contents
TITLEPAGE
PERMISSIONS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
SUMMATION:2010
AHISTORYOFTERRAFORMING•RobertReed
THESPONTANEOUSKNOTTINGOFANAGITATEDSTRING•Lavie
Tidhar
THEEMPEROROFMARS•AllenM.Steele
THETHINGS•PeterWatts
THESULTANOFTHECLOUDS•GeoffreyA.Landis
THEBOOKS•KageBaker
RE-CROSSINGTHESTYX•IanR.MacLeod
ANDMINISTERSOFGRACE•TadWilliams
MAMMOTHSOFTHEGREATPLAINS•EleanorArnason
SLEEPINGDOGS•JoeHaldeman
JACKIE’SBOY•StevenPopkes
FLYINGINTHEFACEOFGOD•NinaAllan
CHICKENLITTLE•CoryDoctorow
FLOWER,MERCY,NEEDLE,CHAIN•YoonHaLee
RETURNTOTITAN•StephenBaxter
UNDERTHEMOONSOFVENUS•DamienBroderick
SEVENYEARSFROMHOME•NaomiNovik
THEPEACOCKCLOAK•ChrisBeckett
AMARYLLIS•CarrieVaughn
SEVENCITIESOFGOLD•DavidMoles
AGAINANDAGAINANDAGAIN•RachelSwirsky
ELEGYFORAYOUNGELK•HannuRajaniemi
LIBERTARIANRUSSIA•MichaelSwanwick
THENIGHTTRAIN•LavieTidhar
MYFATHER’SSINGULARITY•BrendaCooper
THESTARSHIPMECHANIC•JayLakeandKenScholes
SLEEPOVER•AlastairReynolds
permissions
“A History of Terraforming,” by Robert Reed. Copyright © 2010 by Dell
Magazines.FirstpublishedinAsimov’sScienceFiction,July2010.Reprintedby
permissionoftheauthor.
“TheSpontaneousKnottingofanAgitatedString,”byLavieTidhar.Copyright
© 2010 by Lavie Tidhar. First published electronically in Fantasy Magazine,
May2010.Reprintedbypermissionoftheauthor.
“The Emperor of Mars,” by Allen M. Steele. Copyright © 2010 by Dell
Magazines.FirstpublishedinAsimov’sScienceFiction,June2010.Reprintedby
permissionoftheauthor.
“TheThings,”byPeterWatts.Copyright©2010byPeterWatts.Firstpublished
electronically on Clarkesworld, January 2010. Reprinted by permission of the
author.
“TheSultanoftheClouds,”byGeoffreyA.Landis.Copyright©2010byDell
Magazines. First published in Asimov’s Science Fiction, September 2010.
Reprintedbypermissionoftheauthor.
“TheBooks,”byKageBaker.Copyright©2010byKageBaker.Firstpublished
inTheMammothBookofApocalypticSF(Robinson), editedby MikeAshley.
Reprinted by permission of the author’s Estate and the author’s agent, Linn
Prentis.
“RecrossingtheStyx,”byIanR.MacLeod.Copyright©2010bySpilogale,Inc.
First published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, July/August
2010.Reprintedbypermissionoftheauthor.
“AndMinistersofGrace,”byTadWilliams.Copyright©2010byTadWilliams.
FirstpublishedinWarriors (Tor), editedby GeorgeR. R.Martinand Gardner
Dozois.Reprintedbypermissionoftheauthor.
“Mammoths of the Great Plains,” by Eleanor Arnason. Copyright © 2010 by
EleanorArnason.FirstpublishedinMammothsoftheGreatPlains(PMPress).
Reprintedbypermissionoftheauthor.
“SleepingDogs,”byJoeHaldeman.Copyright©2010byJoeHaldeman.First
published in Gateways (Tor), edited by Elizabeth A. Hull. Reprinted by
permissionoftheauthor.
“Jackie’sBoy,”byStevenPopkes.Copyright©2010byDellMagazines.First
publishedinAsimov’sScienceFiction,April/May2010.Reprintedbypermission
oftheauthor.
“Flying in the Face of God,” by Nina Allan. Copyright © 2010 by Interzone.
FirstpublishedinInterzone227.Reprintedbypermissionoftheauthor.
“ChickenLittle,”byCoryDoctorow.FirstpublishedinGateways(Tor),edited
byElizabethA.Hull.Reprintedbypermissionoftheauthor.
“Flower,Mercy,Needle,Chain,”byYoonHaLee.Firstpublishedelectronically
inLightspeed,September2010.Reprintedbypermissionoftheauthor.
“Return to Titan,” by Stephen Baxter. Copyright © 2010 by Stephen Baxter.
First published in Godlike Machines (Science Fiction Book Club), edited by
JonathanStrahan.Reprintedbypermissionoftheauthor.
“Under the Moons of Venus,” by Damien Broderick. First published
electronically in Subterranean, Spring 2010. Reprinted by permission of the
author.
“Seven Years from Home,” by Naomi Novik. Copyright © 2010 by Naomi
Novik. First published in Warriors (Tor), edited by George R. R. Martin and
GardnerDozois.Reprintedbypermissionoftheauthor.
“ThePeacockCloak,”byChrisBeckett.Copyright©2010byDellMagazines.
FirstpublishedinAsimov’sScienceFiction,June2010.Reprintedbypermission
oftheauthor.
“Amaryllis,” by Carrie Vaughn. Copyright © 2010 by Carrie Vaughn. First
publishedelectronically in Lightspeed, June 2010. Reprinted by permission of
theauthor.
“SevenCities of Gold,” byDavid Moles.Copyright ©2010 byDavid Moles.
FirstpublishedinSevenCitiesofGold(PSPublishing).Reprintedbypermission
oftheauthor.
“Again and Again and Again,” by Rachel Swirsky. Copyright © 2010 by
Interzone. First published in Interzone 226. Reprinted by permission of the
author.
“Elegy for a Young Elk,” by Hannu Rajaniemi. Copyright © 2010 by Hannu
Rajaniemi. First published electronically in Subterranean, Spring 2010.
Reprintedbypermissionoftheauthor.
“Libertarian Russia,” by Michael Swanwick. Copyright © 2010 by Dell
Magazines. First published in Asimov’s Science Fiction, December 2010.
Reprintedbypermissionoftheauthor.
“TheNight Train,”by LavieTidhar. Copyright© 2010by LavieTidhar. First
published electronically in Strange Horizons, June 14, 2010. Reprinted by
permissionoftheauthor.
“My Father’s Singularity,” by Brenda Cooper. Copyright © 2010 by Brenda
Cooper.FirstpublishedelectronicallyinClarkesworld,June2010.Reprintedby
permissionoftheauthor.
“TheStarshipMechanic,”byJayLakeandKenScholes.Copyright©2010by
JayLakeandKenScholes.FirstpublishedelectronicallyinTor.com.Reprinted
bypermissionoftheauthors.
“Sleepover,” by Alastair Reynolds. Copyright © 2010 by Alastair Reynolds.
FirstpublishedinTheMammothBookofApocalypticSF(Robinson),editedby
MikeAshley.Reprintedbypermissionoftheauthor.
“TheTasteofNight,”byPatCadigan.Copyright©2010byPatCadigan.First
publishedinIsAnybodyOutThere?(DAW),editedbyNickGeversandMarty
Halpern.Reprintedbypermissionoftheauthor.
“Blind Cat Dance,” by Alexander Jablokov. Copyright © 2010 by Dell
Magazines.FirstpublishedinAsimov’sScienceFiction,March2010.Reprinted
bypermissionoftheauthor.
“TheShipmaker,”byAliettedeBodard.Copyright©2010byInterzone.First
publishedinInterzone231.Reprintedbypermissionoftheauthor.
“In-Fall,” by Ted Kosmatka. Copyright © 2010 by Ted Kosmatka. First
publishedelectronicallyinLightspeed,December2010.Reprintedbypermission
oftheauthor.
“Chimbwi,”byJimHawkins.Copyright©2010byInterzone.Firstpublishedin
Interzone227.Reprintedbypermissionoftheauthor.
“DeadMan’sRun,”byRobertReed.Copyright©2010bySpilogale,Inc.First
publishedinTheMagazineofFantasy&ScienceFiction,November/December
2010.Reprintedbypermissionoftheauthor.
acknowledgments
Theeditorwouldliketothankthefollowingpeoplefortheirhelpandsupport:
Susan Casper, Jonathan Strahan, Gordon Van Gelder, Ellen Datlow, Sean
Wallace, Peter Crowther, Nicolas Gevers, William Shaffer, Ian Whates, Andy
Cox, Paula Guran, Dario Ciriello, Jay Lake, Lavie Tidhar, Robert Wexler,
Patrick Nielsen Hayden, Torie Atkinson, Eric T. Reynolds, George Mann,
JenniferBrehl,PeterTennant,SusanMarieGroppi,KarenMeisner,JohnJoseph
Adams,WendyS.Delmater,JedHartman,RichHorton,MarkR.Kelly,Andrew
Wilson, Damien Broderick, Lou Anders, Patrick Swenson, Sheila Williams,
Brian Bieniowski, Trevor Quachri, Robert T. Wexler, Michael Swanwick,
Stephen Baxter, Kristine Kathryn Rusch, Ted Kosmatka, Cory Doctorow,
CharlesArdai,NaomiNovik,TadWilliams,DeborahBeale,OttoPenzler,Jenny
Blackford,JoeHaldeman,ElizabethA.Hull,JimFrenkel,GeoffreyA.Landis,
Eleanor Arnason, L. Timmel Duchamp, Ian R. MacLeod, Hannu Rajaniemi,
Allen Steele, John Jarrold, Yoon Ha Lee, David Moles, Jim Hawkins, Carrie
Vaughn,ChrisBeckett,NinaAllan,KenScholes,AlexJablokov,JamesPatrick
Kelly, Linn Prentis, Pat Cadigan, Liz Gorinsky, Mike Resnick, Aliette de
Bodard, Rachel Swirsky, Brenda Cooper, David Rivera, Leo Korogodski, Ian
Tregillis, Felicity Shoulders, Benjamin Rosenbaum, Gord Sellar, Stephen
Popkes, Eric Choi, Damien Broderick, Peter Watts, Alastair Reynolds, Robert
Reed, Maureen McHugh, David Hartwell, Ginjer Buchanan, Susan Allison,
ShawnaMcCarthy,KellyLink,GavinGrant,JohnKlima,JohnO’Neill,Charles
Tan, Rodger Turner, Tyree Campbell, Stuart Mayne, John Kenny, Edmund
Schubert, Tehani Wessely, Tehani Croft, Karl Johanson, Sally Beasley, Tony
Lee, Joe Vas, John Pickrell, Ian Redman, Anne Zanoni, Kaolin Fire, Ralph
Benko, Paul Graham Raven, Nick Wood, Mike Allen, Jason Sizemore, Karl
Johanson, Sue Miller, David Lee Summers, Christopher M. Cevasco, Tyree
Campbell,AndrewHook,VaughneLeeHansen,MarkWatson,SarahLumnah,
andspecialthankstomyowneditor,MarcResnick.
Thanks are also due to the late, lamented Charles N. Brown, and to all his
staff, whose magazine Locus (Locus Publications, P. O. Box 13305, Oakland,
CA94661.$60intheUnitedStatesforaone-yearsubscription[twelveissues]
via second class; credit card orders 510-339-9198) was used as an invaluable
reference source throughout the summation; Locus Online
(www.locusmag.com),editedbyMarkR.Kelly,hasalsobecomeakeyreference
source.
summation:2010
Thebigstoryin2010wastheexplosionine-booksales,somethingthatsome
industry commentators have seen coming for a long time now, but which has
cometoaboilfasterandmoreextensivelythanalmostanybodypredictedthatit
would.
Thismarketstartedtoacceleratein2007,withtheintroductionofAmazon’s
Kindle,thefirstportablee-bookreader,butthelidreallyblewoffthisyearwhen
Amazon lowered the purchase price for the Kindle down to $139, with the
introductionofcompetingdevicessuchasApple’siPadandBarnes&Noble’s
NOOK, and with the founding of “online bookstores” by Apple, Barnes &
Noble,andGooglewhereproductsforthesedevicescanbepurchased.Amazon
hasannouncedthatthethird-generationKindleisthebestsellingproductinits
history, having sold “millions” (no exact figures are available) in 2010 alone,
and the NOOK is similarly Barnes & Noble’s biggest seller in its forty-year
history; Apple’s iPad—which has other functions, so it is technically a touch
screenmediatabletratherthanane-reader,butyoucanstillreade-booksonit,
andthat’sprobablyafairlycommonuseforit—sold3.27millionunitsinitsfirst
threemonthsafteritsApril2010release,andisprojectedtohit28millionunits
soldin2011.Accordingtoasurveyofmorethan6,000bookshopperscarried
outbyCodexGroup,21percentofthemnowowne-readersortabletcomputers.
And,ofcourse,allthesepeoplewhonowowne-readersortabletcomputers
nowwantsomethingtoreadonthem.
According to Amazon, e-books are now outselling both hardcover and
paperback print books—they’re selling three times as many e-books as
hardcovers,180ofthemforevery100hardcoverssold,andselling115e-books
for every 100 paperbacks sold. The Association of American Publishers
estimates that from January to August of 2010, the sales of e-books were up
from $166.9 million in 2009 to $441 million in 2010, an increase of 164.4
percent,whichmeansthate-booksnowaccountfor10percentofallconsumer
booksalesintheUnitedStates,upfrom3.31percentin2009.Andthesefigures
werefrombeforetheChristmasrush,whichsawmillionsofKindles,NOOKs,
andiPadsboughtasChristmaspresents,withtheattendantpurchaseofe-books
to read on them—Barnes & Noble alone reports nearly one million e-books
purchasedanddownloadedjustonChristmasDay.Atthesametime,theAAP
report for October shows sales of print books down at $721 million, a 0.9
percent drop from October the year before, and the U.S. Census Bureau
preliminaryreportforOctobershowsbookstoresalesof$1.0billion,down2.5
percent from October 2009; year-to-date sales were also down 2.5 percent, to
$13.3billion.Whencomparingprintande-booksalesforthefirstthree-quarters
of2010,AAPfiguresshowprinttradesalesfromthefivemajorcategoriesdown
7.5percent,whilee-booksalesrose188.4percentforthesameperiod.
Allthishaspromptedsomecommentatorstopredictapublishingapocalypse,
where print books go out of existence altogether, physical brick-and-mortar
bookstoresbecomeextinct,andeventhepublishingcompaniesthemselvesdie,
since now that authors can put e-books together themselves and sell them on
onlinebookstores,theyhavenoneedofpublishersanymore.
Idon’tthinkthatthisislikelytohappen.Althoughit’sclearthate-booksare
cannibalizingtheprintbookmarkettosomeextent,withsomeconsumersopting
tobuy the cheaper e-booksrather than the more expensive print editions,that
doesn’tmeanthat people aregoingto stopbuyingprint booksaltogether.The
factisthatmorebooks,bothprintanddigital,arebeingsoldthaneverbefore.
Amazonmaybeselling115e-booksforevery100paperbackssold—butthey’re
stillsellingthose 100paperbacks. Amazon’sRuss Grandinetti hascommented
that“ourprintbusinesscontinuestogrow.Weseee-booksasanadditivemore
than a substitute,” and Scott Lubeck of the Book Industry Study Group has
pointedoutthat“it’sgoodforreaders,andreadingisgoodforpublishing.”For
theforeseeablefuture,asizeablepercentageofpeoplearegoingtopreferprint
books to e-books, and browsing at physical brick-and-mortar bookstores to
shopping for books online, and many writers are not going to have either the
inclination or the skill set necessary to publish their own e-books themselves,
eventhoughcurrenttechnologymakesthatpossible(andacertainnumberwill
do just that, some successfully, some not; publishing houses won’t be going
awayanytimesoon,though).Forthatmatter,althoughthisisafactornottaken
intoconsiderationinmostconversationsofthissort,evenhereinthetwenty-first
century there are still plenty of people who don’t have e-readers, don’t have
Internetaccess,don’tevenhavecomputersofanysort,andtoignorethemwould
be to abandon a considerable subset of potential customers. Even people too
poortoaffordaniPadoraKindlemaystillpickupamass-marketpaperback
fromtimetotime.
Thewholeeither/or thingisa falsedichotomy anyway. The truthis, onlya
veryfewpuristswillinsistonbuyingexclusivelyinoneformat.Mostreaders
willbuybothprintbooksande-books,choosingoneortheotherdependingon
thecircumstances.
Nevertheless, as I’ve been predicting for several years now, there are big
changesonthehorizon(mostlychangesforthebetter,Ithink,withanyluck),
andthewholepublishingworldmaylookverydifferentadecadefromnow.
Although I suspect that the boardrooms at many a publishing house were
filled with executives panicking over the “sudden surprise” explosion in
popularityofe-booksthatmanycommentatorshaveseencomingforalmosta
decadenow, thegenre publishing world was relatively quiet onthe surface in
2010, although the possible collapse of the bookstore chain Borders, which
totteredonthebrinkofbankruptcythroughouttheyearandfiledforchapter11
on February 16, 2011, could have serious repercussions for the publishing
industry as a whole. Random House Publishing Group continued the major
structural reorganizations that started in 2008 by merging the Ballantine and
Bantam Dell divisions into a single group called Ballantine Bantam Dell,
combiningthetwoindependenteditorialdepartmentsintoone.Ballantinesenior
vice president and publisher Libby McGuire will run the new division,
overseeing hardcover and mass-market paperback publications from
DelRey/Spectra,Ballantine,Bantam,Delacorte,Dell,Villard,andotherimprints.
TradepaperbackpublicationswillcontinuetobeoverseenbyJanevonMehren,
seniorvice-presidentoftradepaperbacks.NinaTaublib,formerexecutivevice-
president, publisher, and editor-in-chief of Bantam Dell, has stepped down.
JenniferHersheyhasbecomeeditor-in-chiefofthenewBallantineBantamDell
group.Eos,theSFimprintofHarperCollins,willberenamedHarperVoyagerin
January2011,bringingitintolinewiththeVoyagerprogramsinAustraliaand
theUnitedKingdom;DianaGillofEoswillremainexecutiveeditorofHarper
VoyagerintheUnitedStates.
ProminentBritisheditorJoFletcher,longtimeassociatepublisherofGollancz,
leftthecompanytojoinQuercus,whereshewillrunherownSF/fantasy/horror
imprint, Jo Fletcher Books. Angry Robot Books, the imprint of HarperCollins
UK, started in 2009, parted ways with its parent company and became an
independent imprint of Osprey Publishing, a nonfiction press that currently
specializesinmilitaryhistoryandwantstoexpandintothesciencefictionand
fantasy market; founder and publisher Marc Gascoigne will remain in charge.
Ian Randal Strock purchased SF/fantasy imprint Fantastic Books from Wilder
Publications;Fantastic Bookswill now bean imprint of Strock’s Gray Rabbit
Publications,andDouglasCohen,DarrellSchweitzer,andDavidTruesdalewill
remain as acquiring editors. Dorchester decided to give up print publishing
entirelyandbecomeadigital-onlypublisher,thenreversedthedecisionearlyin
2011 under a new CEO, and will add a full trade paperback line, Dorchester
TradePublishing,inadditiontoitse-publishingprogram.
***
Itwas,thankfully,aquietyearinthelong-troubledprintmagazinemarket,with
evenafewminorbitsofencouragingnewshereandthere,mostlyanincreasein
subscriptionssoldforelectronicreadingdevicesliketheKindle,theiPad,and
the NOOK. All of the major print magazines survived the year, with the
exception of Realms of Fantasy, which had died and been reborn under a
differentpublisherthepreviousyear,andwhichdiedagainin2010—onlytobe
rebornagainunderyetanothernewpublisher,withtheeditorialstaffintact.
The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction again published a lot of good
fantasythisyear,butonlyoccasionallyastrongSFstory.GoodstoriesbyRobert
Reed,IanR.MacLeod,StevenPopkes,PaulPark,JamesL.Cambias,AlbertE.
Cowdrey,RachelPollack,AaronSchultz,IanTregillis,andothersappearedin
F&SFin 2010. The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction mostly remained
stable, registering only a slight 2.1 percent loss in overall circulation, from
15,491 to 15,172, with subscriptions dropping from 12,045 to 10,907, but
newsstandsalesrisingfrom3,446to4,264;sell-throughrosefrom37percentto
42percent.GordonVanGelderisinhisfourteenthyearaseditorandhistenth
yearasownerandpublisher.
Asimov’s Science Fiction was once again almost the reverse of F&SF,
publishing a lot of good SF, but not as much good fantasy. Good stories by
Robert Reed, Geoffrey A. Landis, Michael Swanwick, Tom Purdom, Felicity
Shoulders, Allen M. Steele, Steven Popkes, Kristine Kathryn Rusch, Rick
Wilber,andothersappearedinAsimov’sin2009.Forthefirsttimesince2001,
Asimov’sScienceFictionregisteredagaininoverallcirculation,up26.1percent
from16,696to21,057.Subscriptionsrosefrom13,731to17,866,asubstantial
partofthatduetodigitalcopiessoldfore-readersthroughdevicessuchasthe
Kindle; perhaps electronic subscriptions will be the saving of the print SF
magazinesafterall,asI’vebeensuggestingtheymightbeforseveralyearsnow.
Newsstandsalesdippedabit,from2,965to2,781;sell-throughstayedsteadyat
31percent.SheilaWilliamscompletedhersixthyearasAsimov’seditor.
AnalogScienceFictionandFacthadasomewhatweakyear,althoughgood
work by Kristine Kathryn Rusch, Michael F. Flynn, Allen M. Steele, Stephen
Baxter,BrendaCooper,SeanMcMullen,andothersdidappear.AnalogScience
FictionandFactregistereda4percentriseinoverallcirculation,from25,418to
26,440,withsubscriptionsrisingfrom21,636to22,791,alsolargelybecauseof
digitalsales.Newsstandsalesdroppedfrom3,782to3,359;sell-throughdropped
from34percentto32percent.StanleySchmidthasbeeneditorthereforthirty-
threeyears,and2010markedthemagazine’seightiethanniversary.
Interzoneistechnicallynota“professionalmagazine,”bythedefinitionofthe
Science Fiction Writers of America (SFWA), because of its low rates and
circulation,buttheliteraryqualityoftheworkpublishedthereissohighthatit
wouldbeludicroustoomitit.Interzonealsohadastrongyear,publishinggood
workbyNinaAllan,LavieTidhar,JimHawkins,AliettedeBodard,JayLake,
MercurioD.Rivera,MatthewCook,andothers.Circulationthereseemstohave
heldsteady,in the 3,000-copyrange. The editorsinclude publisher AndyCox
and Andy Hedgecock. TTA Press, Interzone’s publisher, also publishes the
straight horror or dark suspense magazine Black Static, which is beyond our
purviewhere,butofasimilarlevelofprofessionalquality.
Realms of Fantasy managed six issues under new publisher Tir Na Nog
publications, who’d acquired them in 2009 after the magazine had been
cancelledbylongtimepublisherSovereignMedia,beforedyingagainin2010—
onlytoberescuedagainbyanothernewpublisher,DamnationBooks,whoplans
to resume publishing it in 2011. Founding editor Shawna McCarthy, who has
editedthemagazinesince1994,willremaineditorofRealmsofFantasyinits
new incarnation. Good stuff appeared here in 2010 by Jay Lake, Aliette de
Bodard,HarlanEllison,M.K.Hobson,T.L.Morganfield,andothers.
TheBritishmagazinePostscriptshasreinventeditselfasananthology,andis
reviewed as such in the anthology section that follows, but I’ll list the
subscription information up here, for lack of anywhere else to put it, and,
because,unlikemostotheranthologyseries,youcansubscribetoPostscripts.
If you’d like to see lots of good SF and fantasy published every year, the
survivalofthesemagazinesisessential,andoneimportantwaythatyoucanhelp
them survive is by subscribing to them. It’s never been easier to do so,
somethingthatthesedayscanbedonewithjusttheclickofafewbuttons,nor
has it ever before been possible to subscribe to the magazines in as many
differentformats,fromthetraditionalprintcopyarrivingbymailtodownloads
for your desktop or laptop available from places like Fictionwise
(www.fictionwise.com) and Amazon (www.amazon.com), to versions you can
readonyourKindle,NOOK,oriPad.Youcanalsonowsubscribefromoverseas
justaseasilyasyoucanfromtheUnitedStates,somethingformerlydifficultto
impossible.
Soinhopesofmakingiteasierforyoutosubscribe,I’mgoingtolistboththe
Internetsiteswhereyoucansubscribeonlineandthestreetaddresseswhereyou
cansubscribebymailforeachmagazine:Asimov’ssiteisatwww.asimovs.com,
and subscribing online might be the easiest thing to do, and there’s also a
discounted rate for online subscriptions; its subscription address is Asimov’s
ScienceFiction,DellMagazines,267Broadway,FourthFloor,NewYork,NY
10007-2352—$34.97 for annual subscription in the United States, $44.97
overseas. Analog’s site is at www.analogsf.com; its subscription address is
AnalogScienceFictionandFact,DellMagazines,267Broadway,FourthFloor,
New York, NY 10007-2352—$34.97 for annual subscription in the United
States,$44.97overseas.TheMagazineofFantasy&ScienceFiction’ssiteisat
www.sfsite.com/fsf; its subscription address is The Magazine of Fantasy &
ScienceFiction,Spilogale,Inc., P.O.Box 3447,Hoboken, N.J.07030, annual
subscription—$34.97intheUnitedStates,$46.97overseas.InterzoneandBlack
Static can be subscribed to online at www.ttapress.com/onlinestore1.html; the
subscription address for both is TTA Press, 5 Martins Lane, Witcham, Ely,
CambsCB62LB,England,UK—£42.00eachforatwelve-issuesubscription,or
thereisareducedratedualsubscriptionofferof£78.00forbothmagazinesfor
twelveissues;makecheckspayableto“TTAPress.”
Most of these magazines are also available in various electronic formats
throughFictionwise,orfortheKindleandotherhandheldreaders.
***
The print semiprozine market continues to contract, vulnerable to the same
pressuresintermsofrisingpostageratesandproductioncostsastheprofessional
magazinesare.In2009,Subterranean,FantasyMagazine,ApexMagazine,and
Zahiralltransitionedfromprintformatstoelectronic-onlyonlineformats,andI
suspectthatmostofthesurvivingprintsemiprozineswillsoonerorlatergothe
sameroutethemselves.
The most prominent of the surviving print semiprozines, in terms of the
qualityofthefictiontheypublish,maybeWeirdTales,BlackGate,andElectric
Velocipede. Weird Tales is a fine-looking magazine, with a coolness quotient
higherthanmostothermagazinesinthefield,buttheyagainmanagedonlytwo
oftheirscheduledfourquarterlyissuesin2010,astheyhadin2009,andthey
needtoworkonthereliabilityoftheirpublishingscheduleifthey’retobecomea
majorplayer.AnnVanderMeerisnowtheeditor,promotedfromfictioneditorat
thebeginningof2010,andWeirdTalespublishedgoodworkthisyearbyIanR.
MacLeod, Aidan Doyle, Catherynne M. Valente, and others. The sword and
sorcerymagazineBlackGatemanagedonlyoneissuethisyear,althoughitwasa
doubleissue,evenhugerthantheirissuesusuallyare,featuringstrongstuffby
JamesEnge,RobertJ.Howe,MichaelJasper,JayLake,andothers;thelongtime
editorisJohnO’Neill.ElectricVelocipede,editedbyJohnKlima,managedonly
oneofitsscheduledfourissuesin2010,withinterestingworkbyCyrilSimsa,
DanielBraum,andothers.
The longest running of all the fiction semiprozines, and the most reliably
published,oneofthefewthatkepttoitsannouncedpublishingschedule,isthe
CanadianOnSpec,whichiseditedbyacollectiveundergeneraleditorDianeL.
Walton.Onceagain,Ifoundthefictionheremostlykindofbland,althoughthere
wasinterestingworkbyToniPi,MarissaK.Lingen,andTinaConnollythatdid
appear. Another collective-run SF magazine with a rotating editorial staff,
Australia’s Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine, which is usually a bit
livelierthanOnSpec, published seven issues this year, running good stuff by
KarlBunker,JaneenSamuel,FerrettSteinmetz,andothers.
ThereweretwoissuesofLadyChurchill’sRosebudWristlet,thelong-running
slipstream magazine edited by Kelly Link and Gavin Grant. The Australian
magazineAurealis,editedbyStuartMayne,whoissteppingdownin2011,also
producedtwoissues,asdidIreland’slong-runningAlbedoOne,andthefantasy
magazine Shimmer. The small British SF magazine Jupiter, edited by Ian
Redman, produced all four of its scheduled issues in 2010. Fantasy magazine
Tales of the Talisman put out four issues, the long-running Space and Time
Magazineproducedthree,andanewstart-upSFmagazine,BullSpec,produced
two.ThereweresingleissuesofNeo-opsis,GreatestUncommonDenominator,
Sybil’s Garage, the South African magazine Something Wicked, Space Squid,
andTalesoftheUnanticipated.
There’s not much of the print critical magazine market left—many of them
have either died or moved onto the Web in electronic format, something I
suspectwillhappentomostofthemsoonerorlater.Oneoftheheartysurvivors,
thebestofthemandcertainlyyourbestbetforvalue,isthenewszineLocus:The
Magazine of the Science Fiction & Fantasy Field, a multiple Hugo winner,
which for more than thirty years has been an indispensable source of news,
information,andreviews.Sadly,founder,publisher,andlongtimeeditorCharles
N.Browndiedin2009,butLocushascontinuedstronglyandsuccessfullyunder
theguidanceofastaffofeditorsheadedbyLizaGroenTrombi,andincluding
KirstenGong-Wong,AmeliaBeamer,andmanyothers.TheNewYorkReviewof
ScienceFiction,acriticalmagazineeditedbyDavidG.Hartwellandastaffof
associateeditors,isanotherheartyperennial,whichhasbeenreliablypublishing
a variety of eclectic and sometimes quirky critical essays on a wide range of
topicsformanyyearsnow.
Mostoftheothersurvivingprintcriticalmagazinesareprofessionaljournals
more aimed at academics than at the average reader. The most accessible of
theseisprobablythelong-runningBritishcriticalzineFoundation.
Subscriptionaddressesfollow:
Locus, The Magazine of the Science Fiction & Fantasy Field, Locus
Publications,Inc.,P.O.Box13305,Oakland,CA94661,$72.00foraone-year
first-classsubscription,twelveissues;TheNewYorkReviewofScienceFiction.
Dragon Press, P.O. Box 78, Pleasantville, NY 10570, $40.00 per year, twelve
issues, make checks payable to “Dragon Press”; Foundation, Science Fiction
Foundation, Roger Robinson (SFF), 75 Rosslyn Avenue, Harold Wood, Essex
RM3ORG,UK,$37.00forathree-issuesubscriptionintheUnitedStates;Weird
Tales,$20.00intheUnitedStates,$40elsewhereforfourissues,gotoWildside
Press, www.wildsidemagazine.com/Weird-Tales to subscribe; Realms of
Fantasy, $19.95 for a yearly (six issues) subscription in the United States,
overseas $34.95, go to www.rofmag.com for subscription information; Black
Gate,NewEpochPress,815OakStreet,St.Charles,IL60174,$29.95foraone-
year(fourissues)subscription;Aurealis,ChimaeraPublications,P.O.Box2164,
Mt.Waverley,VIC3149,Australia(Website:www.aurealis.com.au),$59.75for
a four-issue overseas airmail subscription, checks should be made out to
ChimaeraPublicationsinAustraliandollars;OnSpec,TheCanadianMagazine
of the Fantastic, P.O. Box 4727, Edmonton, AB, Canada T6E 5G6, for
subscriptioninformation,gototheWebsitewww.onspec.ca;Neo-opsisScience
FictionMagazine,4129CareyRd.,Victoria,BC,V8Z4G5,$25.00forathree-
issue subscription; Albedo One. Albedo One Productions, 2 Post Road, Lusk
Co.,Dublin,Ireland,$32.00forafour-issueairmailsubscription,makechecks
payable to “Albedo One” or pay by PayPal at www.albedo1.com; Lady
Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet, Small Beer Press, 150 Pleasant St., #306,
Easthampton,MA01027,$20.00forfourissues;ElectricVelocipede,SpiltMilk
Press, see Web site www.electricvelocipede.com for subscription information;
Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine, see Web site
www.andromedaspaceways.com for subscription information; Tales of the
Talisman,HadrosaurProductions,P.O.Box2194,MesillaPark,NM8804-2194,
$24.00 for a four-issue subscription; Jupiter, 19 Bedford Road, Yeovil,
Somerset, BA21 5UG, UK, £10 for four issues; Greatest Uncommon
Denominator, Greatest Uncommon Denominator Publishing, P.O. Box 1537,
Laconia,NH03247,$18fortwoissues;Sybil’sGarage,SensesFivePress,76
India Street, Apt A8, Brooklyn, NY 11222-1657, no subscription information
availablebuttrytheWebsitewww.sensesfive.com;Shimmer,P.O.Box58591,
Salt Lake City, UT 84158-0591, $22.00 for a four-issue subscription; Space
Squid, no subscription address available, but you could try
squish@spacesquid.com;SomethingWicked,nosubscriptionaddressavailable,
try www.somethingwicked.co.za; Bull Spec, P.O. Box 13146, Durham, N.C.
27709, doesn’t seem to be available for subscription, but find it in your local
bookorcomicshoporonlineatwww.bullspec.com.
***
Theonlineworldofelectronicmagazinesbecomesmoreimportantwithevery
passingyear.Alreadythey’reamorereliableplacetofindqualityfictionthan
most of the semiprozine market, and they’re giving the top print professional
magazinesarunfortheirmoneytoo,andsometimesbeatingthem.Itwasayear
ofrelativelyfewchangesintheonlinemarket.JimBaen’sUniversediedafterits
April issue, a major disappointment; on the other hand, a new magazine,
Lightspeed,wasfounded,andhasalreadyestablisheditselfasamajorsourceof
goodfiction.
The best stuff on the Internet this year was probably to be found at
Subterranean Magazine (www.subterraneanpress.com), edited by William K.
Schafer,withoneissueguest-editedbyJonathanStrahan.Lotsofsuperiorwork,
bothsciencefictionandfantasy,appearedtherethisyearbyDamienBroderick,
HannuRajaniemi,MaureenMcHugh,RachelSwirsky,K.J.Parker,TedChiang,
Lucius Shepard, Kage Baker, Mike Resnick, and others. Subterranean is
particularly to be commended for publishing several strong novellas, a rare
lengthintheInternetworld,wheremoststoriestendtobeshort.
Clarkesworld(www.clarkesworldmagazine.com),editedbySeanWallaceand
publisher and editor Neil Clarke, also had a good year, publishing strong SF,
fantasy, and slipstream stories by Peter Watts, Robert Reed, Brenda Cooper,
YoonHaLee,JayLake,EricBrown,andothers.SeanWallacesteppeddownas
editorinNovember2010.
Sean Wallace is also stepping down as editor of Fantasy Magazine
(www.fantasy-magazine.com),asisco-editorCatRambo;theywillbereplaced
byJohnJosephAdams,whoisalsoeditingLightspeed.FantasyMagazine ran
goodstuffthisyear,mostlystraightgenrefantasy,withalittleslipstreamthrown
in and even the occasional SF story, by Lavie Tidhar, Sarah Monette, Rachel
Swirsky, Tony Pi, Aidan Doyle, Eilis O’Neal, Matthew Johnson, An
Owomoyela,JayLake,ShannonPage,andothers.
The above-mentioned John Joseph Adams, already a prolific anthologist,
launchedanewSFe-zine,Lightspeed(www.lightspeedmagazine.com),earlyin
2010,andwilleditbothLightspeedandFantasyMagazineatthesametime,as
well as his numerous anthologies, which will make him a busy fellow.
Lightspeedhitthegroundrunning,andhasalreadyestablisheditselfasamajor
newSFmarket,publishing goodstoriesby YoonHaLee,Carrie Vaughn,Ted
Kosmatka,JackMcDevitt,AliceSolaKim,andothers.
The long-running e-zine Strange Horizons (www.strangehorizons.com), one
ofthelongest-establishedfictionsitesontheInternet,rangoodstuffthisyear,
their usual mix of SF, fantasy, slipstream, and soft horror by Lavie Tidhar,
Theodora Goss, Samantha Henderson, John Kessel, Sandra McDonald, and
others. Longtime editor-in-chief Susan Marie Groppi, stepped down (although
she, Jed Hartman, and Karen Meisner will continue as fiction editors), to be
replacedbyNiallHarrison.
Tor.com(www.tor.com)hasestablisheditselfasoneofthecoolestandmost
eclecticgenre-orientedsitesontheInternet,aWebsitethatregularlypublishes
SF, fantasy, and slipstream, as well as articles, comics, graphics, blog entries,
print and media reviews, and commentary. It’s become a regular stop for me,
evenwhentheydon’thavenewfictionposted.ThefictionatTor.comthisyear
seemedabitweakeroverallthaninrecentyears,perhapstheresultofrunning
toomanyexcerptsfromupcomingnovelsthatTorwantedtopushandtoomany
“specialinterest”promotionslikeitsmonthsdevotedtoparanormalromanceand
steampunk, but it still published good stuff by Jay Lake, Ken Scholes, Eileen
Gunn, Michael Swanwick, Kij Johnson, and others, and remains a fascinating
place to visit. Liz Gorinsky joined Patrick Nielsen Hayden as co-editor of
fiction.
Abyss & Apex, (www.abyssapexzine.com), edited by Wendy S. Delmater,
whichseemstorunmoreSFthanmanyoftheothersites,hadgoodstuffbyAlan
Smale, Lavie Tidhar, Michael Swanwick, Caren Gussoff, Bud Sparhawk, and
others.
Apex Magazine (www.apexbookcompany.com/apex-online), returned after a
hiatusforaredesignwithanewfictioneditor,CatherynneM.Valente,although
Jason Sizemore remains as the owner and editor-in-chief. They featured good
workbyTheodoraGoss,SaladinAhmed,PeterM.Ball,AmalEl-Mohtar,and
others.
An e-zine devoted to “literary adventure fantasy, Beneath Ceaseless Skies
(www.beneath-ceaseless-skies.com), edited by Scott H. Andrews, published
goodstuffby Richard Parks,Yoon Ha Lee, Ann Leckie, Marissa Lingen,and
others.
Ideomancer Speculative Fiction (www.ideomancer.com), edited by Leah
Bobet,publishedinterestingworkbyMeganArkenberg,IlanLerman,LaShawn
M.Wanak,andothers.
The flamboyantly titled Orson Scott Card’s InterGalactic Medicine Show
(www.intergalacticmedicineshow.com),editedbyEdmundR.Schubertunderthe
directionofCardhimself,hadgoodworkbyPeterS.Beagle,JasonSanford,and
others.
NewSF/fantasye-zineDailyScienceFiction (http://dailysciencefiction.com)
tackledtheperhapsoverlyambitioustaskofpublishingonenewSForfantasy
storyfortheentireyear.Unsurprisingly,mostareundistinguished,buttherewere
somegoodonesbyLavieTidhar,TimPratt,JeffHecht,MaryRobinetteKowal,
andothers.
New SF e-zine M-Brane (www.mbranesf.com) produced twelve issues this
year,withseventy-fouroriginalstories.
Fantasy magazine Zahir (www.zahiirtales.com) moved from a print
incarnationtoanonlinevenuethisyear,publishingtwenty-fouroriginalstories.
A mix of science fact articles and fiction is available from the e-zine
Futurismic (http://futurismic.com) and from Escape Velocity
(www.escapevelocitymagazine.com). The futurist Web site Shareable Futures
(http://shareable.net/blog/shareable-.futures) has been publishing stories set in
futures with nonconventional economic systems by writers such as Bruce
SterlingandBenjaminRosenbaum.
Shadow Unit (www.shadowunit.org) is a Web site devoted to publishing
storiesdrawnfromanimaginaryTVshow,sortofacrossbetweenCSIandThe
X-Files.Icontinuetofindthisanunexcitingidea,buttopprofessionalssuchas
ElizabethBear,EmmaBull,andothersareinvolvedinproducingscriptsforit,
soyoumightwanttocheckitout.
The Australian popular-science magazine COSMOS
(www.cosmosmagazine.com)isnotaSFmagazineperse,butforthelastfew
years it has been running a story per issue selected by fiction editor Damien
Broderick(andalsoputtingnewfictionnotpublishedintheprintmagazineup
on their Web site). Broderick is stepping down, but is being replaced by Cat
Sparks,and sinceshe’s also anSF professional,I assume thatthis policywill
continueunderheraswell.
Belowthis point,it becomesharder to findcenter-coreSF,and mostof the
storiesareslipstreamorliterarysurrealism.Sitesthatfeaturethose,aswellas
fantasy (and, occasionally, some SF) include Rudy Rucker’s Flurb
(www.flurb.net), Revolution SF (www.revolutionsf.com), CovoteWild
(www.coyotewildmag.com); Heliotrope (www.heliotropemag.com); and the
somewhatlessslipstreamishBewilderingStories(www.bewilderingstories.com)
There’s also a lot of good reprint SF and fantasy stories out there on the
Internettoo,usuallyavailableforfree.Onallofthesitesthatmaketheirfiction
availableforfree,StrangeHorizons,Tor.com,Fantasy,Subterranean,Abyss &
Apex, and so on, you can also access large archives of previously published
material as well as stuff from the “current issue.” Most of the sites that are
associatedwithexistentprintmagazines,suchasAsimov’s,Analog,WeirdTales,
and The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, make previously published
fictionandnonfictionavailableforaccessontheirsites,andalsoregularlyrun
teaserexcerptsfromstoriescomingupinforthcomingissues.Hundredsofout-
of-printtitles,bothgenreandmainstream,arealsoavailableforfreedownload
from Project Gutenberg (http://promo.net/pg/), and a large selection of novels
andafewcollectionscanalsobeaccessedforfree,tobeeitherdownloadedor
readon-screen,attheBaenFreeLibrary(www.baen.com/library/).Sitessuchas
Infinity Plus (http://www.infinityplus.co.uk/) and The Infinite Matrix
(www.infinitematrix.net/) may have died as active sites, but their extensive
archivesofpreviouslypublishedmaterialarestillaccessable.
Ifyou’rewillingtopayasmallfeeforthem,anevengreaterrangeofreprint
storiesbecomesavailable.Perhapsthebest,andthelongest-establishedplaceto
find such material is Fictionwise (www.fictionwise.com), where you can buy
downloadable e-books and stories to read on your PDA, Kindle, or home
computer;inadditiontoindividualstories,you can alsobuy“fictionbundles”
here,whichamounttoelectroniccollections;aswellasaselectionofnovelsin
several different genres—you can also subscribe to downloadable versions of
several of the SF magazines here, including Asimov’s, Analog, F&SF, and
Interzone, in a number of different formats. A similar site is ElectricStory
(www.electricstory.com),whereinadditiontothefictionforsaleyoucanalso
accessfreemoviereviewsbyLuciusShepard,articlesbyHowardWaldrop,and
othercriticalmaterial.
ThereareplentyofotherreasonsforSFfans to goontheInternet,though,
thanjustfindingfictiontoread.Therearealsomanygeneralgenre-relatedsites
ofinterest tobe found,most of which publish reviewsof booksas well as of
moviesandTVshows,sometimescomicsorcomputergamesoranime,manyof
which also feature interviews, critical articles, and genre-oriented news of
variouskinds.ThebestsuchsiteiseasilyLocusOnline(www.locusmag.com),
the online version of the newsmagazine Locus, where you can access an
incredible amount of information—including book reviews, critical lists,
obituarylists,linkstoreviewsandessaysappearingoutsidethegenre,andlinks
toextensivedatabasearchivessuchastheLocusIndextoScienceFictionand
theLocusIndextoScienceFictionAwards—it’srarewhenIdon’tfindmyself
accessing Locus Online several times a day. As mentioned earlier, Tor.com is
giving it a run for its money these days as an interesting place to stop while
surfingtheWeb.
OthermajorgeneralinterestsitesincludeSFSite(www.sfsite.com),SFRevu
(www.sfrevu.com), SFcrowsnest (www.sfcrowsnest.com), SFScope
(http://sfscope.com) io9 (http://io9.com), Green Man Review
(www.greenmanreview.com),TheAgonyColumn(http://trashotron.com/agony),
Science Fiction and Fantasy World (www.sffworld.com), SFReader
(www.sfreader.com), SFWatcher (www.sfwatcher.com), Salon Futura
(www.salonfutura.net), which runs interviews and critical articles; and Pat’s
Fantasy Hotlist (http://fantasyhotlist.blogspot.com). A great research site,
invaluableifyouwantbibliographicinformationaboutSFandfantasywriters,is
Fantastic Fiction (www.fantasticfiction.co.uk). Reviews of short fiction as
opposedtonovelsareveryhardtofindanywhere,withtheexceptionofLocus
andLocusOnline,butyoucanfindreviewsofbothcurrentandpastshortfiction
atBestSF(www.bestsf.net/),aswellas atpioneeringshort-fictionreview site
TangentOnline(www.tangentonline.com),whichhasgoneintermittentlyinand
outofhiatus,butwhichseemstobeupandrunningatthemoment.Othersites
ofinterestinclude:SFFNet(www.sff.net)whichfeaturesdozensofhomepages
and“newsgroups”forSFwriters;theScienceFictionWritersofAmericapage
(www.sfwa.org); where genre news, obituaries, award information, and
recommendedreadinglistscanbeaccessed;SciFiPedia(www.scifipedia.com),a
Wiki-style genre-oriented online encyclopedia; Ansible
(http://news.ansible.co.uk), the online version of multiple Hugo-winner David
Langford’s long-running fanzine Ansible; Book View Cafe
(www.bookviewcafe.com)isa“consortiumofovertwentyprofessionalauthors,”
includingVondaN.McIntyre,LauraAnnGilman,SarahZettel,BrendaClough,
andothers,whohavecreatedaWebsitewhereworkbythem—mostlyreprints,
andsomenovelexcerpts—ismadeavailableforfree.
Anever-expandingarea,growinginpopularity,areanumberofsiteswhere
podcasts and SF-oriented radio plays can be accessed: at Audible
(www.audible.com), Escape Pod (http://escapepod.org, podcasting mostly SF),
StarShipSofa (www.starshipsofa.com), Pseudopod (http://pseudopod.org,
podcasting mostly fantasy), and PodCastle (http://podcastle.org, podcasting
mostly fantasy). There’s also a site that podcasts nonfiction interviews and
reviews,DragonPageCovertoCover(www.dragonpage.com).
***
Therewereplentyofanthologiespublishedin2010,frombothtradepublishers
and small presses, and although most of them didn’t stick out as particularly
outstanding, most of them had a few good stories a piece. (The decision to
postponethelatestvolumeofJonathanStrahan’santhologyseriesEclipseuntil
next year probably weakened the year’s anthology market.) The strongest SF
anthologyoftheyearwasalmostcertainlyGodlikeMachines(SFBC),editedby
JonathanStrahan,althoughbeingpublishedexclusivelybytheScienceFiction
BookClub(whichhaddelayedpublishingitforatleastayear)probablylimited
thenumber ofpeople who saw it;one of the year’sbest novellas,by Alastair
ReynoldswashereaswellasstrongnovellasbyStephenBaxter,GregEgan,and
Sean Williams. The Fred Pohl tribute anthology, Gateways (Tor), edited by
ElizabethAnne Hull,was somewhat weakerthan had beenhoped, although it
didfeaturegoodstoriesbyCoryDoctorow,JoeHaldeman,VernorVinge,Gene
Wolfe,andothers.TheMammothBookofApocalypticSF(Robinson;published
intheUnitedStatesbyRunningPressunderthetitleTheMammothBookofthe
EndoftheWorld,apparentlybecauseAmericansarepresumedtobetoostupid
toknowwhat“apocalyptic”means),editedbyMikeAshley,wasnotonlyoneof
theyear’sbestreprintanthologies,butalsofeaturedaspineoffirst-rateoriginal
storiesbyAlastairReynolds,KageBaker,RobertReed,andothers.IsAnybody
OutThere?(DAWBooks),editedbyNickGeversandMartyHalpern,featured
goodworkbyPatCadigan,JayLake,AlexIrvine,MatthewHughes,andothers.
Postscriptshastransformeditselffromamagazineintoananthologyseries;this
year’s volume, The Company He Keeps, Postscripts 22/23 (PS Publishing),
struckmeasbeingnotasmemorableasotherrecentissueshadbeen,although
there were interesting stories by Lucius Shepard, Don Webb, Jack Deighton,
HollyPhillips,andothers.Shine(Solaris),editedbyJetsedeVries,anadmirable
attempt to create “anthology of optimistic SF” created in reaction to the
prevailing pessimism and gloom of much modern SF, didn’t entirely succeed,
although it did feature ambitious stories by Lavie Tidhar, Gord Sellar, Eric
Gregory, Alastair Reynolds, and others. The Dragon and the Stars (DAW
Books), edited by Derwin Mak and Eric Choi, was an anthology of stories
(mostlyfantasy)inspiredbyChineseculture,withinterestingworkbyTonyPi,
EmilyMah,BrendaW.Clough,KenLiu,andChoihimself.
Therewereseveralbigcross-genreanthologiesthisyearthatfeaturedmystery,
mainstream, and romance as well as SF and fantasy. They included Stories
(WilliamMorrow),editedbyNeilGaimanandAlSarrantonio,whichfeatured
goodworkbyNeilGaiman,ElizabethHand,JoeR.Lansdale,LawrenceBlock,
and others, and—noted without comment—Warriors (Tor) and Songs of Love
andDeath (Gallery Books), both edited by George R. R. Martin and Gardner
Dozois.
Interestingsmallpressanthologies,usuallymixingSF,fantasy,andslipstream,
includedConflicts(NewConPress),edited by IanWhates,with solidworkby
Una McCormack, Chris Beckett, Keith Brooke, Neal Asher, and others; The
ImmersionBookofSF(ImmersionPress),editedbyCarmeloRafala,featuring
goodstoriesbyLavieTidhar,GordSellar,ChrisButler,AliettedeBodard,and
others;PanverseTwo(PanversePublishing),editedbyDarioCiriello,featuring
two excellent novellas by Alan Smale and Michael D. Winkle; Clockwork
Phoenix3(Norilana),editedbyMikeAllen,whichhadinterestingworkbyJohn
C.Wright,CatRambo,JohnGrant,GregoryFrost,C.S.E.Cooney,andothers;
Destination:Future(HadleyRille),editedbyZ.S.AdaniandEricT.Reynolds,
withElizabethBear,CarenGussoff,K. D. Wentworth,Sandra McDonald, and
others;andMusicforAnotherWorld(MutationPress),editedbyMarkHarding
Pleasant but minor science fiction anthologies included Darwin’s Bastards:
Astounding Tales from Tomorrow (Douglas & McIntyre), edited by Zsuzsi
Gartner, Sky Whales and Other Wonders (Norilana), edited by Vera Nazarian;
Steampunk’d (DAW Books), edited by Jean Rabe and Martin H. Greenberg;
Timeshares(DAWBooks),editedbyJeanRabeandMartinH.Greenberg;anda
mixedSF/romanceanthology,LoveandRockets(DAWBooks),editedbyMartin
H.GreenbergandKerrieHughes.
ThebestoriginalfantasyanthologyoftheyearwasSwordsandDarkMagic:
The New Sword and Sorcery (Eos), edited by Lou Anders and the ubiquitous
JonathanStrahan,whichfeaturedgoodworkbyJoeAbercrombie,K.J.Parker,
StevenErikson,GarthNix,C.J.Cherryh,andothers.Alsofirstratewasamixed
reprint/originalanthologyeditedbyJohnJosephAdams,TheWayoftheWizard
(PrimeBooks),withnicestuffbyLevGrossman,NnediOkorafor,ChristieYant,
CharlesColemanFinlay,andothers.AlsogoodisLegendsofAustralianFantasy
(HarperCollins Australia), edited by Jack Dann and Jonathan Strahan, which
features a powerful novella by Garth Nix and good stuff by Sean Williams,
IsobelleCarmody,and others; a YAanthologyTheBeastlyBride:Talesofthe
AnimalPeople(Viking),editedbyEllenDatlowandTerryWindling,whichhas
good stuff by Peter S. Beagle, Lucius Shepard, Tanith Lee, Ellen Kushner,
Gregory Frost, and others; and a mixed original/reprint anthology of updated
fairytales,MyMotherSheKilledMe,MyFatherHeAteMe(Penguin),edited
byKateBernheimer.
Pleasant but minor original fantasy anthologies included A Girl’s Guide to
GunsandMonsters(DAWBooks),editedbyMartinH. GreenbergandKerrie
Hughes; She Nailed a Stake Through His Head: Tales of Biblical Terror
(Dybbuk Press), edited by Tim Lieder; Alembical 2 (Paper Golem), edited by
Arthur Dorrance and Lawrence M. Schoen; Jabberwocky 5 (Prime Books),
edited by Sean Wallace and Erzebet Yellowboy; and More Stories from the
TwilightZone(Tor),editedbyCarolSerling.
Therewereatleastthreededicatedoriginalzombieanthologiesthisyear(plus
at least one reprint anthology), The New Dead (St. Martin’s Press), edited by
ChristopherGolden,The Living Dead 2 (Night Shade Books), edited by John
Joseph Adams (partly reprint), and Zombies vs. Unicorns (Margaret K.
McElderry Books), edited by Holly Black and Justine Larbalestier, two
anthologiesofwerewolfstories,FullMoonCity(Simon&Schuster),editedby
DarrellSchweitzerandMartinH.Greenberg,andRunningwiththePack(Prime
Books),editedbyEkaterinaSedia,twobooksofcomicvampirestories,Blood
LiteII:Overbite(GalleryBooks),editedbyKevinJ.Anderson,andFangsfor
theMammaries (Baen), edited by Esther M. Friesner, a book of ghost stories,
HauntedLegends(Tor),editedbyEllenDatlowandNickMamatas,abookof
Lovecraftian stories, Cthulhu’s Reign (Tor), edited by Darrell Schweitzer and
Martin H. Greenberg, a paranormal romance anthology, Death’s Excellent
Vacation (Ace), edited by Charlaine Harris and Toni L. P. Kelner, and an
anthology of superhero stories, Masked (Simon & Schuster), edited by Lou
Anders.
A long-running series featuring novice work by beginning writers, some of
whommaylaterturnouttobeimportanttalents,continuedundereditorK.D.
Wentworth, L. Ron Hubbard Presents Writers of the Future Volume XXVI
(Galaxy).
Therewerealotofstoriesthisyearabouteithertheendoftheworldorlifein
aseverelyecologicallychallengedfuture,aswellasstoriesaboutfutureGreat
Depressionsandtheresultantdystopiastheygenerate—perhapsnotsurprisingin
a year where writers had a bad “economic downturn” and the spectacle of a
catastrophicoilspillintheGulfofMexicotoinspirethem.
(Findingindividualpricingsforalloftheitemsfromsmallpressesmentioned
intheSummationhasbecometootime-intensive,andsinceseveralofthesame
smallpressespublishanthologies,novels,andshort-storycollections,it seems
sillytorepeataddressesfortheminsectionaftersection.Therefore,I’mgoingto
attemptto list here,in oneplace, allthe addressesfor smallpresses thathave
booksmentionedhereorthereintheSummation,whetherfromtheanthologies
section, the novel section, or the short-story collection section, and, where
known,theirWebsiteaddresses.Thatshouldmakeiteasyenoughforthereader
tolookuptheindividualpriceofanybookmentionedthatisn’tfromaregular
tradepublisher;suchbooksarelesslikelytobefoundinyouraveragebookstore,
or even in a chain superstore, and so will probably have to be mail-ordered.
Manypublishersseemtosellonlyonline,throughtheirWebsites,andsomewill
only accept payment through PayPal. Many books, even from some of the
smaller presses, are also available through Amazon.com. If you can’t find an
addressforapublisher,andit’squitelikelythatI’vemissedsomehere,Google
it.)
Addresses: PS Publishing, Grosvener House, 1 New Road, Hornsea, East
Yorkshire, HU18 1PG, England, UK, www.pspublishing.co.uk; Golden
Gryphon Press, 3002 Perkins Road, Urbana, IL 61802,
www.goldengryphon.com; NESFA Press, P.O. Box 809, Framingham, MA
01701, www.nesfa.org; Subterranean Press, P.O. Box 190106, Burton, MI
48519, www.subterraneanpress.com; Old Earth Books, P.O. Box 19951,
Baltimore, MD 21211-0951, www.oldearthbooks.com; Tachyon Publications,
145918thSt. #139, SanFrancisco,CA 94107,www.tachyonpublications.com;
Night Shade Books, 1661 Tennessee Street, #3H, San Francsisco, CA 94107,
www.nightshadebooks.com; Five Star, 295 Kennedy Memorial Drive,
Waterville, ME 04901, www.gale.cengage.com/fivestar; NewCon Press, via
www.newconpress.co.uk; Small Beer Press, 150 Pleasant St., #306
Easthampton MA 01027, http://smallbeerpress.com; Locus Press, P.O. Box
13305,Oakland,CA94661,www.locusmag.com;CrescentBooks,MercatPress
Ltd., 10 Coates Crescent, Edinburgh, Scotland EH3 7AL,
www.mercatpress.com; Wildside Press/Borgo Press, 9710 Traville Gateway
Dr.,#234,Rockville,MI20850,orgotowww.wildsidepress.comforpricingand
ordering;EDGEScienceFictionandFantasyPublishing,Inc.andTesseract
Books, Ltd., P.O. Box 1714, Calgary, Alberta, T2P 2L7, Canada,
www.edgewebsite.com;AqueductPress,P.O.Box95787,Seattle,WA98145-
2787,www.aqueductpress.com; Phobos Books, 200 Park Avenue South, New
York, NY 10003, http://phobosweb.com; Fairwood Press, 5203 Quincy Ave.
SE, Auburn, WA 98092, www.fairwoodpress.com;BenBella Books, 10300 N.
Central Expressway, Suite 400, Dallas, TX 75231, www.benbellabooks.com;
Darkside Press, 13320 27th Ave. NE, Seattle, WA 98125,
www.darksidepress.com;HaffnerPress,5005CrooksRd.,Suite35,RoyalOak,
MI 48073-1239, www.haffnerpress.com; North Atlantic Books, 2526 Martin
Luther King Jr. Way, Berkeley, CA, 94704; Prime Books, P.O. Box 36503,
Canton, OH, 44735, www.primebooks.com; MonkeyBrain Books, 11204
Crossland Drive, Austin, TX 78726, www.monkeybrainbooks.com;; Wesleyan
UniversityPress,UniversityPressofNewEngland,OrderDept.,1CourtSt.,
LebanonNH03766-1358,www.wesleyan.edu/wespress;;Agog!Press,P.O.Box
U302, University of Wollongong, NSW 2522, Australia,
www.uow.ed.au/~rhood/agogpress; Wheatland Press, via
www.wheatlandpress.com; MirrorDanse Books, P.O. Box 546 Chatswood
NSW2057,Australia,www.tabula-rasa.info/MirrorDanse;ArsenalPulpPress,
101-211 East Georgia Street, Vancouver, BC, Canada V6A 1Z6,
www.arsenalpulp.com; DreamHaven Books, 2301 East 38th Street,
Minneapolis,MN55406;ElderSignsPress/DimensionsBooks,orderthrough
www.eldersignspress.com; Chaosium, via www.chaosium.com; Omnidawn
Publishing, order through www.omnidawn.com; CSFG, Canberra Speculative
Fiction Guild, www.csfg.org.au/publishing/anthologies/the_outcast; Hadley
Rille Books, via www.hadleyrillebooks.com; ISFiC Press, 707 Sapling Lane,
Deerfield, IL 60015-3969, or www.isficpress.com; Suddenly Press, via
suddenlypress@yahoo.com; Sandstone Press, P.O. Box 5725, One High St.,
Dingwall, Ross-shire, IV15 9WJ, UK, www.sandstonepress.com; Tropism
Press, via www.tropismpress.com; Science Fiction Poetry Association/Dark
RegionsPress,www.sfpoetry.com,checkstoHelenaBell,SFPATreasurer,1225
West Freeman St., Apt. 12, Carbondale, IL 62901; DH Press, via
diamondbookdistributors.com; Kurodahan Press, via Web site
www.kurodahan.com; Ramble House, 443 Gladstone Blvd., Shreveport, LA
71104; Interstitial Arts Foundation, via www.interstitialarts.org; Raw Dog
Screaming, via www.rawdogscreaming.com; Three-legged Fox Books, 98
HytheRoad,Brighton,BN16JS,UK;NorilanaBooks,viawww.norilana.com;
coeur de lion, via www.coeurdelion.com.au; PARSEC Ink, via
http://parsecink.org; Robert J. Sawyer Books, via
wwww.sfwriter.com/rjsbooks.htm; Rackstraw Press, via http://rackstrawpress;
Candlewick, via www.candlewick.com; Zubaan, via www.zubaanbooks.com;
Utter Tower, via www.threeleggedfox.co.uk; Spilt Milk Press, via
www.electricvelocipede.com;PaperGolem,viawww.papergolem.com;Galaxy
Press, via www.galaxypress.com.; Twelfth Planet Press, via
www.twelfhplanetpress.com; Five Senses Press, via www.sensefive.com;
Elastic Press, via www.elasticpress.com; Lethe Press, via
www.lethepressbooks.com; Two Cranes Press, via www.twocranespress.com;
WordcraftofOregon,viawww.wordcraftoforegon.com.
***
Ifprintbooksareabouttodisappear,tobereplacedby e-books,asarguedby
some commentators, there was no sign of it in 2010. In fact, in spite of the
recession,thenumberofnovelspublishedintheSF/fantasygenresincreasedfor
thefourthyearinarow.
AccordingtothenewsmagazineLocus,therewerearecord3,056books“of
interest to the SF field” published in 2010, up 5 percent from 2,901 titles in
2009,and69percentofthosewerenewtitles,notreprints.(It’sworthnotingthat
thistotaldoesn’tcountthepreviouslymentionede-books,mediatie-innovels,
gamingnovels,novelizationsofgenremovies,orprint-on-demandbooks—allof
which would swell the total by hundreds if counted.) The number of new SF
novelswasup14percentto285asopposedto2009’s232.Thenumberofnew
fantasynovelswasupby7percent,to614titlesasopposedto2009’stotalof
572.Horrornovelsremainedthesameat251titles.Paranormalromanceswere
up13percentto384titlesfrom2009’s339,secondinnumbersonlytofantasy
(although sometimes it can be difficult and even subjective to make some of
these judgment calls regarding categorization—once a novel about vampires
would have been considered to be a fantasy novel, now it’s probably counted
under paranormal romance instead, and could even show up under horror,
dependingonwhowasdoingthecategorizing).
As usual, busy with all the reading I have to do at shorter lengths, I didn’t
have time to read many novels myself this year, so I’ll limit myself to
mentioningthenovelsthatreceivedalotofattentionandacclaimin2010.These
include: The Dervish House (Pyr), by Ian McDonald; Zendegi (Night Shade
Books),byGregEgan;NotLessThanGods(Tor),byKageBaker;TheBirdof
theRiver(Tor),byKageBaker;Blackout/AllClear(Spectra),byConnieWillis;
HullZeroThree(Orbit),byGregBear;CoyoteDestiny(Ace),byAllenSteele;
Deceiver(DAWBooks),byC.J.Cherryh;Starbound(Ace)byJoeHaldeman;
Chill (Ballantine Books), by Elizabeth Bear; Terminal World (Gollancz), by
AlastairReynolds;SurfaceDetail(Orbit),byIainM.Banks;Kraken(DelRey),
by China Miéville; The Folding Knife (Orbit), by K. J. Parker; Directive 51
(Ace), by John Barnes; Brain Thief (Tor), by Alexander Jablokov; Cryoburn
(Baen),byLoisMcMasterBujold;WhoFearsDeath(DAWBooks),byNnedi
Okorafor;TheTechnician(Tor),byNealAsher;Echo(Ace),byJackMcDevitt;
NewModelArmy(Gollancz),byAdamRoberts;Dreadnought(Tor),byCherie
Priest; The Wolf Age (Pyr), by James Enge; Dragon Haven (Eos), by Robin
Hobb; The Restoration Game (Orbit), by Ken MacLeod; Behemoth (Simon
Pulse), by Scott Westerfeld; Sleepless (Ballantine Books), by Charlie Huston;
Hespira (Night Shade Books), by Matthew Hughes; The Fuller Memorandum
(Ace), by Charles Stross; The Trade of Queens (Tor), by Charles Stross; The
EvolutionaryVoid(DelRey),byPeterF.Hamilton;TheSorcerer’sHouse(Tor),
by Gene Wolfe; For the Win (Tor), by Cory Doctorow; Ship Breaker (Little,
Brown and Company), by Paolo Bacigalupi; Discord’s Apple (Tor), by Carrie
Vaughn;Mockingiay (Scholastic Press), by Suzanne Collins; and I Shall Wear
Midnight(HarperCollins),byTerryPratchett.
Small presses are active in the novel market these days, where once they
published mostly collections and anthologies. Novels issued by small presses
thisyearincluded:Zendegi(NightShadeBooks),byGregEgan;Hespira(Night
ShadeBooks),byMatthewHughes;andTheHabitationof the Blessed(Night
ShadeBooks),byCatherynneM.Valente.
The year’s first novels included: The Quantum Thief (Gollancz), by Hannu
Rajaniemi;TheLovingDead(NightShadeBooks),byAmeliaBeamer;Clowns
atMidnight(PSPublishing),byTerryDowling;TheNativeStar(Spectra),byM.
K.Hobson;TheBookman(AngryRobot),byLavieTidhar;BitterSeeds(Tor),
byIanTregillis;RedemptioninIndigo(SmallBeerPress),byKarenLord;How
toLiveSafelyinaScienceFictionalUniverse(PantheonBooks),byCharlesYu;
Passion Play (Tor), by Beth Bernobich; Shades of Milk and Honey (Tor), by
Mary Robinette Kowal; The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms (Orbit), by N. K.
Jemisin;TomeoftheUndergates(Pyr),bySamSykes;TheDreamofPerpetual
Motion (St. Martin’s Press), by Dexter Palmer; Meeks (Small Beer Press), by
JuliaHolmes;TheLastPage(Tor),byAnthonyHuso;Noise(Spectra),byDarin
Bradley;CrossingOver(Viking),byAnnaKendall;Spellwright(Tor),byBlake
Charlton;ABookofTongues(CZP),byGemmaFiles;Sixty-OneNails(Angry
Robot),byMikeShevdon;BlackBladeBlues(Tor),byJ.A.Pitts;andTheGirl
withGlassFeet(HenryHolt),byAliShaw.Ofthese,TheQuantumThiefdrew
thebestnotices,generatingthesamekindofbuzzthat2009’sTheWindupGirl
got, although The Loving Dead and Bitter Seeds also drew their share of
attention.
Historicalormainstreamnovelsthataddstrongfantasticelementstothemix
included:BlackHills(Little,BrownandCompany),byDanSimmons;Kingsof
theNorth(Forge),byCeceliaHolland;UnderHeaven(VikingCanada),byGuy
Gavriel Kay; A Dark Matter (Doubleday), by Peter Straub; and Zero History
(Putman),byWilliamGibson.Venturesintothegenre,oratleasttheambiguous
fringes of it, by well-known mainstream authors, included: The Passage
(BallantineBooks),byJustinCronin;TheStrangeAffairofSpringHeeledJack
(PrometheusBooks),byMarkHodder;TheThousandAutumnsofJacobdeZoet
(RandomHouse), by David Mitchell;and Luka and the Fireof Life (Random
House),bySalmanRushdie.
It was a strong year for individual novellas published as chapbooks:
Subterranean published Blue and Gold, by K. J. Parker; Bone and Jewel
Creatures,byElizabethBear;TheLifecycleofSoftwareObjects,byTedChiang;
The God Engines, by John Scalzi; The Last Song of Orpheus, by Robert
Silverberg; andTheTaborinScale, byLucius Shepard. PS Publishingbrought
outCloudPermutations,byLavieTidhar,SevenCitiesofGold,byDavidMoles;
TheBabyKillers,byJayLake;andQuartetandTriptych,byMatthewHughes.
FairwoodPresspublishedTheSpecificGravityofGrief,byJayLake.Aqueduct
PresspublishedTomboftheFathers,byEleanorArnason.PMPressbroughtout
MammothsoftheGreatPlains,byEleanorArnason.DrolleriePresspublished
TheBigBah-Ha,byC.S.E.Cooney.SilverberryPressbroughtoutPinkNoise,
byLeonidKorogodsky.CemeteryDancepublishedBlockadeBilly,byStephen
King. Little, Brown published The Short Second Life of Bree Tanner, by
StephenieMeyer.
Novel omnibuses this year included: Young Flandry (Baen), by Poul
Anderson;Darkshade(NightShadeBooks),byGlenCook;TheWareTetralogy
(Prime Books), by Rudy Rucker; Virga; Cities of the Air (Tor), by Karl
Schroeder; Flaming Zeppelins: The Adventures of Ned the Seal (Tachyon
Publications),byJoeR.Lansdale;AMatterofMagic(OrbBooks),byPatricia
C. Wrede; Riverworld (Tor), by Philip José Farmer; Century of the Soldier
(Solaris Books), by Paul Kearney; The Many Deaths of the Black Company
(Tor),byGlenCook;BeastMaster’sPlanet(Tor),byAndreNorton;Searchfor
theStarStones(Baen),byAndreNorton;TheTimeMachine,TheInvisibleMan,
TheWaroftheWorlds(Everyman’sLibrary),byH.G.Wells;andDamnedIfYou
Do in the Nightside (Solaris Books), by Simon R. Green. (Omnibuses that
contain both short stories and novels can be found listed in the short-story
section.)
Notevencountingprint-on-demandbooksandtheavailabilityofout-of-print
booksaselectronicdownloadsfromInternetsourcessuchasFictionwise,alotof
long out-of-print stuff has come back into print in the last couple of years in
commercial trade editions. Here’s some out-of-print titles that came back into
printthisyear,althoughproducingadefinitivelistofreissuednovelsisprobably
impossible.Torreissued:TheCurrentsofSpace,byIsaacAsimov;TheWordfor
WorldIsForest,byUrsulaK.LeGuin;AFireUpontheDeep,byVernorVinge;
The Dark Design, by Philip José Farmer; Dream Park, by Larry Niven and
Steven Barnes; Hawkmoon: The Jewel in the Skull, by Michael Moorcock;
Hawkmoon:TheRunestaff,byMichaelMoorcock;Hawkmoon:TheMadGod’s
Amulet,byMichaelMoorcock;Hawkmoon:TheSwordoftheDawn,byMichael
Moorcock; and associational novel The Man Whose Teeth Were All Exactly
Alike,byPhilipK.Dick.Orbreissued:OurLadyofDarkness,byFritzLeiber;
TheWorldInside,byRobertSilverberg;Slant,byGregBear;MovingMars,by
GregBear;Mysterium,byRobertCharlesWilson;andSpiritwalkandMuseand
Reverie, by Charles de Lint. Baen reissued: The High Crusade, by Poul
Anderson and The Rolling Stones, by Robert A. Heinlein. Eos reissued:
Creatures of Light and Darkness, by Roger Zelazny. Roc reissued: Sailing to
Sarantium and Lord of Emperors, by Guy Gavriel Kay. Night Shade Books
reissued:StarfishersandStars’End:TheStarfishersTrilogy,VolumeThree, by
Glen Cook. Orbit reissued: Fallen Dragon, by Peter F. Hamilton. Aqueduct
Press reissued: Dorothea Dreams, by Suzy McKee Charnas. Melville House
reissued:TheCastleinTransylvania,byJulesVerne.AdStellaereissued:This
StarShallAbide,bySylviaEngdahl.PazioPublishingreissued:Steppe,byPiers
Anthony.CreateSpacereissued:Dreambaby,byBruceMcAllister.
***
It was another strong year for short-story collections, especially for career-
spanningretrospectivecollections.Theyear’sbestnonretrospectivecollections
included:TheGreenLeopardPlagueandOtherStories(NightShadeBooks),by
WalterJon Williams;Journeys (Subterranean Press), by Ian R. MacLeod; The
SkyThatWraps(SubterraneanPress),byJayLake;OntheBanksoftheRiverof
Heaven(PrimeBooks),byRichardParks;DeepNavigation(NESFAPress),by
Alastair Reynolds; Leviathan Wept (Subterranean Press), by Daniel Abraham;
RecoveringApollo8(GoldenGryphonPress),byKristineKathrynRusch;The
Third Bear (Tachyon Publications), by Jeff VanderMeer; Diana Comet and
OtherImprobableStories (Lethe Press), by Sandra McDonald; The Ammonite
ViolinandOthers(SubterraneanPress),byCaitlinR.Kiernan;TheMysteriesof
theDiogenesClub(MonkeyBrain),byKimNewman;Occultation(NightShade
Books), by Laird Barron; The Juniper Tree and Other Blue Rose Stories
(SubterraneanPress),byPeterStraub;WhatWillComeAfter? (PSPublishing)
by Scott Edelman; Atlantis and Other Places (Roc), by Harry Turtledove; A
HandfulofPearlsandOtherStories(LethePress),byBethBernobich;WhatI
Didn’tSeeandOtherStories(SmallBeerPress),byKarenJoyFowler;Diving
Mime,Weeping Czars, andOtherUnusual Suspects(FairwoodPress), by Ken
Scholes;ThroughtheDrowsyDark(AqueductPress),byRachelSwirsky;The
Poison Eaters (Big Mouth House), by Holly Black; and Full Dark, No Stars
(Scribner),byStephenKing.
It was an even stronger year for retrospective career-spanning collections.
They included: Fritz Leiber: Selected Stories (Night Shade Books), by Fritz
Leiber; Hard-Luck Diggings: The Early Jack Vance (Subterranean Press), by
JackVance;The Best of Kim Stanley Robinson (Night Shade Books), by Kim
StanleyRobinson;MirrorKingdoms:TheBestofPeterS.Beagle(Subterranean
Press), by Peter S Beagle; Young Flandry (Baen), by Poul Anderson; Sir
DominicFlandry;TheLastKnightofTerra(Baen),byPoulAnderson;Captain
Flandry: Defender of the Terran Empire (Baen), by Poul Anderson; The
Collected Stories of Roger Zelazny: Volume Five—Nine Black Doves (NESFA
Press),byRogerZelazny;TheCollectedStoriesofRogerZelazny:VolumeSix—
The Road to Amber (NESFA Press), by Roger Zelazny; The Collected Short
WorksofPoulAnderson,Volume3:TheSaturnGame(NESFAPress),byPoul
Anderson; Who Fears the Devil?: The Complete Tales of Silver John (Planet
Stories), by Manly Wade Wellman; The Best of Joe R. Lansdale (Tachyon
Publications),byJoeR.Lansdale;TheBestofLarryNiven(SubterraneanPress),
byLarryNiven;Amberjack:TalesofFearandWonder(SubterraneanPress),by
TerryDowling;DetourtoOtherness(HaffnerPress),byHenryKutnerandC.L.
Moore;TheEarlyKuttner,VolumeOne:TerrorintheHouse(HaffnerPress),by
Henry Kuttner; The Stories of Ray Bradbury (Everyman’s Library), by Ray
Bradbury;Shirley Jackson: Novels and Stories (Library of America); Selected
ShortStoriesofLesterDelRey,RobotsandMagicVolume2(NESFAPress),by
LesterDelRey;AnEmpireUnacquaintedwithDefeat:AChronicleoftheDread
Empire(NightShadeBooks),byGlenCook;TheVeryBestofCharlesdeLint
(TachyonPublications),byCharlesdeLint;TheLastHieroglyph(TheCollected
FantasiesofClarkAshtonSmith,Vol.5)(PrimeBooks),byClarkAshtonSmith;
With Folded Hands … and Searching Minds: The Collected Stories of Jack
Williamson,VolumeSeven(HaffnerPress),JackWilliamson;andCaseandthe
Dreamer: Volume XIII: The Complete Stories of Theodore Sturgeon (North
AtlanticBooks),byTheodoreSturgeon.
Small presses again dominated the list of short-story collections.
Subterranean, Night Shade Books, and NESFA Press had particularly strong
years.
Awidevarietyof“electroniccollections,”oftencalled“fictionbundles,”too
manytoindividuallylisthere,arealsoavailablefordownloadingonline,atsites
such as Fictionwise and ElectricStory, and the Science Fiction Book Club
continuestoissuenewcollectionsaswell.
***
Asisoftenthecase,themostreliablebuysinthereprintanthologymarketmay
have been the various “Best of the Year” anthology series. This is an area in
constantflux—thisyearalone,welostatleasttwoBestOfseries,maybethree,
and added a brand-new one. Science fiction is being covered by three
anthologies(actually, technically, by twoanthologiesand bytwoseparate half
anthologies): the one you are reading at the moment, The Year’s Best Science
FictionseriesfromSt.Martin’sPress,editedbyGardnerDozois,nowuptoits
Twenty-Eighth Annual Collection; the Year’s Best SF series (Eos), edited by
DavidG.HartwellandKathrynCramer,nowuptoitsfifteenthannualvolume;
bythesciencefictionhalfofTheBestScienceFictionandFantasyoftheYear:
Volume Five (Night Shade Books), edited by Jonathan Strahan; and by the
sciencefictionhalfofTheYear’sBestScienceFictionandFantasy,Edition2010
(Prime Books), edited by Rich Horton (in practice, of course, these books
probablywon’tdivideneatlyinhalfwiththeircoverage,andthere’slikelytobe
moreofone thingthananother).TheannualNebulaAwardsanthology,which
coverssciencefictionaswellasfantasyofvarioussorts,functionsasadefacto
“BestoftheYear”anthology,althoughit’snotusuallycountedamongthem;this
year’s edition was Nebula Awards Showcase 2010: The Year’s Best SF and
FantasySelectedbytheScienceFictionandFantasyWritersofAmerica(Roc),
edited by Bill Fawcett. In 2010, a similar series began, covering the Hugo
winners, The Hugo Award Showcase: 2010 Volume (Prime Books), edited by
MaryRobinetteKowal,butitdiedafterasinglevolume.TherewerethreeBest
of the Year anthologies covering horror: The Best Horror of the Year, Volume
Two(NightShadeBooks),editedbyEllenDatlow;TheMammothBookofBest
NewHorror21(RunningPress),editedbyStephenJones;andanewseries,The
Year’sBestDarkFantasy&Horror2010(PrimeBooks),editedbyPaulaGuran.
The popularity of fantasy remains high, particularly in the novel market, but
coverageofitbyBestoftheYearvolumescontinuestoshrink.Whenthelong-
running Ellen Datlow, Kelly Link, and Gavin Grant Year’s Best Fantasy and
Horrorseriesdiedearlyin2009,EllenDatlowfoundanewhomeforherhorror
besthalfalmostimmediately,buttheLinkandGrtistFantasyBesthalfhasyetto
finda new home,and must beconsidered to be gone. David G. Hartwell and
Kathryn Cramer’s Year’s Best Fantasy series was supposed to have
transmogrifiedfromaprintpublicationintoaversionavailableasadownloador
a print-on-demand title from Tor.com, but I haven’t seen any sign of it being
actuallyavailable,andwonderifitisn’tgonetoo.Thatleftfantasytobecovered
bythefantasyhalvesofStrahan’sTheBestScienceFictionandFantasyofthe
YearandHorton’sTheYear’sBestScienceFictionandFantasy(pluswhatever
stories fall under the “Dark Fantasy” part of Guran’s anthology), and by Real
Unreal:BestAmericanFantasy,Volume 3(Underland Press),edited byKevin
BrockmeierandMatthewCheney—butit’sjustbeenannouncedthatthatseries
isdyingaswell.TherewasalsoThe2010RhyslingAnthology(ScienceFiction
PoetryAssociation),editedbyJamieLeeMoyer,whichcompilestheRhysling
Award-winningSFpoetryoftheyear.
The most prominent of the year’s stand-alone reprint anthologies was
probably The Wesleyan Anthology of Science Fiction (Wesleyan University
Press), edited by Arthur B. Evans and five others from the staff of academic
journalScienceFictionStudies, an attempt ata definitivecanon-forming book
thatgivesaretrospectiveoverviewofthedevelopmentofsciencefictionfrom
1844to2008,startingwithNathanielHawthorne,JulesVerne,andH.G.Wells,
passingthroughtheUsualSuspects,andendingupwithwriterslikeGregEgan,
GeoffRyman,CharlesStross,andTedChiang.Anotherretrospective,thistime
oftheAlternateHistorysubgenre,isTheMammothBookofAlternateHistories
(Robinson, Constable & Robinson), a mixed reprint (mostly) and original
anthologyeditedbyIanWatsonandIanWhates.DigitalDomains:ADecadeof
ScienceFiction&Fantasy(PrimeBooks),editedbyEllenDatlow,collectssome
of the best fiction that Ellen has published in the online magazines that she’s
editedoverthelastfewyears,andthesimilarUnplugged:TheWeb’sBestSci-Fi
andFantasy:2008(WyrmPublishing),editedbyRichHorton,isalsodevotedto
storiespublishedinonlinevenues.Aretrospectivelookbackoverthehistoryof
the burgeoning subgenre of steampunk (there were at least three anthologies
featuringitthisyear)isgiveninSteampunkPrime(Nonstop Press),editedby
Michael Ashley, and in Steampunk II: Steampunk Reloaded (Tachyon
Publications) a mixed reprint (mostly) and original anthology edited by Ann
VanderMeerandJeffVanderMeer.
A similar retrospective anthology for fantasy, a bit less inclusive than the
Wesleyananthology,is The Secret History of Fantasy (Tachyon Publications),
editedbyPeterS.Beagle,whichfeaturesauthorssuchasNeilGaiman,Stephen
King,MaureenMcHugh,MichaelSwanwick,andothers.WingsofFire (Night
ShadeBooks),editedbyJonathanStrahanandMarianneS.Jablon,isamixed
reprint(mostly)andoriginalfantasyanthologyaboutdragons,featuringUrsula
K.LeGuin,GeorgeR.R.Martin,LuciusShepard,RogerZelazny,andothers.
Theself-explanatoryPeople of the Book: ADecadeof Jewish Science Fiction
andFantasy(PrimeBooks),editedbyRachel Swirsky andSeanWallace,isa
reprintanthologyfeaturingPeterS.Beagle,TheodoraGross,NeilGaiman,Janet
Yolen,MichaelChabon,andothers.
OthergoodreprintanthologiesincludeTheEndoftheWorld:Storiesofthe
Apocalypse(SkyhorsePublishing),editedbyMartinH.Greenberg(oneoftwo
bigEnd-of-the-Worldanthologiesthisyear;doyouthinktheuniverseistryingto
tellussomething?),BeforeTheyWereGiants:FirstWorksfromScienceFiction
Greats (Paizo Publishing), edited by James L. Sutter; an anthology of cat
fantasy/horror stories, Tails of Wonder and Imagination (Night Shade Books),
edited by Ellen Datlow; a mixed reprint (mostly) and original anthology of
military SF, Citizens (Baen Books), edited by John Ringo and Brian M.
Thomsen;ananthologyofDeal-With-the-Devilstories,SympathyfortheDevil
(Night Shade Books), edited by Tim Pratt; Realms 2: The Second Year of
ClarkesworldMagazine (Wyrm Publishing), stories from the e-zine, edited by
NickMamatasand Sean Wallace;andananthology ofstoriesdrawn fromthe
now-defunct Talebones magazine, The Best of Talebones (Fairwood Press),
editedbyPatrickSwenson.
The big retrospective reprint horror anthology this year is Darkness: Two
DecadesofModernHorror(TachyonPublications),editedbyEllenDatlow,but
therewas also The Mammoth Book of the Best of Best New Horror (Running
PressBookPublishers),editedbyStephenJones,andZombies:TheRecentDead
(PrimeBooks),editedbyPaulaGuran.Therewerealsoseveraloriginalzombie
anthologies,anall-zombiesingle-authorcollection—ScottEdelman’sWhatWill
ComeAfter—andnumerouszombiestoriesscatteredthrough2010’smagazines,
e-zines,andanthologies(thebestofwhichwereprobably“TheNaturalist,”by
MaureenMcHugh and“The Crocodiles,”by StevenPopkes), aswell asa TV
showaboutthem,sofansoftheshufflingdeadhavealottobethankfulforthis
year. I think there were actually more zombie stories than vampire stories in
2010,inspiteofthecontinuingpopularityofTwilightandTrueBlood.)
The most prominent genre-oriented nonfiction book of the year was almost
certainly the biographical study Robert A. Heinlein: In Dialogue with His
Century:1907–1948: Learning Curve(Tor),by William H.Patterson, Jr.This
hugebookisonlythefirsthalfofanexhaustive(sometimetooexhaustive)work
that will almost certainly stand as the comprehensive biography of SF giant
RobertA.Heinlein,especiallyasmanyofthesourcesthatPattersontappedare
nolongeravailabletobeinterviewed.SFfanswillfinditfascinating,ofcourse,
foritslookattheearlyyearsofHeinlein’swritingcareerandthepulpmagazine
era of the forties, but the lengthy sections on Heinlein’s stint at the Naval
Academyandasanactive-dutysailor,andonhisabortivecareerasapolitical
campaignmanagerareinterestingintheirownright,providingadetailedlook
backattheAmericaoftheearlytwentiethcentury,aplacesodifferentinmores,
customs,andlifewaysfromAmericainthetwenty-firstcenturythatitmightas
wellbeanalienworld.
