About the Author
A.L. Sirois does software engineering, web design and graphics for a small company in New Jersey, where he lives with his wife and two children. He has recently completed a screenplay involving Willy Ley and Nazi espionage. When he's not writing, working or spending time with his family he plays drums in a rock band and oversees the SFWA BULLETIN website.
Mr. Sirois invites you to visit his Web site.
As Bad As It Gets
by A.L. Sirois
Mardin Symes leaned against the doorjamb, looking wide-eyed over his shoulder. He took a deep breath to calm his breathing, but it didn't stop his heart slugging in his chest. It was ten minutes past two a.m. in a black stairwell leading to the basement of a grungy building in The Hill, New Haven's worst neighborhood. But his old Special Forces buddy Boz Parker lived here, doing security and maintenance for the building. Mardin pounded on the panel. A siren wailed somewhere far away in the depths of the city. Come on, come on! he thought, teeth clenched.
"Jesus, all right -- I'm comin'." The voice grew louder as its owner shuffled toward the door. "It better be good, s'all I can say."
"Boz, it's me: Mard!"
"Mard? Jesus -- you know what time it is?"
Clunks and bangs, as Boz shot back deadbolts at top and bottom and unlocked the door. It swung open.
Mardin shoved in past the beefy black man, who closed the door behind him and locked it carefully before turning to face him with bleary eyes. He held a pistol as casually as some men might hold a cigarette.
Stained concrete walls painted green rose on each side to a cracked plaster ceiling just over Mardin's head. At eye level, a dangling 25-watt eterno cast reddish light onto dirty asphalt tiles.
"You look like hell," said Boz, rubbing three days of beard.
He wore a teeshirt and old sweatpants, and had shaved his head since Mardin had last seen him. His skull glittered like a weathered stone in the red glow. "Whatchoo doing here?"
"I need a place, Boz. It's as bad as it gets."
Boz grunted at the old catchphrase they'd shared in the pestiferous bars of Chicalyo, Peru, back in '02. They had saved each other's lives in the jungle, and swore then that if one of them ever showed up at the other one's door using that phrase, help would be given with no questions asked.
Now Boz kept his end of the five-year-old deal. "C'mon, Slick," he said.
Mardin followed Boz's hipsprung walk out of the eterno's glow, down the hallway, through a doorway and up a flight of stairs. Boz fumbled with a small keypad he took from his sweats. "Okay," he said. "Alarm system's off." Their footsteps echoed in a tiled foyer.
"Elevator's broke," Boz whispered. "'nother flight up."
Mardin followed him down a dim hallway lit by dusty eternos. "Two west went vacant three days ago," Boz said. "Junkie. Heh -- I sorta hadda help him go. Mind the bloodstain. Here's the key. Keep the shades down. It'll be good for maybe a week before I have to start showing it. That okay?"
"I owe you," murmured Mardin. He squeezed Boz's arm.
"You got that right." Boz rolled away, mumbling.
Mardin went to relieve himself. By the time he left the bathroom, Boz was back with half a carton of eggs, a jar of instant coffee, a loaf of bread and some jelly.
"You look hungry," said Boz. "Breakfast?"
"Hell, yes!"
*
"Aw, man!" said Boz, pacing the cracked linoleum in the vacant apartment's kitchen. His passage disturbed a roach under the stove. It scurried across the floor and under a closet door, ignored by both men. "Aw, man -- so Ellie was cheatin' on you? That's terrible. That's bad. Man!"
"So we split up -- and I dunno, I been drinking. You know how it is. Had me a gig doing security for one of those gated communities up north of Bridgeport. Came in drunk to work, so I got fired. Then she served me with papers."
"Yeah, well, I can dig why'd you be upset," said Boz. "But you set yourself for a hell of a lot of trouble." He stopped pacing to think. "So you went to see her about the papers. Okay. But why'd you have to shoot her?"
"I dunno." Mardin sat forward. "I was only gonna talk to her, but she started screaming at me to get out, and I slugged her, then she came at me with the knife -- all of a sudden my gun was out and I was firing it."
