Jonathan Paulson
A License to Kill
John could not help but let out a gasp of awe as he stepped out into the streets of New
York City. It was an impressive sight. The skyscrapers around him stretched higher than
the eye could see, giving the breathtaking illusion that they extended upwards forever.
The illusion wasn’t far from reality; in truth, the buildings extended 3 miles above John’s
head. They covered almost the entire ground, leaving only a tiny sidewalk for pedestrians,
a small tribute to the old days before teleportation had been perfected. In the dying sunset,
the walls of the buildings glittered, almost as though they were alive. John knew that it
was just the automated repair bots keeping everything in working order, but it still gave
the buildings a strange mechanical vitality, as though the city was a living entity. This
was the superstructure of metal and silicon that housed nearly a billion human beings. It
was a technological marvel, a living testament to man’s height of glory.
A height, John mused bitterly, that was rapidly fading. There was something missing
from his grand view of New York City. Something fundamentally wrong. There were no
people.
He hadn’t expected any, of course. He’d known, long before he’d ventured up here,
what he was going to find. The flatline graphs of city power usage told the story. But
there was something uniquely saddening, uniquely frightening, about seeing the
emptiness with his own eyes. Truly, New York City was in a state of living death.
Certainly, there were people around him; there were probably thousands around him
within a radius of a few hundreds yards. But they weren’t doing anything. They didn’t
need to. The machines handled everything: not only the maintenance of the city, but even
the mundane details of everyday life: eating, drinking, exercise. Centuries ago, scientists
had hailed automation as the greatest timesaver ever invented. But they forgot to answer
one crucial question: saving time…for what? For all the bother, there was something to
be said for work, for that sense of meaningful accomplishment. With that gone, people
had begun to fritter away their time any way they could: watching reruns of old TV
shows, long since enjoyed; aimlessly surfing the Net; mindlessly chatting with friends…
And while everyone blessed the wonders of automation, through it all was a vague
undercurrent of dissatisfaction. People, to put it bluntly, were bored. The more obvious it
became, the more dogmatically everyone determined to convince their neighbors, and
themselves, that they were having a good time.
It was then, in the midst of that shallow hedonism, that Eban Curus had discovered
the chemical basis of pleasure. On August 8, 2092, he published an article entitled “On
Methods of Stimulating Endorphin Production in Mammals”. Within weeks, he had
begun human trials. A year later, the first Pleasantron 5000s came rolling off the
automated production lines. And a decade after that, life for 99.99% of the planet was
nothing more than electrical stimulation of the brain’s pleasure center. People had finally
found something to do with their spare time.
With a determined effort, John brought himself out of his reverie. “What’s done is
done,” he muttered under his breath. No amount of self-pitying reminisces were going to
change that. His plan, though, just might.
After a few seconds of looking, he found the access port he’d been searching for and
plugged into the Net, the near-sentient computer software that controlled all the
machinery in the city. “Warning,” a computerized monotone droned from the port.
“Accessor’s patterns do not conform to any known specifications.” John smiled broadly;
it’d taken months to delete himself from the Net’s databases. Now for the real trick.
“Computer, run program alpha sixty-seven”. He paused, breath bated, for the few
moments it took the Net to process his command. It didn’t take long. A second later
EXECUTION COMPLETE
flashed on the screen. Followed, moments later, by the shrill blaring
of fire alarms. John knew they were going off all across the city. A simple enough ploy,
but it would do the trick. And now for the real performance. “Computer, execute beta
five.” A few more tense moments of processing, and then the blessed EXECUTION COMPLETE
appeared. The port intoned “You are now broadcasting from all monitors.”
“Rise and shine, ladies and gentlemen. Time to get up and face the world. You’ve
been sleeping long enough. 30 years, actually.” Suddenly John’s voice rose to a rage. “30
years of sloth, decadence, and hedonism unmatched in human history! 30 years in which
not a house was built, not a nail was hammered, not a pen was taken to paper! 30 years in
which the world stood still!” His voice turned calmer again. “But I digress. Don’t hit the
snooze button just yet folks. I haven’t gotten to the point of all this. We’re going to play a
game, you and I. The simplest, most fundamental, and most honest game there is. A game
whose rules are written in the very fabric of reality itself. A game of risk, played for the
highest stakes there are. The rules, ladies and gentlemen, are very simple. You die, you
lose. Kill me, and you win. Your ancestors played this little game for thousands of years.
