JEFF BREDENBERG

SHOOTIN' BABIES

When i arrived at gator's house to help with the stove, he was just shooting my
baby son in the forehead. I set the brake on my tracker and stepped out onto the
leafy gravel. Gator kicked the corpse, which was wriggling there on the lake
bank.

"Yup, it's yours all right," he shouted up the hill, clearly displeased with me.
"Look at the eyes -- and the spread of the forehead, how the eyebrows are
formed? Looks like your boy Matthew five years ago."

I told my boy Matthew to stay in the back compartment of the tracker, and I
hopped down a dozen railroad ties that had been set into the hillside. I tried
not to trounce the wildflowers and herbs in the stair-step planting beds.

It was hard to say at first glance -- that distracting bullet hole an inch above
the bridge of the nose, the flesh already starting to crack and ooze a sickly
green. But Gator was right. Okay, it wasn't literally my son. But this rapidly
disintegrating form had the classic Stohler blond-haired, blue-eyed baby
features.

Gator worked unnecessarily at the bill of his Chicago Cubs hat, wrenching his
white locks back and forth. "You was here overnight two weeks ago when I moved
in. I tolt you and tolt you again not to go near the lake. Especially not to put
anything into it. Particularly nothing with a DNA pattern to it. What'd you do?
March straight to the end of the dock and flog yet dolphin?"

I could feel my face glowing red. "No. Didn't go anywhere near the lake. You
know I'm wary of chemical reservoirs."

And then, with my denial so flatly stated, I paused to think about it. Had I
gone near the lake? Five of us from the office had spent the day moving Gator
into his new retirement home. Hauling boxes, heaving furniture. We'd only
destroyed a lamp and a vase. Couldn't have been much else. At sundown, Gator had
hauled out two frosty cases of Bass ale.

"Ah," I said. "I do remember something about stumbling out and taking a leak on
the compost pile."

The compost bins were a neat arrangement of two-by-fours and hardware cloth.
They had been left behind by the previous owner of the cottage. Two of the bins
were half full of rotting muck.

Gator snorted. "They's five feet from the water's edge, an' you go pissin' in
the compost. Piss could easily seep five feet."

"Sounded like a good idea at the time -- help the decomposition along. You think
urine carries your DNA?"

Gator shook his head, amazed that I'd had to ask.

"I'd hate to lose the house," Gator said. "Lease contract was pretty specific
that the lake was purely an 'aesthetic asset.' Thass what they called it. Even
made me buy an air-seal bubble top for my pontoon boat. The utility could prolly
void the lease now if it wanted. They don't like letting their imaging compound
get all depleted like this -- just 'cause some ale-belly couldn't find the
bathroom."

"Hold on," I said. "The road atlas that my tracker subscribes to says this
lake's only a two-three security level, like you could go skiing on it or
something."

"Two-point-three may be the government rating, yeah, but the utility what owns
it says not to go near it, and there ain't one of my neighbors who doesn't have
that written into his lease."

"Sounds like a lot of trouble, this lake."

"On the programmer's salary we made," Gator said, "I imagine you're gonna get a
house on a lake of pure water? The kind you can go skinny-dipping in -- trolling
for snapping turtles. Hah."

The baby corpse had now degenerated into a green puddle of slime oozing back
toward the lake.

"Reason you called was you wanted me to check out your stove," I reminded Gator.
I hoped to divert his attention away from this embarrassing business -- the lake
borrowing my DNA pattern and belch forth little replicas. Imaging compounds are
pretty volatile like that.

Gator peered into the lake. He edged farther down the bank, his boots tearing at
the grass, until he came to rest atop the rim of the non-porous concrete that
covered the lake bottom.

"There," he said, pointing with his 9mm automatic, "there's another one comin'.
They don't develop on any schedule I can figure, but they average about two an
hour. I pick 'em off quick as I can -- those chemicals they drag around, they're
hell on the grass and shrubbery."

A pink dome the size of a grapefruit was rising through the murk of the lake,
another little Stohler monster coming to meet Papa.

Gator fired, and the little dome cracked open before it even broke the surface.

"Don't feel bad," Gator said. "They aren't human. Aren't even animal. Just some
mindless biochem . . . perversion. This is one of them compounds that the
imaging utilities gotta keep in such big supply."