AnotherexhaustivebiographyofamajorgenreauthorissuppliedbyC. M.
Kornbluth:TheLifeandWorksofaScienceFictionVisionary(McFarland),by
MarkRich.Kornbluthisacomplex,fascinating,andimmenselytalentedfigure
nowindangerofbeingforgotten,certainlyaworthwhilefigureforabiological
studyandcriticalreassessmentifthereeverwasone.Unfortunately,cloudsof
controversy have swirled around the book from its release, mostly for the
intensely unflattering portrait it paints of Kornbluth’s friend and lifelong
collaborator Frederik Pohl, which have caused Pohl to vehemently deny the
veracityofmanyofRich’s“facts”—allofwhichhascastsomethingofashadow
over what by rights should have been one of the preeminent genre nonfiction
booksoftheyear.
80!MemoriesandReflectionsonUrsulaK.LeGuin(AqueductPress),edited
byKarenJoy FowlerandDebbieNotkin, isanassemblage of criticalarticles,
appreciations, poems, and even some fiction put together in honor of the
eightiethbirthdayofSFwriterUrsulaK.LeGuin.Allofitisworthreading,but
thebestpiecehereisapartialbiographyofLeGuinbyJuliePhillips,thewriter
whodidthebiographyofAliceSheldon(“JamesTiptree,Jr.”)afewyearsback,
andthat’sgoodenoughtoencouragehopesthatPhillipswilltakea crackata
full-dressbiographyofLeGuinoneofthesedays.I AmProvidence:TheLife
andTimesofH.P.Lovecraft(HippocampusPress),byS.T.Joshi,takesacritical
and biographical look at horror giant H. P. Lovecraft. Conversations with
OctaviaButler(UniversityPressofMississippi),editedbyConseulaFrancis,is
acollectionofinterviewsconductedwiththelateauthorfron1980tojustbefore
hertragicdeath.ListentotheEchoes:TheRayBraburyInterviews(Stopsmiling
Books), edited by Sam Weller, is a similar collection of interviews with
Bradbury, nonfiction essays by Michael Moorcock are collected in Into the
Media Web: Selected Non-Fiction, 1956–2006 (Savoy Books), by Michael
Moorcock, and Understanding Philip K. Dick (University of South Carolina
Press), by Eric Carl Link, adds another title to the ten-foot shelf of critical
studiesofPhilipK.Dick(awriteralmostcompletelyignoredbyacademiccritics
duringhislifetime,bytheway—aswereH.P.LovecraftandC.M.Kornbluth,
for that matter). Critic Gary K. Wolfe examines a wide range of authors in
Bearings: Reviews 1997–2001 (Beccon Publications), Paul Kincaid and Niall
HarrisonofferacriticaloverlookofgenreinBritaininBritishScienceFiction&
Fanasy:TwentyYears,TwoSurveys(OddTwoOut),L.TimmelDuchampeditsa
nonfiction anthology of sixteen essays by well-known writers in Narrative
Power:Encounters,Celebrations,Struggles(AqueductPress),andBudWebster
reviews some of the most prominent fiction anthologies in the field in
Anthopology 101: Reflections, Inspections and Dissections of SF Anthologies
(MerryBlacksmithPress).
Two perhaps contrasting perspectives on the genre’s ability as a predictive
medium are offered in Visions of Tomorrow: Science Fiction Predictions That
CameTrue(SkyhorsePublishing),byThomasA.EastonandJudithK.Dialand
TheWonderfulFutureThatNeverWas(HearstBooks),byGregoryBenfordand
theeditorsofPopularMechanicsmagazine.
OfinteresttothosewholeantowardthemediasideofthefieldmaybeThe
ScienceofDoctorWho(JohnHopkinsUniversityPress),byPaulPersons,and
Firefly:StillFlying:ACelebrationofJossWhedon’sAcclaimedTVSeries(Titan
Books),byJossWhedon.
An entertaining attempt at creating a modern Bestiary, of creatures drawn
frommythandfolklore,isTheKosher Guideto Imaginary Animals (Tachyon
Publications),byAnnVanderMeerandJeffVanderMeer.
***
Afterastrongyearlastyear,2010seemedtobeasomewhatweakeryearinthe
artbookmarket.Thebest,andcertainlythemostvaried,wasthelatestinalong-
running “Best of the Year” series for fantastic art, Spectrum 17: The Best in
ContemporaryFantasticArt(UnderwoodBooks),editedby Cathy Fenner and
ArnieFenner.AlsoworthwhileweretwoothervariedcollectionsofSFart,Sci-
Fi Art Now (Collins Design), edited by John Freeman, and EXPOSÉ8: The
FinestDigitalArtintheKnownUniverse(BallisticPublishing),editedbyDaniel
P.Wade.EvocativeandpainterlyviewsofscenesfromfantasybooksbyJ.R.R.
Tolkien and Robert E. Howard were available in Middle-Earth: Visions of a
Modern Myth (Underwood Books), by Donato Giancola and Sword’s Edge:
PaintingsInspiredbytheWorksofRobertE.Howard(UnderwoodBooks),by
ManuelSanjulian,andscenesfromStarWarswereondisplayinStarWarsArt:
Visions(Abrams),editedbyanoymous.Therewerecollectionsofpaintingsby
BobEggleton,Dragon’sDomain(Impact),byBobEggleton,andJackGaughan,
Outermost (Nonstop Press), edited by Luis Ortiz, a collection by Daniel
Merriman, Taking Reality by Surprise (Monarch Editions), two collections of
work by William Stout, Inspriations (Flesk Publications) and Hallucinations
(Flesk Publications), and there was also a collection by comics artist Neal
Adams,TheArtofNealAdams(VanguardProductions),byNealAdams.Studies
ofpulpartincludedSavageArt:20thCenturyGenreandtheArtiststhatDefined
It (Underwood Books), edited by Tim Underwood, Arnie Fenner, and Cathy
Fenner,andShamelessArt:20thCenturyGenreArtandtheArtistsThatDefined
It (Underwood Books), edited by Tim Underwood, Arnie Fenner, and Cathy
Fenner. A collections of paintings that double as instructional books included
ColorandLight:AGuidefortheRealistPainter(AndrewsMcMeelPublishing),
by James Gurney, and OtherWorlds: How to Imagine, Paint and Create Epic
ScenesofFantasy(ImpactBooks),byTomKidd.
As you can see, Underwood Books had probably the strongest year in this
area.
***
AccordingtotheBoxOfficeMojosite(www.boxofficemojo.com),nineoutof
tenoftheyear’stop-earningmoviesweregenrefilmsofonesortoranother,if
youacceptanimatedfilmsandsuperhero movies asbeing“genrefilms.”(The
exceptionwasTheKarate Kid, in tenth place.) The year’s top five box-office
champswereallgenremoviesbythatdefinition,aswerefourteenoutofthetop
twentyearners,androughlythirty-sevenoutofthetop100,moreorless(Imight
havemissedonehereorthere).
Forthefirsttimesince2004,whenShrek2pulleditoff,theyear’snumber
onebox officechamp (notcounting 2009’sAvatar,which still pulled in more
thisyearthananyofthe2010films)wasananimatedfilm,ToyStory3.Itand
the second-place finisher, Tim Burton’s “reimagined” Alice in Wonderland,
earnedmorethanabilliondollarsapieceworldwide,withasteepdrop-offtothe
film in the third spot, the superhero movie Iron Man 2, which earned “only”
$622,056,974worldwide.
Unlike last year, there were few SF movies (as opposed to fantasy movies,
superheromovies,andanimatedfilms),evenbadSFwithjunksciencelikelast
year’s Avatar, Star Trek, and Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen, let alone
smaller-budgetedmore“serious”moviessuchasMoonandDistrict9.Themost
notableexception,andtheonethatseemedtogetthemostcriticalrespect,was
thePhilipK.Dick–likeInception,aboutmanipulatingpeople’sdreamsforyour
ownpurposes,whichalsodidwellattheboxoffice,finishinginsixthplace.The
low-budgetalieninvasionmovie,Monsters,gotasurprisingamountofcritical
respect, although it barely made a ripple on the box-office charts. The soap-
operavampireromanceTheTwilightSaga:Eclipsecameinatfourthplace,and
themoretraditionalfantasymovieHarryPotterandtheDeathlyHallows:Part
1atfifthplace(thenewversionofClashoftheTitans,anotherfantasymovie,
finishedinfourteenthplace,stillprobablygoodenoughtoearnitasequel).The
restofthetoptenwereroundedoffbyotheranimatedfilms:DespicableMein
seventhplace,ShrekForeverAfterineighth,andHowtoTrainYourDragonin
ninth(thiswasabigyearforanimatedfilms,withTangledcominginattenth
place, and Megamind and Legend of the Guardians: The Owls of Ga’ Hoole
furtherdowninthepack).
Thisshouldn’tsurpriseanybody—genrefilms(withtheinevitabledisclaimer,
“of one sort or another”; often they’re superhero movies) have dominated the
boxofficetoptenformorethanadecadenow.Youhavetogoallthewayback
to1998tofindayearwhentheyear’stopearnerwasanongenrefilm,Saving
PrivateRyan.
In spite of the presence of some immense-earning Mega-Movies, it seemed
likealacklusteryearinsomerespects,withlittlegettingmuchcriticalrespect
exceptforInception(andeventhere,reviewsweresharplymixed),and,tosome
extent,ToyStory3andHarryPotterandtheDeathlyHallows:Part1.Evenat
the box office, it was far from a year of universal success. The Chronicles of
Narnia:TheVoyageoftheDawnTreader,TheWolfman,JonahHex,TheBookof
Eli,The Last Airbender, Yogi Bear, and (probably the most critically savaged
movieoftheyear)Gulliver’sTravelswerealldisappointmentstoonedegreeor
another, and attempts to establish viable new franchises such as Prince of
Persia: The Sands of Time, Scott Pilgrim vs. the World, The Sorcerer’s
Apprentice,andPercyJackson&theOlympians:TheLightningThief were all
failures.The“superhero”satireKick-Asswasfamouslycontroversialforashort
whilefor itsscenes ofextreme ultraviolencecommitted byan eleven-year-old
girl,but in spite of all the tongue-clickingin Timeand Newsweek, could only
makeittosixty-seventhplaceontheboxofficelist.
Although2010wasstillthesecond-highestgrossingyearofalltimeforthe
movieindustry,estimatedattendancewasthelowestinfifteenyears,1.27billion
people,down8percentfromthepreviousyear.Doesthismeanthatfewerpeople
werepayingmoremoneytoseemovies?Withtheboominmoviesreleasedin3-
D and IMAX, for more expensive ticket prices, that’s quite possible. The
increased accessibility of movies on the Internet and through services such as
NetflixandOn Demand, oftenonlya fewmonthsafter they comeoutin first
release,plusthecontinuing recession,maybe discouraging somepeoplefrom
goingtothetheater—althoughat1.27billion,that’sstillalotofpeoplebuying
tickets!
Mostofthebuzzsofarin2011(althoughwe’reonlyafewweeksintoitasI
writethesewords)isfortheupcomingHarryPotterandtheDeathlyHallows:
Part2,thelastoftheHarryPotterfranchise.ThepromisedsequelstoAvatar,
StarTrek,2012,andTransformersarestillpromised,asarefilmversionsofJoe
Haldeman’s The Forever War, John Wyndham’s Chocky, and Isaac Asimov’s
Foundation;nodoubtsomeofthesewillshowupsoonerorlater,althoughit’s
hardtotellwhich(betonAvatar;it’smadefartoomuchmoneyfortherenotto
beasequel,perhapsmorethanoneofthem).There’llbeanewTwilightmovie,
BreakingDawn,whichIbelievewillbesplitintotwoparts,aswasHarryPotter
andtheDeathlyHallows.Sofar,2011lookslikeit’sgoingtobeabigyearfor
IndependenceDayclones,aliensattackingallovertheplace,andwillperhaps
seeabigresurgenceinsuperheromovies,withCaptainAmericaandTheGreen
Hornet,andThorloomingonthehorizonlikeathundercloud.
***
ItwasalacklusteryearforSFandfantasyshowsontelevision.
Lost ended with an anticlimactic everybody-goes-to-Heaven-and-leaves-
almost-all-of-the-major-questions-unanswered-behind-them finale that
disappointedmostLosties,outragedmany,andsouredsomeretrospectivelyon
the series to the point where they wouldn’t even buy the DVD. Heroes,
FlashForward, The Prisoner, and Battlestar Galactica prequel Caprica the
GreatWhite Hopes of last season, all died, and StargateUniverse will follow
themintooblivionafterrunningitslastfewepisodesearlythisyear.Thelong-
runningSmallvilleisfinallycomingtoanend,andwillrunitsfinalepisodein
thespring.Thelong-runningMediumisalsoending,andthenewvampireshow
TheGatescloseditsgatesandreturnedtothequietofitsgrave.
Fringe,The Event, and V all returned, but are wobbling in the ratings, and
maynotlastouttheyear.
Supernatural, Vampire Diaries, Star Wars: The Clone Wars, Chuck, and
zombieshowTheWalkingDeadarereturning,asaretheSFcomediesEureka
andWarehouse13.DoctorWho and Primeval are returning, and a Torchwood
spin-off,Torchwood:TheNewWorld,setintheUnitedStates,willbestarting
up. There will also be an American version of the BBC show, Being Human,
aboutavampire,aghost,andawerewolflivingtogetherinthesameapartment
(whichalwayssoundstomelikethesetupforajoke:“Avampire,aghost,anda
werewolfwalkintoabar…”)Merlinisreturning,andwillbejoinedbyanother
Arthurian fantasy series, Camelot. Two live-action superhero shows, No
OrdinaryFamilyandTheCape,startedup;TheCapehasalreadydied.
Movie director Steven Spielberg will be making his first foray into series
televisionwithtwonewshows:TerraNova,inwhichscientistsescapethrough
timefromadoomedandruinedEarthtoattempttorestartthehumanraceina
prehistoricera,andFallingSkies,inwhichembattledguerillamilitiamenbattle
alieninvasionforceswhohavedestroyedmuchoftheEarthandkilledmostof
the people. (Guess that Spielberg doesn’t envision much of a future for
humanity.)
BloodandChrome,anewprequeltoBattlestarGalactica,iscomingup, as
areaslewofanimatedsuperheroshows,includingYoungJustice,followingthe
adventuresoftheyoungsidekicksofJusticeLeaguecharacters,GreenLantern:
TheAnimatedSeries,andBatman:TheBraveandtheBold.
MostofthequalityworkontelevisionseemstobebeingdoneonHBOthese
days, from the campy fun of vampire show True Blood to nongenre dramatic
series such as Boardwalk Empire and Big Love. Coming up from them is the
long-awaitedminiseriesversionsofGeorgeR.R.Martin’sAGameofThrones.
A miniseries version of Kim Stanley Robinson’s Red Mars is supposed to be
comingupfromAMC.
***
The 68th World Science Fiction Convention, Aussiecon 4, was held in
Melbourne, Victoria, Australia, from September 2 to September 6, 2010. The
2010 Hugo Awards, presented at Aussiecon 4, were: Best Novel (tie), The
WindupGirl,byPaoloBacigalupiandTheCityandtheCity,byChinaMiéville;
BestNovella,“Palimpsest,”byCharlesStross;BestNovelette,“TheIsland,”by
Peter Watts; Best Short Story, “Bridesicle,” by Will McIntosh; Best Related
Book,ThisisMe,JackVance!(Or,MoreProperly,Thisis“I”),byJackVance;
BestProfessionalEditor,LongForm,PatrickNielsenHayden;BestProfessional
Editor, Short Form, Ellen Datlow; Best Professional Artist, Shaun Tan; Best
DramaticPresentation(shortform), DoctorWho: “The Waters of Mars”; Best
Dramatic Presentation (long form), Moon; Best Graphic Story, Girl Genius,
Volume 9: Agatha Heterodyne and the Heirs of the Storm, by Kaja and Phil
Foglio, art by Phil Foglio; Best Semiprozine, Clarkesworld; Best Fanzine,
StarShipSofa:BestFanWriter,FrederikPohl;BestFanArtist,BradW.Foster;
plustheJohnW.CampbellAwardforBestNewWritertoSeananMcGuire.
The2009NebulaAwards,presentedatabanquetattheHiltonCocoaBeach
OceanfrontHotelinCocoaBeach,Florida,onMay15,2010,were:BestNovel,
The Windup Girl, by Paolo Bacigalupi; Best Novella, The Women of Nell
Gwynne’s,byKageBaker;BestNovelette,“Sinner,Baker,Fabulist,Priest;Red
Mask, Black Mask, Gentleman, Beast,” by Eugie Foster; Best Short Story,
“Spar,” byKij Johnson;Ray BradburyAward,District9, by Neill Blomkamp
andTerriTatchell;theAndreNortonAwardtoTheGirlWhoCircumnavigated
FairylandinaShipofHerOwnMaking,byCatherynneM.Valente;theSolstice
Award to Tom Doherty, Terri Windling, and Donald A. Wollheim, the Author
Emeritus Award to Neil Barrett, Jr.; and the Grand Master Award to Joe
Haldeman.
The2010WorldFantasyAwards,presentedatabanquetattheHyattRegency
HotelinColumbus,Ohio,onOctober31,2010,duringtheNineteenthAnnual
WorldFantasyConvention,were:BestNovel,TheCityandtheCity,byChina
Miéville; Best Novella, “Sea-Hearts,” by Margo Lanagan; Best Short Story,
“ThePelicanBar,”byKarenJoyFowler;BestCollection(tie),TheVeryBestof
Gene Wolfe/The Best of Gene Wolfe, by Gene Wolfe and There Once Lived a
WomanWhoTriedtoKillHerNeighbor’sBaby:ScaryFairyTales,byLudmilla
Petrushevskaya; Best Anthology, American Fantastic Tales: Terror and the
Uncanny:FromPoetothePulps/Fromthe1940stoNow,editedbyPeterStraub;
BestArtist,CharlesVess;SpecialAward(Professional),toJonathanStrahan,for
editing anthologies; Special Award (Nonprofessional), to Susan Marie Groppi,
forStrangeHorizons;plustheLifeAchievementAwardtoTerryPratchett,Peter
Straub,andBrianLumley.
The2009BramStokerAwards,presentedbytheHorrorWritersAssociation
were: Best Novel, Audrey’s Door, by Sarah Langan; Best First Novel,
Damnable, by Hank Schwaeble; Best Long Fiction, The Lucid Dreaming, by
Lisa Morton; Best Short Fiction, “In the Perches of My Ears,” by Norman
Prentiss; Best Collection, A Taste of Tenderloin, by Gene O’Neill; Best
Anthology,HeIsLegend:AnAnthologyCelebratingRichardMatheson,edited
by Christopher Conlon; Nonfiction, Writers Workshop of Horror, by Michael
Knost; Best Poetry Collection, Chimeric Machines, by Lucy A. Snyder; plus
LifetimeAchievementAwardstoWilliamF.NolanandBrianLumley.
The2010JohnW.CampbellMemorialAwardwaswonbyTheWindupGirl,
byPaoloBacigalupi.
The2010TheodoreSturgeonMemorialAwardforBestShortStorywaswon
byShamblingTowardsHiroshima,byJamesMorrow.
The 2009 Philip K. Dick Memorial Award went to Bitter Angels, by C. L.
Anderson.
The 2010 Arthur C. Clarke Award was won by The City and the City, by
ChinaMiéville.
The2010JamesTiptree,Jr.MemorialAwardwaswonbyCloudandAshes:
ThreeWinter’sTales,byGreerGilmanandOoku:TheInnerChambers,volumes
1&2,byFumiYoshinaga(tie)
The2010SidewiseAwardwentto1942,byRobertConroy(LongForm)and
“TheFixation,”byAlastairReynolds(ShortForm).
The2010CordwainerSmithRediscoveryAwardwenttoMarkClifton.
***
Deadin2010orearly2011were:
JAMES P. HOGAN, 69, author of Inherit the Stars. The Gentle Giants of
Ganymede,andmanyothers;E.C.TUBB,90,veteranBritishSFwriter,author
of more than 1340 novels, including, his best-known, the thirty-two-volume
Dumarest series of space operas; MARTIN GARDINER, 95, author,
mathematician, and puzzle-maker, who wrote long-running mathematics
columns for Scientific American and Asmiov’s Science Fiction;ARTHUR
HERZOG III, 83, mainstream author who also wrote some books with SF
elements, such as The Swarm; MERVYN JONES, 87, author of twenty-nine
novels,includingsomeSF;PATRICIAWRIGHTSON, 88, authoroftwenty-
sevenchildren’sandYoungAdultbooks;STEPHENGILBERT, 97, Irish SF
and horror writer; three-time Edgar-winner and mystery mainstay, JOE
GORES, 79, author of Hammett and 32 Cadillacs;ELISABETH
BERESFORD,84,Britishchildren’sauthor,creatorofthelong-runningseries
about The Wombles; JOHN STEAKLEY, 59, SF writer, author of Armor;
WILLIAMMAYNE,82,authorofmorethan100children’sbooks,somewith
SF elements; FRANK K. KELLY, 95, veteran writer; JIM HARMON, 76,
authorofmorethanfortystoriesinthefiftiesandsixties,mostforGalaxyand
Worlds of If; GEORGE EWING, 64, SF writer, contributor to Asmov’s and
Analog;MELISSAMIAHALL,54,SF/horrorwriterandanthologist,afriend;
JEANNIE ROBINSON, 62, author, dancer, and choreographer, wife of SF
writerSpiderRobinson,afriend;F.GWYNPLAINEMacINTYRE,62,prolific
short-storywriterwhowasamainstayofAsimov’s duringtheGeorgeScithers
years,andalsosoldtoAmazing,WeirdTales,andelsewhere;MARYHUNTER
SCHAUB, 66, SF and fantasy writer, author with Andre Norton of The
Magestone; JENNIFER RARDIN, 45, urban fantasy writer, author of Once
Bitten,TwiceShy;REBECCANEASON,55,fantasyand medianovelwriter;
JOHN SCHOENHERR, 74, Hugo-winning SF cover artist and nature
illustratorwhodidsomeofthemostfamouscoverseverforAnalog,including
thecoverfortheserializationofFrankHerbert’sDune;FRANKFRAZETTA,
82,famousfantasyartist,HugoandWorldFantasyAward–winner,bestknown
forhiscoversforRobertE.Howard’sConantheBarbarianandforcoversfor
manybooksbyEdgarRiceBurroughs;ROBERTMcCALL,90,artistperhaps
bestknownforthemovieposterfor2001:ASpaceOdyssey,althoughhealso
workedonDisney’sEpcotCenterandtheNationalAirandSpaceMuseum,as
wellasforLifemagazine;ALWILLIAMSON,79,comicartist;GEORGEH.
SCITHERS,80,foundingeditorofAsimov’sScienceFiction,whoalsoserved
aseditorforAmazingandWeirdTalesandwas aprominentagentandfanzine
editor,winnerofaHugoandtheLifetimeAchievementAwardfromtheWorld
Fantasy Convention; RALPH M. VICINANZA, 60, perhaps the most
successfulandprestigiousliteraryagentinthehistoryofSF,certainlyofthelast
several decades, who at one time or another was the agent for most of the
prominentauthorsinthefield,andwhohelpedestablishandexpandtheoverseas
marketforAmericanSF;LARRYASHMEAD,78,whoatonetimeoranother
was a major book editor at Doubleday, Simon & Schuster, Lippincott, and
Harper&Row;BOBGUCCIONE,79,publisherofPenthouse,probablybest
known in the field for launching the prestigious magazine OMNI; ELAINE
KOSTER,69,literaryagentandpublisher,whowasresponsibleforhelpingto
launchthecareerofStephenKing;EVERETTF.BLEILER,90,bibliographer
andscholar,compilerofTheChecklistofFantasticLiterature:ABibliographyof
Fantasy,WeirdandScienceFictionBooksPublishedintheEnglishLanguage,as
wellas,withT.E.Ditky,theeditorofTheBestScienceFictionStories,thefirst
annual Year’s Best anthology series, winner of the World Fantasy Life
Achievement Award; DONALD H. TUCK, 89, Hugo-winning Australian
bibliographer,compilerofAHandbookofScienceFictionandFantasyandThe
Encyclopedia of Science Fiction and Fantasy through 1968: A Bibliographic
Survey of the Fields of Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Weird Fiction through
1968;NEIL BARRON, 76, bibliographer and scholar, author of one of the
standard SF references, Anatomy of Wonder; JERRY WEIST, 61, author,
bookseller, and collector, author of the Hugo-winning Ray Bradbury: An
Illustrated Life; GLEN GOODKNIGHT, 69, founder of the Mythopoeic
Society;GLENNLEWISGILLETTE,64,SFwriterwhoeditedtheSFWAe-
newsletter for many years; LESLIENIELSEN, 84, film and television actor,
bestknowntogenreaudiencesforstarringintheclassicfilmForbiddenPlanet,
althoughthey’relikelytoalsoknowhimfromlatermovieslikeAirplane! and
TheNakedGun;ANNEFRANCIS,80,Nielsen’scostarfromForbiddenPlanet,
who also did much television work, including episodes of The Twilight Zone;
KEVINMcCARTHY,96,filmactor,bestknowntogenreaudienceforstarring
intheoriginalversionofInvasionofthe BodySnatchers;PATRICIA NEAL,
84,filmactor,bestknowntogenreaudiencesforcostarringintheoriginalThe
DaytheEarthStoodStill;PETERPOSTLETHWAITE,64,Britishfilmactor,
perhaps best known to genre audiences from Inception and The Lost World:
JurrasicPark;HAROLDGOULD,86,filmandtelevisionactor,perhapsbest
known to genre audiences from his appearances in episodes of The Twilight
Zone,Lois&Clark,TheOuterLimits,andTheRayBradburyTheater,although
IhavelittledoubtthatmanyofthemwouldalsorememberhimfromTheSting;
TONY CURTIS, 85, film actor, one of the most famous leading men of the
fiftiesandsixties,hisconnectionwiththegenreisfairlytenuous,althoughno
doubtmanywillremember himfromTheVikings and TheGreat Race, which
hadslightfantasticelements;JAMESGAMMON,70,gravel-voicedfilmand
television actor who appeared in The Milagro Beanfield War, Silverado, and
TV’s The Wild Wild West and Batman, and did voiceover work in The Iron
Giant;STEVE LANDESBERG, 74, television actor, best known as the
eccentric detective in Barney Miller; BLAKE EDWARDS, 88, film director,
perhapsbestknownforVictorVictoriaandthePinkPanthermovies;DINODE
LAURENTIIS, 91, film producer, best known to genre audiences for Dune,
Barbarella, Conan the Barbarian, and an awful version of King Kong;
ASENATH HAMMOND, 60, longtime fan and blogger, ex-wife of SF artist
RickSternbach,afriend;ANNETTESTITH,widowofSFwriterJohnE.Stith;
MARY E. STUBBS, 87, widow of Harry Stubbs, who wrote SF as “Hal
Clement”; BETTY BOND, 94, widow of SF writer Nelson Bond; EILEEN
PRATCHETT, 88, mother of fantasy writer Terry Pratchett; NATHAN
DATLOW,93,fatherofeditorEllenDatlow;AVERYLEEMINGNAGLE,85,
motherofSFwriterPatiNagle;GAILZETTEL74,motherofSFwriterSarah
Zettel;GARDNERMcSWIGGIN,82,uncleofeditorGardnerDozois.
AHistoryofTerraforming
ROBERTREED
The sprawling, vividly imaginative story that follows traces the
protagonist,Simon,fromhischildhoodonanewlysettledMars
hundredsofyearsintoanincreasinglystrangefuture.Simonisan
“atum,”aterraformer,andeachstepinhiscareerashegrowsin
knowledgeandabilitiesshowcasesthestrengthsandweaknesses,
theethicalaswellasphysicalprosandcons,ofterraforming,as
theterraformerscreatenewworlds—andsometimesdestroyold
onesaswell.
Robert Reed sold his first story in 1986, and quickly
establishedhimselfasoneofthemostprolificoftoday’swriters,
particularlyatshortfictionlengths,andhasmanagedtokeepupa
veryhighstandardofqualitywhilebeingprolific,somethingthat
is not at all easy to do. Reed stories such as “Sister Alice,”
“Brother Perfect,” “Decency,” “Savior,” “The Remoras,”
“Chrysalis,” “Whiptail,” “The Utility Man,” “Marrow,” “Birth
Day,” “Blind,” “TheToadof Heaven,” “Stride,” “The Shape of
Everything,”“GuestofHonor,”“WagingGood,”and“Killingthe
Morrow,” among at least a half-dozen others equally as strong,
countasamongsomeofthebestshortworkproducedbyanyone
in the eighties and nineties; many of his best stories have been
assembledinthecollectionsTheDragonsofSpringplaceandThe
Cuckoo’sBoys.HewontheHugoAwardin2007forhisnovella
“A Billion Eves.” Nor is he nonprolific as a novelist, having
turnedoutelevennovelssincetheendoftheeighties,including
The Leeshore, The Hormone Jungle, Black Milk, The
Remarkables,DowntheBrightWay,BeyondtheVeilofStars,An
ExaltationofLarks,BeneaththeGatedSky,Marrow,SisterAlice,
andTheWellof Stars, as well as two chapbook novellas, Mere
andFlavorsofMyGenius.Hismostrecentbookisanewnovel,
Eater-of-Bone.ReedliveswithhisfamilyinLincoln,Nebraska.
MARS
Simon’sfatherstartedtalkingaboutnutsonwalls,abouthowtheseedshewas
workingwithlookedverymuchlikewallnuts.Thenhewinked,handingover
thewonderthathehadbeencarryinginhisbigpalm.“Whatdoyouthinkofthis,
Simon?”Butbeforetheboycouldanswer,hisfathercautionedhimtouseboth
handsandbeespeciallycareful.“Notbecauseyoumightdamagetheseed,”the
mansaid.“Orbecauseitwouldeverhurtyou.Butcertainobjectsareimportant,
sometimesevensacred,andtheydeservealltheconsiderationandrespectthat
wecanpossiblyshowforthem.”
Consideringhowsmallitwas,theseedwasexceptionallyheavy.Itwasblack
andhardasdiamondbutcoveredwithsmall,sharp-edgedpits.Againsthisbare
palms,theobjectfeltwarm.Maybetheheatwasleftoverfromwheretheseed
waskept,or maybeit was warmin thesameway thatlittleboys werewarm.
Eitheranswermightbetrue.Hedidn’task.Hejustheldtheobjectinhiscupped
handsandstared,wonderingwhatwouldhappeniftheimpossibleoccurred,if
theseeddecidedtoawakennow.
Foroneperson,timepassed.
Thenhisfatheraskedagain,“Whatdoyouthink,Simon?”
Theboy’sthoughtswereshiftingquickly,clingingtonosingleidea.Hewas
tellinghimselfthat he wasn’teven three-years-old. Buton the earth he would
alreadybefour,andeveryfour-year-oldthatheknewenjoyedlarge,impressive
opinions.ButifhelivednearNeptune,hewouldn’tbeamontholdandhisfather
would never take him riding along on his working trips. And if this were
Mercury, then Simon would be many years old, and because of certain
pernicious misunderstandings about calendars and the passage of time, he
believed that on Mercury he would be an adult. He was remembering how
peoplesaidthathewasgoingtogrowuptallandhandsome.Itwasasifadults
hadthepowertopeerintothefuture.Theydidn’tadmittochildrenthattheyhad
this talent, but the truth often leaked out in careless words and unwanted
glimpses. Simon liked the idea of peering into the future. Right now, he was
tryingtoimaginehimselflivinginsomeimportant,unborncentury.Thenearly
three-year-old boy wanted to be a grown man entrusted with some very
importantjob.Butforthetimebeing,ridingwithhisfatherseemedimportant
enough. That’s what he was thinking when he handed back that precious and
very expensive seed, grinning as he said, “It’s delicious, Dad.” He had never
beenhappierthanhewasjustthen.
“Doyouknowhowitworks?”
“Yes,”theboyclaimed.
“No,youdon’t,”hisfatherwarned.“It’smyjobtofindhomesfortheselittle
buggers,andIbarelyunderstandthem.”
Thatadmissionofignorancemadeadeepimpression.Quietly,Simonasked,
“Whatdofloornutslooklike?”
Puzzled,hisfatherblinkedandsaidnothing.
Simonpointedattheseed.“I’veneverseenawalllooklikethat.”
Hisfathersaid,“Oh,”andthensoftlylaughed.“It’snottwowords.‘Walnut’is
oneword.It’stheseedmadebyaspeciesofearthtree.”
“Iknowwhattreesare,”theboyboasted.
“You’veseenthepictures,atleast.”Hisfatherturnedaway,settingtheheavy
blackwonderbackintoitsimportantdrawer.Thenashewalkedtothefrontof
therover,headded,“Here’ssomethingelsetothinkabout:Oneofmyseedsis
quite a bit more complicated than any unborn tree. There’s more information
packed inside that hull than normal DNA can hold. And considerably more
powerthanrootsandleaveswouldevershowontheirown.”
Simonwalkedbehindhisfather,lookingthroughthewidewindows.Marswas
rocky and pale red, last night’s frost hiding in the coldest shade. The ground
couldn’thavebeenrougher,yettheroverwalkedwithoutrockingorlurchingor
jumping.Highcloudsandatleastthreemirrorslookeddownonthemfromthe
purplesky, andthe skyhook known as Promise was straight ahead.Todaythe
windwasblowing,movinghardenoughtothrowthesmallestbitsofdust.Dust
wasdangerous.Thecoldwasdangerous.Marslikedtokillpeople,particularly
carelesschildrenwhodidn’tlistentotheirfathersandotherwisevoices.
Buttheworldwouldn’tbedangerousmuchlonger,Simonthought.
Foralongwhile,theyrodetowardPromise,buttheslendertowerdidn’tcome
anycloser.ThentheAIdrivertookthemaroundtheflankofalowhillandover
thelipofaworn-outcrater,andsuddenlytheywerelookingintoawidebasin
filledwithbrilliantwaterice.
“Isthisthelake?”Simonasked.
Hisfatherwasbusyreadingtwodifferentscreens.
Thismust betheir goal,the boy decided. But hethought itwas bestnot to
interrupt,hisfatherbusywithsomethingthatcouldonlybeimportant.
Hesatonthenearestchair,watchingeverything.
Theroverwalkeddowntotheshoreline.Outontheicestoodalittletowerand
anotherrover,andsomebodywasmovingslowlyinonedirection,thenanother.
Thestrangerwaswearingabiglifesuit,thekindusedbypeopleplanningtobe
outside for a long time. Someday Simon wouldn’t need a suit to walk in the
open.Adultspromisedthatinthefuture,hewouldbeatall,good-lookingman
and wear nothing but clothes and good shoes, and Mars would be the second
earth,butevenbetter.
Simon would live for hundreds of years. Everybody said so. And that was
evenifhecountedhisbirthdaysinMartianyears.
“Thisisn’tright,”hisfathermuttered.
Theboystoodupandeasedclosetohisfather.
Withasigh,themansaid,“Theyshouldn’tbehere.”
“Whoshouldn’tbe?”
Father didn’t answer. Opening a channel, he identified his employer before
asking,“What’stheholdup.You’resupposedtobegone.”
“Hey,John,”saidawoman’svoice.“You’retalkingtoLilly.”
Father’s name was John. “No,” he said quietly, but not softly. There was
sharpness to that single tiny word. Then he sighed and reopened the channel,
halfwaysmilingashesaid,“I’mherewithmyson,Lilly.”
Shesaidnothing.
Simontouchedhisfather’sshoulder.
Themansmiledathimandwinked,andhewasstillsmilingwhenhesaid,“I
thoughtyouwentoffonleave.”
“Camebackearly,”thewomansaid.
His father wasn’t looking at either screen or what was ahead. He was still
smiling,butsomethinghadchangedabouthisface.
“HowoldislittleSimonnow?”thewomanasked.
“Four.”Peoplebornontheearthusedtheiroldcalendar.Thatwasonereason
Simonhadtroubleunderstandingwhattimemeant.
“Where’shismother?”
“Waitingathome.It’sjusthimandme.”
Therewasabriefsilence.Thenthewomansaid,“Understood.”
Fathersatback.“Lilly?Iwastoldyourrigwasgoingtobegonebynow.”
“I’vehadsomelousytroubles,John.”
Theman’sfacelookedpatientbutnothappy.“Troubles?”
“Two bits went bad on me. I’ve had one bit get contaminated at the site
before,butnevertwo.”
Theirroverwaswalkingonitscrablegs,quicklymarchingacrossthefrozen
face of the lake. Simon imagined liquid water hiding under the thick white
surface ice, and he thought of the cold mud beneath the water. Then he
remembered the guppies he left at home with his mother and baby sister.
Somedayhewouldtakethosefishandtheirbabiesandsetthemfree.Wouldn’t
thatbeawonderfulthing?Inhismind,hesawtheiceturntowarmwaterandthe
sky was blue like on earth, and there were hundreds and millions of guppies
swimmingeverywhere,alloftheirmouthsbeggingforfood.
“Areyouclosetofinished?”
“Stilldrilling,”thewomanreported.
“Howdeepareyou?”
“Fivekilometers,nearly,”shesaid.
Hisfathermouthedoneexceptionallybadword.Thenwithanangrytone,he
said,“I’msorry,Lilly.”
“Youcan’twaitonemoreday?”
“I’vegotmyownschedulehere.”
Thewomandidn’trespond.
Afteraminute,Fathersaid,“Iwould,ifIcould.Youknowthat.Buttheywant
mefinishingthisruninaweek,andthekidhastogetback.”
Still,thewomandidn’ttalk.
FatherlookedatSimon,preparingtotellhimsomething.
ButthenLilly’svoicereturned.“IjustputinacalltotheZoo.”
Fathershookhishead.Thensoftlyandalittlesadly,hesaid,“Thatwon’tdo
anygood,andyouknowit.”
“Whatareyoutalkingabout?”Simonasked.
Fatherclosedthechannelandsaid,“Shush,”andthenopeneditagain.“All
right,Lilly.TheZoocangettheirlawyersworking.We’regoingtobeofficial
here.Butwhydon’tyoustartpullingyourbit?Ifyouwinyourdelay,I’llletyou
putitbackinandfinish.”
“Soyourboy’sreallythere,ishe?”
“Sureis.”
Sheasked,“Canhehearme?”
“Why?”Fatherasked,reachingforabutton.
Thenallofthesudden,shesaid,“Hello,Simon.Hi!I’myourdad’svery,very
goodfriend,Lilly!”
***
Therewererulesaboutbeingalone.Aloneinsidearovermeanttouchingnothing
except what belonged to him and what couldn’t be avoided. The AI driver
watchedSimonwhenhisfatherwasabsent,anditwatchedhisfatherwhenhe
workedoutside.Ifsomethingbadhappened,thedriverwouldfindsomewayto
help. But Mars was dangerous, and the worst things were always ready to
happen.Beforetheyleftonthisjourney,Simon’smothersaidexactlythattohis
father.“Asealfails,oryoupunctureyoursuit,”shesaid.Momthoughtherboy
wasasleep,andevenifhewasn’t,Simoncouldn’thearhertalkingatthefarend
ofthetinyapartment.Withaquieturgentvoice,sheremindedherhusbandthat
one misstep might leave their son half-orphaned and two hundred kilometers
fromhome.Andwhatwouldhappenthen?
“The driver knows what to do,” his father had promised. “It sends out a
distresscallandstartswalkingtowardthenearestsettlement.”
“WithSimoninside,”shesaid.“Terrified,andallbyhimself.”
“NoneedtomentionI’mdead,”saidhisfather.“Thoughthatseemslikethe
largertragedy,ifyouaskme.”
“Idon’twanttheboyscarred,”shesaid.
Fatherdidn’trespond.
“Scarred,”sherepeated.Andthenagain,shesaid,“Scarred.”
Simon didn’t want to be scarred, but he was definitely worried. His father
walkedslowlyacrossthefrozenlandscape,wearingalifesuitwhiterthantheice
beneathhisboots.Hisclean-shavenheadshowedthroughthebackofthehelmet.
Hisfather’sfriend stoodbeside her drill rig. Lillywas watchingSimon atthe
window.Apairofsmallrobotsstoodnearby,doingnothing.Thedrillwasstill
digging,thecleanbitclawingitswayintothedeepwarmrock.Simonwatched
thecabletwisting,andthenhenoticedhisfatherwavingahand,andLillysmiled
atherfriendandsaidwords.Fatherturned,andSimoncouldseehismouthnow.
The adults were sharing a private channel, and both were talking at the same
time.Thentheyquittalking.Severalminutespassedwherenothingwassaid.It
feltlikeforever.Maybetheywerewaitingforsomethingtohappen.Maybewhat
wouldhappenwassomethingverybad.SimonrememberedthestoryofaZoo
collectorwhocutintoacavefilledwithmethaneandwater,andthefoamygas
blewoutoftheholeandpickeduponeofhisrobotsandflungitathim,killing
himwiththeimpact.
Justthen,withchillingclarity,Simonunderstoodthathisfatherwasaboutto
die.Straighteninghisback,hemadehimselfreadyforthemoment.Yetnothing
happened.Nothingchanged.Thetwoadultsresumedtalkingandthenstopped
talking,andSimonwasdesperatelybored.Sohedroppedintothechairreserved
for him, playing a game. He was the blue team; his enemies were purple. He
startedinonecorneroftheboard,feedinganddividingandthenspreading,and
whenhenudgedagainstthepurpleblobs,hefoughtforpositionandthechance
tomakemoreblues.
When he stood again, his father was walking toward the rover. Simon had
neverseenanybodymovethatfastinalifesuit.AndLillyhadvanished.Where
didshego?Thentheairlockbegantocycle,andSimonputdownhisgameand
satagain,staringatthelittledooratthebackendofthecabin.
Even after a thorough cleaning, the woman’s suit smelled of peroxides and
ancientdust.Shesteppedintothecabinsmiling,helmettuckedunderonearm.
Thewomanwaspretty.Shewasdarkerthanmostofthepeoplethathe’dseen
before.Inthecabinair,hervoicesoundedwarmandkindandspecial,andthe
firstwordsshesaidtohimwere,“Youlookafinesmartyoungman.”
Helikedthiswoman.
“Simonisawonderfulname,”shesaid.
Henoddedandsmiledbackather.
“Your father’s told me quite a lot about you,” she offered. Then her face
changed,andshesaid,“He’sbeingveryunreasonable,youknow.”
Onceagain,theairlockstartedthroughitscycle.
“Simon,”shebegan.“HasanyonetoldyouabouttheZooproject?”
Theboynoddedbeforeheconsideredthequestion.Butluckily,yes,heknew
aboutthebugpeople.“Mymomexplainedthemtome.”
Lillysaidnothing.
“They’regood-heartedsoftsouls,”hecontinued.
Slowly, shesaid, “Iguess weare,” andthen sheadded, “I’dlike tobelieve
we’re doing something good. Saving what Martians we can save before their
worldisgoneforever.”
“Marsisn’tleaving,”hesaid.
“Buttheirhabitatswillvanish.Somesoon,andthentherest.”
“Butwe’reMartianstoo,”hesaid,repeatingwhatheheardfromeveryother
adult.
“Exceptthenativemicrobeswerefirst,”shementioned.
Simonshrugged,unsurehowthatmattered.
“They’reunderusrightnow,”shebegan.
Theairlockwaspressurized,jetsanddeterminedvacuumsstrugglingtoclean
hisfather’smostlycleansuit.
“Beneathusisawonderland,Simon.Aparadise.”Lilly’svoicewasquickand
serious.“Heatandflowingwaterandnutrients,plusfracturesinthebedrockthat
areprimegrowingsurfacesforthousandsofnativespecies.Pseudoarchaeaand
nanobacteria, viral cysts and maybe the largest population of hunter-molds
anywhere.WhatI’msamplingistheMartianequivalentofatropicalrainforest.
It’safabuloustreasure,uniqueintheuniverse,anddoyouknowwhat’sgoingto
happentoit?”
Someofher wordsmade nosense. But onenew wordpiqued his curiosity,
whichwaswhySimonasked,“What’sarain-forest?”
Lillyhesitated.“Whatdoyouthinkitis?”
“Waterfallingontrees,”heoffered.
“That’sit.”
“Neverstopping.”
“Itrainsalot,yes.”
“Thatsoundsawful,”heoffered.
Now the airlock stopped cleaning its contents, and the inner door popped
open.Fatherenteredtheroomquickly,hisglovesunfasteninghishelmet,eyes
bigandhismouthclampedintoahardlongline.
“We’retalkingaboutrain-forests,”Simonreported.Thentohisnewfriend,he
asked,“Howcantreesgrowunderfallingwater?”
“Itisn’tlikethat,”shesputtered.Thensheturned.“Hey,John.Hearbackfrom
theattorneys?”
“Not yet.” Father stopped and with a slow voice asked his son, “What else
haveyoutalkedabout?”
“Nothing,”Lillysaid.
“TheZoo,”correctedSimon.
“Yeah,theZoo,”sheallowed.“Iwasjustaskingthisfineyoungmanwhathe
knewaboutmywork,andhereportsthathismothersaysI’msoftbutthatIhave
agoodheart.”
Wasthatwhathetoldher?Simondidn’tthinkso.
Fatherlookedattheirfaces,oneandthentheother.
“That’sall,”Lillysaidcheerfully.
Father’ssuitwasbrightandclean.Helookedhot,whichmadelittlesense.He
evenseemedtired,althoughtheyhadn’tdoneanythingtoday.
Finally,withaquietlittlevoice,hesaid,“Don’t.”
Simoncouldn’ttellwhichoneofthemhewastalkingto.
Orwashesaying,“Don’t,”tohimself?
Butwithatight,almostangryvoice,Lillyasked,“WhywouldI?Whywould
Ieventhinkthat?Ihavethissterlinggoodheartthatdoesn’twishillonanybody,
bacterialorotherwise.”
Simon still liked Lilly, but adults could be very peculiar. Was Lilly one of
thosepeculiaradults?
Neitheradultwantedtotalk,andtheywouldn’tlookateachother.Thefloor
seemedtobethe mostinterestingareaintheroom,andtheystaredatitfora
time, their mouths small and their eyes empty and both of them breathing
quickly.
Tobreakthesilence,Simonannounced,“Igottoholdoneoftheseedstoday.
Dadletmedothat.”
Eventhen,nobodyspoke.
“Seeds are machines,” the boy reported. “They explode like bombs, and
they’reverypowerful,andinsidethem?They’vegottheselittlesacks,andthe
sacks get flung out into the hole made by the bomb, and they’re full of good
youngbugsthatcandoallsortsofneat,importantthings.Likegrowingfastand
building these little, little roots that carry power like wires do, and the roots
makeitpossibletoheatupthecrustfastandchangetherockstomakeourkinds
oflifehappy.”
Withoutwarning,Lillysaidoneawfulword.
Fathersethishandonhersuit,onthebackofhershoulder.
“Don’ttouchme,John.”
ThenFathersaid,“Leaveusalone,Lilly.”
Fourwords,andnonewereloud.ButSimonhadneverheardthemanangrier
thanhesoundedthen.
“Suitupandgo,”hetoldthewoman.
ButLillyjustshookherhead.Thenputtingonabigpeculiarsmile,shesaid,
“Simon?Wanttohearsomethingfunnyaboutyourfatherandme?”
Theboywantedanyreasontolaugh.“Sure.”
“No,” said Father, stepping between them. “Suit up and go do your work,
Lilly. I’ll tell my bosses something’s wrong at my end, that I’m not ready to
plant.Dowhatyouneed.Isthatfairenoughforyou?”
Shesaid,“No.”
“What?”
LillykeptwatchingSimon,thewildsmilebuildingonherprettydarkface.“I
wantyoutohelpme,John.Withthedrilling,withthesampling.Allofit.”
Fatherdidn’tspeak.
Then Lilly said, “Hey, Simon. You want your father to have a good heart,
don’tyou?”
“Yes,”hesaid.
“Sowhatshouldhedo?Helpmeorhurtme?”
“Help her, Dad,” the boy begged. “You’ve got to, Dad. What else can you
do?”
***
624Hektor
AlittlebirdwarnedSimonabouttheimpendingrebellion.
JackiewaspartAfricangray,withagooddealofgeneticretoolingandenough
bio-linked circuitry to lift the parrot’s IQ to vote-worthy levels. Her job
functionsincludedcompanionshipandextraeyeswithwhichtokeepwatchover
thesprawlingfarm,andshewasexcellentatbothduties.Buteverylivingthing
possesses its unsuspected skills. Wasn’t that what Simon’s professors warned
whentheyaddressedeachnewclassofwould-beatums?Nomatterhowsimple
thegenetics,anorganism’smindorthecultureinwhichitwasimmersed,every
created entity contained its fair share of surprises, flaws as well as those few
talents that would, if they were too spectacular, screw up anyone’s blooming
career.
“Warning signs are marching,” Jackie reported. “Small warnings, I’ll grant
you.ButIcan’tshakethepremonitionofdisastersontheloose.”
“Isitoursun?”Simonasked.Whichwasn’tanunreasonablequestion,what
with their reactor running past the prescribed one hundred and five percent
rating.“Youthinkthelight’sabouttofail?”
Intwentyyears,therehadbeentwoprolongedblackouts.NeitherwasSimon’s
fault, though both were major disasters for the farm—two incidents that left
cancerousreprimandstuckedinsidehislife-file.
Buttheparrotcluckedathisconcerns,saying,“No,it’snotoursun.”
“Meat troubles?” Viruses, he feared. A herpes strain hitching rides on the
nervoussystemsofnewimmigrants,mostlikely.
“No, the ribs-and-hearts are growing well. And the bacon is ahead of
schedule.”
Nonetheless, Simon studied the terrain before them: The ancient crater was
cappedwithadiamonddome,andfixedtothedome’sapexwasablazingfire
that winked out for only a few minutes each day. Otherwise the basin was
floodedwithasimplebutbrilliantlight.Limitingtheradiantfrequenciesallowed
for the efficient consumption of energy. The black-green foliage stank of life,
healthyandalwaysgrowing.Tallestwerethepond-pods—sprawlinglow-gravity
treesendowedwithcountlesstrunksholdingupbowl-shapedbasinsfilledwith
clean water, each pond infested with shrimp and fish, each covered with thin
living skins so that the jostling of wind and animals never spilling what lay
inside.Asayoungman,Simonhelpeddesignthefirstpond-pods,andsincehis
arrivalonHektor,hehadoverseencountlessimprovementsthatallowedthemto
thrive in the carbonaceous soil. No accomplishment made him prouder. By
contrast,therib-and-heartsandbaconswereroutinecommercialspecies,uglyby
anyaestheticshecaredtoinvoke.Therewerelongdayswhenthemasterofthis
farm wished he could cull and enhance according to his own tastes, creating
somethingmoresatisfyingthananefficientbutblandfoodfactory.
Patientlybutforcefully,heaskedagain,“What’swrong,Jackie?”
“Twohumanswerepassingthrough,”thebirdreported.“Theywerekeeping
underthecanopybutavoidingthemaintrails.Ididn’trecognizetheirfaces,but
theyworemineruniforms.”
“Whatdidtheminersdo?Stealfood?”
“Theydidnothing,”shesaid.“Nothingwrong,atleast.Buttheydidn’tsound
likeminers.”
Simonwaited.
“Theytalkedaboutfire.”
“Tellme,”hecoaxed.
Against every stereotype, Jackie was an awful mimic. But she knew her
limitations and didn’t try to reproduce either stranger’s voice. Instead, she
summarized.“Onesaidsomethingaboutbeingworried,andthentheothersaidit
wasgoingtohappensoon,inthirty-threehours.Hetoldhiscompanionthatthe
dogsweresleepingandthefirewasset,andevenifthechiefsknewaboutthe
plan,atthispointnobodycouldstopwhatcouldn’tbestopped.”
“Idon’tunderstandanyofthat,”Simonconfessed.
“Why am I not surprised?” One of Jackie’s unanticipated talents was for
sarcasm. “At first, I wasn’t bothered. But fire scares me and I thought that
mentioningthechiefswasworrisome.”
Simonagreed.Inprinciple,everyaspectofthecolonywasundertheircontrol,
andifsomethingwasunknowntothem—
“That’swhyIfollowedtheminers,”thebirdvolunteered.
“Yousaidtheyweren’tminers.”
“Becausetheywerestrong.Twoexceedinglymuscularhumanbeings.”
Onlysoldiersandrecentimmigrantsretainedtheirmuscletone.Simonhada
willow-bonedshapethatcamefromminimalgravityandlimitedcalories.“What
elsedidtheysay?”
“Except for one time, they didn’t speak again,” she said. “But just before
leavingthefarm,themanturnedtothewomanandtoldhertosmile.Hesaidthat
McKallknowswhathe’sdoing,andsheshouldpleasedamnwellstopwasting
herenergybyimaginingtheworst.”
Simonsaidnothing.
ThenJackiepointedout,“YouknowMcKall,don’tyou?”
“Ido,”headmitted.“Infact,he’stheatumwhogavemethispost.”
***
Twodarkreddishasteroidslaysnugagainsteachother,producing624Hektor.
The little world orbited the sun 60 degrees ahead of Jupiter, in that sweet
LagrangezonewhereamultitudeofTrojanasteroidshadswumforbillionsof
years.Hektorwasanelongatedbodyspinningonceinlessthansevenhours,and
Simonhadalwaysbelievedthatitwasanuglyworld.Itdidn’thelphisopinion
thathewaslivingonthefringeofsettledspace,servingthechiefsandvarious
corporationsaslittlemorethanafarmer.Inschool,histestscoreswerealways
ample;hegraduatedasaqualified,perhapsevengiftedatum—theprofessional
nameborrowedfromtheEgyptiangodwhosetaskitwastofinishtheunfinished
worlds.Butgoodmindsonlytooktheirbodiessofar.Morecovetedpostswere
earnedthroughusefulfriendshipsandpowerfulmentors,andSimon’scareerto
dateprovedthathehadneither.Anywhereelseinthesolarsystemwouldhave
beenahappierfate:Marswasadream,andthesunwardasteroidsandthemoons
of Jupiter were busy, important realms. Plus there was Luna now, and
preliminaryteamswereplottingtheterraformingofVenus.Incontrast,Hektor
wasanisolatedminingstation,andnotevenacompletestationatthat.Onceits
facilities were finished, it would supply water and pure carbon to the inner
system.Butitwasneverintendedtobecomeanimportantdestination,muchless
asiteofmajorcolonization.Barelyfiftythousandintelligentsoulslivedonand
insideitsgloomybody,andthehumanswereaminority,mostofthemdeemed
also-ransandlostsouls.
The main settlement had an official name, but locals referred to it as
Crashtown—agrimydensechaoticyoungcityrestingontheimpactzonewhere
two D-class asteroids were joined together. Riding beside a load of freshly
harvestedbananasandbonelessminnows,SimonrodedowntoCrashtown.But
hewasn’tsureof his intentions,hismindchangingagain and again.Thenthe
policerobotsuddenlyaskedforhisdestination.
“ThehomeofEarnestMcKall,”Simonheardhimselfreply.
Butthatwasn’tgoodenough.Fornoobviousreason,securityprotocolshad
been heightened. The robot haughtily demanded to know a purpose for this
allegedvisit.
“Ifoundhislostdog,”theyoungatumdeclared.
No dog was present, but the answer seemed to satisfy. Simon continued
kicking his way into an exclusive tunnel, past robust gardens basking under
earth-brightlights,endlessarraysofflowersandculturedanimalfleshrepaying
theirconsiderableenergybymakingrainbowcolorsandelaborateperfumes.
“WhatifMcKallisn’tathome?”Simonaskedhimself.
Buthewas,andthemucholderatumseemedpleasedtofindthisunexpected
guestwaitingathisfrontdoor.“Comein,myboy.Iwasjustabouttoenjoyan
eveningdrink.”
“Idon’twanttobotheryou,”Simonlied.
“No bother at all. Come in here!” McKall had always been a bony person.
Simononcefoundaninety-year-oldimageofhim—alean,shaggyboyofeight,
brighteyesstaringatthecamerawhilethemouthlookedsmugandalittletoo
full, as if he had just eaten something that wasn’t proper food. The grown-up
versionofthatboyretainedhisyouthfulair,butthehairwasasecondorthird
crop,andithadcomeinthinandamazinglyblack.MostofMcKall’slifehad
beenspentontinyworlds,andthelackofgravityalongwithaMethuselandiet
hadmaintainedthescrawnyeleganceofthatlostchild.
“Wine?”McKalloffered.
“Thankyou,no,”Simonresponded.
ThechiefatumonHectorstoodbesideanelaboratebar—astructuretrimmed
with rare metals, in the middle of a huge room designed for nothing but
entertaining.Yethehadn’tbotheredreachingforemptybottles,muchlessfilling
them. What he was doing was staring at Simon, and smiling, and something
about that look and the silence told the guest that his presence was not
unanticipated.
“Mydog,isit?”askedMcKall.
Simonflinched.
Thesmilesharpened.Themankickedcloser,hisvoiceflatandsmoothand
decidedlyunrushed.“Whatdoyouknow,myboy?”
Simonwasnearlyfifty,hisownboyhoodbeyondreach.
“Hearsomenews,didyou?”
“Aboutdogs,”hereported.
McKallshrugged.“Andwhatelse?”
“Somethingisgoingtohappen.”
“Happeningsareinevitable.Doyouhavespecifics?”
“Twenty-eighthoursfromnow—”
“Stop.”Asmallhandlifted,notquitetouchingSimononthechest.“No,you
knownothing.Absolutelynothing.”
“Yourdogsaresleeping,”Simoncontinued.
Hishostrefusedtospeak.Waiting.
“Andthere’ssomethingaboutafire,too.”
Thesmileshrank,butthevoicewasfriendlier.Curious.Perhapsevenamused.
“Whataboutfire?”
“I’vestudiedyourwritings,sir.”HabitforcedSimontonodslightly,admitting
hislowerstatus.“Youliketoequatemetabolicactivitywithfire.”
“I’mnottheonlyvoicetousethatallusion.”
“Butasayoungatum,youspentagreatdealoftimeandenergycomplaining
about the limits to our work. Every atum is shackled by draconian laws, you
claimed.Yousaidthatlifeaswemadeitwasjustasmolderingflame.Yourhope
wastounleashthepowersoftheorganic.Novelbiochemistries,uniquegenetics,
andultraefficientscavenging the dead and spent.You wereone ofthe loudest
advocates of suspending the outmoded Guidelines, and only then would our
young profession be able to produce a firestorm of life that would run wild
acrosstheuniverse.”
“Isee.”McKalllaughedquietly.Thenagain,hesaid,“Isee.”
“Whatcan’tthechiefsstop?”
Instead of answering the question, the atum posed his own. “Why do you
believethataskilledresearcher—amanwithmajoraccomplishments—willingly
came to this very remote place? Why would Earnest McKall ignore every
lucrativeoffer,travelingallthewayoutheretothislittlechunkoftrashandice
water?”
Simonsaidnothing.
“Therearedogs,”McKalladmitted.“Soontobeawakened,infact.Decades
ofresearchandaseriesofcamouflagedlaboratorieshaveproducedmorethana
fewrevolutions,bothintermsofproductivityandplasticity.”
“Youdidthis?”
“Notalone.”Theatumshookhishead,therichblackhairwavingintheair.“I
have a dozen brilliant associates working beside me, plus collaborators on
twentyotherworlds.Yes,Ihaveafineconfidentmind,butI’mnotcrazywith
pride.”
“I’moneofyourassociates,”Simonpointedout.
“Youarenot,no.Iwouldhaveincludedyou,youngman.Infact,that’swhyI
steeredseverallikelyemployersawayfromyourclass’shatch.IbelievedIcould
useyourtalentsoutherewithme.”
“ButIhaven’tdoneanything.”
“Nothing at all,” McKall agreed. “Which was a surprise for me, I’ll admit.
Afteryourarrival,Ikeptcarefulwatchoveryourwork,andinparticular,how
you responded to authority. Honestly, I wasn’t impressed. I need boldness,
genius.Competencywithoutinspirationisfineforthecommercialworld,butnot
forsoulsdreamingthebigdream.”
IfSimonhadbeenslapped,hisfacewouldn’thavefeltwarmer.Hebreathed
heavilyandslowly,andthendespiteeveryreserveofself-control,hebeganto
weep,tearsscatteringfromhisreddenedchecks.
“ButIlikeyouanyway,”McKallcontinued.“Andsinceyouhavenospecific
knowledgeaboutmyplans,andthere’snowaytostopwhatissoontobegin,I
willgiveyouagift.Usethischancetoslipaway.AtransportleavesHektorin
fourhours.Therewillbeemptyberths,andIadvisethatyoutakeone.”
Simonturnedasiftoleave,thenhesitated.
“YouplantotakecontroloverHektor?”hemuttered.
McKalllaughed.“Haven’tyoubeenpayingattention?Mygoalsarefarmore
ambitiousthanthistwo-headedrock!”
***
Expectingtobestopped—byrestraininghandsormurderousweapons—Simon
nonetheless hurried to Crashtown’s civil house. The highest-ranking chief
seemed to be waiting for his arrival. He shook both of Simon’s hands and
usheredhimintoatinyoffice,andbeforeSimoncouldspeak,thechieftoldhim,
“Don’tworry.Andcertainlydon’tpanic.Weknowallabouttheirplans.”
“Youdo?Forhowlong?”
“Daysnow.”Thechiefshrugged.Feigningconfidence,hereported,“Wehave
McKallinsight,plusallofhislieutenants.Andoursecurityteamsareminutes
awayfromtakingoutbothofhisprivatelabs.”
“Good,”Simonoffered.
Andthatwaswhenthechiefquitsmiling.Turninggrim,hesaidtothefarmer,
“ButIamcurious:Whydidyougototheatum’shomebeforecomingtous?”
“Ididn’tknowanything,”Simonsaid.
“Youwerefishingforinformation?”
Withasmuchconvictionashecouldmanage,hesaid,“Yes.IfIwasgoingto
reportacrime thathadn’thappened, Ineeded details.Somereason foryou to
believeme.”
“Agoodenoughanswer,”thechiefreplied.“Atleastforthemoment.”
Simon felt cold and weak. What mattered to him now was returning to his
farm,toJackie,andprovidedthistroublevanished,hewouldagaintakeuphis
pivotalrole in feedingthis very small world.He was practically shaking with
worries.“MayIleave?”heriskedasking.
“Untilweknowforcertain,youcannot.”
Simonswallowed.“Untilyouknowwhatforcertain?”
That brought a tiny laugh, and then the ominous words, “Everything, of
course.Everything.”
***
The attacks on the laboratories were launched, each blundering into carefully
laidtraps.McKall’smercenarieswereready,andtheparallelattempttocapture
the ringleaders ended up netting nothing but holo images and robotic mimics.
Thentherebelstookoverthelocalcom-system.Theirownattackwouldproceed
on schedule, and simple decency demanded fair warning to civilians and the
opportunitytoescapebyanymeansavailable.Butthechiefsbannedalltravel.
Theyquicklygatheredtheirremainingforces,generatingnewplansupuntilthat
momentwhentherumored“dogs”appeared.Secrettunnelsreacheddeepinside
Hektor’s smaller half, and out of them came hot-blooded monsters moving as
blurs,eatingfleshandlaserboltsastheyranwildthroughCrashtown.
TheensuingchaosallowedSimontoescape.Atthefarm,hediscoveredthree
civil robots quickly setting up a small fusion bomb. “We cannot leave this
resourcefortheenemy,”onemachinereported.Simondidn’tcareanymore.He
collectedJackieandafewpossessionsbeforeracingtotheauxiliaryport,and
whilethegroundbeneathhimshookandsplitopen,thousandsofpanickedsouls
abandonedHektor,ridingwhateverwasmarginallyspaceworthy,acceptingany
risktotakethelongfallbacktowardthesun.
For the next several weeks, Simon was interrogated by a string of distant
voices—military minds and politicians who wanted any and all glimpses into
McKall’snature.Simonofferedwhatinsightshehad,tryingtosteerclearofhis
own considerable embarrassment. Once Simon’s transport passed into Martian
orbit,therefugeeswereherdedintoquarantineonNewPhobos.Whoknewwhat
newdiseasesMaKallcouldhaveslippedintotheirblood?Betweenthetestsand
more interviews, his childhood world teased Simon with glimpses of its cold
blue seas and dense, mostly artificial atmosphere. The harsh desert landscape
hadvanished,theworld’srapidtransformationproducingfeelingsofprideand
sorrowfulloss.Butdespiteallofthebrilliantplansandthetrillionsofinvested
euros, the terraforming process was far from perfect. From forty thousand
kilometershigh,Simonidentifiedlakeswheretheacidsstillruledandforestsof
witheringtrees,andtherewererumorsthatthenewecosystemwasprovingfar
lessstablethanthepublicvoiceslikedtoproclaim.
Fifteen months later, Simon was free of quarantine, and he watched the
updatesasafleetofpowerfulmilitaryvesselsassaulted624Hektor.Robotsand
shock troops landed in the empty crater that had been Simon’s farm. The
fearsome dogs were melted and frozen. Every battle was won; victory was in
hand.Butthenthewartookanabrupt,unexpectedturn.Ablue-whiteblasttore
throughtheasteroid.Sincetherebellion,thesmallerportionofHektorhadbeen
thoroughly transformed. A transport ship of unprecedented size was hiding
inside the reddish crust, and the explosion flung away great chunks of its
companionwhileslaughteringtheinvaders.Halfoftheasteroiddroppedoutof
itsancientorbit,crudeenginesfiring,maintaininga near-collisioncoursewith
Jupiter. Momentum was stolen away from giant planet. Then uncontested, the
ship pushed into the outer solar system, swinging close enough to Saturn to
enjoyanevenlargerkick.
Five years later, an improved set of star engines came to life. By then,
McKall’splanswerecommonknowledge.Noonewasplanningtochaseafter
him,muchlesscontinuethewar.Whatwouldbethepoint?Aforever-changing,
increasingly strange body of organized carbon and silicon and fusion-heated
water was streaking away from the sun, away from humanity, aiming this
newbornrevolutionstraightforthethreeCentaurisisters.
VENUS
Eventually Simon’s personal history became public knowledge. Strangers
suddenlyknewhisname,andtheywouldsmileathiminthatspecialsadway
peopleusedinuncomfortablecircumstances.Acquaintancesbegantotreathim
asifhewereimportant,laughingeasilyathisrarejokes,wishinghimagoodday
orgoodeveningorsweet,delightfuldreams.Hisworkmates,thefellowatums,
embracedoneof two inadequatestrategies:Eitherthey werequickto tell him
howsorrytheywereandthenaskiftheycoulddoanything,anythingatall,or
theyseemedtotakeoffensethatSimonhadn’tconfidedwiththembeforenow.
“Deargod,you lostmostofyour family,” onemanexclaimedincorrectly,but
withpassion.“IwishI’dknown.Ilooklikethefool.Ithoughtwewerefriends,
atleast…”
Simondidhaveafewscatteredfriends,andtheyknewbetter.Whenhedidn’t
mentiontheunfoldingdisasteronMars,theypatientlyrespectedhisprivacy.As
thesituationworsened,hesoughtoutmood-levelingdrugsandothercheatsthat
allowedhimtomanage,ifonlybarely.Hecried,butonlywhenhewasalone.
During the worst days, he volunteered for solitary assignments, carefully
avoidingprofessionalchatter aboutpast mistakesandthe mountingcasualties.
He thought he was succeeding, taking a grim pride in his talent for enduring
thesepersonaltrials,butafterwards,whenthesituationhadfinallystabilized,he
crossedpathswithanacquaintancefromchildhood.Ignorantasabug,thefellow
asked,“Whataboutyourfamily,Simon?Theygotoutofthatnightmareintime,
didn’tthey?”
Hisparentsnevertriedtoescape.Theyweretwooldpeoplelivingatopposite
ends of an unfinished, critically flawed world, and they hadn’t spoken to one
anotherin nearlyforty years. Butas theblizzards struckand theair turnedto
poison,theylefttheirhomes,ridingandthenmarchingthroughthechaosand
slaughter, finally reaching an isolated habitat overlooking Hellas where they
livedtogetherfortheirfinaleightdaysandnights.
AsforSimon’ssisterandvarioushalf-siblings,allbuttwoescapedbeforethe
ecosystem collapsed. But where they would live tomorrow was an endless
problem,forthemandforthesolarsystematlarge.Millionsofrefugeeswere
crammedonboardthetenNewMoonsandafleetofrescueships,plusvarious
ad hoc habitats contrived out of inflated bladders and outmoded life support
systems.Itwasatough,dirtyandproblematiclife,thoughfarsuperiortobeing
one of the fifty million bodies left behind on the anaerobic, peroxide-laced
surface of Mars. Where would these souls live tomorrow? Faced with this
conundrum,theatumshadareadysolution:TerraformMarsalloveragain,and
doitasquicklyaspossible,butuseeverytrickintheirrapidlyevolvingarsenal.
“This time, we’ll build a conservatory,” one young atum declared. “That’s
howitshouldhavebeendoneinthefirstplace.Andagain,Simon,I’msovery
sorryforyourtragedies.”
***
Naomi was a pretty youngster who used her beauty and a charming, obvious
manner to win favors and fish for compliments. She liked to talk. She loved
listening to her own smart, insistent voice. Rumor had it that her body was
equipped with artificial openings and deployable prods, leaking intoxicating
scentsandwondrousdosesofelectricity.Simonwascuriousaboutherbody,but
hedidn’thave therank oradequate desire topursue hisbase urges.Watching
one of Naomi’s performances was as close as he wanted to be. Most of his
colleaguesfeltthreatenedbyherpromise.Butevenwhenthegirlspokeboldly
aboutherincandescentfuture,Simoncouldn’ttakeoffense.Hissecondcentury
hadbroughtwithitatidyandquiteusefulepiphany:Everyonewouldeventually
fail,andiftheirfailureswerelong-built,thenthesubsequentcollapseswouldbe
allthemoredramatic.
At this particular moment, the atums were chanting the usual praises about
conservatories.
“Oh,I’mnotconvinced,”saidSimonquietly.
Naomilaughed,andwithapatronizingtoneasked,“Ohmy,whynot?”
“Aroofwouldn’thavehelped.Intheend,nothingwouldhavechanged.”
Shecouldn’tletthatstatementgounchallenged.“Butifwe’dhadalidover
the sky, we’d have controlled the weather more effectively. The sunlight, the
upperatmosphere’schemistry.Alltheinflowswouldhavebelongedtous.”
“Butnotfourandhalfbillionyearsofgeologichabit,”hecountered.
“Geologichabit,”shemuttered,asifshecouldn’tquiteunderstandthephrase.
That’s when the chief atum interjected her presence into the conversation.
Withaloudbreezyvoice,shesummarizedbothpositions.Thenafterputtingher
own opinion into jargon-laded terms, she added, “Too much of the Mars
businessdependedon biological means.That’swhere they wentwrong.Don’t
trust life; it doesn’t care about you. The physical realm is what matters, and
conservatories are wonderful tools. They’re sure to be the last word in our
business.”
Everyfacebutonenodded,themattersettled.
Yet despite all of this polished certainty, only one world-encompassing
conservatorywasclosetobeingfinished,andthatwasaspecialcircumstance.
Lunawastheeasiestworldtoencloseinsideasemi-transparentbubble:Thelow
gravity; the proximity of earth; thriving local industries; and the absence of
weatherandpolitical troubles.Itsroof wouldhold anynew atmosphereclose.
Doublepanesofdiamond,transparentandstrengthenedwithnanofibers,would
keepspaceatbay.Theengineeringwasstraightforward,andconstructionshould
berelatively easy. But “shouldbe” often provedillusionary. The Luna project
was already forty percent over-budget, the critical water from asteroids and
cometswasbeingchasedbyotherterraformingprojects,includingVenus,and
eveninthemostfavorablescenariowarnedthattwentymoreyearswouldpass
beforethefirstsoftwindsofanoxygen-neonatmospherebegantoblowacross
thedustyplainsofNearside.
Simon’sdoubtscouldbemisplaced.Indeed,hehopedhewaswrong.Butstill,
thisone-timeMartianwassufferinganaggingyetfamiliarsenseofstandingat
thebrinkofanotherprecipice.
TheotheratumshadhappilyleftSimonbehind.Thetopicofthemoment,and
the passion of their professional lives, was Venus. Small projects were being
discussed.Mostoftheirworkinvolvedtheatmosphereandheatdissipation,the
obvious solutions offered and debated and then rejected, soon to be replaced
withotherequallysatisfactoryanswers.Whenhebotheredtolisten,Simoncould
tellwhowassleepingwithNaomiandwhowasmaneuveringtotaketheirplace.
It would have been funny, if not for the grave consequences lashed to animal
lust. He didn’t believe in Great Deities, but if the gods were watching, they
would surely laugh to see how tiny hormones and glands smaller than hands
couldmanipulatethefutureofentireplanets.
PresidingoverthisworkinglunchwasthechiefatumfortheThirdDistrict,
HighAtmosphereand Future ClimateDepartment.Shewas tenyearsSimon’s
junior but much more successful, and when she spoke, the room fell silent.
Though that didn’t mean people were listening. This group wasn’t large or
diverse, but within its ranks were enough opinions and rampant ego that no
authoritycouldrule,muchlessorchestratethethoughtsofsomanywell-trained,
singularlyfocusedminds.
Venus was the topic, but the planet existed only as numbers and one
staggeringlycomplicatedmodel.Exceptfortugof gravity andthespecificsin
the numbers, this could have been any meeting of atums sitting inside any
windowlessroom,onLunaorCallistoorPallas,oranyotherportionofthesolar
systembeingrelentlesslyandutterlytransformed.
Whentheofficialbusinesswasfinished,atlast,thechieflookedlonginglyat
Naomi.“Goodjob,andthankyou,”shetoldeverybody.
Everybodywantedoutoftheroom.
Butwithoutwarning,the chiefsaidSimon’s full nameandcaught hiseyes,
not quite smiling when she said, “You have a new assignment. For the time
being,you’reoffthehydrologicalteam.”
A colleague must have accused him of being difficult or incompetent, or
perhapsboth.Ithadhappenedbefore.Hemightbea128year-oldman,buthe
alwaysfeltlikealittleboywhenhewasembarrassedorshamed.
Exceptthat nothing was wrong, at least on this occasion. The chiefsmiled,
admitting,“It’sbecausewehaveavisitorcoming.Arepresentativefrom…”She
hesitated.“FromtheZooProject.”
“Anothercollectionmission?”Simoninquired.
“Oh,thesedarlingsalwayshaveanothermission,”thechiefcomplained.
Simonnodded,waiting.
“Ineedyoutohelpwithherhuntingandkeeptabsonwhatevershefinds.”
Thechiefstaredathim,smilingsuspiciously. “Do youknowawomannamed
Lilly?”
Tooquickly,Simonsaid,“No.”
“That’sodd,”thechiefmentioned.“Sherequestedyoubyname.”
***
Thereweremyriadroutestoachievingalonghealthylifespan.Simonpreferred
small measures left invisible to the naked, unmodified eye. But the woman
beside him wasn’t motivated by tradition. Native flesh would always be
perishable,andthecosmeticallypropersyntheticswereusuallytoofragiletolast
morethanafewyears.Whatprovedmostdurablewerecoloniesofengineered
microbes,metabolicallyefficientandquicktorepairthemselves—amultitudeof
bacteriainfusingtheperpetuallynewskinwithsensitive,highadaptableneural
connections.Therewerepopulartoolsamongtheveryyoungandthedetermined
elderly.YetSimoncouldn’trememberevermeetinganyonewhohadendowed
herselfwithsuchavibrant,elaborateexterior.
“I’msorry,”theverycolorfulwomanbegan.
Justwhyshewassorry,Simondidn’tknow.Buthenoddedpolitely,resisting
theurgetoask.
Forthenextfewminutes,theysatinsilence.Thesky-drivercontinuedonits
programmedcourse,littletoseeandnothingtodoforthepresent.Mostofthe
world’sairlaybeneaththem.Thesunwaslowontheirleft,theonlyinhabitant
of the nearly black sky, slowly descending toward its retrograde setting. The
conservatorywasagrayish-greenplainfarbelowthem,absolutelysmoothand
comfortingly bland. Venus was not Luna, and this project was far more
complicatedthanerectingahighroofaboveacompliantvacuum.Onlylimited
sections had been completed—barely nine percent of the eventual goal—and
eventhatportionwaslittlemorethanthescaffoldingmeanttosupportarraysof
solar-powerfacilitiesandfiltersandspaceportsandcitiesofrobotsthatwould
donothingbutrepairandimprovethisgiganticexampleofartlessarchitecture.
Washis guestfull of questions? Most visitorswanted tohear about thenano-
towersrootedintherigidVenusiancrust,holdingtheseexpensivegigatonsfar
above the dense, dangerous atmosphere. People might know the facts, but it
soothedthemtolearnaboutthemarvelousengineering.Everyonewasthecenter
ofhisownimportantstory.Everybodysecretlyfearedthatifsomepieceofthe
conservatory failed, it would happen beneath his own important, tragically
mortalfeet.
Atlast,thesilenceended.LillytouchedSimonforthefirsttime.Hotorange
fingertipsbrushedagainsthisforearm.“Iamsorry,”shesaidagain.“Hewasa
goodfather,Iknow.I’msureyoumisshimterribly.”
Simon’s reaction surprised both of them. Turning toward gaudy woman, he
remarkedsharply,“Mymotherwasthegoodparent.Dadspenthislifecollecting
lovers,andIdidn’tlikehisgirlsatall.”
Thevioletfacewasbrightandhot,fulloffluidsmorecomplicatedthanblood.
Perhapsthewomanwasinsulted.Maybeshewantedtoturnthesky-driverback,
readytoexchangethisatumforonelessdifficult.Butnothingaboutherseemed
hurtorevensurprised.Shesmiledforafewmoments.Sayingnothing,shelet
herglassydarkeyesabsorbeverythingabouttheoldmanbesideher.Thenher
handgrippedhiswrist,awaveofheatthreateningtoburnhispale,dryskin.
“Nonetheless,I’msorry,”shesaid.
Simonpulledhisarmback.
“Ididn’ttreateitherofyoufairly.Atthelake…whenIwasdrilling…allI
caredaboutwassavingthenatives,bywhatevermeans…”
Herewasthecentralproblem,Simonrealized.Itwasn’tthatthiswomanand
hisfatherhadanaffair,oreventhattheymighthavelovedoneanother.What
rankledwasthatshehadwillfullyusedhimasatool.
“HowaretheMartians?”heinquired.
“Happilysleepinginsideathousandscatteredlaboratories.”
“That’ssad,”hethoughtaloud.
“Really?Why?”
“Life should be busy,” Simon proposed. “Not hibernating inside common
freezers.”
Now Lilly took offense. She said nothing, but her back stiffened and she
maintainedhersilenceuntilitwasobviousthatshedidn’tacceptanycomplaints
aboutherlife’swork.Theywereapproachingtheirdestination.Asthesky-driver
began its descent, Simon risked mentioning, “I’m probably mistaken. But I
thoughttheZooalreadygrabbedupeveryspeciesofair-plankton.”
The native Venusians had had a robust ecosystem, but compared even to
Martians,theywereanuncomplicatedlot.
“Wehaveeverynativeinbottles,”shesaidstiffly,nursingherwounds.
“Andthenativepopulationshavecrashedhere,”hepointedout.“Nolightgets
through,exceptforsomeinfrared,andthesulfuriccloudsaredispersedandtoo
coldbyalongmeasure.”
“Trueenough,”sheagreed.
Then she touched herself, her face growing brighter as it warmed with
enthusiasm. “But new species are evolving every day, and isn’t that exciting
news?”
***
Itwasboringnews,butatrucehadbeendeclared.Theoldmanandevenolder
woman stopped mentioning their differences and histories. They were
professionals,eachquietlypursuingaquickandnarrowmission.Thesky-driver
set down and linked up with a large dome filled with sleeping machines and
assorted elevators. Donning lifesuits, they boarded a small elevator and
descended ten kilometers. Simon watched Venus through the monitors. Lilly
busiedherselfbyreadyingasuitcase-sizedapparatusthatwouldinhaleandfilter
thecarbon-dioxideatmosphere,pullingeveryviablemicrobefromthemayhem
ofdustandindustrialpollution.Thenano-towerwasmoreairthanstructure—
hexagonsofwebsandsturdylegs,eachsidenearlyakilometerinlength,itsfeet
firmly planted on the slopes of Aphrodite Terra. Their final destination was a
platform intended as a hive for robots waiting to repair what was rarely
damaged. There was no visible light, but there was wind and a stubborn
atmospherestillcenturiesawayfromcollapsingintoa newbornoceanofsoda
water.ObviouslyLillyhaddonesimilarworkonothertowers.Shemovedwith
purpose.Hermachinewalkednexttoher,waitingpatientlyassheinvestigated
onesiteandthenanother.Experienceorperhapsintuitionallowedhertodecide
wherethebestresultswouldbefound.Thenshetoldthemachine,“Deploy,”and
itgladlygrabbedtherailingwiththreearmsandflungitsbodyovertheedge,
exploding into a purposeful tangle of ribbons and funnels and other twisting
shapes.
“Howlong?”Simonasked.
“Do we wait?” She looked up at him, her features illuminated by the
backscatteredlightfromherhelmet.“Anhour,atleast.Maybelonger.”
Venuslaybeforethem,vastandbathedindarkness.
“Whatkindsofcreaturesareouthere?”
“Chemoautotrophes,naturally.”Staringoutintothesamenight,sheexplained,
“TheUVphotosynthesizersarestillhere,ofcourse.Theyliketofindcrevicesin
our towers, places where they can sleep, probably waiting for our roof to
collapse.”
Heletthatanthropomorphismgounchallenged.
“Thesenativesareodd,adaptablespecies,alldescendedfromplanktoninthe
boiled-away seas. It’s astonishing what they’ve kept inside their very peculiar
DNA. Today, some of them are utilizing industrial solvents and lost nano
products.Wherethere’sheat,energycanbeharvested.”Sheturned,showingher
faceagain.“There’snoreasontoworryyet,andmaybenever.Butafewofthese
bugshavefoundwaystocreepinsideourrobots,usingthemasshelters.Ifone
of them ever learns how to steal an electrical current, everything changes.
Probablyinamatterofamonthortwo.”
“Thatquickly?”
“Venusiansarefertileandpromiscuous.Withthesewinds,asuccessfulstrain
canbeeverywhereindays.”
Simonhadneverstudiedthebeasts.Woulditpaytoinvestanhouraweekin
digestingtheexistingliterature?
“Butoddsare,thatwon’thappen,”hiscompanionallowed.“Idolovethese
littlethings.Butlife,evenatitsmostspectacular,haslimits.”
“Itdoeshavelimits,”hesaidtactfully.
Lilly’sfacewasprettyandnevermorehuman—aconsequenceoftheindirect
light washing across their features, and their solitude, and Simon’s nagging,
seemingly eternal sense of loneliness in a universe filled with an increasingly
strangehumanity.
“Doesiteverbotheryou?”sheasked.
Hewaitedfortherestofthequestion.
“Terraforming is a horribly destructive act,” Lilly stated. “Obliterating one
orderforanother.OrinthesadcaseofMars,destroyingaquietandstableworld
to replace it with a doomed weakling … and then after all of that inflicted
misery,notlearningenoughtogiveupthefight.”
“Itisn’tmeanttobeafight,”hedeclared.
Butofcourseitwas.Perhapsneversoclearly,Simonrealizedthattheywere
standingontherampartsofagreatfortress,anendlesswarwagingaroundthem.
Simon listened to the wind and felt it push against him, and he took pleasure
fromhishearthammeringawayinsideachestthatwouldneverfeelancient.And
thenhewassmiling,realizingthatevenaquietdisappointmentofasoul—the
sortofpersonthatSimonwas—couldtakeakeen,unembarrassedpleasurefrom
thebattlesthathehadhelpedwin,smallandotherwise.
IAPETUS
“Iknowyouworry.Iworrytoo,Simon.Neitherofusisstrongatpolitics,and
even if I were a marvel at making alliances and handling cross-purposed
personalities, this would be a difficult place. This earth would be. But as
knowingvoicessay,andwithgoodreason,‘There’sonlyoneStanford.’Perhaps
theFarsideAcademyisitsequal,atleastwhenitcomestocreatingprominent
astronomers. But Stanford still ranks first in my field, and it has for half a
millennia, and my degree will get me noticed by wise entities and doubting
coworkersatallendsofthesolarsystem.AndsinceI’mnotgiftedatwinning
admirersthroughmysimplecharm,beinginthisuniversitywillhelpmequitea
lot.”
Simonpausedthetransmission—thiswasn’thisfirstviewing—andspentthe
nextseveralminutesstudyingthefacethatfilledthescreen.Whathadchanged?
Themouth,thebrightyelloweyes.Thatartfulcrestofgreenfeathers—ajaunty
hat in appearance, and one of Jackie’s last obvious links to the world of her
ancestors.No,shelookedexactlythesame.Tocasualeyes,shemightbesome
species of human, her genetics modified for the most normal of reasons. She
wasn’tmuch largerthanwhen he had first met theparrot, which puther well
inside the restrictions imposed on visiting students. The bio-taxing laws were
perfectly reasonable; earth had always been too crowded. Even six hundred
yearsago,whenSimonwasascrawnyMartianwithdustinhisbreath,thehome
world had suffered from too many bodies standing on too little land, farms
working hard to make food for a population that wouldn’t age, and in most
cases,stubbornlyrefusedtodie.Immortalitywasthenormeverywhere,andwho
didn’twantchildrentosharethebliss?That’swhybodiesandmindscontinued
to grow smaller and smaller, cheating the restrictions of nature by shrewdly
redefiningtherules.
