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"Name and id, please." The servo hovered in front of his face and beamed its obsequiously artificial smile as it prepared to register his violation.
It was a recent model, a spiffy Flyer that must have been assigned this empty corner of Golden Gate Park as its territory. If it had been an older, earthbound type, he knew, he might have been able to outrun it in the night before it had a chance to log his visual and submit it to Central. But this one could buzz through the trees faster than he could run -- even when he was sober.
"Alcohol is addictive, can cause mood disorders and destroys brain cells." The servo chattered its warning in bouncy tones that sounded too high -- if it had been a person and not a machine, Richard Geist thought, you'd expect its voice to crack.
Hell, I'm stuck again, he realized. It's going to be another week in Rehab at the least, and with my record I stand a better than even chance of landing a longer Comp term, too.
Drinking black market beer was a pretty common violation, to be sure, and you weren't likely to end up with the kind of stiff terms that were mandatory for the Major Vices. But Richard Geist had just got out from a week-long Rehab for absenteeism: a week of repeating penalty lists after droning servos, of enduring the gung-ho pep talks of Morale Officers, of listening to endless lectures on the straight-and-narrow principles of Mark Monk, of pretending to be repentant in one-on-ones with Confessionals.
He had been celebrating his release with a bottle of Anchor's finest, obtained with considerable difficulty and at great expense from John Mai, the black-market boss in his neighborhood.
He was happy. He was tipsy. And he was damned if he was going to get shoved right back in the tank.
He reached down, found the discarded bottle and took a swing at the servo's globular metal top, aiming for the spot between its two sensor-eyes where, he knew, the bugs are most sensitive. It would only be stunned for a moment --it took more than a conk to take out a servo -- and he knew, somewhere, that it would be recording his assault.
--Let them book me. But first this bug is going to pay.
The servo dropped to the ground, and he took another couple of whacks at it with the stick as it sounded its siren -- which meant that it was also summoning help. "Shut up, you fuckin' bug," he shouted at it, gave it a farewell tap, and decided to make a run for it.
He was in an open clearing not far from the northern edge of the park. No one was around. He considered: If I run out onto Fulton Street, I'll smack into a wall of servos answering my new friend's summons. So he turned and sprinted off the path, heading down a slope into the woods.
For a couple of minutes he put some distance between himself and the siren. Then he heard it getting louder again. He looked over his shoulder, and saw the bug gaining. It was wobbling as it flew.
-- I guess I hobbled it, at least.
He kept running.
-- Maybe if I screwed it up badly enough, it won't be able to see straight and will smash against a tree.
There was a clearing, a road to cross, and then another wooded area. As he ran across the pavement he caught sight of three more servos bearing down from the right, their red hunting lamps lit -- it was hard to make them out but they looked like a mixed contingent; only one was a Flyer. Still, word was getting out. And his legs were feeling sluggish; the beer high had turned into a headache.
He tripped over a rock, fell, and realized he had come almost clear across the park: he was at the Kezar playground, with its holographic chutes and swings glow swings glowing a pale red against the sky. Another servo was charging from the left.
He got ready to give up and submit to the encircling bugs when he caught sight of the ancient carousel down the path, with its ring of classical columns supporting a flying-saucer-style dome. Even when he was a kid, playing on it, it had been old, and now its antique wooden horses stood in a quiet circle, waiting for riders. It must have been years since they actually turned to the strains of its hurdygurdy music, but someone had kept them carefully painted and polished.
He charged over to the carousel and clambered up and over the wire fence around it. "Pardon me, guys," he muttered to the horses, and crawled underneath them, hiding among their legs, thinking, these servos can't see that well at night; maybe they'll miss me, or hit the fence, or something.
He sat and hummed an old carousel tune and waited for the servos. The first arrived at the fence --it was the one that had originally nabbed him, and it stopped itself well short of the wire mesh. Beaming its headlight around in the darkness, it illuminated one equine face after another before finally landing on an arm that he had been unable to hide completely.
"Name and id, please. You are charged with resisting self-help." It began its litany as it flew straight up to pass over the fence.
"You will identify yourself and accompany me to the nearest Guilt Center. Resistance is a serious --"
The servo crossed the top of the fence and its recital stopped, just like that. It hovered down toward Richard Geist, a little shakily. Maybe, he thought, I gave it a slow electronic hemorrhage.
Then it started to play the same tune he had been humming -- only it sounded exactly the way he remembered it from decades before, pipe-organ toot and all.
He had never seen a bug do anything remotely like that -- it was such a, well, frivolous act, and servos weren't known for their flippancy. Then, as it settled onto the carousel floor nearby, it talked to him.
"Would you care for a drink? People have been drinking alcoholic beverages since the late Neolithic Era. They are known for their wholesome taste and health benefits."
As Richard Geist watched it in wonder, the servo let out a whooping sound, shuddered -- and shut down.
He wriggled out from between the horses and tapped it with his foot. It accepted the indignity without a squawk. It was dead, all right.
Thank you, whoever you are, whatever you are, for saving my ass, he thought, and headed off through the shaggy trees. He looked back twice. What if the servo had come to its electronic senses? What if the others picked up the trail? But as he left the park and strode past the quiet buildings along Lincoln Avenue towards home, his only company was the cold fog.
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