"How long will this go on?" It was a cool day, but I was beginning to sweat.

Gator shrugged. "Could be days, even a week. Maybe just until some other DNA
comes along. Whatever -- I bought several cases of ammo today."

I got Matthew out of the tracker and took him inside by the roadside door,
avoiding the lakefront. It would take me a while to formulate an explanation for
the gunplay.

Inside, Matthew's blue eyes shot open at the sight of Gator's television set.
The little guy could quote the specs of any of the latest sim/stim enhancements,
and Gator's new rig had all the bells and whistles. A strip of chrome molding
was emblazoned with the motto "You can't do that with electricity!" -- the
rallying cry of the photonic industry.

Without even asking, Matthew was punching at the startup keypad and then rolling
through the channel grid until he found a cezanne concert on the West Coast.

The pod's ferroplex door popped open. From my viewpoint the holovids were a
little fuzzy and distorted. But Matthew's arms fell to his side and gyrated in
small circles, the way they do when he's in the thrall of his favorite photonic
devices. He flashed his wide eyes in my direction, as if he were simultaneously
asking and receiving permission to go ahead, and then he climbed inside and
eagerly settled into the seat.

As I pushed the door closed around him, the holos inside came into appropriate
focus -- an amphitheater of cezanne enthusiasts bobbing their heads and waggling
their feet to those incomprehensible rhythms that the devotees find hypnotizing.

"See ya in an hour or two, Matthew," I said, and I pressed the door until the
latch clicked.

Gator was up on the kitchen landing fiddling with the stove, knowing I would
want to inspect it right away.

"The delivery men set that TV up for me," he said. "I hain't even gotten around
to reading the manual yet, and Matthew there seems to know it the way he knows
his own pud. You're such a cook, maybe you know stoves like Matthew knows TVs?"

"I told you on the phone," I said, "that I'm no expert with kitchen appliances.
No guarantees, okay?"

"Much time as you spend in kitchens," he hulled, "ya ought ta know something
about 'em. This is my first PIXI, ya know. Elma and me, we always had a pure
electronic kitchen -- much as we could still find parts for. Guess I'd always
had it in mind that I'd be dead before electronic appliances were totally phased
out. Humph."

Like the new television, this PIXI stove was the latest. The previous resident
apparently had stripped the house of his precious, familiar appliances, leaving
Gator to refurnish it via a broker over long distance. Gator had been too
distracted with the move -- and, typically, too impatient -- to get very
specific with the broker. As a result he had wound up with the most expensive in
everything.

The top of the stove had that unsettling, undulating finish that was
characteristic of many PIXI devices. It was aqua-green, looking like a square
slice of a miniature Atlantic Ocean. On the selector panel the cook could punch
up the specifications of the burner he wanted, and the Photonic Imaging Xenon
Interface would instantly assemble that burner in the requested size, shape, and
temperature.

Gator shuffled up behind me and we stared at the selector panel.

"Looks pretty standard to me, Gator."

"Ta me, looks like the control board for a lunar shuttle," he replied.

I punched up the specs for a routine burner -- round, six inches across, 500
degrees F. The glowing disc materialized in the center of the stovetop. An
illuminated rocker switch allowed temperature adjustments. "Humph," Gator said.

I went to the refrigerator and found a couple of boned chicken breasts, then
opened the pantry and selected two ripe tomatoes. Then back to the refrigerator
for a bottle of ale, which I opened.

"What are ya doin'?" Gator asked.

There was a suitable skillet hanging on a peg by the kitchen window, and I drew
a butcher knife out of the storage black.

"I need garlic," I said, "fresh if you have it. And let me see -- was that basil
I saw growing in one of those little garden beds outside?"

"I don't get it," Gator said, removing his Cubs hat.

"There's not much to get. The stove's working fine, and I'm gonna make dinner."

Gator went outside to snip some basil and shoot a couple of babies that were
chewing on the lawn furniture.

I awoke at first light the next morning. Geese were honking in the distance.
They would not be settling on the lake, however. No fowl would last long
paddling around a lake that was hungry for DNA, even if it got through the laser
fencing that domed the reservoir. Geese learn these things quickly.

Matthew rolled over in his cot and drew the corner of his quilt up over his head
against the chill. He usually slept long and hard after such an extensive
session with the holovids.

