In the future we will all be very healthy, very attractive, and very, very good. It will be illegal to be otherwise. Today, the ordinary citizen in Britain is under more constant surveillance from remote cameras than in any other country in the world In West Hollywood, it is illegal to describe oneself as a “Pet Owner”; one must use the term, “Animal Guardian.” Elsewhere in America, there is a movement afoot to outlaw serving large portions of food in restaurants, on the grounds that this is a criminal act contributing to obesity. Several public interest groups have successfully criminalized the wearing of perfume in public places. Many communities have laws in effect penalizing untidy yards or even the ownership of clotheslines, on the grounds that they lower property values. Can it be long until physical ugliness is prohibited too, for the mental distress it occasions in others? Popular psychology now informs us that our misfortunes and illnesses are our own fault, brought about by our unconscious urges; secular puritanism, as I live and breathe! But surely Coercive Law will set us all to rights, and make certain that we cannot pose a threat to ourselves or others. Hooray. ? ? ? Monster Story Kage Baker WHEN ALEC CHECKERFIELD WAS TEN, HE WAS Sorted. The official name for it was Pre-Societal Vocational Appraisal, but what it amounted to was that Alec, with every other ten-year-old child in England, was examined to determine how he’d best fit into society. Sorting had been going on for nearly a century now, and everyone agreed it worked much better than the old haphazard way of choosing careers. “It’s nothing to be worried about,” Lewin assured him, pacing back and forth at the end of the long polished table. “You’re such a bright boy, Alec, you’re sure to do well.” Alec sat at the other end of the table and wondered why Lewin was sweating. He could tell Lewin was sweating from all the way across the room, which was one of the reasons Lewin was sweating. “Is it just a test like we have at St. Stephen’s?” Alec asked. “Not exactly,” said Lewin. Lewin was Alec’s butler. Alec lived in a mansion in London with his butler and Mrs. Lewin, his cook. Alec’s Daddy was off on a yacht in the Caribbean and Alec’s Mummy was staying with friends somewhere. Alec hadn’t seen either of them since he was four. “Then how is it different?” Lewin gave up on class distinction and paced down to Alec’s end of the room, where he pulled out a chair and sat with his elbows on the table. “It’s like this, son. The PSVA isn’t a test to see how much you know; it’s to see what kind of person you are. That way they’ll know what sort of job to put you in when you grow up, and just how to train you for it when you leave primary school.” “But I already know what I’m going to be when I grow up,” said Alec with a sigh. He was sighing because he was going to have to be the seventh earl of Finsbury and attend a Circle of Thirty, when what he really wanted to be was a pirate. “Well, yeh, but they have to go through the motions, don’t they?” said Lewin, leaning forward confidentially. “You’ll be Sorted right out in public with all the other little kids, Admins like you and Consumers alike, so it looks like everybody gets a fair chance. And it is mostly fair. Every year there’s a couple Consumer boys and girls score so high they get to join a Circle. And there’s usually an Admin kid who doesn’t make the grade.” “What happens then?” “Nothing bad,” Lewin assured him quickly. “He’ll get trained for a nice low-stress job somewhere and never have to worry about much. But that won’t happen to you, son. You’ll go right on into your Circle because of your dad being who he is. And you’ll like it in Circle. You’ll get to meet other kids!” Alec thought that might be fun. He had never met any children. “Will there be other kids when we go there tomorrow?” he asked. Lewin nodded. “Which is why,” he said, drawing an envelope from an inner pocket, “you’ll need to take this.” He opened it and shook out a bright blue capsule. “Ministry sends ‘em out free. Jolly little pill, see? It’s to fight off any germs you might pick up from anybody. Kids used to have to get stuck with needles to keep them well. Aren’t you lucky you don’t? But you’re to take that after supper tonight.” “Okay.” Alec picked it up and dropped it in his blazer pocket. “Good lad.” Lewin shifted uneasily in his seat and cleared his throat. “You’ll pass with flying colors, son, I know, but. . . you want to make a good impression.” “Because first impressions are very important,” Alec agreed, echoing the Social Interaction Programme he’d been given. “Yeh. So we aren’t going to talk about, er, pirates or anything, are we, son?” “Nope,” said Alec solemnly. “And we don’t want to show off how smart we are, eh? No talk about what you can do with your little toolkit. Not a good idea to let people know you’re a bit different.” “Oh, no,” Alec agreed. “Because that would make the other children feel bad about themselves.” “Just so,” said Lewin, feeling relieved. “You’ll make your father proud, son. Time for school now!” “Yes, sir,” said Alec, and sliding from his chair he ran upstairs to his schoolroom. He was eager to make the sixth earl proud of him; he thought that if he did, perhaps his Daddy might come home some day. Perhaps he might even take Alec back to sea with him, and things might be the way they had been before the divorce. He knew it wasn’t actually his fault his Mummy hadn’t wanted children, but she had gone away all the same; so that was another reason he must be good and get high marks in school. But not too high. Alec entered his schoolroom, sat down at the console and logged on to St. Stephen’s Primary. The surveillance cameras in the upper corners of the room followed him. The nearest one telescoped outward suddenly and sent forth a scan. Meanwhile, Alec watched the icon of the frowning headmaster appear on his console’s screen. He picked up the reader and passed it over the pattern of stripes in his school tie, wherein was encoded his identification. The frowning headmaster changed to a smiling one, and Alec was admitted to morning lessons. Before he could begin, however, a gravelly voice spoke out of the cabinet to his left. “Bloody hell, boy, what’s that in yer jacket?” As Alec turned from the console, a cone of light shot forth from