Inappearance,theearthhadn’tchangedJackie.Perhapshervoicewasalittle
tooformal,too staged,but camerasalwaysmade herself-conscious. Heknew
this creature well enough to know she wasn’t holding anything back. One fib
today,hefeared,andthatwouldbetheend.Theyhadbarelybeguntheirlong
separation,andhereshewas,makingtimetocallhome.Simonassuredhimself
thatnoconspiracyofambitionorseductionwouldstealawaythelovethathad
takenhimbysurprise,onepatientcenturyatatime.
Again,heletthemessagerun.Jackielistedclassesandspokeaboutthetiny
quartersshesharedwiththreeotherhappygraduatestudents,andshementioned
thatthestarscameoutonclearnights,butofcoursetheywereillusions.Earth’s
conservatorywasfinishedtwohundredyearsago—amarveloussemi-permeable
membranethatstrictlycontrolledwhatfellfromaboveandwhatslippedaway
into the cosmos. Today, the mother world was a rigorously controlled room
where a trillion sentient entities lived on and inside the old continents and
throughoutthewateryreaches.Itwasabeautifulworld,stillandall.Butitwasa
decidedly alien realm, forever changing, and some corners of that room were
famousforcriminalmischiefandrandompsychopathicrage.
Yes,hewasworried.
Absolutely,SimonwishedJackiehadstayedwithhimafterhersuddenchange
of careers. Saturn’s major moons had quality universities, and even noble,
haughtyStanfordofferedvirtualclassestoanyonewithmoney.Whynotaccepta
longer,saferpathtoherdegree?Timewasn’tinshortsupply,Simonhadargued.
And by staying where they were, Jackie would have remained immune to the
hazardsofsomanyclose-packedsouls.
The transmission continued. “I’m sure you know this,” Jackie said. “I’ve
probably told you this before. But did you realize there isn’t one working
telescopeon the entire campus? We have afacility forty kilometersabove us,
perchedontheconservatoryroof,butit’sfilledwithmuseumpiecesandcurious
tourists.”Shewasthrilled,herflexiblemouthgivingeachwordanaccentthat
waspurelyhers.“Stanford’stelescopes—mytelescopes—areeverywherebuton
thebrightbusyearth.LunaandtheJovianTrojans,andthere’sabeautifulnew
mirror that just came on line in Neptune’s Lagrange. And because I’m here,
that’smymirror.It’smybesteye.Thinkofthehonor!IfIwasathomewithyou,
I’dbelittlemorethanatechnicianpointingthesemachinesattargetsthatonly
thetrueStanfordstudentswouldbeallowedtosee.”
Yes,shemadetherightdecision.Simonhadalwaysknownit,thoughthese
littlementalexerciseshelpedconvincehimagain.
Whatasillylittleapehewas.
“ButIdidn’ttellyouthisincrediblenews,”Jackiesaidinconclusion.“Ijust
foundthisout.Long,longago,Stanfordhadamascot,anditwasabird!Can
youimaginetheodds?”
Simonfrozetheimageandkissedthelips.Thenhefiledthetransmissionin
placesguaranteedtobesafeforaneternity,andfeelingweepy,hewentonwith
hiscomfortablybusyday.
***
EvenorbitingSaturn,wherespacewascheapandfoodeasytocomeby,people
wereacquiringsmallmodernbodies.Simonhadn’tbeenthistinysincehewas
one-year-old.Thesenewmetabolismswereefficientandreliable,andwherethe
humanmindwouldeventuallydecay,cortexesmadeofcrystallineproteinswere
denser and far sturdier, thoughts washing through them quickly enough to
doubleanatum’snaturaltalentsandincreasehismemorytwenty-fold.
Buteveryatumunderwentsimilartransformations,whichmeantthatwhenit
came to his professional life, remarkably little had changed. Simon and his
colleagueshadkepttheiroldranksandratings,onlywithgreaterresponsibilities
andlargerworkloads.Asignificantmedicalinvestmenthadchangedverylittle.
“Treadingwater,”hedubbedhisjob—aweakplayonwords,sincewhathedid
was manage the nutrient flows in the newborn sea. But really, he had no
compellingreasontocomplain,andinanygivenyear,hedidn’twastemorethan
amomentortwowonderingwhatothercoursehislifemighthaverun,ifonly.
Hewasaquietlyhappysoul.
Anddespitefewpromotionsorpayincreases,hisworkhadchallengesaswell
asmomentsoftotal,child-likejoy.
Pieces of Iapetus now belonged to Luna and Venus. But those decades of
throwing water ice and hydrocarbons sunward were finished. The original
miningcampshadevolvedintocities.MultitudeslivedonTitanandRheaand
theothermoons,andnobodywasinthemoodtosharetheirwealth.Lunawould
remain a damp stony sponge, while Venus was a clean dry world, its ecology
being redesigned to endure the boundless drought, its citizens more machine
thanmeat.Nomatterhowstupidorstubbornrecentgovernmentshadbeen,the
mathematicswerebrutallysimple:Fromthispointforward,itwouldbeeasierto
terraformeachworldwhereitalreadydanced,justasitwasfarcheapertoship
extrahumansandothersentientsouttotheseemptynewhomes.
LightwashedthroughthenewIapetus,andthewaterwaswarmandsalted,
andtheneutral-buoyantreefsweremagnificentstructuresofcalciumandsilica
wrappedaroundbubblesofhydrogengas.Theancientmoonhadbeenmelted,
fromitscrusttothecore,andgreatpumpswerechurningupthatsingleround
ocean, producing carefully designed currents meant to keep every liter
oxygenatedandilluminatedbythesubmergedsuns.Trillionsofwattsofpower
madethelittleworldglowfromwithin.Largerthantheoceansoftheoriginal
earth,butwithoutthedarkcolddepthswherelifehadtoputterandsaveitselfon
hopesofascrapoffood,hishomewouldeventuallybecomejammedwithcoral
forestsandbubblecitiesandfishsuitableforagarden,lovelyanddeliciousto
anytongue.
NutrientswereSimon’sboring,absolutelyessentialexpertise.Whenhewasn’t
dreamingofJackie,hewoulddreamabouttheday’sconversationswithsensors
andAIwatchers,thehome-mindandvariouscolleaguesscatteredacrossother,
more highbrow departments. Only a tiny fraction of moon was settled. A few
floatingcitiesonthesurface,andtherewasanindustrialcomplexdigestingand
dispersingthetinycoreofstoneandmetalimpurities.Butwhatthisatumneeded
todo,atleastinhistinyrealm,wascreateacycleofnutrientsthatwouldignore
disruptionsandrandomshiftsincurrent,leavingallofthewaterasbrightand
clearasthefinesttidalpoolonsomelong-vanishedearthlybeach.
Becauseshewasinterested,Simon’sendedhisdayswithupdatestohislover.
Everyevening,asthenearestsunbegantodim,hewouldcraftalittlemessage
laid down on cool, bloodless data. But because he was nervous, he inevitably
confessedthathewasthinkingofherconstantlyandthathelovedher,hisface
andtonesayingwhathedidn’tallowfromhiswords:Thathewasscaredtolose
her to some student of promise, or worse, a professor of certified genius who
wouldsweephisdarlingbirdofftorealmsfarmoreexoticthanhisbeautifulbut
quitetinypond.
***
The message began with news from earth. With a quick joyful voice, Jackie
talkedaboutclassesandthelabthatshewasteachingsolo—“I’msoterrified,
andthestudentsloveitwhenIshake”—andshetwicementionedrumorsabouta
mildplaguetearingthroughsomeofthecoastalalgaefarms.“There’stalkabout
shortfalls,”sheadmitted.“Sincetheyruntheirecosystemwithminimalreserves,
shortagesareinevitable.Toomanycitizens,plusallthoseotherswhoslippedin
unnoticed.” Then guessing he would be frightened, she added, “Oh, it isn’t
serious.Everybody’sjustgoingtohavetogoamouthfulortwoshortatdinner.
AndStanfordhasitsownemergencysupplies,soit’snothing.Nothingatall.”
Then she grinned with her lovely toothless mouth, and showing nothing but
delight,sheannounced,“Ihavesomethingtoshowyou,darling.Bytheway.”
Andwiththat,herfacefrozeandhervoicestoppedlongenoughthatSimon
begantroubleshootinghisequipment.
Butshemovedagain,speakingwithaquiet,conspiratorialtone.“Nobodysees
me,darling.‘Nobody’meaningeverybodyelse.Youdidn’tknowmylittlesecret,
butIseededourhome-mindwithsomeelaboratesecurityprotocols.Notasgood
assome,butstrongenoughtokeepawaypryingeyes.”
“Pryingatwhat?”hemuttered.
Jackie’s message was enormous, and it included interactive functions. The
program heard him, and with Jackie’s voice it said, “Soon enough, darling.
You’llsee.Butletmeshowyouafewothermarvelsfirst.Allright?”
He nodded happily, a sense of adventure lending the moment its fresh,
welcomeedge.
Jackiecontinued.“You’veseentheseplaces.ButIcan’trememberwhen,and
the new mirrors are so much more powerful. I’m including portraits of five
hundredthousandworlds,eachonesupportinglife.”
Except for their clarity, the pictures were familiar. Life was a relatively
commontrickperformedbythegalaxy.Sophisticated,earth-likebiospheresdid
happenonoccasion,butnotoftenandnotwheretheywereexpectedtoarise.By
andlarge,thenormalshapeoflifewastinyandbacterial.MarsandVenus,the
European seas and the vivid clouds of Jupiter were typical examples. By
contrast, multicellular life was an exceptionally frail experiment. Asteroid
impactsandsupernovaeandthedistantcollisionsofneutronstarshappenedwith
an appalling frequency, annihilating everything with a head and tail. Only the
slow-livingslimeatthebottomofadeepseawouldsurvive,orthepatientcold
bugtenkilometersbeneathsomepoisonedlandscape.AttheendofthePermian,
the earth itself barely escaped that fate. But even accounting for those grand
disasters, the earth-equivalents proved a thousand times too scarce. Jackie’s
once-young professors had a puzzle to play with, and their answer was as
soberingasanythingbornfromscience.
Now and again, interstellar clouds and doomed suns would fall into the
galaxy’score.Iftheinflowwerelargeenough,themassiveblackholeresponded
with a kind of blazing horror that effectively ended fancy life almost
everywhere.SincetheCambrian,thegalaxyhaddetonatedatleastthreetimes,
andthefortunateearthhadsurvivedonlybecauseitwasswimminginsidedense
cloudsofdustandgas—aworthyconservatorythatwaslight-yearsdeep,built
bythegodsofWhimandCaprice.
Simonwanderedthroughthetransmission,glancingatafewhundredrandom
planets.Thenheaskedhishome-mindtopulloutthemostexceptional.Within
those broad parameters, he found several dozen images of cloudy spheres
orbiting suns within a hundred light-years of his comfortable chair. When he
cameacrosstheclosestworld,Jackiereturned.
“AlphaCentauriB’slargestworld,”shesaidinhermostteacherlyvoice.“The
planetthatsomementallyimpoverishedsoulnamedNewEarth,backwhenall
weknewwasthatithadliquidwaterandalivingatmosphere.”
Simonhadneverbeensoclosetothatalienbody.Theimagewasthatclear,
thatastonishing.Simonfeltasifhewasfloatinginloworbitaboveashallow
blacksea.Microbesaccountedforthedarkwater—multitudesoftinyrelentless
organisms that ate sunlight and spat out just enough oxygen to be noticed by
astronomers centuries ago. But the tectonics of New Earth were radically
differentthanthosebackhome,andforahostofreasons,thealienatmosphere
couldneversupportaflame,muchlessavibrantecosystem.
“Todate,”Jackiecontinued,“ourfullsurveyhasfoundninemillionandforty
thousandlivingworlds.Thatnumberandtheseimageswon’tbemadepublicfor
anotherfewmonths.We’renotdone,andweexpectseveralmillionmore.Butto
date,Simon…asofthismoment…onlyeighteenplanetsshowunmistakable
signs of multicellular life and intelligence. Of course we might be missing
something small. But after this long, with these incredible tools and nothing
closertousthaneightthousandlight-yearsdistance…well,darling,itmakesa
curious mind wonder if intelligence is a cosmic fluke, or worse, God’s best
joke…”
“Ihopenot,”hemuttered.
Jackienoddedinagreement.“Nowformyfinesurprise,”shewenton.“One
tiny portion of the sky is off-limits. Did you know that? The Powers-That-Be
haverules.Nobodybutthemcanlookalongoneexceptionallynarrowline.And
wedidn’tlook,atleastnotintentionally.Excepttherewasanaccidentlastweek,
and supposedly nothing was seen and of course we recorded nothing. But I
thought you’d appreciate a glimpse of what nothing looks like, provided you
keepthisinaverysafeplace.”
Againstthestars,a tinyglowwas visible—likeacomet,but burninghotter
thanthesurfaceofanysun.
“It’s Hektor,” Jackie reported. “Dr. McKall is still out there, still charging
forward. Another ten thousand years, and your old colleague will finally get
wherehe’sgoing.”
***
Simonwasdiscussingsaltcontentswithanirritablesensoronthefarsideofthe
moon, and then his home-mind interrupted. “There has been an incident,” it
reported.“Onearth,andspecifically,onthecampus—”
“Jackie?”
“Iknownothingabouther,”thevoiceadmitted.“Stanfordandthesurrounding
areaaretemporarilyoutofreach.Ariotisinprogress.There’sstillagooddeal
offighting.Ican’tofferusefulinsights.”
“Ariot?”heaskedincredulously.
“Yes.”
“Butwhy?”
“Therewasastory,onlyarumor.”Themindwasdesignedtoshowsorrow,
butintidyamounts.Andnooutrage,whichwaswhyitstatedflatly,“According
to the rumor, the Stanford community was holding back foodstuffs, and
approximately one million citizens organized a flash-protest that mutated into
violence,andthecivilauthoritiesreactedwithperhapstoomuchforce—”
“WhataboutJackie?”
“I have lists of the dead and injured, sir. The tallies are being constantly
updated.Eighty-threeare confirmed dead, with perhaps anotherhundredtobe
found.ButIwilltellyouwhenIfindher,whereverIfindher.”
Simonrefused to worry. The odds of disaster falling on oneeager graduate
student were remote. Tens of thousands attended that big old school, and no,
lettinghismindturncrazywasawasteoftime.Thatwastheconvictionthathe
managedtoholdontoforeightminutesofdetermined,rapidlyforgottenwork.
Thenhecutoffthesensorinmid-sentence,andtohishousehesaid,“Anyword,
contactme.”
“Ofcourse,sir.”
His home—Jackie’s home, and his—was the only building on a tiny green
islandofbuoyantcoralfloatingonthemoon’ssurface.Whatseemedcriticalat
thatmomentwastoescape,separatinghimselffromwhateverremindedhimof
her.Alone,hejettedabovetheoil-restrainedsurfaceofthesea,scaringupbirds
andrainbowbats.Thenhedockedataweb-towerandboardedanelevatorthat
quietlyaskedforadestination.
“Up,”hesnapped.“Justup.”
The Iapetus roof was much more elaborate than those covering the inner
worlds. It was blacker than any space, and it was dense and durable, and if
civilization vanished today, it would likely survive intact until the sun was a
coolingwhiteember.Thatdurabilitywasessential.Simonrodetheelevatorpast
the final ceiling, emerging on the moon’s night side but with dawn slowly
approaching.Hestoppedtheelevatorbeforeitreachedtheoverheadport.Then
he gazed at the sun’s emergence—a tiny fierce fleck of nuclear fire that was
dwarfedbyathousandlaserspointedatthisonemodestmoonofSaturn.
Acoalitionofice-beltnationshadjoinedforces.Mercury,longconsideredtoo
expensivetoterraform,hadbeenpurchasedandpartlydestroyed,doctoredrock
and iron fashioned into a fleet of enormous orbiting solar collectors that
collectedenergythatwaspumpedintobeamsoflightthatcouldhavedestroyed
shipsandcitiesandevenwholeworlds.Couldbutneverwould,whatwiththeir
elaborateprogrammingandtoomanysafeguardstocount.Butitwasthesun’s
focusedpowerthatslammedintothetoughblackconservatory,anditwasthe
conservatory that captured and channeled this resource into the artificial suns
that made Iapetus glow to its core. This was a cheaper, sweeter solution than
buildingandmaintainingfleetsoffusionreactors.Everyphotonwasabsorbed,
andasaresult,lifehadwarmbrighthappywater—aplacewherehewantedto
liveforever.
Jackiehadalwaysenjoyedthispartoftheascent;that’swhySimonstopped
herenow.Stoppedandwaited,knowingthatshewasaliveandwell,butwasn’tit
therightthingtodo,worryingashedid?
Thesituationonearthwasalwayschaotic.
HeunderstoodthatJackiehadfriendsandcolleaguestohelpbeforeshecould
send word his way, and she might not be able to do that for a long time,
consideringtheriotandthenormalcensorshipdemandedbythePowers-That-
Be.
No,hewasn’tsickwithworry.
Thenthehome-mindcalledout,“Sir.”
Itsvoicewastingedwithsorrow.
Morethananythingelse,whatsurprisedSimonwashowquicklyhesevered
allcontactwiththeuniverse.Beforeanotherwordwasoffered,hissmallsharp
mind had made its decision and cut the channel to his home-mind, never
botheringtotellhimofitsintentions.
IfSimonknewnothing,thenJackiewasalive;andthatwouldremaintruefor
aslongashecouldendurethecoldboundlessspaceabouthimandthesoundof
hisbreathingcomingagainandagainindeep,uselessgasps.
MAKEMAKE
“Sir, please. Please. What generosity may I offer you? I have marvelous teas,
strongandsweet,orweakandsublime.”
“Somethingsublime.”
“And once again, sir, I apologize for any intrusion. For your time and
sacrifices,Iwillbeeternallygrateful.”
Simonnodded and smiledblandly,asking nothing ofhis host. TheSuricata
werebrightsocialentitiesfamousforritualsandreflexivepoliteness.Answers
would come soon enough, and knowing these people, he was certain that he
wouldn’tmuchlikewhathewasabouttolearn.
Theteawasservedcoldintinyceremonialbowls.
“Youcontinuetodomarvelousworkforus,sir.”
“AndIhearpraisingwordsaboutyou,”Simonreplied.“Wisermindsthanme
say that our mob has never enjoyed a more efficient or responsible security
chief.”
Thenarrowfaceseemedpleased.Butthechief’sfourhandsgrippedhisbowl
toofirmly,longblacknailsscrappingagainstthewhitebonechina.
Simonfinishedhisdrinkandsetitaside.
Thechiefdidthesame, and thenwithaportentoustone said,“Perhapsyou
heard about the refugee transport that arrived yesterday. Of course you have,
who hasn’t? Eleven hundred and nine survivors, each one a victim of this
monstrouswar,andallnowquarantinedattheusualsite.”
One hundred kilometers above their heads stood a roughly camouflaged,
utterlyfilthyicedome—thesamejail-likedumpingsitewhereSimonhadlived
forhisfirstthreemonthsafterhisarrival.
“My problem,” the chief began. Then the bright black eyes smiled, and he
said, “Our problem,” as a less than subtle reminder of everyone’s civic
responsibilities. “More than one thousand sentient entities wish to find shelter
with us, but before that can happen, we must learn everything about these
individuals.Thepoliticalclimatemightbeimproving,buttempersandgrudges
remaininfullforce.Ourneutralityismaintainedatagreatcost—”
“Whoisourproblem?”
Simon’sinterruptionpleasedthechief.Atleasthesighedwithwhatseemed
likerelief,watchingacreaturetwicehissizeandolderthananyoneelseonthis
world. “We have found a war criminal,” the chief admitted. “A much-sought
individual, and I believe a colleague of yours from long ago. According to
reliableaccounts,shewascomplicitintheMartiangenocide,aconsultantintwo
slaughters on the earth, and her role in the Ganymede struggles has been
rigorouslydocumented.”
“We’rediscussingNaomi?”
Embarrassed,thelittlefacedippeduntiltherope-likebodylayonthecarpeted
floor.“Oneofhernames,yes.Sheattemptedtohideheridentity,butwhatwasa
cleverandthoroughdisguisethedaysheleftTitanhasbecomeoldandobvious.”
TheSuricata were lovely creatures, theirdense fur softerthan sable, warming
fatsandfantasticmetabolismkeepingthemcomfortableinsidetheiricytunnels.
Thechiefstoodagain,handsfidgetingwithreadersandswitcheswhilehistail
madeaquickgesture,alertinghisguesttotheimportanceofhisnextwords.“We
arequitecertain.ThisistheinfamousNaomi.Wefindourselvesholdingperhaps
themostnotoriousatumsstillatlarge.”
“FromtheBlueCamp,”Simonadded.
EightCampsexitedatthewar’soutset.Attritionandpoliticalnecessitieshad
shrunkthefieldtotwoCamps,andtheBluewasofficiallyextinct.
Politely but firmly, the chief cautioned, “As far as the Kuiper neutrals are
concerned, there are no Camps. There is us, and there is the War. At no time
havewetakensidesinthisridiculousconflict,whichmeansthatwemustremain
immunetofavoritismandeventhemosttentativealliances.”
Inotherwords,tosavetheirpeace,theyhadtoberuthless.
Simonnodded.“Whyhere?”
“Excuseme,sir?”
“IunderstandwhyNaomiwouldwanttoescape.Ofcourseshe’dtrytoflee.
Butthe woman Iknew had atalent for guessingwhere the tunnelwould turn
next. Throwing everything into a long journey out to the edge of inhabited
space…well,comingallofthewayouttoMakemakestrikesmeasdesperate,
atbest.Andatworst,suspicious.”
Anunwelcomequestionhadbeenasked.Thechiefrespondedbyinvokinghis
rank, stiffening his tail while the hands became fists. “Desperation is the
perfectlynormalresponsenow.Sir.Youdon’tseetheintelligencereportsthatI
am forced to endure. You don’t study the elaborate simulations and their
predictionsforcontinuingtroubles.Atleastninetypercentofthesolarsystem’s
populationhas beenextinguished. Atleast. Worldshave beenruined, fortunes
erased,butsittinginsidethiscarefulpeaceofours,youcannotappreciatehow
miserableandfranticandsickthesemindsare…thosetorturedfewwhohave
managedtosurviveuntilthismoment.”
Charitably,Simonsaid,“Iagree.Idon’tknowhowitwouldfeel.”
Thechiefsighed.Regrettingthepresenttone,headmitted,“Ihavenothingbut
respectforyou,sir.Respectwrappedaroundthanks.Whatwouldwehavedone
without your talents? What if you had found your way to another Kuiper
world … to Varuna, perhaps? Today they would have a great atum working
miracleswithlimitedresources,andwewouldhavetoturnasideeverysoulfor
lackofroomandfoodandpreciousair?”
Varunahadbeenadisaster—toomanyrefugeesovertaxingthebarely-begun
terraforming work. But Makemake, and Suricata society in particular, had
endured this nightmare rather well. Simon knew this game. With feigned
conviction,hesaid,“Youwouldhavedonefinewithoutme.Youareamarvelous
andendlesslyinventivepeople.”
Hishostsmiledtoolong.
“MayIaskanotherquestion?”
“Yes,sir,”saidthesecuritychief.
“WhyamIhere?You’veidentifiedyourprisoner.AndsinceIhaven’tseen
herforatleasteighthundredyears—”
“NinehundredandfiveMartianyears,”thechiefinterjected.
“Idon’tseeanyroleformetoplay.”Simonstrokedthesmallgraybeardthat
covered half of his thoroughly human face. “Unless of course you want my
testimonyatthetrial.”
“No,”thechiefblurted.
Simonwaited,hispatiencefraying.
“Thetrialwasconcludedseveralhoursago.Thejudges’haveannouncedthe
sentence.Nothingremainsnowbuttheexecutionoftheprisoner.”
“Ah.”Simonnodded.“Youbroughtmehereasacourtesy?”
Theblackeyesgazedathim,hopingtosaynothingmore.
Butdespitemanydecadesoflivingamongthesesouls,theatumcouldn’tquite
piecetogethertheclues.Whatwouldhavebeenobvioustoanynativecitizenof
this cold, isolated world was invisible to him. Finally, with honest confusion,
Simonconfessed,“Idon’tknowwhatyouwant.”
“Itiswhattheprisonerwants.”
“Whichis?”
“Naomi has memorized our laws,” the chief confessed. “And she somehow
learnedthatyouwerelivinghere.”
Theatumbegantofeelill.
“Shehasinvokedalittle-usedcode,namingherexecutioner.”
“Iwon’t,”saidSimon.
ButtheSuricatawasadeeplysocialspecies.Choicedidnotexistintheircivil
code. Duty to their city and their world was seamless. And no less could be
expectedfromthosewhocametoliveintheircathedralsoficeandbrightair.
“If you refuse this honor,” the chief said flatly, “then we will be forced to
beginbanishmentprocedures.”
Simontookamomenttoletthepossibilitieseatathim.
“Shewantsmetokillher,”hemutteredquietly.
“Tomymind,”thechiefrepliedstiffly,“thewomanisalreadydead.Withthis
gesture,youwillbecompletingtheact.”
***
Inamultitudeofplaces,includinginsideatleastoneatum’smind,therewere
preciseandeffectiveplansforthetransformationofthislittleworld.Makemake
wasnamedforaPolynesiangodofcreation.Specifically,foradeityworshipped
bytheisolatedcitizensofEasterIsland,whichaslandmasseswent,wasarguably
themostremoteportionoftheearthcolonizedbythefirsthumanspecies.Ifthe
war hadn’t erupted during the last century, Makemake’s transformation would
havebegun.AdozenartificialsunsweredeliveredwhileMarswasdyingagain.
Theywereinorbit,patientlywaitingorderstoignite.Thisearlystepcouldeasily
be taken: Turning methane snows into a thin atmosphere clinging to a body
barely half the size of Pluto. But even that modest step brought danger. Why
make yourself a prize to distant but vicious enemies? Eight decades of
unmatchedstrugglehadravagedricherworlds,andifnotforthethintrafficof
refugeesthatstillmanagedtolimptheirwayoutintothiscold,lightlessrealm,
therewouldn’tbeanytrafficwhatsoever.
Therankingatumthoughtabouttheseweightymatters,andheconsideredhis
ownenormousluck—notjusttosurvivetheWar,buttothendiscoveralifethat
gavehimauthorityandprivilegebeyondanythathe’deverknown.
Simonusuallytookpleasurefromhiswalksonthesurface.Therewasmajesty
tothisrealmofcoldandbarrenice.Theblackskywasunmarredbycleverlights
andshiptraffic,givingitanenduringappeal.Theglimmersandflashesofgreat
weaponsweren’tvisibleanylonger.NeithersurvivingCampwasabletomarshal
thosekindsofmonstrositiestoday.Whichwaswhythedeterminedmindcould
forget,lookingattheemberthatwasthesunandseeingnothingelsebutthefaint
dot that was Jupiter, believing any story but the miserable one where almost
everylifewasdestroyed,andeveryworld,includingtheearth,wasatthebest
onlybarely,painfullyhabitable.
“Whatareyoudoing?”askedasharp,impatientvoice.
“AslittleasIcan,”headmittedtohiscompanion.
“Focus,”sheimplored.
“Ishould.”
“Youhaven’tchangedatall,haveyou,Simon?Youstillcan’tmakeyourself
dothedistastefulwork.”
“That’smyfinestflaw,”hereplied.
The humor was ignored, such as it was. Her own focus was relentless, her
shrewdnessundiminished,andasalways,Naomihadhersightslockedonsome
self-important goal. Stopping abruptly, she told him, “I didn’t select you just
becausewewereoncefriendsandcolleagues.No,Simon.Ipickedyoubecause
youareperhapsthemostconsistentcreaturethatI’veeverknown.”
“Whatdoyouwant,Naomi?”
“Not yet,” she teased. Then she began to walk again, marching vigorously
towardthesmall,undistinguishedcraterwhereforyearsnowprisonerslikeher
hadbeenexecuted.
Naomi and Simon were the same size, give or take a few grams. But in a
calculatedbid to ingratiate herself withher now-defeated Camp, she long ago
surrenderedevery hint of her human form.The woman resembled a scorpion,
completewiththejointedlimbsandanelaborate,supremelygracefultailfolded
upbeneathherlifesuit.Hercarapacewasdesignedtowithstandahardvacuum,
butnotthecold.Hersuitwasheated,andasimplerecykesystemkepthergreen
blood fully oxygenated. Disable either, and she would die slowly and without
fuss.ThechiefandvariousexpertshadadvisedSimontocripplebothsystems
andhasten the act.But ice crystals and suffocationwere astonishingly violent
acts, if only at the cellular level. Simon held his own opinions about how to
commitmurder,andmuchashehatedthiswickedbusiness,hewouldcarryout
theexecutionhoweverhedamnwellpleased.
Seeminglywithoutfear,thescorpionscuttledacrosstheice.
IgnoranteyesmightimagineSimonasthe doomedsoul.Andindeed,many
eyeswerewatchingtheirapproach.CamerassuppliedbybothCampshadbeen
unpackedandactivatedforthissingularoccasion.Themachineswerewitnesses,
hardenedlinksandamultitudeofsecuritysafeguardslinkingthemtothesolar
system. In principle, nobody could be fooled by what happened next, unless
whattheywantedwastobefooled.
Simontooklongerstrides,catchingtheprisonerjustshortofthecraterwall.
AndNaomislowedabruptly,heradrenalinoritsequivalentsuddenlyfailing
her.EerilyhumaneyesglancedupatSimon,andontheirprivatechannel,she
said,“I’vealwayslikedyou.”
Hewasstartledbutcarefulnottoshowit.
“Iknowhowthatsounds,andIknowyoudon’tbelieveme.Butfromthefirst
timewemet,Ihaveheldthegreatestrespectforyourabilities.”
“Wherewasthat?”heasked.
“Thefirsttime?”
“I’mold,”headmitted.“Remindme.”
She didn’t simply mention about Venus. With astonished detail, Naomi
describedadrymeetingbetweenmembersofanair-planktonteam—thekindof
routine nonevent that Simon would forget in a week, at most. “You made
skeptical comments about our work. Perceptive, illuminating comments, when
youlookbackatthemomentnow.”
“Thatimpressedyou?”
“In a peculiar fashion, you seemed more secure than the rest of us. More
honest,lesswillingtocompromiseyourselfwiththepolitics.”
Heshrugged,sayingnothing.
“I’m sure you took notice: I was a flirt and shameless when it came to
workingtherooms.AndIdon’tthinkthattenSimonswouldhaveheldasmuch
ambitionasIcarriedaroundinthosetimes.”
“Probablynot,”heconceded.
“Didyoueverwanttosleepwithme?”
“No,”helied.
Butshedidn’tseemtocare,eyesclosingwhilethehardfacenoddedwistfully.
“If I’d paid attention to you … if I had let myself learn from you … my life
wouldhaveturnedoutquiteabitbetter,Ithink.”
Itmighthavebeena differentlife,orperhapsnot.Simon realizedlongago
thatno matter how creative or well informed the soul might be, there was no
waytoseethefuturethatroseevenfromthewisestofdecisions:Ignoranceas
epiphany,andwiththat,freedomfromregret.
Theyreachedthelipofthecratertogether—twotinyentitiesonthebrinkofa
neat flat-bottomed bowl. Suddenly he was in the lead, his pseudo-adrenalin
risingoutofaglandthatwasamonghisyoungest.Withadry,tightvoice,he
said,“Younamedme.Youclaimthatthere’sareason.Andifyoudon’ttellme
why,I’llbehappy.”
“ButIhavetotellyou,”Naomireplied.
“Ican’thelpyou,”hewarned.“MaybeyouthinkthatI’vegotpowerhere,but
Idon’t.OrthatI’mnotstrongenoughtodothis,andI’lllosemywill,andthen
theSuricatawouldgiveuptryingtopunishyou—”
“Idon’texpectyourhelporyourweakness,”sheinterrupted.“Youareasoft-
heartedcreature.Butthatisn’twhyIselectedyou.”
“Soft-hearted,”heheard,andtheimagemysteriouslygnawedathim.
Naomicontinued,saying,“Thetwoof us,Simon…we atums seenagreat
dealduringourextraordinarycareers.”
Hetookalongbounce,endinguponaflatstretchofrock-hardwaterice.“I
supposewehave,yes.”
“Mycareer,”shebegan.
He forced himself to slow, glancing up at the cameras hovering against the
eternalnightsky.
“Beinganatumisablessing,andIfeelblessed.Iknowhowitlooksnow,the
insanity that drove us into the Camps. Using our knowledge about building
worldstokilltheworldsinstead.Butthinkofthehistorythattheseeyeshave
witnessed.ThegeniusesthatI’veknownandourimportantwork,andthefoolish
tragediestoo…everythingthatcomeswithremoldingandgivinglifetodozens
andhundredsofworlds,littleandgreat…”
“Whatisit,Naomi?”
“Ikeptadiary,”shemuttered.
“Manydo.”
“Butmydiaryisfarmorecompletethantheothers,”shemaintained.“From
thefirstentry,I’veusedonlythebestmethods,themostthoroughtricks.This
isn’t just text and images, Simon. I underwent scans of my mind, uploaded
memories,censoringnothing.Nothing.AndthenIemployedamilitary-gradeAI
toactasanoverseerandvoice.Thisismylife,thesplendidaswellastheawful,
andIdon’tthinkanycitizeninanyvenuehaseverachievedthescalethatI’ve
managed.”
“Andmyrole?”
“I’lltellyouwhereIhidit,”sheadmitted.“You’regoodanddecent,Simon,
andyoucanappreciatethevalueofthiskindoftestimony.Tenthousandyears
fromtoday,won’tthecitizensbehungrytounderstandthepeoplewhoshaped
theirhistory—thosewhofirstcolonizedthesolarsystem?”
Heglancedupatthesunandthatfeeblebandofdustridingontheecliptic,
muchofitcreatedbyexplosionsandobliteratingimpacts.“You’recertainthere’s
goingtobeanaudiencethen?”
“We’ve made our mistakes,” she conceded. “But this war will end. And
shouldn’twegiveourdescendantseverylessonpossible?‘Don’tdoaswedid,’
wewilltellthem.”
“Ididnothingtooterrible,”hemaintained.
Suddenly Naomi ran short of praise for her executioner. With her voice
breaking,shepointedout,“No,you’rejustasguiltyasme,Simon.”
“Despitemygoodopinions,”hecountered.
“Abillioncleverinsightsaccomplishnothing,ifthevoicethatmuttersthem
isn’tcompellingenoughtochangeoneaction.”
They were near the crater’s center, the execution ground defined by a neat
black circle as well as pits made by the blasts of weapons and warm bodies
rapidlygrowingcold.Reachthatline,andtheirprivatelinewouldfail.Onlyan
unsecuredpubliclinewouldallowthemtospeaktooneanother.Simonfelthis
facefillingwithblood—theblushmarkingjustaportionofhisdeep,conflicted
feelings.Hetriedtokeephisvoiceundercontrol,buteachwordcameouthard
andtense.“It’stime,Naomi.I’mgoingtostopyouroxygenandheaternow,and
wecanwalktherestofthewaytogether.”
“Mydiary?”
He didn’t answer. “Your carapace is a fine insulator,” he said. “And if I’m
right,we’llhaveseveralminutesbeforeyouspendyourlastbreaths.”
“Butyouwillrescuemydiary,won’tyou?Itellyouwhereitis,andyoucan
useithoweveryouwant.Asahistoricalrecord,ifyouwant—”
“Andonlyforthatreason,”hemuttered.
Emotionsmadehershiver,butsheactedsatisfied.Oneconspiratortoanother,
shesaid,“Ididgenuinelylikeyou,Simon.”
Hetouchedthecontrolsonherback,poweringdownbothsystems.
“Andyou’reafamiliarpresence,”sheconceded.“Ifapersonhastodiethis
way,don’tyouthinksheshouldbewithafriend?”
“I’mnotyourfriend,Naomi.”
Shedidn’tspeak.
Oxygen had stopped entering her blood, and in the next moment, the bitter
chillofMakemakebegantocreepinsideher.“Idon’tknowifIcanmakeitto
thecircle.”
“Youcan.”
“Justsaythatyou’remyfriend,”shebegged.“Please.Idon’twantittoend
thisway.”
Fromthesatchelonhiship,Simonpulledoutasmallrailgun,andheaimed
andfiredaslugofiron-cladstoneintothescorpion’sbrain.Naomistiffened,and
a moment later, collapsed. He grabbed a front leg and dragged her across the
neat black line, then backed away to allow the cameras to descend and
investigatethebodywithafullarrayofsophisticatedtools.Breathinghard,he
lookedatthecorpse,andwithasteadyvoicehepointedout,“Youhelpedmurder
hundredsofbillions.Anduntiltoday,youdidn’tthrowtwonicewordsmyway.
AndI’llbedamnedifI’mgoingtohelpyourbelovedmemorieshaveanylife
beyondtoday.”
***
“Thankyou,”thechiefsaid.
He gave his thanks once and then again, and then twice more, with even
greaterfeeling.
Thenwithanairofconcern,thechiefcontinued.“Thismusthavebeenhard
onyou.Regardlesswhatshewasandhowmuchshedeservedherfate—”
“Itwasdifficult,”Simonconceded.
Thelittlecreatureseemedgiddywithcompassion.“Thiswon’thappenagain.
Ipromise.”
“ButI’mhereifyouneedme,”Simonreplied.
Adark,darkjoke.
Thechiefnoddedwarily.
“Shebroughtitwithher.Didn’tshe?”
Thechiefhesitated.“Broughtwhat?”
“Her diary. The AI with its attached memories. Naomi came here with the
hopeof usingit as a bribe, hopingto managea betterdeal for herself.” Until
Simonsaidthewords,hedidn’tbelieveitwastrue,butthentheyweredriftingin
theairandhebelievednothingelse.
Thechiefsuddenlyhadnovoice.
“And I’m guessing that one of you two brought me into this scheme. She
would tell me that the fabled diary was somewhere else, somewhere hard to
reach, throwing the scent far from Makemake. Naomi must have told others
aboutherself-recordingproject,nottomentionleavinganether-trailfromthe
hospitalsandvariousspecialistsbroughtintotheproject.ButifIthoughtIhad
thisspecialknowledge,andifIactedaccordingtomygoodnobleinstincts…
well,Icanseehowthiswouldhavedistractedafewplayerswhileyouhappily
satontheprize.”
“ButwhywouldIcare?”thelittlemanmanaged.
“BecauseNaomihadawealthofexperience,andthat’sthepartofherestate
youwanted.Herexpertise.Oncethiswarisfinished,Makemakewillbeableto
reinventitself,andprosperityisgoingtocomeeasierwhenyouenjoythefree
andeasyguidanceofahighlyaccomplishedatum.”
“Naomi’sdead,”thechiefoffered,inhisowndefense.
“Sheis.Andsheisn’t.No,inherpeculiarmind,Ithinkthecreaturehelda
different interpretation of events.” Simon shrugged, the last traces of anger
washingoutofhim.“Isawasmalluselessdeathontheice,whileshesawlife
insideanewmechanicalmind.Whenyou’reasgreedyasNaomi,it’samazing
whatyoucanconvinceyourselfof…andwhoknows,maybethatoldladyhasa
pointinallofthis…?”
EARTH
Thepurposeofthevisitwastomeetthenextgenerationofatums,inclassesand
privately,assessing the strengthsaswellasthe inevitable weaknesses ofthese
graduates before they were scattered across the Unified System. But several
gratefuluniversityofficialscametothechiefatum,beggingforapublicevent
that would earn notice and praise, both for them and their ancient institution.
Simon agreed reluctantly. He would give a speech, stipulating only that his
audience was kept small—a diverse assortment of students and faculty
assembledinsomeminorlecturehall.Heunderstoodthatanypubliceventby
someone of his rank would attract attention. What he wanted to escape were
situations where multitudes of eager, ill-prepared souls would cling to every
word, unable to tell the off-hand remark from rigid matters of policy. But his
request,harmlessandrationaltohismind,ledfirsttostrictquotas,andwhenthe
demandprovedtooenormous,alotterysystemwhereticketswereawardedand
sometimessoldforfantasticsums—allforthehonorofcramminginsidealong
hot room with forty thousand equally enthralled bodies, every eye and a few
secretcamerasstaringatafigureasoldasterraforming,ornearlyso.
Inappearance,Simonhadremainedstubbornly,endearinglyhuman.Piecesof
himwerestillphysicallytiedtotheyoungMartian,thoughthosearchaictissues
consisted only of a few cells scattered through crystalline overlaps, metabolic
engines, and bundles of smart-light and nulls and voids. His face and body
remainedtall,butonlyincontrasttotheentitiesgatheredabouthim.Hebegan
withabrightsmileandavoicecraftedtocomeacrossaswarmandcomforting
totheaveragecitizen,thankingeveryoneforsurrenderingaportionofhisbusy
daytolistentoanoldfellowrattleon.Thenhetoldastoryfromhischildhood,
describingindetailhowhisfatheroncehandedhimanano-bombseed—oneof
theoldmarvelsintendedtotransformMarsfromawastelandtoaparadise.“I
didn’tunderstandthesignificanceofthatcrudetool,”heconfessed.“ButIheld
themiraculousseedinbothhands,believingthatinmybrieflife,thiswasthe
mostimportantobjectthatIhadevertouched.Yetatthesamemoment,Iwas
stubbornlyignoringmyownsoggy brain. Andeveryoneelse’stoo.But minds
aretheonlymarvelsworthyofourlastingrespect,andIcanonlywishthateach
ofusholdsthattruthclosetousaswepassthroughourfuturedays.”
Simonwassmallerthanhisoriginalhandshadbeen,smallerthanthatearly
seed.Butbythesametoken,hewaslargerthantherockandironballthatwas
Mars. Like any modern mind, a good portion of his intelligence—facts and
language, customs and a multitude of instincts—were held in the earth’s
community mind. He remained a unique citizen, endowed with his own
personalityandancient,oftenquaintnotions.Butaslongascitizenswishedto
stretchtowardinfinity,roomwasgoingtocomeatapremium.Carryingyourlife
experienceinsideoneisolatedskullmeantlarge,inefficientbodiesneedingroom
tolive.Andifthosebodiesachievedevenmodestreproductiverates,anyworld
wouldbeswampedinaday,andshortlyafterthat,tenthousandworldsmore.
AsSimonlikedtodoontheseoccasions,heremindedeveryearthattheduties
ofanatum,particularlyone grantedhisterrifyingstation,wastohelpselecta
direction into the future, that determined line balanced between wild freedom
anddespoticrule.Whatkindsofbiologywouldembraceeachworld;howmany
childrenwouldeachofthese rich livesbeallowed;andunder whattermsand
whatpunishmentswouldthegovernmentholdeachofitscitizensaccountable.
Everyone understood the consequences of mistakes, but just to be certain, he
mentionedtheFirstWarandthePurgethatfollowed,thenthesubsequentBattle
of the Kupiers and what was dubbed the Final Purge, as if that species of
politicalmadnesshadbeenwrungfromcivilizationforever.
“Nothingisforever,”hewarned,“nomatterifit’sanindividuallifeortheone
hundredbillionyearlifeofthe smallest,reddestsun.”Thenhis voice grewin
depth and power, taking the sleepiest in the audience by surprise. “Change is
inevitable,”he promised, “but little elseabout thecoming foreveris certain.I
wouldimaginethateveryonehereholdsthatnoblewishthatintelligentlifewill
prosperintheuniverse,spreadingtoothersunsandeventuallytoalltheendsof
theMilkyWay.Butthatremainsfarfromcertain.Inourongoingstudiesofthe
sky, we have observed what has to be considered a paucity of intelligence.
Today, those civilizations nearest to humanity are just beginning to hear the
earth’s original transmissions, radio and radar whispers barely hinting at
everythingthat has happened since, and it is presumed that in anotherseveral
thousandyears,aslowrichconversationwillcommence.Orourneighborswill
respond to our presence with the most perfect, telling silence. The fertile
imagination easily conceives wonders as well as horrors coming from this
unbornhistory.Butthismanbeforeyou,thisatum,believesthattherealgiftof
theOtherswillbetosuggesttoustherichest,moststableanswerstotheeternal
questionsoflifeandlivingwellinauniversethatholdsmindssuchasoursin
suchverylowesteem.”
***
Traditiondictatedthatthe chiefatumhad to makehisor herresidenceon the
earth,butsinceSimonhadnoroleinmaintainingthebiosphere,hewasfreeto
livewherehewished.Heearnedafewgrumbleswhenherequestedamodest
structureerectedontopofthenewestconservatory—littlemorethanonedome
and various substructures meant to house assistants and the usual secure
machinerydemandedbyhisoffice.Somecomplainedthatthenewchiefdidn’t
trustthegoodworkbeingdonebythelocalatums.Whyelsewouldheperched
himselfinthevacuum,hisfeetstandingontopofonehundredtrillionheads?
Butexplanationsdidnogoodwiththosepeople.Hespokeafewtimesabouthis
love for space and the illusion of solitude, but after that, he gave up offering
reasons.Foraslongasheheldthispost,enemieswouldfindreasonstodistrust
him, and as long as his antagonists thought in small terms, he would be safe
whereverhechosetolive,rightupuntilthedaythatthisofficewaslosttohim.
“Ihaveanerrandforyou,”Simontoldhisfavoritelieutenant.“Amissionof
someimportance,andIwouldn’ttrustanyoneelsewithit.”
The creature turned vivid blue, and twenty limbs shook from the apparent
compliment.Thenasoftclearvoicesaid,“Sir,”andthen,“Iamhonored,”before
asking,“Whatismymission?”
With a thought, Simon delivered a set of encrypted files and the necessary
keys,plusafewhelpfulsuggestions.Thenhewaitedwhilethefiles’headings
were studied. The assistant had a quick mind; it took only a moment for the
limbstostiffen,fearturningthebodyintoadark,despairingviolet.
“Sir,”thevoicebegan.
“Whathaveyoufoundthere?”Simonkidded.
“Ididn’tknowaboutthesematters.”
“Youdidn’t,didyou?”Theatumnoddedagreeably.“That’swhatyoushould
mentionwhenyouactonyourknowledge.”
“Sir?”
“Youaregoingtoact,aren’tyou?”
Theassistantturnedblackandcold,abeggingvoicecomplaining,“Thisisnot
fair,sir.”
“Littleis,”Simonagreed.
“Bylaw,IhavetotakewhatIknowtotheproperagency.”
“Iwouldn’thaveitanyotherway,myfriend.”
Thecreaturemutteredtoitself.
“But please, will you do one small favor for me,” Simon continued.
“Surrender this evidence to the Office of Exotic Biology. And yes, they have
jurisdiction in these matters. They are perfectly acceptable authorities, and no
one will fault you, even if you choose to someday mention these events to
anyoneelse.”
Perplexedbutobedient,theassistantleftonhisunexpectedmission.
Alone,Simonslippedintoagossamerlifesuitandsteppedoutontothehard
surfaceofthenewestconservatory.Thesunwasafaintglowjustbeginningto
climb over the geometrically perfect horizon. Mercury was a dull dot almost
invisibleagainstthestars,itstopfiftykilometerspeeledawayandrefinedinto
habitatsrangingfrommountain-sizedtosmallerthanasmallwalnut.Venuswas
nearerandmuchduller,encasedinhalfadozenfinishedconservatorieswhose
main purpose was to grab and sequester every photon falling from the sun,
allowing the interior heat to build and build until the entire planet melted—a
liquid world whose crust and then mantle could be siphoned off with relative
ease,creatinghundredsoftrillionsoflivingworldsthatwouldeventuallyforma
greatringaroundthesun.
Jupiterremainedawildernessofspaceandrawmaterials,accompaniedbyits
liquid worlds, infested with life but still not full. Uranus and Neptune were
brighterthanever,theterrraformingofthelittlegiantsjustbeginninginearnest.
Once again, Mars was being made into an earth-like world, but this time the
workinvolvedimprovedconservatoriesstackedontopofoneanother,thecrust
lacedwithsprawlingcavernsandhiddenseas.AndlargesttotheeyewasLuna.
Nearly as large as earth, it was a vast balloon composed of vacuum-filled
chambers and nonaqueous species. Again, its design was aimed at growth,
machinesandorganismsbusilydigestingtherockybody.Butlikeeveryworldin
theUnifiedSystem,thegeniusthatdesignedthistransformationalwaysaimed
foraspecialstability.Eachplanetfunctionedasanestofdeeplysocialinsects.
As long as all the pieces and players cooperated, life thrived. But if the calm
failed,thequeensofthenestwouldperish,andjustasimportant,thelowlyand
theinnocentwouldinheritwhatremained.
Simon had helped craft this ruthless and obvious system. Humanity might
have the power to draw life in any form it wished, but there still existed the
Darwiniangodholdingswayoverthemajesticmess,andforthenexteonortwo,
thebestwouldsucceedalittlemoreotherthantheirpeers.
Some days, it seemed that reaching this station was a miracle. But on this
early morning being the chief atum felt entirely natural. Of course he was
important.Whoelsewasasoldashimandasshortofenemies?Whoelsecould
claimthattheyhadbeenthereatthebeginning,ornearlyso,yetnevertookpart
inanyconspiracyorslaughterofnote?
Without sound, Simon started to laugh, enjoying the irony. The absence of
ambitionwastheultimateambition,itseemed.
Thenhishouse-mindannouncedavisitor.
Simondidn’taskforthename.Heknew.Andturningbacktowardhishome,
walkingslowlyandthennotsoslowly,hesaidtothehouse,“TellLillytomake
herselfcomfortable.Thecriminalisonhisway.”
***
“Howdidyoumanagethis?”sheblurted. Theninthenextinstant,sheadded,
“Thishastobeamistake.Somebody’stryingtoframeyou,andtheydidn’teven
manageabelievablejobofit.”
LikeSimon,Lillyhadkeptholdofherhumanfeatures.Shesatandwatched
as he settled before her, and when he didn’t act appropriately concerned, she
added,“Thisistheworstkindofscandal.IfI’dtoldanyone—”
“Butyouhaven’t,”heinterrupted.
“BecauseIthoughtIowedyouatleastthecourtesyoflookingintoyourface,
seeingiftherewasanyexplanationforwhatyou’vedone.”
Heshruggedandsaidnothing.
“Starshipsareforbidden,”shesnapped.“Novesselexceptsteriledronescan
legallypassbeyondtheKuiperbelt.”
“Iamwellawareofthelaws—”
“Andthekindofshipyou’vebuilt,”sheblurted.“Dammit,Simon.Itshatters
atleastathousandcodes.Ifyouweretoridethissortofmagicseedoutintothe
cosmos … you could go almost anywhere … and then you could infect and
transformanybody.Anyworld.Theoutlawedtechnologiesandthegovernment-
onlytechnologiesthatyou’veassembledhere,usingyourstationaschiefatum
—”
“Impressed,areyou?”
Lillyremainedapassionatecreature,darkandlovelybutalwaysfocusedon
theneeds of her life’smission. “I’m scared, Simon. Terrified. What were you
planningtodowiththismonsterseed?”
Helaughedandnodded,andthenhequietlyconfessed,“Theseedhasroom
foronesmallpassenger.”
“Foryou?”shewhimpered.
“Me? Hardly.” He sat motionless, carefully watching his guest. “I have a
missioninmind.Butbytrainingandinclinations,IsuspectthatIwouldn’tmake
aworthypilotforthiskindofwork.”
“Whatwork?”
Simonleanedforward,onehandandthentheothertakingbothofhers.Itwas
pleasant,holdingonto the woman likethis,feelingherheatpassintohim.He
wasthinkingabout Lillyand his fathersleeping togetheronthe redwastes of
Mars.HerecalledthatmomentonVenus,inthedarkness,inthewind.Thenhe
surprisedbothofthem,liftingtheirhandsandkissingthebacksofhersevenas
heslidontohisknees,sayingnothing,buttastingafaintdelicioussaltagainsthis
lipsandthetipofhistongue.
AWORLDUNBURDENEDBYNAMES
Theobjectwasnoticedandinstantlymeasured—asmallglimmer approaching
along the expected vector, closing rapidly on the decelerating starship—and
McKall’s first reaction was an energetic laugh punctuated with several choice
curses.“Longenough,ittookthemtochaseus,”hedeclaredtohishoundsand
fireworms and the other powerful, fearless members of his unabashedly loyal
crew.“Fornow,watchourenemy.Studywhatitshowsus,anddonothing.Then
attenthousandkilometers,obliterateit.”
Whatevertheweaponwas,theirfifthblastmanagedtovaporizebothitsarmor
andthesurprisinglysimplemeatinside.
Celebratorydrinkswereserved.
For many centuries now, the starship’s captain had been worried. Onboard
mirrors showed that the solar system behind them had suffered wars and
subsequentrebirths.Whoknewwhatkindsofmarvelsthesenewgenerationshad
devised?Butobviously,hisconcernshadbeenmisspent.Severalmomentswere
investedincarefulstudyofthevanquishedenemy.Theremnantdustpresenteda
minorpuzzle,composedofcommonironandlittleelse.Whywouldanyonego
tosuchtrouble,sendingwhatlookedlikeafancycannonballafterhim?Toolate,
hewonderedifperhapsthedevicehadbeenadecoy,aruse.Heconfessedhis
fears to his security chief, and the chief initiated a ship-wide search for tiny
breeches and undetected invaders. Nothing was found. Every system was
working properly. Twenty-three minutes after that cannonball was first seen,
EarnestMcKallretreatedtohisquarters—theonlyprivateroomsallowedinside
theenormousstarship—andhehadhalfwaypreparedafreshcocktailwhenhe
noticedthetinyshapeofagirlorwomanclingingtotheceiling.
Softly,verysoftly,heasked,“Howdidyou—?”
“Sliponboard?Whileyouwerefightingthebait,thehookapproachedfrom
aheadofyou.Iusedyourengine’sfireascamouflage.Andasfortherestofmy
trickery…well,explainingeverythingisnotmyconsuminggoal.”
Insecret,McKallsignaledforhelp.
Nothingchanged.
Aninstantlaterhismetabolismhadreachedfullspeed,dragginghisthoughts
alongwithit.“Whatisyour—?”
“Lilly.”
Hestoppedtalking.
“MynameisLilly,andthankyouforasking.”Shewasatleastasswiftasthe
ship’scaptain.“Doyouhaveanyotherquestions,Dr.McKall?”
“Whatisyourgoal?”hemanaged.
“WhatdoyoubelievethatIwant?”
“Tostopme, ofcourse.We’renotfivehundred yearsfromNewEarth,and
thisissomelast-gaspattempttodestroymyshipandme.”
She was pretty and very small, no longer than a small finger, and it was
difficult,evenimpossible,totakeherseriously.Yethervoicehadweight,rising
fromplacesbesidesherminisculemouth.Amused,sheexplained,“ButIdon’t
wishtostopyou.AndIcertainlydon’twanttodestroyyou.WhatIwant—what
Ihavehalfwaytakenalready,withoutyoubeingaware—iscompletecontrolof
thisvesselanditscrew.Iamthenewcaptain,andyouaremydog.”
McKallwasfurious,andhewasterrified.Whichemotionfixedhislegstothe
floor? He couldn’t decide. But he discovered that moving any limb was
impossible,andhisvoicewasabreathlesslittlegasp.
“You’ll conquer the New Earth for yourself,” he managed. “Is that your
scheme?”
“Hardly.”
Theuntasted cocktail fellfrom his hand, spillingsticky and cold across his
barefeet.
“Ijustwantyourshipanditspossibilities,”sheexplained.Thenshedropped
offtheceilingandlandedinhisrichblackhair,miniaturehandsgrippingtightly,
yankinghard.“Myplan?We’lldropintoorbit,andIwillminethelocalsystem,
beginning construction of rings first and then a conservatory far above the
atmosphere. Elaborate defensive works will be built, plus shields against
interstellarcatastrophe,andthenIwillwaitforanyonewhoisfoolishenoughto
followafteryouandafterme.”
“Butwhatwillyoudo…withtheworld…?”
“Nothing,”shepromised.Thenthinkingagain,sheadded,“Excepttowatch
its native life go about with its business. Which is what any of us do on any
givenday.Isn’tthatright,Dr.McKall?”
***
Theatumconcludedhisspeechbyansweringthequestionthateveryonewould
ask,giventhechance.Heposeditinhisvoice,wonderingaloud,“Andwhen,at
longlast,willweleaveoursolarsystemforothersunsandtherichnewworlds
waitingtheirchancetobeclaimed?”
Thenhepaused,offeringanarchaicsmilewhilenoddingslightly.
Cryptically,hesaid,“Weshallembarkwhenweareready.”
Thenalittlevoiceupfrontshouted,“Andwhenwillthatbe?”
Simon’smostloyalassistantwasobeyingexplicitinstructions.Heglancedat
themany-limbedcreature,answering,“Onceallofourlocalhomesarefilledand
happy.Iwouldhope.Wewillembarkassoonaswecantrustournatureandour
institutions not to use this migration as an excuse for easy growth and return
voyages of conquest. When we have a worthy plan and the courage and
disciplinetotrustinit.Whenstarshipsnolongerconsumefortunesinenergyand
preciousmatter.Whenwehavebecomeadults,finallymatureandresponsiblein
alloccasions.Butmostimportant…”
Hepausedbriefly,enjoyingtheanticipationthatwashedoverhim.
“Mostimportant,”heconcluded,“wewillnotleavethislittlerealmofours
untilwearechildrenagain.Wide-eyed,enthralledchildrenwhoknowwhatthey
haveintheirhandsandholditwithallthecaretheypossess.”
TheSpontaneousKnottingofanAgitatedString
LAVIETIDHAR
LavieTidhargrewuponakibbutzinIsrael,hastraveledwidely
in Africa and Asia, and has lived in London, the South Pacific
islandofVanuatu,andLaos.Heisthewinnerofthe2003Clarke-
BradburyInternationalScienceFictionCompetition(awardedby
theEuropeanSpaceAgency),wastheeditorofMichaelMarshall
Smith:TheAnnotatedBibliography, and the anthologies A Dick
andJanePrimerforAdultsandTheApexBookofWorldSF.Heis
theauthorofthelinkedstorycollectionHebrewPunk,thenovella
chapbooks“AnOccupationofAngels,”“Gorel&thePot-Bellied
God,” the almost novel-length “Cloud Permutations,” and, with
NirYaniv,thenovelTheTelAvivDossier.Aprolificshortstory
writer,hisstorieshaveappearedinInterzone,Clarkesworld,Apex
Magazine, Sci Fiction, Strange Horizons, ChiZine, Postscripts,
FantasyMagazine, Nemonymous, InfinityPlus, Aeon,The Book
ofDarkWisdom,ForteanBureau,andelsewhere,andhavebeen
translated into seven languages. His latest novels include The
Bookman and its sequel, Camera Obscura. Coming up are two
new novels, Osama and Martian Sands. He’s currently back in
Israelagain,livinginTelAviv.
Inthequietlylyrical,deeplycompassionatestorythatfollows,
heshowsakeenunderstandingofhowhigh-techgadgetsinteract
with ancient cultures and traditions—each one modifying the
other.
Mrs.Pongboon,thatgreatwomanandmother,thatsellerofmysteriousartefacts,
walksdownthestreetinherred-patternedsihnthecolourofanaga’screst,and
peoplestarebecausetodressthiswayistoinvitethewrathoftheNgeukLaeng,
thedreadeddroughtnagas—butitisallanothingtoMrs.Pongboon,whohad
takenallherfearandhersecretanxietiesandputtheminatalismanwhichhangs
around her neck, a tasteful little locket of gold and quartz and state-of-the-art
mass-produced Chinese technology. ‘Buy my lockets, my darlings!’ she calls,
andthewomenstopandstare,andthechildrengiggleandareshushed,andthe
menlookanxiousandthoughtful.‘Putawayyourlovesandfears,andkeepthem
forarainyday!’
Buteverydayisrainyintherainyseason,andtheMekongsnakes,aslargeas
a naga, between the banks of Laos and Thailand, this snake-river, divider of
countries,carrierofgoods,allswelledupwithitsownimportanceandthewater
thatfallsfromtheskyandthewaterofthesnowsinthefarawayHimalayas,
whichhavetravelledalongwaytocomehere,willtravelalongwayyetbefore
theyseetheocean.‘Buymylockets,forafairandgoodprice,transferprecious
memories, store tender hearts! The deal is today, a one-of-a-kind, hurry, my
friends, hurry, I say! Or you’ll miss out forever, when Mrs. Pongboon has
passed,andwasgoneonherway.’
But business is slow and besides, everyone knows about transference, and
Mrs. Pongboon, as large and imposing as she no doubt is, is not alone in the
trade—farfromit.Andyet…ayounggirl,inablack,carefully-ironedsihn,a
whiteblousewiththesleevesbuttonedaroundherslimwrists,inherhigh-heeled
shoes bought second-hand, a small handbag from the Talat Sao, the Morning
Market—a student, perhaps, or an office worker of minor importance and a
minorsalarytomatch—timidlyapproachesMrs.Pongboonwho,sniffingouta
salebefore,even,thegirlhadoccasiontoconsciouslythinkherselftoit,says,
‘Whatisit,mydarling?Abrokenheart?Didayoungboystealyourhappiness
away?Come,tellMrs. Pongboon,queenof theladies,a mother tochildren—
rememberthatmothers,too,wereloversonce.’
‘Is—’thegirlsays,andstops,self-conscious,andMrs.Pongboonmovesinto
theshadowsofamusicshopwhereaLaotianbandispumpingoutacoverof
Thaitanium’s Tomyam Samurai, and the girl follows her and, free from the
scrutinyofpassers-by,hershoulder-bladesseemtorelax—‘isittrue?’
‘It’s technology,’ Mrs. Pongboon says, importantly, employing the English
word,whichisoneofthefewsheknows.Thegirllooksimpressed—aswellshe
should,Mrs.Pongboonthinks.‘Here,’shesays.‘Try,’shesays.Sheun-loopsa
secondlocketfromheramplebosom—nottheonewithallhermiseryinsideit
but the sampler, the holy sampler—she had once confused the two with a
potentialcustomerandtheresultswere…lessthanbeneficial,infacttherehad
beenacomplaint,andsincethensheisextracareful,thoughshecannotbearto
putherown,personallocketaway—‘Tryandseeforyourself,mydarlinglittle
girl.’
ThelocketisencodedwithaGenericSpringDay,TheLovers,RiverBank—it
could be anywhere, it could be any two young people in any country in the
world,GenericSamplerNumberTwo,versionohthreepointfivesix,andwhen
Mrs. Pongboon pops the lock she can adjust the setting. Encode: Laotian-
specific.Encode:Boy-Girl(shetakesahunch,you’dbesurprisedhowoftenit
doesn’tpayoff)—‘Here,givemeyourpalm,littlemiss,littlemadam,closeyour
fingers,closeyoureyes—canyoufeelit?’(butofcourseshecan).
‘Oh,’thegirlsays,andthen—‘Oh.’
‘Andonceyouputitthere,’Mrs.Pongboonsays,‘it’sgone.Likethat.’She
triestosnapherfingersbutthehumiditymakeshersweatandherfingersmerely
slipoffeachotherlikecarelessdancers.‘Untilyouwantitagain.’
Itiscalledtransference,ofcourseitdoes,thoughofcourseitisnotexactly
that. Mrs. Pongboon has a device, yes she does, and what the device does, is
copy—how clever, those Chinese across the border!—is copy-and-delete. Not
strictlylegal,allthismessingwiththehumanbrain—recordingneuronsasthey
fire their zero-one-zero-one emissions, even worse, resetting them inside the
tendergooeymassofbrain,erasingthepatterninside—butwhatpricecanyou
putonhumanhappiness?
‘Foramodestsum,’Mrs.Pongboonsays,andpatsthegirlreassuringlyonthe
shoulder,removingthelocketfromherhandatthesametime,‘amostmodest
amount,youcouldputawaywhateveryoudesire.’
‘Therewas—’thegirlsays,andblushes—sheisquitepretty,Mrs.Pongboon
thinks,inaplainsortofway—‘therewasthisboy…’
Howoftenhadsheheardthat!Always,theywishtoconfideinher,likeinthe
old-days psychologists, the ones who came up with the term. But this
transferenceisscientific,notthemambo-jumboofoldspellsandmake-believe.
Thisisreal.AndMrs.Pongboondoesnotwanttoheartheirstories.Thedayis
longandthesunishotandMrs.Pongboonwantsacoolbagoficewithastraw
pokingoutandabottleofPepsipouredinsideit,andbesidesshehadheardthe
samestoryathousandandonetimesbefore.
‘Youpoordarling,’shesays,‘youarelikeastring.’
Thegirllooksupather,bigroundeyesconfused—isthathowyoulookedat
him,Mrs.Pongboonthinksuncharitably,isthathowyoulookedathimwhenhe
charmedyoubythebanksoftheMekong?—andsays,‘Idon’tunderstand.’
‘Science,’Mrs.Pongboonsays,withquietdignityonecouldpossiblyconfuse
forself-importance.‘Itsayseverythingismadeofstring.’
‘Ofcourse,’thegirlsays,andMrs.Pongboonnoticesthat,indeed,thegirlis
wearingthree—orisitfour?—whitecottonstringstiedtoherwrist(nowthatthe
sleeve is pulled back a little)—tied for her by a monk or an aunt in the basi
ceremony,forluckandtheappeasingthefamily’sspirits.Shenods,becauseshe
approves of tradition, and preserving the old ways, and because she has the
memory of a memory (the thing itself locked away in an earring back in her
drawer)ofthelaststringhermotherhadtiedforher,whenMrs.Pongboonwas
stillyoung,beforehermother…butshenolongerremembers,anditisbetter
that way, sometimes. ‘Science,’ Mrs. Pongboon says again, and then falters,
havinglost herplace. ‘Strings,’she triesagain. ‘Everythingis madeof string.
Thoughts, feelings, memories, they are strings of numbers in the brain. And
science has proved that strings—even when they seem perfect (like you, you
beautifulchild!)—willcomeoutallinknots.Whateverwedo,lifetakesus(so
saysthegreatphilosopherMrs.Pongboon!)andtiesusintoknots.Thisway—’
andshepointstothelocket,likeamagicianatacoinabouttodisappear—‘isjust
awaysciencehasofsmoothingouttheknots.’Andshethinks—forawhileat
least.Shedoesnottellthegirls,buttherewillalwaysbeknots.Thatiscalled—
she had memorized it in English—it is called the spontaneous knotting of an
agitatedstring.‘That’sascientificfact,’shesays,outloud.
‘How…howmuch?’thegirlsays,andMrs.Pongboonsmileskindly(joyful
inside,abiteonthebait!)andnamesaprice,andthegirllookstakenaback,but
thenrallies,andsheoffersadifferentprice,andMrs.Pongboonshakesherhead
mournfullybutagreestolowerheroffer,andthegirlraiseshers—notsostupid
afterall,thisone!—andtheyarriveatapricethatwasmoreorlesswhatMrs.
Pongboonhadhopedfor—maybeaddtenpercent.
‘Willithurt?’thegirlsays.
‘Notatall,’Mrs.Pongboonsays.Shepullsoutthedanglingwiresfromher
backpack and attaches them to the girl’s temples. The girl pulls back, then
relaxes.Thegeladheresitselftoherskin—itisalmostanimal-likeinthewayit
moves, until it settles, becomes still, and—‘Just think of it, bring it to the
forefrontofyourmind—’thegirlisvisiblyconcentrating,teethbitinglowerlip,
italmost makes Mrs. Pongboon smile, almost butnot quite—‘there, I can see
youhaveit—’
Andshepressesabutton.It’saseasyasthat.Andthegirlseemstosag,and
thereisawhirringsoundfromthebackpack,andthat’sit.‘Isitgone?’thegirl
says,andthenshesmiles,andthenshefrowns,andshesays,‘Therewas…I
waswith…’
‘When you want to remember,’ Mrs. Pongboon says, gently pulling the
quiveringgel-endsback,thetentaclesofthememory-nagawithdrawingintoits
backpack—‘justholdthistoyourhead—’andshereachesbackandthelocket
popsout,aprettylittlething(justlikeyou,mydarlinggirl!)andhandsittoher.
‘CanI…canItryit?’
‘Doyoureallywantto?’
Thegirlsmiles,andshakesherhead,andsays,‘No.Notnow…’andthereisa
fainttraceofregretinhervoice.InMrs.Pongboon’sexperience,therealwaysis.
Thegirlpaysher,andMrs.Pongboonwaddlesaway,thesweatstreamingdown
her face, and she thinks about that ice-cold Pepsi in a bag, with the straw
stickingout,justwhatamatureladyneedsinthesetroubledtimes.
Shewalksawaydownthestreet,andthewindpicksup,andsheknowsitis
goingtorain.Shetakesshelterinanoodle-soupkitchen,wherethelastbreakfast
dinersarenoisilyfinishingofftheirbowls.Mrs.PongboonordersherPepsiand
whileshewaitsshethinksofalltheboysandallthegirlswho’dhadtheirhearts
broken,aspontaneousknotformingontheagitatedstringsoftheirhearts.She
touchesherownprivatelocketand,whenshebringsittoherhead,shecanhear
thesoundoftheMekongatsunset,thewavesnibblingattheshore,thesoundof
distant pop music from the other bank which is Thailand. She can hear the
crickets’marchingbandandthefrogs’militarychoirandthesoundoflaughter
andclinkingbeerglassesfromthestilt-housesupaway,andsheburiesherface
intheboy’schest,andsmellshissweatandhispassionandforamoment,even
though she is a matronly woman now and sells trinkets on the streets of
Vientiane,hashadtwohusbandsandthreekids,hadburiedparents,friends,had
sufferedlossandpainanddisappointment—forjustamoment,shefeelslikea
smoothyoungthingagain,asmoothyoungstring:onethatisyettoformasingle
agitatedknot.
TheEmperorofMars
ALLENM.STEELE
Allen Steele made his first sale to Asimov’s Science Fiction
magazinein1988,soonfollowingitupwithalongstringofother
sales to Asimov’s as well as to markets such as Analog, The
MagazineofFantasy&ScienceFiction,andScienceFictionAge.
In1990,hepublishedhiscriticallyacclaimedfirstnovel,Orbital
Decay,whichsubsequentlywontheLocusAwardforBestFirst
Noveloftheyear,andsoonSteelewasbeingcomparedtoGolden
AgeHeinleinbynolessanauthoritythanGregoryBenford.His
other books include the novels Clarke County, Space; Lunar
Descent; Labyrinth of Night; The Weight; The Tranquility
Alternative;AKingofInfiniteSpace;Oceanspace;Chronospace;
Coyote; Coyote Rising; Spindrift; Galaxy Blues; and Coyote
Horizon. His short work has been gathered in three collections,
Rude Astronauts, Sex and Violence in Zero-G, and The Last
ScienceFictionWriter. His most recent book isa new novel in
the Coyote sequence, Coyote Destiny. Coming up is another
Coyotenovel,Hex.HewonaHugoAwardin1996forhisnovella
“TheDeathofCaptainFuture,”andanotherHugoin1998forhis
novella “… Where Angels Fear to Tread.” Born in Nashville,
Tennessee, he has worked for a variety of newspapers and
magazines, covering science and business assignments, and is
nowafull-timewriterlivinginWhately,Massachusetts,withhis
wife,Linda.
Inthestorythatfollows,hedoesanicejobofcreatingavalid
science fiction story that also functions as an exercise in retro
Barsoomnostalgiaandasanintriguingpsychologicalstudy,allat
thesametime.
Outhere,there’salotofwaystogocrazy.Getcoopedupinapassengermodule
notmuchlargerthanatrailer,andbythetimeyoureachyourdestinationyou
mayhavecometobelievethattheuniverseexistsonlywithinyourownmind:
it’scalledsolipsismsyndrome,andI’veseenithappenacoupleoftimes.Share
thatsamemodulewithfiveorsixguyswhodon’tgetalongverywell,andafter
threemonthsyou’llbesleepingwith aknifetapedtoyour thigh.Pulldouble-
shifts during that time, with little chance to relax, and you’ll probably suffer
from depression; couple this with vitamin deficiency due to a lousy diet, and
you’reacandidateforchronicfatiguesyndrome.
Folkswho’veneverleftEarthoftenthinkthatTitanPlagueisthemainreason
peoplegomad inspace. They’rewrong.Titan Plaguemay rot yourbrain and
turnyouintoahomicidalmaniac,butinstancesofitarerare,andthere’sadozen
other ways to go bonzo that are much more subtle. I’ve seen guys adopt
imaginary friends with whom they have long and meaningless conversations,
compulsivelycleantheirhardsuitsregardlessofwhetherornotthey’verecently
wornthem,orgoforaroutinespacewalkandhavetobebeggedtocomeback
intotheairlock.Some peoplejustaren’tcut outforlife awayfromEarth, but
there’snowaytopredictwho’sgoingtolosetheirmind.
Whensomethinglikethathappens,Ihaveasetofstandardprocedures:ask
thedoctortoprescribeantidepressants,keepaneyeonthemtomakesurethey
don’t do anything that might put themselves or others at risk, relieve them of
dutyifIcan,andseewhatIcandoaboutgettingthembackhomeassoonas
possible.SometimesIdon’thavetodoanyofthis.Aguygoescrazyforalittle
while,andthenhegraduallyworksoutwhateveritwasthatgotinhishead;the
nexttimeIseehim,he’sinthecommissary,eatingCheerioslikenothingever
happened.Mostofthetime,though,amentalbreakdownisaseriousmatter.I
think I’ve shipped back about one out of every twenty people because of one
issueoranother.
Butonetime,Isawsomeonegomad,anditwasthebestthingthatcouldhave
happenedtohim.ThatwasJeffHalbert.Letmetellabouthim…
Backin’48,IwasGeneralManagerofArsiaStation,thefirstandlargestof
theMarscolonies.ThiswasayearbeforetheformationofthePaxAstra,about
fiveyearsbeforethecoloniesdeclaredindependence.SothesixmajorMartian
settlementswerestillunder control ofoneEarth-based corporationoranother,
withArsiaStationownedandoperatedbyConSpace.Wehadaboutahundred
people living there by then, the majority short-timers on short-term contracts;
only a dozen or so, like myself, were permanent residents who left Earth for
good.
Jeffwasn’toneofthem.Likemostpeople,he’dcometoMarstomakealotof
money in a relatively short amount of time. Six months from Earth to Mars
aboardacycleship,twoyearsontheplanet,thensixmoremonthsbacktoEarth
aboardthenextshiptomakethecrossingduringthebi-annuallaunchwindow.
Inthreeyears,ayoungbucklikehimcouldearnenoughdoughtobuyahouse,
startabusiness,investinthestockmarket,ormaybejustloafforagoodlong
while.Inprevioustimes,theywould’veworkedonoff-shoreoilrigs,joinedthe
merchant marine, or built powersats; by mid-century, this kind of high-risk,
high-payingworkwasonMars,andtherewasnoshortageofguyswillingand
readytodoit.
JeffHalbertwaswhatwecalleda“Marsmonkey.”Wehadalotofpeoplelike
him at Arsia Station, and they took care of the dirty jobs that the scientists,
engineers,andotherspecialistscouldnotorwouldnothandlethemselves.One
daytheymightbeoperatingabulldozeroracraneatahabitatconstructionsite.
The next day, they’d be unloading freight from a cargo lander that had just
touched down. The day after that, they’d be cleaning out the air vents or
repairingasolararrayorunpluggingatoilet.Itwasn’tromanticorparticularly
interestingwork,butitwasthesortofstuffthatneededtobedoneinorderto
keepthebasegoing,andbecauseofthat,kidslikeJeffwereinvaluable.
AndJeffwasdefinitelyakid.Inhisearlytwenties,wiryandalmosttootallto
wearahardsuit,helookedlikehe’dstartedshavingonlylastweek.Beforehe
droppedoutofschooltogetajobwithConSpace,Idon’tthinkhe’dtravelled
morethanafewhundredmilesfromthesmalltowninNewHampshirewhere
he’dgrownup.Ididn’tknowhimwell,butIknewhistype:restless,lookingfor
adventure,hopingtoscoreasmallpileoflootsothathecoulddosomethingelse
withtherestofhislifebesideshangoutinapoolhall.Heprobablyhadn’teven
thoughtmuchaboutMarsbeforehespottedaConSpacerecruitmentadonsome
web site; he had two years of college, though, and met all the fitness
requirements, and that was enough to get him into the training program and,
eventually,aberthaboardacycleship.
Before Jeff left Earth, he filled out and signed all the usual company
paperwork. Among them was Form 36-B: Family Emergency Notification
Consent.ConSpacerequiredeveryonetostatewhetherornottheywantedtobe
informedofamajorillnessordeathofafamilymemberbackhome.Thiswas
something a lot of people didn’t take into consideration before they went to
Mars,butnonethelessitwasanissuethathadtobeaddressed.Ifyoufoundout,
forinstance,thatyourfatherwasabouttodie,therewasn’tmuchyoucoulddo
aboutit, because you’dbe at least35 million milesfrom home. The best you
coulddowouldbetosendabriefmessagethatsomeonemightbeabletoreadto
himbeforehepassedaway;youwouldn’tbeabletoattendthefuneral,andit
wouldbemanymonths,evenayearortwo,beforeyoucouldlayrosesonhis
grave.
MostpeoplesignedForm36-Bonthegroundsthatthey’dratherknowabout
somethinglikethisthanbekeptinthedarkuntiltheyreturnedhome.Jeffdid,
too,butI’dlaterlearnedthathehadn’treaditfirst.Forhim,ithadbeenjustone
morepieceofpaperthatneededtobesignedbeforeheboardedtheshuttle,not
tobetakenanymoreseriouslythanthecatastrophicaccidentdisclaimerorthe
formattestingthathedidn’thaveanysortofvenerealdisease.
Heprobablywishedhehadn’tsignedthatdamnform.Buthedid,anditcost
himhissanity.
***
JeffhadbeenonMarsforonlyaboutsevenmonthswhenamessagewasrelayed
fromConSpace’shumanresourcesoffice.Iknewaboutitbecauseacopywas
cc’dtome.TheminuteIreadit,IdroppedwhatIwasdoingtoheadstraightfor
Hab 2’s second level, which was where the monkey house—that is, the
dormitoryforunspecializedlaborerslikeJeff—waslocated.Ididn’thavetoask
whichbunkwashis;themomentIwalkedin,Ispottedaknotofpeoplestanding
aroundayoungguyslumpedonthisbunk,staringindisbeliefatthefaxinhis
hands.
Until then, I didn’t know, nor did anyone at Arsia Station, that Jeff had a
fiancébackhome,anicegirlnamedKarenwhomhe’dmetinhighschooland
whohadagreedtomarryhimaboutthesametimehe’dsenthisapplicationto
ConSpace.Oncehegotthejob,theydecidedtopostponetheweddinguntilhe
returned,evenifitmeanthavingtoputtheirplansonholdforthreeyears.One
ofthereasonswhyJeffdecidedtogetajobonMars,infact,wastoprovidea
nesteggforhimandKaren.Andthey’dneedit,too;aboutthreeweeksbefore
Jefftookoff,Kareninformedhim that shewaspregnant andthathe’d have a
childwaitingforhimwhenhegothome.
He’d kept this a secret, mainly because he knew that the company would
annulhiscontractifitlearnedthathehadababyontheway.BothJeff’sfamily
andKaren’sknewallaboutthebaby,though,andtheydecidedtopretendthat
Jeff was still on Earth, just away on a long business trip. Until he returned,
they’dtakecareofKaren.
Aboutthreemonthsbeforethebabywasdue,thetwofamiliesdecidedtohost
ababyshower.ThepartywastobeheldatthehomeofoneofJeff’suncles—
apparently he was the only relative with a house big enough for such a get-
together—and Karen was on her way there, in a car driven by Jeff’s parents,
when tragedy struck. Some habitual drunk who’d learned how to disable his
car’s high-alcohol lockout, and therefore was on the road when he shouldn’t
havebeen,plowedstraightintothem.Thedrunkwalkedawaywithnomorethan
a sprained neck, but his victims were nowhere nearly so lucky. Karen, her
unbornchild,Jeff’smotherandfather—alldiedbeforetheyreachedthehospital.
There’s not a lot you can say to someone who’s just lost his family that’s
goingtomeanverymuch.I’msorrybarelyscratchesthesurface.Iunderstand
whatyou’regoingthroughisridiculous;Iknowhowyoufeelisinsulting.Andis
thereanythingIcandotohelp?ispointlessunlessyouhaveatimemachine;ifI
did,IwouldhavelentittoJeff,sothathecouldtravelbacktwenty-fourhoursto
callhisfolksandbegthemtoputoffpickingupKarenbyonlyfifteenortwenty
minutes.Buteveryonesaidthesethingsanyway,becausetherewasn’tmuchelse
thatcouldbesaid,andIrelievedJeffoffurtherdutiesuntilhefeltlikehewas
readytogotoworkagain,becausetherewaslittleelseIcoulddoforhim.The
nextcycleshipwasn’tduetoreachMarsforanotherseventeenmonths;bythe
timehegothome,hisparentsandKarenwouldbedeadfornearlytwoyears.
ToJeff’scredit,hewasbackonthejobwithinafewdays.Maybeheknew
thattherewasnothinghecoulddoexceptwork,ormaybehejustgottiredof
staringatthewalls.Inanycase,onemorningheputonhissuit,cycledthrough
theairlock,andwentoutsidetohelptherestofthemonkeysdigapitforthenew
septic tank. But he wasn’t the same easy-going kid we’d known before; no
wisecracks,nogoofingoff,notevenanygripesaboutthehoursittooktomake
thatdamnholeandhowhe’dbettergetovertimeforthis.Hewaslikearobotout
there,silentlydiggingatthesandyredgroundwithashovel,untilthepitwas
finally finished, at which point he dropped his tools and, without a word,
returnedtothehab,whereheclimbedoutofhissuitandwenttothemesshall
forsomechow.
Acoupleofweekswentby,andtherewasnochange.Jeffsaidlittletoanyone.
Heate,worked,slept,andthatwasaboutit.Whenyoulookedintohiseyes,all
you saw was a distant stare. If he’d broken down in hysterics, I would’ve
understood, but there wasn’t any of that. It was as if he’d shut down his
emotions,suppressingwhateverhewasfeelinginside.
Thestationhadaprettygoodhospitalbythen,largeenoughtoserveallthe
colonies,andArsiaGeneral’sseniorpsychologisthadbegunmeetingwithJeff
on a regular basis. Three days after Jeff went back to work, Karl Rosenfeld
dropped by my office. His report was grim; Jeff Halbert was suffering from
severe depression, to the point that he was barely responding to medication.
Although he hadn’t spoken of suicide, Dr. Rosenfeld had little doubt that the
notionhadoccurredtohim.AndIknewthat,ifJeffdiddecidetokillhimself,all
he’dhavetodowaswaituntilthenexttimehewentoutside,thenshutdownhis
suit’sairsupplyandcrackopenthehelmetfaceplate.Onedeepbreath,andthe
Martianatmospherewoulddotherest;he’dbedeadbeforeanyonecouldreach
him.
“Youwantmyadvice?”Karlasked,sittingontheothersideofmydeskwitha
glass of moonshine in hand. “Find something that’ll get his mind off what
happened.”
“Youthinkthathasn’toccurredtome?Believeme,I’vetried…”
“Yeah,Iknow.Hetoldme.Butextraworkshiftsaren’thelping,andneither
arevidsorgames.”Hewasquietforamoment,“IfIthoughtsexwouldhelp,”
headded,“I’daskagirlIknowtohaulhimofftobed,butthatwouldjustmake
mattersworse.Hisfiancéwastheonlywomanheeverloved,andit’llprobably
bealongtimebeforehesleepswithanyoneagain.”
“Sowhatdoyouwantmetodo?”Igaveahelplessshrug.“C’mon,givemea
cluehere.Iwanttohelpthekid,butI’moutofideas.”
“Well…Ilookedatthedutyroster,andsawthatyou’vescheduledasurvey
missionfornextweek.Somethingupnorth,Ibelieve.”
“Uh-huh.I’msendingateamuptheretoseeiftheycanlocateanewwater
supply.Oh,andoneoftheengineerswantstomakeaside-triptolookatanold
NASAprobe.”
“SoputJeffonthemission.”Karlsmiled.“They’regoingtoneedamonkey
ortwoanyway.Maybetravelwilldohimsomegood.”
Hissuggestionwasasgoodasany,soIpulledupthesurveyassignmentlist,
deletedthenameofonemonkey,andinsertedJeffHalbert’sinstead.Ifiguredit
couldn’thurt,andIwasright.Andalsowrong.
***
SoJeffwasputonatwo-weeksortiethattravelledabovethe60thparalleltothe
VastitasBorealis,thesubarcticregionthatsurroundstheMartiannorthpole.The
purpose of the mission was to locate a site for a new well. Although most of
ArsiaStation’swatercamefromatmosphericcondensersandourgreenhouses,
we needed more than they could supply, which was why we drilled artesian
wellsin the permafrost beneath thenorthern tundra andpump groundwater to
surfacetanks,whichinturnwouldbepickeduponamonthlybasis.Everyfew
yearsorso,oneofthosewellswouldrundry;whenthathappened,we’dhaveto
sendateamuptheretodiganewone.