Not against me, of course, but against all the hazards this universe could throw at them,
and, frequently, against each other. They even won. But, as is the case with so many
things, the point of this fundamental game isn’t the destination, but the journey. No one is
supposed to win. I’m here to see you don’t. Stop me if you can.
But enough of that. Let’s begin. And since we’re just starting out, I’ll give you a
freebie: Westons hotel is rigged to explode in…let’s see…58 minutes, 49 seconds. My,
I’m running late. Best of luck to you, ladies and gentlemen. I think you’ll need it.”
“Computer, delete all records from this access.” A few seconds, and then MEMORY
PURGED. John
paused for a moment; he could hear the faint sounds of panicked screams
from the direction of Weston’s. He smiled broadly, and strode off.
At Westons, the situation was rapidly deteriorating.
Being ripped out of eternal bliss to waken to the shrill beeping of fire alarms and the
news that one’s life is in imminent jeopardy is too much for most people to bear. Bryan
Wyers could hardly hear himself think above the panicked hysteria. He could barely keep
from panicking himself; the icy chill of animal fear almost held him immobile.
Somewhere, his rational mind knew he had to do something, but his mind had trouble
convincing the rest of his. Like a deer trapped in the headlights, he thought detachedly.
I’ve gone tharn. With that thought, paradoxically, his rational mind finally regained
control. “SHUT UP!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. Instantly, almost magically, the
room went silent. “Just calm down,” he said firmly. “Panicking won’t help anyone.
We’ve got an hour to get out of the building.”
“We’re a mile and a half up,” someone retorted.
Bryan chose to ignore the speaker; the words were all too true for his liking.
“Computer,” he said, “scan the building for explosive devices.”
“837 devices found.”
“When are they set to detonate?”
“1:00pm.”
“Can you disable them?”
“Regrettably, repair bots within the building are currently not operational. The
devices appear to be jamming my control over them.”
“Jesus Christ”, he swore loudly. Time for a new tactic. “Computer, are the teleporters
still operational?”
“Affirmative.”
“Can you teleport everyone out before 1:00?”
“Affirmative.” Bryan breathed a sigh of relief.
“Then do it!”
“Access code required”.
“Damnit.” Bryan swore under his breath.
Then, from, among the throng of people, a woman spoke: “Computer, access code
alpha three beta two seven five nine.”
“Authorization accepted.”
“Linda Jones, engineer”, the woman introduced herself.
“Thank you, Miss Jones. You may have just saved all our lives. It’s a lucky thing you
remembered that access code.” At that moment, the blue, sweeping beam of the teleporter
reached them and they vanished.
For the first few seconds after their reappearance, Bryan was utterly bewildered. He
seemed to be in an endless sea of people, crowded so close he was literally knocking
elbows with those beside him. He belatedly realized he hadn’t told the computer where to
take them, and spent a few panicked moments wondering just where they were. Then he
spotted a tree about a hundred yards up: they were in Central Park. The only piece of
greenery left in the whole city.
Just then, the massive television just ahead of Bryan lit up. His heart sank when he
saw what was on it…the same face that had threatened to destroy Weston’s not 20
minutes before.
“Not bad, not bad at all,” the face chuckled. “Bryan, you just saved hundreds of
thousands of lives. Of course, you used the Net, which wasn’t very sporting…still, one
step at a time, yes? You certainly did better than the millions who plugged right back into
their chemical euphorias after I finished speaking just now. But hey, everyone gets a
choice, right? And if they choose not to live, I’ll be happy to oblige. See you around.”
“He’s mocking us,” Bryan seethed.
“I’m beginning to think he has a right to,” a young man opined. “It boggles the mind
to imagine that millions of people went right back to the pleasure machines after he
threatened to kill us all.”
Bryan turned on him: “So what, you just want to stand back while he kills them?”