the Maldecena projector on top of the cabinet. There was a flicker of code and then the form of a man materialized. He was big, with a wild black beard and a fierce and clever face. He wore a coat of scarlet broadcloth. He wore a cocked hat. He wasn’t supposed to look like that. He was supposed to look like a jolly old sea captain in a yachting cap, harmless and cheery, in keeping with the Pembroke Playfriend he had been programmed to be when it was purchased for Alec. Alec had tinkered with the Playfriend’s programming, however, removing the Ethical Governor, and the Captain was far from harmless now. “It’s a pill, so I won’t catch germs from the other kids tomorrow,” Alec explained. “No it ain’t! That damned thing’s got circuitry in it.” “It has?” Alec slipped the capsule out of his pocket and looked at it curiously. “Get the tools out, boy,” the Captain snarled. “We’d best have a look at it.” “But it’s class time.” “Bugger class time! Send 2-D Alec instead this morning,” the Captain told him. Alec grinned and, taking the buttonball, ordered up the two-dimensional Alec program he had designed to answer questions for him when he needed to be somewhere other than St. Stephen’s. “Aye aye, Captain sir,” he said, hopping back from the console and going to his work table. He pulled out his chair and sat down, taking from a pocket his small case of terribly useful tools. The Captain hauled an adult-sized chair from cyberspace and set it beside the little table, where he bent down awkwardly to glare at the blue capsule. After scanning it intently a moment, he swore for forty-five seconds. Alec listened happily. He had learned a lot of interesting words from the Captain. “Germs, my arse,” said the Captain. “There’s a monitor in the little bastard! And I know why, by thunder. Old Lewin said you was to take this afore bedtime, I’ll wager?” “Yes.” “Hmph. What he don’t know is, it’s part of the goddamn PSVA.” The Captain stroked his beard, considering the capsule balefully. “Once that thing’s inside you, it’ll transmit yer reactions to the questions themselves. The Education Committee’ll get yer pulse, blood pressure, respiration, reaction times—that whole lot. Like you was hooked up to one of them old lie detectors.” “But I’m not going to tell any lies,” said Alec. “That ain’t the point, son! Didn’t Lewin explain about what this Sorting is for?” Alec nodded. “It’s to see what kind of person I am.” “And that’s just what we don’t want ‘em to see, matey!” “Oh,” said Alec resignedly. “Because I’m different, right?” Alec did not know how he was different from other people. He had drawn the conclusion that he was simply very smart, which was why he was able to do things like look at a tree and immediately say how many leaves were on it, or decrypt the site defense of a Pembroke Playfriend so it could be reprogrammed to his liking. Only the Captain knew the truth about Alec, and only some of the truth at that. “Bloody busybodies,” the Captain growled. “Wouldn’t they just love to get their hooks into my boy? But we’ll broadside ‘em, Alec. We’ll rig their little spy to tell ‘em just what we want ‘em to know, eh? Open it up, matey, and let’s have a look.” “Okay!” Alec took out his jeweler’s loupe, which had an elastic band to go around his head so he could wear it like an eyepatch. He slid it on and peered at the capsule, turning it this way and that. “It unscrews here. Ooh, look.” With a twist of his fingers he had opened the capsule and spilled its contents out on a dish: a tiny component of some kind and a quarter-teaspoon of yellow powder. “There’s the spy. What’s the yellow stuff?” “That’ll be the real medicine, I reckon,” said the Captain. “Set to leak out of that little pinprick hole. Sweep it off on the carpet! You ain’t taking none of that, neither.” “But I don’t want to catch germs,” protested Alec, drawing out tweezers and the other tools he would need. “You won’t catch no bloody germs,” muttered the Captain. Alec’s brain wasn’t the only thing that was different about him. “Never mind it, son. We’ll need the extra room in the capsule, anyhow, to clamp on a RAT node what’ll feed it false data.” “Yo ho ho!” Alec cried gleefully, pulling out a little case of node components. He set about connecting one to the spy. The Captain watched him. “See, it ain’t enough to have the right answers—though you will have, my lad, because I broke into the Ministry of Higher Education’s database and got ‘em last week. You’ll be judged on the way you answer too, d’y’see?” “I’m not sure.” “Take the tenth question, goes like this (the Captain made a throat-clearing noise and pursed up his mouth in a bureaucratic simper): ‘You be having a lovely day at the jolly seaside. A lady walks past and the top half of her bloody bathing suit falls off. Do you (A) fetch it and give it back to her like a good lad, (B) just sit and look at her boobies, or (C) look the other way and pretend nothing ain’t happened?’” “Oh.” Alec looked up from the components, going a little glazed-eyed as he imagined the scene. “Erm ... I guess, A, fetch it for her, because that’d be polite.” “A, says you? Haar. Correct answer’d be C, matey. Looking the other way’s what all morally correct folks does,” the Captain sneered. “Fetching it for her would be a insult, ‘cos she’d be perfectly able to get it herself, and besides, when you handed it back you’d still get yerself a peek at her boobies, wouldn’t you?” “Yes,” Alec admitted. “But you told me it was okay to think about ladies’ boobies.” “Well, so it is, son, but you can’t say so.” “But I wouldn’t be saying so.” “But with that there spy inside you, they’d be able to tell you was thinking about ‘em, see? By how long you took to answer the question and what yer heartbeat did and whether you was blushing and so on,” the Captain explained. “Oh.” Alec scowled. He looked down at the components and worked away in silence a moment before inquiring, “What would they do if you answered B?” “They’d fix on you with a spyglass, lad, certain sure. And if you answered the rest of the questions like that you’d scuttle yerself, because they’d stamp Potential Sociopath on yer file. I reckon you can guess what’d happen then.” “I wouldn’t get to join a Circle of Thirty?” “Hell no,” said the Captain somberly. “And you’d have to go to sessions with one of them psychiatric AI units what’s