NRS there was UBT."

  "There was?" said Spartan, nonplussed. "Hey. I've been asleep for thirty years. I'm clean."

  Lenina shook her head vigorously. "That doesn't matter. One of the first things Dr. Cocteau was able to do was outlaw and behaviorally engineer all fluid transfer out of socially acceptable behavior. Not even mouth transfer is condoned."

  Now Spartan was really taken aback. "There's no kissing anymore? I was a good kisser. Great, just great. Dr. Cocteau finds the one peaceful thing I'm good at-and he outlaws it. That guy is no fun."

  Lenina was still repulsed at the idea of what he had wanted to do to her. "Yuk," she said.

  "What about kids?" asked Spartan. "Where do all the little Leninas and Alfredos come from?"

  "You mean procreation?" said Lenina. "We go to the lab. Fluids are purified, screened, and transferred by authorized medical personnel only. It's the only legal way."

  Spartan grinned and reached for her.

  "What are you doing?" she said, pulling away.

  "Breaking the law."

  Huxley was outraged and she jumped to her feet. "You are a savage creature! John Spartan, I wish you to leave my domicile now!"

  She pointed toward the door and stamped her foot. "Out!"

  "But... I was only trying to-"

  "I don't care! Please leave immediately! Go to domicile 2261-C!"

  Spartan just shook his head and walked out the door. "Some things just never change," he said.

  The door slammed behind him.

  Spartan hunted around the vast building for some time before he found his apartment. Because there was no crime in the future, there were no locks on the door of his apartment. He groped his way into the living room and stood in the dark.

  "Ahh . . . Lights!" he said, feeling really stupid to be talking to no one. He would have felt better if there had been a light switch-even a clapper- because what so hard about replacing a light switch. Turning on lights had never been a hassle in the past. This was just change for change's sake.

  Spartan's new home had all the charm of the interior of an abandoned refrigerator. It was the same size and shape as Lenina Huxley's, but even her misguided attempts at interior decorating had made the place warm. The huge vid screen dominated the room, the slate gray of the monitor as blank as a blind eye.

  This apartment was sterile, devoid of any human touches-except for the cryo-package of his personal effects delivered from the prison and a ball of bright red yarn and a pair long knitting needles.

  Spartan's hands started to quiver when he got near the ball of wool, as if he was drawn to the stuff. He stared at his own hands, amazed at this involuntary reaction. He tore himself away from the yarn and threw himself into a spectacularly, uncomfortably futuristic chair and gazed into space.

  A moment later, when Spartan looked down, he found the needles in his hands and he was unconsciously knitting with consummate skill. His fingers froze as he gaped in perplexed surprise. He didn't know how to knit!

  Suddenly, the vid screen burst into life and a completely naked woman appeared on the screen. She was busily flossing her teeth and staring at her own image in the mirror.

  "Hi, Martin," she said. "I was thinking ..." She glanced in her mirror and saw Spartan staring at her in astonishment. "Oh, my God! I'm sorry, wrong number!" The woman reached for a switch off screen and suddenly her image vanished.

  Up to that moment Spartan had not realized that the screen was a telephone. He thought a moment, then called out to the telescreen. "Uh, telephone directory . . . please."

  Instantly, the machine responded. "Videophone directory accessed." The voice was male and cold, all business and computerized efficiency.

  Spartan almost backed out, unnerved by the machine, but finally he summoned up his courage and spoke. "Do you have a number for Katie . . ."he began, then corrected himself. "Uh, I guess that's Katherine now. Last name, Spartan. Or maybe under her mom's name . . . Warren, or . . ." Then the terrible thought hit him. "Her mom may have remarried. But she's passed away now . . ." Suddenly, Spartan realized that he was rambling, pouring out his heart to a machine. He stopped talking, flustered that he had embarrassed himself in front of a machine.

  The videoscreen had searched its vast brain and responded quickly. "There is no reference for Katie Spartan. There is no reference for Katherine Spartan. No current reference for Katherine Warren."

  "No current reference?" Spartan queried. "Was there one?"

  "Listed offspring under Madeline Warren through 2010. Listed different number domicile until 2028."

  Spartan leaned forward in the uncomfortable chair. "What happened then?"

  "No reference," said the computer. It seemed to Spartan that the machine had suddenly gone all tight-lipped, like a poker player guarding his cards.

  "Did she die?" Spartan asked, dreading the answer.

  "No death certificate issued. No reference."

  "Good thing she didn't die without permission," said Spartan acidly. "Did she move?"

  "No relocation license granted," replied the computer. "No reference."

  Spartan was getting annoyed at this machine that was so sparing with the details of his daughter's life. "Reason for no reference?"

  But the vid screen brain had gone as far as it intended. "What number do you wish to call?"

  "Why don't you give Elvis a call?" said Spartan sourly.

  The telescreen was programmed not to accept abusive, threatening, or crank calls.

  "Be well," it said and hung up on him.

  "I'll bet you don't mean that," said Spartan.

  He stood and paced the room for a moment, wondering what to do next. More than anything, he wanted to find his daughter, but that would have to wait until he knew the lay of the land a little better.

  That left the mystery-what had happened to Simon Phoenix. That he could do something about.

  He remembered the small box Lenina Huxley had given him. He pulled it out of his pocket and opened it. Inside was a stack of wafer-thin laser minidiscs retrieved from
the security cameras at the San Angeles Museum of Art and History.

  Spartan slid the first one into the tray of the laserdisc reader in the base of the vid screen. It was a crystal clear picture of the explosion of the Hall of Violence, taken at the moment that smoke and debris went shooting through the roof. It was a high-quality picture-but it told him nothing.

  The next slide was more revealing. This time surveillance had picked up a shot of Dr. Cocteau and Associate Bob walking through the courtyard of the museum.

  Spartan loaded the third disc into the machine. This was a blurred image, catching Associate Bob in a dead fall, halfway to the slate floor. Cocteau was flinching, and a smudge of smoke blurred the corner of the picture. This must have been a stop-action shot of the single bullet Simon Phoenix had fired at the two men.

  The final image was the most arresting. It showed Cocteau and Simon Phoenix having their face-to-face meeting. Spartan studied the picture closely. The two men appeared to be talking, conferring almost. There was not a hint of menace in Phoenix's eyes, and neither Cocteau nor Associate Bob appeared to fear for their lives. Spartan stared and wondered just what the spookily serene Mayor-Gov and the homicidal maniac could possibly be talking about.

  John Spartan was so lost in thought he didn't even notice that unconsciously he had reached for the wool and was busily knitting, the clicking of the needles the only sound in the room.

  1 5

  For Mayor-Gov Dr. Raymond Cocteau it had been a very bad night-the worst he could remember for a very long time. First, Simon Phoenix had literally burst onto the scene, and he was proving even more difficult than his awesome reputation suggested. The Mayor-Gov had hoped that Phoenix would have been better programmed while he slept.

  Then, to make matters worse, that jackass, Chief Earle, had gone and cryo-paroled the only man in history to subdue Simon Phoenix, John Spartan. For the time being, it seemed that Spartan could be controlled-despite his temper and temperament, John Spartan was a police officer; he understood authority, and Cocteau had a feeling that Spartan could be held in check-for a little while, anyway.