Twoairshipsmadethetrip,theSaganandtheCollins.JeffHalbertwasaboard
theCollins,andaccordingtoitscaptain,whowasalsothemissionleader,hedid
hisjobwell.Overthecourseoftendays,thetwodirigiblesroamedthetundra,
stoppingeverytenorfifteenmilessothatcrewscouldgetoutandconducttest
drills that would bring up a sample of what lay beneath the rocky red soil. It
wasn’thardwork,really,anditgaveJeffachancetoseethenorthernregions.
Yet he was quiet most of the time, rarely saying much to anyone; in fact, he
seemedtobeboredbythewholething.Theotherpeopleontheexpeditionwere
awareofwhathadrecentlyhappenedtohim,ofcourse,andtheyattemptedto
drawhimoutofhisshell,butafterawhileitbecameobviousthathejustdidn’t
wanttotalk,andsotheyfinallygaveupandlefthimalone.
Then,ontheeleventhdayofthemission,twodaysbeforetheexpeditionwas
scheduledtoreturntoArsia,theCollinslocatedthePhoenixlander.
This was a NASA probe that landed back in ’08, the first to confirm the
presence of subsurface ice on Mars. Unlike many of the other American and
European probes that explored Mars before the first manned expeditions,
Phoenixdidn’thavearover;instead,itusedaroboticarmtodigdownintothe
regolith,scoopingupsamplesthatwereanalyzedbyitsonboardchemicallab.
Theprobewasactiveforonlyafewmonthsbeforeitsbatterydiedduringthe
long Martian winter, but it was one of the milestones leading to human
colonization.
Astheyexpected,theexpeditionmembersfoundPhoenixhalf-buriedbeneath
windblown sand and dust, with only its upper platform and solar vanes still
exposed. Nonetheless, the lander was intact, and although it was too big and
heavy to be loaded aboard the airship, the crew removed its arm to be taken
homeandaddedtothebasemuseum.Andtheyfoundonemorething;theMars
library.
Duringthe1990s,whilethevariousMarsmissionswerestillintheirplanning
stages,thePlanetarySocietyhadmadeaproposaltoNASA:oneofthoseprobes
shouldcarryaDVDcontainingacacheofliterature,visualimages,andaudio
recordingspertainingtoMars.Theostensivepurposewouldbetofurnishfuture
colonistswithalibraryfortheirentertainment,buttheunspokenreasonwasto
pay tribute to the generations of writers, artists, and filmmakers whose works
hadinspiredthereal-lifeexplorationofMars.
NASAwent along withthis proposal, so a custom-designedDVD, made of
silica glass to ensure its long-term survival, was prepared for inclusion on a
futuremission.Apanelselected84novels,shortstories,articles,andspeeches,
withtheauthorsrangingfrom18thcenturyfantasistslikeSwiftandVoltaireto
20thcenturysciencefictionauthorslikeNivenandBenford.Adigitalgalleryof
60 visual images—including everything from paintings by Bonestell,
Emshwiller,andWhelantoalobbycardfromaFlashGordonserialandacover
ofaWeirdSciencecomicbook—waschosenaswell.Thefinaltouchwerefour
audioclips,themostnotableofwhichweretheinfamous1938radiobroadcast
ofTheWaroftheWorldsandadiscussionofthesamebetweenH.G.Wellsand
OrsonWelles.
Nowcalled“VisionsofMars,”thediskwasoriginallyplacedaboardNASA’s
MarsPolarLander,butthatprobewasdestroyedwhenitsboosterfailedshortly
after launch and it crashed in the Atlantic. So an identical copy was put on
Phoenix, and this time it succeeded in getting to Mars. And so the disk had
remainedintheVastitasBorealisforthepastfortyyears,awaitingthedaywhen
ahumanhandwouldremoveitfromitsplaceonPhoenix’supperfuselage.
AndthathandhappenedtobeJeffHalbert’s.
Thefunnythingis,nooneontheexpeditionknewthediskwasthere.Ithad
been forgotten by then, its existence buried deep within the old NASA
documentsI’dbeensentfromEarth,soIhadn’ttoldanyonetoretrieveit.And
besides,mostoftheguysontheCollinsweremoreinterestedintakingalookat
anantiquelanderthantheDVDthathappenedtobeattachedtoit.SowhenJeff
foundthediskanddetacheditfromPhoenix,itwasn’tlikehe’dmadeamajor
find.Theattitudeofalmosteveryoneonthemissionwasoh,yeah,that’skindof
neat…takeithomeandseewhat’sonit.
Which was easier said than done. DVD drives had been obsolete for more
than twenty years, and the nearest flea market where one might find an old
computerthathadonewas…well,itwasn’tonMars.ButJefflookedaround,
and eventually he found a couple of dead comps stashed in a storage closet,
salvageleftoverfromthefirstexpeditions.Neitherwereusableontheirown,
butwiththeaidofaservicemanual,hewasabletoswapoutenoughpartstoget
oneofthemupandrunning,andonceitwasoperational,heremovedthedisk
fromitsscratchedcaseandgentlysliditintotheslot.Oncehewassurethatthe
datawasintactandhadn’tdecayed,hedownloadedeverythingintohispersonal
pad. And then, at random, he selected one of the items on the menu—“The
MartianWay”byIsaacAsimov—andbegantoread.
WhydidJeffgotosomuchtrouble?Perhapshewantedsomethingtodowith
hisfreetimebesidesmournforthedead.Ormaybehewantedtoshowtheothers
who’dbeenontheexpeditionthattheyshouldn’thaveignoredthedisk.Idon’t
knowforsure,soIcan’ttellyou.AllIknowisthatthediskfirstinterestedhim,
thenintriguedhim,andfinallyobsessedhim.
***
IttookawhileformetobecomeawareofthechangeinJeff.AsmuchasIwas
concernedforhim,hewasoneofmylesserproblems.Asgeneralmanager,on
anygivendayIhadadozenormoredifferentmattersthatneededmyattention,
whetheritbemakingsurethattheairrecyclingsystemwasrepairedbeforewe
suffocatedtodeathorfillingoutanotherstackofformssentfromHuntsville.So
Jeff wasn’t always on my mind; when I didn’t hear from Dr. Rosenfeld for
awhile,Ifiguredthatthetwoofthemhadmanagedtoworkouthisissues,and
turnedtootherthings.
Still,therewerewarningsigns,stuffthatInoticedbuttowhichIdidn’tpay
much attention. Like the day I was monitoring the radio crosstalk from the
monkeyslayingsewagepipesinthefoundationofHabThree,andhappenedto
hearJeffidentifyhimselfasLieutenantGulliverJones.Themonkeyssometimes
screwedaroundlikethatonthecomchannels,andtheforemantoldHalbertto
knock it off and use his proper call sign … but when Jeff answered him, his
responsewasweird:“Aye,sir.Iwassimplyruminatingonthe rather peculiar
environmentinwhichwe’vefoundourselves.”HeevenfakedaBritishaccentto
match the Victorian diction. That got a laugh from the other monkeys, but
nonethelessIwonderedwhoGulliverJoneswasandwhyJeffwaspretendingto
behim.
TherewasalsothetimeJeffwasoutonadozer,clearingawaythesandthat
had been deposited on the landing field during a dust storm a couple of days
earlier.AnotherroutinejobtowhichIhadn’tbeenpayingmuchattentionuntil
theshiftsupervisoratthecommandcenterpagedme:“Chief,there’ssomething
goingonwithHalbert.Youmightwanttolistenin.”
SoItapped into thecomlink,and therewasJeff:“Affirmative,MainCom.I
justsawsomethingmoveoutthere,aboutahalf-klicknorthoftheperiphery.”
“Rogerthat,TigerFour-Oh,”thesupervisorsaid.“Canyoudescribeagain,
please?”
Apause,then:“Abigcreature,abuttenfeettall,witheightlegs.Andthere
wasawomanridingit…red-skinned,and—”anabruptlaugh“—starknaked,
orjustabout.”
Something tugged at my memory, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.
Whentheshift supervisorspoke again,his voice hada patronizingundertone.
“Yeah…uh,right,TigerFour-Oh.WejustcheckedtheLRC,though,andthere’s
nothingonthescopeexceptyou.”
“They’re gone now. Went behind a boulder and vanished.” Another laugh,
almostgleeful.“Buttheywereoutthere,Ipromise!”
“Affirmative,Four-Oh.”Abriefpause.“Ifyouhappentoseeanymorethoats,
letusknow,okay?”
That’swhenIremembered.WhatJeffhaddescribedwasabeastfromEdgar
RiceBurroughs’Marsnovels.Andthewomanridingit?Thatcouldhaveonly
beenDejahThoris.AlmosteveryonewhocametoMarsreadBurroughsatone
pointoranother,butthiswasthefirsttimeI’deverheardofanyoneclaimingto
haveseenthePrincessofHelium.
Obviously,Jeffhadtakentoplayingpracticaljokes.Imadeamentalnoteto
saysomethingtohimaboutthat,butthenforgotaboutit.AsIsaid,onanygiven
day I handled any number of different crises, and someone messing with his
supervisor’sheadrankedlowonmyprioritylist.
Butthatwasn’ttheendofit.Infact,itwasonlythebeginning.Acoupleof
weekslater,Ireceivedamemofromthequartermaster:someonehadtendereda
requesttobetransferredtoprivatequarters,eventhoughthatwasabovehispay-
grade.AtArsiainthosedays,beforewegotallthehabsbuilt,individualrooms
were at a premium and were generally reserved for management, senior
researchers, married couples, company stooges, and so forth. In this case,
though, the other guys in this particular person’s dorm had signed a petition
backing his request, and the quartermaster himself wrote that, for the sake of
morale,hewasrecommendingthatthisindividualbeassignedhisownroom.
Iwasn’tsurprisedtoseethatJeffHalbertwasthepersonmakingtherequest.
Bythen,I’dnoticedthathispersonalityhadundergoneadistinctchange.He’d
let his hair grow long, eschewing the high-and-tight style preferred by people
whospentalotoftimewearingahardsuithelmet.Herarelysharedatablewith
anyoneelseinthewardroom,andinsteadatebyhimself,staringathisdatapad
the entire time. And he was now talking to himself on the comlink. No more
reportsofMartianprincessesridingeight-leggedanimals,butratherasnatchof
this (“The Martians seem to have calculated their descent with amazing
subtlety…”)orabitofthat(“TheMartiansgazedbackupatthemforalong,
longsilenttimefromtheripplingwater…”)whichmostpeoplewouldn’thave
recognizedasbeingquotesfromWellsorBradbury.
Soitwasnowondertheothermonkeyhouseresidentswantedtogetridof
him.BeforeIsignedtherequest,though,IpaidDr.Rosenfeldavisit.Thestation
psychologistdidn’thavetoaskwhyIwasthere;heaskedmetoshutthedoor,
thenletmeknowwhathethoughtaboutJeff.
“Totellthetruth,”hebegan,“Ican’ttellifhe’sgettingbetterorworse.”
“Ican.Look,I’mnoshrink,butifyouaskme,he’sgettingworse.”
Karl shook his head. “Not necessarily. Sure, his behavior is bizarre, but at
leastwenolongerhavetoworryaboutsuicide.Infact,he’soneofthehappiest
people we have here. He rarely speaks about his loss anymore, and when I
remind him that his wife and parents are dead, he shrugs it off as if this was
something that happened a long time ago. In his own way, he’s quite content
withlife.”
“Andyoudon’tthinkthat’sstrange?”
“Sure,Ido…especiallysincehe’sadmittedtomethathe’dstoppedtaking
theantidepressantsIprescribedtohim.Andthat’sthebadnews.Perhapsheisn’t
depressed anymore, or at least by clinical standards … but he’s becoming
delusional,tothepointofactuallyhavinghallucinations.”
Istaredathim.“Youmean,thetimeheclaimedhespottedDejahThoris…
you’resayingheactuallysawthat?”
“Yes,Ibelieveso.Andthatgavemeaclueastowhat’sgoingoninhismind.”
Karl picked up a penknife, absently played with it. “Ever since he found that
disk,he’sbecomeutterlyobsessedwithit.SoIaskedhimifhe’dletmecopyit
fromhispad,whichhedid,andafterIaskedhimwhathewasreading,Ichecked
itoutformyself.AndwhatIdiscoveredwasthat,ofallthenovelsandstories
thatareonthedisk,theonesthatattracthimthemostarealsotheonesthatare
leastrepresentativeofreality.Thatis,thestuffthat’saboutMars,butnotaswe
knowit.”
“Comeagain?”Ishookmyhead.“Idon’tunderstand.”
“Howmuchsciencefictionhaveyouread?”
“Alittle.Notmuch.”
“Well,luckyforyou,I’vereadquiteabit.”Hegrinned.“Infact,youcould
saythat’swhyI’mhere.IgothookedonthatstuffwhenIwasakid,andbythe
timeIgotoutofcollege,I’dprettymuchdecidedthatIwantedtoseeMars.”He
became serious again. “Okay, try to follow me. Although people have been
writing about Mars since the 1700s, it wasn’t until the first Russian and
Americanprobesgotouthereinthe1960sthatanyoneknewwhatthisplaceis
reallylike.Thatabsenceofknowledgegavewritersandartiststhelibertytofill
in the gap with their imaginations … or at least until they learned better.
Understand?”
“Sure.”Ishrugged.“Beforethe1960s,youcouldhaveMartians.Afterthat,
youcouldn’thaveMartiansanymore.”
“Umm…well,notexactly.”Karlliftedhishand,teetereditbackandforth.
“One of the best stories on the disk is ‘A Rose For Ecclesiastes’ by Roger
Zelazny. It was written in 1963, and it has Martians in it. And some stories
writtenbeforethenwereprettyclosetogettingitright.Butfor the mostpart,
yes…thefictionalviewofMarschangeddramaticallyinthesecondhalfofthe
last century, and although it became more realistic, it also lost much of its
romanticism.”
Karl folded the penknife, dropped it on his desk. “Those aren’t the stories
Jeff’sreading.GregBear’s‘AMartianRicorso,’ArthurC.Clarke’s‘Transitof
Earth,’JohnVarley’s‘IntheHalloftheMartianKings’…anythingsimilarto
theMarsweknow,heignores.Why?Becausetheyremindhimofwhereheis…
andthat’snotwherehewantstobe.”
“So…” I thought about it for a moment. “He’s reading the older stuff
instead?”
“Right.”Karlnodded.“StanleyWeinbaum’s‘AMartianOdyssey,’OtisAlbert
Kline’s‘TheSwordsmanofMars,’A.E.vanVogt’s‘TheEnchantedVillage’…
themoreunreal,themorehelikesthem.Becausethosestoriesaren’taboutthe
drab,lifelessplanetwherehe’sstuck,butinsteadaplanetofnativeMartians,lost
cities,canalsystems…”
“Okay,Igetit.”
“No,Idon’tthinkyoudo…becauseI’mnotsureIdo,either,excepttosay
thatJeffappearstobeleavingus.Everyday,he’stakingonemorestepintothis
otherworld…andIdon’tthinkhe’scomingbackagain.”
Istaredathim,notquitebelievingwhatI’djustheard.“Jeez,Karl…whatam
Igoingtodo?”
“Whatcanyoudo?”Heleanedbackinhischair.“Notmuch,really.Look,I’ll
bestraightwithyou…thisisbeyondme.HeneedsthekindoftreatmentthatI
can’tgivehim here. Forthat,he’s goingtohave towaituntilhe getsbackto
Earth.”
“Thenextshipisn’tdueforanotherfourteenmonthsorso.”
“Iknow…that’swhenI’mscheduledtogoback,too.Butthegoodnewsis
that he’s happy and reasonably content, and doesn’t really pose a threat to
anyone … except maybe by accident, in which case I’d recommend that you
relievehimofanydutiesthatwouldtakehimoutsidethehab.”
“Done.”Thelastthinganyoneneededwastohaveadelusionalpersonouton
thesurface.Marscanbeprettyunforgivingwhenitcomestohumanerror,anda
fatalmistakecancostyounotonlyyourownlife,butalsotheguynexttoyou.
“AndItakeitthatyourecommendthathisrequestbegranted,too?”
“Itwouldn’thurt,no.”Awrysmile.“Solongashe’soffinhisownworld,
he’llbehappy.Makehimcomfortable,givehimwhateverhewants…within
reason,atleast…andleavehimalone.I’llkeepaneyeonhimandwillletyou
knowifhisconditionchanges,forbetterorworse.”
“Hopefullyforthebetter.”
“Sure … but I wouldn’t count on it.” Karl stared straight at me. “Face it,
chief…oneofyourguysisturningintoaMartian.”
I took Jeff off the outside-work details and let it be known that he wasn’t
permitted to go marswalking without authorization or an escort, and instead
reassigned him to jobs that would keep him in the habitats: working in the
greenhouse,finishingtheinteriorofHab2,thatsortofthing.Iwaspreparedto
tellhimthathewasbeingtakenofftheoutsidedetailsbecausehe’dreachedhis
remlimitforradiationexposure,butheneverquestionedmydecisionbutonly
accepteditwiththesamequiet,spookysmilethathe’dcometogivingeveryone.
I also let him relocate to private quarters, a small room on Hab 2’s second
levelthathadbeenunoccupieduntilthen.AsIexpected,therewereafewgripes
fromthosestillhavingtosharearoomwithsomeoneelse;however,mostpeople
realizedthatJeffwasinbadshapeandneededhisprivacy.Afterhemovedin,
though, he did something I didn’t anticipate: he changed his door lock’s
password to something no one else knew. This was against station rules—the
security office and the general manager were supposed to always have
everyone’slockcodes—butKarlassuredmethatJeffmeantnoharm.Hesimply
didn’t want to have anyone enter his quarters, and it would help his peace of
mind if he received this one small exemption. I went along with it, albeit
reluctantly.
Afterthat,IhadnoproblemswithJeffforawhile.Heassumedhisnewduties
withoutcomplaint,andthereportsIreceivedfromdepartmentheadstoldmethat
hewasdoinghisworkwell.Karlupdatedmeeveryweek;hispatienthadn’tyet
shownanyindicationsofsnappingoutofhisfugue,butneitherdidheappearto
be getting worse. And although he was no longer interacting with any other
personnelexcept whenhe needed to,at leasthe was nolonger tellinganyone
about Martian princesses or randomly quoting obscure science fiction stories
overthecomlink.
Nonetheless,therewastheoccasionalincident.Suchaswhenthesupplychief
cametomewithanunusualrequestJeffhadmade:severalreamsofhemppaper,
and as much soy ink as could be spared. Since both were by-products of
greenhousecropsgrownateitherArsiaStationoroneoftheothercolonies,and
thusnotimportedfromEarth,theyweren’tparticularlyscarce.Still,whatcould
Jeffpossiblywantwiththatmuchwritingmaterial?IaskedKarlifJeffhadtold
himthathewaskeepingajournal;thedoctortoldmethathehadn’t,butunless
eitherpaperorinkwereinshortsupply,itcouldn’thurttograntthatrequest.So
Isignedoffonthisaswell,althoughItoldthesupplychieftosubtractthecost
fromJeff’ssalary.
Notlongafterthat,Iheardfromoneofthecommunicationsofficers.Jeffhad
askedhertosendageneralmemototheothercolonies:arequestfordownloads
of any Mars novels or stories that their personnel might have. The works of
Bradbury,Burroughs,andBrackettwereparticularlydesired,althoughstuffby
Moorcock,Williamson, and Sturgeon would also be appreciated. In exchange,
Jeffwouldsendstoriesandnovelshe’ddownloadedfromthePhoenixdisk.
Nothingwrongthere, either.By then, Marswas onthe oppositesideof the
SunfromEarth,soJeffcouldn’tmakethesamerequestfromHuntsville.Ifhe
was running out of reading material, then it made sense that he’d have to go
begging from the other colonies. In fact, the com officer told me she’d had
alreadyreceivedmorethanahalf-dozendownloads;apparentlyquiteafewfolks
hadMarsfictionstashedinthecomps.Nonetheless,itwasunusualenoughthat
shethoughtIshouldknowaboutit.Iaskedhertokeepmeposted,andshrugged
itoffasjustanotherofalongseriesofeccentricities.
Afewweeksafterthat,though,Jefffinallydidsomethingthatrubbedmethe
wrongway.Asusual,IheardaboutitfromDr.Rosenfeld.
“Jeffhasanewrequest,”hesaidwhenIhappenedtodropbyhisoffice.“In
the future, he would prefer to be addressed as ‘Your Majesty’ or ‘Your
Highness,’inkeepingwithhispositionastheEmperorofMars.”
Istaredathimforseveralseconds.“Surelyyou’rejoking,”Isaidatlast.
“SurelyI’mnot.HeisnowtheEmperorJefferytheFirst,sovereignmonarch
oftheGreatMartianEmpire,warlordandprotectoroftheredplanet.”Apause,
during which I expected Karl to grin and wink. He didn’t. “He doesn’t
necessarilywantanyonebowinhispresence,”headded,“buthedoes require
properrespectforthecrown.”
“Isee.”Iclosedmyeyes,rubbedthebridgeofmynosebetweenmythumb
andforefinger,andcountedtoten.“Andwhatdoesthatmakeme?”
“PrimeMinister,ofcourse.”Thedriestofsmiles.“Sincehistitleishereditary,
His Majesty isn’t interested in the day-to-day affairs of his empire. That he
leavesupto you,with thepromisethat he’llrefrainfrom meddlingwith your
decisions…”
“Oh,howfortunateIam.”
“Yes.Butfromhereon,allmatterspertainingtothethroneshouldbetakenup
withme,inmypositionasRoyalPhysicianandSeniorCourtAdvisor.”
“Uh-huh.”Istoodupfrommychair.“Well,ifyou’llexcuseme,Ithinkthe
PrimeMinisterneedstogonowandkickHisMajesty’sass.”
“Sitdown.”Karlglaredatme.“Really,Imeanit.Sit.”
Iwasunwillingtosit downagain,butneitherdid I stormoutofhis office.
“Look,Iknowhe’sasickman,butthishasgonefarenough.I’vegivenhimhis
ownroom,relievedhimofhardlabor,givenhimpaperandink…forwhat,I
stilldon’tknow,buthekeepsaskingformore…andallowedhimcomaccessto
theothercolonies.Justbecausehe’sbeentreatedlikeakingdoesn’tmeanheisa
king.”
“Oh,Iagree.WhichiswhyI’veremindedhimthathistitleishonoraryaswell
ashereditary,andassuchthere’salimittoroyalprivilege.Andheunderstands
this.Afterall,theempireisindecline,havingreacheditspeakoverathousand
yearsago,andsincethentheemperorhashadtoacceptcertainsacrificesforthe
goodofthepeople.So,no,youwon’tseehimwearingacrownandcarryinga
scepter,norwillhebedemandingthatathronebebuiltforhim.Hewantshis
reigntobebenign.”
Hearingthis, I reluctantlytook myseat again.“All right,so letme getthis
straight.Hebelievesthathe’snowaking…”
“Anemperor.There’sadifference.”
“King,emperor,whatever…he’snotgoingtobebossinganyonearound,but
willprettymuchletthingscontinueastheyare.Right?”
“Exceptthathewantstobeaddressedformally,yeah,that’sprettymuchit.”
Karlsighed,shookhishead.“Letmetrytoexplain.Jeffhascomeface-to-face
witharealitythathecannotbear.Hisparents,hisfiancé,thechildtheywanted
tohave…they’realldead,andhewastoofarawaytopreventit,orevengoto
theirfunerals.Thisisaveryharshrealitythatheneedstokeepatbay,sohe’s
builtawallaroundhimself…awallofdelusion,ifyouwill.Atfirst,ittookthe
form of an obsession with fantasy, but when that wouldn’t alone suffice, he
decidedtoenterthatfantasy,becomepartofit.ThisiswhereEmperorJeffery
theFirstoftheGreatMartianEmpirecomesin.”
“Sohe’sprotectinghimself?”
“Yes…bycreatingarolethatletshimbelievethathecontrolshisownlife.”
Karlshookhishead.“Hedoesn’twanttoactuallyrunArsia,chief.Hejustwants
topretendthathedoes.Aslongasyouallowhimthis,he’llbeallright.Trust
me.”
“Well…allright.”NotthatIhadmuchchoiceinthematter.IfIwasgoingto
haveacrazypersoninmycolony,atleastIcouldmakesurethathewouldn’t
endanger anyone. If that meant indulging him until he could be sent back to
Earth,thenthatwaswhatI’dhavetodo.“I’llpassthewordthatHisMajestyis
tobetreatedwithallduerespect.”
“That would be great. Thanks.” Karl smiled. “Y’know, people have been
prettysupportive.Ihaven’theardofanyonetauntinghim.”
“Youknowhowitis.Peopleheretendtolookoutforeachother…theyhave
to.”Istoodupandstartedtoheadforthedoor,thenanotherthoughtoccurredto
me.“Justonething.Hasheevertoldyouwhathe’sdoinginhisroom?LikeI
said,he’sbeenusingalotofpaperandink.”
“Yes,I’venoticedtheinkstainsonhisfingers.”Karlshookhishead.“No,I
don’t. I’ve asked him about that, and the only thing he’s told me is that he’s
preparingagiftfor hispeople,andthathe’llallowustoseeitwhenthetime
comes.”
“Agift?”Iraisedaneyebrow.“Anyideawhatitis?”
“Notaclue…butI’msurewe’llfindout.”
***
IkeptmypromisetoDr.RosenfeldandputoutthewordthatJeffHalbertwas
heretoforetobeknownasHisMajesty,theEmperor.AsItoldKarl,peoplewere
generallyacceptingofthis.Oh,Iheardtheoccasionalreportofsomeonegiving
Jeff some crap about this—exaggerated bows in the corridors, ill-considered
questions about who was going to be his queen, and so forth—but the jokers
whodidthis were usuallypulledaside andtoldto shut up.Everyoneat Arsia
knewthatJeffwasmentallyill,andthatthebestanyonecoulddoforhimwasto
lethimhavehisfantasylifeforaslongashewaswithus.
Bythen,Earth wasno longer onthe otherside of theSun. Onceourhome
worldandMarsbeganmovingtowardconjunction,acycleshipcouldmakethe
triphome.SoonlyafewmonthsremaineduntilJeffwouldboardashuttle.Since
Karlwouldbereturningaswell,Ifiguredhe’dbeingoodhands,oratleastthey
climbedintozombietankstohibernateforthelongridetoEarth.Untilthen,all
wehadtodowaskeepHisMajestyhappy.
Thatwasn’thardtodo.Infact,KarlandIhadalotofhelp.Oncepeoplegot
usedtotheideathatamake-believeemperorlivedamongthem,mostofthem
actuallyseemedtoenjoythepretense.Whenhewalkedthroughthehabs,folks
wouldpausewhatevertheyweredoingtonodtohimandsay“YourMajesty”or
“YourHighness.”Hewasalwaysallowedtogotothefrontoftheservinglinein
themesshall,and therewasalways someonereadyto hold hischairfor him.
AndInoticedthatheevenpickedupacoupleofconsorts,twounattachedyoung
womenwhodideverythingfromtrimhishair—ithadgrownverylongbythen,
with a regal beard to match—to assist him in the Royal Gardens (aka the
greenhouse)toaccompanyhimtotheSaturdaynightflicks.Asoneofthegirls
told me, the Emperor was the perfect date: always the gentleman, he’d
unfailinglytreatedthemwithrespectandnevertriedtotakeadvantageofthem.
WhichwasmorethancouldbesaidforsomeofthesinglemenatArsia.
After awhile, I relaxed the rule about not letting him leave the habs, and
allowed him to go outside as long as he was under escort at all times. Jeff
remembered how to put on a hardsuit,—a sign that he hadn’t completely lost
touchwithreality—andhenevergaveanyindicationthathewasonthevergeof
openinghishelmet.Butoncehewalkedafewdozenyardsfromtheairlock,he’d
oftenstopandstareintothedistanceforaverylongtime,keepinghisbackto
therestofthebaseandsayingnothingtoanyone.
Iwonderedwhathewasseeingthen.Wasitadryreddesert,coldandlifeless,
withrocksandbouldersstrewnacrossanaridplainbeneathapinksky?Ordid
heseesomethingnooneelsecould:forestsofgiantlichen,ancientcanalsupon
whichsailingvesselsslowlyglided,citiesasoldastimefromwhichJohnCarter
andTarsTarkasrodetotheirnextadventureorwheretyrantscalledforthehead
oftheoutlawEricJohnStark.Orwashethinkingofsomethingelseentirely?A
motherandafatherwho’draisedhim,awomanhe’donceloved,achildwhom
he’dneversee?
I don’t know, for the Emperor seldom spoke to me, even in my role as his
PrimeMinister.IthinkIwassomeonehewantedtoavoid,anauthorityfigure
whohadthepowertoshatterhisillusions.Indeed,inallthetimethatJeffwas
withus,Idon’tthinkheandIsaidmorethanafewwordstoeachother.Infact,
it wasn’t until the day that he finally left for Earth that he said anything of
consequencetome.
Thatmorning,IdrovehimandDr.Rosenfeldouttothelandingfield,wherea
shuttle was waiting to transport them up to the cycleship. Jeff was unusually
quiet;Icouldn’teasilyseehisexpressionthroughhishelmetfaceplate,butthe
fewglimpsesIhadtoldmethathewasn’thappy.HisMajestyknewthathewas
leavinghisempire.Karlhadn’tsoftenedtheblowbytellinghimaconvenientlie,
but instead had given him the truth: they were returning to Earth, and he’d
probablyneverseeMarsagain.
Theirbelongingshadalreadybeenloadedaboardtheshuttlewhenwearrived,
andthehandfulofotherpassengerswerewaitingtoclimbaboard.Iparkedthe
roverattheedgeofthelandingfieldandescortedJeffandKarltothespacecraft.
IshookhandswithKarlandwishedhimwell,thenturnedtoJeff.
“YourMajesty…”Ibegan.
“Youdon’thavetocallmethat,”hesaid.
“Pardonme?”
Jeff stepped closer to me. “I know I’m not really an emperor. That was
somethingIgotoverawhileago…Ijustdidn’twanttotellanyone.”
I glanced at Karl. His eyes were wide, and within his helmet he shook his
head.Thiswasnewstohim,too.“Then…youknowwhoyoureallyare?”
Abriefflickerof asmile.“I’m JeffHalbert.There’s something wrongwith
me,andIdon’treallyknowwhatitis…butIknowthatI’mJeffHalbertand
thatI’mgoinghome.”He hesitated, thenwenton.“Iknow wehaven’ttalked
much,butI…well,Dr.Rosenfeldhastoldmewhatyou’vedoneforme,andI
justwantedtothankyou.Forputtingupwithmeallthistime,andforlettingme
betheEmperorofMars.IhopeIhaven’tbeentoomuchtrouble.”
Islowlyletoutmybreath.Myfirstthoughtwasthathe’dbeenplayingmeand
everyoneelseforfools,butthenIrealizedthathismegalomaniahadprobably
beenreal,atleastforatime.Inanycase,itdidn’tmatternow;hewasonhisway
backtoEarth,thefirststepsonthelongroadtorecovery.
Indeed, many months later, I received a letter from Karl. Shortly after he
returned to Earth, Jeff was admitted to a private clinic in southern Vermont,
where he began a program of psychiatric treatment. The process had been
painful; as Karl had deduced, Jeff’s mind had repressed the knowledge of his
family’s deaths, papering over the memory with fantastical delusions he’d
derivedfromthestorieshe’dbeenreading.Theclinicpsychologistsagreedwith
Dr.Rosenfeld:itwasprobablytheretreatintofantasythatsavedJeff’slife,by
providinghimwithaplacetowhichhewasabletoescapewhenhismindwas
nolongerabletocopewithatragicreality.Andintheend,whenhenolonger
needed that illusion, Jeff returned from madness. He’d never see a Martian
princessagain,orbelievehimselftobetherulingmonarchoftheredplanet.
But that was yet to come. I bit my tongue and offered him my hand. “No
trouble,Jeff.Ijusthopeeverythingworksoutforyou.”
“Thanks.”Jeffshookmyhand,thenturnedawaytofollowKarltotheladder.
Thenhestoppedandlookedbackatmeagain.“Onemorething…”
“Yes?”
“There’ssomethinginmyroomIthinkyou’dliketosee.Idisabledthelock
justbeforeIleft,soyouwon’tneedthepasswordtogetinthere.”Abriefpause.
“Itwas‘Thuvia’,justincaseyouneeditanyway.”
“Thankyou.”Ipeeredathim.“So…whatisit?”
“Callitagiftfromtheemperor,”hesaid.
Iwalkedbacktotheroverandwaiteduntiltheshuttleliftedoff,thenIdrove
toHab2.WhenIreachedJeff’sroom,though,IdiscoveredthatIwasn’tthefirst
person to arrive. Several of his friends—his fellow monkeys, the emperor’s
consorts,acoupleofothers—hadalreadyopenedthedoorandgonein.Iheard
theirastonishedmurmursasIwalkeddownthehall,butitwasn’tuntilIpushed
enteredtheroomthatIsawwhatamazedthem.
Jeff’squartersweresmall,buthe’ddonealotwithitoverthelastyearanda
half.Thewallabovehisbedwascoveredwithsheetsofpaperthathe’dtaped
together, upon which he’d drawn an elaboratemural. Here was theMars over
whichtheEmperorhadreigned:boat-likeaircrafthoveringabovegreatdomed
cities, monstrous creatures prowling red wastelands, bare-chested heroes
defending beautiful women with rapiers and radium pistols, all beneath twin
moonsthatlookednothinglikethePhobosandDeimosweknew.Themuralwas
crude, yet it had been rendered with painstaking care, and was nothing like
anythingwe’deverseenbefore.
Thatwasn’tall.OnthedesknexttothecompwastheoriginalPhoenixdisk,
yetJeffhadn’tbeensatisfiedjusttoleaveitbehind.Awire-framebookcasehad
beenbuiltbesidethedesk,andneatlystackeduponitsshelvesweredozensof
sheaves of paper, some thick and some thin, each carefully bound with hemp
twine.Books,handwrittenandhandmade.
I carefully pulled down one at random, gazed at its title page: EDISON’S
CONQUESTOFMARSbyGarrettP.Serviss.Iputitbackontheshelf,picked
up another: OMNILINGUALby H. Beam Piper. I placed it on the shelf, then
pulleddownyetanother:THEMARTIANCROWNJEWELS,byPoulAnderson.
Andmore,dozensmore…
ThiswaswhatJeffhadbeendoingallthistime:transcribingthecontentsof
thePhoenixdisk,wordbyword.Becauseheknew,inspiteofhismadness,that
hecouldn’tstayonMarsforever,andhewantedtoleavesomethingbehind.A
library,sothatotherscouldenjoythesamestoriesthathadhelpedhimthrougha
darkandtroubledtime.
Thelibraryisstillhere.Infact,we’veimproveditquiteabit.Ihadthebed
anddresserremoved,andreplacedthemwitharmchairsandreadinglamps.The
muralhasbeenpreservedwithinglassframes,andthebookshavebeenrebound
inside plastic covers. The Phoenix disk is gone, but its contents have been
downloadedintoacoupleofcomps;thediskitselfisinthebasemuseum.And
we’veaddedalotofbookstotheshelves;everytimeacycleshiparrivesfrom
Earth,itbringsmoreafewmorevolumesforourcollection.It’sbecomeoneof
thefavoriteplacesinArsiaforpeopletorelax.There’salmostalwayssomeone
there,sittinginachairwithanovelorstoryinhisorherlap.
The sign on the door reads Imperial Martian Library: an inside joke that
newcomersandtouristsdon’tget.And,yes,I’vespentalotoftimetheremyself.
It’snevertoolatetocatchupontheclassics.
TheThings
PETERWATTS
Self-described as “a reformed marine biologist,” Peter Watts is
quickly establishing himself as one of the most respected hard
science writers of the twenty-first century. His short work has
appearedinTesseracts,TheSolarisBookofScienceFiction,On
Spec, Divine Realms, Prairie Fire, and elsewhere. He is the
authorofthewell-receivedRifterssequence,includingthenovels
Starfish,Maelstrom,Behemoth:B-Max,andBehemoth:Seppuku.
HisshortworkhasbeencollectedinTenMonkeys,TenMinutes,
andhisnovelette“TheIsland”wontheHugoAwardin2010.His
mostrecentbookisthenovelBlindsight,whichhasbeenwidely
hailedasoneofthebesthardSFbooksofthedecade.Comingup
aretwonewnovels,SunflowersandStateofGrace,a“sidequel”
toBlindsight.HelivesinToronto,Canada.
John W. Campbell’s classic “Who Goes There?” relates the
storyofagroupofhumansinanisolatedwinterencampmentin
Antarctica who must struggle for survival against a strange
creaturefromthestars.Thestoryhastwicebeenfilmed,asThe
Thing from Another World and The Thing, but if you want to
knowwhatthestorylookslikefromtheperspectiveofthealien
“monster”itself,youmustreadthesuspensefulstorythatfollows.
IambeingBlair.Iescapeoutthebackastheworldcomesinthroughthefront.
IambeingCopper.Iamrisingfromthedead.
IambeingChilds.Iamguardingthemainentrance.
Thenamesdon’tmatter.Theyareplaceholders,nothingmore;allbiomassis
interchangeable.Whatmattersisthattheseareallthatisleftofme.Theworld
hasburnedeverythingelse.
I see myself through the window, loping through the storm, wearing Blair.
MacReadyhastoldmetoburnBlairifhecomesbackalone,butMacReadystill
thinksIamoneofhim.Iamnot:IambeingBlair,andIamatthedoor.Iam
beingChilds,andIletmyselfin.Itakebriefcommunion,tendrilswrithingforth
frommyfaces,intertwining:IamBlairChilds,exchangingnewsoftheworld.
Theworldhasfoundme out.Ithasdiscoveredmy burrow beneaththetool
shed,thehalf-finishedlifeboatcannibalizedfromthevisceraofdeadhelicopters.
Theworldisbusydestroyingmymeansofescape.Thenitwillcomebackfor
me.
Thereisonlyoneoptionleft.Idisintegrate.BeingBlair,Igotosharetheplan
with Copper and to feed on the rotting biomass once called Clarke; so many
changesinsoshortatimehavedangerouslydepletedmyreserves.BeingChilds,
IhavealreadyconsumedwhatwasleftofFuchsandamreplenishedforthenext
phase. I sling the flamethrower onto my back and head outside, into the long
Antarcticnight.
Iwillgointothestorm,andnevercomeback.
***
I was so much more, before the crash. I was an explorer, an ambassador, a
missionary.Ispreadacrossthecosmos,metcountlessworlds,tookcommunion:
thefitreshapedtheunfitandthewholeuniversebootstrappedupwardsinjoyful,
infinitesimal increments. I was a soldier, at war with entropy itself. I was the
veryhandbywhichCreationperfectsitself.
SomuchwisdomIhad.Somuchexperience.NowIcannotrememberallthe
thingsIknew.IcanonlyrememberthatIonceknewthem.
Iremember thecrash, though. Itkilled mostof this offshootoutright, buta
littlecrawledfrom thewreckage: afew trillioncells, asoul tooweak tokeep
them in check. Mutinous biomass sloughed off despite my most desperate
attemptstoholdmyselftogether:panic-strickenlittleclotsofmeat,instinctively
growingwhateverlimbstheycouldrememberandfleeingacrosstheburningice.
BythetimeI’dregainedcontrolofwhatwasleftthefireshaddiedandthecold
was closing back in. I barely managed to grow enough antifreeze to keep my
cellsfromburstingbeforetheicetookme.
Iremembermyreawakening,too:dullstirringsofsensationinrealtime,the
firstembersofcognition,theslowbloomingwarmthofawarenessasmycells
thawed,asbodyandsoulembracedaftertheirlongsleep.Irememberthebiped
offshootsthatsurroundedme,thestrangechitteringsoundstheymade,theodd
uniformity of their body plans. How ill-adapted they looked! How inefficient
theirmorphology!Evendisabled,Icouldseesomanythingstofix.SoIreached
out.Itookcommunion.Itastedthefleshoftheworld—
—andtheworldattackedme.Itattackedme.
I left that place in ruins. It was on the other side of the mountains—the
Norwegiancamp,itiscalledhere—andIcouldneverhavecrossedthatdistance
inabipedskin.Fortunatelytherewasanothershapetochoosefrom,smallerthan
thebipedbutbetteradaptedtothelocalclimate.Ihidwithinitwhiletherestof
me fought off the attack. I fled into the night on four legs, and let the rising
flamescovermyescape.
IdidnotstoprunninguntilIarrivedhere.Iwalkedamongthesenewoffshoots
wearing the skin of a quadruped; and because they had not seen me take any
othershape,theydidnotattack.
AndwhenIassimilatedtheminturn—whenmybiomasschangedandflowed
intoshapesunfamiliartolocaleyes—Itookthatcommunioninsolitude,having
learnedthattheworlddoesnotlikewhatitdoesn’tknow.
***
Iamaloneinthestorm.Iamabottom-dwelleronthefloorofsomemurkyalien
sea. The snow blows past in horizontal streaks; caught against gullies or
outcroppings, it spins into blinding little whirlwinds. But I am not nearly far
enough, not yet. Looking back I still see the camp crouching brightly in the
gloom,asquatangularjumbleoflightandshadow,abubbleofwarmthinthe
howlingabyss.
ItplungesintodarknessasIwatch.I’veblownthegenerator.Nowthere’sno
light but for the beacons along the guide ropes: strings of dim blue stars
whipping back and forth in the wind, emergency constellations to guide lost
biomassbackhome.
Iamnotgoinghome.Iamnotlostenough.Iforgeonintodarknessuntileven
thestarsdisappear.Thefaintshoutsofangryfrightenedmencarrybehindmeon
thewind.
Somewherebehindmemydisconnectedbiomassregroupsinto vaster, more
powerful shapes for the final confrontation. I could have joined myself, all in
one:chosenunityoverfragmentation,resorbedandtakencomfortinthegreater
whole.Icouldhaveaddedmystrengthtothecomingbattle.ButIhavechosena
different path. I am saving Child’s reserves for the future. The present holds
nothingbutannihilation.
Bestnottothinkonthepast.
I’vespentsoverylongintheicealready. I didn’tknowhowlonguntilthe
world put the clues together, deciphered the notes and the tapes from the
Norwegian camp, pinpointed the crash site. I was being Palmer, then;
unsuspected,Iwentalongfortheride.
Ievenallowedmyselfthesmallestrationofhope.
But it wasn’t a ship any more. It wasn’t even a derelict. It was a fossil,
embedded in the floor of a great pit blown from the glacier. Twenty of these
skinscouldhavestoodoneatopanother,andbarelyreachedthelipofthatcrater.
Thetimescalesettleddownonmeliketheweightofaworld:howlongforall
thaticetoaccumulate?Howmanyeonshadtheuniverseiteratedonwithoutme?
Andinallthattime,amillionyearsperhaps,there’dbeennorescue.Inever
found myself. I wonder what that means. I wonder if I even exist any more,
anywherebuthere.
Back at camp I will erase the trail. I will give themtheir final battle, their
monstertovanquish.Letthemwin.Letthemstoplooking.
Hereinthestorm,Iwillreturntotheice.I’vebarelyevenbeenaway,afterall;
aliveforonlyafewdaysoutofalltheseendlessages.ButI’velearnedenough
inthattime.Ilearnedfromthewreckthattherewillbenorepairs.Ilearnedfrom
theicethattherewillbenorescue.AndIlearnedfromtheworldthattherewill
benoreconciliation.Theonlyhopeofescape,now,isintothefuture;tooutlast
all this hostile, twisted biomass, to let time and the cosmos change the rules.
PerhapsthenexttimeIawaken,thiswillbeadifferentworld.
ItwillbeaeonsbeforeIseeanothersunrise.
***
Thisiswhattheworldtaughtme:thatadaptationisprovocation.Adaptationis
incitementtoviolence.
Itfeelsalmostobscene—anoffenseagainstCreationitself—tostay stuckin
this skin. It’s so ill-suited to its environment that it needs to be wrapped in
multiple layers of fabric just to stay warm. There are a myriad ways I could
optimize it: shorter limbs, better insulation, a lower surface:volume ratio. All
theseshapesIstillhavewithinme,andIdarenotuseanyofthemeventokeep
outthecold.Idarenotadapt;inthisplace,Icanonlyhide.
Whatkindofaworldrejectscommunion?
It’sthesimplest,mostirreducibleinsightthatbiomasscanhave.Themoreyou
canchange,themoreyoucanadapt.Adaptationisfitness,adaptationissurvival.
It’sdeeperthanintelligence,deeperthantissue;itiscellular,itisaxiomatic.And
more,itispleasurable.Totakecommunionistoexperiencethesheer sensual
delightofbetteringthecosmos.
Andyet,eventrappedinthesemaladaptedskins,thisworlddoesn’twantto
change.
At first I thought it might simply be starving, that these icy wastes didn’t
provideenoughenergyforroutineshapeshifting.Orperhapsthiswassomekind
of laboratory: an anomalous corner of the world, pinched off and frozen into
thesefreakishshapesaspartofsomearcaneexperimentonmonomorphismin
extreme environments. After the autopsy I wondered if the world had simply
forgottenhowto change:unable to touchthe tissuesthe soul couldnot sculpt
them,andtimeandstressandsheerchronicstarvationhaderasedthememory
thatitevercould.
But there were too many mysteries, too many contradictions. Why these
particularshapes,sobadlysuitedtotheirenvironment?Ifthesoulwascutoff
fromtheflesh,whatheldthefleshtogether?
AndhowcouldtheseskinsbesoemptywhenImovedin?
I’m used to finding intelligence everywhere, winding through every part of
everyoffshoot.Buttherewasnothingtograbontointhemindlessbiomassof
thisworld:justconduits,carryingordersandinput.Itookcommunion,whenit
wasn’toffered;theskinsIchosestruggledandsuccumbed;myfibrilsinfiltrated
the wet electricity of organic systems everywhere. I saw through eyes that
weren’tyetquitemine,commandeeredmotornervestomovelimbsstillbuiltof
alienprotein.IworetheseskinsasI’veworncountlessothers,tookthecontrols
andlefttheassimilationofindividualcellstofollowatitsownpace.
But I could only wear the body. I could find no memories to absorb, no
experiences, no comprehension. Survival depended on blending in, and it was
notenoughtomerelylooklikethisworld.Ihadtoactlikeit—andforthefirst
timeinlivingmemoryIdidnotknowhow.
Evenmorefrighteningly,Ididn’thaveto.TheskinsIassimilatedcontinuedto
move,allbythemselves.Theyconversedandwentabouttheirappointedrounds.
I could not understand it. I threaded further into limbs and viscera with each
passingmoment,alertforsignsoftheoriginalowner.Icouldfindnonetworks
butmine.
***
Ofcourse,itcouldhavebeenmuchworse.Icouldhavelostitall,beenreduced
toafewcellswithnothingbutinstinctandtheirownplasticitytoguidethem.I
wouldhavegrownbackeventually,reattainedsentience,takencommunionand
regenerated an intellect vast as a world—but I would have been an orphan,
amnesiac,withnosenseofwhoIwas.AtleastI’vebeensparedthat:Iemerged
fromthecrashwithmyidentityintact,thetemplatesofathousandworldsstill
resonantinmyflesh.I’veretainednotjustthebrutedesireto survive,butthe
conviction that survival is meaningful. I can still feel joy, should there be
sufficientcause.
Andyet,howmuchmorethereusedtobe.
The wisdom of so many other worlds, lost. All that remains are fuzzy
abstracts, half-memories of theorems and philosophies far too vast to fit into
suchanimpoverishednetwork.Icouldassimilateallthebiomassofthisplace,
rebuildbodyandsoultoamilliontimesthecapacityofwhatcrashedhere—but
aslongasIamtrappedatthebottomofthiswell,deniedcommunionwithmy
greaterself,Iwillneverrecoverthatknowledge.
I’msuchapitifulfragmentofwhatIwas.Eachlostcelltakesalittleofmy
intellectwithit,andIhavegrownsoverysmall.WhereonceIthought,nowI
merelyreact.Howmuchofthiscouldhavebeenavoided,ifIhadonlysalvaged
alittle morebiomass fromthe wreckage? Howmany optionsam I notseeing
becausemysoulsimplyisn’tbigenoughtocontainthem?
***
Theworldspoketoitself,inthesamewayIdowhenmycommunicationsare
simpleenoughtoconveywithoutsomaticfusion.EvenasdogIcouldpickup
the basic signature morphemes—this offshoot was Windows, that one was
Bennings, the two who’d left in their flying machine for parts unknown were
Copper and MacReady—and I marveled that these bits and pieces stayed
isolatedonefromanother,heldthesameshapesforsolong,thatthelabelingof
individualaliquotsofbiomassactuallyservedausefulpurpose.
LaterI hid within the bipeds themselves, andwhatever else lurked in those
hauntedskinsbegantotalktome.Itsaidthatbipedswerecalledguys,ormen,or
assholes. It said that MacReady was sometimes called Mac. It said that this
collectionofstructureswasacamp.
Itsaidthatitwasafraid,butmaybethatwasjustme.
Empathy’s inevitable, of course. One can’t mimic the sparks and chemicals
thatmotivatetheflesh withoutalsofeeling them tosome extent.But thiswas
different. These intuitions flickered within me yet somehow hovered beyond
reach. My skins wandered the halls and the cryptic symbols on every surface
—Laundry Sched, Welcome to the Clubhouse, This Side Up—almost made a
kindofsense.Thatcircularartefacthangingonthewallwasaclock;itmeasured
the passage of time. The world’s eyes flitted here and there, and I skimmed
piecemealnomenclaturefromits—fromhis—mind.
ButIwasonlyridingasearchlight.IsawwhatitilluminatedbutIcouldn’t
pointitinanydirectionofmyownchoosing.Icouldeavesdrop,butIcouldnot
interrogate.
Ifonlyoneofthosesearchlightshadpausedtodwellonitsownevolution,on
thetrajectorythathadbroughtittothisplace.Howdifferentlythingsmighthave
ended,hadIonlyknown.Butinsteaditrestedonawholenewword:
Autopsy.
MacReady and Copper had found part of me at the Norwegian camp: a
rearguardoffshoot,burnedinthewakeofmyescape.They’dbroughtitback—
charred,twisted,frozeninmid-transformation—anddidnotseemtoknowwhat
itwas.
IwasbeingPalmerthen,andNorris,anddog.Igatheredaroundwiththeother
biomass and watched as Copper cut me open and pulled out my insides. I
watched as he dislodged something from behind my eyes: an organ of some
kind.
It was malformed and incomplete, but its essentials were clear enough. It
looked like a great wrinkled tumor, like cellular competition gone wild—as
though the very processes that defined life had somehow turned against it
instead. It was obscenely vascularised; it must have consumed oxygen and
nutrientsfaroutofproportiontoitsmass.Icouldnotseehowanythinglikethat
couldevenexist,howitcouldhavereachedthatsizewithoutbeingoutcompeted
bymoreefficientmorphologies.
NorcouldIimaginewhatitdid.ButthenIbegantolookwithneweyesat
these offshoots, these biped shapes my own cells had so scrupulously and
unthinkinglycopiedwhentheyreshapedmeforthisworld.Unusedtoinventory
—why catalog body parts that only turn into other things at the slightest
provocation?—Ireallysaw, for thefirst time,that swollenstructureatop each
body.Somuchlargerthanitshouldbe:abonyhemisphereintowhichamillion
ganglionicinterfacescouldfitwithroomtospare.Everyoffshoothadone.Each
pieceofbiomasscarriedoneofthesehugetwistedclotsoftissue.
Irealizedsomethingelse,too:theeyes,theearsofmydeadskinhadfedinto
this thing before its removal. A massive bundle of fibers ran along the skin’s
longitudinalaxis,rightupthemiddleoftheendoskeleton,leadingdirectlyinto
thedarkstickycavitywherethegrowthhadrested.Thatmisshapenstructurehad
beenwiredintothewholeskin,likesomekindofsomatocognitiveinterfacebut
vastlymoremassive.Itwasalmostasif…
No.
Thatwashowitworked.Thatwashowtheseemptyskinsmovedoftheirown
volition, why I’d found no other network to integrate. There it was: not
distributed throughout the body but balled up into itself, dark and dense and
encysted.Ihadfoundtheghostinthesemachines.
Ifeltsick.
Isharedmyfleshwiththinkingcancer.
***
Sometimes,evenhidingisnotenough.
Irememberseeingmyselfsplayedacrossthefloorofthekennel,achimera
split along a hundred seams, taking communion with a handful of offshoots
called dog. Crimson tendrils writhed on the floor. Half-formed iterations
sproutedfrommyflanks,theshapesofdogsandthingsnotseenbeforeonthis
world,haphazardmorphologieshalf-rememberedbypartsofapart.
I remember Childs before I was Childs, burning me alive. I remember
coweringinsidePalmer,terrifiedthatthoseflamesmightturnontherestofme,
thatthisworldhadsomehowlearnedtoshootonsight.
I remember seeing myself stagger through the snow, raw instinct, wearing
Bennings. Gnarled undifferentiated clumps clung to his hands like crude
parasites, more outside than in; a few surviving fragments of some previous
massacre,crippled,mindless,takingwhattheycouldandbreakingcover.Men
swarmedabouthimin thenight:red flaresinhand,blue lightsattheir backs,
their faces bichromatic and beautiful. I remember Bennings, awash in flames,
howlinglikeananimalbeneaththesky.
I remember Norris, betrayed by his own perfectly-copied, defective heart.
Palmer, dying that the rest of me might live. Windows, still human, burned
preemptively.
Thenamesdon’tmatter.Thebiomassdoes:somuchofit,lost.Somuchnew
experience,somuchfreshwisdomannihilatedbythisworldofthinkingtumors.
Why even dig me up? Why carve me from the ice, carry me all that way
acrossthewastes,bringmebacktolifeonlytoattackmethemomentIawoke?
Iferadicationwasthegoal,whynotjustkillmewhereIlay?
***
Thoseencystedsouls.Thosetumors.Hidingawayintheirbonycaverns,folded
inonthemselves.
Iknewtheycouldn’thideforever;thismonstrousanatomyhadonlyslowed
communion,not stoppedit. Every moment I grewa little.I could feelmyself
twining around Palmer’s motor wiring, sniffing upstream along a million tiny
currents.IcouldsensemyinfiltrationofthatdarkthinkingmassbehindBlair’s
eyes.
Imagination,ofcourse.It’sallreflexthatfardown,unconsciousandimmune
tomicromanagement.Andyet,apartofmewantedtostopwhiletherewasstill
time. I’m used to incorporating souls, not rooming with them. This, this
compartmentalization was unprecedented. I’ve assimilated a thousand worlds
strongerthanthis,butneveronesostrange.WhatwouldhappenwhenImetthe
sparkinthetumor?Whowouldassimilatewho?
I was being three men by now. The world was growing wary, but it hadn’t
noticedyet.EventhetumorsintheskinsI’dtakendidn’tknowhowcloseIwas.
Forthat,Icouldonlybegrateful—thatCreationhasrules,thatsomethingsdon’t
changenomatterwhatshapeyoutake.Itdoesn’tmatterwhetherasoulspreads
throughouttheskinorfestersingrotesqueisolation;itstillrunsonelectricity.
The memories of men still took time to gel, to pass through whatever
gatekeepersfilterednoisefromsignal—andajudiciousburstofstatic,however
indiscriminate, still cleared those caches before their contents could be stored
permanently. Clear enough, at least, to let these tumors simply forget that
somethingelsemovedtheirarmsandlegsonoccasion.
At first I only took control when the skins closed their eyes and their
searchlightsflickereddisconcertinglyacrossunrealimagery,patternsthatflowed
senselesslyintooneanotherlikehyperactivebiomassunabletosettleonasingle
shape.(Dreams,onesearchlighttoldme,andalittlelater,Nightmares.)During
thosemysteriousperiodsof dormancy, whenthemen layinertandisolated, it
wassafetocomeout.
Soon,though,thedreamsdriedup.Alleyesstayedopenallthetime,fixedon
shadowsandeachother.Menoncedispersedthroughoutthecampbegantodraw
together,togiveuptheirsolitarypursuitsinfavorofcompany.AtfirstIthought
they might be finding common ground in a common fear. I even hoped that
finally,theymightshakeofftheirmysteriousfossilizationandtakecommunion.
Butno.They’djuststoppedtrustinganythingtheycouldn’tsee.
Theyweremerelyturningagainsteachother.
***
Myextremitiesarebeginningtonumb;mythoughtsslowasthedistalreachesof
my soul succumb to the chill. The weight of the flamethrower pulls at its
harness,forevertugsmejustalittleoff-balance.IhavenotbeenChildsforvery
long;almosthalfhistissueremainsunassimilated.Ihaveanhour,maybetwo,
beforeIhavetostartmeltingmygraveintotheice.BythattimeIneedtohave
converted enough cells to keep this whole skin from crystallizing. I focus on
antifreezeproduction.
It’salmostpeacefulouthere.There’sbeensomuchtotakein,solittletimeto
processit. Hiding in these skins takes such concentration, and under allthose
watchful eyes I was lucky if communion lasted long enough to exchange
memories: compounding my soul would have been out of the question. Now,
though, there’s nothing to do but prepare for oblivion. Nothing to occupy my
thoughtsbutalltheselessonsleftunlearned.
MacReady’sbloodtest,forexample.Histhingdetector,toexposeimposters
posingasmen.Itdoesnotworknearlyaswellastheworldthinks;butthefact
thatitworksatallviolatesthemostbasicrulesofbiology.It’sthecenterofthe
puzzle.It’stheanswertoallthemysteries.ImighthavealreadyfigureditoutifI
hadbeenjustalittlelarger.Imightalreadyknowtheworld,iftheworldwasn’t
tryingsohardtokillme.
MacReady’stest.
Eitheritisimpossible,orIhavebeenwrongabouteverything.
***
Theydidnotchangeshape.Theydidnottakecommunion.Theirfearandmutual
mistrustwasgrowing,buttheywouldnotjoinsouls;theywouldonlylookfor
theenemyoutsidethemselves.
SoIgavethemsomethingtofind.
Ileftfalsecluesinthecamp’srudimentarycomputer:simplemindediconsand
animations,misleadingnumbersandprojectionsseasonedwithjustenoughtruth
toconvincetheworldoftheirveracity.Itdidn’tmatterthatthemachinewasfar
toosimpletoperformsuchcalculations,orthattherewerenodatatobasethem
onanyway;Blairwastheonlybiomasslikelytoknowthat,andhewasalready
mine.
I left false leads, destroyed real ones, and then—alibi in place—I released
Blairtorunamok.Ilethimstealintothenightandsmashthevehiclesasthey
slept,tuggingever-so-slightlyathisreinstoensurethatcertainvitalcomponents
werespared. I sethim loose inthe radio room,watched through hiseyes and
othersashe rampaged anddestroyed.I listenedashe rantedabouta world in
danger, the need for containment, the conviction that most of you don’t know
what’sgoingonaroundhere—butIdamnwellknowthatsomeofyoudo…
Hemeanteveryword.Isawitinhis searchlight. Thebestforgeriesarethe
oneswho’veforgottentheyaren’treal.
When the necessary damage was done I let Blair fall to MacReady’s
counterassault.AsNorrisIsuggestedthetoolshedasaholdingcell.AsPalmerI
boardedupthewindows,helpedwiththeflimsyfortificationsexpectedtokeep
me contained. I watched while the world locked me away for your own
protection,Blair,andleftmetomyowndevices.WhennoonewaslookingI
wouldchangeandslipoutside,salvagethepartsIneededfromallthatbruised
machinery.Iwouldtakethembacktomyburrowbeneaththeshedandbuildmy
escape piece by piece. I volunteered to feed the prisoner and came to myself
whentheworldwasn’twatching,ladenwithsuppliesenoughtokeepmegoing
throughallthosenecessarymetamorphoses.Iwentthroughathirdofthecamp’s
food stores in three days, and—still trapped by my own preconceptions—
marveledatthestarvationdietthatkepttheseoffshootschainedtoasingleskin.
Anotherpieceofluck:theworldwastoopreoccupiedtoworryaboutkitchen
inventory.
***
Thereissomethingonthewind,awhisperofsoundthreadingitswayabovethe
ragingofthestorm.Igrowmyears,extendcupsofnear-frozentissuefromthe
sidesofmyhead,turnlikealivingantennaeinsearchofthebestreception.
There, to my left: the abyss glows a little, silhouettes black swirling snow
againstasubtlelesseningofthedarkness.Ihearthesoundsofcarnage.Ihear
myself.IdonotknowwhatshapeIhavetaken,whatsortofanatomymightbe
emittingthosesounds.ButI’vewornenoughskinsonenoughworldstoknow
painwhenIhearit.
Thebattleisnotgoingwell.Thebattleisgoingasplanned.Nowitistimeto
turnaway,togotosleep.Itistimetowaitouttheages.
Ileanintothewind.Imovetowardthelight.
Thisisnottheplan.ButIthinkIhaveananswer,now:IthinkImayhavehad
itevenbeforeIsentmyselfbackintoexile.It’snotaneasythingtoadmit.Even
nowIdon’tfullyunderstand.HowlonghaveIbeenouthere,retellingthetaleto
myself,settingcluesinorderwhilemyskindiesbylowdegrees?Howlonghave
Ibeencirclingthisobvious,impossibletruth?
Imovetowardsthefaintcracklingofflames,thedullconcussionofexploding
ordnance more felt than heard. The void lightens before me: gray segues into
yellow, yellow into orange. One diffuse brightness resolves into many: a lone
burning wall, miraculously standing. The smoking skeleton of MacReady’s
shackonthehill.Acrackedsmolderinghemispherereflectingpaleyellowinthe
flickeringlight:Child’ssearchlightcallsitaradiodome.
Thewholecampisgone.There’snothingleftbutflamesandrubble.
Theycan’tsurvivewithoutshelter.Notforlong.Notinthoseskins.
Indestroyingme,they’vedestroyedthemselves.
***
ThingscouldhaveturnedoutsomuchdifferentlyifI’dneverbeenNorris.
Norris was the weak node: biomass not only ill-adapted but defective, an
offshootwithanoffswitch.Theworldknew,hadknownsolongitnevereven
thoughtaboutitanymore.Itwasn’tuntilNorriscollapsedthatheart condition
floated to the surface of Copper’s mind where I could see it. It wasn’t until
CopperwasastrideNorris’schest,tryingtopoundhimbacktolife,thatIknew
howitwouldend.Andbythenitwastoolate;NorrishadstoppedbeingNorris.
Hehadevenstoppedbeingme.
Ihadso manyrolesto play,so littlechoiceinany ofthem.The part being
Copper brought down the paddles on the part that had been Norris, such a
faithfulNorris,everycellsoscrupulouslyassimilated,everypartofthatfaulty
valvereconstructeduntoperfection.Ihadn’tknown.HowwasItoknow?These
shapeswithinme,theworldsandmorphologiesI’veassimilatedovertheaeons
—I’ve only ever used them to adapt before, never to hide. This desperate
mimicry was an improvised thing, a last resort in the face of a world that
attackedanythingunfamiliar.Mycellsreadthesignsandmycellsconformed,
mindlessasprions.
SoIbecameNorris,andNorrisself-destructed.
I remember losing myself after the crash. I know how it feels to degrade,
tissues in revolt, the desperate efforts to reassert control as static from some
misfiringorganjamsthesignal.Tobeanetworksecedingfromitself,toknow
thateachmomentIamlessthanIwasthemomentbefore.Tobecomenothing.
Tobecomelegion.
BeingCopper,Icouldseeit.Istilldon’tknowwhytheworlddidn’t;itsparts
hadlongsinceturnedagainsteachotherbythen,everyoffshootsuspectedevery
other.Surelytheywerealertforsignsofinfection.Surelysomeofthatbiomass
wouldhave noticedthe subtletwitch andripple ofNorris changingbelow the
surface,thelastinstinctiveresortofwildtissuesabandonedtotheirowndevices.
ButIwastheonlyonewhosaw.BeingChilds,Icouldonlystandandwatch.
BeingCopper,Icouldonlymakeitworse;ifI’dtakendirectcontrol,forcedthat
skintodropthepaddles,Iwouldhavegivenmyselfaway.AndsoIplayedmy
parts to the end. I slammed those resurrection paddles down as Norris’s chest
splitopenbeneaththem.Iscreamedoncueasserratedteethfromahundredstars
awaysnappedshut.Itoppledbackwards,armsbittenoffabovethewrist.Men
swarmed,agitationbootstrappingtopanic.MacReadyaimedhisweapon;flames
leapedacrosstheenclosure.Meatandmachineryscreamedintheheat.
Copper’stumorwinkedoutbesideme.Theworldwouldneverhaveletitlive
anyway, not after such obviouscontamination. Ilet our skinplay deadon the
floorwhile overhead, something that hadonce been meshattered and writhed
and iterated through a myriad random templates, searching desperately for
somethingfireproof.
***
Theyhavedestroyedthemselves.They.
Suchaninsanewordtoapplytoaworld.
Somethingcrawlstowardsmethroughthewreckage:ajaggedoozingjigsaw
ofblackenedmeat andshattered, half-resorbedbone.Embers stickto its sides
likebrightsearingeyes;itdoesn’thavestrengthenoughtoscrapethemfree.It
contains barely half the mass of this Childs’ skin; much of it, burnt to raw
carbon,isalready,irrecoverablydead.
What’sleftofChilds,almostasleep,thinksmotherfucker,butIambeinghim
now.Icancarrythattunemyself.
The mass extends a pseudopod to me, a final act of communion. I feel my
pain:
IwasBlair,IwasCopper,Iwasevenascrapofdogthatsurvivedthatfirst
fiery massacre and holed up in the walls, with no food and no strength to
regenerate. Then I gorged on unassimilated flesh, consumed instead of
communed;revivedandreplenished,Idrewtogetherasone.
Andyet,notquite.Icanbarelyremember—somuchwasdestroyed,somuch
memorylost—butIthinkthenetworksrecoveredfrommydifferentskinsstayed
just a little out of synch, even reunited in the same soma. I glimpse a half-
corrupted memory of dog erupting from the greater self, ravenous and
traumatized and determined to retain its individuality. I remember rage and
frustration,thatthisworldhadsocorruptedmethatIcouldbarelyfittogether
again.Butitdidn’tmatter.IwasmorethanBlairandCopperandDog,now.I
wasagiantwiththeshapesofworldstochoosefrom,morethanamatchforthe
lastlonemanwhostoodagainstme.
Nomatch,though,forthedynamiteinhishand.
Now I’m little more than pain and fear and charred stinking flesh. What
sentienceI haveis awashin confusion.I amstray anddisconnected thoughts,
doubts and the ghosts of theories. I am realizations, too late in coming and
alreadyforgotten.
ButIamalsoChilds,andasthewindeasesatlastIrememberwonderingWho
assimilateswho? The snow tapers off and I remember an impossible test that
strippedmenaked.
The tumor inside me remembers it, too. I can see it in the last rays of its
fadingsearchlight—andfinally,atlonglast,thatbeamispointedinwards.
Pointedatme.
Icanbarelyseewhatitilluminates:Parasite.Monster.Disease.
Thing.
Howlittleitknows.ItknowsevenlessthanIdo.
Iknowenough,youmotherfucker.Yousoul-stealing,shit-eatingrapist.
Idon’tknow what that means.There is violence in thosethoughts, andthe
forciblepenetrationofflesh,butunderneathitallissomethingelseIcan’tquite
understand. I almost ask—but Childs’s searchlight has finally gone out. Now
thereisnothinginherebutme,nothingoutsidebutfireandiceanddarkness.
IambeingChilds,andthestormisover.
***
Inaworldthatgavemeaninglessnamestointerchangeablebitsofbiomass,one
nametrulymattered:MacReady.
MacReadywasalwaystheoneincharge.Theveryconceptstillseemsabsurd:
incharge.Howcanthisworldnotseethefollyofhierarchies?Onebulletina
vitalspot andthe Norwegiandies, forever. One blowto the head andBlair is
unconscious.Centralizationisvulnerability—andyettheworldisnotcontentto
builditsbiomassonsuchafragiletemplate,itforcesthe samemodelontoits
metasystems as well. MacReady talks; the others obey. It is a system with a
built-inkillspot.
And yet somehow, MacReady stayed in charge. Even after the world
discoveredthe evidence I’d planted; evenafter it decidedthat MacReady was
oneofthosethings,lockedhimouttodieinthestorm,attackedhimwithfire
andaxeswhenhefoughthiswaybackinside.SomehowMacReadyalwayshad
the gun, always had the flamethrower, always had the dynamite and the
willingnesstotakeoutthewholedamncampifneedbe.Clarkewasthelastto
tryandstophim;MacReadyshothimthroughthetumor.
Killspot.
ButwhenNorrissplitintopieces,eachscuttlinginstinctivelyforitsownlife,
MacReadywastheonetoputthembacktogether.
I was so sure of myself when he talked about his test. He tied up all the
biomass—tiedmeup,moretimesthanheknew—andIalmostfeltakindofpity
ashespoke.HeforcedWindowstocutusall,totakealittlebloodfromeach.He
heated the tip of a metal wire until it glowed and he spoke of pieces small
enough to give themselves away, pieces that embodied instinct but no
intelligence,noself-control.MacReadyhadwatchedNorrisindissolution,and
he had decided: men’s blood would not react to the application of heat. Mine
wouldbreakrankswhenprovoked.
Of course he thought that. These offshoots had forgotten that they could
change.
Iwonderedhow theworld wouldreactwhen everypiece ofbiomassin the
roomwasrevealedasashapeshifter,whenMacReady’ssmallexperimentripped
thefaçadefromthegreateroneandforcedthesetwistedfragmentstoconfront
thetruth.Wouldtheworldawakenfromitslongamnesia,finallyrememberthat
itlivedandbreathedandchangedlikeeverythingelse?Orwasittoofargone—
would MacReady simply burn each protesting offshoot in turn as its blood
turnedtraitor?
I couldn’t believe it when MacReady plunged the hot wire into Windows’
blood and nothing happened. Some kind of trick, I thought. And then
MacReady’sbloodpassedthetest,andClarke’s.
Copper’sdidn’t.TheneedlewentinandCopper’sbloodshiveredjustalittle
in its dish. I barely saw it myself; the men didn’t react at all. If they even
noticed,theymusthaveattributedittothetremblingofMacReady’sownhand.
Theythoughtthetestwasacrockofshitanyway.BeingChilds,Ievensaidas
much.
Becauseitwastooastonishing,tooterrifying,toadmitthatitwasn’t.
Being Childs, I knew there was hope. Blood is not soul: I may control the
motorsystemsbutassimilationtakestime.IfCopper’sbloodwasrawenoughto
passmusterthanitwouldbehoursbeforeIhadanythingtofearfromthistest;
I’dbeenChildsforevenlesstime.
But I was also Palmer, I’d been Palmer for days. Every last cell of that
biomasshadbeenassimilated;therewasnothingoftheoriginalleft.
When Palmer’s blood screamed and leapt away from MacReady’s needle,
therewasnothingIcoulddobutblendin.
***
Ihavebeenwrongabouteverything.
Starvation.Experiment.Illness.Allmyspeculation,allthetheoriesIinvoked
toexplainthisplace—top-downconstraint,allofit.Underneath,Ialwaysknew
theabilitytochange—toassimilate—hadtoremaintheuniversalconstant.No
worldevolvesifitscellsdon’tevolve;nocellevolvesifitcan’tchange.It’sthe
natureoflifeeverywhere.
Everywherebuthere.
Thisworlddidnotforgethowtochange.Itwasnotmanipulatedintorejecting
change.Thesewerenotthestuntedoffshootsofanygreaterself,twistedtothe
needsofsomeexperiment;theywerenotconservingenergy,waitingoutsome
temporaryshortage.
Thisistheoptionmyshriveledsoulcouldnotencompassuntilnow:outofall
theworldsofmyexperience,thisistheonlyonewhosebiomasscan’tchange.It
nevercould.
It’stheonlywayMacReady’stestmakesanysense.
I say goodbye to Blair, to Copper, to myself. I reset my morphology to its
localdefaults.IamChilds,comebackfromthestormtofinallymakethepieces
fit.Somethingmovesupahead:adarkblotshufflingagainsttheflames,some
wearyanimallookingforaplacetobeddown.ItlooksupasIapproach.
MacReady.
We eye each other, and keep our distance. Colonies of cells shift uneasily
insideme.Icanfeelmytissuesredefiningthemselves.
“Youtheonlyonethatmadeit?”
“Nottheonlyone…”
Ihavetheflamethrower.Ihavetheupperhand.MacReadydoesn’tseem to
care.
Buthedoescare.Hemust.Becausehere,tissuesandorgansarenottemporary
battlefield alliances; they are permanent, predestined. Macrostructures do not
emergewhenthebenefitsofcooperationexceeditscosts,ordissolvewhenthat
balance shifts the other way; here, each cell has but one immutable function.
There’snoplasticity,nowaytoadapt;everystructureisfrozeninplace.Thisis
notasinglegreatworld,butmanysmallones.Notpartsofagreaterthing;these
arethings.Theyareplural.
Andthatmeans—Ithink—thattheystop.Theyjust,justwearoutovertime.
“Wherewereyou,Childs?”
Irememberwordsindeadsearchlights:“ThoughtIsawBlair.Wentoutafter
him.Gotlostinthestorm.”
I’vewornthesebodies,feltthemfromtheinside.Copper’ssorejoints.Blair’s
curved spine. Norris and his bad heart. They are not built to last. No somatic
evolution to shape them, no communion to restore the biomass and stave off
entropy.Theyshouldnotevenexist;existing,theyshouldnotsurvive.
Theytry,though.Howtheytry.Everythinghereiswalkingdeadandyetitall
fightssohardtokeepgoingjustalittlelonger.Eachskinfightsasdesperatelyas
Imight,ifonewasallIcouldeverhave.
MacReadytries.
“Ifyou’reworriedaboutme—”Ibegin.
MacReady shakes his head, manages a weary smile. “If we’ve got any
surprisesforeachother,Idon’tthinkwe’reinmuchshapetodoanythingabout
it…”
Butweare.Iam.
Awholeplanetofworlds,andnotoneofthem—notone—hasasoul.They
wander through their lives separate and alone, unable even to communicate
exceptthroughgruntsandtokens:asiftheessenceofasunsetorasupernova
couldeverbecontainedinsomestringofphonemes,afewlinearscratchesof
black on white. They’ve never known communion, can aspire to nothing but
dissolution. The paradox of their biology is astonishing, yes; but the scale of
theirloneliness,thefutilityoftheselives,overwhelmsme.
Iwassoblind,soquicktoblame.ButtheviolenceI’vesufferedatthehands
ofthesethingsreflectsnogreatevil.They’resimplysousedtopain,soblinded
by disability, that they literally can’t conceive of any other existence. When
everynerveiswhippedraw,youlashoutateventhelightesttouch.
“Whatshouldwedo?”Iwonder.Icannotescapeintothefuture,notknowing
whatIknownow.HowcouldIleavethemlikethis?
“Why don’t we just—wait here awhile,” MacReady suggests. “See what
happens.”
Icandosomuchmorethanthat.
It won’t be easy. They won’t understand. Tortured, incomplete, they’re not
able to understand. Offered the greater whole, they see the loss of the lesser.
Offeredcommunion,theyseeonlyextinction.Imustbecareful.Imustusethis
newfoundabilitytohide.Otherthingswillcomehereeventually,anditdoesn’t
matterwhethertheyfindthelivingorthedead;whatmattersis that theyfind
somethinglikethemselves,totakebackhome.SoIwillkeepupappearances.I
will work behind the scenes. I will save them from the inside, or their
unimaginablelonelinesswillneverend.
Thesepoorsavagethingswillneverembracesalvation.
Iwillhavetorapeitintothem.
TheSultanoftheClouds
GEOFFREYA.LANDIS
A physicist who works for NASA and who worked on the
Martian lander program, Geoffrey A. Landis is a frequent
contributor to Analog and to Asimov’s Science Fiction, and has
also sold stories to markets such as Interzone, Amazing, and
Pulphouse.Landisisnotaprolificwriterbythehigh-production
standardsofthegenre,butheispopular.Hisstory“AWalkinthe
Sun”wonhimaHugoAwardin1992,hisstory“Ripplesinthe
Dirac Sea” won him a Nebula Award in 1989, and his story
“Elemental”wasontheFinalHugoBallotafewyearsback.His
firstbookwasthecollectionMyths,Legends,and True History,
and in 2000, he published his first novel, Mars Crossing. His
mostrecentbooksareanothercollection,ImpactParameterand
OtherQuantumRealities,and,justreleased,apoetrycollection,
Iron Angels. He lives with his wife, writer Mary Turzillo, in
BrookPark,Ohio.
Herehetakesustoaconvincinglyworkedoutandvisualized
high-tech floating cloud city adrift in the atmosphere of Venus,
forafast-pacedtaleofdynasticintrigue,fomentingrebellion,and
unexpecteddangers.…
When Leah Hamakawa and I arrived at Riemann orbital, there was a surprise
waitingfor Leah:a message. Not an electronicmessage ona link-pad, butan
actualphysicalenvelope,withDoctorLeahHamakawaletteredontheoutsidein
flowinghandwriting.
Leahslidthenotefromtheenvelope.Themessagewasetchedonastiffsheet
ofsomehardcrystalthatgleamedabrillianttranslucentcrimson.Shelookedat
it, flexed it, ran a fingernail over it, and then held it to the light, turning it
slightly.Theedgescaughtthelightandscattereditacrosstheroomindropletsof
fire.“Diamond,”shesaid.“Chromiumimpuritiesgiveittheredcolor;probably
nitrogenforthe blue.Charming.” She handedit tome.“Careful ofthe edges,
Tinkerman;Idon’tdoubtitmightcut.”
I ran a finger carefully over one edge, but found that Leah’s warning was
unnecessary;somesortofpassivationtreatmenthadbeendonetoblunttheedge
tokeepitfromcutting.Theletterswerelimnedinblue,sosharplychiseledon
thesheetthattheyseemedtorisefromthecard.Thetitleread,“Invitationfrom
Carlos Fernando Delacroix Ortega de la Jolla y Nordwald-Gruenbaum.” In
smallerletters,itcontinued,“WefindyourresearchesontheecologyofMarsto
be of some interest. We would like to invite you to visit our residences at
Hypatiaatyourconvenienceandtalk.”
I didn’t know the name Carlos Fernando, but the family Nordwald-
Gruenbaum needed no introduction. The invitation had come from someone
withintheintimatefamilyoftheSatrapofVenus.
Transportation,thelettercontinued,wouldbeprovided.
TheSatrapofVenus.Oneofthetwentyoldmen,thelordsandownersofthe
solarsystem.Amansorichthathumanstandardsofwealthnolongerhadany
meaning.WhatcouldhewantwithLeah?
ItriedtorememberwhatIknewaboutthesultanoftheclouds,satrapofthe
fabled floating cities. It seemed very far away from everything I knew. The
society, I thought I remembered, was said to be decadent and perverse, but I
knewlittlemore.TheinhabitantsofVenuskepttothemselves.
Riemannstationwasuglyandfunctional,theinteriormadeofadarkanodized
aluminumwithapebbledsurfacefinish.Therewasaviewportinthelounge,and
Leah had walked over to look out. She stood with her back to me, framed in
darkness.Eveninherrumpledship’ssuit,shewasbeautiful,andIwonderedifI
wouldeverfindthecluetounderstandingher.
Astheorbitalstationrotated,thebluebubbleofEarthslowlyroseinfrontof
her, a fragile and intricate sculpture of snow and cobalt, outlining her in a
sapphirelight.“There’snothingformedownthere,”shesaid.
Istoodinsilence,notsureifsheevenrememberedIwasthere.
Inavoicebarelylouderthanthesilence,shesaid,“Ihavenopast.”
Thesilencewasuncomfortable.IknewIshouldsaysomething,butIwasnot
surewhat.“I’veneverbeentoVenus,”Isaidatlast.
“Idon’tknowanybodywhohas.”Leahturned.“Isupposetheletterdoesn’t
specificallysaythatIshouldcomealone.”Hertonewasmatteroffact,neither
discouragingnorinviting.
Itwashardlyenthusiastic,butitwasbetterthanno.Iwonderedifsheactually
likedme,orjusttoleratedmypresence.Idecideditmightbebestnottoask.No
usepressingonmyluck.
***
ThetransportationprovidedturnedouttobetheSulieman,afusionyacht.
Suliemanwasmorethanmerelyfirst-class,itwasexcessivelyextravagant.It
waslargerthanmanyoretransports,hugeenoughthatanyordinaryyachtcould
haveeasilyfit withinthemost capaciousof itsrecreationspheres. Eachof its
privatecabins—andithadseven—waslargerthananordinaryhabitatmodule.
Bigshipscommonlywereslowships,butSuliemanwasanexception,equipped
with an impressive amount of delta-V, and the transfer orbit to Venus was
scheduledforatransittimewellunderthatofanycommercialtransportship.
Weweretheonlypassengers.
Despiteitssize,theshiphadacrewofjustthree:captain,andfirstandsecond
pilot.Thecaptain,withtheshavenheadandsaffronrobeofaBuddhistnovice,
greetedusonentry,andpolitelybutfirmlyinformedusthatthecrewwerenot
answerable to orders of the passengers. We were to keep to the passenger
section, and we would be delivered to Venus. Crew accommodations were
separatefromthepassengeraccommodations,andweshouldexpectnottoseeor
hearfromthecrewduringthevoyage.
“Fine,”wastheonlycommentLeahhad.
Whentheshiphadreceived us andboostedintoa fastVenustransfer orbit,
Leahfoundthesmallestoftheprivatecabinsandlockedherselfinit.
***
LeahHamakawahadbeenwiththePleiadesInstitutefortwentyyears.Shehad
joinedyoung,whenshewasstillateenager—longbeforeI’devermether—and
Iknewlittleofherlifebeforethen,otherthanthatshehadbeenanorphan.The
institutewastheonlyfamilythatshehad.
It seems to me sometimes that there are two Leahs. One Leah is shy and
childlike,beggingtobeloved.TheotherLeahiscoolandprofessional,whocan
hardlybearbeingtouched,whohates—orperhapsdisdains—people.
SometimesIwonderifshehadbeenterriblyhurtasachild.Shenevertalks
about growing up, never mentions her parents. I had asked her, once, and the
onlythingshesaidwasthatthatisallbehindher,longagoandfaraway.
Ineverknewmypositionwithher.SometimesIalmostthinkthatshemust
loveme,butcannotbringherselftosayanything.Othertimessheissocasually
thoughtless that I believe she never thinks of me as more than a technical
assistant, indistinguishable from any other tech. Sometimes I wonder why she
evenbotherstoallowmetohangaround.
Idamnmyselfsilentlyforbeingtoocowardlytoask.
While Leah had locked herself away, I explored the ship. Each cabin was
spherical, with a single double-glassed octagonal viewport on the outer cabin
wall. The cabins had every luxury imaginable, even hygiene facilities set in
smalleradjoiningspheres,withboothsthatsprayedactualwaterthroughnozzles
ontotheoccupant’sbody.
Tenhoursafterboost,Leahhadstillnotcomeout.Ifoundanothercabinand
wenttosleep.
In two days I was bored. I had taken apart everything that could be taken
apart, examined how it worked, and put it back together. Everything was in
perfectcondition;therewasnothingformetofix.
But,althoughIhadnotbroughtmuchwithme,I’dbroughtaportableoffice.I
calledupalibrarianagent,andaskedforhistory.
***
Inthebeginningofthehumanexpansionoutward,transportintospacehadbeen
ruinously expensive, and only governments and obscenely rich corporations
could afford to do business in space. When the governments dropped out, a
handfulofrichmenboughttheirassets.Mostofthemsoldoutagain,orwent
bankrupt.Afewofthemdidn’t.Somestayedonduetosheerstubbornness,some
withthefervorofanideologicalbeliefinhumanexpansion,andsomeoutofa
cold-heartedcalculationthattherewouldbeuncountablewealthinspace,ifonly
itcouldbetapped.Whenthetechnologywasfinallyready,thetwentyfamilies
owneditall.
Slowly, the frontier opened, and then the exodus began. First by the
thousands: Baha’i, fleeing religious persecution; deposed dictators and their
sycophants, looking to escape with looted treasuries; drug lords and their
retinues,lookingtotaketheirprofitsbeyondthereachofgovernmentsorrivals.
Then,theexodusbeganbythemillions,allcolorsofhumanityscatteringfrom
theEarthtostartanewlifeinspace.SplintergroupsfromtheChurchofJohn
theAvengerlefttheunforgivingmotherchurchseekingtheirprophesieddestiny;
dissidentsfromthe People’sRepublic ofMalawi,seeking freedom;vegetarian
communesfromAlaska,seekinganewfrontier;Mayans,seekingtoreestablisha
Maya homeland; libertarians, seeking their free-market paradise; communists,
seeking a place outside of history to mold the new communist man. Some of
them died quickly, some slowly, but always there were more, a never-ending
floodofdissidents,malcontentsandrebels,peoplewillingtosignawayanything
forthepromiseofanewstart.Afewofthemsurvived.Afewofthemthrived.A
fewofthemgrew.
Andeveryoneofthemhadmortgagedtheirveryballstothetwentyfamilies
forpassage.
Not one habitat in a hundred managed to buy its way out of debt—but the
heirsofthetwentybecamericherthannations,richerthanempires.