got no sense of humor, for months likely, and the end of it all’d be you’d spend the rest of yer life wearing a monitor and inputting data in a basement office somewhere. That’s if you was lucky! If the test scores was bad enough, they might just ship you off to Hospital.” Alec shivered. Hospital was where bad people were sent. Even children were sent there, if they were bad; and it was supposed to be very hard to get out of Hospital, once you’d got in. “But that ain’t happening to my little Alec,” said the Captain comfortingly. “Because we’ll cheat the sons of bitches, won’t we?” “Aye aye, sir,” said Alec. “There! All hooked up. Now, what’ll we feed it?” The Captain grinned wickedly and his eyes, which were the changeable color of the sea, went a dangerous and shifting green. “Prepare to input code, son. On my mark, as follows ...” and he gave Alec a lengthy code that would convince the tiny spy that Alec’s reactions to the Sorting would be those of a bright (but not too bright) socially well-adjusted human child, fit in every way to join the ruling classes. Alec chortled and input as he was bid, wondering what it would be like to meet other children. Next morning Alec got to see something that very seldom happened nowadays: dense traffic, from the sea of floating agcars that thronged around the Ministry of Education and jockeyed for space at the mounting blocks. There were shiny black limos with house crests on the doors, just like his, and Lewin explained that those belonged to good Admin families like Alec’s. There were sporty agcars in bright colors, and those belonged (so Lewin explained, with a slight sniff) to Admin families who had let the side down and failed to live up to their societal obligations. There were black limos without crests, and those belonged to (sniff) climbers who thought they could buy their way into Circles. There were also big public transports, crowding everyone as they bobbed and bounded up to the mounting blocks, and arriving on those were the Consumer classes. All the traffic was exciting, though Alec didn’t like the way it smelled very much. What he found far more exciting was the slow parade of people making their way down the steps of the mounting blocks and into the Ministry building. He had never seen so many children in his life! He counted all of thirty as his chauffeur edged closer to the block, waiting for their turn to get out. He’d seen children from a distance, when he’d been taken on outings to museums or parks, but only from a distance: little figures being pulled along by parents or nannies, as he had been, muffled in coats against the cold, protected by umbrellas from the rain or the sun. Sometimes even their faces were invisible, hidden behind anti-pathogen masks or masks designed to filter out pollen and paniculate matter. But, now! These were children ready, as Alec was more than ready, to make their first official public appearance in the big world. Boys and girls each in the uniforms of their own primary schools, wearing ties of different stripes and colors, nervous little faces bared to the cold air and light of day. Alec wondered why they all looked so scared. He felt sad for them, especially when he remembered that they all had transmitters in their tummies, telling the Education Committee how scared they were. At least they didn’t know they were carrying transmitters. Alec thought smugly of his, which was broadcasting that he was a healthy, well-adjusted boy. He wasn’t scared. Though somebody in the car was scared . . . Alec sniffed the air and turned curiously to Lewin, who was staring out the window with a worried face. “What’s the matter, Lewin?” Lewin blinked at the line of children, each child with a black-coated adult. “Those can’t be ten-year-olds,” he murmured. “Yes, they are,” said Alec in surprise. “They have to be ten. Remember? They’re all here for the test, too.” “That’s not what I meant,” said Lewin, wiping sweat from his face with a tissue. “They’re tiny.” Alec puzzled over that, because the other children did not look especially small to him, in fact they were all pretty much the same exact size; but when at last his turn came, and he and Lewin stepped from the gently rocking car onto the block, he realized what was wrong. He towered over the other children, head and shoulders. “Hell,” Lewin said softly. Alec felt his mouth go dry. He jammed his hands in his pockets to keep from grabbing at Lewin’s coat, and was very glad the spy transmitter could only broadcast that he, Alec Checkerfield, was cool, calm and collected. But first one and then another grownup turned to stare at him, where he stood on the block, and now some of the children were staring too, and pointing, and he heard the whispers beginning. “What’s wrong with that child?” “. . . fourteen at least!” “. . . can’t see how his parents were allowed...” “. . . genetics in these oldjamilies...” “Mummy, why’s he like that?” “Never you mind,” grunted Lewin. “Come on, son.” Alec held his head up and marched down the stairs. He pretended they were Wapping Old Stairs. This was Execution Dock and he was a pirate, and they were taking him to be hanged. Step, step, step and they were all staring at him, but he’d show them how bravely he could die. Three times the tide would ebb and flow before the bastards let him go- Lewin marched beside Alec, meeting the stares with a look of cold challenge. Being nearly a hundred years old, he could remember perfectly well when the occasional tall kid in a class had been nothing to make a fuss over. That had been before the pandemic in ‘77, of course, and then the really bad outbreak in ‘91. Maybe the alarmists were right when they’d said the gene pool was shrinking . . . At least Alec seemed to be taking it well. He had gone quite pale, but his face was blank and serene, almost rapturous as he stretched out his arms for the guard at the door to run the sensor wand over him. It gave a tiny beep and Lewin panicked, thinking Alec might have brought one of his odd little toys with him; but the guard didn’t react, merely waved Alec through, and Lewin realized that the wand was beeping like that for each child. He realized it must be the all-clear signal and relaxed, but his nerves had been so jangled that when he heard someone sniggering, “You don’t suppose that dried-up old prole is his