"Taking a break!" a cheery voice called out as a swiftly
moving figure blurred past the open office door.
Mark Frasier looked up from the long table covered with
empty boxes, from row upon row of tiny pill bottles and bubble-packed product
samples destined to be counted out and stuffed into the boxes, from the
two girls sitting quietly across the table from him, resolutely counting
and stuffing... and smiled. He watched the fingertips of a slender, waving
hand disappear past the doorway.
"Okay, Lori!" he called after the hand. "But back to
work in ten minutes!"
He looked back to the table. The girls had stopped working
and were now staring defiantly. The smaller of the two - he hadn't bothered
to learn their names - sat with her mouth half open, as if in shock.
"Mr. Frasier...," she said, then petered out. She shook
her head and went back to work, slowly counting out pill bottles and placing
them, one by one, into a box.
Mark's smile vanished.
"Pick it up," he said. "I said three boxes a minute and
I mean it. If you can't do it, I'll have your agency send me someone who
can."
He stood and moved to the door.
"Mr. Frasier..."
He paused, turned back. The other girl, the buxom one
with the black hair was speaking:
"Mr. Frasier," she said, her voice sharp with frustration.
"We get two breaks a day, one at Ten and one at Three. This is Lori's fourth
break today, and she was late to begin with..."
"Don't be a troublemaker," Mark interrupted. "Your job
is to stuff boxes. So stuff boxes. Three a minute."
He turned and walked out of the office.
In the hallway, he paused, both to pour a drink from
the bottled water dispenser, and to wonder at his own arrogance. He stood,
leaning back against the inverted glass bottle, sipping quietly from his
little paper cup.
That wasn't like me at all, he thought. I'm a sensitive
guy... Why'd I tear into them like that? They must think I'm a real asshole...
And they're right - about Lori, that is. She was late. And all these breaks...
Something warm touched his hand. It was Lori rushing
by, letting his dangling left hand brush her thigh as she passed him closer
than was necessary in the wide hallway.
"Ten minutes," she said in her cheeriest tone. "Back
to work!" She laughed and spun once around before moving on, as if pleasantly
surprised by the touch but anxious to get back to business. She shot off
down the hallway and disappeared into an office.
Mark smiled after her.
Christ! What a beauty! he thought. That's why the other
girls were so eager to make trouble for her. They were jealous. They'd
worked with Lori for three days now. It had to be hard seeing her every
day - that flowing blonde hair, those big blue eyes that wash over you
like a warm tide, that thin, perfect body, and those legs... It's a wonder
they hadn't tried to kill her. How awful to be dumpy and normal around
that...
He crushed the paper cup and tossed it into a nearby
waste can. He straightened his tie and, in four quick strides, reached
the doorway Lori had disappeared into. He peeked in.
The tall-backed leather chair angled away from the doorway.
In it, Lori sat turned toward the window, gazing listlessly out at the
blacktopped parking lot, and, beyond that, the little grassy park next
to the neighboring school yard. She was watching the children play, chasing
each other in aimless circles, swinging from monkey bars, laughing.
"Nice view," Mark said. He stepped into the office.
Lori spun the chair to face the desk. Her hands flew
to the stack of papers that covered it. She gathered them together, tapped
them on the desk, then laid the neat pile before her. She smiled, looking
up at Mark, her blue eyes sparkling.
"They make me happy," she said softly. "The children.
They're so..." She pause, as if struggling to retrieve just the right word,
"... so natural. They just play all day. It's amazing."
Mark was still smiling from their hallway encounter,
and he found her response to being caught daydreaming on company time charming.
And there was something about the way she'd said the word natural, while
focusing those eyes on him... It gave him visions of Lori in her natural
state, maybe offering him an apple...
"Well, Lori, there's a time for play..." he stressed
the word, hoping she'd divine his own hidden message,
"... and there's a time for work. Better get back to
work. For now."
He winked and turned away.
"Mr. Frasier?"
He stopped in the doorway and looked back. She had the
papers spread out again before her, a pen in her hand.
"Call me Mark."
"Mark..." She giggled softly. "Thanks."
He nodded and stepped into the hallway.
* * *
"I want her fired, Mark. I want you to fire her. Today."
He had returned to his own office feeling warm and confident,
but the feeling was not to last. Rachel, his regular secretary, had vanished.
A young man - a slim, ambitious-young-executive type, complete with crisp
Oxford and narrow pink tie - was sitting at her desk, frantically waving
an equally pink memo in Mark's face as he entered. The memo directed him
to report to the East Tower: Marsha Masters, the new CEO of WorldWide Pharmaceuticals,
required an immediate audience.
It was the first time she'd acknowledged his presence
since she'd taken the corporate reigns two months before, after a group
of foreign investors staged and unfriendly takeover and ousted poor Bob
Jenkins from control of WWP - a company he'd nurtured as President for
thirty-five years, a company his grandfather had started nearly a hundred
years earlier, a company whose leadership had passed, uncontested and with
enormous success, through three generations of Jenkins men.
And worse, the memo was pink, company code for Bad News
- lay-offs, strikes, firings. Rumor had it that old Bob Jenkins had received
a pink memo that final day. After his meeting with Marsha Masters he'd
been quietly escorted to his car, his face blank, his arms wrapped tightly
around a box of personal items someone had packed and sent to the East
Tower lobby while he'd been upstairs.
They hadn't even let him say good-bye, or so the story
went. That he'd vanished soon after - supposedly to Arizona, though no
one could confirm this - lent the story an eerie credibility.
Mark walked slowly toward the East Tower, taking his
time, grateful for the long wait as the elevator made its halting way down
to the lobby. When it finally arrived, he pressed extra buttons to slow
its upward climb.