“Not at all. I think he’s right…about everything. He’s given us a challenge; I for one,
intend to take it: I’m going to kill him.”
Bryan stared, dumbfounded. “Well, that’s an interesting perspective.”
The youth shrugged. “Hey, play the altruist if you like. Makes no difference to me.
Important thing is we both want him dead. You’re...Bryan, right?”
“Yeah, that’s right. And you are?”
“Maximilia Sarna at your service. You can call me Max. Now, let’s see what the
computer can tell us. Not sporting, perhaps…but they say all’s fair in love and war.
Computer, identify the man who was broadcasting from this television a few minutes
ago.”
“I have no record of any recent broadcasts from that machine.”
“How is that possible?”
“Speculation: There was no broadcast from that machine.”
“Very cute. Ignoring that possibility?”
“My records may have been tampered with.”
“I don’t suppose there’s any way to detect that?”
“My records appear authentic. Skillful tampering remains a possibility.”
“OK…can you identify him from his first broadcast?”
“Please specify.”
“A hair past noon, from Weston’s.”
“There is no such broadcast in my records.”
“Damnit…he’s invisible or something.”
Linda spoke up: “My guess is he deleted the records of his broadcast.”
“How?” said Bryan angrily. “I thought the Net couldn’t be tampered with like that.”
“Don’t forget,” said Max, “that he’s had 30 years to plan this, to prepare for it. He
had time to break through the Net’s security, which was good, I’d wager, but not perfect.
We rested on our laurels, and now we’re paying the price of inattention.”
Bryan looked outraged. “Are you in love with this murdering bastard or something?”
“Look me in the eye,” Max said calmly, “and tell me I’m wrong. Tell me he’s wrong.”
They sat there, staring at each other, for a full half a minute. Finally Bryan looked away.
He said quietly, “I don’t know. Maybe we were too lazy. But to my mind, that’s between
a man and God, and no one else’s business. Everyone should have the right to live as they
like. We certainly have the right not to be slaughtered like sheep on one egomaniac’s
presumptive authority.”
“Rights,” said Max, “are earned; they are not given.”
“Fascinating as this is,” Linda broke in tartly, “we’re no closer to finding said
egomaniac. Which, we can all agree, is the task at hand. Computer, restrict Net access to
only those who you can identify. Anytime anyone accesses the Net, make a note of their
identity in my personal data unit.” EXECUTION COMPLETE “Well, that should at least give us
fair warning before he uses the computer again.”
“Good,” said Bryan. “Now, based off that little speech, it sounded to me like he was
planning to go after the pleasure-dreamers.” Linda and Max nodded their assent.
“Assuming he won’t be able to launch an electronic attack–”
“–which he won’t”, Linda broke in. Bryan looked far from certain.
“Well…he’ll actually have to go to them. It’s a perfect chance for an ambush.”
Max looked skeptical: “What…find the biggest concentration of pleasure-dreamers,
sit there with a gun, and shoot at anyone who happens to stop by? Any of us ever fired a
gun?”
“I have, son.” Bryan turned to face the speaker, a tall well-built man, whose most
striking feature was a thick, unruly mane of brilliantly crimson hair. He looked to be in
his late forties, a rarity in an age where genetic engineering allowed most people to stop
aging in their mid-twenties. “I’ve been listening to what you folks are saying,” he
continued, “and I reckon y’all are right.” His voice grew somber. “It’s him or us. “ He
brightened again. “But where are my manners; I’ve forgotten to introduce myself. Sam
Collins, Sergeant First Class. Or at least I was, before they disbanded the military. I never
did understand why they did that. Nature appointed force as the final arbiter of all
disputes; it doesn’t seem right that a nation should ignore that. Anyway, I’ll stand in your
ambush. And if I see that killer, I’ll blow him back to Hell where he belongs.” Bryan and
Max both looked troubled; Linda broke into a wide smile.
“Sam,” she said, “we’re glad to have you with us. It’ll be good to have someone
along who’s seen some real combat. Now, to business. Computer, where is the highest
concentration of the pleasure-dreamers?”
“30% of the Pleasantrons at the Chrysler building are currently in use.”