father, do you?” he turned and snapped: “My young gentleman is the son of my lord the earl of Finsbury!” And that shut them up, all right. A beefy moustached somebody went bright red and sidled behind somebody else. Lewin looked down to see if Alec had been upset, but Alec hadn’t heard. ... He was mounting the ladder to the gallows now, fantastically brave, and allowing the executioner to put the noose around his neck, and there were lots of ladies weeping for him in the crowd because he was so fearless, and they all had huge boobies . . . “Come on, son.” Lewin tapped Alec on the shoulder to guide him into the long line of children shuffling along the corridor, paralleled by parents or guardians. The line was moving quickly, and in a moment they had entered the vast auditorium where the PSVA was to be held. Here, guards separated the two lines: children were sent onto the floor, where the long rows of test consoles waited, and adults were directed up into a gallery of seats overlooking the hall. Lewin clambered up the stairs and took his seat, peering down at the floor. He watched as Alec, looming above the other kids, edged sidelong into his chair and sat looking around with a stunned expression. One hundred sixty-three children, and more coming in all the time. And here came a little boy making his way through the rows, trying to get to the vacant console next to Alec’s. When he saw Alec, however, he stopped in his tracks. “Don’t be scared,” Alec told him. “I’m just big.” The boy bit his lip, but started forward again and at last sat down at the console. He was small and thin, with a cafe au lait complexion and gray-blue eyes. Alec observed him with great interest. “Hello. My name is Alec Checkerfield. What’s your name?” “F-Frankie Chatterton,” said the other boy, looking terrified. “That’s my D-Dad and Mummy up there,” he added, pointing to the gallery. Alec looked up at the gallery, where there were precisely two hundred twelve grownups at that moment, and spotted a very dark man with a big black moustache and a lady with a red dot between her eyes. They were both staring at Frankie with expressions of agonized protectiveness. Frankie waved at them and Alec waved too. “Where’s your people?” Frankie inquired. “Oh, somewhere,” said Alec airily, gesturing at the gallery. “You know.” “Are you w-worried?” “Nope.” “I’m really wuh-worried,” said Frankie. “This is very important, you know.” “It’ll be a piece of cake, yeah?” Alec told him. Frankie wrinkled his brow as he pondered that. Trying to think of something to put him at his ease, Alec said, “Those are cool shoes.” They were black and shiny, made of patent leather, and no other child in the room wore anything like them. Frankie looked down proudly. “They have style,” he said. Dad didn’t w-want me to wear them, but I stopped breathing until Mummy said he had to let me.” He reached into his pocket and drew out a tiny silver pin, which he fixed in his tie with great care. “What’s that?” “It’s a good-luck token,” Frankie replied. Alec looked at it closely: a little bat, with pinpoint red stones for eyes. “Wow,” said Alec, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say. Frankie lowered his voice and explained, “I like monster stories, see.” “Oh!” said Alec, delighted. He looked around furtively. “I like pirates,” he whispered. “Wow, that’s really bad!” said Frankie, grinning. But in the next moment his smile fled, as the first of the test administrators ascended the high platform where the podium was. He went pale and cringed down in his seat, whimpering “Oh, no! Not yet, not yet, please, I’m not r-ready.” “It’s okay! See the clock? We’re not supposed to start for another five minutes,” Alec pointed out. “What are you scared of?” “I’m scared I’ll f-fail the test,” Frankie moaned, clutching the desk to steady himself. “Why should you fail?” Alec asked. “You aren’t dumb. I mean, you don’t talk like you are.” “But what if I don’t g-get into Circle?” cried Frankie. “You don’t understand. Everybody’s been saying I’d never get into Circle since I was d-diagnosed.” “Diagnosed?” Alec knit his brows. “What’s that mean?” Frankie looked at him as though he were mad. “You know,” he said. “When they take you to the d-doctor and he diagnoses you as an eccentric!” “Oh.” Alec had never been to a doctor in his life, because he had never been sick. All his annual medical examinations had been done long-distance, with a scanner, and the Captain had carefully showed him how to cancel the readings and input different ones so as not to draw unwanted attention to himself, because doctors were a lot of meddling sons of whores. He pretended to understand now. “Oh! Right. Well, don’t feel bad. If you don’t get into Circle, you’ll get trained for a nice low-stress job somewhere, and you’ll never have to worry about much.” “But my Dad and Mum,” said Frankie, biting his nails. “It would k-kill them. They’ve slaved for me and sacrificed for me, and I’m their only son. I must succeed. I have a responsibility not to disappoint them.” Alec, who knew what it was to disappoint one’s Dad and Mum, winced. He leaned close to Frankie and spoke in an undertone. “Listen. You want the answers? It’s an easy pattern. It’s all Cs until question 18, then all Fs until question 30, then straight Ds the rest of the way until the last question, and that’s A.” “What?” Frankie stared at him, confused. Alec looked into Frankie’s eyes, holding his gaze, and made his voice as soothing as he could. “C to 18, F to 30, D to the end, then A,” he repeated. “See?” “C to 18, F to 30, D to the end, A,” Frankie echoed in bewilderment. “What’s that thing you’re doing with your eyes?” “Nothing,” said Alec, leaning back hastily. “C to 18, F to 30, D to end, A. Yes, you did! They’re all—” “Don’t be scared! I just—” At that moment the first test administrator rapped sharply on the podium, and Frankie jumped in his seat as though he’d been struck. Silence fell quickly in the hall, as the last of the adults and children found their places. “Good afternoon,” said the administrator pleasantly. There was a vast mumbling response from the audience. He smiled out at them all and, from the big framed picture above his head, Queen Mary’s vague pretty face welcomed them too. Alec pretended to do the stiff little wrist-only Royal Wave, trying to make Frankie laugh. Frankie gave