"Oh, man," said Boz softly. "Y'know, I liked Ellie, Mard."
"I cleaned it all up," said Mardin in a flat voice. "Like we were taught. And I got the hell out of there. I hid." His voice changed. "Then I started thinking. There are plenty of people who sell their stories to the movies, or TV. They cop a plea, and make a bundle. That's what I'm going to do."
"Mard, listen to me," Boz said after absorbing this. "We're old friends. Hell, I wouldn't be alive if it wasn't for you. But don't you think you might be takin' this over the top a little?"
The chair came down with a bang. "No! Boz, I got this knocked." Mardin rubbed his hand across his bristly face and grew calmer. "You see it all the time: murderer sells his story, makes a bundle. Right? This is my nut, man. I'm gonna be rich." He grinned.
Boz blew out his breath. "Mard, I dunno. Murders are too common."
"Not like this. I got Ellie's stud, too. Splashed him all over his bedroom."
"Jesus Christ. Pre-meditated? And you fuckin' broke in to do him? Mard, it's one thing to whack Ellie in the heat of the moment an' all, but this -- you'll fuckin' fry. I mean, it's not like you're OJ or anything."
Mardin laughed nastily. "Boz, you haven't been listening to me. I didn't want to go up for manslaughter. I had to do him. The whole thing will get blamed on PTSD -- post traumatic stress disorder. I'm a Peruvian War veteran, remember? All I have to do is to convince the shrinks I was psychotic. Sure, I'll do time -- but so what? With good behavior, I'll be out in 10 years or less. Shit, I won't even be forty years old! And with a good business manager..." He laughed again. "I'll be livin' in Bermuda!" The smile faded. "All I have to do is to stay free for a week or so and get some details worked out."
"Which is where I come in."
"Right. Don't worry, I'll make it up to you."
"After you sell your book and movie?"
"You got it, buddy-rub."
"This all seems pretty crazy," Boz muttered. "I mean, it's not how we did things in the jungle, Mard."
"Someone'll find her in a day or two," Mardin said, as if he hadn't heard Boz. "The estranged husband being the most likely suspect. They'll start looking for me, calling my friends...."
"Yeah," said Boz. "Like me. That's no good."
Mardin waved a dismissive hand. "Hell, you didn't see me or hear from me, you don't know nothin' about where I am. No problem."
"Yeah, well, if you say so. I just don't like the idea of any cops sniffing around here." They left it at that. Dawn was breaking as Boz returned to his own apartment.
He slept uneasily, and was awakened by his front door buzzer around mid-morning. Standing on the stoop was a tall, attractive black woman he had never seen before.
"I got no apartments right now," he said. "Maybe inna week or two."
"Stephani Johnson," she said. "Detective Johnson. NHPD." She showed him her badge.
A cold bomb went off in his stomach. "What can I do for you?" he asked politely.
She produced a small flatscreen and tapped it on. A series of photos of Mardin Symes dissolved in and out of each other. "We're looking for this man."
Boz opened his mouth to start the lies, but she held up her hand.
"Before you say anything," she said, "I should tell you that this building -- most of them around here, in fact -- is chipped."
Boz gaped at her. Chipping was a surveillance technique just coming into vogue. Small video cameras no bigger than after-dinner mints were clandestinely placed in high-crime areas to monitor potential trouble spots. With three gigs of on-board memory, they detected any motion and started recording. Detective Johnson was telling him that there was at least one chip watching his building.
He closed his mouth. Johnson stared at him with absolutely no expression.
Two possibilities: She knew nothing, had nothing, and was playing the chip card to rattle him into giving Mardin up - or she had a video dump that showed Mardin sneaking up to the building last night, and Boz letting him in.
He tried to speak but could think of nothing to say.
"Let me put this another way," said the detective. She raised her eyebrows. "You're screwed, Parker."
"Hey, what the hell --" Boz began, but she held up her hand.