I tiptoed out of the bedroom and up to the kitchen level. I glanced down through
the front windows into the yard, just to satisfy my curiosity. I had imagined
that a full herd of babies might have groped its way onto the lawn during the
night, but Gator had assured me that they only materialize during daylight.
Something to do with photosynthesis.

I poured beans into the espresso machine, which growled and dribbled its thick
fluid into a cup.

I snapped the seals on a few eggs, dashed some milk into the bowl, and whipped
them together with a fork. Chopped a couple scallions, diced some Swiss cheese.
Peeled several strips of bacon out of the vacuum bin.

Then I got the skillet down again and took it and the bowl over to the gleaming
new stove. I hit the "repeat" button to produce the same burner configuration
that had been last requested. No response.

Damn.

I poked in the specs again: round, six inches, 500 degrees F. No response.

I asked for a five-inch burner. Nothing.

I ordered a nine-inch burner. Nope.

Then, just because I was steamed, I poked in specs for a thirty-six-inch burner
-- which dutifully materialized, every square centimeter of it at precisely 500
degrees. Suddenly the kitchen was a sauna.

I poked the "off" button, and the colossal burner vanished.

I turned on the vidphone and scrolled down to the number for PIXICO. A
stern-looking woman appeared on the screen. She had what appeared to be a greasy
chicken bone entwined in her hair. (Is this some rural fashion, I wondered, or
is this just so with-it that I hadn't yet heard of it?)

"The offices of the Photonic Imaging Xenon Interface Company are currently
closed," the woman intoned. A recording. "Saturday hours are eleven a.m. to four
p.m."

I poured the beaten eggs back into their original shells, milk and all, and
snapped them closed -- they would keep for a few hours that way in the
refrigerator.

The espresso was done, so I poured a cup and tapped a few grains of sugar into
it.

Matthew was stirring downstairs and Gator was down the hall now, breaking wind
in the bathroom. Maybe I could make French toast in the oven, I thought, or
maybe we should just eat cereal.

I went out onto the deck, the warm cup cradled in my hands. The air had that
autumn bite to it. I slouched into a rail-side sling and watched the water,
trying not to fixate on the lake's edge where, I supposed, the bio-chem babies
would begin emerging again soon.

Gator padded out onto the fiberboard decking, naked but for a T-shirt. He jammed
a fresh clip into his 9mm and rested his hands on the rail while he took aim at
the bank. Without the Cubs cap, his hair was a wild snowstorm, thinner than I
had remembered.

"You've lost yet Matthew, ya know," Gator said.

"Huh?" I said with a start. "What?"

It seemed like such a vile thing to hear from a man who was preparing to
slaughter my simulated offspring.

"The TV," Gator said. "I just saw Matthew closing himself in again. Asked him if
he didn't want breakfast, Looked at me like I was nuts."

"Just as well," I said, sipping at the espresso. "I'm, um, having trouble with
the stove. The only burner it'll let me order up is the size of a satellite
dish. Can't get a live human at PIXICO till eleven."

"So there is somethin' wrong with the stove."

I nodded.

"Thought you had all sorts of friends at the utility."

"I know one guy," I said, "a mid-level graphic artist at the Philadelphia
office. I doubt he even knows who handles service out here."

"Ah," Gator replied, and he squeezed the trigger.

The surprise of the blast threw my hands up and the espresso sloshed into my
lap.

"Damn!" I said.

"Damn!" said Gator, and he fired again.

On the crest of the lake bank a fleshy little figured collapsed from the impact
of the second shot and rolled down the hill.

Gator stood erect again, satisfied. His penis had shrunk up in the cold, pushing
the bottom of his T-shirt up into a tent shape. He read my distaste.

"You gotta loosen up, Stohler."

Matthew was still encased in the TV at eleven a.m. Through the ferroplex I
glimpsed a holovid of an asteroid cowboy darting about in his shepherd pod. The
show was probably a harmless enough space opera.

I poked at the dial pad on the holophone and got a picture of old Bone-Hair
again.

"Photonic Imaging Xenon Interface," she said grimly. She awaited a reply. This,
apparently, was a live image.

From outside came the crack of Gator's 9mm.

"I'm at my friend's house," I said into the holophone, "having trouble with the
stove."

