Dydeetown World

  "That the last?"

  Doc nodded. "I believe so."

  Doc had popped a dose of Dyamine through my scalp a little while ago, then had begun working from the middle outward toward both ends of the memory chain he wanted to block. The procedure was tricky but Doc was an expert at it. Illegal as all hell, too. Which was partly why Doc's license to practice was presently on a three-year suspension.

  "Try me."

  "Do know Jean Harlow-c?"

  "Sure."

  "Did she ever show you her greencard?"

  "Yes."

  "Did she tell you where she got it?"

  "From Kel Barkham, who she called Kyle Bodine."

  "Did she ever give it to you?"

  "Yes. To help find Barkham."

  "Did you alter the card in any way while you had it?"

  Something zipped through my brain. Tried to catch it but it was moving too fast. Gone in a blur before I could latch onto it.

  "Course not."

  "And you returned it to her unchanged?"

  "Right."

  "Think, now. Are you absolutely sure?"

  Nothing churned in the background this time. The card had been in my possession for a while but that was it.

  "Absolutely."

  Doc smiled. "Excellent! The other memories are completely blocked."

  "What other memories?"

  He laughed and so did Elmero, who'd been watching the whole thing from behind his desk.

  "The effect should last about a month," Doc said as he removed the stim unit from my head. "After that, the Dyamine will begin to break down and free up those memories."

  Really weird. Had no idea what memories he was talking about.

  "And the real beauty part of this," he went on, "is that since Dyamine is a partial analog of acetylcholine, you can't form any new memories during the procedure or for an hour or so after. So you won't even know you had this done."

  "Just make sure you've got a mouth along when they Truth you," Elmero said.

  "No fear."

  Crazy to go through a Truth session without some legal type there to limit the scope of the questions and keep the interrogators from going off on a deep-space mining expedition through your private life.

  "Turn on the datastream, will you, Elm?" Doc said as he packed up his equipment. "I want to see if there's an update on the doings down at the Pyramid."

  Thought of Jean. "What's going on?"

  "Something about a bunch of kids clogging all the lower levels in the place. Just caught the end of the blurb as I came through the bar before."

  "Kids?" Remembered all the urchins I'd seen as I was leaving the building earlier. "Urchins?"

  "I didn't hear."

  The datastream filled the big holochamber in the corner of Elmero's office. Newsface Two, a baldy, recited the usual boring dregs about politics, traffic, entertainment, sports, reminders that this was a skip day for the four a.m. rain, news from the other megalops around the world, all interspersed with lots and lots of visuals.

  "Must've cleared up," I said. "She never mentioned M.A. Central."

  "It was graffiti," Doc said.

  Just then the holo warped and suddenly we were looking at a very bizarre-looking Newsface — this guy had leaping flames where his hair should have been, and spiraling pinwheels for eyes. Central Data's policy was to keep its computer generated Newsfaces attractive but ordinary looking, and to rotate them frequently — in case the public got too attached to one of the nonexistent things. But we all developed favorites. Newsface Four was mine. This roguey guy was a sure sign that we were watching a graffiti capsule someone had slipped into the datastream.

  Flamehead didn't waste any time getting to the meat:

  "They're calling for help down at M.A. Central. Seems the lower levels there have been invaded by a small horde of kids. Or maybe I should say, a horde of small kids."

  A quick cut to a wide angle shot of the groundlevel lobby of the Pyramid. It was filled — "jammed" — with urchins, milling about, moving up and down the arched stairs on the perimeter, playing in the up- and downchutes. The announcer continued in voice-over:

  "For those of you who manage to keep yourselves securely insulated from ground level, these are what are known as urchins. Maybe you've heard them mentioned at a party. You certainly didn't hear of them on the official datastream."

  Noticed the angle of the sum coming in through the Pyramid's apex. This was recent vintage vid.

  Moving right into the crowd of kids now. The graffitist must have had his hidden recorder strapped to his lower chest because we were winding through them at eye level — urchin eye level.