"We know a few things about you. Two arrests for rape in Atlanta after the war, one for attempted murder, and a second-degree manslaughter charge. All dropped," she added as Boz opened his mouth, "for lack of evidence, yes. But sometimes cases get re-opened." She stood waiting.
Boz Parker had learned one lesson very well in life, and that lesson was, sometimes you have to take a loss.
There wasn't any way out. "Yeah," he said with resignation, hating himself. "He's here. Two west."
The worst part of it was the outrage in Mardin's voice as the SWAT team dragged him away later that morning, cursing Boz's name. At last Boz couldn't stand it anymore, and he yelled, "I couldn't help it, man, they had me by the balls!" while Mardin was stuffed into a squad car.
"No, man, your balls are mine!" Mardin screamed. "You better enjoy 'em while you got 'em, you prick bastard!"
Boz turned away, grinding his teeth. He squeezed his eyes shut. A hand fell on his shoulder.
"You did the right thing, Parker," said Detective Johnson.
"Yeah? I'm a rat. I ratted on my friend, a friend who saved my ass in a place that was a lot worse than anything you ever saw in this city, Detective."
To his surprise, she was nodding. "I don't doubt it," she said. "But he killed two people in cold blood. And you know it."
"Yeah. Yeah, he did that," said Boz, "and it makes me sick. But he trusted me. If I'd had time, I might've been able to talk him into giving himself up."
"Or he might've added you to the list," said Detective Johnson.
He could think of nothing to say.
"I have to caution you to keep quiet about the chips," she added. He nodded sullenly.
After a while the police and media departed and the excitement died down. The neighbors went back to their daily pursuits. Boz tried to do the same, but he couldn't banish the sight of Mardin's hate-twisted face from his mind.
To his surprise, after the initial flurry of coverage there was no further mention of Mardin Symes in any of the news media, either local or national. Boz wondered what success Mardin was having with his plan. It couldn't be great, judging by the silence of the press.
A week went by and Boz had almost managed to forget what had happened. Then, late one night while he was watching TV, an onscreen telltale alarm warned him that someone was trying to break into the building.
Knowing now that it was chipped removed a certain sense of urgency from Boz's response, but he still felt required to put on a good showing. He strapped on one of his guns and went downstairs to investigate.
The telltale had pinpointed the basement as the place of entry, which was fine as far as Boz was concerned. He knew the placement of objects down there so well that there was no need for him to turn on the light. And that would make it easier to get the drop on whoever was trying to get in.
As he eased open the basement door he heard the sound of tinkling glass from the northeast corner. He grinned coldly in the darkness. Yes, there was a broken streetlight at that side of the building, making the area a little darker, but there was also a pile of old magazines and newspapers under that window. They'd make slippery footing.
Sure enough, he heard the sounds of someone fighting for balance on a shifting surface. With the gun at the ready, Boz moved forward.
And felt a cold gun barrel pressed against his head.
"Don't move," a voice whispered.
Asshole, Boz told himself. There were two of 'em.
There was a click and a light burst from an eterno. For a moment all Boz could see was the bulb swinging back and forth, its chain like a tail.
Then he found himself looking at a dog on the pile of magazines.
"A good decoy, don't you think?" said a voice behind him.
Sweat burst forth from Boz's forehead.
"Mardin," he said, then had to swallow. "How'd you escape?"
Mardin laughed and moved around where Boz could see him, careful to keep far enough away that Boz wouldn't be able to launch a hand-to-hand attack. "Come on, buddy-rub," he said. "Wouldn't you have been able to get away from the cops around here?"
"Yeah, well...."
Mardin nodded. "Right. All's I had to do was add a couple more trophies to my case." He smiled, and lifted the gun. "Like I'm going to do right now."
Boz licked his lips. "Listen, Mard, I had no choice. They had the building under surveillance. They knew you were here. If I lied about it, they'd've hauled me in, too."
"I just never thought you'd rat me out like that," Mardin said thoughtfully. "I never would have figured you for that kind of guy." He raised the gun.