Ms. Bone-Hair referred to the readout just above the phone camera. "You're on
our North Twin Reservoir," she said. It sounded like an accusation.

"That's right. My friend Gator -- um, Martin Brown is his real name --just moved
in. Got a brand new PIXI stove, one of those high-end models. He couldn't make
it work and figured I could -- but I'm having trouble too." "What exactly were
you trying to achieve, Mr. --"

"Um, I just wanted a standard-size burner for an omelette."

Ms. Bone-Hair tapped her key pad and watched the read-out.

"And what time of day might that have been?" she asked.

"Just a couple hours ago," I said.

She snorted. "Saturday morning eight, nine a.m.? Why, that's prime imaging time,
sir. PIXICO's imaging reserves are bound to be rather strained at that time of
day -- doesn't it stand to reason? Particularly for stovetop burners."

"But it allowed me to call up a burner the size of a bath tub," I replied.

"Have you read your operator's manual, Mr. Brown?"

"Brown is my friend's name. It's his house."

"The larger burners are restaurant-gauge. The owner's manual would explain that
they are produced by a different compound, one with a sturdier molecular
structure. Of course, the imaging is more costly and that will show up on your
bill. But the supply is usually less strained. If you must cook at peak hours,
perhaps you should use the larger burner."

"Yeah," I said, "next time I want to peel the paint off the ceiling at the same
time. Look, I use PIXI stoves all the time where I come from, and I've never
heard of a low supply of imaging compound."

"And where would it be that you're from.?"

"Philadelphia."

Gator shouldered in front of me -- pretty rude from a holophone etiquette
standpoint. "I'd just as soon have a stove installed like the old one," he said
to Ms. Bone-Hair.

"But that would be an electric stove," she sniffed, her tone implying all of the
dreadful qualities that electric appliances brought to the modern mind -- energy
waste, danger, inflexibility.

"Thass right," Gator said, "an' it had four burners, always available."

"Well, in summation, gentlemen," said Bone-Hair, "I recommend that you avoid
peak hours, read the owner's manual, and -- please -- remember that you are a
hunnerd and twenty miles from Philadelphia. So, on to the next customer!" She
smiled and the holo screen went blank.

My chrono said it was a little after eleven a.m. I poked at the control pad of
the PIXI stove, and a common nine-inch burner materialized.

I shrugged and turned it off again.

Gator shrugged too. "Avoid peak hours," he mimicked. "I wonder how that lady'd
like a pistol up her butt? So hey, what are ya gonna do?"

"I guess I'm going to make an omelette."

"No," Gator said, "I mean about the stove."

"There's nothing wrong with the stove. What's wrong is that you've moved to a
place that's a hundred twenty miles from Philadelphia. To the edge of a lake of
imaging compound where the population density is, by law, almost nil -- and the
photonic utility is probably run by corn farmers."

Gator looked hurt. Or maybe he was just suddenly worried that his new cottage
was not nearly the idyllic retirement hideaway that he had once thought.

"Sorry, Stohler," he mumbled. "Guess I was expecting too much. Guess I was
remembering about how you used to talk -- about knowing people who knew other
people who knew how to bend the rules sometimes."

Out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of a small figure down in the
living room silhouetted against the picture window. Matthew. He appeared to have
each palm, and his nose, pressed to the glass.

I went down the steps.

"Tired of holovision already?" I asked.

Matthew turned, and my heart leapt. Perhaps it was the harsh sunlight shadowing
his face, but his eyes seemed to have receded into dark hollows. He seemed
uncharacteristically tentative. He seemed gawd-awful sick.

"Daddy," he asked, "is there something wrong with the lake?" oh, damn. Gator had
just been outside hunting babies, and maybe Matthew saw something that will scar
him for life. Why doesn't he crawl back into the TV for a few more hours?

"No, Matthew," I told him calmly. "The lake's just fine. See? Isn't it a pretty
lake?"

"There aren't any geese," he said sternly.

"Ah. Geese. Well, that's storybook stuff, my man. In the storybooks you have
geese paddling around on the water. But this isn't that kind of lake."

He looked pathetic -- little Oshkosh overalls hanging limply around him. I
figured I'd better get some food into him.