There had been a time, only months before, when he'd
enjoyed the long ride to the eighteenth floor. Bob Jenkins had been a terrific
boss, jovial, wise in his corporate leadership, concerned for his employees'
well being. When Mark's mother had died, old Bob had attended the funeral
personally. When his father soon followed, succumbing to heart disease
and stress - and, Mark suspected, loneliness - old Bob had called Mark
up to the East Tower office, assured him he was not alone in the world,
that he would always have a family at WorldWide. From then on, he'd become
a sort of surrogate father, keeping a gentle eye on Mark's career, advancing
it whenever merited, calling him in for informal "steering sessions" the
moment he drifted off course. Mark had always looked forward to their meetings,
grateful for the old man's solid advice, hungry for his always-ready word
of encouragement.
Knowing that this time the ride would end at the door
of Marsha Masters - the woman who'd written old Bob's one way ticket, who'd
brought in efficiency experts and sent out wave after wave of pink memos
from Bob's once-friendly office, who'd replaced face after friendly face
with smiling drones like the one now at Rachel's desk, now running his
own office - made Mark's teeth hurt. The elevator's soft humming had reminded
him of a dentists drill, or an electric chair being primed for use.
It looked like his time had come.
So he'd been relieved and puzzled, once the meeting began,
to discover that it was not his job the new Dragon Lady was targeting.
It was the Temps he supervised.
It was, specifically, Lori.
"You want me to fire her..." Mark echoed.
He'd been impressed by his first glimpse of Marsha Masters.
She was a tall, slender woman in a gray knit dress, with aquiline features
and dark hair pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head. As she'd
crossed the room to greet him, her hand outstretched, he'd admired the
graceful way she carried herself. He'd judged her attractive, in a prim
sort of way.
But that initial impression had changed quickly. She'd
led him to a chair and motioned for him to sit. Them instead of going back
to her side of the big wooden desk, she'd propped herself on its front
edge, her long legs crossed before him, just a little too close. She'd
towered over him, making him feel small and vulnerable.
Then her first direct order - the emotionless, calculating
tone in which she delivered that order - had hit him like a spray of ice.
Lori...
"Ms. Masters..." he started, forcing an equally cold,
businesslike tone.
"Call me Marsha."
Mark felt hairs rising on the back of his neck. He shifted
nervously in the chair, pushing it back a few inches. He cleared his throat.
"Marsha..." he said, pausing after the word, tasting
it in his mouth, frowning, "... Ms. Masters. In my opinion Lori is a fine
worker. I see no reason to let her go."
"Oh, come off it." She stood abruptly and circled to
the far side of the desk. She sat, her hands folded before her. She leaned
forward. "She's a Slacker, Mark. You know it and I know it."
"She's doing very well. Everyone likes her..."
"Name one project she's completed in the past three days."
Mark paused, thinking. It wasn't fair...
"It takes time to get used to a job," he said. "Three
days..."
"...Is more than enough time," she finished for him.
"Too much. Your girls in packing made their quota the first day. Lori hasn't
completed a single assignment since she started. Fire her."
So, he thought, it was the girls in packing who started
this. They went over my head... Who do they think they are? I'll raise
their quota to six boxes a minute. Let's see how they like that...
"All right, Ms. Masters," Mark said, finally. "You're
wrong about Lori, I truly believe that. But if you want me to fire her,
I'll fire her. It's not my decision to make."
"That's the catch, Mark." Marsha Masters leaned back
in her chair, folded her hands casually behind her head. She smiled. "Lori
is not to know the order came from me. You're to tell her that it was,
in fact, your decision."
"That's ridiculous," Mark said. "I won't do it. I can't
believe you'd even ask."
"I'm not asking, Mark," she said, leaning forward again,
palms flat on the desk. "I'm offering. It's an opportunity. Surely you
can see that. But if I must explain..."
She pulled a manila envelope from a stack of papers on
her right, then handed it to Mark. He opened it and glanced quickly over
the first page.
"My sources tell me two very interesting things about
you, Mark Frasier," she started. "First, as you can see in that report,
your departmental production has dropped fully fifteen percent since I
took this office. But for the past eight years, under Bob Jenkins, you
consistently exceeded all quotas, met or beat all deadlines, and ran your
department so efficiently that you've never had a single cost overrun.
Of course you must realize how remarkable such a performance record is.
I'm sure you're quite proud of it."
She sighed heavily.
Therefore," she went on, "comparing your performance
over eight years to that of the past two months, I can draw only one conclusion:
Your recent failure can only be the result of a serious lack of loyalty,
on your part, to WorldWide's new leadership - Specifically, in this case,
to me."
"Loyalty is hardly the problem," Mark said without raising
his eyes from the report laying open in his lap. "It's those damned clones
you're filling my offices with. They make my skin crawl..."
"And secondly," Marsha Masters continued, cutting him
short, "I understand you have a crush on this Slacker of yours. That means
one of you has got to go. We have rules against employee fraternization,
as you well know."
Now Mark looked up, his eyes wide. He'd been reading
the documents in the report as fast as he could, memorizing names, sources,
figures, setting up a defense. But with the Dragon Lady's last words, something
impossible happened: The final page of the report had been blank - just
the WWP logo at the top, the rest white. As she'd informed him of his "crush,"
the page had suddenly filled with writing. Before his eyes. It now listed
every contact he'd had with Lori over the past three days, including the
one by the water dispenser, barely half an hour earlier. A 3X5 index card
appeared next, paperclipped to the inside back of the folder, listing the
company's official policy against fraternization.
Marsha Masters laughed.
"Don't take it so hard," she said. "There are no secrets
in a well-run company, Mark. It's a Management skill. Hadn't you ever wondered?