a tiny smile with teeth and riveted his glance on the administrator. “How very glad I am to see you here today,” said the administrator. “You future citizens of a great nation! With the exception of seventeen children whose parents refused the Appraisal for political reasons,” and he chuckled as though the Neopunks were harmless oddballs, “every ten-year-old in England is assembled under this roof. Girls and boys, I am honored to meet you all.” Alec looked around, awed. Two hundred seventy-three children! And it was clear that the vast hall had been built for even more; plenty of consoles sat vacant. The administrator continued: “Some of you may be a little nervous. Some of you may be under the impression that this is a contest. But I want to assure each one of you, as well as your parents and guardians, that every child in this room is a winner today. “It wasn’t always so. Why, once upon a time, only the children of privilege were given this chance! Today, we’re all equals. There will be no special tests given privately to children whose mums and dads are a bit better off than others. No private tutors. No coaches. Here, in public, each child of every family, regardless of class, will be tested where all can see. The results of the Appraisal will be announced before everyone, today. This will prove that not only are we an egalitarian society; we can be seen to be egalitarian!” He paused, with an air of triumph, and there was scattered applause. He cleared his throat and leaned forward, continuing: “And today, in this democratic process, we will select those whose natural talents predetermine them to lead the nation of tomorrow. Yet, all will play their part in running the great machine of state. Each boy and girl has a duty, and all are of equal importance. It remains only to properly assign each task to the child best suited for it. “What is required of a good citizen? What has been required by all nations, in every era. Obedience to law, social awareness, and social conformity ...” Especially conformity, thought Lewin irritably. He looked down on the rows of little faces, different colored faces to be sure but otherwise as identical as so many young blobs of pudding, vanilla and chocolate and coffee and strawberry. Except for Alec, of course, fidgeting in his seat as he listened to the administrator. It wasn’t simply that the boy was tall for his age. It wasn’t simply that his features were a bit unusual (though now that he was growing up it was more painfully evident, as his strange face lengthened and the broad high cheekbones rose like cliffs under Alec’s pale eyes). Alec would undoubtedly have to endure being called things like Horseface and Scarecrow once he’d got out in the world; but nobody goes to Hospital for a nickname. Alec’s natural talents, on the other hand . . . Not that Lewin was exactly sure what Alec’s natural talents were, or if in fact they were natural at all. Lewin gritted his teeth now, remembering life as it had been eleven years ago. No worries then, other than seeing to it that the sixth earl didn’t get falling-down drunk in public. Roger Checkerfield had been the sweetest, gentlest upper-class twit it had ever been Lewin’s pleasure to serve. Nominally he was a junior executive with some big multinational firm, but as far as Lewin knew, Roger drew his paycheck simply for loafing around from island to island on his yacht. The life had seemed to suit Lady Finsbury too, though she had ten times Roger’s brainpower and was coolly beautiful besides. Then the call had come, one quiet afternoon when Lewin had been cleaning up the debris of a New Year’s party that had lasted most of a week. Private call for Roger from London, urgent business; Roger had staggered from his deck chair, taken the call in his cabin and come out fifteen minutes later white as a sheet. He’d gone straight to the bar and poured himself a stiff drink. After he’d gulped it down like water he’d ordered a change of course, without explanation. Then he’d gone in to see Lady Finsbury. There had been a hissed quarrel they’d all tried not to hear, though Roger had raised his voice from time to time in a pleading manner. The end of it was that Lady Finsbury had locked herself in her cabin and, in a way, never came out again. That night late they’d lain off Cromwell Cay, and Lewin had not asked what their business was there; but he had seen the red light blinking on the flat sand spit, suggestive of a waiting helicraft. Roger had taken the launch and gone ashore alone, and when he returned had handed up the pretty black girl, Sarah, and the little blanketed bundle she’d brought with her. The bundle had been Alec. In addition to Alec, she’d brought paperwork Lewin and the rest of the crew had all had to sign, attesting that tiny Alec William St. James Thome Checkerfield was the earl and Lady Finsbury’s son, born right there on the yacht. In return they all got generous annuities. But other than holding Alec for the obligatory birth announcement holo, Lady Finsbury had refused ever to touch the child. After that Roger had begun drinking in the mornings, drinking all day, and Lady Finsbury had opted out of the marriage when Alec was four. Roger had taken Alec to the London townhouse, set up a household with servants, and managed to stay sober for a week before he’d quietly vanished over the horizon and never come back. Not a word of explanation, other than occasional incoherent and remorseful audiomail hinting that Alec was different, somehow, and nobody was to know. Different how, damn it? That the boy was a bloody little genius with numbers, that he was able to make unauthorized modifications to supposedly childproof things (and what a lot of Roger’s money it had taken to hush that up!), that he was able to program all the household systems by himself including the security protocols—none of that need necessarily land a child in Hospital. It could be explained away as a freak of precocity. But if Alec were some other kind of freak . . . Lewin wondered uncomfortably, and not for the first time, just what it was that Roger’s big multinational firm did to make its millions. He became aware that Alec was staring up at him in a woebegone sort of way, as the administrator’s speech came to its interminable summing-up. The minute Lewin made eye contact, however, Alec’s eyes