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The disc about anti-grav crane signals that Berkson had studied the previous night was, in a word, outdated. All day the operator squinted at him and shouted over the link, "We don't use that signal anymore, boy! Ain't you been around sites lately?" It was fortunate for Berkson that the operator was somewhat familiar with the signals of the disc. By dusk, Berkson was directing the operator to set the last girder down atop two vertical I-bars. A powersuited laborer stood next to each bar, ready to heat-seal the girder into place. Berkson felt triumphant for the first time in several months. Finally, he had made it through his first day on the job and had not been fired. Not only that, but with this job, he got to work around people. He would never be alone.
"Hey, he's going wide! He's going wide!" one of the workers shouted.
Berkson hadn't noticed it, but the operator, who didn't have a clear line of sight down onto the bars, had let the girder go wide, and now the zero-gee field between the crane's nozzle and the girder fluctuated violently, turning the air into billowy heat waves of friction. Berkson struggled to remember the signal for the operator to increase the zero-gee field, but hadn't had to use that signal all day; it was tucked too deeply into his brain.
A sound like a scream came from the crane.
"It's falling!" one of the workers shouted.
"Moshe! Get the hell...."
Under a twilit sky that seemed at peace with the universe, Berkson watched in horror as the girder broke free from the crane's field and plunged toward a point between the 2 I-bars, a point presently occupied by one of the workers. Sparks and blue cobwebs of random energy encompassed the man's suit as the girder swiped him---but miraculously----didn't pin him to the concrete floor. The other worker rushed to his friend. Berkson dropped to his knees, grasped the girder, and slid off to let himself be suspended 3 meters in the air. He dropped to the floor and ran between the two workers.
The man who had been hit leaned across an I-bar for support, "I'm all right, Abe," he said to his comrade. "Suit took most of it." The hydraulic pump casings that ran across his shoulder and down the back of his suit's left arm were smashed and bubbling with frothy fluid.
Shooting him a scowl, Abe stepped up to Berkson. "What the hell happened? Didn't you see him going wide?"
"It's not his fault," someone said from above. Berkson looked up to see the burly crane operator staring down from a girder. "I've been telling Khol that bastard ain't been holding a charge all week. Wouldn't have been any field problem if she'd been fully charged up."
Berkson couldn't be sure if the operator was covering for him or telling the truth. In any case, he felt his breath begin to even. He considered apologizing to Moshe, but that would mean admitting his guilt. Instead, he simply said, "Nobody was hurt. Nothing else matters."
Abe reduced the gap between himself and Berkson. "Keep up that shit and the next time someone will get hurt---and it might be you!"
The operator's voice boomed from above. "It's his first day. He's trying hard. And we got shitty equipment. So cut him some slack. I'm gonna talk to Khol about this crane."
As the operator's shadow passed over him, Berkson turned away and started for the lift. He felt the heat of the workers' gazes on his back.353Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYcltDmziqK
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One hour later, Berkson sat alone at a table for two in a restaurant dome about four blocks north of the site. Jehovah's Trumpet, once famous for serving chef's salads made with hydroponically grown Martian vegetables, had fallen on hard times. The salads were no longer imported, and Berkson's drink was watered down. He wished he could share his dinner with someone, anyone. He hated dining alone.
Then Khol emerged from the shadows of the dining area. Berkson set his drink down and lifted his brow in recognition. "Shalom."
"Shalom, Jonas," Khol said, pausing before the table. "Barring that little incident, you had a pretty good day. Can you leave?"
Berkson frowned. "I've already ordered. And it's not like I've got the novas to pay for food that I'm not eating."
"A few of the guys and I are going out. They're waiting for us outside." Khol withdrew his wallet and slid out a gold voucher. "Here's a crédit. We'll take you to a real restaurant."
Mildly shocked, Berkson rose. "All right."
After Khol paid for Berkson's uneaten meal, they left the restaurant. Outside, the night air was cold and smelled more like the falls Berkson had sampled from discs than its true semi-polluted self. Maybe Mother Earth was, as the scientists had said, healing her wounds. Khol led him into an alley that opened up into a cross street.
But when they reached the end of the alley, the cross street was a dead-end at both sides. And from behind a wide row of trash tubes stepped a quartet of familiar men: Shulman, Bomberg, Abe, and Moshe. Berkson had met Shulman and Bomberg while riding the lift. Bomberg was an outgoing, assertive, and talkative redhead with a beard too sparse to be dignified. Shulman was an ex-army man in his fifties with the body of a 20-year-old.