  "Officially, the kids you're watching are not a problem. Their genotypes aren't registered in Central Data, therefore they don't exist. So why should you be concerned with kids who don't exist?

  "Proud of yourselves?"

  All those big deep eyes looking right at you and then shifting away. Sadness in them, a sense of loss, as if they were searching for something or someone who had been taken away from them. The effect was devastating.

  "Nobody knows why they've come or what they want. They're just there, clogging the aisles and stairs. Mostly they're quiet, but every so often they begin to shout —"

  The image warped and suddenly we were back in the official datastream.

  "They sure yanked that one fast, Doc said.

  Right. Usually a graffiti capsule got to run through the stream a couple of times before it was culled. Data Central tended to view the radical journalists as more of an annoyance than a threat — hecklers on the fringe of the Big Show.

  Elmero said, "They're embarrassed by all those kids there," as he stared reflectively into the holochamber.

  "Going down there," I told them.

  "Yeah?" Elmero said. "Be sure to tell me all about it."

  Could figure what was running though his mind: How can I make out on this?

  Elmero's instincts were pretty astute when there was credit to be made. He sensed something big brewing. So did I. And Jean and B.B. were right in the middle of it.

  -10-

  Either M.A. Central had become more crowded with urchins since the datadcast, or the graffito I'd seen hadn't done the crowd a bit of justice. Mobbed. They were everywhere. Could barely move through the crowd. All the kids were babbling to each other, to anyone who would listen. The sounds mixed and mingled into a constant susserant hum, an irritating white noise.

  They'd brought the M.A. Central Pyramid — at least its lower levels — to a standstill.

  Made finding B.B. just about impossible.

  Felt a tug on the sleeve of my jump. Looked down to see a little red-headed urch. A boy, I thought.

  "Sig?" he said, pointing up at my face.

  Picked him up and looked him over. Didn't recognize him.

  "You from the Lost Boys?"

  He nodded proudly. "Lost Boy me."

  "Know where my friend B.B. is?"

  He looked around, then began screeching at the top of his lungs as he pointed at me.

  "B.B.! Siggy! B.B.! Siggy!"

  Was about to tell him that there were scads of urchins named B.B., and that even with his considerable volume, only a small fraction of the crowd was going to hear him, when I noticed that those around us were falling silent and staring at me. The silence grew, spreading out like a ripple in a puddle. It moved up the big arched stairways and across the balconies and arcades on the inner walls.

  Soon the whole floor was quiet except for this one persistent squealy voice.

  And then from fifty meters or so away came an answering cry.

  "Sig! Here me! Ov'here!"

  Looked and saw B.B. jumping up and down, waving his arms to get my attention. As he began moving my way, the noise picked up again, but it wasn't the formless hum from before. Now it was a word: my name.

  "SIGGY! SIGGY! SIGGY! SIGGY!"

  They were all looking at me, raising their hands each time they said my name. Seeme
d to go on forever. B.B. finally broke through and hugged me around the waist.

  "Filamentous, Sig, yeah? Filamentous!"

  Barely heard him over the chant. Pushed him to arm's length and got a good look at his shining eyes.

  "Yeah. Filamentous, all right. But what's going on? What do you kids think you're doing here?"

  "Ge'Wendy back."

  Simple as that. If only they knew.

  "But where'd all these kids come from?""

  "Wendy Mom-to-all."

  "So you've told me. But she couldn't have tucked every one of you into bed."

  "Evbod hear Wendy. Come togeth."

  "Everybody? They're all here?"

  He shook his head. "More come. From all ov."

  More coming? The place couldn't hold them. All the urchingangs in the Megalops were united, probably for the first time in history.

  "Evbod hear Sig, too."

  His smile showed how proud he was to know me. Damn rattlely thing to have a kid look at you like that. Could make you want to run and hide. Or move mountains.

  While I was wondering where I could hide, a hand tapped me on the shoulder. Turned and found myself looking into a datastream reporter's recording plate—mounted on his forehead, leaving both his hands free.