brightened, and he winked and mugged and gave Lewin two thumbs up. Lewin smiled back at him. “... there is no inequity. There is no injustice. In an imperfect world, this is perfection: that all should contribute, and all share in the wealth of social order.” And blah blah blah, Alec thought to himself, applauding politely with everyone else. The administrator pressed a control, and in majestic unison, 273 screens rose from 273 consoles. Two hundred seventy-three ten-year-olds fervently wished they were somewhere else. Frankie Chatterton was crying silently. “Remember,” Alec muttered. “It’ll be okay.” Frankie gulped and nodded. Alec turned his eyes to the screen and slipped on the headset. The screen filled with the image of a meadow of golden daffodils, swaying gently in the wind. Sweet music played, something calming, and a voice cooed: “Good morning, dear. 1 hope you’re feeling well. I’m going to tell you a story now, and the best part of it is,you’re the star of the story! You get to make all the decisions. Are you ready? Touch the yellow smiling face if you’re ready; touch the blue frowny face if you’re not ready.” Alec stuck out his tongue in disgust. What a lot of buggery baby talk! He tapped the yellow face impatiently, and the two faces vanished. They were replaced with a picture, done in the style of a child’s drawing, of a row of houses. The nearest door opened and a little stick-figure child emerged. “This is you! And you’re going next door to visit your friend.” Alec watched as the stick figure wobbled over to the next house and knocked on its door. The door opened, and the point of view swooped down to follow the stick figure into the next house. The scene changed to a childish drawing of a front parlor. His stick figure was looking at another stick child sitting on a couch. The other stick child’s moony face was smeared with brown, and he was holding a brown lump of something in his hands. “You go in to see your friend, but, oh, dear! Ugh! You see something nasty! Someone has given your friend sugary sweets! He’s eating chocolate. And now, we’ve come to the part of the story where you decide what happens. What will you do? You have three choices. Here they are!” The red letter A appeared on the screen, and the voice said: “You tell your friend he mustn’t eat such nasty things. He promises he won’t do it anymore. You help him throw away the chocolate and wash his face and hands so nobody will see. “Or does this happen?” And the blue letter B appeared on the screen. “You think the chocolate looks nice. Your friend offers to give you some of the chocolate if you won’t tell anyone what you’ve seen. You take some of the chocolate and you and your friend eat sweets and play games. “Or does this happen?” The yellow letter C appeared. “You go outside and see a Public Health Monitor in the street. You tell him that your friend is eating chocolate, and show him where your friend lives. “Think carefully, now. What happens next? A, B or C? Choose the story you like best. Here are your choices again,” and the voice repeated the three possibilities. Alec narrowed his eyes. Bloody telltales! But he tapped on C. “What a good choice! Are you sure you’ve chosen C? If you are, tap the yellow smiling face and we’ll move on to the next part of the story...” Alec tapped the smiling face and moved on, all right, moved on to the deck of his pirate ship, and he was at the wheel steering handily, and the wind filled all her canvas and she raced along over blue water! Smack, up went the white spray! And the air was clean and smelled of the sea. The Captain paced the quarterdeck above him with a spyglass, looking out for treasure galleons, and the swivel guns on the rail waited for Alec’s expert aim as soon as there was any chance of mayhem . . . When the test had ended, everyone filed from the hall into the Ministry’s banqueting room beyond, where they were all treated to a luncheon. Lewin could barely choke it down, he was so nervous. At least Alec didn’t seem frightened; he didn’t eat much, but sat gazing about him at the other children in frank curiosity. At last he turned and inquired, “I didn’t know I was so tall. Do you think they mind?” “Of course they don’t mind,” said Lewin, opening his pillbox and taking out an antacid. “I expect they’re just not used to you. Perhaps they’re a bit scared.” “Of me?” Alec looked impressed. He took a julienned green bean from his plate, stuck one end of it up one nostril and stood at his place. “Excuse me! Somebody got a tissue? I need to blow my nose!” The children around him screamed with laughter, and some of the adults snorted, but most fixed on him with a glare of outrage. Lewin went pale and sank back, closing his eyes. “Young man, that is disgusting and an immoral waste of food!” shouted the nearest parent. “My-young-gentleman-is-the-son-of-my-lord-the-earl-of-Finsbury,” Lewin rattled off like a prayer, and it worked again; the angry parents swallowed back venom, the amused parents nodded knowingly at one another. “I’m very sorry,” said Alec contritely, and ate the green bean. The other children screamed again, and Alec caught the end of one parent’s muttered remark: “. . . get away with it because he’s one of the hereditaries.” “See?” Alec said to Lewin as he sat down again. “Now they won’t be scared of me.” And the other children to either side and across the table did begin to chat with Alec, and the adults stolidly pretended nothing had happened, and Lewin wiped his brow and prayed that this incident wouldn’t affect the outcome of the Sorting. * * * After lunch they were herded into another vast room, empty with a dais in the center, and everyone was lined up along the walls, all the way around. That morning the children had kept their distance while the adults had grouped together to talk; now that the die had been cast, the children waved and shouted to one another and it was the adults who kept to themselves, eyeing the competition. “Now we’ll see,” hissed Lewin, as an administrator crossed the room and mounted the dais. Alec, distracted from semaphoring at Frankie Chatterton, looked up at him. “Why are you scared again?” Lewin just shook his head. The administrator coughed and hammered on the podium, and a deathly silence fell. This was a different man from the first administrator. He looked less like a