Berkson smiled, but there was a slight rumble in the pit of his stomach, one that meant more than mere hunger. "Hey, guys. You ready to eat?"
Nobody returned Berkson's smile. He took a step back, then shot a look to Khol, who was no longer a construction supervisor, but a predator. "There was nothing wrong with that crane," Khol said.
Though his boots were heavy, certainly not running shoes, Berkson managed to get moving. He bolted away from the men and into the alley. There was no need to speculate if the others were following, for the sound of their boots thundered in Berkson's ears.
All right, assholes. Now let's see what you've got.
The bravado was necessary. It would, at least, keep him from falling into fear and, at most, give him the false hope he needed to keep going. Berkson already knew he wouldn't be able to outrun them forever, but what hurt worse was the fact that he had quite clearly lost the job.
But at least he'd lost the job because they blamed the girder incident on him. he hadn't lost it because of who he was...
They trailed him for 3 and a half blocks, drawing the attention of nearly every pedestrian. Berkson was amazed that even Shulman was still locked onto his target. He took another look back at his pursuers---and something got in the way of his boot and he went tumbling back to the asphalt. He scraped his cheek, and his nose struck the ground hard enough to break a blood vessel. He pushed himself up and kept on moving, wiping his bloody face on his shirt sleeve and feeling a new fire in his left ankle.
"Are you all right, my son?" a Catholic priest who'd previously been standing across the street from him asked.
"Fine!" Berkson shot back without looking. "And what kind of night might you be having, Father?"
Ahead was the construction site, as good a maze as any in which to hide. His breath ragged, he ran past the billboard and let himself wash into the cold sea of silhouettes and the deeper darkness. He heard one of his pursuers, he couldn't identify which, call his name.
Out of the darkness grew a row of girders piled six high. Berkson took a path between the girders, then found himself on the east side of the building. He weaved into the scaffolding to shadow-hug the wall, and there, grabbed a cold metal support pole. He paused to catch his breath.
"Berkson!"
The voice belonged to Khol. And the supervisor sounded too close to pause any longer. Berkson ducked out of the scaffolding and jogged north. As he neared the corner of the building, someone came out of the gloom, and there was the abrupt sensation of a fist connecting with his jaw, followed by the just-as-sudden notion that he was falling backward toward the merciless dirt. And then he was down, dazed, and winded.
"Don't ya hate it when that happens, Berkson?"
Berkson pushed himself up on his elbows to see Abe moving his way. Berkson guessed the man would attempt to pounce on him, effectively pinning him to the ground.
Rolling onto his side, Berkson drew back one leg as Abe advanced. He kicked Abe in the shin, and the man yelled and buckled to the ground.
Abe's agony would bring the others, and knowing that, Berkson rolled onto all fours, and then shot to his feet. He began to feel the rage inside him, but thankfully, it was still under his control. He just needed to get away. That's all. No more trouble.
He looked to the north, to the chain-link fence around the construction site.
Then he heard the shuffle of feet and was gang-tackled by Abe, Shulman, and Bomberg. They piled on top of him as if he were inches from the end zone, about to carry the ball in for the winning touchdown. Moshe's chest pressed into Berkson's face, and he felt someone else punch him once, twice, in the ribs.
"Get off him," Khol said from somewhere above.
The three men complied, but as they did so, they took Berkson's arms and legs. Bekrson fought against their grips, but with a man on each arm and Bomberg holding his legs, he wasn't going anywhere.
Khol's deep voice sounded again. "Check him."
Abe stepped over Berkson, still holding his wrist. The worker dragged Berkson around, onto his stomach. Bomberg released his legs, but before Berkson could do something, the man kneed him in the spine.
It had dawned on Berkson when Abe had first forced him onto his stomach. But Berkson hadn't wanted to accept it. They couldn't have known. Berkson was sure nobody had told them. And he was sure that his behavior had betrayed nothing. It took most people a long time to figure it out, and even when they did, sometimes it changed things, sometimes it didn't. But in the past few months, it'd only meant trouble. And here he was. And they were about to find out what he was.
Berkson felt Bomberg's palm seep across his nape and lift his hair. What Bomberg and the others started at was the bony protrusion at the base of Berkson's head, the one that often made people gasp.