And I've shown it to you today - a tiny sample of the power that could
be yours - because I believe you were born for upper-Management, born to
rise above the busy work and share the real power."
She leaned back again, resuming her relaxed posture.
She smiled thinly, winked.
"Besides, you're cute."
Mark Frasier sat in silence, reading and rereading that
mysterious final page. New items kept appearing, sending the old ones scrolling
off the top of the page into... nothing. It was now listing his thoughts,
his unconscious motivations. According to the new listings, he had a far
deeper affection for Lori than even he had realized. An obsession, really...
"I've already prepared an office for you, here in the
East Tower," Marsha Masters was saying. She was leaning close again, her
voice suddenly intimate and enticing. "You're name's already on the door,
Mark. But to let you in, I need proof of your complete loyalty."
She paused, took a breath. She held out one perfectly
manicured hand, as if to welcome him aboard, as if adding some last, unrefusable
token to the East Tower stake.
"Betray the girl and you're in, Mark. You're a Vice President.
Disappoint me and you're out. Right now. For good."
Mark closed the seemingly magical folder and placed it
gently into her outstretched hand. He locked eyes with the new CEO of WorldWide
Pharmaceuticals, then slowly stood, leaning his fists on the desk, towering
over her.
"With all due respect, Mizz Masters," he said, his mouth
dry, his jaw tightening as he spoke, "Go to Hell. I quit."
When he reached the lobby eighteen floors later, he found
a man already waiting, holding a large, sealed carton. The man escorted
him to his car.
* * *
Once home, Mark yanked off his tie, filled a glass from
the built-in wine tap beneath the bar, and sat down wearily on the big
living room sofa. He sipped the wine thoughtfully, slowly measuring the
room with his eyes - the matching Ethan Allen sofa and recliner, the imported
mahogany coffee table, the giant entertainment center with 40" TV and state
of the art Hafler stereo system, the bar - then he went on, adding the
rest of the house, room by room, to the picture. He built up a gradual
mental inventory - the three story house, the shiny Jaguar, the weekend
lake house, the boat - of everything he possessed, of all the material
objects he'd gathered around himself to make his life comfortable as he
climbed to the top...
And now it was all gone, or soon would be, anyway. He
didn't really own any of it; the banks did.
He'd always been better at managing other people's money
than his own: At work, he'd drawn up strict budgets, found economic short
cuts, pushed his people to their limits to keep salaried staff low. Then
at home, he'd signed loan after loan, lived way beyond his means - gambling
that old Bob Jenkins' fatherly affection for him, plus his own spotless
record at WorldWide, would carry him swiftly into the seven figure bracket...
I'm a financial Jekyll and Hyde, he thought.
He relaxed, sipping the wine, letting the inventory slide
away, letting his things fall back to where they now seemed to belong -
beyond his reach.
And it looks like Hyde won, he added sullenly. Now I'm
in the one-figure bracket. Zero. The banks will want it all back, once
the payments stop flowing...
The depressing image of his empty house dispersed, leaving
him only himself, Mark Frasier, alone among someone else's many playthings,
staring down into the glass of someone else's expensive wine. He watched
the crimson liquid swirl as he turned the glass slowly beneath his nose,
enjoying the wine's sweet aroma. He smiled.
You haven't lost anything truly important, he thought
- and instantly recognized the thought as peculiar. It was more like a
voice, a woman's voice, speaking softly in his head, addressing him.
But I've sacrificed so much to this one goal, he thought
back, answering the strange voice. I never married... No children... Eighty
hour weeks... Ulcers... And everything I've worked for was right there,
in front of me... My name was on the door... And I walked away... I quit...
"You saved yourself," the voice said. "You almost became
a Manager - a fate worse than death."
Mark spun to his right. The wineglass flew from his hand
and shattered against the coffee table, throwing a wide red circle onto
the white carpeting.
He ignored the spill.
"Hello, Mark." Lori stood behind the bar, smiling at
him across the room.
"Uh... Hello," he said.
She crossed the room and handed him a fresh glass of
wine, which he accepted and placed carefully on the low table. He reached
to the floor and began to gather the broken glass.
Lori laughed - a spring wind blowing through porcelain
chimes.
"New wine, new container," she said. "Leave that. They
can clean it up when they come to take the house." She took a seat on the
recliner near the sofa, facing him, her knees crossed at the knee.
"Lori...," Mark started, his heart suddenly pounding
in his throat, "... I'm so glad you're here! After what I've seen today
I won't even speculate about how... And it doesn't matter. I don't care.
I've lost everything I've ever worked for, ever wanted, today. I should
be destroyed. I should be suicidal. But now you're here and I'm suddenly
happy... I'm exhilarated... I want to dance around the room... I..."
Lori blushed and looked down into her lap. Then she quickly
looked up again, tossing her blonde hair back with a little nod. Mark felt
himself glowing in her warm gaze.
"I know, Mark," she said. "I read your file, too. I'm
flattered."
"You read my file...?" Confusion: it wasn't adding up.
First the Dragon Lady and now this... Was he the only one not in on the
secret?
And now, he thought - his breath slowing, his excitement
at seeing Lori fading, being slowly replaced by caution as he gathered
his senses - I suppose I'm about to find out. And whatever it is, I'm helpless
against it. I'm in love with this woman. I'll do anything she asks. I've
seen it in black and white.
And so has she...
"Please, Mark." Lori reached out and touched his arm.
She smiled shyly. "I'm your friend. Don't be afraid of me."
She gave his arm a little squeeze, then leaned back again
into the chair.
"There's a lot you don't know, Mark... about this world,
about yourself. You made the biggest decision of your life today, and I
have to fill you in before you make any more. Once you know, once you fully
understand what it all means, then we can talk about... personal things.