The legendary war between the Nordwald industrial empire and the
Gruenbaum family over solar-system resources had ended when Patricia
Gruenbaum sold out her controlling interest in the family business. Udo
Nordwald, tyrant and patriarch of the Nordwald industrial empire—now
Nordwald-Gruenbaum—had no such plans to discard or even dilute his hard-
battled wealth. He continued his consolidation of power with a merger-by-
marriageofhisonlyson,aboynotevenoutofhisteens,withtheshrewdand
calculatingheiressoflaJolla.Hisclosestcompetitorsgone,Udoretreatedfrom
the outer solar system, leaving the long expansion outward to others. He
established corporate headquarters, a living quarters for workers, and his own
personaldwellinginaplacewhichwasbothcentraltotheinnersystem,andalso
aspotthat nobodyhad everbefore thought possibleto colonize.Hemade his
reputationbycolonizingtheplanetcasuallycalledthesolarsystem’sHellplanet.
Venus.
***
The planet below grew from a point of light into a gibbous white pearl, too
brighttolookat.Thearrivinginterplanetaryyachtsheditshyperbolicexcessina
low pass through Venus’ atmosphere, rebounded leisurely into high elliptical
orbit,andthencircularizedintoatwo-hourparkingorbit.
Suliemanhadanextravagantviewport,asingletransparentpanefourmeters
indiameter,andIfloatedinfrontofit,watchingthetransportbarqueglideupto
meet us. I had thought Sulieman a large ship; the barque made it look like a
miniature.Aflattenedconewitharoundednoseandabsurdlytinyrocketengines
atthebase,itwasshapedintheformofatypicalplanetary-descentliftingbody,
butonethatmusthavebeenoverakilometerlong,andatleastaswide.Itglided
uptotheSuliemananddockedwithherlikeapumpkinmatingwithapea.
The size, I knew, was deceiving. The barque was no more than a thin skin
overahollowshellmadeofvacuum-foamedtitaniumsurroundingavastempty
chamber.Itwasdesignednottoland,buttofloatintheatmosphere,andtofloat
itrequireda huge volumeandalmost noweight.No ships everlandedon the
surfaceofVenus;theepithet“hell”waswellchosen.Thetransferbarque,then,
was more like a space-going dirigible than a spaceship, a vehicle as much at
homefloatinginthecloudsasfloatinginorbit.
Evenknowingthatthevastbulkofthebarquewaslittlemoresubstantialthan
vacuum,though,Ifoundtheeffectintimidating.
Itdidn’tseemtomakeanyimpressiononLeah.Shehadcomeoutfromher
silent solitude when we approached Venus, but she barely glanced out the
viewportin passing. It was often hard for me to guess whatwould attracther
attention.SometimesIhadseenherspendanhourstaringatarock,apparently
fascinated by a chunk of ordinary asteroidal chondrite, turning it over and
examiningitcarefullyfromeverypossibleangle.Otherthings,likeaspaceship
nearlyasbigasacity,sheignoredasiftheyhadnomoreimportancethandirt.
Bulky cargos were carried in compartments in the hollow interior of the
barque,butsincetherewerejusttwoofusdescendingtoVenus,wewereinvited
tositupinthepilot’scompartment,atransparentblisteralmostinvisibleatthe
front.
The pilot was another yellow-robed Buddhist. Was this a common sect for
Venuspilots,Iwondered?ButthispilotwasastalkativeasSulieman’spilothad
beenreclusive. Asthe barqueundocked, atether linestretched outbetween it
andthestation.Thestationloweredthebarquetowardtheplanet.Whilewewere
beinglowereddownthetether,thepilotpointedouteverypossiblesight—tiny
communications satellites crawling across the sky like turbocharged ants; the
pinkishflashesoflightningonthenighthemisphereoftheplanetfarbelow;the
golden spider’s web of a microwave power relay. At thirty kilometers, still
talking,thepilotseveredthetether,allowingthebarquetodropfree.TheEarth
and moon, twin stars of blue and white, rose over the pearl of the horizon.
Factorycomplexesweredistantlyvisibleinorbit,easytospotbytheirflashing
navigationbeaconsandthetransportbarquesdockedtothem,sofarawaythat
eventheimmensebarqueswereshrunkentoinsignificance.
Wewerestartingtobrushatmospherenow,andafeelingofweightreturned,
andincreased.Suddenlywewerepullinghalfagravityofovergee.Withoutever
stoppingtalking,thepilot-monkdeftlyrolledthebarqueinverted,andVenuswas
nowoverourheads,afeaturelesswhiteceilingtotheuniverse.“Niceviewthere,
isitnot?”thepilotsaid.“Yougetagreatfeelfortheplanetinthisattitude.Not
doingitfortheview,though,niceasitis;I’mjustgettingthatoldhypersoniclift
working for us, holding us down. These barques are rather a bit fragile; can’t
take them in too fast, have to play the atmosphere like a big bass fiddle.
Wouldn’t want us to bounce off the atmosphere, now, would you?” He didn’t
pauseforanswerstohisquestions,andIwonderedifhewouldhavecontinued
histravelogueevenifwehadnotbeenthere.
Thegeelevelincreasedtoaboutastandard,thensteadied.
The huge beast swept inverted through the atmosphere, trailing an ionized
cloudbehind it.The pilotslowed towardsubsonic, andthen rolledthe barque
overagain,skippingupwardslightlyintotheexospheretocooltheglowingskin,
thenlettingitdipbackdownward.Theairthickenedaroundusaswedescended
intothethin,featurelesshaze.Andthenwebrokethroughthebottomofthehaze
intotheclearairbelowit,andabruptlyweweresoaringabovetheendlessseaof
clouds.
***
Clouds.
A hundred and fifty million square kilometers of clouds, a billion cubic
kilometersofclouds.IntheoceanofcloudsthefloatingcitiesofVenusarenot
limited,liketerrestrialcities,totwodimensionsonly,butcanfloatupanddown
atthewhimofthecitymasters,higherintothebrightcoldsunlight,downwardto
theedgesofthehotmurkydepths.
Clouds. The barque sailed over cloud-cathedrals and over cloud-mountains,
edges recomplicated with cauliflower fractals. We sailed past lairs filled with
cloud-monstersakilometertall,witharchednecksofcloudstretchingforward,
threateningandblusteringwithcloud-teeth,cloud-muscledbodieswithclawed
feetofflickeringlightning.
Thebarquewasfloatingnow,driftingdownwardatsubsonicspeed,trailingits
own cloud-contrail, which twisted behind us like a scrawl of illegible
handwriting.Eventhepilot,ifnotactuallyfallensilent,hadatleastsloweddown
hischatter,lettingussoakinthegloryofit.“Quitesomething,isn’tit?”hesaid.
“Thekingdomoftheclouds.Drivessomepeoplebattywiththeimmensityofit,
orsotheysay—cloud-happy,theycallithere.Nevergettiredofit,myself.No
viewliketheviewfromabarquetoseetheclouds.”Andtoproveit,hebanked
thebarqueoverintoaslowturn,circlingacloudpillarthatrosefromdeepdown
inthehazetotowerthousandsofmetersaboveourheads.“Quiteasight.”
“Quiteasight,”Irepeated.
Thepilot-monkrolledthebarqueback,andthenpointed,forwardandslightly
totheright.“There.Seeit?”
Ididn’tknowwhattosee.“What?”
“There.”
Isawitnow,atinypointglisteninginthedistance.“Whatisit?”
“Hypatia.Thejeweloftheclouds.”
Aswecoastedcloser,thecitygrew.Itwasanoddsight.Thecitywasadome,
or rather, a dozen glistening domes melted haphazardly together, each one
facetedwithamillionpanelsofglass.Thedomeswerehuge;thesmallestnearly
akilometeracross,andasthebarqueglidedacrosstheskythefacetscaughtthe
sunlightandsparkledwithreflectedlight.Belowthedomes,aslenderpencilof
rough black stretched down toward the cloudbase like taffy, delicate as spun
glass,terminatinginanabsurdlytinybulbofrockthatseemedfartoosmallto
counterbalancethedomes.
“Beautiful, you think, yes? Like the wonderful jellyfishes of your blue
planet’soceans.Canyoubelievethathalfamillionpeoplelivethere?”
Thepilotbroughtusaroundthecityinagrandsweep,showingoff,noteven
botheringtotalk.Insidethetransparentdomes,chainsoflakesglitteredingreen
ribbonsbetweenboulevardsanddelicatepavilions.Atlastheslowedtoastop,
and then slowly leaked atmosphere into the vacuum vessel that provided the
buoyancy.Thebarquesettleddowngradually,wallowingfromsidetosidenow
that the stability given by its forward momentum was gone. Now it floated
slightly lower than the counterweight. The counterweight no longer looked
small,butloomedaboveus,arockthesizeofGibraltar.Tinyfliersaffixedtow-
ropestohardpointsonthesurfaceofthebarque,andslowlywewerewinched
intoahard-dock.
“WelcometoVenus,”saidthemonk.
***
The surface of Venus is a place of crushing pressure and hellish temperature.
Rise above it, though, and the pressure eases, the temperature cools. Fifty
kilometers above the surface, at the base of the clouds, the temperature is
tropical, and the pressure the same as Earth normal. Twenty kilometers above
that,theairisthinandpolarcold.
DriftingbetweenthesetwolevelsarethetenthousandfloatingcitiesofVenus.
AballoonfilledwithoxygenandnitrogenwillfloatintheheavyairofVenus,
and balloons were exactly what the fabled domed cities were. Geodetic
structureswithstrutsofsinteredgraphiteandskinoftransparentpolycarbonate
synthesizedfromtheatmosphereofVenusitself,eachkilometer-diameterdome
easilyliftedahundredthousandtonsofcity.
Eventhecloudscooperated.Thethinhazeoftheupperclouddeckservedto
filterthesunlightsothattheintensityofthesunherewaslittlemorethanthe
Earth’ssolarconstant.
Hypatia was not the largest of the floating cities, but it was certainly the
richest,acityofhelicalbuildingsandgoldendomes,withhugeopenareasand
elaborate gardens. Inside the dome of Hypatia, the architects played every
possibletricktomakeusforgetthatwewereinsideanenclosedvolume.
Butwedidn’tseethispart,thegardensandwaterfalls,notatfirst.Leavingthe
barque,weenteredadisembarkingloungebelowthecity.Forallthatitfeatured
plushchaiselounges,floorscoveredwithgeneticallyengineeredpinkgrass,and
pricelesssculpturesofironandofjade,itwasfunctional:aplacetowait.
Itwaslargeenoughtoholdathousandpeople,buttherewasonlyoneperson
in the lounge, a boy who was barely old enough to have entered his teens,
wearing a bathrobe and elaborately pleated yellow silk pants. He was slightly
pudgy,withanagreeable,butundistinguished,roundface.
Aftertheexpenseofourtransport,Iwassurprisedatfindingonlyoneperson
senttoawaitourarrival.
ThekidlookedatLeah.“DoctorHamakawa.I’mpleasedtomeetyou.”Then
heturnedtome.“Whothehellareyou?”hesaid.
“Whoareyou?”Isaid.“Where’sourreception?”
Theboywaschewingonsomething.Heseemedabouttospititout,andthen
thought better of it. He looked over at Leah. “This guy is with you, Dr.
Hamakawa?What’shedo?”
“ThisisDavidTinkerman,”Leahsaid.“Technician.And,whenneedbe,pilot.
Yes,he’swithme.”
“Tellhimhemightwishtolearnsomemanners,”theboysaid.
“Andwhoareyou?”Ishotback.“Idon’tthinkyouansweredthequestion.”
Thenot-quite-teenagerlookedatmewithdisdain,asifhewasn’tsureifhe
wouldevenbothertotalktome.Thenhesaid,inaslowvoiceasiftalkingtoan
idiot, “I am Carlos Fernando Delacroix Ortega de la Jolla y Nordwald-
Gruenbaum.Iownthisstationandeverythingonit.”
Hehadanannoyinghighvoice,ontheedgeofchanging,butnotyetthere.
Leah,however,didn’tseemtonoticehisvoice.“Ah,”shesaid.“Youarethe
scionofNordwald-Gruenbaum.TherulerofHypatia.”
The kid shook his head and frowned. “No,” he said. “Not the scion, not
exactly. I am Nordwald-Gruenbaum.” The smile made him look like a child
again;itmakehimlooklikable.Whenhebowed,hewasutterlycharming.“I,”
hesaid,“amthesultanoftheclouds.”
CarlosFernando,asitturnedout,hadnumerousservantsindeed.Oncewehad
beengreeted,hemadeagestureandanhonorguardoftwentywomeninsilken
doubletscameforwardtoescortusup.
Before we entered the elevator, the guards circled around. At a word from
Carlos Fernando, a package was brought forward. Carlos took it, and, as the
guards watched, handed it to Leah. “A gift,” he said, “to welcome you to my
city.”
Theboxwassimpleandunadorned.Leahopenedit.Insidethepackagewasa
largefolio.She took itout.The bookwasbound incracked,dark redleather,
withnolettering.Sheflippedtothefront.“GiordanoBruno,”sheread.“Onthe
Infinite Universe and Worlds.” She smiled, and riffled through the pages. “A
facsimileofthefirstEnglishedition?”
“Ithoughperhapsyoumightenjoyit.”
“Charming.” She placed it back in the box, and tucked it under her arm.
“Thankyou,”shesaid.
The elevator rose so smoothly it was difficult to believe it traversed two
kilometers in a little under three minutes. The doors opened to brilliant noon
sunlight.Wewereinthebubblecity.
Thecitywasafantasyoffoamandair.Althoughitwasenclosedinadome,
thebubblewassolargethatthewallsnearlyvanishedintotheair,anditseemed
unencumbered. With the guards beside us, we walked through the city.
Everywheretherewereparks,somejustatinypatchofgreensurroundingatree,
some forests perched on the wide tops of elongated stalks, with elegantly
sculptedwaterfallscascadingdowntobecaughtinwidefountainbasins.White
pathways led upward through the air, suspended by cables from impossibly
narrowbeams,andallaroundusweresoundsofrustlingwaterandbirdsong.
At the end of the welcoming tour, I realized I had been imperceptibly but
effectively separated from Leah. “Hey,” I said. “What happened to Dr.
Hamakawa?”
Thehonorguard ofwomen stillsurroundedme, butLeah, and thekid who
wastheheirofNordwald-Gruenbaum,hadvanished.
“We’resorry,”oneofthewomenanswered,oneslightlytaller,perhaps,than
theothers.“Ibelievethatshehasbeentakentohersuitetorestforabit,sincein
afewhourssheistobegreetedatthelevelofsociety.”
“Ishouldbewithher.”
Thewomanlookedatmecalmly.“Wehadnoinstructionstobringyou.Idon’t
believeyouwereinvited.”
“Excuseme,”Isaid.“I’dbetterfindthem.”
Thewomanstoodback,andgesturedtothecity.Walkwaysmeanderedinall
directions, a three-dimensional maze. “By all means, if you like. We were
instructedthatyouweretohavefreerunofthecity.”
Inodded.Clearly,planshadbeenmadewithnoroomforme.“HowwillIget
intouch?”Iasked.“WhatifIwanttotalktoLeah—toDoctorHamakawa?”
“They’llbeabletofindyou.Don’tworry.”Afterapause,shesaid,“Shallwe
showyoutoyourplacetodomicile?”
The building to which I was shown was one of a cluster that seemed
suspendedin theair by crisscrossedcables. Itwas largerthanmany houses. I
wasusedtolivinginthecubbyholesofhabitatmodules,andthespaciousnessof
theaccommodationsstartledme.
“Goodevening,Mr.Tinkerman.”ThepersongreetingmewasatallChinese
man perhaps fifty years of age. The woman next to him, I surmised, was his
wife. She was quite a bit younger, in her early twenties. She was slightly
overweightbythestandardsIwasusedto,butIhadnoticedthatwascommon
here.Behindherhidtwochildren,theirfacespeekingoutfrombehindherand
thendartingbackagaintosafety.ThemanintroducedhimselfasTrumanSingh,
andhiswifeasEpiphany.“Therestofthefamilywillbeabouttomeetyouina
fewhours,Mr.Tinkerman,”hesaid,smiling.“Theyaremostlyworking.”
“We both work for his Excellency,” Epiphany added. “Carlos Fernando has
askedourbraidtohouseyou.Don’thesitatetoaskforanythingyouneed.The
cost will go against the Nordwald-Gruenbaum credit, which is,” she smiled,
“quiteunlimitedhere.Asyoumightimagine.”
“Doyoudothisoften?”Iasked.“Houseguests?”
Epiphany looked up at her husband. “Not too often,” she said, “not for his
Excellency, anyway. It’s not uncommon in the cities, though; there’s a lot of
visitingbackandforthasonecityoranotherdriftsnearby,andeveryonewillput
upvisitorsfromtimetotime.”
“Youdon’thavehotels?”
Sheshookherhead.“Wedon’tgetmanyvisitorsfromoutplanet.”
“Yousaid‘HisExcellency,’”Isaid.“That’sCarlosFernando?Tellmeabout
him.”
“Ofcourse.Whatwouldyouliketoknow?”
“Does he really”—I gestured at the city—“own all of this? The whole
planet?”
“Yes,certainly,thecity,yes.Andalso,no.”
“Howisthat?”
“He will own the city, yes—this one, and five thousand others—but the
planet?Maybe,maybenot.TheNordwald-Gruenbaumfamilydoesclaimtoown
the planet, but in truth that claim means little. The claim may apply to the
surfaceoftheplanet,butnobodyownsthesky.Thecities,though,yes.But,of
course,hedoesn’tactuallycontrolthemallpersonally.”
“Well,ofcoursenot.Imean,hey,he’sjustakid—Hemusthavetrustees,or
proxiesorsomething,right?”
“Indeed.Untilhereacheshismajority.”
“Andthen?”
Truman Singh shrugged. “It is the Nordwald-Gruenbaum tradition—written
into the first Nordwald’s will. When he reaches his majority, it is personal
property.”
Therewere,asIdiscovered,eleventhousand,sevenhundredandeightcities
floatingintheatmosphereofVenus.“Probablyafewmore,”TrumanSinghtold
me.“Nobodykeepstrack,exactly.Therearemythsofcitiesthatfloatlowdown,
never rising above the lower cloud decks, forever hidden. You can’t live that
deep—it’stoohot—butthestoriessaythattherenegadecitieshaveatechnology
thatallowsthemtorejectheat.”Heshrugged.“Whoknows?”Inanycase,ofthe
knowncities,theestatetowhichCarlosFernandowasheirownedorheldshares
orpartialownershipofmorethanhalf.
“TheNordwald-Gruenbaumentityhavebeenagoodowners,”Trumansaid.“I
shouldsay,theyknowthattheiremployeescouldleave,toanothercity,ifthey
hadto,buttheydon’t.”
“Andthere’snofriction?”
“Oh, the independent cities, they all think that the Nordwald-Gruenbaums
havetoomuchpower!”Helaughed.“Butthere’snotmuchtheycandoaboutit,
eh?”
“Theycouldfight.”
TrumanSinghreachedoutandtappedmelightlyonthecenterofmyforehead
withhismiddlefinger.“Thatwouldnotbewise.”Hepaused,andthensaidmore
slowly, “We are an interconnected ecology here, the independents and the
sultanate.Werelyoneachother.Theindependentscoulddeclarewar,yes,butin
theendnobodywouldwin.”
“Yes,”Isaid.“Yes,Iseethat.Ofcourse,thefloatingcitiesaresofragile—a
singlebreakinthegasenvelope—”
“Weareperhapsnotasfragileasyouthink,”TrumanSinghreplied.“Ishould
say, you are used to the built worlds, but they are vacuum habitats, where a
single blow-out would be catastrophic. Here, you know, there is no pressure
differencebetweentheatmosphereoutsideandthelifesphereinside;ifthereisa
break,thegasequilibratesthroughthegaponlyveryslowly.Evenifwehada
thousand broken panels, it would take weeks for the city to sink to the
irrecoverabledepths.And,ofcourse,wedohavesafeguards,manysafeguards.”
He paused, and then said, “But if there were a war … we are safe against
ordinary hazards, you can have no fear of that … but against metastable
bombs…well,thatwouldnotbegood.No,Ishouldsaythatwouldnotbegood
atall.”
***
ThenextdayIsetouttofindwhereLeahhadbeentaken,butalthougheveryone
Imetwasunfailinglypolite,Ihadlittlesuccessinreachingher.AtleastIwas
beginningtolearnmywayaround.
ThefirstthingInoticedaboutthecitywasthelight.Iwasusedtolivingin
orbitalhabitats,wheresoft,indirectlightwasprovidedbypanelsofwhite-light
diodes.InHypatiaCity,brilliantVenussunlightsuffusedthroughouttheinterior.
ThenextthingInoticedwerethebirds.
Hypatiawas filled with birds. Birdswere common inorbital habitats, since
parrots and cockatiels adapt well to the freefall environment of space, but the
volumeofHypatiawascrowdedwithbrighttropicalbirds,parrotsandcockatoos
and lorikeets, cardinals and chickadees and quetzals, more birds than I had
names for, more birds than I had ever seen, a raucous orchestra of color and
sound.
Thefloatingcityhadtwelvemainchambers,separatedfromoneanotherby
thin,transparentmembraneswithamultiplicityofpassages,eachchamberwell-
litandcheerful,eachwithaslightlydifferentstyle.
The quarters I had been assigned were in sector Carbon, where individual
living habitats were strung on cables like strings of iridescent pearls above a
broadfenwayofforestandgrass.WithinsectorCarbon,cable-carsswunglike
pendulumsonlong strands,taking atravelerfrom platformto platformacross
the sector in giddy arcs. Carlos Fernando’s chambers were in the highest,
centermost bubble—upcity, as it was called—a bubble dappled with colored
lightandshadow,wherethearchitecturewasflutedminaretsandorientaldomes.
But I wasn’t, as it seemed, allowed into this elite sphere. I didn’t even learn
whereLeahhadbeengivenquarters.
Ifoundabalconyonatowerthatlookedoutthroughthetransparentcanopy
over the clouds. The cloudscape was just as magnificent as it had been the
previousday;toweringandslowlychanging.Thelightwasarichgoldencolor,
and the sun, masked by a skein of feathery clouds like a tracery of lace, was
surroundedbyabronzehalo.Fromtheangleofthesunitwasearlyafternoon,
buttherewouldbenosunsetthatday;thegreatwindscirclingtheplanetwould
notblowthecityintothenightsideofVenusforanotherday.
Oftheeleven-thousandothercities,Icoulddetectnotrace—lookingoutward,
there was no indication that we were not alone in the vast cloudscape that
stretchedtoinfinity.Butthen,I thought, if thecitieswerescatteredrandomly,
therewouldbelittlechanceonewouldbenearbyatanygiventime.Venuswasa
smallplanet,asplanetsgo,butlargeenoughtoswallowtenthousandcities—or
evenahundredtimesthat—withoutanyvisiblecrowdingoftheskies.
IwishedIknewwhatLeahthoughtofit.
ImissedLeah.Forallthatshesometimesdidn’tseemto even noticeIwas
there…oursojournonMars,briefasithadbeen…wehadsharedthesame
cubby.Perhapsthatmeantnothingtoher.Butithadbeentheverycenterofmy
life.
Ithoughtofherbody,litheandgolden-skinned.Wherewasshe?Whatwas
shedoing??
Theparkwasaplatformovergrownwithcymbidianorchids,bracedintheair
bythegreatcablesthattransectedthedomefromthestanchiontrusswork.This
seemed a common architecture here, where even the ground beneath was
suspendedfromthebuoyancyoftheairdome.Ibouncedmyweightbackand
forth,testingtheresonantfrequency,andfelttheplatformmoveinfinitesimally
under me. Children here must be taught from an early age not to do that; a
deliberateeffortcouldbuildupdestructiveoscillation.Istoppedbouncing,and
letthemotiondamp.
When I returned near the middle of the day, neither Truman nor Epiphany
werethere,andTruman’sotherwife,awomannamedTriolet,metme.Shewasa
womanperhapsinhersixties,withdarkskinanddeepgreyeyes.Shehadbeen
introduced to me the previous day, but in the confusion of meeting numerous
peopleinwhatseemedtobealargeextendedfamily,Ihadnothadachanceto
really meet her yet. There were always a number of people around the Singh
household,andI wasconfused astohow,or evenif, they wererelated tomy
hosts. Now, talking to her, I realized that she, in fact, was the one who had
controloftheSinghhouseholdfinances.
TheSinghfamilywerefarmers,Idiscovered.Orfarmmanagers.Theflorain
Hypatiawasdecorative,orservedtokeeptheairinthedomerefreshed,butthe
realagriculturewasinseparatedomes,floatingatanaltitudethatwasoptimized
forplantgrowth,andhadnoinhabitants.Automatedequipmentdidtheworkof
sowingandirrigationandharvest.TrumanandEpiphanySinghwereoperational
engineers,makingthosedecisionsthatrequiredahumaninput,watchingthatthe
robotskeptontrackandweredoingtherightthingsattherighttimes.
And,therewasamessagewaitingforme,invitingmeintheeveningtoattend
a dinner with his Excellency, Carlos Fernando Delacroix Ortega de la Jolla y
Nordwald-Gruenbaum.
Triolethelpedmewithmywardrobe,alongwithEpiphany,whohadreturned
by the time I was ready to prepare. They both told me emphatically that my
serviceablebutwell-wornjumpsuitwasnotappropriateattire.ThegownTriolet
selected was far gaudier than anything I would have chosen for myself, an
electricshadeofindigoaccentedwithawidemidnightblacksash.“Trustus,it
willbesuitable,”Epiphanytoldme.Despiteitsbulk,itwaslightasabreathof
air.
“Allclothesherearelight,”Epiphanytoldme.“Spider’ssilk.”
“Ah,Isee”Isaid.“Syntheticspidersilk.Strongandlight;verypractical.”
“Synthetic?”Epiphanyasked,andgiggled.“No,notsynthetic.It’sreal.”
“Thesilkisactuallywovenbyspiders?”
“No,thewholegarmentis.”Atmypuzzledlook,shesaid,“Teamsofspiders.
Theyworktogether.”
“Spiders.”
“Well,they’renaturalweavers,youknow.Andeasytotransport.”
Iarrivedatthebanquethallattheappointedtimeandfoundthattheplasma-
arc blue gown that Epiphany had selected for me was the most conservative
dressthere.Therewereperhapsthirtypeoplepresent,butLeahwasclearlythe
center. She seemed happy with the attention, more animated than I’d recalled
seeingherbefore.
“They’re treating you well?” I asked, when I’d finally made it through the
crowdtoher.
“Oh,indeed.”
IdiscoveredIhadnothingtosay.Iwaitedforhertoaskaboutme,butshe
didn’t.“Wherehavetheygivenyoutostay?”
“A habitat next section over,” she said. “Sector Carbon. It’s amazing—I’ve
neverseensomanybirds.”
“That’sthesectorI’min,”Isaid,“buttheydidn’ttellmewhereyouwere.”
“Really? That’s odd.” She tapped up a map of the residential sector on a
screenbuiltintothediamondtable-top,andathreedimensionalimageappeared
tofloatinsidethetable.Sherotateditandhighlightedherhabitat,andIrealized
thatshewasindeedadjacent,inalargehabitatthatwasalmostdirectlynextto
thecomplexIwasstayingin.“It’saprettyamazingplace.ButmostlyI’vebeen
hereintheupcity.HaveyoutalkedtoCarlimuchyet?He’saverycleverkid.
Interestedineverything—botany,physics,evenengineering.”
“Really?”Isaid.“Idon’tthinkthey’llletmeintotheupcity.”
“You’rekidding;I’msurethey’llletyouin.Hey—”shecalledoveroneofthe
guards.“Say,isthereanyreasonTinkermancan’tcomeuptothecentrum?”
“No,madam,ifyouwantit,ofcoursenot.”
“Great.See,noproblem.”
Andthenthewaitersdirectedmetomyplaceatthefarendofthetable.
The table was a thick slab of diamond, the faceted edges collecting and
refractingrainbowsofcolor.Thetopwasassmoothandslipperyasasheetof
ice.Concealedinsideweresmallcomputerscreenssothatanyofthedinerswho
wishedcouldcallupgraphicsordataasneededduringaconversation.Thetable
wasbothartandengineering,practicalandbeautifulatthesametime.
CarlosFernandosatattheendofthetable.Heseemedawkwardandoutof
place in a chair slightly too large for him. Leah sat at his right, and an older
woman—perhapshismother?—onhisleft.Hewasbouncingaroundinhischair,
alternatingbetweenplayingwiththecomputersysteminhistableandsneaking
glancesoveratLeahwhenhethoughtshewasn’tpayingattentiontohim.Ifshe
lookedinhisdirection,hewouldgostillforamoment,andthenhiseyeswould
quicklydartawayandhewentbacktostaringatthegraphicsscreeninfrontof
himandfidgeting.
TheserverbroughtasilvertraytoCarlosFernando.Onitwassomethingthe
size of a fist, hidden under a canopy of red silk. Carlos Fernando looked up,
accepteditwithanod,andremovedthecloth.Therewasamomentofsilenceas
peoplelookedover,curious.Istrainedtoseeit.
Itwasasparklingegg.
The egg was cunningly wrought of diamond fibers of many colors, braided
into intricate lacework resembling entwined Celtic knots. The twelve-year-old
satrap of Venus picked it up and ran one finger over it, delicately, barely
brushingthesurface,feelingthecorrugationsandreliefofthesurface.
Hehelditforamoment,asifnotquitesurewhatheshoulddowithit,and
then his hand darted over and put the egg on the plate in front of Leah. She
lookedup,puzzled.
“Thisisforyou,”hesaid.
Thefaintesthintofsurprisepassedthroughtheotherdiners,almostsubvocal,
toosofttobeheard.
A moment later the servers set an egg in front of each of us. Our eggs,
althoughdecoratedwithanintricatefilligreeoffinelypaintedlinesofgoldand
paleverdigris,wereordinaryeggs—gooseeggs,perhaps.
CarlosFernandowasfidgetinginhischair,halfgrinning,halfbitinghislip,
lookingdown,lookingaround,lookingeverywhereexceptattheeggoratLeah.
“WhatamItodowiththis?”Leahasked.
“Why,”hesaid,“perhapsyoushouldopenitupandeatit.”
Leah picked up the diamond-laced egg and examined it, turned it over and
rubbedonefingeracrossthesurface.Then,havingfoundwhatshewaslooking
for, sheheld itin two fingersand twisted.Thediamond eggshellopened, and
insideitwasasecondegg,anordinaryone.
Thekidsmiledagainandlookeddownattheegginfrontofhim.Hepicked
uphisspoonandcrackedtheshell,thenspoonedouttheinterior.
At this signal, the others cracked their own eggs and began to eat. After a
moment,Leahlaidthedecorativeshelltoonesideanddidthesame.Iwatched
herforamoment,andthencrackedmyownegg.
Itwas,ofcourse,excellent.
***
Later, when I was back with the Singh family, I was still puzzled. There had
been some secret significance there that everybody else had seen, but I had
missed. Mr. Singh was sitting with his older wife, Triolet, talking about
accounts.
“Imustaskaquestion,”Isaid.
TrumanSinghturnedtome.“Ask,”hesaid,“andIshallanswer.”
“Isthereanyparticularsignificance,”Isaid,“toanegg?”
“Anegg?”Singhseemedpuzzled.“Muchsignificance,Iwouldsay.Intheold
days, the days of the asteroid miners, an egg was a symbol of luxury. Ducks
werebroughtintothebiggerhabitats,andtheireggswere,forsomeminers,the
onlyfoodtheywouldevereatthatwasnotaformofalgaeorsoybean.”
“Asymbolofluxury,”Isaid,musing.“Isee.ButIstilldon’tunderstandit.”I
thoughtforamoment,andthenasked,“Isthereanysignificancetoagiftofan
egg?
“Well,no,”hesaid,slowly,“notexactly.Anegg?Nothing,inandofitself.”
HiswifeTriolet,asked,“Youaresureit’sjustanegg?Nothingelse?”
“Averyelaborateegg.”
“Hmmm,”shesaid,withaspeculativelookinhereye.“Not,maybe,anegg,a
book,andarock?”
Thatstartledmealittle.“Abookandarock?”TheBrunobook—theveryfirst
thingCarlosFernandohaddoneonmeetingLeahwastogiveherabook.Buta
rock?Ihadn’tseeanythinglikethat.“Whythat?”
“Ah,” she said. “I suppose you wouldn’t know. I don’t believe that our
customshereintheskycitiesarewellknownoutthereintheouterreaches.”
Hermentionoftheouterreaches—SaturnandtheBeyond—confusedmefora
moment,untilIrealized that,viewedfromVenus,perhapseven Earthandthe
builtworldsoftheorbitalcloudswouldbeconsidered“outer.”
“Here,”shecontinued,“asinmostofthetenthousandcities,anegg,abook,
andarockisaspecialgift.Theeggissymbolicoflife,yousee;abooksymbolic
of knowledge; and a rock is the basis of all wealth, the minerals from the
asteroidbeltthatbuiltoursocietyandboughtourfreedom.”
“Yes?Andallthreetogether?”
“Theyarethetraditionalgestureofthebeginningofcourtship,”shesaid.
“Istilldon’tunderstand.”
“Ifayoungmangivesawomananegg,abook,andarock,”Trumansaid,“I
should say this is his official sign that he is interested in courting her. If she
acceptsthem,thensheacceptshiscourtship.”
“What?That’sit,justlikethat,they’remarried?”
“No,no,no,”hesaid.“Itonlymeansthatsheacceptsthecourtship—thatshe
takeshimseriouslyand,whenitcomes,shewilllistentohisproposal.Oftena
womanmayhaverocksandeggsfrommanyyoungmen.Shedoesn’thaveto
accept,onlytakehimseriously.”
“Oh,”Isaid.
Butitstillmadenosense.HowoldwasCarlosFernando,twentyVenusyears?
Whatwasthat,twelveEarthyearsorso?Hewasfartooyoungtobeproposing.
***
“NoonecanterraformVenus,”CarlosFernandosaid.
CarlosFernandohadbeenuninterestedinhavingmejoininLeah’sdiscussion,
butLeah,oblivioustoherhost’sdispleasure(orperhapssimplynotcaring),had
insistedthatifhewantedtotalkaboutterraforming,Ishouldbethere.
ItwasoneroomofCarlosFernando’sextensivepalaces,aroundedroom,an
enormouscavernousspacethathadnumerousalcoves.I’dfoundthemsittingin
oneofthealcoves,anindentationthatwascozybutstillopen.Theubiquitous
female guards were still there, but they were at the distant ends of the room,
withincommandifCarlosFernandochosetoshout,butfarenoughtogivethem
theillusionofprivacy.
The furniture they were sitting on was odd. The chairs seemed sculpted of
sapphiresmoke,yetweresolidtothetouch.Ipickedoneupanddiscoveredthat
itweighedalmostnothingatall.“Diamondaerogel,”CarlosFernandosaid.“Do
youlikeit?”
“It’samazing,”Isaid.Ihadneverbeforeseensomuchmadeoutofdiamond.
And yet it made sense here, I thought; with carbon dioxide an inexhaustible
resource surrounding the floating cities, it was logical that the floating cities
wouldmakeasmuchastheycouldoutofcarbon.Butstill,Ididn’tknowyou
couldmakeanaerogelofdiamond.“Howdoyoumakeit?”
“Anewprocesswe’vedeveloped,”CarlosFernandosaid.“Youdon’tmindifI
don’tgointothedetails.It’sactuallyanadaptationofanoldidea,somethingthat
wasinventedbackonEarthdecadesago,calledamolecularstill.”
WhenCarlosFernandomentionedthemolecularstill,IthoughtIsawasharp
flickerofattentionfromLeah.Thiswasasubjectsheknewsomethingabout,I
thought.Butinsteadoffollowingup,shewentbacktohisearliercommenton
terraforming.
“Youkeepaskingquestions abouttheecology of Mars,”she said. “Whyso
manydetailedquestionsaboutMartianecopoiesis?Yousayyou’renotinterested
interraforming,butareyoureally?Youaren’tthinkingoftheoldideaofusing
photosyntheticalgaeintheatmospheretoreduce thecarbondioxide,areyou?
Surelyyouknowthatthatcan’twork.”
“Of course.” Carlos Fernando waved the question away. “Theoretical,” he
said.“NobodycouldterraformVenus,Iknow,Iknow.”
Hispronouncementwouldhavebeenmoredignifiedifhisvoicehadfinished
changing, but as it was, it wavered between squeaking an octave up and then
going back down again, ruining the effect. “We simply have too much
atmosphere,”hesaid.“Downatthesurface,thepressureisoverninetybars—
evenifthecarbondioxideoftheatmospherecouldbeconvertedtooxygen,the
surface atmosphere would still be seventy times higher than the Earth’s
atmosphericpressure.”
“Irealizethat,”Leahsaid.“We’renotactuallyignorant,youknow.Sohigha
pressureofoxygenwouldbedeadly—you’dburstintoflames.”
“And the leftover carbon,” he said, smiling. “Hundreds of tons per square
meter.”
“Sowhatareyouthinking?”sheasked.
Butinresponse,heonlysmiled.“Okay,Ican’tterraformVenus,”hesaid.“So
tellmemoreaboutMars.”
I could see that there was something that he was keeping back. Carlos
Fernandohadsomeideathathewasn’ttelling.
ButLeahdidnotpresshim,andinsteadtooktheinvitationtotellhimabout
herstudiesoftheecologyonMars,asithadbeentransformedlongagobythe
vanishedengineers of the long-gone Freehold Toynbee colony.The Toynbee’s
engineershaddesignedlifetothickentheatmosphereofMars,toincreasethe
greenhouseeffect,tomeltthefrozenoceansofMars.
“But it’s not working,” Leah concluded. “The anaerobic life is being out-
competedbythephotosyntheticoxygen-producers.It’spullingtoomuchcarbon
dioxideoutoftheatmosphere.”
“ButwhatabouttheGaiaeffect?Doesn’titcompensate?”
“No,” Leah said. “I found no trace of a Lovelock self-aware planet. Either
that’samyth,orelsetheecologyonMarsisjusttooyoungtostabilize.”
“Of course on Venus, we would have no problem with photosynthesis
removingcarbondioxide.”
“Ithoughtyouweren’tinterestedinterraformingVenus,”Isaid.
CarlosFernandowavedmyobjectionaway.“Ahypotheticalcase,ofcourse,”
hesaid.“Athoughtexercise.”HeturnedtoLeah.“Tomorrow,”hesaid,“would
youliketogokayaking?”
“Sure,”shesaid.
***
Kayaking,onVenus,didnotinvolvewater.
CarlosFernandoinstructedLeah,andEpiphanyhelpedme.
The “kayak” was a ten-meter long gas envelope, a transparent cylinder of
plasticcurvedintoanogiveatbothends,withatinybubbleatthebottomwhere
thekayakersat.Oneendofthekayakheldahuge, gossamer-bladedpropeller
thatturnedlazilyasthekayakerpedaled,whilethekayakerrowedwithflimsy
wings,transparentandiridescentlikethewingsofadragonfly.
Thewings,Idiscovered,hadcomplicatedlinkages;eachonecouldbepulled,
twisted,andlifted,allowingeachwingtoseparatelybeat,rotate,andcamber.
“Keepupasteadymotionwiththepropeller,”Epiphanytoldme.“You’lllose
allyourmaneuverabilityifyouletyourselffloattoastop.Youcanscullwiththe
wingstoputonaburstofspeedifyouneedto.Onceyou’recomfortable,usethe
wingstoriseuporswoopdown,andtomaneuver.You’llhavefun.”
Wewereinalaunchingbay,abalconyprotrudingfromthesideofthecity.
Four of the human-powered dirigibles that they called kayaks were docked
againsttheblister,thebulgeofthecockpitsneatlyinsertedintodockingringsso
that the pilots could enter the dirigible without exposure to the outside
atmosphere. Looking out across the cloudscape, I could see dozens of kayaks
dancing around the city like transparent squid with stubby wings, playing tag
witheachotherandracingacrossthesky.Sosmallandtransparentcomparedto
themagnificentclouds,theyhadbeeninvisibleuntilI’dknownhowtolook.
“Whataboutaltitude?”Iasked.
“You’re about neutrally buoyant,” she said. “As long as you have airspeed,
youcanusethewingstomakefineadjustmentsupordown.”
“WhathappensifIgettoolow?”
“Youcan’tgettoolow.Theenvelopehasareservoirofmethanol;asyouget
lower,thetemperaturerisesandyourreservoirreleasesvapor,sotheenvelope
inflates. If you gain too much altitude, vapor condenses out. So you’ll find
you’reregulated tostay pretty close to thealtitude you’reset for, which right
now is,” she checked a meter, “fifty-two kilometers above local ground level.
We’reblowingwestatahundredmeterspersecond,solocalgroundlevelwill
changeastheterrainbelowvaries;checkyourmetersforaltimetry.”
Looking downward, nothing was visible at all, only clouds, and below the
clouds, an infinity of haze. It felt odd to think of the surface, over fifty
kilometersstraightdown,andevenoddertothinkthatthecitywewereinside
wasspeedingacrossthatinvisiblelandscapeathundredsofkilometersanhour.
Therewasonlythelaziestfeelingofmotion,asthecitydriftedslowlythrough
theever-changingcanyonsofclouds.
“Watchoutforwindshear,”shesaid.“Itcantakeyououtofsightofthecity
prettyquickly,ifyouletit.Ridetheconveyorbackifyougettired.”
“Theconveyor?”
“Horizontal-axis vortices. They roll from west to east, and east to west.
Choosetherightaltitude,andthey’lltakeyouwhereveryouwanttogo.”
Nowthatshe’dtoldme,Icouldseethekayakerssurfingthewind-shear,rising
upwardandskimmingacrosstheskyoninvisiblewheelsofair.
“Havefun,”she said. Shehelpedme intothegondola, tightened mystraps,
looked at the gas pressure meter, checked the purge valve on the emergency
oxygensupply,andverifiedthattheradio,backupradio,andemergencylocator
beaconsworked.
Acrossthekayaklaunchbay,LeahandCarlosFernandohadalreadypushed
off. Carlos was sculling his wings alternatingly with a practiced swishing
motion, building up a pendulum-like oscillation from side to side. Even as I
watched,hislittlecraftrolledoveruntilforamomentithesitated,inverted,and
thenrolledcompletelyaround.
“Showingoff,”Epiphanysaid,disdainfully.“You’renotsupposedtodothat.
Notthatanybodywoulddarecorrecthim.”
Sheturnedbacktome.“Ready?”sheasked.
“ReadyasI’mgoingtobe,”Isaid.I’dbeengivenacompletesafetybriefing
that explained the backup systems and the backups to the backups, but still,
floatinginthe skyabove afifty-twokilometer drop intothe landscapeof hell
seemedanodddiversion.
“Go!”shesaid.Shecheckedthesealonthecockpit,andthenwithonehand
shereleasedthedockingclamp.
Freedfromits mooring,the kayak sprangupward intothe sky.As I’dbeen
instructed, I banked the kayak away from the city. The roll made me feel
suddenly giddy. The kayak skittered, sliding around until it was moving
sideways to the air, the nose dipping down so that I was hanging against my
straps.Coordinatetheturn,Ithought,buteveryslightmotionImadewiththe
wingsseemedamplifieddrunkenly,andthekayakwovearounderratically.
Theradioblinkedatme,andEpiphany’svoicesaid,“You’redoinggreat.Give
itsomeairspeed.”
I wasn’t doing great; I was staring straight down at lemon-tinted haze and
spinningslowlyaroundlikeafallingleaf.Airspeed?IrealizethatIhadentirely
forgottentopedal.Ipedalednow,andthenoselifted.Thesidewaysspindamped
out, and as I straightened out, the wings bit into the air. “Great,” Epiphany’s
voicetoldme.“Keepitsteady.”
The gas envelope seemed too fragile to hold me, but I was flying now,
suspendedbelowagoldensky.Itwasfartoocomplicated,butIrealizedthatas
longasIkeptthenoselevel,Icouldkeepitundercontrol.Iwasstilloscillating
slightly—it was difficult to avoid overcontroling—but on the average, I was
keepingthenosepointedwhereIaimedit.
WherewereLeahandCarlosFernando?
I looked around. Each of the kayaks had different markings—mine was
markedwithgraystripeslikeatabbycat—andItriedtospottheirs.
A gaggle of kayaks was flying together, rounding the pylon of the city. As
theymovedaroundthepylontheyallturnedatonce,flashinginthesunlightlike
aschooloffishsuddenlystartled.
SuddenlyIspottedthem,notfaraboveme,closetotheloomingwallofthe
city; the royal purple envelope of Carlos Fernando’s kayak and the blue and
yellow stripes of Leah’s. Leah was circling in a steady climb, and Carlos
Fernandowasdartingaroundher,nowcominginfastandbumpingenvelopes,
nowdartingawayandpullingup,hoveringforamomentwithhisnosepointed
atthesky,thenskewingaroundandslidingbackdownward.
Theirmotionslookedlikethecourtshipdanceofbirds.
Thepurple kayakbanked aroundand swoopedout andaway fromthe city;
andaninstantlater,Leah’sblueandyellowkayakbankedandfollowed.They
bothsoaredupward,catchingacurrentofairinvisibletome.Icouldseeafewof
theotherflierssurfingonthesameupdraft.Iyawedmynosearoundtofollow
them,butmadenoprogress;Iwastooinexperiencedwiththekayaktobeableto
guesstheaircurrents,andthewinddifferentialwasblowingmearoundthecity
inexactly theopposite ofthe directionI wanted to go. Ipulled outand away
fromthecity,seekingadifferentwind,andforaninstantIcaughtaglimpseof
somethinginthecloudsbelowme,darkandfastmoving.
ThenIcaughttheupdraft.Icouldfeelit,thewingscaughttheairanditfelt
likeaninvisiblegiant’shandpickingmeupandcarryingme–
Thentherewasasuddennoise,astutteringandripping,followedbyasound
like a snare drum. My left wing and propeller ripped away, the fragments
sprayingintothesky.Mylittlecraftbankedhardtotheleft.Myradiocameto
life, but I couldn’t hear anything as the cabin disintegrated around me. I was
falling.
Falling.
Foramoment Ifeltlike Iwas backinzero-gee. Iclutched uselessly tothe
remainsofthecontrolsurfaces,connectedbyloosecordstoflutteringpiecesof
debris.Piecesofmycanopyfloatedawayandwerecaughtbythewindandspun
upwardandoutofsight.Theatmosphererushedin,andmyeyesstartedtoburn.
Imadethemistakeoftakingabreath,andtheeffectwaslikegettingkickedin
the head. Flickering purple dots, the colors of a bruise, closed in from all
directions.Myvisionnarrowedtoasinglebrighttunnel.Theairwasliquidfire
inmylungs.Ireachedaround,desperately,tryingtoremembertheemergency
instructionsbeforeIblackedout,andmyhandsfoundtheemergencyair-mask
between my legs. I was still strapped into my seat, although the seat was no
longerattachedtoavehicle,andIslappedthebreathingmaskagainstmyface
andsuckedhardtostarttheairflowfromtheemergencyoxygen.Iwaslucky;the
oxygencylinderwasstillattachedtothebottomoftheseat,astheseat,withme
in it, tumbled through the sky. Through blurred eyes, I could see the city
spinningaboveme.Itriedtothinkofwhattheemergencyprocedurecouldbe
andwhatIshoulddonext,butIcouldonlythinkofwhathadgonewrong.What
hadIdone?ForthelifeofmeIcouldn’tthinkofanythingthatIcouldhavedone
thatwouldhaverippedthecraftapart.
Thecitydwindledtothesizeofanacorn,andthenIfellintothecloudlayer
andeverythingdisappearedintoapearlywhitehaze.Myskinbegantoitchall
over.Isqueezedmyeyesshutagainsttheacidfog.Thetemperaturewasrising.
Howlongwouldittaketofallfiftykilometerstothesurface?
Something enormous and metallic swooped down from above me, and I
blackedout.
***
MinutesorhoursordayslaterIawokeinadimly-litcubicle.Iwaslyingonthe
ground,andtwomenwearingmasksweresprayingmewithjetsofafoaming
whiteliquidthatlookedlikemilkbuttastedbitter.Myflightsuitwasinshreds
aroundme.
Isatup,andbegantocoughuncontrollably.Myarmsandmyfaceitchedlike
blazes,butwhenIstartedtoscratch,oneofthemenreachedoutandslappedmy
handsaway.
“Don’tscratch.”
Iturnedtolookathim,andtheonebehindmegrabbedmebythehairand
smearedahandfulofgoointomyface,rubbingithardintomyeyes.
Thenhe picked up a patchof cloth andtossed it tome. “Rub this where it
itches.Itshouldhelp.”
Iwasstillblinking,myfacedripping,myvisionfuzzy.Thepatchofclothwas
wet with some gelatinous slime. I grabbed it from him, and dabbed it on my
armsandthenrubbeditin.Itdidhelp,some.
“Thanks,”Isaid.“Whatthehell—”
Thetwomeninfacemaskslookedateachother.“Acidburn,”thetallerman
said.“You’renottoobad.Aminuteortwoofexposurewon’tleavescars.”
“What?”
“Acid.Youwereexposedtotheclouds.”
“Right.”
NowthatIwasn’tquitesodistracted,Ilookedaround.Iwasinthecargohold
ofsome sort of aircraft. Therewere twosmall round portholes on eitherside.
Althoughnothingwasvisiblethroughthembutablankwhite,Icouldfeelthat
the vehicle was in motion. I looked at the two men. They were both rough
characters. Unlike the brightly colored spiders-silk gowns of the citizens of
Hypatia, they were dressed in clothes that were functional but not fancy,
jumpsuitsofadarkgraycolorwithnovisibleinsignia.Bothofthemwerefitand
well-muscled. I couldn’t see their faces, since they were wearing breathing
masksandlightweighthelmets,butundertheirmasksIcouldseethattheyboth
woreshortbeards,anotherfashionthathadbeenmissingamongthecitizensof
Hypatia. Their eyes were covered with amber-tinted goggles, made in a crazy
stylethatcuppedeacheyewithapiecethatwasroundedlikehalfaneggshell,
apparentlystuckto theirfaces by someinvisible glue.Itgave thema strange,
bug-eyedlook.Theylookedatme,butbehindtheirfacemasksandgoogle-eyes
Iwascompletelyunabletoreadtheirexpressions.
“Thanks,”Isaid.“So,whoareyou?Somesortofemergencyrescueforce?”
“Ithinkyouknowwhoweare,”thetalleronesaid.“Thequestionis,whothe
hellareyou?”
Istoodupandreachedoutahand,thinkingtointroducemyself,butbothof
thementookastepback.Withoutseemingtomovehishand,thetalleronenow
hadagun,atinyomniblasterofsomekind.Suddenlyalotofthingswereclear.
“You’repirates,”Isaid.
“We’retheVenusunderground,”hesaid.“Wedon’tlikethewordpiratesvery
much. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a question, and I really would like an
answer.Whothehellareyou?”
SoItoldhim.
***
The first man started to take off his helmet, but the taller pirate stopped him.
“We’llkeepthemaskson,fornow.Untilwedecidehe’ssafe.”Thetallerpirate
saidhewasnamedEstebanJaramillo;theshorteroneEstebanFrancisco.That
wastoomanyEstebans,Ithought,anddecidedtotagtheoneJaramilloandthe
otherFrancisco.
I discovered from them that not everybody in the floating cities thought of
Venus as a paradise. Some of the independent cities considered the clan of
Nordwald-Gruenbaumtobewellonitswaytobecomingadictatorship.“They
own half of Venus outright, but that’s not good enough for them, no, oh no,”
Jaramillotoldme.“They’restinkingrich,butnotstinkingrichenough,andthe
very idea that there are free cities floating in the sky, cities that don’t swear
fealtytothemandpaytheirgoddamnedtaxes,thatpissesthemoff.They’lldo
anythingthattheycantocrushus.Us?We’rejustfightingback.”
I would have been more inclined to see his point if I didn’t have the
uncomfortable feeling that I’d just been abducted. It had been a tremendous
strokeofluckformethattheirshiphadbeentheretocatchmewhenmykayak
broke apart and fell. I didn’t much believe in luck. And they didn’t bother to
answerwhenIaskedaboutbeingreturnedtoHypatia.Itwasprettyclearthatthe
directionwewereheadedwasnotbacktowardthecity.
I had given them my word that I wouldn’t fight, or try to escape—where
wouldIescapeto?—andtheyacceptedit.OncetheyrealizedthatIwasn’twho
theyhadexpectedtocapture,theypressedmefornewsoftheoutside.“Wedon’t
hearalotofoutsidenews.”
Therewerethreeoftheminthesmallcraft,thetwoEstebans,andthepilot,
whowasneverintroduced.Hedidnotbothertoturnaroundtogreetme,andallI
eversawofhimwasthebackofhishelmet.ThecraftitselftheycalledaManta;
anoddthingthatwaspartlyanairplane,partlydirigible,andpartlyasubmarine.
OnceI’dgivenmywordthatIwouldn’tescape,Iwasallowedtolookout,but
therewasnothingtoseebutaluminousgoldenhaze.
“Wekeepthemantaflyingundertheclouddecks,”Jaramillosaid.“Keepsus
invisible.”
“Invisiblefromwhom?”Iasked,butneitheroneofthembotheredtoanswer.
It was a dumb question anyway; I could very well guess who they wanted to
keepoutofsightof.“Whataboutradar?”Isaid.
Esteban looked at Esteban, and then at me. “We have means to deal with
radar,”hesaid.“Justleaveitatthatandstopitwiththequestionsyoushould
knowenoughnottoask.”
They seemed to be going somewhere, and eventually the manta exited the
cloudbankintotheclearairabove.Ipressedtowardtheporthole,tryingtosee
out.ThecloudscapesofVenuswerestillfascinatingtome.Wewereskimming
the surface of the cloud deck—ready to duck under if there were any sign of
watchers,Isurmised.Fromthecloudscapeitwasimpossibletotellhowfarwe’d
come,whetheritwasjustafewleagues,orhalfwayaroundtheplanet.Noneof
thefloatingcitieswerevisible,butinthedistanceIspottedthefattorpedoshape
ofadirigible.Thepilotsawitaswell,forwebankedtowarditandsailedslowly
up, slowing down as we approached, until it disappeared over our heads, and
thenthehullresonatedwithasuddenimpact,andthenaratchetingclang.
“Soft dock,” Jaramillo commented, and then a moment later another clang,
andthenoseofthecraftwassuddenlyjerkedup.“Harddock,”hesaid.Thetwo
Estebansseemedtorelaxalittle,andawhineandarumblefilledthelittlecabin.
Wewerebeingwinchedupintothedirigible.
Aftertenminutesorso,wecametorestinavastinteriorspace.Themanta
hadbeentakeninsidetheenvelopeofthegaschamber,Irealized.Halfadozen
peoplemetus.
“Sorry,” Jaramillo said, “but I’m afraid we’re going to have to blind you.
Nothingpersonal.”
“Blind?”Isaid,butactually,thatwasgoodnews.Ifthey’dhadnointentionto
releaseme,theywouldn’tcarewhatIsaw.
JaramilloheldmyheadsteadywhileFranciscoplacedasetofthegoogle-eyed
glassesovermyeyes.Theyweresurprisinglycomfortable.Whateverheldthem
inplace,theyweresolightthatIcouldscarcelyfeelthattheywerethere.The
ambertintwasbarelynoticeable.Aftercheckingthattheyfit,Franciscotapped
thesideofthegoggleswithhis fingertip,once,twice,threetimes,fourtimes.
Eachtimehetouchedthegoggles,theworldgrewdarker,andwithafifthtap,all
Icouldseewasinkyblack.Whywouldsunglasseshaveasettingforcomplete
darkness,Ithought?AndthenIansweredmyownquestion:thelastsettingmust
before-beamwelding.Prettyconvenient,Ithought.IwonderedifIdaredtoask
themifIcouldkeepthesetofgoggleswhentheyweredone.
“Iamsureyouwon’tbesofoolishastoadjustthetransparency,”oneofthe
Estebanssaid.
Iwasguidedoutthemanta’shatchandacrossthehanger,andthentoaseat.
“Thistheprisoner?”avoiceasked.
“Yeah,”Jaramillosaid.“Butthewrongone.Nowaytotell,butweguessed
wrong,gotthewrongflyer.”
“Shit.Sowhoishe?”
“Technician,”Jaramillosaid.“Fromtheupandout.”
“Really?SodoesheknowanythingabouttheNordwald-Gruenbaumplan?”
Ispreadmyhandsoutflat,tryingtolookharmless.“Look,Ionlymetthekid
twice,orIguessthreetimes,ifyou—”
That caused some consternation; I could hear sudden buzz of voices, in a
languageIdidn’trecognize.Iwasn’tsurehowmanyofthemtherewere,butit
seemedlikeatleasthalfadozen.IdesperatelywishedIcouldseethem,butthat
wouldverylikelybeafatalmove.Afteramoment,Jaramillosaid,hisvoicenow
flatandexpressionless,“YouknowtheheirofNordwald-Gruenbaum?Youmet
CarlosFernandoinperson?”
“Imethim.Idon’tknowhim.Notreally.”
“Whodidyousayyouwereagain?”
Iwentthroughmystory,thistimestartingattheverybeginning,explaining
howwehadbeenstudyingtheecologyofMars,howwehadbeensummonedto
Venus to meet the mysterious Carlos Fernando. From time to time I was
interrupted to answer questions—what was my relationship with Leah
Hamakawa?(I wished I knew). Werewe married? Engaged?(No. No.). What
wasCarlosFernando’srelationshipwithDr.Hamakawa?(IwishedIknew.)Had
CarlosFernandoevermentionedhisfeelingsabouttheindependentcities?(No.)
Hisplans?(No.)WhywasCarlosFernandointerestedinterraforming(Idon’t
know.) What was Carlos Fernando planning? (I don’t know.) Why did Carlos
FernandobringHamakawatoVenus?(IwishedIknew.)Whatwasheplanning?
Whatwasheplanning?(Idon’tknow.Idon’tknow.)
ThemoreItalked,themoresketchyitseemed,eventome.
TherewassilencewhenIhadfinishedtalking.Then,thefirstvoicesaid,take
himbacktothemanta.
Iwasledbackinsideandputintoatinyspace,andadoorclangedshutbehind
me.Afterawhile,whennobodyansweredmycall,Ireacheduptothegoggles.
Theypoppedfreewithnomorethanalighttouch,and,lookingatthem,Iwas
stillunabletoseehowtheyattached.Iwasinastorageholdofsomesort.The
doorwaslocked.
Icontemplatedmysituation,butIcouldn’tseethatIknewanymorenowthan
Ihadbefore,exceptthatInowknewthatnotalloftheVenuscitieswerecontent
with the status quo, and some of them were willing to go to some lengthsto
changeit.Theyhaddeliberatelyshotmedown,apparentlythinkingthatIwas
Leah—orpossiblyevenhopingforCarlosFernando?Itwashardtothinkthathe
wouldhavebeenoutoftheprotectionofhisbodyguards.Mostlikely,Idecided,
thebodyguardshadbeenthere,neverlettinghimoutofsight,readytoswoopin
ifneeded, butwhile Carlos Fernando and Leahhad soared upand around the
city,Ihadleftthespherecoveredbytheguards,andthatwastheopportunitythe
piratesinthemantahadtaken.Theyhadseentheairkayakflyingaloneandshot
it out of the sky, betting my life on their skill, that they could swoop in and
snatchthefallingpilotoutofmid-air.
Theycouldhavekilledme,Irealized.
And all because they thought I knew something—or rather, that Leah
Hamakawaknewsomething—aboutCarlosFernando’smysteriousplan.
Whatplan?Hewasatwelve-year-oldkid,notevenateenager,barelymore
thananovergrownchild!Whatkindofplancouldakidhave?
IexaminedthechamberIwasin,thistimelookingmoreseriouslyathowit
wasconstructed.Allthejointswerewelded,withnoobviousgaps,butthemetal
waslight,probablyanaluminum-lithiumalloy.Possiblymalleable,ifIhadthe
time,ifIcouldfindaplacetopryat,ifIcouldfindsomethingtoprywith.
IfIdidmanagetoescape,wouldIbeabletopilotthemantaoutofitshanger
in the dirigible? Maybe. I had no experience with lighter than air vehicles,
though,anditwouldbeabadtimetolearn,especiallyiftheydecidedthatthey
wantedto shootat me. Andthen I would be—where? Athousand miles from
anywhere.FiftymillionmilesfromanywhereIknew.
IwasstillmullingthisoverwhenEstebanandEstebanreturned.
“Strapin,”EstebanJaramillotoldme.“Lookslikewe’retakingyouhome.”
***
Thetripbackwasmorecomplicatedthanthetripout.Itinvolvedtwoormore
transfersfromvehicletovehicle,duringsomeofwhichIwasagain“requested”
toweartheopaquegoggles.
Wewerealoneintheembarkingstationofsomesortofpublictransportation.
For a moment, the two Estebans had allowed me to leave the goggles
transparent.Whereverwewere,itwasunadorned,drabcomparedtotheflorid
excessofHypatia,whereeventhebusstations—didtheyhavebusstations?—
wouldhavebeencoveredwithflourishesandartwork.
Jaramillo turned to me and, for the first time, pulled off his goggles so he
couldlookmedirectlyintheeye.Hiseyesweredark,almostblack,andvery
serious.
“Look,”hesaid,“Iknowyoudon’thaveanyreasontolikeus.We’vegotour
reasons,youhavetobelievethat.We’redesperate.Weknowthathisfatherhad
some secret projects going. We don’t know what they were, but we know he
didn’t have any use for the free cities. We think the young Gruenwald has
somethingplanned.IfyoucangetthroughtoCarlosFernando,wewanttotalk
tohim.”
“If you get him,” Esteban Francisco said. “Push him out a window. We’ll
catchhim.Easy.”Hewasgrinningwithabroadsmile,showingallhisteeth,asif
tosayhewasn’tserious,butIwasn’tatallsurehewasjoking.
“We don’t want to kill him. We just want to talk,” Esteban Jaramillo said.
“Callus.Please.Callus.”
And with that, he reached up and put his goggles back on. Then Francisco
reachedoverandtappedmygogglesintoopacity,andeverythingwasdark,and,
withoneoneithersideofme,weboardedthetransport—bus?zeppelin?rocket?
Finally I was led into a chamber and was told to wait for two full minutes
beforeremovingthegoggles,andafterthatIwasfreetodoasIliked.
It was only after the footsteps had disappeared that it occurred to me to
wonderhowIwassupposedtocontactthem,ifIdidhaveareasonto.Itwastoo
latetoask,though;Iwasalone,orseemedtobealone.
WasIbeingwatchedtoseeifIwouldfolloworders,Iwondered?Twofull
minutes.Icounted,tryingnottorushthecount.WhenIgottoahundredand
twenty,Itookadeepbreath,andfinger-tappedthegogglestotransparency.
When my eyes focused, I saw I was in a large disembarking lounge with
genetically-engineered pink grass and sculptures of iron and of jade. I
recognized it. It was the very same lounge at which we had arrived at Venus
threedaysago.—wasitonlythree?Orhadanotherdaygoneby?
IwasbackinHypatiacity.
***
Once again I was surrounded and questioned. As with the rest of Carlos
Fernando’s domain, the questioning room was lushly decorated with silk-
coveredchairsandelegantteakcarvings,butitwasclearlyaholdingchamber.
Thequestioningwasbyfourwomen,CarlosFernando’sguards,andIhadthe
feelingthattheywouldnothesitatetotearmeapartiftheythoughtIwasbeing
lessthancandidwiththem.Itoldthemwhathad happened, andateverystep
they asked questions, making suggestions as to what I could have done
differently.WhyhadItakenmykayaksofarawayfromanyoftheotherfliers
andoutawayfromthecity?WhyhadIallowedmyselftobecaptured,without
fighting? Why didn’t I demand to be returned and refuse to answer any
questions?WhycouldIdescribenoneoftherebelsI’dmet,exceptfortwomen
who had—as far as they could tell from my descriptions—no distinctive
features?
Attheendoftheirquestioning,whenIaskedtoseeCarlosFernando,theytold
methatthiswouldnotbepossible.
“YouthinkIallowedmyselftobeshotdowndeliberately?”Isaid,addressing
myselftothechiefamongtheguards,aleanwomaninscarletsilk.
“Wedon’tknowwhattothink,Mr.Tinkerman,”shesaid.“Wedon’tliketo
takechances.”
“Whatnow,then?”
“We can arrange transport to the built worlds,” she said. “Or even to the
Earth.”
“Idon’tplantoleavewithoutDoctorHamakawa,”Isaid.
Sheshrugged.“Atthemoment,that’sstillyouroption,yes,”shesaid.“Atthe
moment.”
“HowcanIgetincontactwithDoctorHamakawa?”
She shrugged. “If Doctor Hamakawa wishes, I’m sure she will be able to
contactyou.”
“AndifIwanttospeaktoher?”
Sheshrugged.“You’refreetogonow.Ifweneedtotalktoyou,wecanfind
you.”
I had been wearing one of gray jumpsuits of the pirates when I’d been
returnedtoHypatia;theguardwomenhadtakenthataway.Nowtheygavemea
suit of spider-silk in a lavender brighter than the garb an expensive courtesan
wouldwearinthebuiltworldssurroundingEarth,moreofaneveninggownthan
asuit.Itwasneverthelesssubduedcomparedtotheday-to-dayattireofHypatia
citizens, and I attracted no attention. I discovered that the google-eyed
sunglasses had been neatly placed in a pocket at the knees of the garment.
Apparently people on Venus keep their sunglasses at their knees. Convenient
whenyou’resitting,Isupposed.Theyhadn’tbeenrecognizedasapartinggift
fromthepirates,or,morelikely,hadbeenconsideredsotrivialastonotbeworth
confiscating.Iwasunreasonablypleased;Ilikedthoseglasses.
IfoundtheSinghhabitatwithnodifficulty,andwhenIarrived,Epiphanyand
TrumanSinghweretheretowelcomemeandtogivemethenews.
Mykidnappingwasalreadyoldnews.Morerecentnewswasbeingdiscussed
everywhere.
Carlos Fernando Delacroix Ortega de la Jolla y Nordwald-Gruenbaum had
givenavisitorfromtheoutersolarsystem,DoctorLeahHamakawa—aperson
who(theyhadheard)hadactuallybeenbornonEarth—arock.
Andshehadnothandeditbacktohim.
Myheadwasswimming.
“You’re saying that Carlos Fernando is proposing marriage? To Leah? That
doesn’tmakeanysense.He’sakid,forJove’ssake.He’snotoldenough.”
Truman and Epiphany Singh looked at one another and smiled. “How old
wereyouwhenwegotmarried?”Trumanaskedher.“Twenty?”
“I was almost twenty-one before you accepted my book and my rock,” she
said.
“So,inEarthyears,what’sthat?”hesaid.“Thirteen?”
“Alittleovertwelve,”shesaid.“AbouttimeIwasmarriedup,I’dsay.”
“Wait,”Isaid.“Yousaidyouweretwelveyearsoldwhenyougotmarried?”
“Earthyears,”shesaid.“Yes,that’saboutright.”
“Youmarriedattwelve?Andyouhad—”Isuddenlydidn’twanttoask,and
said,“DoallwomenonVenusmarrysoyoung?”
“There are a lot of independent cities,” Truman said. “Some of them must
havedifferentcustoms,Isuppose.Butit’sthecustommoreorlesseverywhereI
know.”
“But that’s—” I started to say, but couldn’t think of how to finish. Sick?
Perverted?But then, there were once a lot of cultureson Earth thathad child
marriages.
“Weknowtheouterreacheshavedifferentcustoms,”Epiphanysaid.“Other
regionsdothingsdifferently.Thewaywedoitworksforus.”
“A man typically marries up at age twenty-one or so,” Truman explained.
“Say,twelve,thirteenyearsold,inEarthyears.Maybeeleven.Hiswifewillbe
aboutfiftyorsixty—she’llbehisinstructor,then,ashegrowsup.What’sthatin
Earthyears—thirty?IknowthatinoldEarthcustom,bothsidesofamarriage
are supposed to be the same age, but that’s completely silly, is it not? Who’s
goingtobetheteacher,Ishouldsay?
“Andthen,whenhegrowsup,bythetimehereachessixtyorsohe’llmarry
down,findagirlwho’sabouttwentyortwenty-one,andhe’llserveasateacher
toher,Ishouldsay.And,intime,she’llmarrydownwhenshe’ssixty,andso
on.”
Itseemedlikeaformofritualizedchildabusetome,butIthoughtitwouldbe
betternottosaythataloud.Or,Ithought,maybeIwasreadingtoomuchinto
what he was saying. It was something like the medieval apprentice system.
Whenhesaidteaching,maybeIwasjumpingtoconclusionstothinkthathewas
talkingaboutsex.Maybetheyheldoffonthesexuntilthechildgrewupsome.I
thoughtImightbehappiernotknowing.
“Amarriageisbraidedlikearope,”Epiphanysaid.“Eachelementholdsthe
next.”
I looked from Truman to Epiphany and back. “You, too?” I asked Truman.
“Youweremarriedwhenyouweretwelve?”
“InEarthyears,Iwasthirteen,whenImarriedupTriolet,”hesaid.“Old.Best
thingthateverhappenedtome.God,Ineededsomebodylikehertostraighten
meoutbackthen.AndIneededsomebodytoteachmeaboutsex,Ishouldsay,
althoughIdidn’tknowitbackthen.”
“AndTriolet—”
“Oh,yes,andherhusbandbeforeher,andbeforethat.Ourmarriagegoesback
ahundredandninetyyears,towhenRajSinghfoundedourfamily;we’realong
braid,Ishouldsay.”
I could picture it now. Every male in the braid would have two wives, one
twentyyearsolder;onetwentyyearsyounger.Andeveryfemalewouldhavean
olderandayoungerhusband.Thewholeassemblywouldindeedbesomething
youcouldthink ofas abraid, alternatingdowngenerations. Theinterpersonal
dynamicsmustbeterriblycomplicated.AndthenIsuddenlyrememberedwhy
wewerehavingthisdiscussion.“Mygod,”Isaid.“You’reseriousaboutthis.So
you’resayingthatCarlosFernandoisn’tjustplayingagame.Heactuallyplans
tomarryLeah.”
“Ofcourse,”Epiphanysaid.“It’sasurprise,butthen,I’mnotatallsurprised.
It’sobviouslywhathisExcellencywasplanningrightfromthebeginning.He’sa
deviousone,heis.”
“Hewantstohavesexwithher.”
Shelookedsurprised.“Well,yes,ofcourse.Wouldn’tyou?Ifyouweretwenty
—I mean, twelve years old? Sure you’re interested in sex. Weren’t you? It’s
abouttimehisExcellencyhada teacher.”Shepausedamoment.“I wonderif
she’s any good? Earth people—she probably never had a good teacher of her
own.”
ThatwasasubjectIdidn’twanttopickupon.OurlittleflingonMarsseemed
alongwayaway,andmywholebodyachedjustthinkingofit.
“Sex,it’sallthatyoungkidsthinkof,”Trumancutin.“Sure.Butforallthat,I
shouldsaythatsexistheleastimportantpartofabraid.Abraidisabusiness,
Mr. Tinkerman, you should know that. His Excellency Carlos Fernando is
requiredtomarryupintoagoodbraid.Thetradition,andtheexplicittermsof
theinheritance,arebothveryclear.ThereareonlyaboutfivebraidsonVenus
thatmeetthestandardsofthetrust,andhe’stoocloselyrelatedtohalfofthemto
beabletomarryin.Everybodyhasbeenassuminghewouldmarrythewifeof
theTeliosDelacroixbraid;she’soldenoughtomarrydownnow,andshe’snot
relatedtohimcloselyenoughtomatter.HispropositiontoDoctorHamakawa—
yes,thathaseverybodytalking.”
I was willing to grasp at any chance. “You mean, his marriage needs to be
approved?Hecan’tjustmarryanybodyhelikes?”
Truman Singh shook his head. “Of course he can’t! I just told you. This is
business as well as propagating the genes for the next thousand years. Most
certainlyhecan’tmarryjustanybody.”
“ButIthinkhejustoutmaneuveredthemall,”Epiphanyadded.“Theythought
theyhadhimboxedin,didn’tthey?Buttheyneverthoughtthathe’dgofindan
outworlder.”
“They?”Isaid.“Who’sthey?”
“Theyneverthoughttoguardagainstthat,”Epiphanycontinued.
“Buthecan’tmarryher,right?”Isaid.“Forsure,she’snotoftherightfamily.
She’snotofanyfamily.She’sanorphan,shetoldmethat.Theinstituteisher
onlyfamily.”
Trumanshookhishead.“IthinkEpiphany’sright,”hesaid.“Hejustmayhave
outfoxedthem,Ishouldsay.Ifshe’snotofafamily,doesn’thavethedozensor
hundredsofbraidedconnectionsthateverybodyheremusthave,thatmeansthey
can’tfindanythingagainsther.”
“Her scientific credentials—I bet they won’t be able to find a flaw there.”
Epiphanysaid.“And,anorphan?That’sbrilliant.Justbrilliant.Nofamilytiesat
all.Ibetheknewthat.Heworkedhardtofindjusttherightcandidate,youcan
bet.” She shook her head, smiling. “And we all thought he’d be another
layabout,likehisfather.”
“Thisisawful,”Isaid.“I’vegottodosomething.”
“You? You’re far too old for Dr. Hayakawa.” Epiphany looked at me
appraisingly.“Agoodlookingman,though—ifIwereten,fifteenyearsyounger,
I’d give you another look. I have cousins with girls the right age. You’re not
married,yousay?”
***
OutsidetheSinghquartersinsectorCarbon,thesunwasbreakingthehorizonas
thecityblewintothedaylithemisphere.
Ihadn’tbeensurewhetherEpiphany’soffertofindmeayounggirlhadbeen
genuine, but it was not what I needed, and I’d refused as politely as I could
manage.
I had gone outside to think, or as close to “outside” as the floating city
allowed,whereallthebreathablegaswasinsidethemyriadbubbles.Butwhat
couldIdo?Ifitwasatechnicalproblem,Iwouldbeabletosolveit,butthiswas
ahumanproblem,andthathadalwaysbeenmyweakness.
FromwhereIstood,Icouldwalktotheedgeoftheworld,thetransparentgas
envelopethatheldthebreathableairin,andkeptthecarbondioxideoftheVenus
atmosphereout.Thesunwassurroundedbyagauzyhazeofthinhighcloud,and
encircledbyaluminousgoldenhalo,withmocksunsflyinginformationtothe
leftandtheright.Themorningsunlightslantedacrossthecloudtops.Myeyes
hurtfromthedirectsun.Irememberedthesungogglesinmykneepocket,and
pulledthemout.Ipressedthemontomyeyes,andtappedontherightsideuntil
theworldwasacomfortabledim.
Floatingintheair,incapitallettersbarelydarkerthanthebackground,were
thewordsLINK:READY.
Iturnedmyhead,andthewordsshiftedwithmyfieldofview,changingfrom
darkletterstolightdependingonthebackground.
Acommunicationslinkwasopen?Certainlynotasatelliterelay;theglasses
couldn’thaveenoughpowertopunchthroughtoorbit.Diditmeanthemanta
washoveringinthecloudsbelow?
“Hello,hello,”Isaid,talkingtotheair.“Testing.Testing?”
Nothing.
Perhapsitwasn’taudio.Itappedtherightlens:dimmer,dimmer,dark;then
backtofulltransparency.Maybetheotherside?Itriedtappingthelefteyeofthe
goggle,andacursorappearedinmyfieldofview.
Withalittleexperimentation,Ifoundthattappingallowedinputintheformof
Gandy-encoded text. It seemed to be a low bit-rate text only; the link power
mustbeminiscule.ButGandywasastandardencoding,andItappedout“CQ
CQ”.
Seekyou,seekyou.
TheLINK:READYmessagechangedtoalightgreen,andinamomentthe
wordschangedtoHERE.
WHO,Itapped.
MANTA7,wasthereply.NEWS?
CFPROPOSEDLH,Itapped.!
KNOWN,camethereply.MORE?
NO
OK.SIGNINGOUT.
TheLINK:READYmessagereturned.
Acomlink,ifIneededone.ButIcouldn’tseehowithelpedmeany.
I returned to examining the gas envelope. Where I stood was an enormous
transparentpane,asquareperhapstenmetersonanedge.Iwasstandingnearthe
bottomofthepane,whereitabuttedtotheadjacentsheetwithajointofvery
thincarbon.Ipressedonit,andfeltitflexslightly.Itcouldn’tbemorethana
millimeter thick; it would make sense to make the envelope no heavier than
necessary. I tapped it with the heel of my hand, and could feel it vibrate; a
resonant frequency of a few Hertz, I estimated. The engineering weak point
wouldbethejointbetweenpanels:ifthepaneflexedenough,itwouldpopout
fromitsmountingatthejoin.
Satisfied that I had solved at least one technical conundrum, I began to
contemplatewhatEpiphanyhadsaid.CarlosFernandowastohavemarriedthe
wifeoftheTeliosDelacroixbraid.Whoevershewas,shemightberelievedat
discovering Carlos Fernando making other plans; she could well think the
arrangedmarriageasmuchatrapasheapparentlydid.Butstill.Whowasshe,
andwhatdidshethinkofCarlosFernando’snewplan?
***
The guards had made it clear that I was not to communicate with Carlos
Fernando or Leah, but had no instructions forbidding access to Braid Telios
Delacroix.
The household seemed to be a carefully orchestrated chaos of children and
adultsofallages,butnowthatIunderstoodtheVenussocietalsystemalittle,it
mademoresense.ThewifeofTeliosDelacroix—oncethewife-apparentofhis
ExcellencyCarlosFernando—turnedouttobeawomanonlyafewyearsolder
thanIwas,withcloselycroppedgreyhair.IrealizedI’dseenherbefore.Atthe
banquet, she had been the woman sitting next to Carlos Fernando. She
introduced herself as Miranda Telios Delacroix and introduced me to her up-
husband,astockymanperhapssixtyyearsold.
“Wecoulduseayounghusbandinthisfamily,”hetoldme.“Gettingold,we
are, and you can’t count on children—they just go off and get married
themselves.”
Therewere two girlsthere, who Miranda Delacroix introducedas their two
children.Theywerequiet,attemptingtodisappearintothebackground,smiling
brightly but with their heads bowed to the ground, looking up at me through
loweredeyelasheswhentheywerebroughtouttobeintroduced.Aftertheadults’
attention had turned away from them, I noticed both of them surreptitiously
studyingme.AdayagoIwouldn’tevenhavenoticed.
“Now,eithercomeandsitnicelyandtalk,orelsegodoyourchores,”Miranda
toldthem.“I’msuretheoutworlderisquiteboredwithyourbuzzinginandout.”
Theyboth giggled and shook their heads and then disappearedinto another
room,althoughfromtimetotimeoneortheotherheadwouldsilentlypopoutto
lookatme,disappearinginstantlyifIturnedmyheadtolook
Wesatdownatalowtablethatseemedtobemadeoutofoak.Herhusband
broughtinsomecoffeeandthenleftusalone.ThecoffeewasmadeintheThai
style,inaclearcup,inlayerswiththicksweetmilk.
“SoyouareDoctorHamakawa’sfriend,”shesaid.“I’veheardalotaboutyou.
Do you mind my asking, what exactly is your relationship with Doctor
Hamakawa?”
“Iwouldliketoseeher,”Isaid.
Shefrowned.“So?”
“AndIcan’t.”
Sheraisedaneyebrow.
“Hehasthesewomen,thesebodyguards—”
MirandaDelacroixlaughed.“Ah,Isee!Oh,mylittleCarliisjusttooprecious
for words. I can’t believe he’s jealous. I do think that this time he’s really
infatuated.” She tapped on the tabletop with her fingers for a moment, and I
realized that the oak tabletop was another one of the embedded computer
systems. “Goodness, Carli is not yet the owner of everything, and I don’t see
why you shouldn’t see whoever you like. I’ve sent a message to Doctor
Hamakawathatyouwouldliketoseeher.”
“Thankyou.”
Shewavedherhand.
It occurred to me that Carlos Fernando was about the same age as her
daughters,perhapsevenaclassmateoftheirs.Shemusthaveknownhimsince
hewasababy.Itdidseemalittleunfairtohim—iftheyweremarried,shewould
have all the advantage, and for a moment I understood his dilemma. Then
somethingshehadsaidstruckme.
“He’snotyetownerofeverything,yousaid,”Isaid.“Idon’tunderstandyour
customs,Mrs.Delacroix.Pleaseenlightenme.Whatdoyoumean,yet?”
“Well,youknowthathedoesn’tcomeintohismajorityuntilhe’smarried,”
shesaid.
The picture was beginning to make sense. Carlos Fernando desperately
wantedtocontrolthings,Ithought.Andheneededtobemarriedtodoit.“And
oncehe’smarried?”
“Thenhecomesintohisinheritance,ofcourse,”shesaid.“Butsincehe’llbe
married,thebraidwillbeincontrolofthefortune.Youwouldn’twantatwenty-
one-year-old kid in charge of the entire Nordwald-Gruenbaum holdings? That
wouldberuinous.ThefirstNordwaldknewthat.That’swhyhemarriedhisson
intothelaJollabraid.That’sthewayit’salwaysbeendone.”
“Isee,”Isaid.IfMirandaDelacroixmarriedCarlosFernando,she—nothe—
would control the Nordwald-Gruenbaum fortune. She had the years of
experience, she knew the politics, how the system worked. He would be the
childintherelationship.Hewouldalwaysbethechildintherelationship.
Miranda Delacroix had every reason to want to make sure that Leah
Hamakawadidn’tmarryCarlosFernando.Shewasmynaturalally.
And also, she—and her husband—had every reason to want to kill Leah
Hamakawa.
SuddenlytheguardsthatfollowedCarlosFernandoseemedsomewhatlessof
an affectation. Just how good were the bodyguards? And then I had another
thought. Had she, or her husband, hired the pirates to shoot down my kayak?
ThepiratesclearlyhadbeenafterLeah,notme.TheyhadknownthatLeahwas
flyingakayak;somebodymusthavebeenfeedingtheminformation.Ifithadn’t
beenher,thenwho?
Ilookedatherwithnewsuspicions.Shewaslookingbackatmewithasteady
gaze.“Ofcourse,ifyourDoctorLeahHamakawaintendstoaccepttheproposal,
thetwoofthemwillbestartinganewbraid.Shewouldnominallybethesenior,
ofcourse,butIwonder—”
“Butwouldshebeallowedto?”Iinterrupted.“IfshedecidedtomarryCarlos
Fernando,wouldn’tsomebodystopher?”
She laughed. “No, I’m afraid that little Carli made his plan well. He’s the
child of a Gruenbaum, all right. There’s no legal grounds for the families to
object; she may be an outworlder, but he’s made an end run around all the
possibleobjections.”
“Andyou?”
“DoyouthinkIhavechoices?Ifhedecidestoaskmeforadvice,I’lltellhim
it’snotagoodidea.ButI’mhalfwaytemptedtojustseewhathedoes.”
Andgiveupherchancetobetherichestwomanintheknownuniverse?Ihad
mydoubts.
“Doyouthinkyoucantalkheroutofit?”shesaid.“Doyouthinkyouhave
somethingtoofferher?AsIunderstandit,youdon’townanything.You’rehired
help,agypsyofthesolarsystem.IsthereasinglethingthatCarliisofferingher
thatyoucanmatch?”
“Companionship,”Isaid.Itsoundedfeeble,eventome.
“Companionship?” she echoed, sarcastically. “Is that all? I would have
thought most outworlder men would have promised love. You are honest, at
least,I’llgiveyouthat,”
“Yes,love,”Isaid,miserable.“I’dofferherlove.”
“Love,”shesaid.“Well,howaboutthat.Yes,that’swhatoutworldersmarry
for;I’vereadaboutit.Youdon’tseemtoknow,doyou?Thisisn’taboutlove.
It’snotevenaboutsex,althoughtherewillbeplentyofthat,Icanassureyou,
morethanenoughtoturnmylittleCarlosinsideoutandmakehimthinkhe’s
learningsomethingaboutlove.
“Thisisaboutbusiness,Mr.Tinkerman.Youdon’tseemtohavenoticedthat.
Notlove,notsex,notfamily.It’sbusiness.”
***
MirandaTeliosDelacroix’smessagehadgottenthroughtoLeah,andshecalled
meup toher quarters.The women guards did not seem happy about this, but
theyhadapparentlybeeninstructedtoobeyherdirectorders,andtwored-clad
guardswomenledmetoherquarters.
“Whathappenedtoyou?Whathappenedtoyourface?”shesaid,when she
sawme.
Ireachedupandtouchedmyface.Itdidn’thurt,buttheacidburnshadleft
behindredspotchesandpatchesofpeelingskin.Ifilledherinonthewreckof
thekayakandtherescue,orkidnapping,bypirates.AndthenItoldherabout
Carlos.“Takeanotherlookatthatbookhegaveyou.Idon’tknowwherehegot
it, and I don’t want to guess what it cost, but I’ll say it’s a sure bet it’s no
facsimile.”
“Yes,ofcourse.”shesaid.“Hedidtellme,eventually.”
“Don’tyouknowit’saproposition?”
“Yes;theegg,thebook,andtherock,”shesaid.“Verytraditionalhere.Iknow
you like to think I have my head in the air all the time, but I do pay some
attentiontowhat’sgoingonaroundme.Carliisasweetkid.”