“30%!” said Bryan incredulously. Max gave a cynical smile.
“Well then,” said Linda, “that’s where we’ll go.”
“Just one second, Ma’am”, said Sam. “Computer, we’ll need some weapons…”
Half an hour, they were at the Chrysler building, armed to the teeth. According to the
computer, the building was 7,000 feet high. 650 floors. 65,000 rooms. 300,000 people.
All of them asleep. The rest, Bryan knew, were lining the streets to Central Park, which
had become the de facto hub of the city for the awakened. “No ground windows, one
door,” said Sam. “Good. No variables to consider. Everyone cover the door. Anything
moves, shoot it.”
“Bu-?” Bryan began.
Sam seemed to read his mind. “No one’ll be around here. They’re all down at Central.”
Bryan looked dubious. “Look,” Sam said, seeing Bryan’s doubt, “if this guy’s as good as
he thinks he is, we don’t have room to play around. If, God forbid, we shoot an innocent,
the medi-bots’ll take care of it.” Bryan was about to reply, but at that moment, a huge
explosion rocked the ground. Bryan looked around frantically.
“It’s Weston’s”, said Linda. Bryan paused for a moment. Had it really just been an
hour since this nightmare started? It seemed so very much longer.
Suddenly, he heard a loud hissing noise at his feet. Bryan looked down, and saw a
small, gray cylinder spewing black smoke at an alarming rate. He couldn’t see more than
a few feet. Then, Max’s voice, tense, excited: “Saw him! Damn! He’s after the power
generators on level two.” He caught a glimpse of a tall, dark figure, dressed all in
black…almost impossible to see against the smoke. He saw the muzzle of a gun, pointed
at the man. Max’s, he thought. Bryan tensed, waiting for Max to pull the trigger. But the
gun just held there. The man in black disappeared. Then came the deafening sound of
gunfire. Too slow, he cursed silently. Bryan stumbled in what he thought was the general
direction of the stairs, but the room was pitch black. He stumbled over something that felt
like an overturned chair and went down. Then, red lights everyone, and a blaring voice:
“Warning: Power overload! Reduce generator output immediately.” Finally, he found the
stairs. As quickly as he could, he made his way to the generator room. The others were
already there.
“Very slick,” said Sam darkly. “He used the explosion at Weston’s to cover blowing
the door open. While we were disoriented from the smoke grenade, he rushed up here,
cranked the power to max, and fled out the window.”
“I thought you couldn’t get in these windows,” said Bryan.
“You can’t,” said Linda. “But you can get out.”
“So,” said Bryan, “how bad is the damage?”
Max responded with an odd look on his face, “Dead. They’re all dead. He set the
generator to maximum output. Fried their brains.”
“Hey, kid,” said Sam, clapping a hand on Max’s shoulder, “it’s not your fault.” Max
didn’t look convinced. Bryan looked hard at Max’s face. He wasn’t either.
As they were walking back to the Park, Bryan pulled Max aside: “We need to chat.”
“Sure, man, what’s up?”
“Back there, down in the smoke…I saw, you had him. All you had to do was pull the
trigger. You didn’t.” Max turned pale, and he began to sweat. “Man, all that smoke…it
was a mess. I wasn’t sure who I was pointing a gun at. I just…froze, you know?”
“300,000 people are dead because you ‘just froze’.”
“You think I don’t know that? I feel terrible.”
Bryan’s voice turned brittle: “You’re a bad liar, Max.”
Max was silent for a few seconds. It looked like he was sizing Bryan up. Finally, he
spoke: “I meant to shoot him back there. I really did. But…it’s not enough, don’t you
understand? He’s not done yet. Have you seen the latest figures? Something like 20% are
back to dreaming. Less than two hours after they woke up. Half an hour since the hotel
blew up, and they’ve decided there’s no danger. They needed proof.”
Bryan looked horrified. “Proof at what cost? 300,000 people?”
“300,000 human beings, maybe,” said Max. “Not people. They haven’t been people
for 30 years. And today, they had a chance to change that, and they threw it away.”