If you still want to."
Mark Frasier leaned forward and collected the glass of
wine from the coffee table. He downed its contents, then set the empty
glass back. He relaxed into the soft cushions of the sofa, closing his
eyes.
"Okay, Lori," he said softly. "I'm listening."
* * *
The Managers had been the first to come through the Dimensional
Rift, some four thousand years ago. They found an Earth much like their
own, as their Earth had been in their distant, "uncivilized" past. It was
a chaotic world of trees and grass and wild animals, of unleveled mountains
and free- flowing waters, of tribal societies that grazed cattle on the
open plains, then periodically annihilated each other in bloodthirsty wars.
There was no central authority, no time-clocks, no schedules.
The Managers stepped through the Rift into what was, to their eyes, an
insane world of wasted energy and unnecessary freedom. They stepped out
into a world without form, a world that cried out to be shaped in their
own image.
They gave the natives science, art, Holy books. The offered
them Management Training, power over others of their own kind, in exchange
for their souls. They found many takers: the people of this new Earth were
like wide-eyed children, diving happily into anything that seemed exciting
or new. They had such a great skill for imitation that many soon rivaled
even their teachers in the practices of Ambition and Group Control.
The Managers ordered the tribes into city-states, then
into loose federations. They built great armies that thundered across the
land like endlessly hungry, endless-ly growing creatures of organization,
consuming and homogenizing whole races, entire cultures, setting one monotonous
drumbeat for all to follow...
By the time the Slackers discovered the Rift and squeezed
through from their own Earth, the Managers had established Rome and had
the world pretty much under control. They had enslaved the populace, organizing
their lives from birth to death, from sunup to sundown. The natives of
the occupied Earth lived out horrible, meaningless lives and horrible,
unnecessary deaths under the Manager's rule.
The Slackers, as they saw it, were duty-bound to liberate
this poor People.
But the Slackers were a People of peace. Theirs was a
society which abhorred violence, that recognized harmony and love as life's
goal, and whose fundamental Law of Peace prevented their fighting the Managers,
or even lifting a finger against them.
But their equally fundamental Law of Justice demanded
that they act to right the situation. They could not, by their own Law,
overthrow the oppressors; but neither, by Law, could they abandon the oppressed.
For the first time in Slacker history, the Laws of Peace and Justice seemed
irreconcilable.
A special session of the Slacker Council was called,
and a legal solution to the dilemma was carefully forged. It was decided
that the people of the occupied Earth would have to choose for themselves,
that any uprising would have to be the result of their own desire for liberation.
The Slackers must in no way incite violence.
That satisfied the Law of Peace.
But the Slackers would act to make the people aware that
they had a choice, that options existed beyond the Managers rigid and painful
way of life. They would teach them the Slacker's Way - the Way of Life
that had made their own Earth a world of Harmony, Joy and Easy Good Times.
Each individual would then be free to make his or her
own choice; they could accept their enslavement or rise up against it according
to their individual, informed wills.
That satisfied the Law of Justice.
They dispersed agents to offer The Way to any who would
listen:
"Relax," they preached. "Flowers don't punch time-clocks,
so why should you? Give your enemies some Slack and you'll find out they're
folks just like yourselves... Have you never been mellow?"
Then, one by one, the agents of The Way were killed.
And not by the Romans, not by the Managers, but by the natives the Slacker
agents spoke to. The people listened, they heard The Way preached, and
then they killed them.
One by one. Horribly. Unnecessarily.
So the Slackers withdrew, leaving the occupied Earth
to its own sad fate. The people had chosen their captors; they had accepted
their Ways. Nothing more could be done.
"And what its all come down to, over time..." Lori paused
to let out a long, sad sigh, "... is the modern world. This world. A world
ruled by corporations, governments, back room deals, time-clocks, the nine
to five grind..."
"Wait," Mark said, opening his eyes. He turned to face
the girl. "If the Slackers abandoned this Earth, then what are you doing
here? You are a Slacker, I presume."
"Yes," Lori said. "I'm a Slacker. One agent among many
still operating in your world." She curled her legs up under herself, sighed
again. "And I never said we abandoned you, Mark. I said we withdrew. It's
different. Please try to understand..."
She stood and moved to the big picture window beyond
the coffee table. She found the drape cord and pulled the curtains wide.
"I want to watch the sunset," she said. "It makes me
happy."
She was smiling again. She crossed the room and sat beside
him on the long sofa. She touched his hand.
Mark's heart leaped again to his throat. He swallowed
nervously, pushing it down.
"We withdrew our active forces," she said, her voice
soft, "but we've maintained a passive presence for nearly two thousand
years. We watch over you, guide you when we can, when you let us. We hang
around, existing as best we can in this awful place, working as artists,
Gypsies, musicians, Temps... Whatever we can find that allows us to move
around, to never stay in one place long enough to be found out..."
"Enter Marsha Masters," Mark said. "She had you pegged
in three days."
"She had me pegged before I started."
Lori squeezed closer to Mark. She pressed her head into
his shoulder, shivering.
"She's not a true Manager," she said, her voice hushed.
"She's a Manager/Pimp hybrid. They're the worst. She let me stay at WorldWide
because she knew I was after you. She wanted to use me to break you."
"You were after me...?" Mark started, easing back from
her embrace. With Lori so close, he'd let down his guard. He had to keep
his head...
He raised his arm to push her away, but found himself
wrapping the arm around her small shoulders instead. He pulled her closer.
The smell of her hair was intoxicating.
I have no defense... "So who are these Pimps?" he asked
softly. "Just another parallel Earth, I suppose."