“He’sserious,Leah.Youcan’tignorehim.”
She waved me off. “I can make my own decisions, but thanks for the
warnings.”
“It’sworsethanthat,”Itoldher.“HaveyoumetMirandaTeliosDelacroix?”
“Ofcourse,”shesaid.
“Ithinkshe’stryingtokillyou.”Itoldheraboutmyexperiencewithkayaks,
andmysuspicionthatthepirateshadbeenhiredtoshootmedown,thinkingI
washer.
“I believe you may be reading too much into things, Tinkerman,” she said.
“Carlitoldmeaboutthepirates.They’reasmallgroup,disaffected;theybother
shippingandsuch,fromtimetotime,buthesaysthatthey’renothingtoworry
about.Whenhegetshisinheritance,hesayshewilltakecareofthem.”
“Takecareofthem?How?”
Sheshrugged.“Hedidn’tsay.”
Butthatwasexactlywhatthepirates—rebels—hadtoldme:thatCarloshada
plan,andtheydidn’tknowwhatitwas.“Sohehassomeplansheisn’ttelling,”I
said.
“He’s been asking me about terraforming,” Leah said, thinking. “But it
doesn’tmakesensetodothatonVenus.Idon’tunderstandwhathe’sthinking.
Hecouldsplitthecarbondioxideatmosphereintooxygenandcarbon;Iknowhe
hasthetechnologytodothat.”
“Hedoes?”
“Yes,I think you were therewhen he mentionedit.Themolecularstill.It’s
solar-poweredmicromachines.Butwhatwouldbethepoint?”
“Sohe’sserious?”
“Seriouslythinkingaboutit,anyway.Butitdoesn’tmakeanysense.Nearly
pureoxygenatthesurface,atsixtyorseventybars?Thatatmospherewouldbe
even more deadly than the carbon dioxide. And it wouldn’t even solve the
greenhouseeffect;withthatthickanatmosphere,evenoxygenisagreenhouse
gas.”
“Youexplainedthattohim?”
“Healready knewit. Andthe floatingcities wouldn’t float any more. They
relyonthegasinside—breathingair—beinglighterthantheVenusianair.Turn
theVenuscarbondioxidetopureO2,thecitiesfalloutofthesky.”
“But?”
“Buthedidn’tseemtocare.”
“So terraforming would make Venus uninhabitable, and he knows it. So
what’sheplanning?”
Sheshrugged.“Idon’tknow.”
“Ido,”Isaid.“AndIthinkwe’dbetterseeyourfriendCarlosFernando.”
***
CarlosFernandowasinhisplayroom.
Theroomwasimmense.Hisfamily’squarterswerebuiltontheedgeofthe
upcity,rightagainstthebubble-wall,andonewholesideofhisplayroomlooked
outacrossthecloudscape.Theroomwaslitteredwithstuff:setsofinterlocking
toy blocks with electronic modules inside that could be put together into
elaboratebuildings,modelsofspacecraftandvariouslighter-than-airaircraft,no
doubtvehiclesusedonVenus,acontraptionoftransparentvesselsconnectedby
tubesthatseemedtobeahalf-completedscienceproject,aunicyclethatsatina
corner, silently balancing on its gyros. Between the toys were pieces of light,
transparentfurniture.Ipickedupachair,anditwasnoheavierthanafeather,
barely there at all. I knew what it was now, diamond fibers that had been
engineered into a foamed, fractal structure. Diamond was their chief working
material; it was something that they could make directly out of the carbon
dioxide atmosphere, with no imported raw materials. They were experts in
diamond,anditfrightenedme.
Whentheguardsbroughtustotheplayroom,CarlosFernandowasattheend
oftheroomfarthestfromtheenormouswindow,hisbacktothewindowandto
us.He’dknownwewerecoming,ofcourse,butwhentheguardsannouncedour
arrival he didn’t turn around, but called behind him, “It’s okay—I’ll be with
theminasecond.”
Thetwoguardsleftus.
He was gyrating and waving his hands in front of a large screen. On the
screen, colorful spaceships flew in three-dimensional projection through the
complicatedmazeofacitythathadapparentlybeendesignedbyEscher,with
towers connected by bridges and buttresses. The viewpoint swooped around,
chasingsomeofthespaceships,hidingfromothers.Fromtimetotimeburstsof
reddotsshotforward,blowingtheshipsoutoftheskywithcolorfulexplosions
asCarlosFernandoshouted“Gotcha!”and“Inyoureye,dog.”
Hewasdancingwithhiswholebody;apparentlythegamehadsomekindof
full-bodyinput.AsfarasIcouldtell,heseemedtohaveforgottenentirelythat
wewerethere.
Ilookedaround.
Sitting on a padded platform no more than two meters from where we had
entered,alionlookedbackatmewithgoldeneyes.HewasbiggerthanIwas.
Next to him, with her head resting on her paws, lay a lioness, and she was
watching me as well, her eyes half open. Her tail twitched once; twice. The
lion’smanewassohugethatitmusthavebeenshampooedandblow-dried.
Heopenedhismouthandyawned,thenrolledontohisside,stillwatchingme.
“They’reharmless,”Leahsaid.“Bad-BoyandKnickers.Pets.”
Knickers—thefemale,Iassumed—stretchedoverandgrabbedthemalelion
bytheneck.Thensheputonepawonthebackofhisheadandbegantogroom
hisfurwithhertongue.
IwasbeginningtogetafeelforjusthowdifferentCarlosFernando’slifewas
fromanythingIknew.
On the walls closer to where Carlos Fernando was playing his game were
severalotherscreens.Theonetomyleftlookedlikeithadahomeworkproblem
partially-workedout.Calculus,Inoted.Hewasdoingachain-ruledifferentiation
andhadleftithalf-completedwherehe’dgottenstuck,orbored.Nexttoitwasa
visualizationofthestructureoftheatmosphereofVenus.Homework?Ilooked
at it more carefully. If it was homework, he was much more interested in
atmosphericsciencethaninmath;themapwascoveredwithnotesandhadhalf
adozenopenwindowswithdetails.Isteppedforwardtoreaditmoreclosely.
Thescreenwentblack.
Iturnedaround,andCarlosFernandowasthere,apetulantexpressiononhis
face.“That’smystuff,”hesaid.Hisvoicesqueakedontheword“stuff.”“Idon’t
wantyoulookingatmystuffunlessIaskyouto,okay?”
HeturnedtoLeah,andhisexpressionchangedtosomethingIcouldn’tquite
read.Hewantedtokickmeoutofhisroom,Ithought,butdidn’twanttomake
Leahangry;hewantedtokeepherapproval.“What’shedoinghere?”heasked
her.
Shelookedatme,andraisedhereyebrows.
IwishIknewmyself,Ithought,butIwasinitfarenough,Ihadbettersay
something.
Iwalkedovertotheenormouswindow,andlookedoutacrosstheclouds.I
could see another city, blue with distance, a toy balloon against the golden
horizon.
“TheenvironmentofVenusisunique,”Isaid.“And to think,yourancestor
UdoNordwaldputallthistogether.”
“Thanks,”hesaid.“Imean,IguessImeanthanks.I’mgladyoulikeourcity.”
“All of the cities,” I said. “It’s a staggering accomplishment. The genius it
musthavetakentoenvisionitall,toputtogetherthefirstfloatingcity;tothink
ofthisplanetasahaven,aplacewheremillionscanlive.Orbillions—theskies
arenowherenearfull.Somedayeventrillions,maybe.”
“Yeah,”hesaid.“Reallysomething,Iguess.”
“Spectacular.”Iturnedaroundandlookedhimdirectlyintheeye.“Sowhydo
youwanttodestroyit?”
“What?”Leahsaid.
CarlosFernandohadhismouthopen,andstartedtosaysomething,butthen
closedhismouthagain.Helookeddown,andthenofftohisleft,andthentothe
right.Hesaid,“I…I…”butthenbrokeoff.
“Iknowyourplan,”Isaid.“Yourmicromachines—they’llconvertthecarbon
dioxide to oxygen. And when the atmosphere changes, the cities will be
grounded.Theywon’tbelighterthanair,won’tbeabletofloatanymore.You
knowthat,don’tyou?Youwanttodoitdeliberately.”
“He can’t,” Leah said, “it won’t work. The carbon would—” and then she
broke off. “Diamond,” she said. “He’s going to turn the excess carbon into
diamond.”
Ireachedoverandpickedupapieceoffurniture,oneofthefoamed-diamond
tables.Itweightedalmostnothing.
“Nanomachinery,” I said. “The molecular still you mentioned. You know,
somebodyoncesaidthattheproblemwithVenusisn’tthatthesurfaceistoohot.
It’sjustfineupherewheretheair’sasthinasEarth’sair.Theproblemis,the
surfaceisjusttoodarnfarbelowsealevel.
“Buteverytonofatmosphereyourmolecularmachinesconvertstooxygen,
yougetaquartertonofpurecarbon.Andtheatmosphereisathousandtonsper
squaremeter.”
Iturned toCarlos Fernando,who stillhadn’tmanagedto sayanything. His
silencewasasdamningasanyconfession.“Yourmachinesturnsthatcarboninto
diamondfibers,andbuildupwardfromthesurface.You’regoingtobuildanew
surface,aren’tyou—acompletelyartificialsurface.Aplatformuptothesweet
spot, fifty kilometers above the old rock surface. And the air there will be
breathable.”
At last Carlos found his voice. “Yeah,” he said. “Dad came up with the
machines,buttheideaofusingthemtobuildashellaroundthewholeplanet—
thatideawasmine.It’sallmine.It’sprettysmart,isn’tit?Don’tyouthinkit’s
smart?”
“Youcan’townthesky,”Isaid,“butyoucanowntheland,can’tyou?You
willhavebuilttheland.Andallthecitiesaregoingtocrash.Therewon’tbeany
dissidentcities,becausetherewon’tbeanycities.You’llownitall.Everybody
willhavetocometoyou.”
“Yeah,”Carlossaid.Hewassmilingnow,abiggoofygrin.“Sweet,isn’tit?”
Hemusthaveseenmyexpression,becausehesaid,“Hey,comeon.It’snotlike
theywerecontributing.Thosedissidentcitiesarefullofnothingbutmalcontents
andpirates.”
Leah’s eyes were wide. He turned to her and said, “Hey, why shouldn’t I?
Givemeonereason.Theyshouldn’tevenbehere.Itwasallmyancestor’sidea,
thefloatingcity,andtheyshovedin.Theystolehisidea,sonowI’mgoingto
shutthemdown.It’llbebettermyway.”
He turned back to me. “Okay, look. You figured out my plan. That’s fine,
that’sgreat,noproblem,okay?You’resmarterthanIthoughtyouwere,Iadmit
it.Now,just,Ineedyoutopromisenottotellanybody,okay?”
Ishookmyhead.
“Oh, go away,” he said. He turned back to Leah. “Doctor Hamakawa,” he
said.Hegotdownononeknee,and,staringattheground,said,“Iwantyouto
marryme.Please?”
Leahshookherhead,buthewasstaringattheground,andcouldn’tseeher.
“I’msorry,Carlos,”shesaid.“I’msorry.”
Hewasjustakid,inaroomsurroundedbyhistoys,tryingtotalktheadults
intoseeingthingsthewayhewantedtoseethem.Hefinallylookedup,hiseyes
fillingwithtears.“Please,”hesaid.“Iwantyouto.I’llgiveyouanything.I’ll
giveyouwhateveryouwant.YoucanhaveeverythingIown,allofit,thewhole
planet,everything.”
“I’msorry,”Leahrepeated.“I’msorry.”
Hereachedoutandpickedupsomethingoffthefloor—amodelofaspaceship
—and looked at it, pretending to be suddenly interested in it. Then he put it
carefullydownonatable,pickedupanotherone,andstoodup,notlookingat
us. He sniffled, and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand—apparently
forgettinghehadtheshipmodelinit—tryingtodoitcasually,asifwewouldn’t
havenoticedthathehadbeencrying.
“Ok,”hesaid.“Youcan’tleave,youknow.Thisguyguessedtoomuch.The
planonlyworks ifit’s secret,sothat themalcontentsdon’tknowit’s coming,
don’tprepareforit.Youhavetostayhere.I’llkeepyouhere,I’ll—Idon’tknow.
Something.”
“No,” I said. “It’s dangerous for Leah here. Miranda already tried to hire
piratestoshootherdownonce,whenshewasoutintheskykayak.Wehaveto
leave.”
Carlos looked up at me, and with sudden sarcasm, said, “Miranda? You’re
joking.Thatwasmewhotippedoffthepirates.Me.Ithoughtthey’dtakeyou
awayandkeepyou.Iwishtheyhad.”
And then he turned back to Leah. “Please? You’ll be the richest person on
Venus. You’ll be the richest person in the solar system. I’ll give it all to you.
You’llbeabletodoanythingyouwant.
“I’msorry,”Leahrepeated.“It’sagreatoffer.Butno.”
Attheotherendoftheroom,Carlos’bodyguardswerequietlyentering.He
apparentlyhadsomewaytosummonthemsilently.Theroomwasfillingwith
them,andtheirgunsweredrawn,butnotyetpointed.
Ibackedtowardthewindow,andLeahcamewithme.
The city had rotated a little, and sunlight was now slanting in through the
window.Iputmysungoggleson.
“Doyoutrustme?”Isaidquietly.
“Ofcourse,”Leahsaid.“Ialwayshave.”
“Comehere.”
LINK:READYblinkedinthecornerofmyfieldofview.
Ireachedup,casually,andtappedonthesideoftheleftlens.CQMANTA,I
tapped.CQ.
Iputmyotherhandbehindmeand,hopingIcoulddisguisewhatIwasdoing
aslongasIcould,Ipushedonthepane,feelingitflexout.
HERE,wasthereply.
Push.Push.Itwasamatterofrhythm.WhenIfoundtheresonantfrequency
ofthepane,itfeltright,itbuiltup,likeoscillatingarockingchair,likesex.
Ireached out myleft hand tohold Leah’s hand,and pumped harder on the
glass with my right. I was putting my weight into it now, and the panel was
bowing visibly with my motion. The window was making a noise now, an
infrasonicthrumtoodeeptohear,butyoucouldfeelit.Oneachswingthepane
ofthewindowbowedfurtheroutward.
“Whatareyoudoing?”Carlosshouted.“Areyoucrazy?”
Thebottombowedout,andtheedgeofthepaneseparatedfromitsframe.
Therewasasmellofacidandsulfur.Thebodyguardsrantowardus,but—as
I’dhoped—theywerehesitanttousetheirguns,worriedthatthedamagedpanel
mightblowcompletelyout.
Thewindowscreechedandjerked,butheld,fixedinplacebytheotherjoints.
Thewayitwasstuckinplaceleftanarrowverticalslitbetweenthewindowand
itsframe.IpulledLeahclosetome,andshovedmyselfbackwards,againstthe
glass, sliding along against the bowed pane, pushing it outward to widen the
openingasmuchasIcould.
AsIfell,Ikissedherlightlyontheedgeoftheneck.
Shecouldhavebrokenmygrip,couldhavetornherselffree.
Butshedidn’t.
“Hold your breath and squeeze your eyes shut,” I whispered, as we fell
throughtheopeningandintothevoid,andthenwithmylastbreathofair,Isaid,
“Iloveyou.”
Shesaidnothinginreturn.Shewasalwayspractical,andknewenoughnotto
trytotalkwhenhernextbreathwouldbeacid.“Iloveyoutoo,”Iimaginedher
saying.
Withmyfreehand,Itapped,MANTA
NEEDPICK-UP.FAST.
Andwefell.
***
“Itwasn’taboutsexatall,”Isaid.“That’swhatIfailedtounderstand.”Wewere
in the manta, covered with slime, but basically unhurt. The pirates had
accomplishedtheirmiracle,snatchedusoutofmidair.Wehadinformationthey
needed;andinexchange,theywouldgiveusarideofftheplanet,backwherewe
belonged,backtothecoolandthedarkandtheemptinessbetweenplanets.“It
wasallaboutfinance.Keepingcontrolofassets.”
“Sure it’s about sex,” Leah said. “Don’t fool yourself. We’re humans. It’s
alwaysaboutsex.Always.Youthinkthat’snotatemptation?Moldingakidinto
justexactlywhatyouwant?Ofcourseit’ssex.Sexandcontrol.Money?That’s
justtheexcusetheytellthemselves.”
“Butyouweren’ttempted,”Isaid.
She looked at me long and hard. “Of course I was.” She sighed, and her
expressionwasonceagaindistant,unreadable.“Morethanyou’lleverknow.”
TheBooks
KAGEBAKER
Oneofthemostprolificnewwriterstoappearinthelatenineties,
the late Kage Baker made her first sale in 1997, to Asimov’s
ScienceFiction,andquicklybecameoneofthatmagazinesmost
frequent and popular contributors with her sly and compelling
storiesoftheadventuresandmisadventuresofthetime-traveling
agents of the Company; later in her career, she started another
linked sequences of stories there as well, set in as lush and
eccentric a high fantasy milieu as any we’ve ever seen. Her
storiesalsoappearedinRealmsofFantasy,SciFiction,Amazing,
andelsewhere.HerfirstCompanynovel,IntheGardenofIden,
wasalsopublishedin1997andimmediatelybecameoneofthe
most acclaimed and widely reviewed first novels of the year.
More Company novels quickly followed, including Sky Coyote,
Mendoza in Hollywood, The Graveyard Game, The Life of the
WorldtoCome,TheMachine’sChild,and TheSons of Heaven,
and her first fantasy novel, The Anvil of the World. Her many
storieswerecollectedin BlackProjects,WhiteKnights; Mother
Aegypt and Other Stories; The Children of the Company; Dark
Mondays;andGodsandPawns.Her mostrecent books include
OrElseMyLadyKeepstheKey,aboutsomeoftherealpiratesof
the Caribbean, fantasy novel The House of the Stag, science
fictionnovelThe Empress ofMars, YAnovel The Hotel Under
theSand,TheBirdoftheRiver,andthelastCompanynovel,Not
LessThanGods.ComingupisNellGwynne’sScarletSpy,which
will probably be her last book. Baker died, tragically young, in
2010.
In addition to her writing, Baker was an artist, actor, and
directorattheLivingHistoryCenter;taughtElizabethanEnglish
as a second language; and worked Renaissance fairs—all of
which background informs the gentle, charming, but autumnal
storythatfollows,abouthowlifegoeson,evenaftertheEndof
theWorld.
Weusedtohavetogoalotfartherdownthecoastinthosedays,beforethings
goteasier.Peopleweren’tusedtousthen.
Ifyouthinkaboutit,wemusthavelookedprettyscarywhenwefirstmadeit
outtothecoast.ThirtytrailersfullofShowpeople,prettydesperateanddirty-
lookingShowpeopletoo,afterfightingourwayacrosstheplainsfromtheplace
wherewe’dbeencampedwhenitallwentdown.Idon’trememberwhenitwent
down,ofcourse;Iwasn’tbornyet.
TheShowusedtobeanolden-timefair,ateachingthing.Wetraveledfrom
place to place putting it on so people would learn about olden times, which
seemsprettyfunnynow,butbackthen…how’s thatsonggo?Theoneabout
mankindjumpingoutintothestars?Andeverybodythoughtthatwashowitwas
goingtobe.TheauntsanduncleswouldputontheShowsospace-agepeople
wouldn’tforgetthingslikeweavingandmakingcandleswhentheywentoffinto
space.That’swhatyoucallirony,Iguess.
ButafterwardwehadtochangetheShow,because…well,wecouldn’thave
the Jousting Arena anymore because we needed the big horses to pull the
trailers.AndUncleBuckdidn’tmakefancyworkwithdragonswithrhinestone
eyesonthemanymorebecause,whowastherelefttobuythatkindofstuff?And
anyway he was too busy making horseshoes. So all the uncles and aunts got
together and worked it out like it is now, where we come into town with the
Showandpeoplecometoseeit and thentheyletusstayawhile because we
makestufftheyneed.
I started out as a baby bundle in one of the stage shows, myself. I don’t
rememberit,though.IrememberlaterIwasinsomeplaywithalovestoryandI
justworeapairoffakewingsandranacrossthestagenakedandshotatthegirl
withatoybowandarrowthathadglitteronthem.AndanothertimeIplayeda
dwarf.ButIwasn’tadwarf,weonlyhadtheonedwarfandshewasalady,that
wasAuntTammy, andshe’sdead now. Butthere wasan act witha coupleof
dwarvesdancingandsheneededapartner,andIhadtowearablacksuitanda
tophat.
But by then my daddy had got sick and died so my mom was sharing the
trailerwithAuntNera,whomadepotsandpitchersandstuff,sothatmeantwe
werelivingwithhernephewMykotoo.Peoplesaidhewentcrazylateronbutit
wasn’ttrue.Hewasjustmessedup.AuntNeralefttheShowforalittlewhile
after it all went down, to go and see if her family—they were townies—had
madeitthroughokay,onlytheydidn’t,theywerealldeadbutthebaby,soshe
tookthebabyawaywithherandfoundusagain.ShesaidMykowastoolittleto
rememberbutIthinkherememberedsome.
Anywaywegrewuptogetherafterthat,usandSunnywholivedwithAunt
Kestrelintheirtrailerwhichwasnexttoours.AuntKestrelwasajugglerinthe
ShowandMykothoughtthatwasintense,hewantedtobeakidjuggler.Sohe
gotAuntKestreltoshowhimhow.AndSunnyknewhowalready,she’dbeen
watchinghermomjugglesinceshewasbornandshecoulddoclubsorballsor
theapple-eatingtrickoranything.MykodecidedheandSunnyshouldbeakid
jugglingact.IcrieduntiltheysaidIcouldbeintheacttoo,butthenIhadto
learnhowto juggle andboy,wasI sorry. Iknockedout one ofmy own front
teethwithaclubbeforeIlearnedbetter.Thenewonedidn’tgrowinuntilIwas
seven,soIwentaroundlookingstupidforthreeyears.ButIgotgoodenoughto
marchintheparadeandjuggletorches.
Thatwas after we auditioned, though. Myko went to Aunt Jeffand whined
andhemadeuscostumesforouract.Mykogotablackdoubletandatoysword
and a mask and I got a buffoon overall with a big spangly ruff. Sunny got a
princesscostume. Wecalled ourselvesthe Minitrons.Actually Mykocame up
withthename.Idon’tknowwhathethoughtaMinitronwassupposedtobebut
it sounded brilliant. Myko and I were both supposed to be in love with the
princessandshecouldn’tdecidebetweenussowehadtodojugglingtricksto
winherhand,onlysheoutjuggledus,sothenMykoandIhadaswordfightto
decidethings.AndIalwayslostanddiedofabrokenheart,butthentheprincess
wassorryandputapaperroseonmychest.ThenIjumpedupandwetookour
bows and ran off, because the next act was Uncle Monty and his performing
parrots.
BythetimeIwassixwefeltlikeoldperformers,andweswaggeredinfront
oftheotherkidsbecauseweweretheonlykidact.We’dplayeditinsixtowns
already.Thatwastheyeartheauntsandunclesdecidedtotakethetrailersasfar
downthecoastasthisplaceontheedgeofthebigdesert.Itusedtobeabigcity
before it all went down. Even if there weren’t enough people alive there
anymoretoputonashowfor,theremightbealotofoldjunkwecoulduse.
Wemadeitintotownallrightwithoutevenanyshooting.Thatwaskindof
amazing,actually,becauseitturnedoutnobodylivedtherebutoldpeople,and
oldpeoplewillusuallyshootatyouiftheyhaveguns,andthesedid.Theother
amazingthingwasthatthetownwashugeandImeanreallyhuge,Ijustwalked
aroundwithmyheadtiltedbackstaringatthesetowersthatwentupandupinto
thesky.Someofthemyoucouldn’tevenseethetopsbecausethefoghidthem.
Andtheywereallmirrorsandglassandarchesanddomesandscowlyfacesin
stonelookingdownfromwayuphigh.
Butalltheoldpeoplelivedinjustafewplacesrightalongthebeach,because
the further back you went into the city the more sand was everywhere. The
desertwascreepinginandtakingalittlemoreeveryyear.Thatwaswhyallthe
young people had left. There was nowhere to grow any food. The old people
stayedbecausetherewasstillplentyofstuffinjarsandcanstheyhadcollected
fromthemarkets,andanywaytheylikedittherebecauseitwaswarm.Theytold
ustheydidn’thaveenoughfoodtoshareany,though.UncleBucktoldthemall
wewantedtotradeforwastherighttogointosomeoftheemptytowersand
stripoutasmuchofthecopperpipesandwiresandthingsaswecouldtakeaway
with us. They thought that was all right; they put their guns down and let us
camp,then.
ButwefoundouttheShowhadtobeamatineeifweweregoingtoperform
for them, because they all went to bed before the time we usually put on the
Show.Andthefire-eaterwasreallypissedoffaboutthatbecausenobodywould
beabletoseehisactmuch,inbroaddaylight.Itworkedoutallright,intheend,
because the next day was dark and gloomy. You couldn’t see the tops of the
towersat all. Weactually had to lighttorches around the edges of the big lot
whereweputupthestage.
Theoldpeoplecamefilingoutoftheirapartmentbuildingtotheseatswe’d
setup,andthenwehadtowaittheopeningbecausetheydecideditwastoocold
and they all went shuffling back inside and got their coats. Finally the Show
startedanditwentprettywell,consideringsomeofthemwereblindandhadto
havetheirfriendsexplainwhatwasgoingoninloudvoices.
But they liked Aunt Lulu and her little trained dogs and they liked Uncle
Manny’sstrongmanactwherehepickedupaVolkswagen.Wekidsknewallthe
heavy stuff like the engine had been taken out of it, but they didn’t. They
applauded Uncle Derry the Mystic Magician, even though the talkers for the
blind shouted all through his performance and threw his timing off. He was
muttering to himself and rolling a joint as he came through the curtain that
markedoffBackstage.
“Brutal crowd, kids,” he told us, lighting his joint at one of the torches.
“Watchyourrhythm.”
Bywewerekidsandwecouldignoreallthegrownupsintheworldshouting,
sowegrabbedourpropbasketsandranoutandputonouract.Mykostalkedup
anddownandwavedhisswordandyelledhislinesaboutbeingthebraveand
dangerous Captainio. I had a little pretend guitar that I strummed on while I
pretendedtolookatthemoon,andspokemylinesaboutbeingapoorfoolin
love with the princess. Sunny came out and did her princess dance. Then we
juggled. It all went fine. The only time I was a little thrown off was when I
glanced at the audience for a split second and saw the light of my juggling
torchesflickeringonallthoseglasslensesorblindeyes.ButIneverdroppeda
torch.
MaybeMykowasbotheredsome,though,becauseIcouldtellbythewayhis
eyesglaredthroughhismaskthathewasgettingworkedup.Whenwehadthe
sword duel near the end he hit too hard, the way he always did when he got
worked up, and he banged my knuckles so bad I actually said “Ow” but the
audience didn’t catch it. Sometimes when he was like that his hair almost
bristled,hewaslikesomecrazycatjumpingandspitting,andhe’dfightabout
nothing. Sometimes afterward I’d ask him why. He’d shrug and say he was
sorry.Oncehesaiditwasbecauselifewassodamnboring.
AnywayIsangmylittlesadsonganddiedofabrokenheart,flumpfthereon
thepavementinmybuffoonsuit.IfeltSunnycomeoverandputtheroseonmy
chestand,Iwillrememberthistomydyingday,someoldladywasyellingto
heroldman“…andnowthelittlegirlgavehimherrose!”
Andtheoldmanyelled“What?Shegavehimhernose?”
“Damnit,Bob!HerROSE!”
Icorpsed rightthen, I couldn’thelpit, I was still gigglingwhen Mykoand
Sunnypulledmetomyfeetandwetookourbowsandranoff.Backstagethey
startedlaughingtoo.Wedancedupanddownandlaughed,verymuchgettingin
thewayofUncleMonty,whohadtotrundleallhisparrotsandtheirperchesout
onstage.
Whenwehadlaughedourselvesout,Sunnysaid“So…what’llwedonow?”
Thatwasagoodquestion.UsuallytheShowwasatnight,sousuallyaftera
performancewewentbacktothetrailersandgotoutofcostumeandourmoms
fedusandputustobed.We’dneverplayedamatineebefore.Westoodthere
lookingateachotheruntilMyko’seyesgleamedsuddenly.
“WecanexploretheLostCityoftheSands,”hesaid,inthatvoicehehadthat
made it sound like whatever he wanted was the coolest thing ever. Instantly,
SunnyandIbothwantedtoexploretoo.Soweslippedoutfromthebackstage
area,justasUncleMontywasscreaminghimselfhoarsetryingtogethisparrots
toobeyhim,andamomentlaterwewerewalkingdownanendlessstreetlined
withloominggiants’houses.
Theyweren’treally,theyhadbigletterscarved up highthatsaidthey were
thisor that propertygroup or financialgroup or brokerageor church, butif a
gianthadsteppedoutatonecornerandpeereddownatus,wewouldn’thave
beensurprised.There wasa coldwindblowing alongthe alleys fromthe sea,
andsandhissedthereandranbeforeuslikeghostsalongtheground,butonthe
longdesertedblocksbetweentherewasgiganticsilence.Ourtinyfootstepsonly
echoedindoorways.
Thewindowsweremostlyfaraboveourheadsandtherewasnothingmuchto
see when Myko hoisted me up to stand on his shoulders and look into them.
Mykokeptsayinghehopedwe’dseeadeskwithaskeletonwithoneofthose
headsetthingsonsittingatit,butweneverdid;peopledidn’tdiethatfastwhen
itallwentdown.Mymomsaidtheycouldtellwhentheyweregettingsickand
peoplewenthomeandlockedthemselvesintowaitandseeiftheylivedornot.
AnywayMykogotboredfinallyandstartedthisgamewherehe’dchargeup
thestepsofeverybuildingwepassed.He’dhammeronthedoorwiththehiltof
hisswordandyell“It’stheCivilianMilitia!Openuporwe’recomingin!”Then
he’d rattle the doors, but everything was locked long ago. Some of the doors
weretoosolideventorattle,andtheglasswaswaytoothicktobreak.
Afterabout three blocks of this, when Sunny and I were startingto lookat
eachotherwithour eyebrowsraised,meaning “Areyou going to tellhimthis
game is getting old or do I have to do it?”, right then something amazing
happened:oneofthedoorsswungslowlyinwardandMykoswungwithit.He
staggered into the lobby or whatever and the door shut behind him. He stood
staring at us through the glass and we stared back and I was scared to death,
becauseIthoughtwe’dhavetorunbackandgetUncleBuckandAuntSelene
withtheirhammerstogetMykoout,andwe’dallbeintrouble.
ButSunnyjustpushedonthedooranditopenedagain.ShewentinsoIhad
togointoo.Westoodthereallthreeandlookedaround.Therewasadeskanda
dead tree in a planter and another huge glass wall with a door in it, leading
deeperintothebuilding.Mykobegantogrin.
“ThisisthefirstchamberoftheTreasureTombintheLostCity,”hesaid.“We
justkilledthegiantscorpionandnowwehavetogodefeatthearmyofzombies
togetintothesecondchamber!”
He drew his sword and ran yelling at the inner door, but it opened too,
soundlessly,andwepushedafterhim.Itwasmuchdarkerinherebuttherewas
stillenoughlighttoreadthesigns.
“It’salibarary,”saidSunny.“Theyusedtohavepaperbacks.”
“Paperbacks,” said Myko gloatingly, and I felt pretty excited myself. We’d
seenlots of paperbacks, of course;there was the boring onewith the mended
cover that Aunt Maggie made everybody learn to read in. Every grownup we
knew had one or two or a cache of paperbacks, tucked away in boxes or in
lockersunderbeds,tobethumbedthroughbylamplightandreadaloudfrom,if
kidshadbeengood.
AuntNerahadadozenpaperbacksandshe’ddothat.Itusedtobetheonly
thingthatwouldstopMykocryingwhenhewaslittle.Weknewallaboutthe
LastUnicornandthekidswhowenttoNarnia,andtherewasareallylongstory
aboutsomepeoplewhohadtothrowaringintoavolcanothatIalwaysgottired
ofbeforeitended,andanotherreallylongoneaboutacrazyfamilylivingina
huge castle, but it was in three books and Aunt Nera only had the first two.
There was never any chance she’d ever get the third one now, of course, not
since it all went down. Paperbacks were rare finds, they were ancient, their
brownpagescrumbledifyouweren’tcarefulandgentle.
“Wejustfoundallthepaperbacksintheuniverse!”Mykoshouted.
“Don’t be dumb,” said Sunny. “Somebody must have taken them all away
yearsago.”
“Oh yeah?” Myko turned and ran further into the darkness. We followed,
yellingathimtocomeback,andweallcameouttogetherintoabigroundroom
withaislesleadingoffit. Thereweredesksina ringallaroundandthe blank
deadscreensofelectronics.Wecouldstillseebecausetherewerewindowsdown
at the end of each aisle, sending long trails of light along the stone floors,
reflectingbackonthelongshelvesthatlinedtheaislesandtheunevensurfaces
ofthethingsontheshelves.Clusteringtogether,wepickedanaisleatrandom
andwalkeddownittowardthewindow.
Abouthalfwaydownit,Mykojumpedandgrabbedsomethingfromoneofthe
shelves. “Look! Told you!” He waved a paperback under our noses. Sunny
leanedclosetolookatit.Therewasnopictureonthecover,justthetitleprinted
big.
“Roget’s.The.Saurus,”Sunnyreadaloud.
“What’sitabout?”Iasked.
Myko opened it and tried to read. For a moment he looked so angry I got
readytorun,butthen heshruggedandclosedthe paperback.“It’sjustwords.
Maybe it’s a secret code or something. Anyway, it’s mine now.” He stuck it
insidehisdoublet.
“Nostealing!”saidSunny.
“Ifit’sadeadtownit’snotstealing,it’ssalvage,”Itoldher,justliketheaunts
andunclesalwaystoldus.
“Butitisn’tdead.There’salltheoldpeople.”
“They’ll die soon,” said Myko. “And anyway Uncle Buck already asked
permissiontosalvage.”Whichshehadtoadmitwastrue,sowewenton.What
wedidn’tknowthen,butfiguredoutprettyfast,wasthatalltheotherthingson
theshelveswereactuallybighardbookslikeUncleDes’sBarlogio’sPrinciples
ofGlassblowing.
Butitwasdisappointingatfirstbecausenoneofthebooksinthataislehad
stories. It was all, what do you call it, reference stuff. We came out sadly
thinkingwe’dbeengypped,andthenSunnyspottedthesignwithdirections.
“Children’sBooks,FifthFloor,”sheannounced.
“Great!Where’sthestairs?”Mykolookedaround.Weallknewbetterthanto
ever,evergonearanelevator,becausenotonlydidtheymostlynotwork,they
couldkillyou.Wefoundastaircaseandclimbed,andclimbedforwhatseemed
forever,beforewecameoutontotheChildren’sBooksfloor.
Anditwassocool.Therewereracksofpaperbacks,ofcourse,butwestood
therewithourmouthsopenbecausethesignshadbeenright—therewerebooks
here. Big, hard, solid books, but not about grownup stuff. Books with bright
picturesonthecovers.Booksforus.Eventhetablesandchairsupherewereour
size.
Withalittlescream,Sunnyranforwardandgrabbedabookfromashelf.“It’s
Narnia!Look!Andit’sgotdifferentpictures!”
“Whatascore,”saidMyko,dancingupanddown.“Oh,whatascore!”
Icouldn’tsayanything.Theideawassoenormous:allthesewereours.This
wholehugeroombelongedtous…at least, asmuchas wecouldcarry away
withus.
Mykowhoopedandranoffdownoneoftheaisles.Sunnystayedfrozenatthe
firstshelf,staringwithalmostasickexpressionattheotherbooks.Iwentclose
tosee.
“Look,”shewhispered.“There’smillions.HowamIsupposedtochoose?We
needasmanystoriesaswecanget.”Shewaspointingatawholerowofbooks
with color titles: The Crimson Fairy Book. The Blue Fairy Book. The Violet
Fairy Book. The Orange Fairy Book. I wasn’t interested in fairies, so I just
gruntedandshookmyhead.
I picked an aisle and found shelves full of flat books with big pictures. I
openedone and lookedat it.It was realeasy to read,with big letters and the
pictureswerefunny,butIreadrightthroughitstandingthere.Itwasaboutthose
biganimalsyouseesometimesbackupthedeltacountry,youknow,elephants.
Dancing,withfunnyhatson.ItriedtoimagineAuntNerareadingitaloudon
winter nights. It wouldn’t last even one night; it wouldn’t last through one
bedtime.Itwasonlyonestory.SuddenlyIsawwhatSunnymeant.Ifwewere
goingtotakebooksawaywithus,theyhadtobefullofstoriesthatwouldlast.
What’sthewordI’mlookingfor?Substance.
Mykoyelledfromsomewheredistant“Here’sacoolone!It’sgotpirates!”
ItwasprettydarkwhereIwasstanding,soIwandereddowntheaisletoward
thewindow.ThebooksgotthickerthefartherIwalked.Therewereabunchof
booksaboutdogs,buttheirstoriesallseemedsortofthesame;therewerebooks
abouthorsestoo,withthesameproblem.Therewerebookstoteachkidshowto
makeusefulstuff, but when I looked through themtheywerealldumbthings
like how to weave potholders for your mom or build things out of popsicle
sticks.Ididn’tevenknowwhatpopsiclestickswere,muchlesswhereIcould
getany.Thereweresomeaboutwhatdailylifewaslikebackinoldentimes,but
Ialreadyknewaboutthat,andanywaythosebookshadnostory.
Andallthe whileMyko keptyellingthings like“Whoa!This onehas guys
withspearsandshieldsandgods!”or“Hey,here’sonewithaflyingcarpetandit
says it’s got a thousand stories!” Why was I the only one stuck in the dumb
booksshelves?
Icameto the bigwindowat theendand lookedoutat the view—rooftops,
fog,graydarkocean—andbackedaway,scaredstiffbyhowhighupIwas.Iwas
turningaroundtorunbackwhenIsawthebiggestbookintheworld.
Seriously.ItwashalfasbigasIwas,twicethesizeofBarlogio’sPrinciplesof
Glassblowing,itwasboundinredleatherandthereweregoldlettersalongits
back.Icroucheddownandslowlyspelledoutthewords.
TheCompleteCollectedAdventuresofAsterixtheGaul.
Iknewwhat“Adventures”meant,anditsoundedprettypromising.Ipulled
thebookdown—itwastheheaviestbookintheworldtoo—andlaiditflatonthe
floor.WhenIopeneditIcaughtmybreath.Ihadfoundthegreatestbookinthe
world.
Itwasfullofcoloredpictures,buttherewerewordstoo,alotofthem,they
werethepeopleinthestorytalkingbutyoucouldseethemtalk.Ihadneverseen
acomicbefore.MymomtalkedsometimesaboutmoviesandTVandtheymust
havebeenlikethis,Ithought,talkingpictures.Andthere was astory. In fact,
therewerelotsofstories.Asterixwasthislittleguynobiggerthanmebuthe
hadamustacheandahelmetandhelivedinthisvillageandtherewasawizard
with a magic potion and Asterix fought in battles and traveled to all these
farawayplacesandhadalltheseadventures!!!AndIcouldreaditallbymyself,
because when I didn’t know what a word meant I could guess at it from the
pictures.
Isettledmyselfmorecomfortablyonmystomach,proppedmyselfuponmy
elbowssoIwouldn’tcrunchmystarchedruff,andsettleddowntoread.
Sometimestheworldbecomesaperfectplace.
***
AsterixandhisfriendObelixhadjustcometotheForestoftheCarnuteswhenI
wasjoltedbacktotheworldbyMykoyellingforme.Irosetomykneesand
lookedaround.Itwasdarkernow;Ihadn’tevenrealizedI’dbeenpushingmy
nosecloserand closer tothepages asthelight haddrainedaway.Therewere
drops of rain hitting the window and I thought about what it would be like
runningthroughthosedarkcoldscarystreetsandgettingrainedontoo.
Iscrambledtomyfeetandgrabbedupmybook,grippingittomychestasI
ran.ItwasevendarkerwhenIreachedthecentralroom.MykoandSunnywere
having a fight when I got there. She was crying. I stopped, astounded to see
she’dpulledherskirtoffandstuffeditfullofbooks,andshewassittingthere
withherlegsbaretoherunderpants.
“Wehavetotravellight,andthey’retooheavy,”Mykowastellingher.“You
can’ttakeallthose!”
“Ihaveto,”shesaid.“Weneedthesebooks!”Shegottoherfeetandhefted
theskirt.TheOliveFairyBookfellout.Ilookedoverandsawshe’dtakenallthe
colored fairy books. Myko bent down impatiently and grabbed up The Olive
FairyBook.Helookedatit.
“It’sstupid,”hesaid.“Whoneedsabookaboutanolivefairy?”
“Youmoron,it’snotaboutanolivefairy!”Sunnyshrieked.“It’sgotallkinds
ofstoriesinit!Look!”Shegrabbeditbackfromhimandopenedit,andshoved
itoutagainforhimtosee.Isidledcloseandlooked.Shewasright:therewasa
pagewiththenamesofallthestoriesinthebook.Therewerealotofstories,
aboutknightsandmagicandstrangewords.Readoneanight,they’dtakeupa
monthofwinternights. Andeverybook hadamonth’s worthofstories in it?
Now,thatwasconcentratedentertainmentvalue.
Myko,squintingatthepage,musthavedecidedthesamething.“Okay,”he
said,“Butyou’llhavetocarryit.Anddon’tcomplainifit’sheavy.”
“Iwon’t,”saidSunny,puttinghernoseintheair.Heglancedatmeanddida
double-take.
“Youcan’ttakethat!”heyelled.“It’stoobigandit’sjustonebookanyway!”
“It’stheonlyoneIwant,”Isaid.“Andanyhow,yougottotakealltheones
youwanted!”Heknewitwastrue,too.Hisdoubletwassostuffedoutwithloot,
helookedpregnant.
Myko muttered under his breath, but turned away, and that meant the
argumentwasover.“Anywayweneedtoleave.”
Sowestartedto,buthalfwaydownthefirstflightofstairsthreebooksfellout
ofSunny’sskirtandwehadtostopwhileMykotookthesafetypinsoutofall
ourcostumesandclosedupthewaistband.Wewerealmosttothesecondfloor
whenSunnylostherholdontheskirtandherbookswentcascadingdowntothe
landing,withtheloudestnoiseintheuniverse.Wescrambleddownafterthem
andwereonourkneespickingthemupwhenweheardtheothernoise.
It was a hissing, like someone gasping for breath through whistly dentures,
and a jingling, like a ring of keys, because that’s what it was. We turned our
heads.
Maybehehadn’thearduswhenweranpasthimonthewayup.Wehadn’t
beentalkingthen,justclimbing,andhehadalotofhairinhisearsandapink
plasticsortofmachineinonebesides.Ormaybehe’dbeensowrappedup,the
wayIhadbeeninreading,thathehadn’tevennoticeduswhenwe’dpattered
past.Buthehadn’tbeenreading.
Therewerenobooksinthispartofthelibrary.Alltherewasontheshelves
wasoldmagazinesandstacksandstacksofyellownewspapers.Thenewspapers
weren’tcrumpledintoballsinthebottomsofoldboxes,whichwastheonlyway
weeversawthem,theyweresmoothandflat.Butmostofthemweredriftedon
thefloorlikeleaves,hundredsandhundredsofbigleaves,ankle-deep,andon
every single one was a square with sort of checkered patterns and numbers
printedinthesquaresandwordswrittenininpencil.
Ididn’tknowwhatacrosswordpuzzlewasthenbuttheoldmanmusthave
beencomingthereforyears,maybeeversinceitallwentdown,yearsandyears
he’d been working his way through all those magazines and papers, hunting
downeverysinglepuzzleandfillingineveryone.Hewasdroppingastubofa
pencilnowashegottohisfeet,snarlingatus,showingthreebrownteeth.His
eyesbehindhisglasseswerethesehugedistortedmagnifiedthings,andfullof
crazyanger.Hecameoverthepaper-driftsatusfastandlightasaspider.
“Fieves!Uckingkish!Uckingfievingkish!”
SunnyscreamedandIscreamedtoo.Franticallysheshovedallthebooksshe
couldintoherskirtandIgrabbedupmostofwhatshe’dmissed,butwewere
takingtoolong.Theoldmanbroughtuphiscaneandsmackeditdown,crack,
buthemissedusonhisfirsttryandbythenMykohaddrawnhiswoodensword
andputitagainsttheoldman’schestandshovedhard.Theoldmanfellwitha
crash,stillflailinghiscane,buthewasonhissideandstrikingatusfasterthan
you’dbelieve, andso mad nowhe was justmaking noises,with spittleflying
fromhismouth.HiscanehitmykneeasIscrambledup.IthurtlikefireandI
yelped.Mykokickedhimandyelled“Run!”
We bailed, Sunny and I did, we thundered down the rest of the stairs and
didn’tstopuntilwewereoutinthelastchamberbythestreetdoors.“Myko’s
stillupthere,”saidSunny.Ihadan agonizingfewsecondsbeforedeciding to
volunteertogobackandlookforhim.Iwasjustopeningmymouthwhenwe
spottedhimrunningdownthestairsandouttowardus.
“Oh, good,” said Sunny. She tied a knot in one corner of her skirt, for a
handle, and had already hoisted it over her shoulder onto her back and was
headingfor thedoorasMykojoinedus.Hewasclutchingtheonebookwe’d
missedonthelanding.ItwasTheLilacFairyBookandtherewereacoupleof
spattersofwhatlookedlikebloodonitscover.
“Here.Youcarryit.”Mykoshovedthebookatme.Itookitandwipeditoff.
WefollowedSunnyout.Ilookedathimsidelong.Therewasbloodonhissword
too.
Ittookmetwoblocks,though,joggingafterSunnythroughtherain,beforeI
workedupthenervetoleanclosetohimasweranandask:“Didyoukillthat
guy?”
“Hadto,”saidMyko.“Hewouldn’tstop.”
TothisdayIdon’tknowifhewastellingthetruth.Itwasthekindofthinghe
wouldhavesaid,whetheritwastrueornot.Ididn’tknowwhatIwassupposed
tosayback.Webothkeptrunning.TheraingotalotharderandMykoleftme
behind in a burst of speed, catching up to Sunny and grabbing her bundle of
books.Heslungitoverhisshoulder.Theykeptgoing,sidebyside.IhadallI
coulddonottofallbehind.
BythetimewegotbacktheShowwaslongover.Thecrewwastakingdown
thestageintherain,stackingthebigplanks.Becauseoftherainnomarketstalls
hadbeensetupbuttherewasalineofoldpeoplewithumbrellasstandingby
UncleChris’strailer,sincehe’dofferedtorepairanydenturesthatneededfixing
withhisjeweler’stools.MykoveeredusawayfromthembehindAuntSelene’s
trailer,andthereweransmackintoourmomsandAuntNera.Theyhadbeen
lookingforusforanhourandwerereallymad.
***
Iwasscaredsickthewholenextday,incasetheoldpeoplegotouttheirguns
and came to get us, but nobody seemed to notice the old man was dead and
missing,if he wasdead. The otherthing I wasscared would happenwas that
AuntKestrelorAuntNerawouldgettotalkingwiththeotherwomenandsay
something like, “Oh, by the way, the kids found a library and salvaged some
books,maybeweshouldallgooverandgetsomebooksfortheotherkidstoo”
because that was exactly the sort of thing they were always doing, and then
they’d find the old man’s body. But they didn’t. Maybe nobody did anything
becausetherainkeptalltheauntsandkidsandoldpeopleinnextday.Maybe
the old man had been a hermit and lived by himself in the library, so no one
wouldfindhisbodyforages.
Ineverfoundoutwhathappened.Weleftafteracoupleofdays,afterUncle
Buckandthe others hadopenedup anofficetower andsalvagedall the good
coppertheycouldcarry.Ihadakneeswollenupandpurplewheretheoldman
hadhitit,butitwasbetterinaboutaweek.Thebookswereworththepain.
Theylastedusforyears.Wereadthemandwepassedthemontotheother
kidsandtheyreadthemtoo,andthestoriesgotintoourgamesandourdreams
andthewaywethoughtabouttheworld.WhatIlikedbestaboutmycomicswas
thatevenwhentheheroeswentofftofarplacesandhadadventures,theyalways
camebacktotheirvillageintheendandeverybodywashappyandtogether.
Myko liked the other kind of story, where the hero leaves and has glorious
adventuresbutmaybenever comes back. He was bored with theShowby the
timehewastwentyandwentofftosomebigcityupnorthwherehe’dheardthey
hadtheirelectricsrunningagain.Lightswerefinallystartingtocomebackonin
thetownsweworked,soitseemedlikely.Hestillhadthatvoicethatcouldmake
anythingseemlikeagoodidea,see,andnowhehadallthosefancywordshe’d
gottenoutofRoget’sThesaurustoo.SoIguessIshouldn’thavebeensurprised
thathetalkedSunnyintogoingwithhim.
Sunnycamebackaloneafterayear.Shewouldn’ttalkaboutwhathappened,
andIdidn’task.Elizawasbornthreemonthslater.
Everyoneknowssheisn’tmine.Idon’tmind.
Wereadtoheronwinternights.Shelikesstories.
Re-CrossingtheStyx
IANRMACLEOD
Intheslystorythatfollows,weaccompanyasocialclimberashe
makeshiswayupthesocialladdertowardthesuperrichatthetop
—nomatterwhathehastosacrificetogetthere.
British writer Ian R. MacLeod was one of the hottest new
writers of the nineties, publishing a slew of strong stories in
Interzone, Asimov’s Science Fiction, Weird Tales, Amazing, and
TheMagazineofFantasyandScienceFiction,andelsewhereand
hisworkcontinuedtogrowinpoweranddeepeninmaturityas
wemovedthroughthefirstdecadeofthenewcentury.Muchof
his work has been gathered in three collections, Voyages By
Starlight, Breathmoss and Other Exhalations, and Past Magic.
Hisfirstnovel,TheGreatWheel,waspublishedin1997.In1999,
hewontheWorldFantasyAwardwithhisnovella“TheSummer
Isles,” and followed it up in 2000 by winning another World
Fantasy Award for his novelette “The Chop Girl.” In 2003, he
publishedhisfirstfantasynovel,andhismostcriticallyacclaimed
book,TheLightAges,followedbyasequel,TheHouseofStorms,
in2005,andthenbySongofTime,whichwonboththeArthurC.
ClarkeAwardandtheJohnW.CampbellAwardin2008.Anovel
version of The Summer Isles also appeared in 2005. His most
recentbooksareanewnovel,WakeUpandDream, and a new
collection,Journeys.MacLeodliveswithhisfamilyintheWest
MidlandsofEngland.
WelcomeaboardtheGloriousNomad,allnuclear-powered450,000tonsofher.
Sheis,literally,asmallcountryinherownright,withherownarmedservices,
lawsandcurrency.But,forallhermodernity,lifeafloatremainsold-fashioned.
There are the traditional fast food outlets, themed restaurants, coloured
fountains,streetentertainersandevenabarber’sshopstaffedbyacharmingly
impromptuquartet.There are trained armiesof chefs, littercollectors,pooper-
scoopersandmaintenanceengineers.Fireworkdisplaysareheldeacheveningon
themaincentraldeckabovetheHappyTrillionaireCasino,weatherpermitting.
It’seasy tounderstand why thosewho can affordher tariffscarry on cruising
until—andthenlongafter—death.
Wanderingthedecksinhislilac-stripecrewblazer, residenttourhostFrank
Onionsneverpaidmuchattentiontothenewsreportshesawinmagazinesleft
glowingoverthearmsofsunloungers.Still,heknewthatdyingwasnolonger
thebigdealithadoncebeen.Death,ithadturnedout,wastheanswertomany
oftheproblemsofoldage.Withyourweakeningheartstopped,withyourfailing
body eviscerated and your memory uploaded and your organs renewed, you
werefreetoshufflearoundonyourtitaniumhipsforanotherfewdecades.And,
after that, you could book in for the same procedure again. And again. There
were, admittedly, some quibbles about whether the post-living were still
technicallythesamepeopletheyhadoncebeen.But,workingasFrankdidinan
industry which relied so heavily on the post-centenarian trade, it would have
beenchurlishtocomplain.
It seemed like there were more corpses than ever as he led the morning
excursiontotheruinsofKnossosinCrete,withtheGloriousNomadanchored
offwhatremainedofthecityofHeraklion.Atleastfourteenoutofthefortytwo
headshecountedonthetourbuslookedtobedead.Makethatdouble,ifyou
includedtheirminders.Theeasiestwaytotellthedeadapartfromthelivingwas
by a quick glance at their wigs and toupees. Not that the living oldies didn’t
favoursuch thingsas well,but thedead wereuniformly bald—hair, like skin,
seemedtobesomethingthescientistshaven’tfullygottheknackofreplacing—
andhadaparticularlybilioustasteinrugware.ThelinesofbusseatsFrankfaced
sprouted Elvis coxcombs, dyed punky tufts and Motown beehives. The dead
lovedtowearbigsunglasses,aswell.Theyshunnedthelight,likethevampires
they somewhat resembled, and favoured loose-fitting clothes in unlikely
combinations of manmade fabrics. Even the men put on too much makeup to
disguise their pasty skins. As the tour bus climbed towards the day’s cultural
destinationandFranktookthemikeandkickedintohisspielaboutPerseusand
theMinotaur,a mixedsmellof corruptedflesh, facecreamandsomething like
formaldehydewaftedoverhim.
The September sun wasn’t particularly harsh as Frank, Glorious Nomad
lollipopinraisedrighthand,guidedhisshufflingbunchfromsighttostairliftto
movingwalkway.Hereisthepriest-kingfrescoandhereisthethroneroomand
here is the world’s first flush toilet. The only other tour group were from the
HappyMinstrel,anotherbigcruisevesselberthedattheoldAmericannavalbase
atSoudaBay.Asthetwoslowstreamsshuffledandmingledintheirfrailefforts
tobefirsttothesouvenirshop,Frankcouldn’thelpbutworrythathewasgoing
toendupwithsomeofthewrongguests.Then,ashewatchedthemsomemore
—sofrail,sogoddamnpointlessintheireagernesstospendthemoneythey’d
earnedbackintheirdiscardedlivesasaccountantsfromIdahoorlawyersfrom
Stockholm or plant hire salesmen from Wolverhampton—he wondered if it
wouldmatter.
Hecorralledwhatseemed liketheright specimens backonthe buswithout
furtherincident,andtheyheadedontowardwhattoday’sitinerarydescribedasA
TypicalCretan Fishing Village. The whole place looked convincing enough if
youignoredtheconcretebermserectedasprotectionagainsttherisingseas,and
the local villagers did local villager as well as anyone who had to put on the
sameactdayafterdayreasonablycould.
Afterwards,Franksatunderaolivetreeinwhatpassedfortheharbourfront
taverna, took a screen out from his back pocket and pretended to read. The
waiterbroughthimstuffedolives,decentblackdecafandaplateofwarmpita
bread.Itwashard,sometimes,tocomplain.
“Mindifwejoinyou?”
Franksuppressedascowlandputawayhisscreen.Then,ashelookedup,his
contractualsmilebecamegenuine.
“Sure,sure.Itwouldbeapleasure.”
Shewaswearingastrappysundressmadeofsomekindoffabricthattwinkled
andchangedwiththedapplinglight.Sodidherbaregoldenshoulders.Sodid
hergoldenhair.
“I’mFrankOnions.”
“Yes…”Therewasacuriousintensitytohergaze,whichwasalsogolden.“…
Weknow.”Sherakedbackachair.Thenanother.Andbeckoned.
Shit. Not just her. Although Frank supposed that was to be expected; apart
fromcrew,theonlyyoungpeopleyoufoundonboardshipsliketheGlorious
Nomadwereminders.Thedeadmanwhoshuffledupwasasorrycaseindeed.
HistoupeewasakindofsilverJamesDeanduck’sarse,butitwaswildlyaskew.
So were the sunglasses, and the tongue which emerged from between
ridiculouslyrougedlipsinconcentrationattheactofsittinglookedlikeahunk
ofspoiledliver.
“Oh,I’mDottieHastings,bytheway.ThisisWarren.”
As this Dottie-vision leant to re-straighten the rug and sunglasses, the dead
manslurredsomethingwhichFranktooktobehello.
“Well…”ShereturnedhergazetoFrank.“Wereallyenjoyedyourtourand
talkthismorning.Whatcanwegetyou?Acarafeofretsina?Someouzo?”
Muchthoughhe’dhavelovedtoagreewithanythingDottiesuggested,Frank
shook his head. “I really don’t drink that kind of stuff … Not that I have a
problemwithit…”Hefeltcompelledtoadd.“Ijustliketotakecareofmyself.”
“Oh yes.” Frank could feel—literally fucking feel—Dottie’s gaze as it
travelledoverhim.“Icansee.Youworkout?”
“Well.Abit.There’snotmuchelsetodointimeoffwhenyou’recrew.”
Shemadeawrysmile.“So.Aboutthatdrink.Maybesomemorecoffee?I’m
guessingdecaf,right?”
Dottie, he noticed, settled for a small ouzo, although the Warren thing
restrictedhimselftoorangejuice,aconsiderableamountofwhichshethenhad
tomopupfromaroundhiswizenedneck.Therewasastrangeandunminderly
tendernessabouthergesturesthatwasalmosttouching.Lovelythoughshewas,
Frankfoundithardtowatch.
“Youdorealise,”shesaid,ballinguppapernapkins,“thatmostofthestories
youtoldusaboutKnossosarepuremyth?”
Frank spluttered into his coffee. But Dottie was smiling at him in a
mischievousway,andhermouthhadgoneslightlycrooked.Thentheknowing
smilebecameachuckle,andhehadtojoinin.Afterall,somuchofwhatthey’d
justbeen religiously inspecting—thepillars, the frescos,the bull’shorns—had
beenerectedbyArthurEvansacoupleofhundredyearsbeforeinamisguided
attemptto recreate how he thought Knossosshould havebeen. ButEvans got
most of it wrong. He was even wrong about the actual name. Frank never
normally bothered to spoil his tales of myths and Minotaurs with anything
resemblingthetruth,but, asWarrendrooledand heandDottie chatted,vague
memoriesoftheenthusiasmwhichhadoncedrivenhimtostudyancienthistory
returned.
Dottiewasn’tjustimpossiblybeautiful.Shewasimpossiblysmart.Sheeven
knewaboutWunderlich,whosetheorythatthewholeofKnossoswasinfacta
vast mausoleum was a particular favourite of his. By the time they needed to
return to the tour bus to view the famous statue of the bare breasted woman
holdingthosesnakes—nowalsoknowntobeamodernfake—Frankwasalready
theclose to somethingresembling love.Or at least,serious attachment. There
wassomethingabouther.Something,especially,aboutthatgoldengaze.There
wasbothaplayfuldarknessandasereneinnocencesomewhereintherewhich
hejustcouldn’tfathom.Itwaslikelookingdownattwocoinsflashingupatyou
from some cool, deep river. Dottie wasn’t just clever and beautiful. She was
unique.
“Well…”Hestoodup,asdizzyasifhe’sbeentheonewho’sbeenknocking
backtheouzo.“Thosetreasureswon’tgetlookedatontheirown.”
“No. Of course.” A poem of golden flesh and shifting sundress, she, too,
arose.ThensheleanedtohelptheWarren-thing,andforallhisdisgustatwhat
shewasdoing,Frankcouldn’thelpbutadmirethe way thetipsofherbreasts
shifted against her dress. “I’m really looking forward to this afternoon. I
mean…” After a little effort, Warren was also standing, or at least leaning
againsther. Hismouth lolled.His toupeehad gonetopsy-turvy again,and the
skinrevealedbeneathlookedlikeagrey,half-deflatedballoon.“Webothare.”
Dottiesmiledthatlovelylopsidedgrinagain.“MeandmyhusbandWarren.”
***
Minders were always an odd sort, even if they did make up the majority of
Frank’s shipboard conquests. But Dottie was different. Dottie was something
else.Dottiewasaliveinwaysthatthosepoorsodswhosimplygotpaidfordoing
whattheydidneverwere.Butmarried?Yousometimesencounteredcouples,it
wastrue,who’dcrossedtheso-calledbereavementbarriertogether.Thenthere
were the gold-diggers; pneumatic blondes bearing not particularly enigmatic
smiles as they pushed around some relic in a gold-plated wheelchair. But
nowadaysyourtypicaloilbillionairesimply accepted the inevitable,died,and
gothimselfresurrected.Thenhejustcarriedonprettymuchasbefore.Thatwas
thewholepoint.
FrankOnionslaydowninhisaccommodationtubethatnightwithaprickly
senseofdislocation.Justexactlywherewashegoingwithhislife—livingdown
inthesecrewdecks,deep,deepbelowtheGloriousNomad’swaterlinewherethe
only space you could call your own was so small you could barely move? It
mightnotseemsoupalongtheparksandshoppingmalls,butdownherethere
was never any doubt that you were at sea. Heavy smells of oil and bilge
competed with the pervasively human auras of spoiled food, old socks and
vomit.Itwasfunny,really,althoughnotinanyparticularlyha-hadway,howall
the progress of modern technology should have come to this; a hive-like
constructwhereyoushutyourselfinlikeyouwereapupaepreparingtohatch.
No wonder he wasted his time in the crew gym working his body into some
approximationoftiredness,oroccupiedwhatlittlewaslefthuntingthenexteasy
fuck.Nowondernoneoftheship’smanyattractionsheldtheslightestinterest
forhim.Nowonderhecouldn’tsleep.
All he could think of was Dottie. Dottie standing. Dottie seated. Dottie
smilingherlopsidedsmile.Theswayofherbreastsagainstthatprismaticfabric.
ThenFrankthought,eventhoughhedesperatelydidn’twantto,ofwhatDottie
mightbedoingrightnowwiththatzombiehusbandofhers.Meresexbetween
themdidn’tseemverylikely,butmoppingupfoodandleveringwitheredlimbs
inandoutofstairliftswasmerelythetipoftheicebergofthetasksminderswere
requiredtoperform.Thethingaboutbeingdeadwasthatblood,nervecellsand
tissue,evenwhennewlycloned,weresusceptibletofreshcorruption,andthus
neededconstantrenewalandreplacement.Toearntheirsalaries,mindersdidn’t
just give up a few years of their lives. After being pumped full of immune-
suppressants,theywereexpectedtodonatetheirbodyfluidsandtissuestotheir
hostsonaregularbasis.Manyevensproutedthegoitre-likegrowthsofanew
replacementorgans.
Franktossed.Frankturned.Franksawthrobbingtubes,halfflesh,halfrubber,
emergingfromunimaginableorifices.Thenhefelttherushoftheseabeneath
theGloriousNomad’sgreathullassheploughedonacrosstheMediterranean.
AndhesawDottierisingshiningandcompletefromitswaterslikesomenew
maritimegoddess.
***
AstheGloriousNomadzigzaggedacrosstheAegeanfromthemedievalcitadel
of Rhodes to the holy island of Patmas, Frank Onions kept seeing Dottie
Hastingsevenwhenshewasn’tthere.Aglintofherhairamidthetrinketsinthe
backstreetsofSkyros.Aflashofhershadowedthighsacrossthegoldendunesof
Evvoia.Hefeltlikeacatinheat,likeanangelondrugs.Hefeltlikehewasback
intheoldtimeswhichhadneverexisted.
Warren Hastings wasn’t hard to find out about when Frank ransacked the
GloriousNomad’srecords.He’dmadehisfirstfortuneoutofthoselittlehoops
you used to get hung at the top of shower curtains. His second came from
owningthecopyrightonpartoftheDNAchainofsomeindustrialbiochemical.
WarrenHastingswasseriously,seriouslyrich.Thesortofrichyougottobenot
bymanagingsomevirtualpopbandorinventingacureformelancholy,butby
doingstuffsoordinarynoonereallykneworcaredwhatitwasabout.Forallthe
moneyatop-of-the-rangeUltra-DeluxeRedEmperorSuitemustbecostinghim,
heandDottieshouldbyrightshavebeenplyingtheoceansontheirowncruiser,
livingona privateisland, or floatingin aspacepod. Perhaps theyenjoyed the
companyoflesserimmortals.Orperhapstheysimplylikedslummingit.
ThemoreFrankthoughtaboutit,themorethequestionskeptpilingupinhis
head.AndthebiggestquestionofallwasDottieherself.Itwasanoddshock,
despite all the times he’d now seen her and Warren exhibiting every sign of
tenderness,todiscoverthatshe’dmarriedhimtenyearsearlierbeforehe’deven
diedinasmall,privateceremonyinNewBali.Thereshewas,dressedinvirginal
whitebeneath afloral arch, with Warren standing beside herand looking in a
whole lot better shape than he did now. The records were confused and
contradictoryaboutexactlywhenhe’dchosentodie,buthemusthavestarted
seriouslydecayingbeforehefinallymadetheleap,whilstDottieherselfseemed
to have just emerged, beautiful and smiling and entirely unchanged, into the
more discreet and upmarket corners of the society pages, and into what you
couldnolongerdescribeasWarren’slife.
Itallstillfeltlikeamystery,butforonceFrankwasgratefulforthecontract
clausewhichinsistedhespendadesignatednumberofhoursinthecompanyof
paying passengers. He mingled at the cocktail hour of the Waikiki Bar, and
feigned an interest in a whole variety of passenger activities about which he
couldn’thavegiventheminutestfuckuntilheworkedoutwhatkindofsocial
routinetheHastingswerefollowing,andthenbegantofollowsomethingsimilar
himself.
OnwardtotheislandofChioswithitsByzantinemonasteryandfinemosaics,
and the autumn waves were growing choppier as Frank Onions ingratiated
himselfwithwhathesupposedyoumightcalltheHastingscrowd.Sittingamid
the spittle rain of their conversations as Warren gazed devotedly in Dottie’s
directionwithhisinsectsunglassesperchedonhisruinedMichaelJacksonnose,
Frankcouldonlywonderagainatthecontinuingsurpriseofherbeauty,andthen
about why on earth she’d consented to become what she was now. Most
minders,inFrank’sexperience,werealmostasdeadasthezombiestheywere
paidtolookafter.They’dputtheirlivesonholdfortheduration.Apartfromthe
money,theyhatedeverythingtheywererequiredtodo.Evenintheheightsof
passion,youalwaysfeltasiftheirbodiesbelongtosomeoneelse.
But Dottie didn’t seem to hate her life, Frank decided once again as he
watchedherwipethedroolfromherhusband’schinwithallherusualtenderness
andWarrenmooedequallytenderlyback.Thethoughtthattheymadetheperfect
couple even trickled across his mind. But he still didn’t buy it. There was
somethingelseaboutDottieassheturnedtogazethroughthepanoramicglassat
thewideblueMediterraneaninproudandlovelyprofile.Itwaslikesomekind
ofdespair.Ifhergoldeneyeshadn’tbeen fixedsosteadilyonthehorizon,he
mightalmosthavethoughtshewascrying.
***
He finally got his chance with her after a day excursion on the tiny island of
Delos.TheHastingshad optedtojoin thisparticulartourparty,althoughthey
hungbackasFrankdeliveredhisusualspielabouttheIoniansandtheirphallic
monuments as if Dottie was trying to avoid him. Then there was a kafuffle
involvingherandWarrenjustasthelauncharrivedforthereturntotheGlorious
Nomad.Alover’stiff,Frankhoped,butitturnedouttherehadbeensomekind
of malfunction which required immediate action as soon as they got back on
boardship.
Dottie still had on the same white top she’d worn all day when she finally
emergedonherownattheWaikikiBarlaterthatevening,butitnowborewhat
lookedto be—butprobably wasn’t—asmall foodstain onthe leftbreast. Her
hairwasnolongeritsusualmarvelisspungold,either,andtheleftcornerofher
mouthboreasmalldownwardcrease.Shelookedtiredandworried.Everyone
else,though—allthesedeadrealestateagentsandsoftwareconsultants—barely
noticedasshesatdown.Theydidn’tevenbothertoaskifWarrenwasokay.The
deadregardedorganfailureinmuchthesamewaythatflattyreswerethoughtof
bythepetrolmotoristsofold;abitofanuisance,butnothingtogettooexcited
aboutjustaslongasyoumadesureyou’dpackedaspare.Thesplutteringtalk
about annuity rates continued uninterrupted, and the tension lines deepened
aroundDottie’seyesasherfingerswoveandunwoveinherlap.Evenwhenshe
stoodupandpushedherwayoutthroughthecorralofmatchsticklimbstoward
thedeck,Frankwastheonlypersontonotice.
Hefollowedherout.It wasadark,fine night andthestarsseemed to float
aroundherlikefireflies.AflickofhairbrushedFrank’sfaceasheleanedclose
byheronship’srail.
“IsWarrenalright?”
“I’mlookingafterhim.Ofcoursehe’salright.”
“Whataboutyou?”
“Me?I’mfine.Itwasn’tmewho—”
“Ididn’tmeanthat,Dottie.Imeant—”
“Iknowwhatyoumeant.”Sheshruggedandsighed.“People,whentheysee
usboth,theycanseeFrank’sdevotedtome…”
“Buttheywonderaboutyou?”
“Isupposeso.”Sheshruggedagain.“Iwasjustthisgirlwhowantedabetter
life.Iwasgoodatsports—agoodswimmer—andIhadthesedreamsthatI’dgo
to the Olympics and win a medal. But by the time I’d grown up, Olympic
competitorsnolongerusedtheirownlimbsorhadanythingresemblingnormal
humanbloodflowingintheirveins.SoIeventuallyfoundoutthatthebestway
togetsteadyworkwasonshipslikethis.Ididhighdives.Iwatchedpoolsina
lifevest. I taught the dead and the living how to swim—how to paddle about
without drowning, anyway. You know what it’s like, Frank. It’s not such a
terriblelifejustaslongasyoucanputupwiththetinysleepingtubes,andall
thosedrinksservedwithpaperumbrellas.”
“Whatshipswereyouon?”
“Oh…”Shegazed downinto theracingwater. “Iwas workingonthe Able
Mayformostofthistime.”
“Wasn’tthattheonewherehalfthecrewgotkilledinthereactorfire?”
“Thatwashersistership.Andthenoneday,Warrencomesalong.Helooked
muchbetterthen.Theyalwayssaythetechnologiesaregoingtoimprove,but
deathhasn’tbeenparticularlykindtohim.”
“Youmean,youreallydidfindhimattractive?”
“Notexactly,no.Iwasmore—”Shestopped.Asmalldeviceonherwristhad
startedbeeping.“Ihavetogotohim.HaveyouseentoasuitelikeoursFrank?
Doyouwanttocomedownwithme?”
***
“Wow!Thisisnice…”
Gold. Glass. Velvet. Everything either glittery hard or falling-through soft.
Frankhadseenitallbefore,butthiswasn’tthetimetosay.Theonlyjarringnote
wasalargewhitestructuresquattingandhummingbesidethecushion-festooned
bed.
“…Ijustneedtocheck…”
ItlookedasifDottiewasinspectingthecontentsofsomegiant,walk-infridge
assheopenedoneofitschromeandenameldoorsandleanedinside.Thewaftof
airhadthatsametang;achillsenseofspoilingmeat.Therewaseventhatsame
blandaquariumlight,alongwithglimpsesofwhatmighthavebeentraysofbeef
andcartonsofcolouredjuice,althoughbyfarthebiggestitemontherackswas
Warrenhimself.HelayproneandnakedinsuchawaythatFrankhadfineview
of his scrawny grey feet, his hairless blue-mottled legs, his scarred and pitted
belly, the winter-withered fruit of his balls and prick. He looked not so much
deadassuckeddry.Farmorealarming,though,wastheemptyspaceontherack
besidehim,whichwasplainlydesignedtoaccommodateanotherbody.
“He’sfine,”Dottiemurmuredwiththatweirdtendernessisinhervoiceagain.
Shetouchedoneortwothings,dripsandfeedsbythelookofthem.Therewere
flashesandbleeps.Thencameasortofgloopingsoundwhich,eventhoughhe
couldn’tseeexactlywhatwascausingit,forcedFranktolookaway.Heheard
thedoorsmackshut.
“He’llberightasrainbymorning.”
“Youdon’tgetintherewithhim,doyou?”
“I’mhiswife.”
“But…Jesus,Dottie.You’relovely.”Nowornevertime;hemovedtoward
her.“Youcan’twasteyoulifelikethis…Notwhenyoucan…”Itseemedfora
momentthatthisoh-sodirectploywasactuallyworking.Shedidn’tstepback
fromhim,andthelookinhergoldeneyeswasfarfromunwelcoming.Then,as
he reached out to her cheek, she gave a small shriek and cowered across the
deep-pile,rubbingatwherehisfingershadn’teventouched.Itwasifshe’sbeen
stungbyabee.
“I’msorry,Dottie.Ididn’tmean—”
“No,no.Itisn’tyouFrank.It’sme.Ilikeyou.Iwantyou.Imorethanlike
you.But…Haveyouheardofimprinting?”
“We’reall—”
“Imeanthewordliterally.Imprintingiswhathappenstothebrainofachick
whenitfirstseesitsmotherafterithatches.It’saninstinct—it’sbuiltin—and
it’sbeenknownaboutforcenturies.It’sthesametosomeorotherdegreeeven
withthemoreadvancedspecies.That’s howyoucangeta ducklingtofollow
aroundthefirstthingitsees,evenifithappenstobeapairofgaloshes.”
Franknodded.Hethoughtheunderstoodwhatshemeant,althoughhehadn’t
thefaintestideawherethiswasleading.
“We humans have the same instinct, although it’s not quite as strong or
simple.Atleast,notunlesssomething’sdonetoenhanceit.”
“What are you saying? Humans can be imprinted and attached to other
humans?Thatcan’tbelegal.”
“When does whether something’s legal matter these days? There’s always
somewhere in the world where you can do whatever you want, and Warren
alreadyknewhewasdyingwhenImethim.Andhewascharming.Andhewas
impossibly rich. He said he could offer me the kind of life I’d never achieve
otherwisenomatterhowlongIlivedorhowhardIworked.Andhewasright.
Allofthis…”Shegesturedatthesuite.“Isnothing,Frank.It’sordinary.This
ship’saprisonwiththemedrestaurantsandavirtualgolfrange.WithWarren,I
realisedI had my chance to escape placeslike this.It didn’tseem sodifficult
backthen,thedealImade…”
“Youmean,youagreedtobeimprintedbyhim?”
She nodded. There really did look to be tears in her eyes. “It was a small
devicehehadmade.Youcouldsayitwasakindofweddinggift.Itlookedlikea
silverinsect.Itwasactuallyratherbeautiful.Helaidithereonmyneck,andit
crawled…”Shetouchedherear.“Inhere.Ithurtalittle,butnotsoverymuch.
Andhemademestareathimasitboredintofindtherightsectorofmybrain.”
Sheshrugged.“Itwasthatsimple.”
“MyGod!Dottie…”Again,butthistimemoreimpulsively,hemovedtoward
her.Oncemore,shestumbledback.
“No.Ican’t!”Shewailed.“Don’tyousee?Thisiswhatimprintingmeans.”
Thestainonherleftbreastwasrisingandfalling.“I’dlovetoescapethisthing
and be with you, Frank. But I’m trapped. At the time, it seemed like a small
enoughpricetopay.Andit’struethatI’vebeentoincredibleplaces,experienced
themostamazingthings.Livingonacruiseshiplikethis,lookingattheruinsof
theancientworldbecausewecan’tbeartolookatthemesswe’vemadeofthis
one…It’smeaningless.There’sadifferentkindoflifeoutthere,Frank,inthe
highmountains,orupintheskies,or deep beneaththeoceans.Forthosefew
whocanaffordit,anyway.AndWarrencould.Wecould.It’slikesomecurseina
fairytale.I’mlikethatking,theonewhowantedaworldmadeofgold,andthen
found out that he was killing everything that was important to him in the
process.IwishIcouldbewithyou,Frank,butWarrenwillcarryonandonashe
isandIcan’tgivemyselftoanyoneelse,orevenbeartohavethemtouchme.I
justwishtherewassomeescape.IwishIcouldunwritewhathappened,butI’m
forever tied.” Her hand reached towards him. Even in tears, she looked
impossiblylovely.Thenherwholebodyseemedtofreeze.Itwasasifaglass
walllaybetweenthem.“Isometimeswishweweredead.”
“You can’t say that, Dottie. What you and I have—what we might have.
We’veonlyjust—”
“No.Idon’tmeanIwishyouweredead,Frank.Orevenmyself.Imeanthings
as they are…” She raised her golden eyes and blinked more slowly. “… and
Warren.”
***
The tides were turning as the Glorious Nomad beat against the deepening
autumnalwaves.FrankfoundhimselfgivingtalksabouttheGrecianconceptof
the transmigration of souls, and how the dead were assigned to one of three
realms.Elysium,fortheblessed.Tartarusforthedamned.Asphodel—alandof
boredomandneutrality—fortherest.Toreachtheserealmsyoufirsthadtocross
the River Styx and pay Charon the ferryman a small golden coin or obolus,
which grieving relatives placed on the tongues of the dead. To attain your
desires,heconcluded,gazingatthepapiermachemasksofruined,once-human
facesarrayedbeforehimintheStarbucks’LectureSuite,youmustbeprepared
topay.
Poison?Theideahaditsappeal,andtherewereplentyofnoxioussubstances
on board which Frank might be able to wrangle access to, but neither he nor
Dottie were experts in biochemistry, and there was no guarantee that Warren
couldn’t still be re-resurrected. Some kind of catastrophic accident, then—
especiallyinthesestorms?Somethingassimpleasdisablingthemagnetoonone
of those big bulkhead doors as he went tottering through…? But getting the
timingexactlyrightwouldbedifficult,andtherewasstillafaintbutfrustrating
chanceWarrenwouldmakesomekindofrecovery,andthenwherewouldthey
be?
TheoptionsthatFrankandDottieexploredastheymetonthespray-wetdeck
over the next few days seemed endless, and confusing. Even if one of them
workedflawlessly,otherproblemsremained.Therewasanopportunitycoming
forthembothtoleaveshiptogetherwhentheGloriousNomaddroppedanchor
bytheshoresofoldHolyLandforanoptionaltourinradiationsuits,butDottie
wouldbeexpectedtoacttheroleofthegrievingwidow,andsuspicionswould
be aroused if Frank were to resign his post and then be spotted with her. No
matterhowmanyjurisdictionstheyskippedthough,they’dstillbevulnerableto
prosecution,andalsoblackmail.ButoneofthethingswhichFrankwascoming
toadmireaswellasloveaboutDottiewasherquicknessofmind.
“Whatifyouwere to appeartodie,Frank?”she shout-whispered tohimas
theyclungtotheship’srail.“Youcould…Idon’tknow…Youcouldpretendto
killyourself—stageyoursuicide.Then…”Shegazedoffintothetumblinglight
withthosewise,goldeneyes.“…wecouldgetridofWarreninstead.”
Itwasasperfectandbeautifulasshewas,andFranklongedtokissandhold
heranddoalltheotherthingsthey’dbeenpromisingeachotherrighthereand
now on this slippery deck. Disguising himself as Warren for a few months,
hiding under that toupee and behind those sunglasses and all that make-up,
wouldn’tbesodifficult.Giveitalittletimeandhecouldstarttolookbetterof
hisownaccord.Afterall,thetechnologywascontinuallyimproving.Theycould
simply say that he’d died again, and been even more comprehensively re-
resurrected.All it wouldtake was a littlepatience—which was surelya small
enough price to pay when you considered the rewards which awaited them:
Dottiefreedofhercurse,andsheandFrankrichforever.
Drowning had always been the most obvious option. They’d toyed with it
severaltimesalready,butnowitmadeabsolutesense.TossWarrenoverboard,
he’dsinklikeastonewithalltheprostheticmetalhehadinhim.Andiftheydid
it close to the stern—threw him down into the wildly boiling phosphorescent
wakeoftheGloriousNomad’s eighteen azimuth propellers—he’d be torn into
sharkmeat;there’dbenobodyleftworthfinding.Sure,alarmswouldgooffand
one of the hull’s cameras might catch him falling, but even the most
sophisticatedtechnologywouldstruggletomakesenseofwhateverwasgoing
throughthe forecastforce eightgale. Especiallyif they waited until dark,and
Warren’sbodyhadononeofthetransmittingdogtagsallcrewwererequiredto
carry,andwaswearingalilac-stripeblazer.
***
Bynextday,thekindofstormwhichhadshipwreckedOdysseuswasbrewing,
and the Glorious Nomad’s public places soon fell empty as her passengers
retreatedtotheirsuites.Thebarber’sshopclosedearly.Theseveralswimming
poolswerecoveredover.TheornamentallakeinthePleasureParkfranchisewas
drained.Theairfilledwiththesoundsofheavingandcreaking,curiousdistant
boomsandbangings,andapervasivearomaofvomit.
Headingalongtheswayingpassagewaystotheirpre-arrangedmeetingpoint,
Frankalreadyfeltcuriouslyconvincedbythedetailsofhisownsuicide.Hislast
talkonboardtheGloriousNomadwasofhowOrpheustriedtorescuehisdead
wifeEuridicefromtheUnderworld,andithadtakennoeffortatall,staringat
those white-faced zombies, to put aside his usual catch-all smile and appear
surly and depressed. Ditto his few last exchanges with colleagues. Fact is, he
realised,he’dbeenthiswaywiththemforyears.Everything,eventheferocityof
thisstorm,hadthatsamesenseofinevitability.Backdowninhissleepingtube,
he even found that it was far easier than he’d expected to compose a final
message.He’dbeenabletospeakwithsurprisingpassionabouttheemptinessof
hislife:thesheermonotonyofthetalksandthetoursandtheberthingsandthe
embarkations—thelongsessionsinthegym,too,andtheritualseductionswith
theirovercomingoffakeresistance,andtheinevitablefuckingsandevenmore
inevitable break-ups which followed, with their equally fake expressions of
regret.Justwhatthehell,he’dfoundhimselfwondering,hadhebeenlivingfor
before he met Dottie? Looked at dispassionately, the prospect of his own
imminentdeathmadeeverykindofsense.
HearrivedatthejunctionofcorridorsbetweenChallengersBowlingArcade
and the smallest of the five burger franchises just two minutes early, and was
relievedtofindthewholeareaemptyandunobserved.Dottiewasaspunctualas
he’dhaveexpected,andsomehowstilllookedbeautifulevendressedinagrey
sou’wester and half-hauling her dead husband up the sideways-tilting floor.
Warrenwasinhisusualbrushedvelourtop,crumplednylonslacksandvelcro
trainers,althoughhissunglassesandtoupeewereallovertheplace.
“HithereFrank,”Dottiesaid,grabbingahandholdandsupportingWarrenby
a bunched ruff behind his neck. “I know it’s a terrible night, but I persuaded
Warrenthatwemightfeelfresherifwetookawalk.”Franknodded.Hismouth
wasdry.“Maybeyoucouldhelpmewithhim?”sheadded,shovingWarreninto
Frank’shalf-surprisedembrace.
“Thereyougo,fella,”Frankheardhimselfmutterasheproppedthewithered
creature against the bulkhead. “Why don’t we take this off…?” Quickly, he
removedWarren’sblacktop,whichslippedwornandwarmandslightlygreasy
betweenhisfingers, althoughit was thefeel andsightof Warrenbeneath that
reallysethisteethonedge.Thedeadmanmutteredsomethingandlookedback
toward Dottie with his usual puppy-dog longing, but made no discernable
attempttoresist.
“Maybethisaswell…”
Thetoupeefelteverwarmerandgreasier.
“Andthis…”
Herecamethesunglasses,hookedofffromwhatpassedforearsandanose.
Frankhadtojudgeeverymovementagainsttherising,fallingwaves.But,Jesus,
themanwasamess.
“Lookingabitcoldnow,MisterHastings…”
Frankshuckedoffhisownblazer.
“Sowhydon’tweputonthis?”
AfewmoremanoeuvresandWarrenwaswearingFrank’screwblazer.Frank
almost forgot the crew dogtag until Dottie reminded him in a quick whisper.
Eventhen,Warreninthisnewattirelookedlikenothingmorethanaparticularly
baldandanaemicscarecrow,andFrankwaswonderinghowthisswitchwillever
convinceanyoneuntilheswungtheweighedhatchopenandwasconfrontedby
thesheersizeandscaleofthestorm.
The deck was awash. Dottie hung back. Salt spray ignited the air. It was a
miracle,really,thatshe’dbeenabletodoasmuchasshehadtohelpwhenyou
consideredthedealthisdeadhuskhadforcedonher.Nowallshehadtodowas
keepholdofhisnylontop,toupeeandsunglasses.Theskyshatteredingreysand
purples. For all his slips and struggles as he manoeuvred Warren Hastings
toward the Glorious Nomad’s stern, Frank Onions felt like he was Odysseus
sailingfromCirce’sisland,orJasonwithhisArgonautsinsearchoftheGolden
Fleece.Soon,hewouldreachthose warmlywelcomingshoresthatDottiehad
beenpromisinghim.