  "Excuse me," he shouted over the noise. "But am I correct in assuming you're this 'Siggy' fellow."

  Didn't know what to say. B.B., however, was at no loss for words. He patted me on the arm as he piped up:

  "Oya, san! Siggy him! Filamentous fren!"

  "I'm Arrel Lum," said the reporter. He had black hair, dark eyes, and a round face. "I'm with Central Data."

  Knew that. Looked for ways to keep his questions away from me until I could duck out. Tried sidetracking him.

  "The datastream's ignoring this. Kind of a waste of time for you to be here, isn't it?"

  "Not at all. Central Data records everything for the record. What's fed into the datastream for public consumption is another matter."

  His frankness was engaging, but something about his diction, the rhythm of his voice. Familiar.

  "You remind me of Newsface Four."

  He smiled. "You've got a good ear. I've been writing his casts and doing his voice for the past five years."

  "He's — you're my favorite Newsface."

  "Why, thank you. But tell me: Who are you, and what's your connection with these kids?"

  So much for sidetracking.

  "Know one of them."

  "What do they want?"

  "You mean you don't know?"

  He shook his head. "Nobody can figure it out."

  Interesting.

  "Embarrassing, isn't it?"

  "Not for me," he said with a grin. "I think it's a bloaty show. Just wish I knew what it was all about."

  Turned to B.B. "Tell him what it's all about, Beeb."

  The urch started shoving his fist into the air and crying, "Wendy! Wendy! Wendy!"

  The other urchins around us picked it up immediately. The Siggy chant had been dying out anyway — thank the Core — so now they substituted two new syllables in the same rhythm.

  "WENDY! WENDY! WENDY!""

  Lum's gaze roved the mob.

  "They've been doing that off and on all day," he shouted above the din.

  "Well," I said, "then you know why they're here."

  "No, I don't. I —" He looked past my shoulder. "Don't look now, but I think you've just become important."

  Turned and saw a squad of yellowjackets — six of them — coming my way. My bladder got a sudden urge to empty itself but I stood my ground and held my water. No place to run.

  Lum stood back and trained his recording plate on the scene as the yellowjackets bullied their way through the kids. The leader led them around me, brushing B.B. aside like a bug. Found myself enclosed in a yellow ellipse.

  "Come with us," he said.

  "What if I don't want to go?"

  He had beady little eyes, close set and mean.

  "The boss says he wants to speak with you. You'll come."

  "Bloaty," I said.

  Lum peered between two of the security men and called to me over the chant.

  "But what do these kids want?"

  "They want their mother," I told him.

  Encased in yellow, I was marched off toward the upchutes, leaving him standing there looking like someone had punched him in the throat.

  -11-

  "Are you behind this, Mr. Dreyer?"

  Regional Administrator Brode was giving me a hard look as he stood over my chair. Natural silver hair, crinkle cut, square jaw, piercing silver eyes, perfectly matched to his hair. Looked almost as good in person as he did in the holochamber. His stare was supposed to carry all the weighty authority of his office, I guessed.

  He needn't have bothered. After all, the C.A. had put him in charge of this Megalops, so he didn't have to do anything special to get me nervous. Passed nervous on the way up here when I learned the R.A. wanted to see me himself. In person. Never knew anyone who'd met him in person.

  Yeah, way past nervous. Slipping over into twitchy now.

  "Behind what, sir?"

  "These urchins all over the place."

  Couldn't resist: "Been told there are no such things as urchins, sir."

  "Don't you dare get —"

  "Don't know a thing about them, Mr. Administrator."

  "But they know you. Why? How?"

  "A long story."

  He let my words hang as he walked in a slow circle around his desk. His office decor was surprisingly lean and spare. Everything cool and functional. The only sign of extravagance was his big ungainly pet dodo bobbing and pecking around the furniture and weaving between his hovering aides.