"There are over two hundred known Earths in the Metaverse,"
Lori said. "And most of them are here now, in some form. It's our fault,
really. We Slackers..." She paused, caught her breath. "You won't like
this."
Mark remained silent. He stroked her blonde hair, admiring
the many soft colors the setting sun brought out in it.
A battle was raging inside him. His reason shouted that
everything the girl had said was fantastic, impossible even somehow dangerous.
He was being set up.
But with Lori in his arms, an even stronger impulse washed
against his fears, pushing them aside with soft assurances that every word
was true, that he was safe, that he belonged with this woman and everything
would be all right if he would just give in...
He took a long breath. He stopped fighting.
"Go on," he said.
"We Slackers let in the Pimps," Lori went on, a note
of sorrow creeping into her voice, "after our agents were killed. It was
part of a deal - we gave them Dimensional Rift technology in exchange for
their promise to undermine Roman society with their perversions. A few
of you had embraced our Way and gone into hiding. We wanted to soften Rome
up, so you wouldn't have to work too hard..."
She lifted her head and flashed him a gleaming smile.
"Slackers are not fond of hard work," she said. "It made
sense to us at the time."
"Looks like it worked pretty well," Mark offered eagerly,
feeling strangely charmed by the story, returning the smile. "Rome crumbled
under its sheer decadence. Its structure collapsed..."
Lori sat up. Her smile crinkled slowly into a frown.
"Yes," she continued, her voice low, "but it was a mistake.
We misjudged the Pimps. They did a great job on the Romans, all right,
but then they kept right on going. They spread their Way like a cancer
into every corner of your Earth, with their gambling, their prostitution,
their addictive drugs... Then they started selling knock-off Rift technology
to anyone willing to pay their price. The whole Metaverse came rushing
in, influencing the Chameleons..."
"Chameleons?" Mark echoed. He stood and moved to the
bar. He needed another drink.
"I'm sorry," Lori said from the sofa. "It's not very
flattering, but that's what we call you. Because of the way you imitate
whatever's around you without asking why... Or what or who. It's as though
you have no style of your own. You borrow whatever's handy. Look at your
own life. You almost destroyed yourself imitating contradict-ory species
- Managers and..."
"So I'm a Chameleon?" He didn't like the sound of it.
It lacked character. The word tasted funny in his mouth. He washed the
bitterness back with a swig of wine.
"One of the last," Lori answered. "Tourist came tumbling
through the Rift from every direction - the Bankers, the Foreign Investors,
the Military Planners, the Psychologists... Then the Matchmakers came over
and hooked up with the Pimps. Everybody started interbreeding, creating
weird hybrids - the Fundamentalists, the New Agers, the Politicians, the
TV Writers... Oh God, Mark, we've made such a mess of your world! I'm so
sorry..."
She began to weep. Mark felt a strange pull and immediately
crossed the room to stand beside her. He handed her his drink, but remained
standing, feeling awkward and confused.
The inner battle was raging again. When he'd been at
the bar, across the room from the girl, his reason had momentarily returned.
Something wasn't right... He was somehow in danger...
But now, beside her again, he found himself anxious to
scoop her up, to believe every word she said, to do anything she asked.
He had to show her he cared, that he loved her, that...
These are not real feelings, he told himself. I have
known this girl for three days. I cannot be in love with her. I am being
manipulated.
He lowered himself into the recliner and sat quietly,
watching her cry. The battle raged on inside him, the urge to flee and
the urge to surrender pulling him painfully in two directions, immobilizing
him.
"So I'm a true Chameleon?" he asked.
Lori rubbed her eyes. She smiled.
"Yes, Mark," she said. "You're pure. There are less than
a million of you left in the whole world. You're an endangered species.
That's why I'm here, why I was after you at WorldWide. We're collecting
as many of you as we can convince to go with us. We're relocating you.
To our Earth. You'd be happy there, Mark."
Lori stood and began to smooth the wrinkles from her
skirt. Then she knelt, resting a hand on Mark's knee. She smiled up at
him.
Mark felt all resistance crumbling...
"But we're still bound by our Law, Mark. We can still
take only those who throw off the yoke of servitude for themselves. You
did that today when you walked out on Marsha Masters' offer. I'm very proud
of you. You chose Love over Ambition. You're real Slacker material."
"I'm a Chameleon," Mark said, his tone sharp. He looked
away from her face and forced himself to listen for the inner alarm. It
was still ringing, clanging frantically in the distance. It got louder
as he focused on it, as he gathered his will.
Lori stood and moved back to the big window. The sun
had set. The streetlamp on the corner had come on; its soft pink glow filtered
past her slender frame into the room.
"Of course you are," she said gently, her back to him.
"But in our world, you'll be a Slacker. You'll have only Slackers to imitate.
That's what Chameleons do, Mark. They imitate. You shouldn't take it personally."
* * *
Mark Frasier sat alone in the little restaurant booth,
silently watching steam rise from the cup of coffee before him. The door
swung in with a jangle of bells. He looked up: it wasn't Lori.
He glanced at his watch and frowned.
She's late, he thought. Slackers...
Sending her home the night before had been the hardest
thing he'd ever done. Quitting his job, forfeiting eight years of work,
of planning and dedication, had been nothing in comparison.
Marsha Masters' attempt to manipulate him had been obvious.
He hadn't chosen Love over Ambition, as Lori seemed to believe. Rather,
he'd recognized a blatant attempt to break his spirit, to purchase his
integrity with the promise of power.
He'd chosen autonomy, not love. Marsha Masters had tried
to buy him. He'd refused. It was that simple.
But Lori's manipulation was subtle. It worked on his
insides, on his deepest desires. She seemed everything he'd ever hoped
to find in a woman. He didn't want to refuse or resist her. He wanted to
believe she was real, that his feelings for her were genuine. He wanted
to believe she shared those feelings.