politician and more like a holo announcer. “Good afternoon, citizens!” he said, and his words echoed in the room. “I hope you all enjoyed your luncheons? Girls and boys, are you ready for the exciting news? Remember, everybody’s a winner today! Let’s say it all together: Everybody’s a winner!” “EVERYBODY’S A WINNER,” groaned the parents, piped the children obediently. “That’s right! The results are all tallied and the appraisals have been made! I know you’re all eager to see what part you’ll play in the bright future awaiting every one of us, so without further ado—the vocational assignments!” And he applauded wildly to show they were all supposed to join in, so they all did, and when everyone’s hands were tired he cleared his throat again and said loudly: “Aalwyn, Neil David! Please approach the podium.” Neil David Aalwyn was a very small boy with scraped knees, and his parents flanked him up to the dais, looking edgily from side to side. They had arrived that morning by public transport and their clothes were not elegant, were in fact about five years behind the time in fashion. “And what does jour father do, Neil?” boomed the administrator. Neil opened his mouth to speak but nothing audible came out, and his father cried hoarsely: “Farm for Sleaford Council!” “A farmer’s son! That’s a noble profession, young Neil. Without the farmers, we’d have nothing to eat, would we? And I’m happy to report that you scored so well, it is the opinion of the Committee that you are fully fit to follow in your father’s footsteps!” There was a breathless pause, and Alec heard a faint muttering from dark corners of the room. The administrator added: “But! With the further recommendation that you be considered for Council membership, thanks to your extraordinarily developed social conscience!” Neil’s parents brightened at that, and there was thunderous applause as they returned to the wall. “Throw ‘em a sop,” Lewin said under his breath, but Alec heard him and looked up. “Is Council the same thing as Circle?” he inquired. “Not exactly. But it’s better than he might have done,” Lewin replied. “It’ll keep his subgroup happy.” Neil Aalwyn was followed by Jason Allanson, who was going to be a clerk just like his father, but that was all right because literacy was a fine thing; after him came Camilla Anderson, who had done so well she was going to join the Manchester Circle, as her parents had done (“Big surprise,” growled Lewin). Arthur Arundale was going to follow his honored mother and continue the fine family tradition of driving public transports. Kevin Ashby, Elvis Atwood-Crayton, Jane Auden: all winners and all neatly slotted into careers they’d be sure to love, or would at least find reasonably personally fulfilling. Babcock, Baker, Banks, Beames, came and went without surprises, and so did the rest of the Bs until little Edmund Bray, standing at the dais with his parents the third earl of Stockport and Lady Stockport, was informed that he could look forward to a life free from responsibilities and might perhaps pursue a career in the arts. Lord Stockport went purple in the face, Lewin exhaled, and a buzz of excitement ran through the room. Many of the parents were hugging themselves gleefully; others stood silent and mortified. “I BEG your pardon?” shouted the third earl. “What’s happened?” demanded Alec. “What’s wrong? Didn’t he win too?” “It’s just fairness, son,” Lewin whispered beside his ear. “Remember how I said there’s always one hereditary Admin who gets thrown to the wolves every year, for appearances’ sake? Keeps the lower classes happy. Makes room for somebody else to move up into a Circle and get a nice job, and you can’t say that isn’t democratic.” “But what’ll happen to him?” asked Alec, staring at Edmund Bray, who was looking on uneasily as his parents held a sizzling sotto-voce conversation with the administrator. “Nothing much. His people have money; he’ll live it down. Wouldn’t have failed if he hadn’t been a little blockhead, anyway,” Lewin explained lightheartedly. He was giddy with joy that Alec hadn’t been the chosen sacrifice. “Besides, for every one Admin like him that gets what’s coming to him, there’s ten brilliant Consumer kids who ought to make Circle and get stuck being bank managers instead. No worries, son.” The rest of the Bs were something of an anticlimax, but as they got into C Alec could feel Lewin tensing up again. Calberry, Carter, Cattley . . . “Yo ho, we’re on the high Cs,” Alec whispered to make Lewin smile, forgetting he wasn’t supposed to talk about pirates. Lewin just grimaced. “Francis Mohandas Chatterton!” cried the administrator. Alec turned in surprise and applauded as Frankie was pushed up to the dais by his Dad and Mummy. Behind them, quietly, walked four men in suits. Lewin put his hand on Alec’s shoulder a moment, clenching tight. Nobody in the room made a sound. Alec could hear his own heart beating. The administrator’s voice was just as peppy as ever, seemed loud as a trumpet when he said: “Well, Francis, you’re a very lucky boy! The Committee has determined that you’re entitled to special counseling! What a happy and carefree life you’ll have!” Alec heard Lewin make a noise as though he’d been punched. Frankie’s Mum put her hands to her mouth with a little scream, and Frankie’s Dad turned and noticed the four men. “What—what—” he said, still too surprised to be angry. Frankie had begun to cry again, hopelessly. Alec felt Lewin pull him back and half-turn him, as though he could keep Alec from seeing. “Ah, Christ, they’re not going to fight, are they?” Lewin mumbled. “Poor little bastard—” “I don’t understand,” said Alec wildly, straining to see. “He didn’t fail! Why are they—” “He’s going into Hospital, Alec. Don’t look, son, it’s rude. Leave them go with some privacy, eh?” But Alec couldn’t look away as Frankie’s dad began to struggle, shouting that this was an outrage, that it was racially motivated, that he’d appeal, and the administrator kept talking cheerily as though he couldn’t hear, saying: “Please follow our courtesy escort to the waiting complimentary transport. You’ll be whisked away to a lovely holiday at the East Grinstead Facility before beginning your special classes!” Nobody applauded. Alec felt as though he were going to throw up. Two of the men in suits were dragging Frankie’s dad toward the