"But this lake," he squeaked, "for what it is, it's an okay lake then?"

"Definitely," I said, taking his hand and leading him toward the stairs to the
kitchen. "Yes, definitely."

"Good," he said, "the pixies will be glad to hear it."

We arrived on the kitchen level. Gator was cleaning his pistol and reloading
several of his seventeen-round clips.

"Pixies -- like you've been talking to Tinkerbell?" I asked.

"Tinkerbell is for pussies, Dad," he said.

Gator raised one eyebrow into an arch that said, "Where'd a five-year-old learn
that kind of language?"

And then I had an alarming thought, which begat more and more alarming thoughts.

"Matthew," I said slowly, "these people you're been talking to -- did you call
them pixies because they're from the utility? From PIXICO?"

Matthew blinked innocently. "No, Daddy, they're from the holovision."

"Gator," I said, "is your holovision interactive?"

Gator slapped a clip into place. "Tell ya the truth, I've barely had it on.
Knowin' how to interact might come natural to Matthew. But I'm the one hasn't
even figured the stove yet."

"The utility?" little Matthew asked, eyes widening with horror. "Will I have to
pay a bill then?"

Matthew ate half of an omelette and with very little resistance went to bed for
what I hoped would be a long nap. Gator was getting fidgety.

"Calm down," I said. "You get in a shouting match with that Bone-Hair lady --
threaten her or something -- and you'll lose the house altogether. PIXICO will
toss your ass out on County Road 814 -- and your new stove and TV right after
you."

"Well, they already suspect something's wrong with the lake, so what's wrong
with a little photonic pissing match?" he asked. "You're the one oughta be
tootin' steam out his ass! They were trying to use your son, dammit -- a
five-year-old -- to check up on their fucking lake of imaging compound! This
ain't a retirement house -- it's a photonic prison!"

I rolled my eyes at the exaggeration and punched a number on the holophone. A
crazy, animated sequence rose on the screen -- a parade of tiny turkeys in
little yellow rain hats emerging from a sleeping man's nostrils.

"This is Osborne, all right," I said.

Gator looked skeptical.

"Oh, I haven't called him in a while, but Osborne would create a greeting like
this," I said.

When the turkeys were done with their dance, a large Navajo appeared on the
screen. He was hunched forward to see his own holo screen, giving us a close-up
of his stylishly ragged haircut. Behind him was a wall full of animation decks
and editing monitors.

"Osborne!" I said. "How are things in the graphics department? Looks like PIXICO
isn't giving you enough to do in Philadelphia."

Osborne snorted. "If I had known it was you calling Stohler, I would have run
out a different greeting. I have a new one called the Butt Brothers Ballet. Want
to see it?"

"Love to, but I got no time," I said. "I need to run a problem past you." As I
told him the story of Bone-Hair, the demon stove, and Matthew's encounter with
pixie spies, Osborne's heavy face slowly collapsed into a scowl.

"This friend of yours -- Gator?" Osborne asked. "This is the one you've been
telling me about for years? The one that's got an instinct for fucking with
people. And attracting people that wanna luck with him."

"I just need some advice, Osborne."

He grunted. "Look, you've got this rural outfit out there. Technically, legally,
it's a separate company -- anti-trust laws, you know. But it's
PIXICO-Philadelphia, PIXICO-Peoria, and on like that. The management styles of
these little sideshows can get pretty wild. In Philly, ya know, we keep the
imaging compounds in underground tanks. Those substances are too sensitive to
have civilians crawling around them."

"Gator's here because of the scenery," I said. "And -- hell -- it is a beautiful
view."

Osborne grunted again. When he stretched, his face rose out of sight. He hunched
down again, looking weary.

"Sounds like your cow-chippin' utility is running close to the bone on its
budget," Osborne said. "Otherwise they wouldn't lease cottages on the banks of
an imaging compound reservoir. And they wouldn't go gullybonkers over a small
herd of slime-babies. That would be a relatively small drain on their imaging
power, ya know, unless they have barely enough imaging reserves to service their
customers --"

The holo image of Osborne collapsed into a roiling field of wild geometric
shapes. A new image materialized -- the familiar puritan countenance of Ms.
Bone-Hair.