But however attractive the prize, he'd realized later,
long after she'd left, it was equal manipulation - and it had, in the end,
become equally obvious. The contra-dictions were too great. The "feelings"
in question were little more than pleasant fantasies when he was alone.
They became real whenever Lori entered the room. They became irresistible
whenever she touched him...
She was somehow creating his feelings, forcing them on
him, then using them against him. It was some kind of trap, just as Marsha
Masters' self-writing file had been a trap. The two things were equally
alien to anything he recognized as "real." They were, most likely,
equally dan-gerous as well.
Then the way she'd talked about collecting Chameleons...
It was like listening to an entomologist praise a rare species of butterfly
as he carries one, flopping and struggling, toward the killing jar. He'll
preserve its beauty but not its life...
But what if the butterfly is in love? the strange feelings
had argued. Some things are worth dying for...
He'd watched through the big window as Lori's car pulled
away from the curb, longing to chase after her, to call her back... But
with the glass between them, he'd had the sudden and disturbing impression
of being inside the jar, of watching the heartless collector bustle off
to seduce her next specimen...
Her next Chameleon, he'd concluded hours later - sitting
quietly on the back steps, sipping coffee, watching the rising sun paint
the leaves of the tall maples behind his house - Her next Man. Lori did
not share his feelings; he was now sure of that. She'd collect him, then
move on to the next poor fool. He'd be left alone in an alien world, an
endangered species on exhibit in some Slacker zoo... Or worse.
Sending Lori away had seemed an impossible task. He'd
only managed it by making her promise to meet him for breakfast in the
morning, to receive his answer. He'd had to be certain he would see her
again, at least once, anyway, whatever he decided.
But now, having had time to think clearly, he suspected
she wouldn't much like what he had to say.
If, that is, she decides to show up...
He heard the jangling again and looked to the door. Lori
had appeared at the front of the restaurant and was scanning the room with
her eyes. He waved, and she moved toward him, smiling. She slid into the
long booth seat across from him.
"Hi."
Mark felt the longing rise again within him. Lori reached
for his hand, but he snatched it away. He took several deep breaths, hoping
to regain control, but the feelings only got stronger.
"I want... to know...," he said between breaths, "...
how you are doing this... making me feel this..."
He gasped as a burst of fire shot through his chest.
The more he fought to control the surging emotions, the more the love soured,
became pain.
"Please...," he panted. "Stop it... I'll die..."
"Don't fight it, Mark," Lori said. "Give in. Come with
me."
Mark continued to fight, his complexion going pale as
the pain that had been love now turned to nausea. He squeezed into a fetal
position against the wall at the back of the booth, and covered his face
with his hands, sobbed deeply into his palms.
He caught his breath. The pain eased off a little.
"There, I turned it down."
Mark dropped his hands to watch her. She was just closing
a tiny heart-shaped locket that dangled from her neck on a thin silver
chain. It disappeared into her blouse. Lori smiled.
"It's Pheromone Technology," she said. "The Managers
have their Skills, and we have ours. It makes you Chameleons love us. It
helps you to want what we want for you. It's a non-violent Survival Skill..."
"Then you've got a screwy definition of violence," Mark
rasped. He sat up straight again. The feelings surged; he fought them back,
cringing. "I'd rather be kicked in the head. Do you have any idea how this
feels? To fall in love and find out you've been used? And that you can't
stop loving? It's the worst kind of violence. You Slackers..."
As he spoke the girl's features pulled gradually tight,
till she was frowning and grim. She pulled the locket again from her blouse
and popped it open.
The feelings stopped. Cold.
Mark stared across the table in amazement. Not only had
the feelings vanished, but Lori had changed as well. She was still cute,
like any pretty blonde office-girl might be cute, but she was not stunning.
Her eyes seemed smaller. He noticed, for the first time, a small gap between
her front teeth.
He wanted to get angry, to rage at the deception, but
he just couldn't. When the imposed feelings had receded, so had his resistance
to them. He just felt empty and tired. He felt nothing.
"Do other men fight you?" he asked.
"Not many," Lori said. "A few. I'm sorry, Mark. I never
meant to hurt you. I wanted to save you."
"I saved myself."
"From the Managers, yes."
She touched his hand. Mark felt nothing. It was just
a touch.
"But there are worse things out there," she continued,
speaking softly. "And lots of them, Mark. There are fewer than a million
true Chameleons left in a world of six billion people. Think about that.
You have probably never met another true Chameleon in your life, other
than your parents - and they crossed over years ago. There are fewer and
fewer true Chameleons every day. Everyone around you wants to steal your
soul, to make you imitate them. Eventually, it'll tear you apart. Then
you'll be gone, too."
Mark stared across the table. He bit his lower lip, frowning.
"My parents are in your world?" he asked. "I saw them
die, Lori. Here. On this Earth. Your lies..."
"I have never lied to you," Lori insisted. "Everything
I've told you about the state of your world is true."
"Your version of the truth, anyway. As self-serving as..."
She looked away. "And I never told you I loved you, Mark.
I just never said I didn't. You assumed the rest."
Mark's emotions began to return. He felt pain. Humiliation.
She was right; she hadn't lied, straight out. But she'd read the file.
Allowing someone to believe what you know isn't true...
"I'm glad we rejected your Way," Mark said bitterly.
"It stinks. You stink. Your whole Slacker world is like..."
Lori pulled back her hand. She touched her blouse, the
spot where the locket hung invisibly.
"Turn it on and I'll kill you," Mark said, his voice
calm and even. "Right here. With my bare hands. Or I'll die trying. Either
way, you lose, you don't get me. Now what about my parents?"