"I knew it!" Khol said, now hovering over Berkson. "A tank. I can smell 'em like an animal!"
Berkson felt Khol kick him hard in the side, just below his ribs. He stifled a moan.
Khol blew air in disgust. "I told the foreman I had a bad feeling about this guy. Get him up."
"Hold him," Shulman told Bomberg. "Got my cutter on me. I'll get two meters of fiber optic and we'll tie him up."
Shulman turned over Berkson's wrist to Bomberg, then crossed to a coil of cable lying on the ground below the scaffolding. Meanwhile, Berkson tried to bring his arms together in an attempt to pull away from the men, but even though most of their lifting was assisted by powersuits, simply wearing the heavy suits had turned the workers into heavily biceped thugs. What they lacked in intelligence they easily made up for in brawn. Berkson relaxed his muscles, then shot a look to Khol.
The angular supervisor's gaze was fixed on something. Berkson followed the man's line of sight until he came upon a girder that had yet to be cut. It extended some 2 meters beyond the scaffolding and hung about 3 and one-half meters above the ground.
"Cut it off another two meters," Khol told Shulman.
At that, Berkson once more pitted his muscles against those of the workers. There was no way that he would end up like old Sam, Nate, or Esau. Each of them had swung from a line because they were tanks. No way would happen to him. No way. Not with his rage.
Shulman was back with the fiber optic cable. He and Abe pulled Berkson's wrists behind his back while Bomberg tied them. What little struggling Berkson managed was answered by Abe's hard wrenches and Moshe's gouging fingernails. When Bomberg was finished with his wrists, Abe and Shulman stepped on his boots to immobilize him.
Khol stepped up to Berkson and seized his chin. "I had two uncles die in the Bionics War 'cause the tanks wouldn't fight."
Berkson jerked his chin out of Khol's grasp. "The Ao Prime platoons were dissolved when I was a kid. I had nothing to do with that."
"Which makes you, in my opinion, even more worthless."
"It's not my fault I was born."
"Glad to hear it. Then you can beg us for your death."
Khol gestured with his head to Shulman, who dropped a fiber optic noose around Berkson's neck. Bomberg and Abe each shoved a hand into Berkson's armpits, lifted, and then carried him to a position beneath the girder. It was a reflex action, to be sure, but Berkson looked up. Beyond the girder, the night sky shone with a brilliance that he hadn't seen until now. For 1 second, he imagined he could float away, float away from all of it, all of the pain. Away from that dreadful word and its meaning. Tank.
"Didn't you hear me?" Khol asked. "I told you to beg to bid. So....beg!"
Berkson leveled his gaze on Khol, a gaze he let burn into the man.
"BEG!"
Defiance could take the form of a look, a word, or an action. Thus far Berkson yad used the first two against Khol. Yes, they had bound him, but they had not gagged him. Berkson gathered spit in his mouth, then let it fly.
Khol's nose took the hit. The big man spun away, wiping his face and swearing under his breath.
Moshe threw the fiber optic cable over the girder, then pulled Berkson's noose tight. Berkson felt the noose begin to bury itself in his neck as his feet left the ground.
No! This isn't it! I'm not going like the others. They don't know my rage. They haven't seen my rage. Oh, but they will. Have to....losing....can't......breathe.....
He looked down. Khol smiled sardonically. Then Berkson glanced at Moshe, and the idea struck.
Berkson grimaced as he summoned from his body every minute particle of remaining strength. He pulled his knees up into his chest, then, with a jerk of his shoulders, he twisted his body towards the slack-jawed Moshe. As he swung within striking distance, he kicked out with his bound feet.
Moshe finally understood what was happening, but it was too late. The worker's horror registered on his face one moment before Berkson's boot turned that look into a twisted knot of agony. The man released the fiber optic cable as the blow sent him backward toward the scaffolding.
Berkson hit the dirt, gasping, the noose still around his neck, wrists and ankles bound together. He rolled onto his back, tucked his knees into his chest, and then pulled his bound hands apart, creating a 3-inch gap between them. That would be enough. Berkson let out a roar as he pulled his bound hands down and around his feet, feeling his shoulders shudder on the brink of dislocation. He sat up, still bound but with his hands before him. He fumbled with the knot of the cable binding his legs. Shulman was no seaman. It was a simple double knot and Berkson untied it quickly. He didn't bother unspooling the cable but rather tore his legs apart---just in time to drive a foot into the attacking Moshe's gut.