"I'm so sorry," she sniffed, "but transmissions contrary to the interests of
PIXICO are strictly prohibited. You will find in paragraph thirty-two of the
user contract that --"

The sharp whack of a pistol shot tossed my heart up into my throat. I turned to
find Gator wearing a satisfied grin, lowering his automatic. The phone's holo
screen was collapsing into a little mound of crystal junk.

"Got the snooping bitch," Gator said.

"What you got was your own holophone," I said.

Gator squinted. "I'm tired," he said, as if that explained it all.

The surface of the stove erupted into a fiery replica of Bone-Hair. About her
head was a bouffant of wild blue flame. Her eyes were glowing coals. She swatted
at me with searing white fingertips, singeing my shin at the shoulder. With the
other hand she snatched the 9mm out of Gator's hands.

I dodged, toppling a kitchen chair. Gator yelped and bolted for a closet.

Dangerous as she was, Bone-Hair seemed to be sunk waist-deep in the stovetop and
stuck that way. Thank gawd for what limits there were to photonic imaging.

The kitchen curtains were turning brown. In a moment they would burst into
flame. The countertops were blistering from the heat. Bone-Hair flailed
maniacally, flinging melted gunmetal around the kitchen. She opened her mouth
and rattled my ears with demented keening.

Gator emerged from the closet, his jaw set with determination. In fluid motions
he hoisted an axe onto his shoulder and charged at the blazing specter that had
taken over his kitchen. The axe sliced easily through the fire monster and
glanced off the surface of the stove.

"To hell with her," I shouted. "Take a whack at the photonics! The control panel
!"

Gator hoisted the axe again. Bone-Hair effortlessly re-formed herself, swiped at
his face, and etched four sickly brown welts across his jaw --one for each
finger. Gator recoiled but recovered quickly. All of the silver hair on the
right side of his head had been scorched away. The curtains whooshed into flame.
Gator's axe arced through the air and struck the control panel. The ferroplex
cracked, but Bone-Hair was unfazed.

The blazing creature clutched the axe blade with one paw and grabbed Gator's
wrist with the other. Gator howled as the stench of burning flesh filled the
kitchen.

I heaved a kitchen chair at Bone-Hair, but she swat ted i t aside as if i t were
no more than a dragonfly. Gator's hand fell to the stovetop with a sizzling
splash, the wrist burned through. Bone-Hair opened her mouth into an inhuman
gape and bit into his neck.

Gator's jaw opened silently, and his eyes rolled in my direction -- a dead
stare. The fire beast yanked Gator's torso up onto the stovetop, where it
crackled like bacon.

Bone-Hair's fiery features died down suddenly, as if she were placated by death.
She shrank to standard human proportions, although she still was implanted in
the stovetop. Her blazing skin and hair faded to normal tones. She folded her
hands demurely and regarded me -- a dumbstruck guest in a burning kitchen,
watching rivulets of Gator's sputtering blood pour down the side of the stove.

"Well," she said primly, "you can't do that with electricity!"

Even if I'd had something to say I would not have been capable. I backed away
warily and found the stairs.

"I will have to file a report, you know," she said, oblivious to the
gut-wrenching smoke that nearly concealed her image now. "It may be that you
share some liability for damage to PIXICO property. May I have your name,
please?"

On the lower level I found the television pod, and through the ferroplex I could
see little Matthew's blond head. Oh, gawd. Bone-Hair had me by the balls. If she
could project herself through something as rudimentary as a stovetop, she would
be an indescribable terror inside a sophisticated interactive holo pod.

I strode across the room and yanked at the door. It came open easily and Matthew
stared at me, eyes wide.

"Come here, Matt," I said. "Right now."

"Are you mad at me, Daddy?"

"No," I said flatly. "But please come out of there right away. Um, we have to
leave now."

Matthew shrugged, swiveled out of the seat, and stepped out onto the floor. I
realized then that the holo screen surrounding him was blank. The entire pod
interior seemed mute, lifeless.

"Why didn't you have it on, Matt?"

"I was just looking at the sentia deck," he said. "Gator said I couldn't watch
TV anymore. Said those pixies weren't good."

"So you obeyed?"

"Gator said I couldn't watch anymore, and then he threw the override switches,
unhooked the photonic feed, and locked the control panel." Matthew was not
pleased.

I smiled. And the downstairs holophone unit hummed. I could smell smoke from the
kitchen now.