  "Who's this Wendy they keep chanting for? Central Data says there's no one with that name anywhere in the Pyramid."

  "That's because Wendy's not her real name. She's a prisoner here."

  "Oh, really? And just what is her real name?"

  The sudden light in his eyes told me something: The urchin mob had our dear Regional Administrator worried. Why?

  "What's in it for me?"

  His eyes went hard and cold. Knew right then I'd made a large mistake as he barked to one of his attendants.

  "Get some Truth!"

  "Not asking much!" I blurted.

  He glared at me, as if daring me. "Go on."

  "Just want to be left out of this, that's all. Don't have anything to do with this, don't _want" anything to do with it. Just know a couple of urchins and ran into this Wendy a few years ago. That's it."

  Brode smirked. "Central Data says you know a lot of wrong people, some of them suspected black marketeers."

  "Wouldn't know anything about that, Mr. Administrator," I said. "Private investigations are what I do."

  "So I understand. Very well. I won't hound you or Truth you. I sincerely doubt you would be worth the trouble."

  "Thank you. Her name's Jean Harlow-c. She's a former Dydeetown girl, here as part of a property dispute."

  He was suddenly furious.

  "Well, isn't that just bloaty! M.A. Central is clogged with urchins in search of a renegade clone! This gets more ludicrous every second!" He turned to one of his aides. "Get him out of here! Then fill me in on this clone!"

  No one had to hurry me out the door. Headed straight for the first downchute and jumped. Was coasting fast and alone in the center lane when someone pulled up alongside.

  "I need to talk to you."

  Lum, the Central Data man. Didn't recognize him immediately without his recording rig and wasn't in the mood for talking to anybody.

  "What about?"

  "What you said before...about the kids looking for their mother. What did you mean?"

  "Nothing."

  "Off the record?"

  "Nothing's 'off the record' in this place."

  He smiled thinly. "Don't believe everything you hear. Follow me."

  Thought about this. Why should I trust
a Central Data man, even if he was Newsface Four? Why tell him anything at all?

  "Please," he said. "It's important to me."

  "I'm thinking."

  Had a suspicion about reporter Lum. Wanted to know if I was right.

  "Lead the way," I told him.

  ***

  Lum was furious.

  "You told Brode about her? You dregger!"

  We were on level 48 in what Lum called a "blind alley" — a lounge used by the Central Data reporters and technicians between shifts. They had it fixed so the recording plates in the walls could be jammed when they so desired. Told him an edited but fairly complete history of Jean and her involvement with the urchins and how she wound up a prisoner here, candidate for a memwipe. Then related my friendly little meeting with the Regional Administrator.

  "You've got it wrong, Lum —"

  "Now she's in more trouble than ever!"

  "Don't be a jog! What's more trouble than a memwipe?"

  He cooled quickly. "I guess you're right."

  "Course I'm right. That's why I told him I knew who Wendy was — figured it might buy her some time."

  "It might," he said, brightening. "It might pay Brode to give her back to the urchins!"

  "What do you care?" I said. "You've never even met her."

  "But I want to. More than anything. She's special. I mean, we regularly get data on people and groups wanting to 'do something' about the urchins. They make some noise, they're ignored, and after a while they go away. But this...this..."

  "Clone."

  "Right. This clone gave up the freedom she had on the Outworlds to come back here and be with those kids. Actually be with them, go down in the tunnels and live with them. I've never heard of anybody doing that."

  "So?"

  "So it makes the rest of us Realpeople look like dreggers.""

  "Speak for yourself, Lum. Urchins are out of sight, forgotten. How many times in a year do you think the average Realpeople even thinks about urchins? Once? Maybe half a time?"

  "I think about them every single day," Lum said in a thick, low voice.

  Patted myself on the back.

  "You've got a kid with the urchins, don't you."

  As he nodded, a tear collected in one of his eyes. He rubbed it away before it could slide down his cheek.

  "And the idea of going down in the tunnels to be with them never even crossed my mind. Do you know how that makes me feel?"