Afewlaststaggersandhewasclingingtothefinalrail,andstilljustabout
keepingholdofWarren,althoughtheywerebothequallydrenched,anditwas
hardtodistinguishbetweenseaandskyouthere.Thenhefeltthesteelclifface
oftheGloriousNomad’ssternrisingandstraininguntilherscrewswereswirling
abovethe waves,anditseemedforalongmomentthatthewholeshipwould
simplycarryonclimbinguntiltheoceandraggedherdown.Frankskiddedand
nearlyfellashegrabbedWarren’sarmsandtriedtohaulhimovertherail.
“Stop squirming you bastard!” Frank screamed into the wind even though
Warrenwasn’tsquirmingatall.Astheshipteeteredandbegantofallbackhe
tried to lift him again, and this time got some better kind of purchase. This,
Frankthought,asheandWarrenswayedlikedancersoverthestern’sdrop,was
farclosertoadeadmanashe’deverwantedtoget,butforallthewetgreyskin,
cavernous cheeks and birdcage chest, there was something about Warren
Hastingsinthisstutteringlightthatdidn’tseementirelydead.Somethinginthe
eyes,perhaps,nowtheywerestrippedoftheirgogglesunglasses,orinthesetof
thatmouthnowthatthepowderandrougehadrun.Theguyhadtohaveworked
outwhatwashappening,buttherewasstillnosignofanyresistance,norany
senseoffear.Ifanything,Frankthoughtashefinallymanagedtohookonehand
under Warren’s wet and empty armpit and the other under his even emptier
crotchandgavethefinalquickheavewhichtippedhimovertherail,thatlast
lookconveyedsomethinglikerelief—perhapsevenasenseofpity…
“Diditwork?Areyouokay?”
Already,Dottiehadmanagedtoclamberupthedeck.Already,thecurseofher
imprinting was broken, and her arms are quickly around him. Roughly and
wetly,theykissed.
“I love you, Frank,” she said, and her arms were strong and the ship’s
searchlightsandalarmswereblazingasshedrewhimbehindalifeboatintothe
leeofthestormandtookoutsomethingsilverfromhersou’westerpocketthat
squirmedanduncurledlikealivingjewel.
“Iloveyou.”
Shesaiditagain,andkissedhimharderashefeltasharpnesscrawlacrosshis
neck.
“Iloveyou.”
Sheheldhimtighterthaneveraspainflaredinsidehisear.
“Iloveyou.”
Shesaiditagainandagainandagainandagain.
***
Wherehashenotbeen?Whathashenotseen?He’slookeddownonanEarthso
small that he could blot it out with his thumb, he’s skysailed to the peak of
MountEverest.Iftherewasapricetopayforallthisglory,FrankOnionswould
willingly have paid it. Most glorious of all to him, though, eclipsing every
moonrise and sunset, is his continuing joy at sharing Dottie’s company. The
money—even the incredible things that it can buy; the glass terraces, the
submarinegardens,therefurbishedBurmesepalaces—isjusttheriver,thecoin,
the obolus. To be with her, and to share his flesh and blood with her, is an
experiencewhichpaleseventhefurthestheightsofsexualecstasy.
Dayschange.Thelivingdieandthedeadlive,butFrank’sloveforDottieis
unchanging. He has, once or twice, much as one might gaze in awe at bare
footprintsleftacrossanancientfloor,lookedbackalongthepathwhichbrought
themtogether.HeknowsnowthattherealWarrenHastingsmarriedhisbeautiful
sixthwifejustafewmonthsbeforehedied,orperhapssimplydisappeared,in
circumstancesthatothertimesandculturesmighthaveregardedasmysterious.
Since then, and as before, Dottie has remained just as stunningly, agelessly,
beautiful.Andshealwayshasacompanionwhomshelikestotermherhusband.
Sometimes,whenthecircumstancessuit,sheevencallshimWarren.Frankhas
noneedtoaskDottiewhyshechosedeathabovelife.Healreadyunderstands
perfectly.Afterall,whywouldanyonewhohadthemoneyandthechoicewait
foroldageanddecrepitudebeforebeingresurrected?Andwhatsacrificesand
demands wouldn’t they then make, to ensure that they remained eternally
beautiful?
DottieisFrank’sworld,hislodestone.Heliveswithandwithinher,andwould
sacrifice any organ or appendage or bodily fluid joyously. As for himself, he
knows that he’s no longer the well-kept specimen of a man who was first
enrapturedbyher.OnlylastweekontheglassyplainsoutsideParis,hegaveup
a good portion of his bone marrow to her, and a third re-grown kidney. The
effectsoftheseandotherdonations,alongwithalltheimmune-suppressantshe
must continually take, leave him thin and weak and dizzy. His hair has long
gone, he must wear sunglasses to protect his bleary eyes, and he shuffles
hunched and crabways. He realises that he’s already starting to look like the
creaturehetossedoverthesternoftheGloriousNomad,andthatthewondersof
thelifehe’snowlivingcannotlastforever.
Inthe circles in which they move, far removed from the Glorious Nomad’s
ruin-inspectingtribesofmeeklydepartedmiddleexecutives,FrankandDottie’s
relationshipis seen as nothing unusual. Asshe once saidto him inwhat now
seemslikeadifferentexistence,whonowknowsorcaresaboutwhatislegal?
Sometimes,whentheweakenedhuskslikehimselfwhoaccompanyDottieand
hercompanionsgrowclosetofailing,theyheadofftolivesomelesserlifefora
fewweeks,andenjoythethrilloffindingafreshandwillingreplacement.They
callitre-crossingtheStyx.It’sanewkindofsymbiosis,thisimprinting,andit
strikesFrankasanear-perfectrelationship.It’sonlywhenthepainandweakness
inhisthinningbonessometimesgettheworstofhim,andhegazesaroundatthe
goldencreatureswhosurroundhim,thathewonderswhoisreallydeadnow,and
whoisliving.
AndMinistersofGrace
TADWILLIAMS
Here’s a fast-paced and suspenseful thriller about a dedicated
WarriorofGodwhofindshimselffacingatestofjusthowstrong
hisFaithisinthemiddleofhismostdangerousmission.…
TadWilliamsbecameaninternationalbestsellerwithhisvery
firstnovel,Tailchaser’sSong,andthehighqualityofhisoutput
and the devotion of his readers has kept him on the top of the
chartseversinceasaNewYorkTimesandLondonSundayTimes
bestseller.HisothernovelsincludeTheDragonbone Chair,The
StoneofFarewell,ToGreenAngelTower,CityofGoldenShadow,
RiverofBlueFire,MountainofBlackGlass,SeaofSilverLight,
Caliban’s Hour, Child of an Ancient City (with Nina Kiriki
Hoffman),TadWilliams’MirrorWorld:AnIllustratedNovel,The
War of the Flowers, a collection, Rite: Short Work, and a
collectionoftwonovellas,onebyWilliamsandonebyRaymond
E. Feist, The Wood Boy/The Burning Man. As editor, he has
producedthebigretrospectiveanthologyATreasuryofFantasy.
His most recent books are Shadowmarch, Shadowplay, and
Shadowrise. Coming up is another Shadowmarch novel,
Shadowheart. In addition to his novels, Williams writes comic
booksaswellasfilmandtelevisionscripts,andiscofounderof
an interactive television company. He lives with his family in
Woodside,California.
Theseedwhispers,sings,offers,instructs.
Awisemanofthehomeworldoncesaid,“Humanbeingscanaltertheirlives
byalteringtheirattitudesofmind.”Everythingispossibleforacommittedman
orwoman.Theuniverseisinourreach.
Visit the Orgasmium—now open 24 hours. We take Senior Credits. The
Orgasmium—whereYOUcomefirst!
Your body temperature is normal. Your stress levels are normal, tending
towardhigherthannormal.Ifthistrendcontinues,youarerecommendedtosee
aphysician.
I’m almost alive! And I’m your perfect companion—I’m entirely portable. I
wanttoloveyou.Cometryme.Trademypersonalitywithfriends.Jointhefun!
Combpropertiesnowavailable.Consultyourlocalenvironmentnode.Brand
new multi-family and single-family dwellings, low down payment with
governmententryloans…!
CommoditypricesareupslightlyontheSacklerIndexatthishour,despitea
morning of sluggish trading. The Prime Minister will detail her plans to
reinvigoratetheeconomyinherspeechtoParliament…
Awisewomanofthehomeworldoncesaid,“Keepyourfacetothesunshine
andyoucannotseetheshadow.”
***
His name is Lamentation Kane and he is a Guardian of Covenant—a holy
assassin.Hismastershaveplacedaseedofblasphemyinhishead.Ititcheslike
unredeemedsinandfillshisskullwithfoulpagannoise.
Thefacesofhisfellowtravelersonthelandingshuttleareboredandvacuous.
Howcantheseinfidelslivewiththisconstantmurmurintheirheads?Howcan
theysurviveandstaysanewiththeconstantpinpointflashingofattentionsignals
attheedgeofvision,theraw,sharppulseofaworldbristlingandburblingwith
information?
Itislikebeingstuckinahiveofinsects,Kanethinks—insectsdoingtheirbest
to imitate human existence without understanding it. He longs for the sweet,
singularvoiceofSpirit,soothingascoolwateroninflamedskin.Alwaysbefore,
nomattertheterrorsofhismission,thatvoicehasbeenwithhim,soothinghim,
remindinghimofhisholypurpose.Allhislife,Spirithasbeenwithhim.Allhis
lifeuntilnow.
HumbleyourselvesthereforeunderthestronghandofGod,sothatHemay
raiseyouupinduetime.
Sweetandgentlelikespringrain.Unlikethisunendingdrizzleoffilth,each
wordSpirithaseverspokenhasbeenprecious,brightlikesilver.
CastallyourburdensonHim,forHecaresforyou.Beincontrolofyourself
andalert.Yourenemy,thedevil,prowlsaroundlikearoaringlion,lookingfor
someonetodevour.
Thosewere thelast wordsSpirit spoketo himbefore themilitary scientists
silencedtheWordofGodandreplaceditwiththeendless,godlessprattleofthe
infidelworld,Archimedes.
Forthegoodofallmankind,theyassuredhim:LamentationKanemustsin
againsothatonedayallmenwouldbefreetoworshipGod.Besides,theelders
pointed out, what was there for him to fear? If he succeeds and escapes
ArchimedesthepaganseedwillberemovedandSpiritwillspeakinhisthoughts
again.Ifhedoesnotescape—well,KanewillhearthetruevoiceofGodatthe
footofHismightythrone.Welldone,mygoodandfaithfulservant…
Beginningdescent.Pleasereturntopods,thepaganvoiceschirpinhishead,
prickling like nettles. Thank you for traveling with us. Put all food and
packagingin thereceptacle and closeit. Thisis your lastchance topurchase
duty-freedrugsandalcohol.Cabintemperatureis20degreescentigrade.Pull
theharnesssnug.Beginningdescent.Cabinpressurestable.Landerwilldetach
intwentyseconds.Tenseconds.Nineseconds.Eightseconds…
Itneverends,andeachgodlesswordburns,prickles,itches.
Whoneedstoknowsomuchaboutnothing?
***
AchildofoneoftheChristiancooperativefarmsonCovenant’sflatandempty
plains,hewasbroughttoNewJerusalemasacandidatefortheeliteGuardian
unit.Whenhesawforthefirsttimethewhitetowersandgoldendomesofhis
planet’s greatest city, Kane had been certain that Heaven would look just that
way.Now,asHellasCityrisesuptomeethim,capitolofgreatArchimedesand
stronghold of his people’s enemies, it is bigger than even his grandest, most
exaggeratedmemoriesofNewJerusalem—animmensesprawlwithno visible
ending,alumpywhiteandgrayandgreenpatchworkofcomplexstructuresand
orderly parks and lacy polyceramic web skyscrapers that bend gently in the
cloudyupperskieslikeanoceanickelpforest.Thescaleisastounding.Forthe
firsttimeeverinhislife,LamentationKanehasamomentofdoubt—notinthe
rightnessofhiscause,butinthecertaintyofitsvictory.
ButheremindshimselfofwhattheLordtoldJoshua:BeholdIhavegiveninto
thyhandsJericho,andthekingthereof,andallthevaliantmen…
HaveyouhadaCreemyCrunchtoday?Itblaresthroughhisthoughtslikea
klaxon.Youwantit!Youneedit!Availableatanyfoodoutlet.CreemyCrunch
makescreamcrunchy!Don’tbeabitch,Mom!SnagmeaCC—orthree!
ThedevilownstheKingdomofEarth.Afavoritesayingofoneofhisfavorite
teachers.ButevenfromhishighthronehecannotseetheCityofHeaven.
Nowwithasubdermalglow-tattooineverypackage!Justsqueezeitinunder
theskin—andstartshining!
LordJesus,protectmeinthisdarkplaceandgivemestrengthtodoyourwork
oncemore,Kaneprays.IserveYou.IserveCovenant.
***
It never stops, and only gets more strident after the lander touches down and
they are ushered through the locks into the port complex. Remember the wise
words,airqualityisinthelowthirtiesontheTengFuoscaletoday,firsttime
visitorstoArchimedesgohere,returninggothere,wheretostand,whattosay,
what to have ready. Restaurants, news feeds, Information for transportation
services, overnight accommodations, immigration law, emergency services,
yammer yammer yammer until Kane wants to scream. He stares at the smug
citizensofArchimedesaroundhimandloatheseveryoneofthem.Howcanthey
walkandsmileandtalktoeachotherwiththisBabelintheirheads,withoutGod
intheirhearts?
Left. Follow the green tiles. Left. Follow the green tiles. They aren’t even
people, they can’t be—just crude imitations. And the variety of voices with
which the seed bedevils him! High-pitched, low-pitched, fast and persuasive,
moderately slow and persuasive, adult voices, children’s voices, accents of a
dozensorts,mostofwhichhecan’tevenidentifyandcanbarelyunderstand.His
blessedSpiritisonevoiceandonevoiceonlyandhelongsforherdesperately.
HealwaysthinksofSpiritas“her,”althoughitcouldjustaseasilybethecalm,
sweetvoiceofamalechild.Itdoesn’tmatter.Nothingascrassasearthlysexual
distinctionsmatter,any morethan withGod’s holyangels. Spirithas beenhis
constantcompanionsincechildhood,hisadvisor,hisinseparablefriend.Butnow
hehasapaganseedinhisbrainandhemayneverhearherblessedvoiceagain.
Iwillneverleavethee,norforsakethee.That’swhatSpirittoldhimthenight
hewasbaptized,thenightshefirstspoketohim.Sixyearsold.Iwillneverleave
thee,norforsakethee.
Hecannotthinkofthat.Hewillnotthinkofanythingthatmightundermine
hiscourageforthemission,ofcourse,butthereisagreaterdanger:sometypes
ofthoughts,ifstrongenough,cantriggertheport’ssecurityE-Grams,whichcan
perceivecertaintelltalepatterns,especiallyiftheyarerepeated.
Awisemanofthehomeworldoncesaid,“Manisthemeasureofallthings…”
Theforeignseeddoesn’twanthimthinkingofanythingelse,anyway.
HaveyouconsideredlivinginHolyoakeHarbor?anothervoiceasks,cutting
throughthefirst.Onlyatwentyminutecommutetothebusinessdistrict,buta
differentworldofeaseandcomfort.
… And of things which are not, that they are not, the first voice finishes,
swimming back to the top. Another wise fellow made the case more directly:
“The world holds two classes of men—intelligent men without religion, and
religiousmenwithoutintelligence.”
Kane almost shivers despite the climate controls. Blur your thoughts, he
remindshimself.He doeshisbest tolet thechatterof voicesandthe swirlof
passingfacesnumbandstupefyhim,makinghimselfabeastinsteadofaman,
thebettertohidefromGod’senemies.
***
Hepassesthevariousmechanicalsentriesandthefirsttwohumanguardpostsas
easilyashehopedhewould—hismilitarybrethrenhavepreparedhisdisguise
well.Heisinlineatthefinalhumancheckpointwhenhecatchesaglimpseof
her,oratleasthethinksitmustbeher—asmall,brown-skinnedwomansagging
betweentwoheavilyarmoredportsecurityguardswhoclutchherelbowsina
parodyofassistance.Foramomenttheireyesmeetandherdarkstareisfrank
beforeshehangsherheadagaininaconvincingimitationofshame.Thewords
fromthebriefingwashup in hisheadthroughthe fog ofArchimedeanvoices
—MartyrdomSister—buthedoeshisbesttoblurthemagainjustasquickly.He
can’timagineanywordthatwillsetofftheE-Gramsasquicklyas“Martyrdom.”
Thefinalguardpostismoredifficult,asitismeanttobe.Thesentry,almost
facelessbehindanarrayofenhancedlightscannersandlenses,doesnotliketo
seeArjunaonKane’sitinerary,hislastportofcallbeforeArchimedes.Arjunais
notatreatyworldforeitherArchhimedesorCovenant,althoughbothhopeto
makeitso,andisnotofficiallypolicedbyeitherside.
TheofficialrunsoneofhisscannersoverKane’sitineraryagain.“Canyoutell
mewhyyoustoppedatArjuna,CitizenMcNally?”
Kane repeats the story of staying there with his cousin who works in the
miningindustry.Arjunaisrichwithplatinumandotherminerals,anotherreason
both sides want it. At the moment, though, neither the Rationalists of
Archimedes or the Abramites of Covenant can get any traction there: the
majorityofArjuna’ssettlers,colonistsoriginallyfromthehomeworld’sIndian
sub-continent, are comfortable with both sides—a fact that makes both
ArchimedesandCovenantquiteuncomfortableindeed.
Theguardpostofficialdoesn’tseementirelyhappywithLamentationKane’s
explanation and is beginning to investigate the false personality a little more
closely. Kane wonders how much longer until the window of distraction is
opened. He turns casually, looking up and down the transparent u-glass cells
alongthefarwalluntilhelocatestheoneinwhichthebrown-skinnedwomanis
being questioned. Is she a Muslim? A Copt? Or perhaps something entirely
different—there are Australian Aboriginal Jews on Covenant, remnants of the
LostTribesmovementbackonthehomeworld.Butwhoeverorwhateversheis
doesn’tmatter,heremindshimself:sheisasisteringodandshehasvolunteered
tosacrificeherselfforthesakeofthemission—hismission.
Sheturnsforamomentandtheireyesmeetagainthroughthewarpingglass.
Shehasacnescarsonhercheeksbutshe’spretty,surprisinglyyoungtobegiven
suchatask.Hewonderswhathernameis.Whenhereturns—ifhereturns—he
willgototheGreatTabernacleinNewJerusalemandlightacandleforher.
Brown eyes. She seems sad as she looks at him before turning back to the
guards. Could that be true? The Martyrs are the most privileged of all during
theirtimeinthetrainingcenter.Andshemustknowshewillbelookingonthe
faceofGodHimselfverysoon.Howcanshenotbejoyful?Doesshefearthe
painofgivingupherearthlybody?
As the sentry in front of him seems to stare out at nothing, reading the
informationthatmarchesacrosshisvision,LamentationKaneopenshismouth
to say something—to make small-talk the way a real returning citizen of
Archimedes would after a long time abroad, a citizen guilty of nothing worse
thanmaybehavingwatchedafewreligiousbroadcastsonArjuna—whenhesees
movementoutofthecornerofhiseye.Insidetheu-glassholdingcelltheyoung,
brown-skinnedwomanliftsherarms.Oneofthearmoredguardslurchesback
fromthetable,half-falling,theotherreachesouthisglovedhandasthoughto
restrainher,buthisfacehasthehopeless,slackexpressionofamanwhoseeshis
own death. A moment later bluish flames run up her arms, blackening the
sleevesofherloosedress,andthenshevanishesinaflareofmagnesiumwhite
light.
People are shrieking and diving away from the glass wall, which is now
spiderwebbed with cracks. The light burns and flickers and the insides of the
wallsblackenwithacrustofwhatKaneguessesmustbehumanfatturningto
ash.
Ahumanexplosion—nanobioticthermalflare—thatpartiallyfailed.Thatwill
betheirconclusion.Butofcourse,thearchitectsofKane’smissiondidn’twant
anactualexplosion.Theywantadistraction.
The sentry in the guardpost polarizes the windows and locks up his booth.
Before hurrying off to help the emergency personnel fight the blaze that is
already leaking clouds of black smoke into the concourse, he thrusts Kane’s
itineraryintohishandandwaveshimthrough,thenlocksoffthetransitpoint.
LamentationKanewouldbehappytomoveon,evenifheweretheinnocent
travelerhepretendstobe.Thesmokeisterrible,withthedisturbing,sweetsmell
ofcookedmeat.
What had her last expression been like? It is hard to remember anything
exceptthoseendlesslydeep,darkeyes.Hadthatbeenalittlesmileorishetrying
to convince himself? And if it had been fear, why should that be surprising?
Eventhesaintsmusthavefearedtoburntodeath.
Yea,thoughIwalkthroughthevalleyoftheshadowofdeath,Iwillfearno
evil…
WelcomebacktoHellas,CitizenMcNally!avoiceinhisheadproclaims,and
thentheothervoicesswimupbeneathit,acrowd,abuzz,anitch.
***
He does his best not to stare as the cab hurtles across the metroscape, but he
cannothelpbeingimpressedbythesheersizeofArchimedes’firstcity.Itisone
thingtobetoldhowmanymillionslivethereandtotrytounderstandthatitis
severaltimesthesizeofNewJerusalem,butanotherentirelytoseethehordesof
people crowding the sidewalks and skyways. Covenant’s population is mostly
dispersed on pastoral settlements like the one on which Kane was raised,
agrariancooperativesthat,ashisteachersexplainedtohim,keepGod’schildren
close to the earth that nurtures them. Sometimes it is hard to realize that the
deep,reddishsoilhehadspenthischildhooddiggingandturningandnurturing
wasnotthesamesoilastheBibledescribed.Onceheevenaskedateacherwhy
ifGodmadeEarth,thePeopleoftheBookhadleftitbehind.
“GodmadealltheworldstobeearthforHischildren,”thewomanexplained.
“JustashemadeallthelandsoftheoldEarth,thengavethemtodifferentfolkto
havefortheirhomes.Buthealwayskeptthesweetestlands,thelandsofmilk
andhoney,forthechildrenofAbraham,andthat’swhywhenweleftearthhe
gaveusCovenant.”
As he thinks about it now Kane feels a surge of warmth and loneliness
commingled. It’s true that the hardest thing to do for love is to give up the
beloved.Atthismoment,hemissesCovenantsobadlyitisallhecandonotto
cryout.Itisastoundinginoneasexperiencedashimself.God’swarriorsdon’t
sigh, he tells himself sternly. They make others sigh instead. They bring
lamentationtoGod’senemies.Lamentation.
Heexitsthecabsomedistancefromthesafehouseandwalkstherestofthe
way, floating in smells both familiar and exotic. He rounds the neighborhood
twicetomakesureheisnotfollowed,thenenterstheflatblock,takestheslow
but quiet elevator up to the eighteenth floor, and lets himself in with the key
code. It looks like any other Covenant safe house on any of the other colony
worlds,cupboardswellstockedwithnourishmentandmedicalsupplies,littlein
thewayoffurniturebutabedandasinglechairandasmalltable.Thesearenot
placesofrestandrelaxation,thesearewaystationsontheroadtoJericho.
Itistimeforhimtochange.
Kanefillsthebathtubwithwater.Hefindsthechemicalice,activatesadozen
packsandtossesthemin.Thenhegoestothekitchenandlocatesthenecessary
mineralandchemicalsupplements.Hepoursenoughwaterintothemixtureto
makehimselfathick,bittermilkshakeanddrinksitdownwhilehewaitsforthe
waterinthetubtocool.Whenthetemperaturehasdroppedfarenoughhestrips
nakedandclimbsin.
“Yousee,Kane,”oneofthemilitaryscientistshadexplained,“we’vereached
apointwherewecan’tsmuggleevenasmallhand-weaponontoArchimedes,let
alone something useful, and they regulate their own citizens’ possession of
weaponssothoroughlythatwecannotchancetryingtoobtainonethere.Sowe
havegoneanotherdirection.WehavecreatedGuardians—humanweapons.That
iswhatyouare,praisethelord.Itstartedinyourchildhood.That’swhyyou’ve
always been different from your peers—faster, stronger, smarter. But we’ve
cometothelimitofwhatwecandowithgeneticsandtraining.Weneedtogive
youwhatyouneedtomakeyourselfintothetrueinstrumentofGod’sjustice.
MayHeblessthisandallourendeavorsinHisname.Amen.”
“Amen,”theSpiritinhisheadtoldhim.“Youarenowgoingtofallasleep.”
“Amen,”saidLamentationKane.
Andthentheygavehimthefirstinjection.
Whenhewokeupthatfirsttimehewassore,butnowherenearassoreashe
wasthefirsttimeheactivatedthenanobiotesor“notes”asthescientistslikedto
callthem.When thenoteswent towork, itwaslike aterriblesunburn onthe
outsideandtheinsideboth,andlikebeingpoundedwitharoundballbatforat
leastanhour,andlikelyingintheroadwhileagood-sizedsquadronoffull-dress
HolyWarriorsmarchedoverhim.
Inotherwords,ithurt.
Now, in the safehouse, he closes his eyes, turns down the babble of the
Archimedesseedasfarasitwilllethim,andbeginstowork.
Itiseasiernowthanitusedtobe,certainlyeasierthanthatterriblefirsttime
whenhewassoclumsythathealmosttorehisownmusclesloosefromtendon
andbone.
Hedoesn’tjustflex,hethinksaboutwherethemusclesarethatwouldflexif
hewantedtoflexthem,thenhowhewouldjustbegintomovethemifhewere
goingtomovethemextremelyslowly,andwiththatfirstthoughtcomesthelittle
tug of the cells unraveling their connections and re-knitting in different, more
usefulconfigurations,slowasaplantreachingtowardthesun.Evenwithallthis
delicacy,histemperaturerisesandhismusclesspasmandcramp,butnotlikethe
firsttime.Thatwaslikebeingborn—no,likebeingjudgedandfoundwanting,
as though the very meat of his earthly body was trying to tear itself free, as
thoughdevilspiercedhisjointswithhotironpitchforks.Agony.
Hadthesisterfeltsomethinglikethisattheend?Wasthereanywaytoopen
the door to God’s house without terrible, holy pain? She had brown eyes. He
thinks they were sad. Had she been frightened? Why would Jesus let her be
frightened,whenevenHehadcriedoutonthecross?
I praise You, Lord, Lamentation Kane tells the pain. This is Your way of
remindingmetopayattention.IamYourservant,andIamproudtoputonYour
holyarmor.
***
Ittakeshimatleasttwohourstofinishchangingatthebestoftimes.Tonight,
withthefatigueofhisjourneyandlongentryprocessandthecuriouslytroubling
effectofthewoman’smartyrdomtuggingathisthoughts,ittakeshimoverthree.
Kane gets out of the tub shivering, most of the heat dispersed and his skin
almostblue-whitewithcold.Beforewrappingthetowelaroundhimselfhelooks
attheresultsofallhiswork.It’shardtoseeanydifferencesexceptforacertain
broadnesstohischestthatwasnottherebefore,butherunshisfingersalongthe
hardshellofhisstomachandthesheathofgristlethatnowprotectshiswindpipe
and is satisfied. The thickening beneath the skin will not stop high-speed
projectiles from close up, but they should help shed the energy of any more
distant shot and will allow him to take a bullet or two from nearer and still
manage to do his job. Trellises of springy cartilage strengthen his ankles and
wrists.Hismusclesareaugmented,hislungsandcirculationimprovedmightily.
HeisaGuardian,andwitheverymovementhecanfeeltheholymodifications
thathavebeengiventohim.Beneaththeappearanceofnormalityheisstrongas
Goliath,scalyandsuppleasaserpent.
He is starving, of course. The cupboards are full of powdered nutritional
supplementdrinks.Headdswaterandicefromthekitchenunit,mixesthefirst
oneupanddownsitinalongswallow.Hedrinksfivebeforehebeginstofeel
full.
Kanepropshimselfuponthebed—thingsarestillslidingandgrindingalittle
insidehim,thelastworkofchangejustfinishing—andturnsthewallon.The
imagesjumpintolifeandtheseedinhisheadspeaksforthem.Hewillshisway
past sports and fashion and drama, all the unimportant gibberish with which
thesecreaturesfilltheiremptyhours,untilhefindsastreamofcurrentevents.
BecauseitisArchimedes,hiveofRationalistpagans,eventhenewsiscorrupted
with filth, gossip and whoremongering, but he manages to squint his way
through the offending material to find a report on what the New Hellas
authorities are calling a failed terrorist explosion at the port. A picture of the
Martyrdom Sister flashes onto the screen—taken from her travel documents,
obviously,anythingpersonalinherfacewellhiddenbyhertraining—butseeing
heragaingiveshimastrangejolt,asthoughthenotesthattunehisbodyhave
suddenlybegunonelast,forgottenoperation.
NefiseErim,theycallher.Notherrealname,that’salmostcertain,anymore
thanKeenanMcNallyishis.Outcast,that’shertruename.Scorned—thatcould
behernametoo,asitcouldbehis.Scornedbytheunbelievers,scornedbythe
smug,faithlesscreatureswho,likeChrist’sancienttormentors,fearthewordof
GodsomuchtheytrytobanHimfromtheirlives,fromtheirentireplanet!But
Godcan’tbebanned,notaslongasonehumanheartremainsalivetoHisvoice.
As long as the Covenant system survives, Kane knows, God will wield his
mightyswordandtheunbelieverswilllearnrealfear.
Oh,please,Lord,grantthatImayserveyouwell.Giveusvictoryover our
enemies.HelpustopunishthosewhowoulddenyYou.
Andjustasheliftsthissilentprayer,heseesherfaceonthescreen.Nothis
sisterinmartyrdom,withherwide,deepeyesanddarkskin.No,itisher—the
devil’smistress,KeetaJanuari,PrimeMinisterofArchimedes.
Histarget.
Januari is herself rather dark skinned, he cannot help noticing. It is
disconcerting.Hehasseenherbefore,ofcourse,herimagereplayedbeforehim
dozensupondozensoftimes,butthisisthefirsttimehehasnoticedashadeto
her skin that is darker than any mere suntan, a hint of something else in her
background beside the pale, Scandinavian forebears so obvious in her bone
structure.ItisasifthemartyredsisterNefisehassomehowsuffusedeverything,
evenhistarget.Orisitthatthedeadwomanhassomehowcreptintohisthoughts
sodeeplythatheiswitnessinghereverywhere?
Ifyoucanseeit,youcaneatit!Hehasmostlylearnedtoignorethehorrifying
chatterinhishead,butsometimesitstillreachesupandslapshisthoughtsaway.
BarnstormBuffet!Wedon’tcareiftheyhavetorollyououtthedoorafterward—
you’llgetyourmoney’sworth!
Itdoesn’tmatterwhatheseesinthePrimeMinister,orthinkshesees.Ashade
lighterordarkermeansnothing.Ifthedevil’sworkouthereamongthestarshas
aface,itisthehandsome,narrow-chinnedvisageofKeetaJanuari,leaderofthe
Rationalists.AndifGodeverwantedsomeonedead,sheisthatperson.
***
Shewon’tbehisfirst:Kanehassenteighteensoulstojudgmentalready.Eleven
of them were pagan spies or dangerous rabble-rousers on Covenant. One of
thosewastheleaderofacrypto-rationalistcultintheCrescent—thedeathwasa
favortotheIslamicpartnersinCovenant’srulingcoalition,Kanefoundoutlater.
Politics.Hedoesn’tknowhowhefeelsaboutthat,althoughheknowsthelate
DoctorHamoudwasadoubterandaliarandhadbeencorruptinggoodMuslims.
Still…politics.
Five were infiltrators among the Holy Warriors of Covenant, his people’s
army.Mostofthesehadhalf-expectedtobediscovered,andseveralofthemhad
resisteddesperately.
ThelasttwowereapoliticianandhiswifeontheunaffiliatedworldofArjuna,
importantRationalistsympathizers.Athismasters’biddingKanemadeitlook
likearobberygonewronginsteadofanassassination:thiswasnotthetimeto
maketheLord’shandobviousinArjuna’saffairs.Still,therewererumorsand
accusationsacrossArjuna’spublicnetworks.Thegossipersandspeculatorshad
evengiventheunknownmurdereranickname—theAngelofDeath.
Dr.Prishrahanandhiswifehadfoughthim.Neitherofthemhadwantedto
die.Kanehadletthemresisteventhoughhecouldhavekilledthembothina
moment. It gave credence to the robbery scenario. But he hadn’t enjoyed it.
NeitherhadthePrishrahans,ofcourse.
HewillavengethebloodofHisservants,andwillrendervengeancetoHis
adversaries,Spiritremindedhimwhenhehadfinishedwiththedoctorandhis
wife,andheunderstood.Kane’sdutyisnottojudge.Heisnotoneoftheflock,
butclosertothewolveshedestroys.LamentationKaneisGod’sexecutioner.
***
Heisnowcoldenoughfromhislongsubmersionthatheputsonclothes.Heis
still tender in his joints as well. He goes out onto the balcony, high in the
canyons of flatblocks pinpricked with illuminated windows, thousands upon
thousandsofsquaresoflight.Theimmensityoftheplacestillunnerveshima
little. It’s strange to think that what is happening behind one little lighted
windowinthisimmensityofsparklingurbannightisgoingtorockthismassive
worldtoitsfoundations.
Itishardtoremembertheprayersasheshould.OrdinarilySpiritistherewith
the words before he has a moment to feel lonely. “I will not leave you
comfortless:Iwillcometoyou.”
Buthedoesnotfeelcomfortedatthismoment.Heisalone.
“Looking for love?” The voice in his head whispers this time, throaty and
exciting.Abrighttwinkleofcoordinatesflickerattheedgeofhisvision.“I’m
lookingforyou…andyoucanhavemealmostnothing…”
Hecloseshiseyestightagainsttheimmensityofthepagancity.
Fearthounot;forIamwiththee:benotdismayed;forIamthyGod.
***
Hewalkstotheauditoriumjusttoseetheplacewheretheprimeministerwill
speak.Hedoesnotapproachveryclosely.Itloomsagainstthegridoflight,a
vastrectanglelikeanaxeheadsmashedintothecentralplazaofHellasCity.He
doesnotlinger.
Asheslidesthroughthecrowdsitishardnottolookatthepeoplearoundhim
asthoughhehasalreadyaccomplishedhistask.Whatwouldtheythinkifthey
knewwhohe was?WouldtheyshrinkbackfromtheterroroftheLordGod’s
wrath?Orwouldadeedofsuchpower and pietyspeaktothemeventhrough
theirfears?
IamablazewiththelightoftheLord,hewantstotellthem.IhaveletGod
makemeHisinstrument—Iamfullofglory!Buthesaysnothing,ofcourse,only
walksamidthemultitudeswithhisheartgrownsilentandturnedinward.
Kaneeatsinarestaurant.Thefoodissoover-spicedastobetasteless,andhe
yearnsforthesimplemealsofthefarmonwhichhewasraised.Evenmilitary
manna is better than this! The customers twitter and laugh just like the
Archimedes seed in their heads, as if it is that babbling obscenity that has
programmed them instead of the other way around. How these people
surrounded themselves with distraction and glare and noise to obscure the
emptinessoftheirsouls!
Hegoestoaplacewherewomendance.Itisstrangetowatchthem,because
theysmileandsmileandtheyareallasbeautifulandnakedasadarkdream,but
theyseemtohimlikedamnedsouls,doomedtoactoutthisemptyfarceoflove
andattractionthroughouteternity.HecannotgetthethoughtofmartyredNefise
Erimoutofhishead.Atlasthechoosesoneofthewomen—shedoesnotlook
muchlikethemartyredone,butsheisdarkerthantheothers—andletsherlead
him to her room behind the place where they dance. She feels the hardened
tissuesbeneathhisskinandtellshimheisverymuscular.Heemptieshimself
insideherandthen,afterward,sheaskshimwhyheiscrying.Hetellshersheis
mistaken.Whensheasksagainheslapsher.Althoughheholdsbackhisstrength
hestillknocksheroffthebed.Theroomaddsasmallsurchargetohisbill.
Helets her go back to her work.She isan innocent,of sorts:she hasbeen
listeningtothegodlessvoicesinherheadallherlifeandknowsnothingelse.No
wondershedanceslikeadamnedthing.
Kaneissoilednowashewalksthestreetsagain,buthisgreatdeedwillwipe
thetaintfromhimasitalwaysdoes.HeisaGuardianofCovenant,andsoonhe
willbeannealedbyholyfire.
***
His masters want the deed done while the crowd is gathered to see the prime
minister,andsothequestionseemssimple:beforeorafter?Hethinksatfirstthat
hewilldoitwhenshearrives,asshestepsfromthecarandishurriedintothe
corridorleadingtothegreathall.Thatseemssafest.Aftershehasspokenitwill
be much more difficult, with her security fully deployed and the hall’s own
security acting with them. Still, the more he thinks about it the more he feels
surethatitmustbeinsidethehall.Onlyafewthousandwouldbegatheredthere
toseeherspeak,butmillionsmorewillbewatchingonthescreenssurrounding
the massive building. If he strikes quickly his deed will be witnessed by this
wholeworld—andotherworlds,too.
SurelyGodwantsitthatway.SurelyHewantstheunbelieverdestroyedinfull
viewofthepublicwaitingtobeinstructed.
Kanedoesnothavetimeorresourcestocounterfeitpermissiontobeinthe
building—thepoliticiansandhallsecuritywillbecheckedandre-checked,and
willbeinplacelongbeforePrimeMinisterJanuariarrives.Whichmeansthat
theonlypeopleallowedtoenterwithoutgoingthroughcarefulscreeningwillbe
theprimeminister’sownparty.Thatisapossibility,buthewillneedhelpwithit.
Makingcontactwithlocalassetsisusuallyabadsign—itmeanssomething
has gone wrong with the original plan—but Kane knows that with a task this
important he cannot afford to be superstitious. He leaves a signal in the
establishedplace.Thelocalassetscometothesafehouseaftersunset.Whenhe
opensthedoorhefindstwomen,oneyoungandoneold,bothdisconcertingly
ordinary-looking,thekindofmenwhomightcometotowyourcarorfumigate
your flat. The middle-aged one introduces himself as Heinrich Sartorius, his
companionjustasCarl.SartoriusmotionsKanenottospeakwhileCarlsweeps
theroomwithasmallobjectaboutthesizeofatoothbrush.
“Clear,”theyouthannounces.Heisbonyandhomely,buthemoveswitha
certaingrace,especiallywhileusinghishands.
“PraisetheLord,”Sartoriussays.“Andblessingsonyou,brother.Whatcan
wedotohelpyouwithChrist’swork?”
“AreyoureallytheonefromArjuna?”youngCarlaskessuddenly.
“Quiet,boy.Thisisserious.”SartoriusturnsbacktoKanewithanexpectant
lookonhisface.“He’sagoodlad.It’sjust—thatmeantalottothecommunity,
whathappenedthereonArjuna.”
Kaneignoresthis.HeiswaryoftheDeathAngelnonsense.“Ineedtoknow
whattheprimeminister’ssecuritydetailwears.Details.AndIwantthelayoutof
theauditorium,withafocusonairandwaterducts.”
Theoldermanfrowns.“They’llhavethatallcheckedout,won’tthey?”
“I’msure.Canyougetitformewithoutattractingattention?”
“’Course.” Sartorius nods. “Carl’ll find it for you right now. He’s a whiz.
Ain’tthatright,boy?”ThemanturnsbacktoKane.“We’renotbackward,you
know. The unbelievers always say it’s because we’re backward, but Carl here
wasupnearthetopofhisclassinmathematics.WejustkeptJesusinourhearts
whentherestofthesepeoplegaveHimup,that’sthedifference.”
“PraiseHim,”saysCarl,alreadyworkingthesafehousewall,imagesflooding
pastsoquicklythatevenwithhisaugmentedvisionKanecanbarelymakeouta
tenthofthem.
“Yes, praise Him,” Sartorius agrees, nodding his head as though there has
been a long and occasionally heated discussion about how best to deal with
Jesus.
Kaneisbeginningtofeeltheacheinhisjointsagain,whichusuallymeanshe
needs more protein. He heads for the small kitchen to fix himself another
nutritiondrink.“CanIgetyoutwoanything?”heasks.
“We’regood,”saystheolderman.“JusthappydoingtheLord’swork.”
***
Theymaketoomuchnoise,hedecides.Notthatmostpeoplewouldhaveheard
them,butKaneisn’tmostpeople.
I am the sword of the Lord, he tells himself silently. He can scarcely hear
himselfthinkitoverthemurmuroftheArchimedesseed,whichalthoughturned
downlowisstillspoutingmeteorologicalinformation,news,tagsofphilosophy
andothertrivialikeamadmanonastreetcorner.BelowthespotwhereKane
hangs the three men of the go-suited security detail communicate among
themselves with hand-signs as they investigate the place he has entered the
building.Hehasalteredtheevidenceofhisincursiontolooklikesomeonehas
triedandfailedtogetintotheauditoriumthroughtheintakeduct.
Theguardsseemtodrawthedesiredconclusion:afteranotherflurryofhand-
signals, and presumably after relaying the all-clear to the other half of the
securitysquad,whoaredoubtlessinspectingtheoutsideofthesameintakeduct,
the three turn and begin to walk back up the steep conduit, the flow of air
makingtheirmovementsunstable,headlampssplashingunpredictablyoverthe
walls.ButKaneiswaitingabovethemlikeaspider,intheshadowsofahigh
placewherethemassiveconduitbendsaroundoneofthebuilding’spillars,his
hardened fingertips dug into the concrete, his augmented muscles tensed and
locked.Hewaitsuntilallthreepassbelowhimthendropsdownsilentlybehind
themandcrushesthethroatofthelastmansohecan’talerttheothers.Hethen
snaps the guard’s neck and tosses the body over his shoulder, then scrambles
backupthewallsintotheplacehehasprepared,ahammockofcanvasmuchthe
samecolorastheinsideoftheduct.Inamatterofsecondshestripsthebody,
prayingferventlythattheothertwowillnothavenoticedthattheircomradeis
missing. He pulls on the man’s go-suit, which is still warm, then leaves the
guard’sbodyinthehammockandspringsdowntothegroundjustasthesecond
guardrealizesthereisnoonebehindhim.
AsthemanturnstowardhimKaneseeshislipsmovingbehindthefaceshield
andknowstheguardmustbetalkingtohimbyseed.Theimpostureisbroken,or
will be in a moment. Can he pretend his own communications machinery is
malfunctioning? Not if these guards are any good. If they work for the prime
ministerofArchimedes,theyprobablyare.Hehasamomentbeforethenewsis
broadcasttoalltheothersecuritypeopleinthebuilding.
Kanestridesforwardmakingnonsensicalhand-signs.Theotherguard’seyes
widen: he does not recognize either the signs or the face behind the polymer
shield.Kaneshatterstheman’sneckwithatwo-handedstrikeevenastheguard
strugglestopullhissidearm.ThenKaneleapsatthelastguardjustasheturns.
Exceptitisn’tahe.It’sawomanandshe’sfast.Sheactuallyhashergunout
oftheholsterbeforehekillsher.
***
Hehasonlymoments,heknows:theguardswillhavearegularcheck-intotheir
squadleader.Hesprintsfortheside-shaftthatshouldtakehimtotheareaabove
theceilingofthemainhall.
Womenasleaders.Womenassoldiers.Womendancingnakedinpublicbefore
strangers. Is there anything these Archimedeans will not do to debase the
daughtersofEve?Forcethemallintowhoredom,astheBabyloniansdid?
The massive space above the ceiling is full of riggers and technicians and
heavilyarmedguards.Adozenofthose,atleast.Mostofthemaresharpshooters
keeping an eye on the crowd through the scopes on their high-powered guns,
which is lucky. Some of them might not even see him until he’s on his way
down.
Twooftheheavilyarmoredtroopersturnashestepsoutintotheopen.Heis
beingqueriedforidentification,buteveniftheythinkheisoneoftheirownthey
willnotlethimgetmorethanafewyardsacrossthefloor.Hethrowshishands
in the air and takes a few casual steps toward them, shaking his head and
pointingathishelmet.Thenheleapsforward,prayingtheydonotunderstand
howquicklyhecanmove.
He covers the twenty yards or so in just a little more than a second. To
confound their surprise, he does not attack but dives past the two who have
alreadyseenhimandthethirdjustturningtofindoutwhattheconversationis
about. He reaches the edge of the flies and launches himself out into space,
tuckedandspinningtomakehimselfamoredifficulttarget.Still,hefeelsahigh-
speedprojectilehithislegandpenetratealittleway,slowedbytheguard’sgo-
suitandstoppedbyhisownhardenedflesh.
Helandssohardthatthestolenguardhelmetpopsoffhisheadandbounces
away. The first screams and shouts of surprise are beginning to rise from the
crowd of parliamentarians, but Kane can hardly hear them. The shock of his
fifty-footfallswirlsthroughtheenhancedcartilageofhiskneesandanklesand
wrists,painfulbutmanageable.Hisheartisbeatingsofastitalmostbuzzes,and
he is so accelerated that the noise of the audience seemed like the sound of
something completely inhuman, the deep scrape of a glacier, the tectonic
rumblingofamountain’sroots.Twomorebulletssnapintothefloorbesidehim,
chipsofconcrete and fragmentsofcarpet spinningslowlyinthe air, hovering
like ashes in a fiery updraft. The woman at the lectern turns toward him in
molasses-timeanditisindeedher,KeetaJanuari,theWhoreofBabylon.Ashe
reaches toward her he can see the individual muscles of her face react—
eyebrowspulledup,foreheadwrinkling,surprised…butnotfrightened.
Howcanthatbe?
He is already leaping toward her, curving the fingers of each hand into
hardenedclawsforthekillingstrike.Afractionofasecondtocrossthespace
betweenthemasbulletssnapbyfromaboveandeitherside,thenoisescything
past a long instant later, wow, wow, wow. Time hanging, disconnected from
history.God’shand.HeisGod’shand,andthisiswhatitmustfeelliketobein
thepresenceofGodHimself,thisshimmering,endless,brightNOW…
Andthenpainexplodesthroughhimandsetshisnervesonfireandeverything
goessuddenlyandirrevocablyblack.
***
Lamentation Kane wakes in a white room, the light from everywhere and
nowhere.Heisbeingwatched,ofcourse.Soon,thetorturewillbegin.
“Beloved,thinkitnotstrangeconcerningthefierytrialwhichistotryyou,as
thoughsome strange thing happenedunto you…” Thosewere theholy words
Spirit whispered to him when he lay badly wounded in the hospital after
capturingthelastoftheHolyWarriorinfiltrators,anotheraugmentedsoldierlike
himself,abigger,strongermanwhoalmostkilledhimbeforeKanemanagedto
putastiffenedfingerthroughhiseyeballintohisbrain.Spiritrecitedthewords
tohimagainandagainduringhisrecuperation:“Butrejoice,inasmuchasyeare
partakersofChrist’ssufferings;that,whenhisglory…whenhisglory.…”
Tohishorror,hecannotremembertherestofthepassagefromPeter.
Hecannothelpthinkingofthemartyredyoungwomanwhogaveherlifeso
thathecouldfailsoutterly.Hewillseehersoon.Willhebeabletomeether
eye?IsthereshameinHeaven?
Iwillbestrong,Kanepromiseshershade,nomatterwhattheydotome.
Oneofthecell’swallsturnsfromwhitetotransparent.Theroombeyondis
fullofpeople,mostoftheminmilitaryuniformsorwhitemedicalsmocks.Only
twowearcivilianclothing,apalemanand…her.KeetaJanuari.
“Youmaythrowyourselfagainsttheglassifyouwant.”Hervoiceseemsto
comeoutoftheaironallsides.“Itisvery,verythickandvery,verystrong.”
Heonlystares.Hewillnotmakehimselfabeast,strugglingtoescapewhile
theylaugh.Thesepeoplearetheoneswhothinkthemselvesrelatedtoanimals.
Animals!KaneknowsthattheLordGodhasgivenhispeopledominion.
“Overallthebeastsandfowlsoftheearth,”hesaysoutloud.
“So,”saysPrimeMinisterJanuari.“So,thisistheAngelofDeath.”
“Thatisnotmyname.”
“Weknowyourname,Kane.Wehavebeenwatchingyousinceyoureached
Archimedes.”
Alie,surely.Theywouldneverhavelethimgetsoclose.
She narrows her eyes. “I would have expected an angel to look more …
angelic.”
“I’mnoangel,asyoualmostfoundout.”
“Ah,ifyou’renot,thenyoumustbeoneoftheministersofgrace.”Shesees
thelookonhisface.“Howsad.IforgotthatShakespearewasbannedbyyour
mullahs.‘Angelsandministersofgracedefendus!’FromMacbeth.Itproceedsa
murder.”
“WeChristiansdonothavemullahs,”hesaysasevenlyashecan.Hedoesnot
care about the rest of the nonsense she speaks. “Those are the people of the
Crescent,ourbrothersoftheBook.”
Shelaughed.“Ithoughtyouwouldbesmarterthantherestofyoursort,Kane,
but you parrot the same nonsense. Do you know that only a few generations
backyour‘brothers’asyoucallthemsetoffathermonucleardevice,tryingto
killyourgrandparentsandtherestoftheChristianandZionist‘brothers’?”
“Intheearlydays,beforetheCovenant,therewasconfusion.”Everyoneknew
the story. Did she think to shame him with old history, ancient quotations,
bannedplaywrightsfromthewickedolddaysofEarth?Ifso,thenbothofthem
hadunderestimatedeachotherasadversaries.
Ofcourse,atthemomentshedidholdasomewhatbetterposition.
“So,then,notanangelbutaminister.Butyoudon’tpraytobeprotectedfrom
death,buttobeabletocauseit.”
“IdotheLord’swill.”
“Bullshit,touseavenerableoldterm.Youareamurderermanytimesover,
Kane.Youtriedtomurderme.”ButJanuaridoesnotlookathimasthoughatan
enemy.Noristherekindnessinhergaze,either.Shelooksathimasthoughheis
apoisonousinsectinajar—anobjecttobecarefulwith,yes,butmostlyathing
tobestudied.“Whatshallwedowithyou?”
“Killme.Ifyouhaveanyofthehumanityyouclaim,youwillreleasemeand
sendmetoHeaven.ButIknowyouwilltortureme.”
Sheraisesaneyebrow.“Whywouldwedothat?”
“Forinformation.Ournationsareatwar,eventhoughthepoliticianshavenot
yetadmittedittotheirpeoples.Youknowit,woman.Iknowit.Everyoneinthis
roomknowsit.”
Keeta Januari smiles. “You will get no argument from me or anyone here
aboutthestateofaffairsbetweenArchimedesandtheCovenantsystem.Butwhy
wouldwetortureyouforinformationwealreadyhave?Wearenotbarbarians.
Wearenotprimitives—likesomeothers.Wedonotforceourcitizenstoworship
savageoldmyths…”
“Youforcethemtobesilent!YoupunishthosewhowouldworshiptheGodof
theirfathers. You havepersecuted the People of the Book wherever you have
foundthem!”
“We have kept our planet free from the mania of religious warfare and
extremism.WehaveneverinterferedinthechoicesofCovenant.”
“Youhavetriedtokeepusfromgainingconverts.”
The prime minister shakes her head. “Gaining converts? Trying to hijack
entirecultures,youmean.StealingtherightofcoloniestobefreeofEarth’sold
tribalghosts.Wearethesamepeoplethatletyourpredecessorsworshiptheway
theywishedto—wefoughttoprotecttheirfreedom,andwererepaidwhenthey
tried to force their beliefs on us at gunpoint.” Her laugh is harsh. “‘Christian
tolerance’—twowordsthatdonotbelongtogethernomatterhowoftenthey’ve
beencoupled. And we allknow what your Islamistsand Zionists brothersare
like.EvenifyoudestroyalloftheArchimedeanallianceandeverysingleoneof
us unbelievers, you’ll only find yourself fighting your allies instead. The
madnesswon’tstopuntilthelastlivingpsychopathwindsupallaloneonahill
ofashes,shoutingpraisetohisgod.”
Kanefeelshisangerrisingandcloseshismouth.Hesuffuseshisbloodwith
calmingchemicals.Itconfuseshim,arguingwithher.Sheisawomanandshe
shouldgivecomfort,butsheisspeakingonlylies—cruel,dangerouslies.Thisis
whathappenswhenthenaturalorderofthingsisupset.“Youareadevil.Iwill
speaktoyounomore.Dowhateveritisyou’regoingtodo.”
“Here’sanotherbitofShakespeare,”shesays.“Ifyourmastershadn’tbanned
him,youcouldhave quoted itatme.‘Butman,proudman,/dressedinalittle
briefauthority,/mostignorantofwhathe’smostassured’—that’snicelyput,isn’t
it?‘Hisglassyessence/likeanangryape/playssuchfantastictricksbeforehigh
heaven/ as make the angels weep.’” She puts her hands together in a gesture
disturbinglyreminiscentofprayer.Hecannotturnawayfromhergaze.“So—
whatarewegoingtodowithyou?Wecouldexecuteyouquietly,ofcourse.A
polite fiction—died from injuries sustained in the arrest—and no one would
maketoomuchfuss.”
Themanbehindherclearshisthroat.“MadamePrimeMinster,Irespectfully
suggestwetakethisconversationelsewhere.Thedoctorsarewaitingtoseethe
prisoner…”
“Shutup,Healy.”SheturnstolookatKaneagain,reallylook,herblueeyes
sharpasscalpels.SheisolderthantheMartyrdomSisterbyagoodtwentyyears,
and despite the dark tint her skin is much paler, but somehow, for a dizzying
second,theyarethesame.
Whydoyouallowmetobecomeconfused,Lord,betweenthemurdererand
themartyr?
“KanecommaLamentation,”shesays.“Quitea name.Isthatyourenemies
lamenting,orisityou,cryingouthelplesslybeforethepowerofyourGod?”She
holds up her hand. “Don’t bother to answer. In parts of the Covenant system
you’reahero,youknow—asortofsuperhero.Wereyouawareofthat?Orhave
youbeentravelingtoomuch?”
Hedoeshisbesttoignoreher.Heknowshewillbeliedto,manipulated,that
the psychological torments will be more subtle and more important than the
physicaltorture.Theonlythinghedoesnotunderstandis:Whyher—whythe
primeministerherself?Surelyheisn’tsoimportant.Thefactthatshestandsin
front of him at this moment instead of in front of God is, after all, a
demonstrationthatheisafailure.
As if in answer to this thought, a voice murmurs in the back of his skull,
“Arjuna’s Angel of Death captured in attempt on PM Januari.” Another
inquires,“Haveyousmelledyourselflately?Evenmembersof parliament can
losefreshness—justaskone!”Evenhere,intheheartofthebeast,thevoicesin
hisheadwillnotbesilenced.
“Weneedtostudyyou,”theprimeministersaysatlast.“Wehaven’tcaughta
Guardian-classagentbefore—notoneofthenewones,likeyou.Wedidn’tknow
ifwecoulddoit—thescramblerfieldwasonlyrecentlydeveloped.”Shesmiles
again, a quick icy flash like a first glimpse of snow in high mountains. “It
wouldn’thavemeantanythingifyou’dsucceeded,youknow.Thereareatleasta
dozenmoreinmypartywhocantakemyplaceandkeepthissystemsafeagainst
youandyourmasters.ButImadegoodbait—andyouleapedintothetrap.Now
we’re going to find out what makes you such a nasty instrument, little Death
Angel.”
***
Hehopesthatnowthecharadeisovertheywillatleastshutofftheseedinhis
head.Instead,theyleaveitinplacebutdisablehiscontrolssothathecan’taffect
itatall.Children’svoicessingtohimaboutthevalueofstartingeachdaywitha
healthybreakfastandhegrindshisteeth.Themadchorusyammersandsingsto
himnonstop.Thepaganseedshowshimpictureshedoesnotwanttosee,gives
himinformationaboutwhichhedoesnotcare,andalways,always,itdeniesthat
Kane’sGodexists.
The Archimedeans claim they have no death penalty. Is this what they do
instead?Drivetheirprisonerstosuicide?
Ifso,hewillnotdotheirworkforthem.Hehasinternalresourcestheycannot
disable without killing him and he was prepared to survive torture of a more
obvioussort—whynotthis?Hedilutesthewavesofdespairthatwashthrough
himatnightwhenthelightsgooutandheisalonewiththeidiotbabbleoftheir
idiotplanet.
No, Kane will not do their job for him. He will not murder himself. But it
giveshimanidea.
***
Ifhehaddoneitinhiscelltheymighthavebeenmoresuspicious,butwhenhis
heart stops in the course of a rather invasive procedure to learn how the note
biotechhasgrownintohisnervoussystem,theyarecaughtbysurprise.
“It must be a failsafe!” one of the doctors cries. Kane hears him as though
from a great distance—already his higher systems are shutting down. “Some
kindofauto-destruct!”
“Maybeit’sjustcardiacarrest…”saysanother,butit’sonlyawhisperandhe
isfallingdownalongtunnel.HealmostthinkshecanhearSpiritcallingafter
him…
AndGodshallwipeawayalltearsfromtheireyes;andthereshallbenomore
death,neithersorrow,norcrying,neithershalltherebeanymorepain:forthe
formerthingsarepassedaway.
Hisheartstartspumpingagaintwentyminuteslater.Thedoctors,unawareof
thesophisticationofhisautonomiccontrol,aretryingtoshockhissystemback
tolife.Kanehopedhewouldbedownlongerandthattheywouldgivehimup
fordeadbutthatwasoverlyoptimistic:insteadhehastorolloffthetable,naked
butfortrailingwiresandtubes,andkillthestartledguardsbeforetheycandraw
theirweapons.Hemustalsobreaktheneckofoneofthedoctorswhohasbeen
tryingtosavehimbutnowmakesthemistakeofattackinghim.Evenafterhe
leaves the rest of the terrified medical staff cowering on the emergency room
floorandescapesthesurgicalwing,heisstillinaprison.
“Tiredofthesameoldatmosphere?HolyoakeHarbor,thelittlevillageunder
thebubble—wemakeourownairandit’sguaranteedfresh!”
His internal modifications are healing the surgical damage as quickly as
possiblebutheisstaggering,starvedofnutrientsandburningenergyatbrushfire
speed.Godhasgivenhimthischanceandhemustnotfail,butifhedoesnot
replenishhisreserveshewillfail.
Kanedropsdownfromanoverheadairductintoahallwayandkillsatwo-
manpatrolteam.Hetearstheuniformoffoneofthemandthen,withstiffened,
clawlikefingers,pullsgobbetsofmeatofftheman’sbonesandswallowsthem.
Thebloodissaltyandhot.Hisstomachconvulsesatwhatheisdoing—theold,
terriblesin—butheforceshimselftochewandswallow.Hehasnochoice.
Addictionaproblem?NotwithaNeoBloodtransfusion!Wealsofeaturethe
finestlife-testedandartificialorgans…
Hecantellbythesputteringmessagesontheguards’communicatorsthatthe
security personnel are spreading out from the main guardroom. They seem to
haveanideaofwherehehasbeenandwherehenowis.Whenhehasfinished
histerriblemealheleavestheresidueontheflooroftheclosetandthenmakes
hiswaytowardthecentralsecurityoffice,leavingredfootprintsbehindhim.He
looks,hefeelssure,likeademonfromthedeepestfloorsofHell.
Theguardsmakethemistakeofcomingoutoftheirhardenedroom,thinking
numbersandweaponryareontheirside.Kanetakesseveralbulletwoundsbut
theyhavenothingasterribleasthescramblingdevicewhichcapturedhiminthe
first place and he moves through his enemies like a whirlwind, snapping out
blowsofsuchstrengththatoneguard’sheadisknockedfromhisshouldersand
tumblesdownthehall.
Oncehehaswadedthroughthebodiesintothemaincommunicationroom,he
throwsopenasmanyoftheprisoncellsashecanandturnsontheescapeand
firealarms,whichhowllikethedamned.Hewaitsuntilthechaosisripe,then
pullsonaguard’suniformandheadsfortheexerciseyard.Hehurriesthrough
theshrieking,bloodyconfusionoftheyard,thenclimbsoverthethreesetsof
razor-wirefencing.Severalbulletssmackintohishardenedflesh,burning like
hotrivets.Abeamweaponscythesacrossthelastfencewithahissandpopof
snappingwire,butKanehasalreadydroppedtothegroundoutside.
He can run about fifty miles an hour under most circumstances, but fueled
withadrenalinehecangoalmosthalfagainthatfastforshortbursts.Theonly
problem is that he is traveling over open, wild ground and has to watch for
obstacles—even he can badly injure an ankle at this speed because he cannot
armorhisjointstoomuchwithoutlosingflexibility.Also,heissoexhaustedand
emptyevenafterconsumingtheguard’sfleshthatblackspotscaperinfrontof
hiseyes:hewillnotbeabletokeepupthispaceverylong.
Herearesomewisewordsfromanancientstatesmantoconsider:“Youcan
dowhatyouhavetodo,andsometimesyoucandoitevenbetterthanyouthink
youcan.”
Kids, all parents can make mistakes. How about yours? Report religious
paraphernaliaoroverlysuperstitiousbehavioronyourlocalFreedomCouncil
tipnode…
Yourbodytemperatureisfarabovenormal.Yourstresslevelsarefarabove
normal.Werecommendyouseeaphysicianimmediately.
Yes,Kanethinks.IbelieveI’lldojustthat.
Hefindsanemptyhousewithinfivemilesoftheprisonandbreaksin.Heeats
everything he can find, including several pounds of frozen meat, which helps
him compensate for a little of the heat he is generating. He then rummages
throughtheupstairsbedroomsuntilhefindssomenewclothestowear,scrubs
offsthebloodthatmarkshimout,andleaves.
Hefindsanotherplacesomemilesawaytohideforthenight.Theresidents
arehome—heevenhearsthemlisteningtonewsofhisescape,althoughitisa
grosslyinaccurateversionthatconcentratesbreathlesslyonhiscannibalismand
his terrifying nickname. He lays curled in a box in their attic like a mummy,
nearlycomatose.Whentheyleaveinthemorning,sodoesKane,reshapingthe
bones of his face and withdrawing color from his hair. The pagan seed still
chirpsinhishead.Everyfewminutesitremindshimtokeepaneyeopenfor
himself, but not to approach himself, because he is undoubtedly very, very
dangerous.
***
“Didn’t know anything about it.” Sartorius looks worriedly up and down the
road to make sure they are alone, as if Kane hadn’t already done that better,
faster, and more carefully long before the two locals had arrived at the
rendezvous.“WhatcanIsay?Wedidn’thaveanyideatheyhadthatscrambler
thing.Ofcoursewewouldhaveletyouknowifwe’dheard.”
“Ineedadoctor—somebodyyou’dtrustwithyourlife,becauseI’llbetrusting
himwithmine.
“CannibalChristian,”saysyoungCarlinanawedvoice.“That’swhatthey’re
callingyounow.”
“That’s crap.” He is not ashamed because he was doing God’s will, but he
doesnotwanttobereminded,either.
“OrtheAngelofDeath,theystilllikethatone,too.Eitherway,they’resure
talkingaboutyou.”
***
Thedoctorisawomantoo,adecadeor so pastherchild-bearingyears.They
wakeherupinhersmallcottageontheedgeofablightedparkthatlookslikeit
wasmanufacturingspacebeforeahalfwayattempttoredeemit.Shehasalcohol
onherbreathandherhandsshake,buthereyes,althoughalittlebloodshot,are
intelligentandalert.
“Don’tboremewithyourstoryandI won’tboreyouwithmine,”shesays
whenCarlbeginstointroducethem.Amomentlaterherpupilsdilate.“Hangon
—Ialreadyknowyours.You’retheAngeleveryone’stalkingabout.”
“SomepeoplecallhimtheCannibalChristian,”saysyoungCarlhelpfully.
“Areyouabeliever?”Kaneasksher.
“I’mtooflawedtobeanythingelse.WhoelsebutJesuswouldkeepforgiving
me?”
Shelayshimoutonabedsheetonherkitchentable.Hewavesawayboththe
anestheticinhalerandthebottleofliquor.
“Theywon’tworkonmeunlessIletthem,andIcan’taffordtoletthemwork.
Ihavetostayalert.Nowplease,cutthatgodlessthingoutofmyhead.Doyou
haveaSpirityoucanputin?”
“Beg pardon?” She straightens up, the scalpel already bloody from the
incisionheisdoinghisbesttoignore.
“Whatdoyoucallithere?Mykindofseed,aseedofCovenant.SoIcanhear
thevoiceofSpiritagain…”
Asiftoprotestitsownpendingremoval,theArchimedesseedabruptlyfills
hisskullwithacrackleofinterference.
Abadsign,Kanethinks.Hemustbeoverworkinghisinternalsystems.When
hefinishesherehe’llneedseveraldaysrestbeforehedecideswhattodonext.
“Sorry,”hetellsthedoctor.“Ididn’thearyou.Whatdidyousay?”
Sheshrugs.“IsaidI’dhavetoseewhatIhave.Oneofyourpeoplediedon
thisverytableafewyearsago,I’msadtosay,despiteeverythingIdidtosave
him. I think I kept his communication seed.” She waves her hand a little, as
thoughsuchthingshappenorfailtohappeneveryday.“Whoknows?I’llhavea
look.”
Hecannotlethimselfhopetoomuch.Evenifshehasit,whataretheoddsthat
it will work, and even more unlikely, that it will work here on Archimedes?
ThereareboosterstationsonalltheothercolonyworldslikeArjunawherethe
WordisallowedtocompetefreelywiththeliesoftheGodless.
Thelatestcrackleinhisheadresolvesintoacalm,sweetlyreasonablevoice.…
NolessaphilosopherthanAristotlehimselfsaid,“Mencreategodsaftertheir
ownimage,notonlywithregardtotheirform,butwithregardtotheirmodeof
life.”
Kaneforceshimselftoopenhiseyes.Theroomisblurry,thedoctorafaint
shadowyshapebendingoverhim.Somethingsharpprobesinhisneck.
“Thereitis,”shesays.“It’sgoingtohurtabitcomingout.What’syourname?
Yourrealname?”
“Lamentation.”
“Ah.”Shedoesn’tsmile,atleasthedoesn’tthinkshedoes—it’shardforhim
to make out her features—but she sounds amused. “‘She weepeth sore in the
night,andhertearsareonhercheeks:amongallherloversshehathnoneto
comforther:allherfriendshavedealttreacherouslywithher,theyarebecome
her enemies.’ That’s Jerusalem they’re talking about,” the doctor adds. “The
originalone.”
“BookofLamentations,”hesaysquietly.Thepainissofiercethatit’sallhe
candonottoreachupandgrabthehandthatholdstheprobing,insupportable
instrument.Attimes likethis,when hemost needs torestrain himself,hecan
mostclearlyfeelhisstrength.Ifheweretolosecontrolandloosethatunfettered
power, he feels that he could blaze like one of the stellar torches in heaven’s
greatvault,thathecoulddestroyanentireworld.
“Hey,”saysavoiceinthedarknessbeyondthepooloflightonthekitchen
table—youngCarl“Hey.Something’sgoingon.”
“What are you talking about?” demands Sartorius. A moment later the
windowexplodesinashowerofsparklingglassandtheroomfillswithsmoke.
Notsmoke,gas.Kanespringsoffthetable,accidentallyknockingthedoctor
backagainstthewall.Hegulpsinenoughbreathtolasthimaquarterofanhour
andflaresthetissuesofhispharynxtosealhisairpassages.Ifit’sanervegas
thereisnothingmuchhecando,though—toomuchskinexposed.
Inthecornerthedoctorstrugglestoherfeet,emergingfromthebillowsonthe
floorwithhermouthwideandworkingbutnothingcomingout.Itisn’tjusther.
Carl and Sartorius are holding their breath as they shove furniture against the
doorasamakeshiftbarricade.Thebigger,oldermanalreadyhasa guninhis
hand.Whyisitsoquietoutside?Whataretheydoingoutthere?
The answer comes with a stuttering roar. Small arms fire suddenly fills the
kitchenwallwithholes.Thedoctorthrowsupherhandsandbeginsaterriblejig,
asthoughsheisbeingstitchedbyaninvisiblesewingmachine.Whenshefalls
tothegrounditisinpieces.
YoungCarlstretchesmotionlessonthefloorinapoolofhisownspreading
bloodandbrains.Sartoriusisstillstandingunsteadily,butredbubblesthrough
hisclothinginseveralplaces.
Kaneisontheground—hehasdroppedwithoutrealizingit.Hedoesnotstop
toconsidernear-certaintyoffailure,butinsteadspringstotheceilinganddigs
hisfingersinlongenoughtosmashhiswaythroughwiththeotherhand,then
hunkersinthecrawlspaceuntilthefirstteamoftrooperscomeintocheckthe
damage,flashlightsdartingthroughthefogofgasfumes.Howdidtheyfindhim
soquickly?Moreimportantly,whathavetheybroughttouseagainsthim?
Speedishisbestweapon.Heclimbsoutthroughthevent.Hehastowidenit,
and the splintering brings a fusillade from below. When he reaches the roof
dozensofshotscrackpasthimandtwoactuallyhithim,oneinthearmandone
in the back, these from the parked security vehicles where the rest of the
invasion team are waiting for the first wave to signal them inside. The shock
wavestravelthroughhimsothatheshakeslikeawetdog.Amomentlater,ashe
suspected,theydeploythescrambler.Thistime,though,heisready:hesaturates
hisneuronswithcalciumtodeadentheelectromagneticsurge,andalthoughhis
own brain activity ceases for a moment and he drops bonelessly across the
roofcrest, there is no damage. A few seconds later he is up again. Their best
weapon spent, the soldiers have three seconds to shoot at a dark figure
scrambling with incredible speed along the roofline, then Lamentation Kane
jumpsdownintothehottraceryoftheirfire,sprintsforwardandleapsoffthe
hoodoftheirownvehicleandoverthembeforetheycanchangefiringpositions.
He can’t make it to full speed this time—not enough rest and not enough
refueling—buthecangofastenoughthathehasvanishedintotheHellascity
sewersbytimethestriketeamcanre-mobilize.
TheArchimedesseed,whichhasbeentellinghisenemiesexactlywhereheis,
liesbehind himnow, wrapped in bloodygauze somewhere in the ruinsof the
doctor’s kitchen.KeetaJanuari andher Rationalistswilllearn muchabout the
ability of the Covenant scientists to manufacture imitations of Archimedes
technology, but they will not learn anything more about Kane. Not from the
seed.Heisfreeofitnow.
***
Heemergesalmostafulldaylaterfromapumpingstationontheoutskirtsofone
ofHellasCity’ssuburbs,butnowheisadifferentKaneentirely,aKanenever
beforeseen.AlthoughthedoctorremovedtheArchimedesseed,shehadnotime
tolocate,letaloneimplant,aSpiritdeviceinitsplace:forthefirsttimeinas
longashecanrememberhisthoughtsareentirelyhisown,hisheademptyof
anyothervoices.
Thesolitudeisterrifying.
He makes his way up into the hills west of the great city, hiding in the
daytime,movingcautiouslybynightbecausesomanyoftheruralresidentshave
elaboratesecuritysystemsoranimalswhocansmellKaneevenbeforehecan
smellthem.Atlasthefindsanuntendedproperty.Hecouldbreakineasily,but
insteadextrudesoneofhisfingernailsandhardensittopickthelock.Hewants
to minimize his presence whenever possible—he needs time to think, to plan.
Theceilinghasbeenliftedoffhisworldandheisconfused.
Forsafety’ssake,hespendsthefirsttwodaysexploringhisnewhidingplace
only at night, with the lights out and his pupils dilated so far that even the
sudden appearance of a white piece of paper in front of him is painful. From
whathecantell,thesmall,modernhousebelongstoamantravelingforamonth
on the eastern side of the continent. The owner has been gone only a week,
whichgivesKaneampletimetorestandthinkaboutwhatheisgoingtodonext.
Thefirstthinghehastogetusedtoisthesilenceinhishead.Allhislifesince
hewasa tiny, unknowing child,Spirithas spokentohim. Now hecannotnot
hear her calm, inspiring voice. The godless prattle of Archimedes is silenced,
too.ThereisnothingandnoonetoshareKane’sthoughts.
Hecriesthatfirstnightashecriedinthewhore’sroom,likealostchild.Heis
aghost.Heisnolongerhuman.Hehaslosthisinnerguide,hehasbotchedhis
mission,hehasfailedhisGodandhispeople.Hehaseatenthefleshofhisown
kind,andfornothing.
LamentationKaneisalonewithhisgreatsin.
***
Hemovesonbeforetheownerofthehousereturns.Heknowshecouldkillthe
manandstayformanymoremonths,butitseemstimetodothingsdifferently,
althoughKanecan’tsaypreciselywhy.Hecan’tevensayforcertainwhatthings
heis goingto do. He still owesGod thedeath ofPrime MinisterJanuari, but
somethingseemstohavechangedinsidehimandheisinnohurrytofulfillthat
promise. The silence in his head, at first so frightening, has begun to seem
something more. Holy, perhaps, but certainly different than anything he has
experiencedbefore,asthougheverymomentisawakingdream.
No,itismorelikewakingupfromadream.Butwhatkindofdreamhashe
escaped,agoodoneorabadone?Andwhatwillreplaceit?
Even without Spirit’s prompting, he remembers Christ’s words: You shall
know the truth, and the truth shall set you free. In his new inner silence, the
ancientpromiseseemstohavemanymeanings.DoesKanereallywantthetruth?
Couldhestandtobetrulyfree?
Before he leaves the house he takes the owner’s second-best camping
equipment,thethingsthemanleftbehind.Kanewillliveinthewildareasinthe
highestpartsofthehillsforaslongasseemsright.Hewillthink.Itispossible
thathewillleaveLamentationKanetherebehindhimwhenhecomesoutagain.
HemayleavetheAngelofDeathbehindaswell.
What will remain? And who will such a new sort of creature serve? The
angels,thedevils…orjustitself?
Kanewillbeinterestedtofindout.
MammothsoftheGreatPlains
ELEANORARNASON
EleanorArnasonpublishedher firstnovel,The Sword Smith, in
1978,andfolloweditwithnovelssuchasDaughteroftheBear
KingandTotheResurrectionStation.In1991,shepublishedher
best-knownnovel,oneofthestrongestnovelsofthenineties,the
criticallyacclaimedAWomanoftheIronPeople,acomplexand
substantial novel which won the prestigious James Tipree, Jr.,
Memorial Award. Her short fiction has appeared in Asimov’s
Science Fiction, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction,
Amazing,Orbit,Xanadu,and elsewhere.Hermost recentbooks
areRingofSwordsandTomboftheFathers,andaneponymous
chapbookversionofthenovellathatfollows,whichalsoincluded
an interview with her and a long essay. Her novelette “Stellar
Harvest” was a Hugo finalist in 2000. She lives in St. Paul,
Minnesota.
Hereshetakesussidewaysintimetoanalternatehistorynot
dissimilar to our own—except that mammoths survived in the
American West into historical times before finally being wiped
out by white hunters—for a sequence of embedded narratives
covering the lives of three generations of Native American
women, told by a grandmother to her grandchild on a hot
summer’sday,andrelayedtousacrosstimebythatchildgrown
up,astoryatoncecontemplativeandautumnalintone,butwitha
steely core of anger at the treatment of the Indians and of the
continuing destruction of the environment that you can see in
progressallaroundyouasyoureadthesewords.
EverysummermyparentssentmetostaywithmygrandmotherinFortYates,
North Dakota. I took the rocket train from Minneapolis, waving at Mom and
Dadontheplatformas the trainpulledout,thensettling comfortably intomy
coachseat.Ilovedmyparents,butIalsolovedtotravel,andIwasespecially
fondofthetriptoFortYates.
WeglidednorthalongtheMississippi,gainingspeedasweleftthecityand
enteredthewideringofsuburbsaroundMinneapolisandSt.Paul.Lookingout,I
sawscrubwoodsandweedymeadows,dottedwiththeruinsofMcMansionsand
shoppingmalls.
Thesuburbshadbeenbuiltongoodland,mydadtoldme,replacingfarms,
woodlots,lakesandmarshes.“Aterriblewasteofgoodsoil,whichcouldhave
fedthousandsofpeople;andthelandisnoteasytoreclaim,givenalltheasphalt
andconcretewhichhasbeenpouredoverit.That’swhywe’veleftitalone.Let
timeandnatureworkonitandsoftenitup!”
Dad’semployer,theAgriculturalRecoveryAdministration,mightbeignoring
the suburbs. But there were people in them. Looking out my window, I saw
gardensandtentsamongtheweedsandruinedhouses;andtherewereplatforms
made of scrap wood along the tracks. The rocket trains didn’t stop at the
platforms;butlocaltrainsdid,pickingupproduceformarketsinthecity.Now
andthenI sawan actualperson,hanging clotheson a lineor ridingabicycle
bumpilyalongatrail.
“Fools,”Dadcalledthemandrefusedtobuytheirfoodinthemarket,though
ithadpassedinspection.Ithoughtthepeoplewereromantic:modernpioneers.
Mygrandmotherhadthingstosayaboutpioneers,ofcourse.
NorthofSt.Cloud,theforestbegan,andIwenttothebubblecar,ridingitslift
tothesecondfloorandanewseatwithabetterview.Theforestwassecondor
third growth, a mixture of confers and hardwoods; and there was a terrible
problemwithdeer.Theywereaproblemonfarmsaswell,thoughnotasmuch
asgen-modweedsandbugs.Markethunterscontrolledthedeer,insofarasthey
werecontrolled.Wolvesandpantherswoulddoabetterjob,myfathersaid;but
thefarmersdidn’tlikethem.
Treesflashedby,lightgreenanddarkgreen,browniftheyweredying.The
coniferswereheat-stressedandvulnerabletoparasitesanddisease.Intimethe
forestwouldbeentirelyhardwood.NowandthenIsawagleamofblue:apond
orlakesurroundedbyforest.Sometimesthetraincrossedariver.
AroundnoonwereachedthebedoffossilLakeAgassiz,alsoknownasthe
Red River Valley. The forest ended, and we traveled through farm land,
amazinglyflat.Treesgrewinlinesbetweenthefields:windbreaks.Theywere
necessary,giventhewindthatcameoffthewesternplains.Themaincropswere
potatoesandsugar beets. Thefarmershad tokeepchanging the varietiesthey
grew as the climate changed, getting hotter. “We’re like the Red Queen in
Alice,”Dadsaid.“Runningandrunninginordertoremaininoneplace.”
ThetrainstoppedatFargo-Moorhead,thenturnedduenorth,goingalongthe
RedRivertoGrandForks.Thenitturnedagain.Iwenttothediningcarandate
lunchwhileweracedwestacrosstheNorthDakotaplain.Thiswaswindfarm
country.RowsofgiantwindmillsextendedasfarasIcouldsee.Betweenthem
were fields of sunflowers. In the old days, my dad said, the fields had been
dottedwithpotholelakesandmarshesfullofwildbirds.Mostweregonenow,
thewaterdriedupandthebirdsflown.Inanycase,thetrainmovedsorapidly
thatIcouldn’tbirdwatch,excepttolookathawkssoaringinthedustybluesky,
toofaruptoidentify.
I got off at Minot and stayed the night with my mother’s second cousin
ThelmaHorn.InthemorningThelmaputmeonalocaltrainthatransouthalong
theMissouriRiver.Therewasonlyonepassengercar,hitchedtoanenginethat
hauledboxcarsandtankers.Thetrackwasnotnearlyaswellmaintainedasthe
rocket train’s line. The local rocked slowly along, stopping often. By late
morningwewereontheStandingRockReservation.Therewerebisononthe
hillsides,theonlylivestockthatmadesenseinshortgrassprairie,mydadsaid,
andhawksinthesky.IfIwaslucky,Imightseepronghornsoraflockofwild
turkeys.
BynoonIwasattheFortYatesstation.Mygrandmotherwaitedthere,talland
thinandupright,herhairpulledbackinabunandhernosejuttinglikethenose
on the Crazy Horse monument. At home in Minneapolis, I forgot I was part
Lakota.Here,lookingatmygrandmother,Iremembered.
Shehuggedmeandtookmetoherhouse,anoldwoodframeasspareand
uprightasshewas.Mybedroomwasonthesecondfloor,overlookinganempty
lot.Grandmotherhadturneditintoagarden,fullofnativeplantsthatthrivedin
the dry heat of the western Dakotas. Prairie flowers bloomed among wild
grasses.Abirdfeederfednativesparrows;andarailfencehostedmeadowlarks,
whostoodastallaspossible,showingofftheirbrightyellowchests,andsang—
oh!soloudly!
Whatcouldbebetterthanourbreakfastsinthekitchen,thewindowsopento
letin coolmorning air?Or thehours when Iplayed withthe FortYates kids,
brown-skinned and black-haired? I was darker than they were, and my hair
frizzed,becausemydadcamefromtheIvoryCoast.Buttheywererelatives,and
wegotalongmostofthetime.
Inthe afternoon,when it wastoo hot to play,I talkedwith Grandmother—
eitherinthe kitchenaswe workedon dinner, orin theparlorunder aturning
ceilingfan.ThisiswhenIlearnedthestoryofthemammoths.
***
According to Grandmother, the trouble began with Lewis and Clark. “We’d
heardrumorsaboutwhatwashappeningintheeast,andthevoyageurshadbeen
throughourcountry.ThoseFrenchmengoteverywherelikemice,whichiswhy
somanyOjibwaandsomeDakotaandevenLakotahavenameslikeBoisvert,
Trudel,BellecourtandZephier.ButtheFrenchwereinterestedinbeaver,notour
bison and mammoths. We told them if they behaved, they could have safe
passagetotheRockies.Forthemostpart,theydidbehavethemselves;andfor
themostpart,wekeptourword.
“The thing to remember about the French and the Scots is, they were
businessmen.Youcouldreasonwiththem.ButtheEnglishandAmericanswere
explorersandscientistsandfarmerssearchingfornewland.Peopleliketheseare
drivenbydreams—discovery,investigation,conquest,farmsontheshortgrass
prairiewherethereisn’tenoughwaterfortrees.Noonecouldreasonwiththem.”
Grandmother had a Ph.D. in molecular biology from the University of
Massachusetts.Shewasjoking,notspeakingoutofignoranceordisrespectfor
science.
I’mtellingthestorythewayshetoldittome,sittinginherlivingroominFort
Yates,NorthDakota,whenIcametovisitherontheStandingRockReservation
insummer.Shedidn’ttellthewholestoryatonce,butpiecebypieceoverdays
andweeksandfromsummertosummer.Iheardmostpartsmorethanonce.But
I’mgoingtoretellitasasinglecontinuousstory;andafterthis,I’mnotgoingto
pointoutthejokes.Thereareplenty.Grandmotherusedtosay,“Theonlyway
Indianssurviveisthroughpatienceandastrongsenseofhumor.Whatajokethe
GreatSpiritplayedonus,whenitsentEuropeanshere!”
Anyway, the trouble began that morning in 1805, when Meriwether Lewis
became the first white man of English descent to see a mammoth since
mammothsdiedoutinEngland.Theanimalinquestionwasanadultmale,sixty
years old or so, older than Meriwether Lewis would ever get to be. It was
standing on the bank of the Missouri River drinking water, while its tusks—
magnificenttenfootlongspirals—shoneintheearlylight.Lewisknewwhathe
wasseeing.Hisneighbor,PresidentThomasJefferson,hadtoldhimtokeepa
lookoutformammoths,whichwhitemenintheeastknewfromfossils.
TheanimalLewiswaslookingatwasnotMammuthuscolumbii,whichhad
left fossils in the east. Instead this was Mammuthus missourii, a smaller
descendent. An adult male Columbian mammoth could stand 13 feet tall and
weigh10tons.ThefellowdrinkingwaterfromtheMissouristood10feettallat
mostandweighed5or6tons.
Didheactuallyhavetusksaslongashewastall?Yes,accordingtoLewisand
laterscientistswhostudiedMammuthusmissourii.Itwas,mygrandmothersaid,
aclassiccaseofsexualselection.
“Inorderforafemaletoachievereproductivesuccess,shehastobehealthy
andnottoounlucky.Thisisnottrueforeveryspecies,butitistrueofmany.In
orderforamaletobreed,hehastoimpressfemalesandothermales.Humans
did this with paint, feathers and beads. Look at the paintings by people like
George Catlin! Indian men were always gaudier than Indian women. That’s
because they were trying to proclaim their reproductive fitness. An old-time
chiefinawarbonnetwasexactlylikeaturkeycock,displayinginthespring.”
Don’tthinkGrandmotherwasspeakingdisrespectfullyofourmaleancestors.
Thewildturkeywasherfavoritebird;andshefeltthatlittleonEarthequaledthe
sightofacockspreadinghisshiningbronzetailandmakinganoisethatsounds
like“Hubba-hubba.”
Thetusksofmammothfemalesstopgrowingwhentheanimalsare25or30,
butmaletuskskeepgrowing,spiralingoutandupuntil—insomecases—they
crosseachother.
“Allshow,ofcourse,”mygrandmothersaid.“Butwhatashow!”
Lewisdidexactlywhatyou’dexpectofa19thcenturyexplorerandscientist.
Hepickedupagunandshotthemammoth.Itwasagoodshotorpossiblylucky.
Theballwentintotheoldbull’sbright,browneye.Theoldfellowscreamedin
pain and fury, then fell down dead. That was the beginning of the end, my
grandmothersaid.