I took Matthew's hand and tugged him toward the downstairs door.

"It's rude not to answer the phone," Matt said.

"Yeah," I said, "this is all pretty male."

Down near the take, two babies were butting their heads against the two-by-four
framing of the compost bin. Trying to return to the womb, I imagined.

Matthew saw them, of course, and pointed.

"Just some of the local wildlife," I explained. "I'll tell you about it later."
Later, I hoped, I would have made up a better story.

When I let Matthew into the back compartment of the Arisawa tracker he
listlessly fired up the holo unit. It was a special installation, several
notches above the factory rigs, but still a poor substitute for Gator's new
machine.

I extended the outrigger on the tracker and noticed that smoke was starting to
seep out from the frame of the kitchen window.

I reviewed the tracker's mapping unit and retraced the several twists and turns
that had led me to Gator's hideaway among the cornfields of southeastern
Pennsylvania. The first commercial structure we encountered bore the sign
"Yoder's Trading Store," and I pulled into the gravel lot.

"Look, Matthew -- an Amish store."

Matthew did not look up, absorbed as he was in a surreal swirl of pineapples and
chartreuse amoebas. I popped the tracker door open, hoping to find something
inside to drink during the drive home.

The other three vehicles outside the store were obviously Amish -patched
together relics from the era of the internal combustion engine. The Amish sect
in this vicinity, anyway, allowed its members to embrace several castoff
technologies -- among them gasoline-powered autos and electricity. The next
county over, who knows? The Amish there could still be in the horse-and-buggy
days.

I had parked beside an odd truck that seemed to have been cobbled together from
several different models. The body was a checkerboard of blue and green, layered
over with mud and rest. It had once had a flat bed, but now a wooden frame held
dozens of chickens in stacked cages on each side of the truck. The interior of
the truck bed housed a small herd of pigs. The truck reeked of fresh manure.

Forgetting about my thirst, I returned to the driver's seat. About fifty yards
down the road, I found a dirt turn-off and parked there.

"I need you to stay here by yourself for just a few minutes," I said to Matthew.

He looked up from the back compartment and for a fraction of a second our eyes
locked and he nodded. Sometimes that's all the acknowledgment I can hope for.

I closed the door and took a few steps in the direction of Yoder's before I
changed my mind. I yanked the door open again, reached into the back, and
dragged Matthew out by the back of his collar.

The little guy glared at me, a mixture of irritation and astonishment.

"Daaaaad!"

"Sorry, Matthew. I'm, learning to loosen up."

"Well, ya aren't too good at it yet."

I stole the chicken-and-pig truck, an impetuous gesture that Gator would have
appreciated. This was done not without guilt, of course -- I was quite sorry to
be depriving an honest farmer of livestock.

"This is criminal, Dad," Matthew reminded me, bouncing on the passenger seat.

"A greater good is being done, though," I said lamely. The greater good, I told
myself, was revenge.

The steering wheel was insanely loose. I had to spin it at least two revolutions
to turn in any direction, which caused me to flatten dozens of stalks of corn by
the road. The livestock reacted with a long chores of snorking and squawking,
apparently not used to bouncing across ditches at high speeds. Matthew quickly
figured out how to fasten the old-time shoulder harness.

By the time we reached Gator's place the flames had broken through the roof. A
cone of black smoke spread into the sky, and damn if I didn't hear a siren far
away.

Matthew could do nothing but pump his little legs and point at the flames: "Dad!
Dad!"

I eased the truck down the hill into Gator's lake sideyard. There were five
slime babies scattered about the yard now, two of them rolling around in the
basil beds. At the sight of them, Matthew's voice rose into an incomprehensible
squeal.

I stopped at the lake's edge, got out of the cab, and pulled Matthew out of the
passenger door. I released the parking brake. The patchwork track lumbered into
the dark lake and sank quickly, taking its considerable cargo of animal DNA with
it.

If slime babies could emerge from just a trace of urine, now the lakeside would
be populated with slime chickens and slime swine for years to come. How much of
a drain that would be on PIXICO's imaging capabilities was unknowable. But it
was a nice symbolic parting shot. A 9mm parting shot.

"We really gotta get out of here, Dad."

"How 'bout I throw you in too?"