Lori's hand dropped away from the hidden locket. She
frowned, then continued as if nothing had happened.
"When I said they crossed over," she said, her voice
ice, "I meant that they died. It's a common euphemism, Mark. Don't get
weird on me. But they died from the stress of being Chameleons in this
world..."
"It's our world, you know."
"Not if they kill you all off..."
"Or make us into something we're not. Like Slackers,
for instance.
"But you're defenseless!" Lori pleaded. "Of all the species
in the Metaverse, only you Chameleons have never developed any specialized
Survival Skills. On your own..."
"I survived you pretty well," Mark said. "You under-estimate
us, an apparently common misperception. I survived Marsha Masters, too,
as you'll recall. I doubt she expected that."
Lori smiled - a cute, normal smile. The warmth returned
to her voice.
"I suppose you're right," she said. "I'll take that as
a No. Good luck, Mark."
She stood to leave, but Mark snatched her small hand
and pulled her back She sat again, a puzzled expression on her pretty,
but not exceptional, face.
Mark leaned close. He tightened his grip on her hand.
"I thought about this all night, after you left," he
said. "About why you'd be rounding us up. Why a bunch of aliens with super-advanced
technology would feel a need to control us - a few defenseless, backward
Chameleons. And a man who's lost everything thinks deeply, Lori. He begins
to see what he's really made of..."
His lips twisted into a thin smile.
"Riddle me this, little Slacker: Does a brown Chameleon
turn green, or does a green Chameleon turn brown?"
"I don't get it," Lori answered. She struggled to free
her hand; Mark held on.
"Which is it," he demanded. "Is a Chameleon's true color
brown, or is it green? What color is he when he's not sitting on a leaf?
Is he colorless? Transparent? Do the colors beneath him just shine through
his nothingness?"
"Let me go, Mark. Please."
"Green or brown!" he demanded again, squeezing her hand,
twisting it. "Green or brown!"
"Both!" she shouted. Tears appeared in her eyes. "A Chameleon
contains both colors, I guess. They're... They're intrinsic to its nature…
Now let… me... go!"
She yanked her arm away, but Mark retained his grip.
A number of heads had turned, attracted by the commotion. A waitress was
approaching the table.
Mark slid out of the booth and moved to the center of
the room, dragging the girl with him. Her tears were flowing freely now.
They sounded real.
"Say it again!" Mark shouted. "So the audience can hear
you!"
A group of busboys were gathering in front of the swinging
kitchen doors, preparing to pounce.
"A Chameleon...," Lori sobbed, "... is both green and
brown. Please, Mark..."
The busboys had begun to inch forward. Mark released
the girl. She crumpled to the floor.
"Chameleons contain all the colors they display," Mark
went on, addressing the little crowd of morning diners in a booming voice.
The onlookers remained at their tables, watching, listening.
Here and there a fork dropped. A glass thudded onto a table.
"A Chameleon can only mimic colors contained in its own
body chemistry," Mark continued. "Since your arrival here, we have successfully
mimicked every one of your pathetic species. We have mastered all of you
Ways. We have accessed all of your Survival Skills."
He took a deep breath, drawing himself up to his full
and, he hoped, intimidating height.
"We contain you!" he shouted, waving a balled-up fist
in the air. "We are you!"
The customers of the little restaurant were now filing
past him, leaving as quickly as they could. No one raised a finger against
him. They shuffled out, their faces white, their eyes to the ground.
"We contain the whole Metaverse!" Mark called after them
from the doorway. "You're damned lucky we let you live this long! But we're
bored now! We're sick of your incompetent meddling! Go home! Now! Or we'll
kill you all at sundown! Tell your friends, you pathetic Cosmic Pansies!"
He stood in the open doorway, panting, wiping sweat from
his forehead. He watched them scurry away, a pack of frightened rats, until
the street was vacant.
* * *
He waited in the empty restaurant the rest of the day,
watching news reports on the kitchen television, helping himself to the
well-stocked freezers, making less and less frequent trips to the door
to check the street outside for stragglers.
The street remained clear. No one disturbed him all day.
If the news reports were genuine, it appeared they'd taken the bait. They
were leaving, all of them, in one massive wave.
Mark stayed in the little restaurant till the sun hovered
low over the western horizon. After all, he'd given them till sundown.
Fair was fair.
A streetlight winked on outside. The sun had set. He
stepped out into the pink-lit street and began a quiet, casual stroll through
the deserted city. Vacant buildings rose up on all sides, some with lights
left burning in the rush to escape.
But the people had vanished. They were gone.
He investigated the buildings one by one: Office towers,
curio shops, food markets. He rifled through desks, employee lockers, storage
rooms - searching for artifacts left behind by the fleeing aliens. He needed
their tools. He needed their Skills, in case they came back, in case they
ever discerned his bluff and decided to test it.
He found an empty box and slowly filled it with any device
whose purpose he could not readily identify.
He crossed over the highway. The concrete below was littered
with wrecked automobiles whose drivers had chosen to wink back to their
own worlds in-transit, without bothering even to pull to the curb. The
empty cars, still running, had rolled on until they hit something.
Or someone, Mark reflected. He could make out broken
bodies among the metallic heaps below. They hadn't all escaped.
Well, I warned them...
When his box was full, he turned back toward the restaurant.
As he walked, he found himself humming loudly against the unfamiliar silence
surrounding him. He occupied his thoughts, taking one item after another
from the box, examining it, wondering how he'd ever learn to use each device
in time...
The restaurant was dark as he approached. He was certain
he'd left the lights on. Something was wrong.