As Moshe went down, the worker cleared a clean line of sight to Shulman, whom Berkson was shocked to see on his feet. The man came at Berkson, then launched himself into the air.
Utilizing a similar defense as he had when first encountering the man, Berkson rolled onto his side, and this time kicked up, roaring again as he caught Shulman's good shin while at the same time deflecting the rest of him out of the way. Shulman screamed and went down in a heap of spent energy and dust.
Once on his feet, Berkson turned in time to spot Bomberg, who'd drawn back a knockout punch that was now on an express delivery toward Berkson's jaw. Berkson ducked while balling both hands into fists. He straightened and sent a double-fisted uppercut into Bomberg's chin with such force that it lifted the man off his feet, then propelled him backward.
Though Shulman, Moshe, Abe, and now Bomberg each filled the air with noises that were akin to those made by the survivors of a Bionic battlefield, and, in effect, Berkson had created a battlefield, Berkson only heard one sound.
Thump-thump....thump-thump......thump-thump.....
That was how it was when the rage took hold. He shot a look at Khol, then snarled at the man. Khol frowned at the sound, then glanced to a graphite pipe lying amid a pile of scaffolding poles. The man darted towards the pipe and came up with it. He beat the pipe into his palm and grinned darkly.
Berkson waited until Khol got close enough, then he seized the dangling end of the noose around his neck, drew back with the cable, and whipped Khol in the face.
"Ahhhhhhh!"
The graphite pipe fell from Khol's hand and rolled towards Berkson. Scooping up the pipe, Berkson started for Khol, letting out a cry from somewhere deep inside.
Khol headed for the street. Berkson would not let him get away. At this point, it'd be more reasonable to just take off. Berkson had nearly lost his life. Why push his luck any further?
But the damned rage wouldn't allow that. The damned rage overpowered reason.
Berkson was just about ten meters behind Khol by the time the supervisor was about to hit the street. Khol picked up the pace, but just as he was leaving dirt for asphalt, he was cut off by an armored Tel-Aviv District Police cruiser, its lights strobing, its siren wailing with multiple screams controlled by the button-happy cop inside. The car squealed to a halt.
As 2 helmeted officers dressed in paramilitary black jumpsuits with heavy flak jackets exited the car, Khol ran past one of them, and---to the cops' and Berkson's surprise---opened up the rear door of the cruiser, threw himself onto the back seat, then slammed the door behind him.
Berkson raced up to the car, drawing back his pipe. One of the officers seized his arm, but Berkson managed to reach the cruiser and bring the pipe down onto the wire-protected rear window.
"GET OUT! GET OUT OF THERE!"
Pounding again on the window, Berkson growled and fought back against the officers' attempted restraint.
"Get back, Herbie," Berkson heard one of the officers say.
Then, suddenly, Berkson was free. He faced the cops, who now pointed their P-pistols at him.
"Disarm yourself!"
"He's crazy, sir," Khol yelled from within the car. "He's a tank!"
Berkson bashed the car window at the mention of the derogatory term, and the cops took one step back.
"Go on. Get out," one of the officers told Khol. "You're provoking him!"
Khol opened the rear door farthest from Berkson, then nervously stepped out. He shot a furtive look at Berkson before sprinting off back toward Jehovah's Trumpet.
How could those bastards let Khol go?
Feeling muscles tightening and his nerves fraying, Berkson slammed the pipe against the patrol car side window, shattering it. "He tried to hang me!"
There was no more reason, no more reality. There was nothing but rage, a fire that burned so hot and so bright that if anyone on the outside were able to look at Berkson, really look at his soul, they would be blinded and incinerated. He stepped to the driver's side window of the auto and bashed it in. He moved towards the windshield and pounded, pounded, POUNDED!
He barely felt it hit him. He looked down and saw a tiny, dart-like projectile lodged in his chest. A circular energy wave pulsed through his body and blasted him to the ground.
The cops charged around, and the cuffs they used on him felt strangely like fiber optic coil, but that hadn't been real. Or had it? It all felt like a dream now, a numb, laughable memory. But when he swallowed he felt the pain of where the noose had been, then realized that it was still around his neck.353Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7EBMN8cPBc