“You sound like him! Playing God. Judging who deserves to live and who deserves to
die. You don’t have the right–”
“If I had pulled that trigger, killed that man who you condemn so readily, the threat
would’ve been over. We would have won. And in a day, the pleasure chambers would be
full again. Is that the world you want to live in?”
“300,000 people!”
“It is the mind, not the body, that is the measure of a man. They were dead already.”
“There’s a difference between sleeping and dead.”
“Not if you sleep forever. They chose death. He gave it to them.”
“You were sleeping, a few hours ago. Did you deserve death?”
Max remained silent for several minutes. Finally, he replied: “Yes, I did. We all did.
But he gave me a second chance. I’m taking it.”
Bryan sighed: “Look, the bottom line is we can’t trust you in a fight if you won’t pull
that trigger.”
Max smiled sadly: “I know it.” Bryan’s expression turned to torturous anguish. They
stood there, staring at each other for nearly a minute. Then, suddenly, they both went for
their guns. They were both equally quick, though, and suddenly death was just a twitch
away for both Max and Bryan.
“You’re going to help him,” said Bryan.
“Yes,” Max agreed.
“I can’t let you do that,” said Bryan slowly. But his gun wavered.
“Can you do anything else?” asked Max. “Can you shoot me? Can you kill a living,
breathing, thinking person in cold blood?”
“I…” Bryan hesitated. “In the name of all I believe in, I should pull this trigger.
But…God forgive me…I can’t.” Bryan paused, then continued: “It’s a sad sight when an
argument among civilized men is settled at the point of a gun. But I guess some
arguments can’t be settled any other way. Get out of here.” Without a word, a strange
mix of triumph, sadness, and empathy on his face, Max slowly began to back away.
Just then, Linda called back to them: “You two coming, or – my God! What the hell
are you doing?” She and Sam ran over.
Max began to retreat faster. “I was just leaving,” Max said nervously.
“STAY WHERE YOU ARE!” bellowed Sam, in the tone of intimidating command
only an experienced drill sergeant can muster. Max unconsciously obeyed, his eyes
darting back and forth in terror. “WHAT IS GOING ON?”
“He had a shot,” said Bryan softly. “He didn’t take it.”
“First combat, people freeze up,” said Sam understandingly. “No reason to be
pointing a gun at anyone.”
“Intentionally,” Bryan added, almost in a whisper. “Max let him get away
intentionally.” There were a few moments of silence, and then the quiet was violently
broken by a quick burst of gunfire from Sam’s automatic rifle, which had been drawn and
fired with impossible speed. Max was dead before he hit the ground. Linda and Bryan
stood there, mouths gaping. They seemed physically dazed.
“Desertion is treason, punishable by death,” intoned Sam passively.
Bryan recovered, fueled with righteous indignation: “It’s not that simple”.
“Son,” answered Sam, “there’s a hell of a lot of complicated things in war. Picking
sides ain’t one of ‘em. There’s two choices, and Max chose wrong. And this game is for
keeps.”
“You didn’t have to kill –”
“Those are the rules of the game. I didn’t make them, and I don’t like them, but I’m
sure as hell not playing with a handicap. 300,000 people died here because Max chose
not save them. Choices have consequences.”
“He was just –”
Linda cut Bryan off: “Look, what’s done is done. Arguing about it won’t change
anything. The sooner we get back to the Park, the sooner we can finish this whole ugly
business.”
“A kid just got shot in front of your eyes, and you don’t give a damn?” Bryan cried
incredulously. Linda didn’t reply, just turned and walked away. Sam wordlessly slung his
gun back over his shoulder and followed. Bryan looked helplessly at Max’s bloody
corpse, and then at the retreating figures of his comrades-in-arms. Finally, tears welling
in his eyes, he walked back towards the fight.
The shadowed figure hidden in the nearby trees looked out on the scene. “So I have
brought death into the Garden of Eden. As I had to. Without death, there can be no life.
Men cannot live as men in paradise. So I play the serpent, though I may be damned for it.”
He turned to walk away, paused, and went back for Max’s body. He could at least give
the boy a decent burial.
A few miles away, 300,000 atrophied brains began to rot.