He set the box quietly onto the sidewalk. He took one
of the alien devices - the heaviest one he could find, in case he couldn't
make it work, in case he had to throw it - and moved to the door, crouching
low. He threw his weight against the glass and the door heaved inward with
an announcing jangle of bells. He flattened out on the tile inside, the
device raised high...
A beam of intense white light pierced the interior darkness,
catching him full in the face, blinding him. He rolled...
And heard laughter. Someone - a girl, by the sound of
it - was laughing. Presumably, at him.
Mark crawled behind the tall lunch counter. He rubbed
his eyes. A moment later, the overhead lights came on.
"Please come out, Mr. Frasier," a voice said between
bursts of soft laughter. "Provided, of course, that you promise not to
shoot me with... with your..." The speaker seemed to be gasping, fighting
for breath, "... with your deadly electric pencil sharpener!"
A fresh burst of near-hysterical laughter echoed through
the restaurant. Mark looked down at the device in his hand. He felt his
ears burning.
So that's what it was. He'd never seen one quite like
it before. But now it seemed so obvious...
He stood, intending to lunge the pencil sharpener at
whatever living target he could site before being sited himself, before
being gunned down by the light ray. He froze, the pencil sharpener raised.
"You..."
"Hello, Mr. Frasier."
One of his Temps - the black-haired one, the one who'd
yelled at him about Lori - was sitting in a booth by the wall, her hand
dropping gracefully away from the light switch to a cigarette burning in
the ashtray. She chuckled softly.
"You almost had me fooled," she said. "After hearing
about you on the news all day, about how you blew their cover and bluffed
them right off the planet... I'd almost convinced myself you were a smart
guy, after all. Thanks for being stupid. It restores my faith in first
impressions."
She snatched a little flashlight from the table before
her, then dropped it casually into her purse. She held up her empty hands.
"No weapons," she said, then sat smoking and smiling, appearing to be quite
pleased with herself.
Mark dropped the pencil sharpener and kicked it out of
sight. He vaulted over the counter, sending a stool flying.
The girl burst into new fits of laughter.
"I've got a whole box of devices outside," Mark said,
trying hard to muster a menacing tone. "One of them..."
"Is as useless as the next," the girl finished for him.
"You've got a box of useless junk out there. But don't feel too bad, though.
I had one just like it a few hours ago. I left mine at WorldWide."
Mark held his ground, tottering awkwardly. The next device
might save him. Or he might charge the girl brandishing an egg beater,
or a coffee warmer, or a...
"So what'll it be?" she said. "Slide rules at fifty paces?
Or would you rather talk? Do you prefer to admit your idiocy now or later?"
Mark moved reluctantly toward the booth. He slid in across
from the girl.
"I'm sorry I'm being mean to you, Mr. Frasier," she said,
patting his hand. "But it feels so good. You were such a tyrant at WorldWide.
It's nice to let my real feelings show."
Real feelings. At that, Mark smiled. "Call me Mark,"
he said.
The girl frowned. Her hand shot away from his own, back
to the ashtray, to the glowing cigarette.
"Absolutely not," she said. "I don't want you getting
any weird ideas. We are not, by a long shot, the last couple on Earth.
You're not my type."
Mark leaned back and rolled his eyes up to stare at the
ceiling. So this was another true Chameleon... Jesus...
"What exactly did you mean by 'bluff'," he asked finally.
"If they knew that, they'd still be here. That wasn't in any newscast I
saw."
"No, it wasn't. It was just obvious, to me, anyway. You
implied we were all in on it, that all Chameleons everywhere were conspiring
together against them. That we've been toying with them for thousands of
years. That's what they got out of your tirade, anyway. But the newscasts
were the first I'd heard of any of this... Either I was the only one not
in on the Grand Conspiracy, or it was all a big bluff. I opted for bluff."
She ground out the cigarette. She was smiling again.
"You should have seen them, Mr. Frasier. I was at work
when the alarm sounded. They went nuts. They panicked, running around,
throwing things, using their weird de-vices on each other, screaming about
Survival. Between that and the newscasts, I figured out their Survival
Skills thing pretty quickly. Once they'd all left, I sifted through the
wreckage, looking for devices they might have left, things I could use
to defend myself if they came back. Then it hit me."
"What," Mark said, suddenly tense. "What hit you?"
"The devices," she said. "I couldn't pick them out from
the rest of the junk. They're disguised as other things. Perfectly disguised.
I was looking for things that didn't fit, that seemed alien, but everything
seemed perfectly natural to a big office - typewriters, telephones, files..."
"Files," Mark echoed. "Marsha Masters had this file that..."
"That reported your every move. I know. I ransacked her
office and found one on me, too. I destroyed both our files. You were a
real sap for that Slacker, Lori. I told you she was bad news."
Mark let the comment slide. "Well, the files prove that
we can recognize at least some of their devices. Event-ually..."
"You're not getting this, are you?" she cut in, her voice
sharp. "Think, Mr. Frasier, think. Their devices are perfectly disguised
as other things. They mimic other things. And they - the aliens - built
them. In designing their tools, they mimicked us. They mastered our Way.
Which they could only have done..."
"If they contain us." Now he understood. He frowned.
"If they're as much Chameleon as we are Slacker or Manager or Pimp."
Mark Frasier drew a slow breath.
"Christ," he whispered. "I hope they never figure it
out."
The girl stood and snatched her purse off the table.
"Well, I, for one, am not waiting around till they do,"
she said. "I'm going to find the others. There are, according to the news,
some 900,000 of us floating around the planet. They'll have TV's and radios."
"Wait," he said. "I'll go with you."
She was already out the door. He moved to the street
and watched her bustling away, rushing off toward the distant WBBX transmitter,
its red eye winking softly in the nighttime sky.
Well, Mark thought, at least she's no Slacker...
He hurried after her.