not far from here. A great pad. Our family will be submerged beneath the awareness of the outside world”—a pause—“I call it the
Manson went on, telling the “family” they might have to show blacks how to start “Helter Skelter,” the convulsion that would destroy the power structure and bring Manson to the fore. The circle laughed and yelped and applauded, their voices a joyful babble.
He sat back, acid pain leaking into his mind. In his joggs Warren had seen the direct presence of evil, but nothing like this monster.
Serafina said, “This will be your greatest mercy.”
Warren’s head spun. “You came to make …”
“Make it happen.” She pulled from the darkness behind her a long, malicious device. An automatic weapon, Warren saw. Firepower.
“Your 0.22 is not enough. Without me, you will fail.”
Warren saw now what must occur. He was not enough against such massed insanity. Slowly he nodded.
She shouldered the long sleek weapon, clicked off the safety. He rose beside her, legs weak.
“You take the first,” she said. He nodded and aimed at Manson. The 0.22 was so small and light as he aimed, while crickets chirped and the bile rose up into his dry throat. He concentrated and squeezed off the shot.
The sharp splat didn’t have any effect. Warren had missed. Manson turned toward them—
The hammering of her automatic slammed in his ears as he aimed his paltry 0.22 and picked off the fleeing targets.
He was thrilled to hit three of them—shadows going down in the firelight. Serafina raged at them, changing clips and yelling. He shouted himself, a high long
Manson had darted away at Serafina’s first burst. The man ran quickly to Warren’s left and Warren followed, feet heavy, hands automatically adding rounds to the 0.22 clip. In the dim light beyond the screams and shots Warren tracked the lurching form, framed against the distant city glow. Some around the circle had pistols, too, and they scattered, trying to direct fire against Serafina’s quick, short bursts.
Warren trotted into the darkness, feet unsteady, keeping Manson’s silhouette in view. He stumbled over outcroppings, but kept going despite the sudden lances of agony creeping down into his legs.
Warren knew he had to save energy, that Manson could outrun him easily. So he stopped at the crest of a rise, settled in against a rock and held the puny 0.22 in his right hand, bracing it with his left. He could see Manson maybe twenty meters away, trotting along, angling toward the ranch’s barn. He squeezed off a shot. The
Gasping, he got up against a massive weight. On his feet, rocky, he slogged forward.
Manson was trying to get up. He lurched on one leg, tried to bring his own gun up again, turned—and Warren fired three times into him at a few meters range. The man groaned, crazed eyes looking at Warren and he wheezed out, “Why?”—then toppled.
Warren blinked at the stars straight overhead and realized he must have fallen. The stars were quite beautiful in their crystal majesty.
Serafina loomed above him. He tried to talk but had no breath.
Serafina said softly, “They’re all gone. Done. Your triumph.”
Acid came up in his throat as he wheezed out, “What … next …”
Serafina smiled, shook her head. “No next. You were the first, the innovator. We followed you. There have been many others, shadowing you closely on nearby space-time lines, arriving at the murder sites—to savour the reflected glory.”
He managed, “Others. Glory?”
Serafina grimaced. “We could tell where you went—we all detected entangled correlations, to track your ethical joggs. Some just followed, witnessed. Some imitated you. They went after lesser serial killers. Used your same simple, elegant methods—minimum tools and weapons, quick and seamless.”
Warren blinked. “I thought I
“You were alone. The first. But the idea spread, later. I come from more than a century after you.”
He had never thought of imitators. Cultures changed, one era thinking the death penalty was obscene, another embracing it as a solution. “I tried to get as many—”
“As you could, of course.” She stroked his arm, soothing the disquiet that flickered across his face, pinching his mouth. “The number of timelines is only a few hundred—Gupta showed that in my century—so it’s not a pointless infinity.”
“Back there in Oklahoma—”
“That was Clyde, another jogger. He made a dumb mistake, got there before you. Clyde was going to study the aftermath of that. He backed out as soon as he could. He left Clifford for you.”
Warren felt the world lift from him and now he had no weight. Light, airy. “He nearly got me killed, too.”
Serafina shrugged. “I know; I’ve been tagging along behind you, with better transflux gear. I come from further up our shared timestream, see? Still, the continuing drop in the homicide rate comes at least partly from the work of jogg people, like me.”
He eyed her suspiciously. “Why did you come here?”
Serafina simply leaned over and hugged him. “You failed here. I wanted to change that. Now you’ve accomplished your goal here—quick mercy for the unknowing victims.”
This puzzled him but of course it didn’t matter anymore, none of it. Except—
“Manson …”
“He killed you here. But now, in a different timestream—caused by me appearing—you
He tried to take this all in. “Still …”
“It’s all quantum logic, see?” she said brightly. “So uncertainty applies to time travel. The side-jogg time traveller affects the time stream he goes to. So then later side-slipping people, they have to correct for that.”
He shook his head, not really following.
She said softly, “Thing is, we think the irony of all this is delicious. In my time, we’re more self-conscious, I guess.”
“What … ?”
“An ironic chain, we call it. To jogg is to act, and be acted upon.” She touched him sympathetically. “You did kill so many. Justice is still the same.”
She cocked his own gun, holding it up in the dull sky glow, making sure there was a round in the chamber. She snapped it closed. “Think of it as a mercy.” She lowered the muzzle at him and gave him a wonderful smile.
The Education of Junior Number 12
MADELINE ASHBY