"Mardin -- "
"Oh, don't worry, I'm not going to let you lie there in agony," said Mardin. "Despite what you did, I owe you better than that. So it'll be quick."
Boz stared at the muzzle of the gun. Mardin's finger tightened on the trigger.
"So long, buddy-rub."
A deafening explosion --
-- and Boz fell back in his chair, gasping for breath. Someone yanked the headset off him, but the room pulsed in and out of darkness.
From somewhere a long way away, a woman asked him if he was okay. He opened his mouth to speak, and vomited.
After a confused period, Boz came to himself once more. He lay on a cot in a sparsely furnished office. Memory sank in. He was in the Klein Science Tower on the Yale campus, across town from the Hill.
What had just happened had been a simulation. Or, not a simulation, exactly, but an enactment. Mardin was real, and so were his actions. He had really pulled the trigger, had really believed that he was murdering Boz Parker. And Parker had believed it, too.
Boz stared up at the ceiling, waiting for his breathing to return to normal.
The office door opened and Detective Stephani Johnson entered, carrying a glass of water that he eagerly accepted.
"Are you okay?" she asked.
He nodded. "Yeah. I always thought I'd be better at dying, though."
She smiled without humor.
"So now what happens?" he asked after a moment.
She shrugged. "The experiment continues. He thinks he's free. He thinks he's just wasted the guy who sold him out. Now we watch and see what he does."
Boz came to a sitting position on the cot. He didn't think he was quite ready to stand.
"I don't know about this," he said.
"Do we have to go over it again?" Johnson asked. "Your cooperation is keeping you out of jail. Harboring a fugitive, aiding and abetting..." She shrugged.
The door opened again and a white-coated technician came in. "We've got readings from all eighteen of them, Detective," he said. "Symes is the last one. Is there anything else you need from us?"
"Not at the moment, Doctor," said Johnson. The tech nodded and closed the door behind him.
"It isn't right," muttered Boz.
"You, a former mercenary, with a rap sheet from here to Hamden - you're telling me about right and wrong?"
"Look, I ain't saying I'm a saint," Boz said. "But I never iced nobody who didn't have it coming."
"It's getting worse out there," said Johnson with intensity. "I see it every day. People see lifestyles of the rich and good-looking on their TV and they get jealous. There was that case of cannibalism on lower Dixwell Avenue last year, those two little girls getting ambushed and eaten." She leaned toward Boz and her eyes flashed. "I have a little girl, Parker." She leaned back, regarding him. "This isn't going to happen on my watch. I have some contacts at Yale. We're working out a high-tech solution to crime. They supply the expertise, I supply the... volunteers."
"But this," said Boz. "I saw him, in that bin you have him. Not even a cell! He's got electrodes and tubes sticking into him everywhere. Okay, Detective, so maybe I'm a bastard, too, in your book. But I never shut anyone up in a room and poured chemicals into 'em, making 'em think they were somewhere else while I sat there and fucking studied 'em!"
From what Boz could understand, Mardin believed he had escaped into the city. Sensations were being fed into him through high-bandwidth computer interfaces melded to his very neurons by nanobots working directly in his brain. These same nanobots circulated tailored overlay drugs through Mardin's system, giving him all the sensations of reality. His virtual moves were traced and analyzed by a computer, while his body was safely sequestered in a sub-basement lab in the Klein Tower.
"I wouldn't expect a guy like you to see it from our point of view," said Johnson. "Parker, this is a pilot program. If we can make it work, we go public. Prisoners can be incarcerated in smaller spaces while they believe themselves to be free. They can run and kill and do anything they want because their victims won't be real. If he starts showing remorse, we'll do our best to rehabilitate him. But for now, we'll all be safer."
"It's not legal," said Boz. "If your bosses find out...."
"They won't. Not until it's time."
Boz looked around the office. "Look," he said, "I was there. I could even smell that damn dog." He licked his lips. "You could... I mean, how do I know I'm not in one of those bins?"
She smiled coldly.
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