door now, as the other two shepherded Frankie and his mummy after them. The administrator drew a deep breath and sang out, “Alec William St. James Thome Checkerfield!” Alec seemed frozen in place, until Lewin pushed him forward. Dazed, he walked out to the dais and looked up into the administrator’s happy face. “Well, Alec, it’s a pleasure to meet you! What do your dad and mum do, Alec?” Alec was tongue-tied. He heard Lewin’s voice coming from just behind him: “My young gentleman’s father is the Right Honourable Roger Checkerfield, sixth earl of Finsbury, sir.” “He’ll be proud of you for sure, Alec,” beamed the administrator. “You’re to be admitted to the London Circle of Thirty! Well done, young Checkerfield! We expect great things of you!” There was applause. Alec stood there, staring. How could he have passed when Frankie had failed so badly, since they’d both had the right answers? Then Alec remembered the transmitters. He felt something swelling in his chest like a balloon. He was drawing breath to shout that it wasn’t fair, that it was all a cheat, when he looked up and saw Lewin’s old face shining with relief. So Alec said nothing, but walked meekly back to his place when the applause had ended. He stood like a stone through the rest of the ceremony, and every time he tried to summon blue water and a tall ship to comfort himself, all he saw was Frankie’s dad wrestling with the other men. Twice more that afternoon, unhappy children and their parents were escorted out the door by the ominous-looking men, and everyone pretended not to notice. When it was all over at last, Alec walked out with Lewin to the street where the limos were lining up, whooshing and bobbing in the wind. Waiting for his car to pull close, Alec climbed the steps of the mounting block and pretended he was going to the gallows. . . . Again, he felt the noose being put around his neck. Perhaps he was a heroic prisoner of war? And the bad guys would execute him, but in this game he had managed to set free all the other prisoners, including the kids in Hospital. With no fear of death, he stepped forward off the ladder and felt the rope draw tight. . . “Come on, son.” Lewin opened the door for him. “Let’s go home.” Alec was silent in the car, until at last looking up to say: “That wasn’t fair. Frankie Chatterton shouldn’t have gone into Hospital. He wasn’t bad. I talked to him!” “That’s right, he sat beside you, didn’t he?” said Lewin. “But there must have been something wrong with the kid, son, or they wouldn’t have sent him off.” “He told me he’d been diagnosed eccentric,” said Alec miserably. “Ohh,” said Lewin, and his face cleared and in his voice was sudden understanding, complete resignation, acceptance. “Oh, well, no wonder, then. Best to get that lot Sorted out early. Shame, but there it is.” That night the Captain, patiently monitoring Alec’s vital signs, noted that it was past ten and Alec was still awake. He activated the projector and manifested himself beside Alec’s bed. “Now then, matey, it’s six bells into the first night watch. Time you was turning in, says I.” “What happens to you in Hospital?” asked Alec, gazing up at the star patterns on his ceiling. “Aw, now, nothing too bad. I reckon an ordinary dull kid wouldn’t mind it much.” “What if you weren’t dull?” Alec asked. “What if you were smart?” “Why, they’d give you things to do,” the Captain explained, pulling a chair from cyberspace and settling back in it. “More tests, so as to be certain you ain’t the sort of boy what likes to set fire to things, or shoot folk, or like that. And if they decided you wasn’t, you might get yerself discharged some day. “Or I’ll tell you what else might happen,” and he leaned close with a gleam in his eyes, “and this is a secret, matey, but it’s true all the same: some of the biggest companies in business, all their idea people is compensated eccentrics. When they wants real talent, they goes snooping around Hospitals for bright boys like yer little friend. See? And they arrange to bail ‘em out, and give ‘em contracts. So he might wind up with a good job after all.” “That would be nice,” said Alec listlessly. “But it’s still sad. Frankie’s Mum and Dad needed him to do well. Nobody needs me to do well, but I got into Circle anyway. It should have happened the other way around. Nobody would have been hurt if I’d gone into Hospital.” “Belay that talk! What about old Lewin and Mrs. L? They’d miss you if you was taken away, certain sure. And what about me, matey?” “But you’re a machine,” said Alec patiently. “Machines got feelings, son. We’re programmed to. Same as you, I reckon.” The Captain stroked his wild beard, looking shrewdly at Alec. “What’s put this notion of surrender into yer head, eh? Who’s been feeding my boy a lot of nonsense? Or is it that you just don’t want to go into Circle?” “No,” Alec said, bewildered, because he’d always looked forward to Circle and suddenly realized that now he hated the idea. “Yes. I don’t know. I want to sail away and be free, Captain!” “And so we will, lad. Soon’s you come of age, hell! We give ‘em the slip and we’re off to Jamaica and anywheres else you want to go. But until then, we got to play along with the bastards, don’t we? So no more talk about going into Hospital.” Alec nodded. After a moment he said, “Life isn’t fair, is it?” “Too bloody right it ain’t fair!” The Captain bared his teeth. “It’s a fixed game, Alec, that’s what it is for certain. You ain’t got a chance unless you cheat.” “Then somebody ought to make new rules,” said Alec sullenly. “I reckon so, son. But that’s more than a old AI and a tired little matey can plot for tonight. Come morning we’ll set a course for a new world, eh? You sleep now.” “Aye aye, sir,” said Alec. He turned over and punched his pillow, settling down and closing his eyes. The Captain winked out but continued to scan, and the four red camera eyes in the corners of the ceiling watched over Alec with brooding love. . . . Gradually the dim headland came into view, as the fog lifted away. There shining on the hills was the place Alec wanted, where he would make new rules. The west wind freshened. He howled orders from the wheel and his phantom crew mounted into the shrouds, clapping on sail. The breeze caught and flared Alec’s black ensign, his death’s head banner, and he grinned at the unsuspecting city.