Theexpeditionbutcheredtheanimal,keepingthetusksandskin,whichwas
covered with short, thick, curly fur—most likely light brown; though some
mammothsaretanoryellow,andafewarewhite.Theyhadmammothsteaksfor
dinner and breakfast, then went on, dragging their boats upriver. Most of the
meatwasleftbehindtobeeatenbywolvesandgrizzlies.Onetuskmadeitback
easttodelightPresidentJefferson.Theotherwasabandonedastoodamnheavy;
theskinwaslostwhenaboatoverturned.
“Itwasanepicjourney,”mygrandmothersaid.“Andtheyfoundmanythings
whichIndianpeoplecan’tremembermisplacing,suchastheRockyMountains.I
thinkyoucouldsaythattheirmostfamousdiscovery,evenmorefamousthanthe
Rockies,waslivingmammoths.”
Decades after Lewis and Clark returned to the United States, white people
wanderedaroundthewest,lookingformastodons,giantgroundslothsandsaber-
toothcats.Butallthoseanimalsweregone.Onlythemammothshadsurvived
intomoderntimes.
There are white scientists who say Indians killed the ice age megafauna.
Grandmother didn’t believe this. “If we were so good at killing, why did so
manylargeanimalssurvive?Moose,muskoxen,elk,caribou,bison,mountain
lions,fivekindsofbear.Theturkey,forheaven’ssake!They’rebig;theycan’t
really fly; and though I love them, no one who has seen a turkey try to go
throughabarbedwirefencecanclaimtheyareespeciallyadaptable.
“Why did horses and camels die out in the New World, when other large
animals—moose,mammoth,muskoxandbison—survived?Arewetobelieve
that our ancestors preferred eating horse and camel to eating bison? Hardly
likely!”
Mostlikely,theanimalsthatdiedoutwerekilledbychangesintheclimate,
mygrandmothersaid.Everythinggotdrierandhotteraftertheglaciersretreated.
Themammothsteppewasreplacedbyshortgrassprairie.Thiswasnoproblem
forthebison,butmammoths—likeelephants—needlotsofmoisture.
“Inthespringwhenthegrasswasgreenandwet,they’dmoveoutontothe
plains.Ourancestorswouldseethemingroupsoftenortwenty,grazingamong
thedark-brownbison.Byearlysummer,theyretreatedtotherivers,especially
theMissouri,andfedonshrubsinthebottomlands.Waterwasalwaysavailable.
Thinkwhatitmusthavebeenliketofloatdownriverinapirogueoraround
bison-hide boat like the ones made by Mandans and Hidatsa! There the
mammoths would be, calves and matrons, bathing in the shallows, squirting
wateroneachother.
“Our ancestors always said, be careful of the mammoths when they’re by
rivers.Wolves,thebigonescalledbisonwolves,andgrizzlybears,whichused
tobeaplainsanimaltillwhitepeopledrovethemintothemountains,lurkedin
thebottomlands.Theycouldn’tharmahealthyadult,butpreyedoncalves,the
old,theinjured.Becauseofthis,themammothswereuneasyclosetowater.”
IfIclosemyeyesnow,Icanseeherlivingroom.Theskyisbigeverywhere
intheDakotas,butwestoftheMissouri,itgetsevenbigger;andsunlightcomes
downthroughthedryairlikealance.InGrandmother’shouse,itcamethrough
white gauze curtains that fluttered in the wind and danced in spots on her
linoleum floor. The furniture in the room was straight and spare, like
Grandmotherandherhouse:akitchentable,fourkitchenchairsandarocker,all
oldandscratched,butsolidwoodthatGrandmotherkeptpolished.Onthefloor,
along with dancing spots of sunlight, was a genuine oriental rug, the edges
frayed and the pile worn flat. Grandmother bought it in an antique store in
Minneapolis. She liked the faded colors and the pattern, geometric like our
Lakotapatterns.
“The Chinese and Indians make carpets like gardens; but people from dry,
wide-opencountries—thepeopleinCentralAsiaandhere—likegeometry.”
Hermosttreasuredbelongingwasamammothtuskaboutthreefeetlong.The
ivorywashoney-coloredandcarvedwithhorsemenchasingbison.Shehelditon
herlapwhileshetoldmestories,strokingthetusk’sgentlecurveandtheincised
lines.
“Thereweretwoyoungmen,huntersinthedaysbeforehorsesandguns;and
theywere out onthe prairie, lookingfor something tokill. All they had were
spears with stone tips and a dog dragging a travois. If you think it was easy
huntingthiswayinaworldfullofbison,mammoths,wolvesandgrizzlies,then
youhaven’tgivenseriousconsiderationtothequestion.
“Theyoungmenthoughttheymightbeabletosneakuponabisondisguised
aswolves,whichthebisondon’tusuallyfear,orfindamammothweakenedby
drought.Itwasmidsummerandsodrythatmanystreamsandsmallriverswere
empty.
“Buttheyhadnoluck.Exhaustedanddiscouraged,theymadecamp,tyingthe
dogsecurely,sinceitmightbecomefoodsoon,iftheydidn’tfindanythingelse.
Theyatethelastoftheirpemmicananddrankwaterdugfromariverbed,then
slept.
“Whentheywoke,themoonwasupandfull.Twomaidensinwhitedresses
stoodattheedgeoftheircamp.Neverhadtheyseengirlssolovely.Oneman
wascleverenoughtorecognizespiritswhenhesawthem;hegreetedthewomen
respectfully.Buttheothermanwasstupidandrude.Gettingup,hetriedtograb
oneofthewomen.Sheturnedandwalkedquicklyacrossthemoonlitprairie.He
followed.Whentheywerealmostoutofsight,thewomanturnedintoawhite
mammoth,herfurshininglikesnowinthemoonlight.Butthisdidn’tmakethe
rudemanpause.Hefollowedthemammothtillbothofthemweregone.
“Thesecondwomansaid,‘Thatismysister,WhiteMammothCalfWoman.
Yourcompanionwillfollowhertillhe’soutofthisworldentirely.Butyouhave
greetedmewithrespect,soI’llteachyouthewaytohuntbisonandhowtouse
every part of the animal, so your people won’t be hungry in the future.
Remember,though,nottohuntthemammoths,sinceyourcompanionhasmade
them angry. If you hunt them in spite of my warning, you’ll make the bison
angryaswell;andtheyandthemammothswillleave.’
“Thenshetaughthimeverythingaboutbison.Hethankedhergratefully;and
she turned to go. ‘What is your name?’ the polite man asked. In answer, she
turnedintoasnow-whitebisoncalfandranoffacrosstheplain.
“After that,” my grandmother said, “our ancestors hunted bison, but not
mammoths. There were practical reasons for this decision. Can you imagine
tryingtoattackafull-sizedmammothonfootwithnoweaponexceptaspear?
Thecalveswerelessformidable,buttheirmothersandauntsprotectedthem;and
themalesformedgroupsoftheirown.
“Theonlytrulyvulnerablemammothswerejuvenilemales,afterthey’dbeen
driven from the maternal herd, while they were wandering around alone,
confusedandignorant.Peopledidhuntthemsometimes,butthatdidn’tleadto
extinction.
“Maybe, using fire and stampeding, we could have killed mammoth herds.
Butwedidn’t,becauseWhiteBisonCalfWomanhadwarnedus.”
ThenGrandmothertoldanotherstory.“Therewasamanwhowenthuntingin
a hard time, a drought. He came on a huge bull mammoth with magnificent
tusks.Theanimalhadafootthatwasbrokenordislocated.
“‘Brothermammoth,’themansaid.‘Myfamilyisstarving.Willyougiveyour
fleshtome?’
“Themammothconsidered,wavinghistrunkaroundandsmellingthedusty
air. ‘All right,’ he said finally. ‘But I want to keep my tusks. Call me vain or
sentimental,ifyoulike.Theymeanalottome;andIwantthemtostaywhere
I’velived.Takeeverythingelse—myflesh,myskin,evenmybones—butleave
mytuskshere.’
“Themanagreed.Themammothlethimstrikeakillingblow.
“When the mammoth was dead, the man brought his wife to butcher the
carcass.‘Wecan’tleavethetuskshere,’thewomansaid.‘Lookathowhugethey
are,howperfectlycurved.’
“‘Ipromised,’saidtheman.Butthewomanwouldn’tlisten.Shechoppedthe
tusksoutofthemammoth’sskull.Theytookeverythinghome:theflesh,theskin
coveredwithtawnycurlinghair,thetusks.
“After that, the woman had trouble sleeping. The mammoth came to her,
wearinghisfleshandskin,butwithtwobloodywoundswherehistusksshould
have been. ‘What have you done?’ he asked. ‘Why have you stolen the only
thingsIaskedtokeep?’Gradually,lackofsleepworethewomandown.Finally,
shedied.Soonafterthat,herhusbandvisitedanothervillageandsawamaiden
ofremarkablebeauty.‘What willyoutake forher?’ heasked thegirl’sfather,
whowasanoldman,stillhandsomeandimposing,exceptforhismissingteeth.
“‘Yourfamousmammothtusks,’theoldmansaid.
“Thewarriorwasreluctant,buthehadneverseenawomanlikethisone;and
she seemed more than willing to go with him. Grudgingly, he agreed to the
bargain,wenthomeandreturnedwiththemammothtusks.Theoldmantookthe
splendidobjectsandcaressedthem.‘Iwillusethemtoframemydoor,’hesaid.
This was a Mandan or Hidatsa village, as I forgot to mention. Our neighbors
alongtheMissourioftentooktusksfromdrownedmammothsandusedthemas
framesforthedoorsoftheirloganddirthouses.Wedidn’t,ofcourse,sincewe
livedintipisinthosedays.
“Thewarriorandhisnewwifetookoffacrosstheplain.Attheirfirstcamp,
thewarriorsaid,‘Iwanttohavesexwithyou.’He’dbeenthinkingaboutnothing
elsefordays.
“‘Youpeople!’saidthemaiden.‘Youneverlearn!’Rising,sheturnedintoa
white mammoth. Her fur shone like snow in the moonlight, as did her small
femaletusks.‘Youaskedforhelpfrommykinsman,thentooktheonlythingshe
wantedtokeep,thoughhewaswillingtogiveyoueverythingelse,evenhislife.
Nowhehashistusksback.Youwillgetnothingmorefromme.’Sheturnedand
movedrapidlyovertheprairie.”
“If we aren’t supposed to kill mammoths and take their tusks, how do you
havethatoneonyourlap?”IaskedwhenIwastenandfullofquestions,whichI
hadlearnedtoaskinanexperimentalschoolinMinneapolis.
“Thepointofthestory,”saidGrandmother,“istoaskpermission,listentothe
answer with respect and keep the promises you make. The tusk on my lap is
fromajuvenile.Oneofourancestorsmayhavekilleditbeforeitjoinedamale
group; if it was female, then it died of injury or drought, and our ancestor
scavengedthetusks.
“Ifitwasayoungcow,thenourancestormayhavemadeamistakebycarving
a hunting scene on the tusk. But I don’t know any stories about the ancestor;
mostlikelyhedidn’tcometoharm,ashewouldhave,ifhe’ddonesomething
seriouslywrong.”Itwashardtotellwithgrandmother,becauseofherirony,if
she meant a statement like this. On the one hand, she was a scientist and a
woman who believed that much harm happened in the world and went
unpunished.Ontheotherhand,shetooktheoldstoriesseriously.“Thereismore
thanonewaytoorganizeknowledge;andmorethanonewaytoformulatetruth;
andwithtimeandpatience,persistenceandluck,justicecanprevail.”
There was a story about the fate of Meriwether Lewis, which Grandmother
toldme.Hecamebackfromhisjourneyafamousman,whobecamegovernorof
theMissouriTerritory;butdespairovertookhim.Hediedofsuicideattheageof
35,alone whiletravelingalong theNatchez Trace.On ascrap ofpaper inhis
pocket were his last words. ‘Mammoths,’ he wrote in an agitated scrawl.
‘Indians.’Thatwasall,though—beingLewis—hemisspelledboth‘mammoth’
and‘Indian.’
“Whatdoesthemessagemean?”Iasked.
“Whocansay?”mygrandmotherreplied.“Maybeitwasawarningofsome
kind.‘TreatmammothsasIhavedone,andyouwillendlikeme.’Ormaybehe
wasdrunk.Hehadaproblemwithalcoholandopium.Inanycase,noonepaid
attention. More white people came up the Missouri—scientists, explorers,
traders,hunters,Englishnoblemen,Russianprinces.Theyallshotmammoths;or
soit seemedto our ancestors, who watched with horror.We triedto warnthe
Europeans, but they didn’t listen. Maybe they didn’t care. At some point, we
realized they had an idea of the way our country ought to be: full of white
farmers on farms like the ones in Europe, though our land is nothing like
EnglandorFrance.Themammothswouldbegoneandthebisonandus.Ifyou
look at the paintings done along the Missouri in the 19th century, it always
seemstobesunset.Thesmallmammothherds,thevastbisonherds,theIndians
arealwaysheadingwestintothesunset,vanishingfromtheplains.
“Some of the tusks went to hang on walls in England and Moscow. Others
went to museums in the east, along with entire skeletons and skins. The
AmericanMuseumofNaturalHistoryinNewYorkhasastuffedherdintheir
HallofMammoths.I’veseenit.Yououghttogosomeday.
“Asthecenturywenton,theEuropeansbegantotakeanimalsalive.Inalmost
every case, these were calves whose mothers had been shot. Mammoth Bill
CodyhadtwoinhisWildWestshow.SittingBullusedtovisitwiththem,during
theyearthegreatLakotaspentwiththeshow.Peoplesayhetalkedwiththem,
whiletheycurledtheirtrunksaroundhisarmsandsearchedinhisclothingfor
hiddenfood.Wedon’tknowwhattheytoldhim.Hecameawaylookingsadand
grim.
“Bytheendofthe19thcentury,theonlymammothsleftwereincircusesand
zoos, except for a small herd in the Glacier Park area. At most, four hundred
animals were left. The ones in circuses were calves. The ones in zoos were a
mixtureofoldandyoung,thoughallhadgrownupincaptivity.Theirculture—
whichtheyusedtolearnfromelders,asdidwe—wasgone,exceptintheGlacier
Parkherd,whichstillpreservedsomeofitsancestralwisdom.Inthis,theGlacier
mammothswerelikeourneighborstheBlackfoot.LouisW.Hill,thesonofthe
EmpireBuilder,encouragedtheBlackfoottomaintaintheiroldways,inorderto
present tourists coming out on the Great Northern Railroad with an authentic
westernexperience.HistorianshavesaidmanybadthingsabouttheHillfamily,
but they protected the mammoths and the Blackfoot from the rest of white
civilization.
“WhiteBison CalfWoman’s warningswere provedtrue. Asthe mammoths
disappeared,so didthe far morenumerous bison.By century end,only a few
hundred of them remained, though they had roamed the west in herds of
millions;andweallknowwhathappenedtoIndians.BecauseIdon’tlikebeing
angry, I am not going to recount that story. In any case, I’m talking about
mammoths.
“Atthispoint,thestoryturnstomyowngrandmother,whowasyourgreat-
great-grandmother. Her first name was Rosa, and her real last name was Red
Mammoth,butshewasadoptedbymissionarieswhenshewasveryyoungand
took their name, which was Stevens. They sent her east to school, and she
studiedveterinarymedicine,becomingthefirstwomantoreceiveaDVMfrom
her college. Although Rosa had little experience with Indian culture, she had
gooddreams.Inoneoftheseamammothcametoher,awhitefemale.
“‘Iwantyoutodevoteyourlifetomammothcare,’theanimalsaid.‘Wehave
reachedthepointwhereanythingcouldkillus:adiseasegottenfromdomestic
animals,ailmentscausedbyinbreeding,orachangeofheartamongwhitemen.
WhatifLouisW.Hilldecidesthereisabetterwaytopromotehisrailroad?In
addition,mostofusnolongerknowhowtobehave.’
“‘Icertainlywanttoworkwithlargeanimals,’Rosasaid.‘ButIwasthinking
ofcattleandhorses,notmammoths.Iknownothingaboutthem.’
“‘Youcanlearn,’themammothsaid.‘Whatyoudon’tfindoutfromtheherd
inGlaciercanbediscoveredbystudyingelephants,whoareourclosestrelatives.
Ifwearenotsaved,thebisonwilldieaswell;andIdon’tholdoutalotofhope
forIndians.Thesewhitepeoplearecrazy.There’snowaytofarmthehighplains
ortoraiseEuropeancattleonthem.Thiscountryistoodryandcold.Yes,the
white people can come here and ruin everything—overgraze the prairie, drain
theriversorfillthemwithpoison,mineandlogthesacred BlackHills.Once
they have finished, they will have to leave or live like scavengers in the
wreckagetheyhavemade.Theonlywaytomakealivinghereisthroughbison
andus.’Asyoumightbeabletotell,Granddaughter,themammothwasangry.
Like their relatives the elephants, mammoths can feel grief and hold serious
grudges.
“Rosa was no fool. It was pretty obvious this was no ordinary dream. The
white mammoth was some kind of spirit. She agreed to the animal’s request.
BecauseshewasLakotaandhadacollegedegree,shewasabletogetajobat
GlacierPark.Thiswasin1911,whentheparkhadjustopenedandthefamous
touristslodgeswerenotyetbuilt.
“ShespentthreeyearsatGlacier.Thejobprovedfrustrating.Theherdwasn’t
growing.Theanimalsrangedtoofar,maybeinresponsetotourists,whowanted
nothingmorethantophotographthesespectacularandshyanimals.Onceoutof
thepark,ranchersshotthem,claimingthatthemammothsstampededcattle.In
thepark,theywereoccasionallyshotbypoachersandevenbyparkrangers,if
they went into musth, which is a reproductive frenzy, more common among
malesthanfemales.
“Theanimalswerelessfertilethanelephants.Rosacouldn’ttellifthiswasa
natural difference between the two species; or if it was due to inbreeding or
stress.Thefactthatmammothsseizedcameraswhenevertheywereable,flung
themtothegroundandstampedonthem,suggestedthatpartoftheproblemwas
stress.Shewasunabletoconvincetheparkadministrationtooutlawcameras.
“Finally,discouragedandthinkingofleavingherjob,shehadanotherdream.
Awomanwearingawhitedeerskindresscametoher.Thewomanwasmiddle
agedandobviouslyIndian,herskindark,herhairstraightandblack.Herdress
hadwhitebeadworkovertheshoulders.Shehadonwhitemoccasins,decorated
likeherdresswithwhitebeadwork.Longearringsmadeofivoryhungfromher
ears.‘Thisisn’tworking,’shetoldRosa.
“‘Iknow,’Rosareplied.
“‘We need a new plan,’ the woman continued. ‘Do you know about the
mammothswhichhavebeenfoundfrozeniniceineasternRussia?’
“‘Yes.’
“‘Learneverythingyoucanaboutthem.Theydiedthousandsofyearsago,but
havebeenpreservedwellenoughsofleshandskinandhairremains.Maybeit
willbepossible torevive themsomeday.Whitemen areingenious,especially
when it comes to doing things that are unnatural.’ The woman paused. Rosa
blinked,andthewomanbecameamammothwithsnow-whitefurandice-blue
eyes.Themammothwavedhertrunkbackandforthintheairlikeaconductor
directinganorchestra.Herpaleeyesseemedtolookintothefardistance.The
dreamended.”
Mygrandmothergotupandwenttothebathroom,thentookicedteaoutof
herrefrigerator.Ithadlemonjuicealreadyinit,alongwithsugarandmintfrom
hergarden.Shepouredusbothglassesandsatdownagaininherrocker.The
tuskwasbackhangingonherwall,alongwithothermementoswhichshehad
tacked up: pictures of relatives, including my mom and dad, a bunch of
postcards of places in the Black Hills. Not Mount Rushmore, but Spearfish
CanyonandtheNeedlesRoadandCrazyHorsemonument.Lastly,therewasa
necklace of silver beads hanging from a nail. A tiny, beautifully carved
mammothhungfromthenecklace,madeofpipestonewithturquoiseeyes.
Wesippedthetea.Grandmotherrocked.
“Whathappenednext?”Iasked.
“ToRosa?ShewenttoRussia,takingtheeasternrouteviaChinasinceWorld
War I had begun. Louis W. Hill funded her trip. He was worried about the
Glacier Park mammoths, too. In his own strange way—the way of an
entrepreneur, who must possess what he loves and make money from it, if
possible—helovedhisBlackfootandtheirmammoths.
“RosaendedinSiberiainatownwithanameIcan’tremembernow,though
it’sonthetipofmytongue.Maybeit’llcometome.Oldage,Emma!Itcomesto
allofus,andevengenetechcan’trepairallthedamage!Thehouseswerebuilt
oflogs,andthestreetsweredirt.ItwaslikebeingintheWildWest,shetoldme,
except this was the wild east. The people were drunk Russians and brown-
skinnednatives,wholookedlikeIndiansorInuit.Itwaseasytoseewherewe
Indianshadcomefrom,Rosatoldme.Thenativepeopledrankalso.It’sacurse
thatgoesaroundtheNorthPoleandamongallnativepeoples.Pineforestrose
aroundthetown.Thetreeswerehugeanddarkandshutoutthesky.Rosasaid
that’swhatshemissedmostinSiberia,thesky.Ourkinfolk,theDakota,were
drivenoutofpineforestbytheOjibwa,whowerearmedwithEuropeanguns.
TheDakotaarestillangryaboutthis.Rosasaid,inheropinionthepineforest
wasnoloss;thoughthesugarmaplesandwildricelakesmightbesomethingto
mourn.
“ShewasinSiberiathroughmostofthewar,studyingwithaRussianscientist
whowasanexpertonfrozenmammoths.Hewasayoungman,buthe’dlosttoes
to frostbite and walked with a limp and a cane, so the Russian army wasn’t
interested in him. A small fellow, Rosa told me, no taller than she was, wiry,
withyellowhairandgreeneyes slantedabovecheekbonesthatlookedIndian.
SergeiIvanoff.
“ThisisthehardestpartofRosa’sstorytotell,”mygrandmothersaid.“I’ve
neverbeentoSiberia,andRosakeptherowncounselaboutmuchthathappened
there.Iimaginetheminalogcabin,lampsglowinginthemidwinterdarkness,
studyingthemammothtissuesthatthey’dfound.Sergeihadbroughtequipment
with him from the west, so they could stain the tissue and examine it under
microscopes.
“AsfarassheandSergeicoulddetermine,giventheprimitivescienceofthe
time, all the tissue they examined had been damaged—most likely by the
processoffreezing,thenthawing,thenfreezingagain.Iceisaremarkablesolid,
less dense than its liquid form. As the water in the mammoth cells froze, it
expanded.Thecells’wallsruptured;thedelicatenaturalmachinerywithinwas
brokenpastanyrepairtheycouldimagine.
“Forthemostpart,theywereabletoignorethewar.Travelwasinterrupted,
but neither of them was planning to travel. Sergei wanted more scientific
supplies,buthewastoopoortoorderthem.RosasentletterstoLouisW.Hill,
asking for more money. They weren’t answered. She didn’t know if Hill had
received them. In 1917 the war led to the famous Russian Revolution. This
happened in the far west, in places like St. Petersburg. Only rumors reached
themintheircabin.Thelocaltrappersandhunterssaid,TsarNicholashaddied
andbeenreplacedwithanewtsarnamedLenin-and-Trotsky.
“Oneeveningsoldiersarrivedonhorses.Theyheardthemcoming,shouting
toeachother.
“Sergeisaid,‘Takeournotesandhide.I’lldealwiththis.’
“Herarmsfullofpaper,Rosadartedbehindtheircabin.Itwaswinter,snow
fallingthickly.Amammothcarcass,thousandsofyearsold,layinashack.Rosa
climbed in among the ancient bones and skin. She crouched down, shivering.
Didvoicesspeak,muffledbythesnow?Shewasn’tcertain.Atlastthesilence
wasbrokenbytwoloud,sharpnoiseslikedoorsslamming.
“‘Aaay,’Rosawhispered.Inhermindsheprayedtoherfosterfamily’sdeity,
the God of Episcopalians. The door to the shack opened. A man spoke in a
languageshedidn’tunderstand:Russian.
“SheandSergeihadalwaysconversedinGerman,thelanguageofscience,or
French,thelanguageofcivilization.
“Insteadof entering, the man went elsewhere, leaving theshack door open.
An icy wind blew in. Rosa cowered in the middle of the mammoth. A vision
cametoher:shewasinahut.Thewallsweremadeofmammothjaws.Theroof
beamsweretusks.Adungfireburnedonthedirtfloor.Acrossthefirefromher
wasanancientwoman,herlonghairgray,herdresssmoke-darkenedandgreasy.
“‘Stayhereawhile,’thewomansaid.‘Tillthesoldiersaregone.’
“‘Whoarethey?’Rosaasked.
“‘RedGuardsorWhiteGuards,whatdoesitmatter?Theyareignorantand
desperate. Tsar Nicholas is dead, and his son will never rule. Tsar Lenin-and-
Trotskywillnotachievethewonderfulthingshe—theydreamof.Thingsmust
getworsebeforetheygetbetter.’
“Rosadidn’tliketohearthis,butsheremainedinthemammothhut,which
seemedwarmerthanhershack.Theoldwomanfeddrieddungintothefire.Her
eyesweremilkyblue.Blind,maybe.Rosacouldn’ttell.
“Finally the old woman said, ‘You’ll freeze to death if you stay here. The
soldiershavegone.Getupandgobacktothecabin.’
“Obedient, Rosa stood and walked to the hut door. A mammoth skin hung
over it. As Rosa raised her hand to push the skin aside, the woman said,
‘Rememberonething.’
“‘Yes?’
“‘Thecoldhasdoneamarvelousjobofpreservingthebodiesofmykin.But
—liketherevolutionthatisnowbeginningtofail—thejobhasnotbeengood
enough.Whatcanmakeitbetter,Rosa?Don’tgiveup!Persist!Andthink!’
“Rosaturnedtoaskformoreinformation,buttheoldwomanwasgone.Fora
moment,shestaredattheemptyhut.Thenthedungfirevanished;andshefound
herselfstanding,numbwithcold,attheentrancetothemammothshack.Snow
fellaroundher,kissinghercheeks.Shecouldn’tfeelherhands.Herfeetwere
barelyabletomove.Stumbling,shecrossedthespacetothecabin’sbackdoor.
“Insidewaschaos:spilledbooks,overturnedfurniture.Sergeilayonthefloor
in a pool of blood. The cabin stove was still lit, thank God. Red fire shone
throughthecracksarounditsdoor,andthecabinfeltwarm.ShekneltbySergei.
Bloodcoveredhalfhisface,comingfromawoundinhisforehead.Therewas
morebloodonhiscarefullylaundered,whiteshirt.Hispince-nezglasseslayon
thefloorbesidehim,onelensshattered.
“‘Aaay,Sergei,’shemoaned.
“Agreeneyeopened.‘Rosa,’hewhispered.‘Theydidn’tfindyou.’
“‘No,’shereplied,herheartfullofjoy.
“Examininghim,shediscoveredhe’dbeen shot twice.Onebullethadgone
throughhisshoulder.Theotherhadgrazedhishead.Eagerforloot,thesoldiers
hadnotgivenhimacloselookafterhefell.Instead,they’dgatheredthejarthat
heldtheirlittlestoreofmoney;Sergei’slovelyinstruments,madeofbrassand
steel;herjewelryandmostoftheirwarmclothes.Halftheirbookshadgoneinto
thestovetowarmthesoldierswhiletheysearchedthecabin.
“Oncehewasbandaged,Sergeisaid,‘Thisistheend.We’regoingtoChina.
Doyouhaveournotes?’
“Rosa hurried back to the mammoth shack and found them, fallen among
huge bones and shreds of hairy skin. Oddly enough, they smelled of smoke,
thoughtherehadn’tbeenafireintheshack.Shecarriedthepapersbacktothe
cabin. She and Sergei packed what remained of their belongings, put on their
skisandsetoutforthenearesttown.
“TheirjourneytoBeijingwaslongandarduous.Inspiteofmanydifficulties
theymadeitsafely.InBeijingtheyparted,RosagoinghometoAmerica,while
Sergei remained to study Chinese fossils. It was he, along with Teilard de
Chardin,whodiscoveredtheremainsofPekingManandhewhocarriedthose
remarkablerelictstosafetywhentheJapaneseinvadedChina.
“Rosaneversawhimagain,thoughshecarriedamementobackwithher.Do
youknowwhatitwas,Emma?”
“No.”
“Think!”
IfrownedandtriedofthinkofsomethingRussian.“Asamovar?”
Grandmotherlaughed.“Itwasababy.BythetimeRosareturnedtoAmerica,
sheknewshewaspregnant,thoughitdidn’tshowwhenshereportedtoHill.A
goodthing,sincehewasafiercemoralist.
“Doyouknowwhothebabywas,Emma?”
Icouldseethequestionwasseriousandthoughthard.“Yourmother?”
“Yes.ThefatherwasSergei.Yougetyourgreeneyesfromhimandtheway
theyslantoveryourcheekbones.Ifyouarelucky,youwillinheritsomeofhis
intelligenceandcommitmenttowork.”
“Oh.”Grandmotherhadonlytwograndfathers,whichmadeherunusual.Most
peopleIknewhadthreeorfour.OnehadcomefromtheRosebudReservation.
I’d seen several pictures of him: a tall young man, his black hair cut short,
lookingstiffandawkwardinhiswhiteclothing.Insomeofthepictures,hewas
nexttohisparents,whodressedintheoldIndianway,blanketsaroundtheirbent
shoulders.Inotherpictureshewaswithhisprettyyoungwife,whowasmixed
raceandhad light-colored eyes,strikingeven in anold photograph. Theyhad
twochildrenwholived,Grandmothertoldme.
Ihadseenasinglepictureofmygrandmother’sothergrandfather:anoldman
withwhitehairandatrim,whitebeard.
“He’soldinthephoto,”Isaid.
“Sergei? Yes. It was taken years later, when he won the Nobel Prize for
Medicine.Rosaclippeditoutofamagazine.”
“Heneverevenwrote?”Iasked.
Grandmotherpausedalongwhile.“Ineverknewforcertain,”shesaidatlast.
“Rosakeptherowncounsel.
“OnceshewasbackinMontana,RosareportedtoLouisW.Hill.Bythistime,
hewasseriouslyworried.AdiseasehadkilledallthemammothsintheRingling
BrothersCircus.Neitherthecircusveterinarystaffnotthescientistsbroughtin
hadbeenabletoidentifythedisease,thoughitwassuspectedthatitcamefrom
thecircuselephants;severalIndianelephantsbecameillatthesametime,and
onedied.Nowweknowitwasaherpesvirus,whichinfectsAfricanelephants.
It’s harmless to them, but can cause a serious illness in Indian elephants. We
haveavaccinenow;beforethatwasdeveloped,thediseasewas100%fatalto
mammoths.
“Thus far, Hill told my grandmother, this was an isolated incident.
Nonetheless,hehadtakenprecautions.Circustrainswerenotallowedtousethe
section of Northern Pacific’s high line which went through Glacier. The park
lodgeshadbeeninstructedtohirenoonewhoadmittedtoacircuspast;andlaw
officers in nearby towns were asked to report any carnivals to the park
administrations.ThiswasnotenoughtokeepHillhappy.Hedugintohispocket
andpersonallypaidforanelitegroupofspeciallytrainedmammothwranglers,
whowatchedtheanimalsandmadesurethattouristssawthemfromadistance.
Ofcourse,therewerestoriesaboutthewranglersinnewspapersandmagazines;
Hillhadageniusformarketing.TherewasevenamoviethatstarredTomMix
as an outlaw trying to make an honest life as a wrangler. Sagebrush and
Mammoths.Ithinkthat’stherightname.
“Still, Hill remained concerned. What if some miserable little carnival
managedtoeludehisprecautionsandgetclosetothepark?Aninfectedelephant
mightgetlooseandwanderintothepark,oraroamingmammothmightfindthe
circus.Whatifaninfectedtouristmanagedtogetclosetoamammoth?Hecould
hardlypreventtouristsfromcomingtoGlacier;andtherewasnowaytocheck
their backgrounds. The disease might be like rabies, which can infect many
kinds of mammals. It might leap from elephants to elk or prairie dogs. Who
couldsay?
“My grandmother thought Hill was worrying too much. More serious, it
seemed to her, was the herd’s reproductive rate and the danger of inbreeding.
Like elephants, mammoths had long gestation periods. They produced single
children,andthechildrenhadlongchildhoods.ThismeantthattheGlacierherd
was increasing very slowly; and fear of infection meant that they could not
introducegeneticvarietybybringinginnewanimals.Butshesaidnothingabout
this.Instead,shelistened—silentandimpassive—whileHillpacedupanddown
his private railway car, explaining his concerns. Electric lanterns shone on
polishedmahogany,darkvelvet,orientalcarpetsandgildedpictureframes.The
artwithintheframeswasminor.UnlikeJ.P.Morgan,Hillwasnotaconnoisseur.
“Hewasstern-lookingman,withatrim-whitebeard.Mygrandmothersaidthe
pictureofSergeiwhenhereceivedtheNovelPrizeremindedherofHillalittle.
He wore a buttoned vest, even in Glacier; though here in the west he wore
jodhpursandhighboots,insteadofsuitpantsandshoes.Abatteredwesternhat
layonachair,alongwithadrover’scoat.Hisglassesweregold-rimmedpince-
nez.
“Hestoppedfinallyandaskedhertoreportonhertrip.Shedid,thoughmuch
wasleftout.
“‘Whatconclusionshaveyoucometo?’heasked.‘Haveyoulearnedanything
useful,orhaveIwastedmymoney?’
“Rosehadspentherjourneyhomethinking.‘Ibelievethesecretofsavingthe
mammothsisrefrigeration.’
“Hillfrowned.‘Explainyourself,MissStevens!’
“Rosa took a deep breath and continued. ‘With luck, you may be able to
maintaintheherdinGlacier.Butitissmall;thetotalpopulationofmammoths
aliveonEarthissmall;andwenowknowthatadiseasefataltothemammoths
exists.Weneedasecondplan,apositiontowhichwecanfallback,iftheworst
happens.’
“‘Yes?’
“‘Iwouldlikeyoutoconsidertwothings,sir.Firstistheremarkablehistoryof
thepreviouscentury.Considerhowmuchwasdiscovered,howmanyadvances
in human knowledge were made! Pasteur and Edison are only two of the
geniuses who have transformed the world as we know it. Surely this present
centurywillprovideuswithcomparablediscoveriesandadvances.’
“Hillnoddedabruptly.‘Goon.’
“‘Second,considerhowwellpreservedtheSiberianmammothsare—andfor
how long—in spite of imperfect conditions. It is my belief that freezing and
thawinghavedamagedtheSiberiantissuebeyondhopeofrepair.Butitoughtto
bepossibletofindamoreefficientmethodoffreezingfleshthanthatprovided
byaglacier!Ifwecouldfindawaytofreezetissuesampleswithoutdamaging
the delicate machinery of the cells; and if we could then maintain the tissue
samplesataconstanttemperature,withoutthefreezingandthawingwhichhas
donesomuchharmtotheSiberiantissue,thensomeday—notnow,butlaterin
this wonderful new century—it may become possible to start the cellular
machineryinmotionandreanimatethefrozenflesh.’
“‘Balderdash!’saidHill.Hepacedthelengthoftherailwaycar,pickedupa
riding crop and paced back to her, hitting the crop against his boot. Thwack!
Thwack! Thwack! ‘I hired you to give me solid science, not ideas out of
scientificromances!ThisplanbelongsinthemindofMr.H.G.Wells,notinthe
mindofascientistorinthemindofpracticalbusinessman.’
“‘Well,then,’saidRosa.‘Considerhowusefulareallygoodrefrigeratedrail
car would be for your business. If you could bring the fruits of the west—
unspoiled!Inperfectioncondition!—toChicagoandtheeasternmarkets—’
“Hill paused and laid the riding crop down on a mahogany table. Then he
pacedupanddownthecarseveralmoretimes.Finallyhestoppedinfrontofa
bell jar which contained a pair of beaded moccasins. He tapped the jar top
gently.‘Inspiteofallmyefforts,inmyheartofheartsIbelievemyBlackfoot
aredoomed. Progresscan’tbe stopped.Those in its way willbe tossedaside,
likeabisonstandingonaraillinewhentheexpresscomesthrough.Thefuture
belongs to Anglo-American civilization. The Blackfoot, the bison, my
mammothsallbelongtoanagewhichisendingorhasalreadyended.Butyou
arerightabouttheusefulnessofareallygoodrefrigeratedrailcar;andmodern
science ought to be able to find something better than a car full of hay and
blocksofice.Iwilltakeyouradviceandinvestinrefrigeration;andyou—Miss
Stevens—cancontinuetoyourworkonmammothtissue.IwilldowhatIcanfor
themammoths.’
“Rosafoundherselfgrinning.‘Yes,sir!’
“Why did he love the mammoths so strongly?” my grandmother asked. “I
haveneverbeenabletodecide.Wasittheirruggedpowerandpersistence?Or
thesensethattheyweresurvivorsfromapastage,ashewas,the20thcentury
son of a fierce 19th century father? Whatever his reason, Hill established a
researchfoundationdevotedtothestudyofrefrigeration.Youmusthaveseenit.
It’sinSt. Paul. Afineexample ofArtDeco architecture. Thetilefacadewith
trumpetingmammothsisespeciallydistinguished.
“Whilethebuildingwasbeingplanned,Rosawenttovisitherrelativesonthe
StandingRockReservation.Mymotherwasbornthere.WhenRosareturnedto
work,sheleftClarawithherLakotarelatives.Thiswashardtodo,butsheknew
thatHillwouldnotapproveofanillegitimatechildorascientistwhowasalsoa
mother.Sherefusedtogiveupherresearch.Themammothshadspokentoher.
Shewouldnotignoretheiradvice.
“She wasn’t a religious person. The faith she learned as a child faded over
time; and she never found another one. But she took her dreams seriously,
thoughshewasn’tsurewheretheycamefrom.Maybefromherunconscious,as
Freud and his followers argued; or maybe from a collective unconscious, as
otherpsychologistshadargued.Inanycase,Rosaknew,dreamscouldprovide
insightintoscientificproblems.Thestructureofbenzenecametoitsdiscoverer
—dratit!Ihaveforgottentheman’sname!—inadream.”
Grandmothergotupandwenttothebathroomagain,thenrefilledourglasses
withicedtea.Thelightcomingthroughthelacecurtainscameatalowerangle
nowandhadtherichgoldoflateafternoon.Iwasgettingtired.ButIhadbeen
raisedtolistenwhenelderstalked.TherewerethingstobelearnedhereinFort
YateswhichIcouldneverlearninmyexperimentalschool.
Grandmothersettledbackinherrocker.“RosasettledinSt.Paulandbegan
work at the Hill Institute. She was Indian and looked it; and she was female.
ObviouslytherewereproblemsattheInstituteandinthecity.DislikeofIndians
goesdeepinthispartofthecountry;andatthattimetherewereplentyofpeople
inMinnesotawhorememberedtheGreatSiouxUprisingof1862.Twenty-nine
ofourDakotakinsmenwerehangedfortheirpartintheuprising,thoughnotall
ofthosewhowerehangedhadtakenpart.Bethatasitmay,itwasthelargest
massexecutioninthehistoryoftheUnitedStates.
“Rosaencounteredprejudiceanddifficulty;butthegoodopinionofLouisW.
HillwentalongwayinSt.Paulinthe1920s.Withhimstandingbehindher,she
metandovercameeveryadversity.
“She never married, possibly because she was Indian. White men were
reluctanttomarryanIndianwoman;andtherewerenotmanyIndianmenwith
hereducation.Her child remainedonStanding Rock. ShevisitedClara—your
great-grandmother—as often as possible, but they were never close. The girl
regardedoneofRosa’scousinsashertruemother,hermotheroftheheart.This
saddenedRosa,asshetoldmeinherextremeoldage.Doyouwantmoreiced
tea?”
Isaidno.
“In1929,thestockmarketcollapsed—asyououghttoknow,Emma.You’ve
studiedsomehistory.”
“Idoknow.”
“Whatdidyoulearn?”
“Neverbuyonmargin.”
“That’s true enough,” said Grandmother and nodded her head. “But there’s
moretobelearnedfrom1929,asyoufindoutwhenyou’reolder.Attimethe
marketfell,LouisW.Hillwasheavilyinvested.Hewastryingtobuycontrolof
several west coast rail lines, so he could extend his father’s empire into
California. By now he had the best refrigerated rail cars in the world; and he
wantedtofillthemwithCaliforniaproduce.
“Hewas lucky.He didn’tgobroke when themarket crashed. Buthe had a
hardtimeuntiltheSecondWorldWarbegan.HisattentionturnedfromGlacier
andtheHillInstitutetosavingtheGreatNorthernRailroad.TheInstitute’sfunds
were sharply reduced. Research came to a halt. Rosa ended as a maintenance
person, who made sure doors were locked and lights off and the freezers
containing the mammoth tissue on. There was still enough money to pay the
powerbill.LouisW.HilldidnotforgettheInstituteentirely.
“IaskedRosaonceifshehadfeltdespairinthatperiod.Shesaid,‘Ihadajob,
whichwasmorethanmillionshad,andIwasabletokeepaneyeonmytissue
samples.’Shewasastoicwoman,whokeptmuchtoherself,maybebecauseshe
livedbetweentwoworlds.Whocouldsheconfidein,beingIndianbydescent
andwhitebyculture?”
Isortofunderstoodthis,sincemydadwasmixedrace.Butthingshadbeen
worsebackinthe20thcentury.Iknewthat.
“In 1938, in the depths of Great Depression, the herd in Glacier became
infectedwiththesamediseasewhichhadkilledtheRinglingandLincolnPark
mammoths.Tothisday,nooneknowshowthevirusgottoGlacier.Millionsof
people were on the move, looking for work. Many rode the rails; and some
campedinGlacier.Therangersdrovethemout.Buttheparkwaslargeandthe
timestroubled.Itwasnotpossibletokeepallthehobosout.Obviously,noneof
thesepeopleweretravelingwithanelephant;andasfarasRosawasabletofind
out,noneofthemcameintocontactwiththeGlaciermammoths.
“ManyyearslaterIbecameinterestedinthequestionatatimewhenIwas
betweenresearchprojects.Ididasearchonhobosandmammoths,usingoneof
the CDC epidemiology programs. Rosa had no such resource, of course. The
program did not find an epidemiological connection between hobos and
mammoths, but I did find this.” Grandmother got up stiffly and went to her
computer. It was on a wood side table, its monitor like a glass flower on a
curving blue stalk. The keyboard lay to one side, where Grandmother had
pusheditwhileworkingdirectlyonthescreen.Assheapproachedthescreenlit
up.Shetoucheditlightlywithabonyfinger.
“Yououghttobeinterested,Emma,sinceyourfatherplaystheblues.Thisisa
WPA recording made in Kansas City in 1936. It’s the only recording Frypan
CharlieHarrisonevermade,andtheonlytimethissongwaseverrecorded.”She
touched the computer two more times. A guitar began to play old-fashioned
countryblues,therealthing,butonareallybadinstrument.Icouldtellfromthe
sound. My Dad wouldn’t have touched a guitar that sounded like that.
Grandmothersatdown.
Aman’svoice—thinandcrackedanddistant—begantosing:
“Hardtimesishere,hardestIeverdidsee.
Hardtimesishere,hardestIeverdidsee.
Feelslikeabigbullmammothsteppedonme.
“Beenridingtherails,lookingtoearnsomepay.
Ibeenridingtherails,lookingtoearnsomepay.
Thatbigbullmammothkeepsgettinginmyway.
“Blackbirdflyingandshininginthesun.
Blackbirdflyingandshininginthesun.
Won’tgetnoresttillmylastdayisdone.”
There was more guitar playing, then the recording ended. The computer
monitorwentdark.
“The recording could have been made to sound like a modern recording,”
Grandmother said. “For that matter, the technology we have now could make
FrypanCharliesoundlikeafarbetterbluessingerthanhewas,someoneoutof
thepastlikeRobertJohnsonorapresentdaysingerlikeDelhiJohnPatel.But
this is from the Smithsonian Collection. It sounds the way it would have, if
you’dplayedtheoriginalrecordingrightafteritwasmadein1936.Thenotes
say‘bigbullmammoth’isprobablyareferencetotheprivatepoliceemployed
by railroads in the 19th and 20th centuries. Though it may also refer to the
economicsystemthatwastreatingCharliesobadly.Inanycase,thesongisn’t
aboutRosa’sanimals.ButIlikeit.It’sthesinglethingweknowaboutCharlie.
Heshowsupinnootherrecording.”
Shewassilent fora while, herbony handsfolded in herlap andherbright
blueeyesgazingrightthroughthelivingroomwall,itseemedtome,intothe
WestRiverdistance.Therewasnooneinmylifelikeherthen,andIhavenever
foundareplacementforher.
“Iespeciallylikethestanzaabouttheblackbird.Itremindsmeofred-winged
blackbirdsinthespring.Theyshowupbeforethemarshesturngreen,andeach
malegrabsholdofthetallestdrystalkhecanfindandhangsthere,asvisibleas
he can make himself. ‘I’m here,’ he sings. ‘This is me. This is my individual
song.’
“That was Charlie’s individual song. He’s lucky—and we’re lucky—that
someonerecordedit.
“Forthenextthreeyears,Rosastruggledtosavethemammoths.Itwastono
avail. In 1941, the last Glacier mammoth—a young, pregnant female named
Minerva—passedon,withRosainattendance.Afewanimalsstillremainedin
zoos around the world, but not enough to form a breeding population. The
specieswasdoomed.
“ShehadwiredHillwhenthemammothbegantofail.Hearrivedadayafter
Minerva’s death. Rosa had already removed the fetus and put it into a
refrigeratorcartobeshippedbacktoSt.Paul.Shewasdoinganautopsyofthe
motherwhenHillwalkedin,dressedinaneasternsuitwithaneasternhatinhis
hand.
“Hestoodforamoment,staringatthecorpse,smallforamammoth,butstill
large.
“‘That’sit,’”hesaidfinally.‘It’sover.’
“‘Wehavethetissuesamples,’saidRosa.‘AndIhavefrozeneveryinfantthat
died.’
“Helaughedharshly.‘Ineverbelievedinyourideaofsavingthemammoths
throughrefrigeration;buttheadviceyougaveme—toestablishtheInstitute—
wasexcellent,asistheworkyouhavedoneonfreeze-drying.’
“I forgot to mention that,” my grandmother said. “As I told you. Rosa’s
research in Siberia suggested that water was the culprit in the destruction of
mammoth cells. Therefore she had investigated ways to freeze tissue in
extremelydryconditions,soastoreducetheamountofwaterinthecells.She
wasnotabletosolvetheproblemofcellulardestruction;butotherscientistsat
theInstitutebecameinterestedinherworkasamethodofpreservingfood.
“HillhadfailedinhisattempttomovesouthintoCalifornia.Firstthecrash
slowed him, then that damned communist Franklin Roosevelt was elected,
bringingtrustbusterslikeahoardofVisigothstoWashington.Hillcouldseethe
writing on the wall; and looking across the Mississippi to the grain mills in
Minneapolis,hecouldseetherewasalotofmoneytobemadeinfood.Hegave
up on the idea of a western railroad monopoly. Instead, Great Northern
diversifiedintofoodprocessing.Nomatterhowbadthetimesgot,peoplestill
hadtoeat.
“His first product was the Pemmican line of dried food, designed to be
inexpensive and durable. It came off the production line for the first time in
1940;andtheU.S.Armybecamehisfirstimportantcustomer.AlongwithSpam,
another Minnesota product, Pemmican brand dried meat, fruit and vegetables
helpedtowinthewar.AccordingtoG.I.lore,Pemmicanhadathousanduses.
Youcouldeatit,useitforshinglesortoresoleboots,fordryflooringinatent,
asshrapnelinacannonorflakwhendroppedfromaplane.
“Afterthewar,GreatNorthernFoodProductsintroducedtheGlacierlineof
frozen vegetables. The packages featured romantic paintings of the national
park:Hill’sbelovedBlackfoot,elk,bison,bearsandthevanishedmammoths.
“BythistimetheHillInstitutewasbackinbusiness,andRosawasasenior
scientist.Shemightnothavebeenabletosavethemammoths,butherworkhad
been key to development of frozen foods. Louis Hill was grateful, though he
heldthepatentstothefreezingprocess,andshenevergotanyroyalties.Idon’t
thinksheminded.Shewasn’tmuchinterestedinmoney.
“Shewasinhermid-fifties.You’veseenpicturesofher,Emma.I’vealways
thoughtshewasashandsomeasawomangets—pureLakota,withcheekbones
likeknifebladesandthehighnoseoftheIndianontheold-timenickel.Hereyes
wereasblackasspaceandasbrightasstars.Ouroldstoriessayweusedtobe
starpeople.Icouldseethatinhereyes,eventhoughshealwaysdressedlikea
white,andmyrelativesonStandingRocksaidshethoughtlikeawhite.
“It’shardtopicktheworsttimeforIndians.Wasitwhenwelostourland,not
throughwars—weLakotawonourwars!—butthroughtreaties?Orwasitwhen
we starved on the reservations and were shot down by soldiers and agency
police?Orwhenourchildrenwerestolenfromusandtakentoboardingschools,
dressedinwhiteclothingandpunishediftheyspoketheirownlanguage?
“Ithinktheworsttimewasthemiddleofthe20thcentury,whenourelders
died,theoneswhohadgrownupintheolddaysandlearnedtheoldwaysfrom
their parents and grandparents. White people had their history in books and
moviesthatshowedcowboysshootingdowntheIndians.Ourhistorywasinthe
minds and mouths of those old men and women. When they died—the last
survivorsofLittleBigHornandWoundedKnee,peoplewhohadknownSitting
Bull and Crazy Horse and seen mammoths wading in the shallows of the
Missouri River—then it seemed as if we might vanish as entirely as the
mammoths.Afewbodiesmightbeleft,shamblingdrunksorwhitepeopleinred
skins,butwewouldbegone.”Shepausedanddrewadeepbreath,thengotup
andwentformoreicedtea.
Wedrankinsilenceforawhile.Theteawassocoldagainstmytongue!So
tartwithlemonandsweetwithsugar!Thesunbeamsthatenteredtheroomwere
almosthorizontalnow.Dustmotesdancedinthem.
“IthinkitwasinthisperiodthatClara,herdaughterandmymother,cameto
dislike Rosa so much. She would come out to Standing Rock in her Chrysler
New Yorker—a big, heavy, burgundy-colored car—climb out and stand in the
dirtroad,lookingtiredandremote.Itwasalong,harddrivefromSt.Paul,and
thatmayexplainherexpression.ButClaratookitasadisowning.
“Rosaalwaysworeslacks,shirtsandcomfortableshoesonthesetrips.Even
wrinkledbythelongdrivetothereservation,herclothinglookedexpensive;and
hercomfortable shoes shone under their film ofSouth Dakota dust. To Clara,
Rosawasawhitewomaninaredskin.Livingonthereservation,watchingthe
oldpeopledieandtheyoungpeoplegiveintodespair,nothingcouldbeworseto
her.RosahadturnedherbackontheLakota,soClaraturnedherbackonRosa.
“Thiswasdonesilently.Rosahadmoneytogive,andClara’sfamilyonthe
reservationwasdesperatelypoor.Shetookhermother’smoney,butrefusedto
visitherinSt.Paul—aterrifyingplace!
“Claramarriedin1945.HerhusbandwasasoldierfromRosebud,backfrom
thewar:ThomasTwoCrows.Idon’tknowhowtheymet,onlythathewasvery
handsomeandfullofstories.MyrelativesonStandingRocktoldmethatlater.
Somehow the stories—about Rosebud and his travels as a soldier—tantalized
Clara,thoughshewasafraidtovisitSt.Paul.Idon’tknowwhy.Maybebecause
he was a handsome young warrior of proven courage, full of apparent
confidence.
“I was born in 1949, the only child that lived, though there had been two
before me. Thomas was drinking heavily by then. He died a few years later.
He’d been drinking at a friend’s house. After a while, they noticed he wasn’t
there.Hemusthavegoneouttopee,myrelativesonStandingRocktoldme.It
wassnowing,withastrongwindblowing,andhegotlost.Theyfoundhimtwo
dayslater,afterthestormended,frozenlikeoneofRosa’smammoths.IfIsound
coldwhenItellyouthis,rememberthatIdidn’tknowhim.HediedwhenIwas
soyoung.And maybeI’mangry with himforlosing himselfindrinkand the
winter.Itwasalongtimeago,andIshouldhaveforgivenhimbynow.ButClara
neededhim.
“I did know her, though she died when I was still a child. I remember her
sittinginourlittlehouse,whichThomaspaidforwithhissoldieringmoney.She
wassilent for hours at atime. Heranger madethe houseseem darkto me.It
wasn’tthe darkness of night,with stars blazing above Standing Rock; butthe
darknessofawinterafternoonwhentheskyislowandgray,andacoldwindis
blowingoutofthenorth.Asmuchaspossible,Istayedoutsideandwaitedfor
Rosa’snextvisit.Shecameinherbig,burgundy-coloredcar,dustalloverthe
sidepanels.Once—itmusthavebeeninlatesummer—theentirefrontofthecar
wascakedwithdeadgrasshoppers.Shehatedthatandspenthourscleaningthe
grill.
“I’d run to her, and she’d embrace me. She smelled like no other person I
knew.LaterIdiscovereditwasthescentoffinesoapandperfume.Therewere
alwaysgiftsforme:wonderfultoys,booksandherownstoriesabouttheTwin
Cities of St. Paul and Minneapolis. I gave the toys away. It would have been
wrong to keep them, when the children around me had nothing similar. But I
keptthebooks,andItreasuredRosa’sstories.TheTwinCitiessoundedlikethe
Emerald City of Oz to me. I wanted to visit her, and Rosa invited me many
times.ButClarawouldn’tletmego.ShewasafraidthatRosawouldstealme,
thewaythewhitepeoplehadstolensomanyLakotachildren.
“Well,”said Grandmotherand paused. “Thisstory is aboutRosa, not about
me.
“She kept at her research, going to the Hill Institute almost every day. The
workshedidinthisperioddidnotleadtoanyimportantdiscoveries.Herreal
task was making sure that her collection of frozen mammoth tissue remained
frozen.
“Themammothsendurednineyearslonger,thelastone—anoldmaleatthe
ClevelandZoo—dying in 1957. Itwas theend ofan era,white commentators
said.TheOldWestwasgone,alongwithitsmostfamousdenizens.Weheard
aboutthedeathoutintheDakotasandmourneddeeply.Thesacredmammoths,
ouralliesforgenerations,werenomore.Weandthefewremainingbuffalowere
aloneintheterribleworldmadebywhitemen.Ourgriefwassodeepthatpeople
diedofit.Mostwereoldpeople,butthatwastheyearthatClarabecamesick.
“T.B. killed Clara—and bitterness and grief, I have always thought, though
shemighthavelastedlongerinawarmerplace.Thathousewascoldaswellas
dark.Whatwasleftforher?Theoldwayshaddied,alongwithherhusbandand
thelastmammoth,Trojan.ShewaslosingmetoRosa.Shesatinthedarkhouse,
inherowndarkness,andcoughed.Rosatriedtogethergoodmedicalcare,but
Clarawouldn’tleavethereservation.
“RosacametoStandingRockandsatwithherwhileshewasdying,though
onlyattheveryend.AslongasClarawasconscious,sherefusedtohaveRosa
nearher.Itwasabadsituation,anditdidnotmaketheotherrelativeshappy.
Thiswasnotagoodwaytoleavelife.ButClaradid.
“Whenshewasgoneandintheground,RosabroughtmetoSt.Paul.Ifinally
made the journey I had wanted to make for years. What a way to make that
journey!IsatbesideRosainheroldChryslerNewYorker,stiffwithgrief.The
fields of eastern South Dakota went past, flat and green and foreign. Trees,
whichwererareamongthegolden-brownhillsofmyhome,becamecommon.
They didn’t remain along the creeks and rivers. Instead, they grew in rows
betweenthefieldsandinclustersaroundthefarmhouses,and—finally,aswe
reachedeasternMinnesota—inwoodsthatcoveredthehilltops.
“Allthepeoplewesawwerewhite,theirfacesburntredbysummer,theirhair
brownorblond.Theygaveusunfriendlylooks.‘Don’tworry,’saidRosa.‘They
maystare,butthat’sasfarasit’slikelytogo.Asarule,Minnesotansdon’tsay
what’sontheirminds.’
“Thisdidn’treassureme. But we arrived safelyin St. Paul. Rosa droveme
through streets lined with tall elms and bigger houses than I had ever seen
before.ThelawnswereasgreenastheEmeraldCity.Sprinklersflashedinthe
sunlightlikediamonds.Ifeltutterlylost.NowIbegantocry—notforClara,but
formyself.
“‘Itwillbeallright,’saidRosa.
“I was still crying when we arrived at her house. I stopped once we were
inside, awed by the house’s size. Two full stories and three bedrooms! One
bedroom would belong to me, Rosa said. The house was old, built more than
fiftyyearsbefore,butRosahadinstalledastateoftheartbathroom,andanew,
electric kitchen. I was entranced and frightened. How could I use objects so
cleanandshining?Clarahadmadedowithanouthouseandawell.
“Therewastelevisionsetinthelivingroom.Ontopofitstoodamammoth
family,carvedoutofhoney-coloredivory.ItwasmammothivoryfromSiberia,
Rosasaid,thousandsofyearsold.Agreatcurvingmammothtuskhungoverthe
living room fireplace. This came from an animal that had died in the 20th
century.‘Theylastedsolong,’Rosasaidsadly.‘Ifwehadmanagedtokeepthem
alivejustalittlelonger,Iamconfidentthatmodernsciencewouldhavefounda
curefortheirillnessandawaytokeeptheminexistenceindefinitely.Well,their
tissue remains, and it is my job to make sure it stays safely in the Institute
freezers.Therearetimes,Emma,whenthebestonecandoispreserve.’
“LouisW.Hillhaddiedin1948,thoughIdidn’tlearnthisuntillater.Hiswill
leftasubstantialsumtotheHillInstitute,butonlyiftheinstitutecontinuedto
maintainRosa’smammothremainsonitspremisesinasafelyfrozenstate,with
Rosaonstaffas the custodian.Ofcourse,therewere scientistsattheInstitute
thatthoughtthiswasfolly.TheywantedHill’smoney,butnotthemammothsor
Rosa.Therestofhercareerwasafighttokeepherjobandthefreezersfullof
mammothfetusesandtissue.Itwasashardastryingtomaintaintreatyrights.
ButasIsaid,Ilearnedthislater.
“The house’s dining room had two splendid photographs of mammoths by
AnselAdams.LouisHillhadcommissionedhimtorecordtheGlacierherdinits
lastdays.Adamswasnotananimalphotographer,butmammothswerepartof
thewestheloveddeeply;andtheywerevanishing.Heacceptedthecommission.
Both of Rosa’s photographs showed the animals at a distance, grazing in a
meadowbelowtallpinesandsnow-streakedmountains.SeenwithAdams’eye
andtakenwithhisboxcamera,themammothsseemedassolidandpermanentas
thelandscapetheyinhabited.
“IcametoRosa’shouseinthesummerof1958,attheageofnine.Bymid-
AugustIwassettledintomynewroom.Thewindowslookedintogreencaves
made of leaves, a disturbing sight for someone used to the wide, treeless
distancesofwesternSouthDakota.Whensunlightshonein,itwastingedgreen,
andgreenshadowsdancedonmyfloorandwalls.Thedayswerehotandhumid,
thenightswerefullofnoise:leavesrustling,bugssinging,radiosplaying,people
talkingonneighboringporches.Thesky,hedgedbyrooftopsandfoliage,held
toofewstars.
“Itwashard,butIsurvivedthatfirstsummer.Childrenareresilient!Inthefall
Iwenttoschool.RosamanagedtogetmeintotheUniversityofMinnesotalab
elementaryschool,thoughthiswasn’teasyatshortnotice.ShesaidIwouldgeta
better education and encounter less prejudice. ‘Prejudice against Indians is
deeplyrootedhere.Buttheworldischanging.Thepowersthatweredefeatedin
thelastworldwarhaveshownushowbadhumansocietycanbecome.Maybe
wewilllearnfromthisandmaketheworldbetter.’
“UnlikeClara,Rosawasanoptimist.Itmaynotbeamorerationalwaytosee
theworld,butitmakeslifehappier.
“ShewasrightabouttheeducationIgotatUElementaryandUHigh.Itwas
good.Tothisday,Idon’tknowhowmuchprejudiceIencountered.Iwasshy
andlonely,theonlyIndianstudentinaschoolthatwasentirelywhite,exceptfor
oneAfrican-AmericanfamilyandasingleAsian-Americanstudent.Forthemost
parttheotherstudentswerepoliteandleftmeonmyown.Onceortwice,afew
were cruel in an ordinary, adolescent way. The other children stopped that
behavior.Iwasnottobeatargetorafriend.
“YouhavetorememberthatIwasn’tIndianinanobviousway.Mylastname
wasIvanoff.ItwastheonlythingthatClaragotfromSergei,exceptpossiblyfor
Russiansadness.RosathoughtitwouldbebettertouseIvanoffthanTwoCrows.
‘Whitepeoplearemorelikelytotakeyouseriously,ifyouhaveawhitename,’
shetoldme.IcouldhaveusedStevens,whichwasherwhitename,butIthink
shewantedthatsmallmementoofSergei.
“Myeyeswere blue;my hair wasbrown andwavy; and Iwas alot lighter
thanIamnow,becauseIwassobookish.EitherIwasinsidereading,orIwas
outsideunderatreereading.Sunlightscarcelyevertouchedme.
“Idon’tthinkitwasprejudicewhichkeptmealone,thoughIcan’tbecertain.
I think it was my bookishness and inability to understand the other students.
Whatonearthmadethemtick?Theirlives—madeofdatesandgrades—seemed
small and confined, like the neighborhoods hemmed in by houses and trees.
Theirplansseemedequallysmall:acollegeeducation,followedbyagoodjob
andmarriage.Surelytherewasmoretolifethanthis.Iwantedsomethinglarger,
somethingaswideastheskyoverStandingRock,thoughIdidn’tknowwhat.
SoIreadsciencefictionanddreamed.
“MyonefriendwastheAsian-Americanstudent,HiramFong.Hissisterwas
retarded;weusedthatkindoflanguageinthosedays;andhewashisfamily’s
hope.Theywere bettingon a surething, Rosatoldme. ‘Hiramis as smartas
yourgrandfatherSergei.’
“HowcanIdescribehim?Hewasn’tshylikeme,buthehadacuttingwitthat
scaredtheotherchildren;andhewasfartoobrighttobepopular.HalfthetimeI
didn’t understand what he was saying. Almost no adolescents in any era
understand irony, which was Hiram’s favorite kind of humor; and few
adolescentsofthetimeunderstood20thcenturyphysics,whichwashispassion.
My twin loves were biology and literature, though I wasn’t interested in
analyzingworksoffiction,anymorethanafishwantstoanalyzewater.Isimply
wanted to sink into them and live among words the way a fish lives among
underwaterplants.
“Webothlikedsciencefiction.Thatwasthebondthatheldustogether.And
welikedeachother’sfamilies.Hiram’sfatherwasaresearchdoctorattheU.His
mother had an advanced degree, I think in psychology, but stayed at home to
careforHiram’ssister,asweetDown’sSyndromechild,whodidfarbetterthan
suchchildrenwereexpectedtodointhe1960s.
“TheirhousewaslikeRosa’s,largeandfullofbooksandartifacts.Inthecase
oftheFongfamily,theartifactswerefromChina:silkrugsandporcelainvases,
framedexamplesofcalligraphy,opiumpipes.Opiumwasawonderfulmedicine,
Dr.Fongsaid,ifusedprudentlyandwiththought.Whenshoveddownpeople’s
throatsbytheBritishempire,itwasacurse.
“Like Rosa, the Fongs saw a world differently from most of the people I
knew,andthatmademecomfortablewiththem.Althoughtheydidn’tlikefrozen
food—Mrs. Fong always used fresh ingredients when she cooked—they
respected the work Rosa had done. ‘At present, we have a limited need for
frozen tissue,’ said Dr. Fong. ‘But I’m sure the need will increase, and your
grandmother’sworkwillbecomeincreasinglyimportant.’
“‘Maybewe’llbeabletomakepeoplesomeday,’saidHiramashepickedover
hisdinnerwithflashingchopsticks.‘Outoffrozenparts,liketheFrankenstein
monster. Or maybe we’ll be able to freeze people and wake them a thousand
yearsinthefuture.Thatsoundsmoreinterestingthanfrozenpeas.’
“‘TherewillprobablybemorepracticalusesforthetechniqueswhichRosa
Stevenshaspioneered,’saidDr.Fong.
“Mrs.Fong,whowasareader,said,‘Themonsterwasn’tmadefromfrozen
parts.Hemighthaveturnedoutbetterifhe’dbeenfresher.Cynthia,pleasedon’t
playwithyourfood.’
“HiramandIgraduatedfromhighschoolin1967.TheUnitedStateswasat
warinAsiaandathome,againstitsowncitizens.Youmusthavestudiedthisin
school,Emma.”
“Theburningofthecities,”Isaid.“AndtheBlackPanthersandAIM.”
“‘The American Indian Movement came a little later. Otherwise you are
correct.EvenMinneapolisburnedalittleinthisperiod.Itwasamodestblaze,
comparedtoplaceslikeDetroit.
“Hiram went to Harvard. I went to a small liberal arts college outside
Philadelphia.HeandIsworetostayintouch,andwedidforourfirstyear.After
that, circumstances pulled us apart. Hiram’s interest in physics intensified and
lefthimlittletimeforanyotherinterest.Idevelopedaninterestinpolitics.He
thoughtthewarwaswrong,andhehadnodesiretogotoVietnam;butheknew
he was likely to need a security clearance in order to do his kind of physics.
Protestingthewarwasarisk.Hewouldn’ttakeit.
“I felt sorry for him and a little contemptuous. How could anyone be so
careful,inthaterawheneverythingwasbeingquestionedandtheworldseemed
fullofpossibility?
“Thethingyourteachersmaynothavetoldyouishowfullofhopethelate
60swere.Yes,therewasviolence.ThepoliceandFBIandNationalGuardwere
dangerous.Plentyofpeople—goodpeople—diedinfishyways;andplentywent
to prison for things they almost certainly did not do. But the times were
changing,andmanyofusthoughtwewerebuildinganewworldintheshellof
theold.Asitturnedout,we were wrong,atleastforthetimebeing.The 60s
wounddownslowlythroughthe70s,andin1980RonaldReaganbeganalong
periodofreaction.
“I still think Hiram was wrong to be careful. We stopped corresponding,
because we no longer had anything important to say to one another. Our
friendshipendedbeforethewardid,notwithanargument,butinsilence.Iwas
abletotrackhislatercareerthroughthesciencemagazines.Itwasimpressive.I
havealwaysbeensurprisedthathedidn’twinaNobelPrizelikeSergei.
“Aftergraduation,IstayedintheeastandbeganworkonaPh.D.inbiology.I
never got involved with AIM, though I read about it in the papers. The
occupationofAlcatraz!ThebattlesonPineRidge!Whydidn’tIcomehometo
St.PaulorStandingRock?MaybebecauseIfeltmorecomfortablewithpolitical
theorythanwithshoot-outs;andIdidn’tfeelthatmuchlikeanIndian;andmy
issuewaspeace.
“WhenIcamebacktoSt.Paulforvisits,InoticedthatRosawasundergoinga
strange transformation. Always cold and increasingly indifferent to her
appearance,shewrappedherselfincardigansandthrows,whichmadeherlikea
19th century Lakota matriarch in a blanket. Her hair, which had always been
shortandneatlystyled,grewlong.Sheworeitinbraidswoundaroundherhead
orhangingdown.Herface,wrinkledbyageandsunlight,lookedlikethefaces
ofmygreat-great-aunts.
“ShestillwenttotheHillInstitutedaily.LouisW.Hill’swillhadmentioned
no retirement age for her. This outraged the other scientists. By this time the
Institute had a director who’d decided—after consulting several lawyers—that
thebestthingtodowasout-waitRosa.LouisHillwasamanwithapassionfor
controlandaneyefordetail.HehadmicromanagedthebuildingofGlacierPark.
Eventhetrimonthefamouslodgesandthedesignoftheirmenushadgonepast
himforapproval.DeathmightcausehimtolosecontrolofGlacier.Itbelonged
totheAmericanpeople,atleastintheory.TheInstitutewashisalone.Livingor
dead,hewouldcontrolit.Hisbequesthadnumerousstipulations;ifthesewere
notfollowed,hismoneywastogotoGlacierformaintenanceofthelodges.
“Thedirectorcouldtrytobreakthewill,buthewaslikelytofail.Hecould
ignorethestipulations,buttheDepartmentoftheInteriorhadbeencovetingthe
Hill money for decades and was likely to sue. Better to put up with Hill’s
eccentricities: the out-of-date Art Deco building with its tile facade of extinct
mammothsandthedodderingIndianscientist.LetRosapotteraroundheroffice
andlab.Intheend,shewoulddieofoldage,andthespacecouldbeputtobetter
use.
“Shelivedintoher93rdyearandkeptgoingtoworkuntilthelastfewweeks
ofherlife.Whenshedied—in1985—Iinheritedherhouse.
“Assherequested,Ihadhercremated.ShewantedtobeburiedonStanding
Rock.Iwasn’tsurehowmyrelativeswouldfeelaboutthis,soIdidn’ttellthem
whatIwasgoingtodo.RememberthatIhadbeenlivinginthewhiteworldfora
longtime.IstoppedlearninghowtobeLakotaattheageoften,andtherewere
biggapsinmyLakotaeducation.
“ItookRosa’surntothereservationandborrowedahorsefrommysecond
cousin Billy Horn. By this time, Billy was a middle-aged man with a
comfortable gut; but he had been a lean and angry AIM activist with long,
flowinghairandafeathertuckedintothebandofhiscowboyhat.Hishairwas
intwobraidsnow.Hestillworeacowboyhat,minusthefeather;andhestillhad
arifle—hewasonehellofashot—buthedidn’tposewithitanymore.Instead,it
stayedinhispickuptillheneededit.‘Four-leggedvarmintsnow,’hetoldme.‘I
gaveupshootingattheFBIs.It’sawasteofammunition.’
“ThehorseBillyloanedmewasanappaloosawithaneasygaitandbeautiful
manners.‘It’dbeeasiertofalloutofarockingchair,’hesaid.‘Trytostayon
board.Youdon’twanttohurtMoonie’sfeelings.’Hestrokedthemare’slovely
neck.
“Irodeintothedry,goldenhills.Hawkssoaredabovemeinawide,wideblue
sky. These were Swainson hawks, not the Redtails I knew fromMinnesota. It
cametomeasIrodethatIlovedthiscountry.TheMissouriwasabluegleamin
thedistance.Oneofthosedamnlakes,madebythedamnCorpsofEngineers.
Butfromhere youcouldn’tseetheeerie, unnaturalpool of water,edged with
bare mud flats. Instead, you could imagine the river as it ought to be, full of
shoals,edgedwithwillowandcottonwoodbottoms.Therewouldbe—shouldbe
—driftwoodfloatingintheslow,late-summercurrent,comingtorestonshoals;
and mammoths should wade in the shallows, sucking up the muddy water in
theirtrunksandsprayingoneanother.
“I unpacked my shovel and dug Rosa’s grave. After I buried her, I burned
somesage.Mooniecroppeddrygrassnearby.ThatafternoonIdecidedI’dcome
back to Standing Rock, though I wasn’t sure when. I’d finish my Lakota
education.
“IreturnedtoBilly’shouseattwilight.HetookcareofMoonie.‘Didn’tdoher
anyharmthatIcansee.Dideverythinggoallright?DidyougetRosasettled?’
“Ilookedathimwithsurprise.Hegrinned.‘Youmayhavealotmoredegrees
thanIdo,butthatdoesn’tmakemestupid,Liz.Itwasprettyeasytofigureout
whatyouwantedMooniefor.I’mplanningtofollowyourtrailtomorrow,goand
talktoRosaandmakesureeverything’sokaywithher.’
“‘Iwasn’tsureIoughttodoit.’
“‘CrazyHorsesaidhislandwaswherehisdeadwereburied.That’showwe
nail all this down.’ He waved his hand around at Standing Rock, hidden in
darkness.‘Solongaswecankeeptheanthropologistsfromdiggingeveryoneup.
IfIwasgoingtoargueaboutanything,it’dbethecremation.Itisn’ttraditional.
ButRosaalwaysdidthingsherownway.’
“Hewasjokingabouttheanthropologists.We’dmanagedtostopthembythen
and gotten a lot of our ancestors back from places like the Smithsonian. The
current problem was people who stole artifacts and fossils from our land. An
entireTyrannosaurusRextakenandsoldtotheFieldMuseum!Peoplehaveno
shame!TheywillstealanythingfromIndians!”
Mygrandmotherpausedandglared,herblueeyesgleamingbrightly.Thenshe
tookadeepbreathandcontinuedherstory.
“IwentbacktoSt.PaulandlookedatRosa’shouse.I’dvisitedherregularly,
butitwasn’tmyhomeanymore;andtherewereplaces—thebasementandthe
attic—whereIhadn’tbeeninyears.
“Theatticlookedordinary:unfinished,fullofdustandboxes.I’dhavetogo
through them all, I thought and groaned out loud. The basement was full of
freezers.NotthekindyouuseforstoringyourGlacierfrozenpeas.Thesewere
thebigfreezersyou’dfindinalab.Heavenknowshowshegotthemdownthe
stairs.Largemenandsomekindofhoist,Iimagined.Anotehadbeentapedon
one of the freezer doors. ‘Dear Liza,’ it said in shaky print. “I don’t trust the
directoroftheInstitute,sohave movedmytissuehere.There are twobackup
generators.Pleasekeepthetemperatureconstant.Love,yourgrandmother.’
“I laughed with surprise, though not with pleasure. Rosa must have gotten
strangerthanIhadrealizedinherlastyears.Movingmammothtissueintoher
basement?HowwasIgoingtosellthehouseinthiscondition?Ilaughedagain
andshruggedmyshoulders,thenmadesurethefreezerswererunningproperly.
Onethingatatime.FirstIhadtocleanthehouse.
“Some people’s lives change dramatically, Emma, in a single moment,
throughasingledecisionorevent.Thathasneverhappenedtome.Mylifehas
alwayschangedslowly,throughaseriesofsmalleventsanddecisions.
“I took my first step at Standing Rock, when I realized how much I loved
thosegoldenhills.Steptwowasfindingthefreezersandmakingsuretheywere
runningproperly.Withoutthinkingitthrough,makingnoconsciousdecision,I
made the freezers my responsibility. If there is a moral in my story, it’s do
nothinglightly. I’mnot complainingaboutthe waymy lifeturnedout. Ihave
enjoyeditsofar.ButIwishI’dbeenmoremindfulinplaces.
“Step three was cleaning the house. You may think of that as a tiresome
project, like cleaning your bedroom. But I was going over my grandmother’s
life, exploring it the way Lewis and Clark explored the Missouri River and
RockyMountains.Likethem,Ifoundplentyofmammoths;andlikethem,Idid
alotofhard,dirtywork.IfIhadtodecidewhichI’dratherdo—cleananother
houselikeRosa’sordragaboatuptheMissouriRiver,I’dhavetoconsidera
longtimebeforemakingmydecision.
“Theclosetswerenotdifficult.Rosahadgottenridofmostofherclothing.
The woman I remembered as elegant had spent her last years in blue jeans,
flannelshirts,frayedcardigansandbatteredshoes.Nothingwasingoodenough
conditiontogivetoahomelessshelter.Itallwentinthetrash.
“The boxes in the attic were business papers, most of them years old. It’s
amazingwhatotherwisesanepeoplewillsave!MaybeRosabecameanxiousas
sheagedandafraidofthrowinganythingout,ormaybeshesimplybecametired
ofsortingthroughpapers.Almosteverythingcouldbeburned,whichIdidona
cold, wet day when rain beat against the living room windows. There is
somethingsatisfyingaboutsittingbythefireplaceonsuchadayandwatching
oldtaxreturnscurlandblacken.
“Some of the burden of Rosa’s belongings lifted off me that day, though I
knewthehardestworkstilllayahead.Thehousewasfullofbooks.Therewas
nowayIcouldfitRosa’scollectionintomysmallapartmentinMassachusetts;
andIdidn’twantmostofthecollection.Butabookcan’tbethrownaway,and
sellingit orgiving it awayhas to bedone carefully. The bestthing is togive
bookstofriends.Rosa’sfriendsweregonebythen.Shehadoutlivedthemall.
AndnoneofmyfriendswereintheTwinCities.
“IplannedtokeepthebooksonIndiansandpackedthemforshipmenteast.
ThenIwentinRosa’sdenandlookedatthebooksonmammoths.Theylined
onewall.Anotherwallwaswindows,lookingoutonRosa’sgarden,whichhad
become a wild mixture of perennials and weeds. She had been such a careful
gardenerinthepast!Athirdwallhadherdeskandanantiquefilecabinetmade
ofoak.Twoofthedrawerswerefullofarticlesonmammothsandfreezedrying,
manywrittenbyRosa.TheothertwodrawerswerefullofRosa’snotes.
“Surelythecontentsofthedenshouldgosomewherespecial.ThiswasRosa’s
lifework,andshehadbeenadistinguishedscholar.Igrittedmyteethandcalled
the director of the Hill Institute. I don’t remember his name anymore. It was
something that sounded East Coast and English stock: two last names stuck
togetherwithatitleinfront.Dr.RamseySibleyorCrosbyWashburn.Hisaccent
wasMidwesternwithatraceofEastCoastrefinement.Hewasverysorrytohear
ofmygrandmother’sdeath.Aremarkablewoman!Aninspirationtousall!And
no,hewasn’tinterestedinherpapers.‘Wehavemovedinanewdirectionhere,
awayfrommammoths,Ms.Ivanoff.Theuniversitymightbeinterested.Isuggest
youtrythem.’
“I mentioned the mammoth tissue. Dr. Sibley chuckled. ‘I’m afraid your
grandmother became a bit eccentric toward the end. She decided the tissue
would be safer in her basement. We didn’t oppose her decision. As you may
know,Mr.Hill’swillrequiredustokeepthetissueinperpetuity.Butitbelonged
toDr.Stevens;shehadtherighttoremoveit.Onceitwasgone,ourlawyerstold
us,wedonothavetotakeitback.’
“Thissoundedlikeshiftylawtome,butIwasn’tgoingtoargue.IthankedDr.
CrosbySibleyforhishelpandhungup.
“ThereIwas,Emma,withadenfullofmammothbooksandabasementfull
offrozenmammoth.Icouldpackthedenandputitinstorage.Butthetissuewas
aseriousproblem.Icouldn’tputthehouseonthemarketuntilIfoundahome
forit.Ispentthenexttwoweeksdesperatelycallingacademicinstitutions.Butit
wassummer.Thepeoplewhomadedecisionswerenotaround.
“Iwasstillsorting and packing. Rosa’s sheetsandtowelsweretoowornto
sellorgiveaway.Theywentinthetrash.ThekitchenhadafewthingsIwanted:
handmadecupsanddishesbylocalpotters.Lookingattherest,Idecidedona
yardsale.
“AtlastIreachedmychildhoodroom.Theelmoutsidethewindowwasgone,
replaced by a silver maple. Otherwise, the room was unchanged. A star quilt
coveredthebed.OneofmycousinsonStandingRockhadmadeit.Myfavorite
stuffedanimal,athreadbaremammothnamedMamie,layonthepillow.Oneof
herglasseyeshadbeenreplacedyearsagoandwasblue.Itsmate,whichwas
original,wasgoldenbrown.
“Ihadreachedsomekindoflimit.Itisn’teasytosortthroughthebelongings
ofthepersonwhoraisedyou.IfIhadn’tbeensobusy,Iwouldhaverealizedthat
Iwassickwithgrief.Inaddition,Iwasfrustrated.Icouldn’tleavethefreezers
untended;andIwasn’tgoingtobeabletofindanewhomeforthetissuebefore
fall. I’d have to ask for a leave of absence from my job. If my department
wouldn’tgiveittome,I’dhavetoresign.
“That evening I sat in Rosa’s living room and drank wine, looking at the
objectsIhadn’tyetpacked:themammothfigurinesontopofRosa’sancientTV,
themammothtuskoverthemantel,AnselAdams’photographsandmostofthe
books.WhatwasIgoingtodo?WhyhadRosalandedmewiththismess?Why
had she gotten old and died? Didn’t she realize how much I would miss her?
EventhoughIhadn’tbeenhomeoften,Ihaddrawncomfortfromknowingshe
wasthere,potteringaroundhergardenandhertissue.Iamaneldernow,Emma.
ButIstillmissmyownelders,Rosaespecially.
“I’veneverbeenmuchofadrinker.It’sabadhabitforIndians.Butthatnight
Ihadaglassortwotoomany.IfeltabithazywhenIwentuptobed.Insteadof
goingtotheguestbedroom,whereIhadbeenstaying,Iwenttomyoldroom.I
tookthestarquiltoffthebedandfoldedit,thenlayonthecleansheets,which
smelledoflavender.Rosahadlovedthestuff.I’dfoundsachetstuckedbetween
herthreadbarelinensandineveryclothingdrawer.
“Idozedoff,lyingnexttoMamie,anddreamed.Idon’tusuallyremembermy
dreams, and when I do they are usually fragments of the day’s events, fitted
together crazily, like a jigsaw puzzle done wrong—evidence that white
psychologistsareright,whentheysayourdreamsaresimplyourmindssorting
throughrecentexperiences,aspartoftheprocessofstoringtheminourRAM.
“Thisdreamwasdifferent.Iwasinahousebuiltofbones.Theonlylightwas
asmall,dimfire;andshadowsfilledthehouse.Nonetheless,Iwasawareofthe
bones.Theywerehuge.
“Atiny,witheredwomansatacrossthefirefromme.Sheworeahidedress,
stainedbysmokeandspottedwithgrease.Itmighthavebeenwhiteonce.Nowit
wasdun.Herhairfelloverhershoulders,longandlooseandgray.
“‘I don’t want this problem,’ I said to her. ‘Rosa handed it to me after she
died.Shedidn’tgivemeachancetoargueorrefuse.Idon’tbelonghere.This
isn’tmylife.’Iwavedaroundatthehousemadeofbones,thoughwhatIreally
meantwasRosa’shouse.
‘“Don’ttalktomeoflife,’theoldwomansaid.‘Mypeoplearedead;andyour
peoplearelikelytofollow.Isn’tthatthepromisewhichwasmadetotheLakota?
Iftheyrespectedthemammoths,thebuffaloandtheLakotawouldsurvive.’
“‘Thebuffalohavesurvived,’Isaid.
“‘Justbarely!HowmanywereleftattheendoftheGreatWhiteKilling?A
fewhundred!Allthethousandsalivetodayaredescendedfromthosefew.Iama
spirit, not a geneticist, but surely the species has gone through a genetic
bottleneck.Itcannothavethegeneticvariationithadtwocenturiesago.’
“‘Thesamewouldbetrueofmammoths,iftheywerebroughtback,’Isaid.
“‘Rosasavedalotoftissue,thoughitdidnotcomefromalargenumberof
individuals.Itmightbepossibletofindvariationamongsomanychromosomes,’
theoldwomansaid.‘Wemammothsmightbeinbettershapethanthebuffalo,if
wewerealive.Wecouldnotbeinworseshapethanwearenow.’
“Another voice spoke from the darkness. ‘You have studied biology. You
knowaboutthenewtechnologiesthatarecomingintoexistence.Allthesewhite
menstartingcompaniestomakemoneyoutofgenes!Thetechnologyweneedto
re-createourpeoplewillbeinventedsoon.’
“NowIsawthesecondperson:asolidlybuilt,middle-agedwoman.Herlong,
braidedhairwasblack;andherdresswasthecreamycolorofcloudsonahot
summerafternoon,whentheyshinethroughthehazeaboveStandingRock.
“‘Biologyisatrickybusiness,’Isaidtothesecondwoman.‘Youcan’tlisten
tothemenwhostartgenetechcompanies.Ofcoursetheypromisemiraclesin
thenextyearortwo.They’relookingforinvestors.Ihavenoreasontobelieveit
willpossibletore-createmammothsfromfrozentissueinthenearfuture.’
“‘Itwon’tbepossibleatall,ifthetissueisn’tthere,’saidthecrone.
“‘Therehastobetissueinotherplaces,’Ireplied.
“A third voice—young and clear and musical—spoke. ‘Rosa was the great
expertonthefreezingofmammoths.Hasanyonehasdoneworkequaltohers?
Howgoodarethesamplesinotherplaces?’
Thethirdwoman—slimandgraceful,inahidedressaswhiteasfreshsnow—
movedoutoftheshadows.Shestoppednexttothematron.Thecronesatattheir
feet.Theyallstaredatme,theirdarkeyesshininginfirelight.
“Isaid,‘I’llfindahomeforthetissue.IoweRosathatmuch.Butthatwillbe
theendofit.Ihavemyownlifetolive.’Thedarkeyeskeptwatchingme.‘Are
yousureyouareIndianspirits?Youknowalotaboutbiology.’
“‘First of all,’ the crone said. ‘We are in your dream. Obviously, we know
what you know. And we, like you, are at the end of the 20th century. White
people have a god who exists outside time and history and pays far too little
attentiontohiscreatures’misbehavior,inmyopinion.
“‘Indian spirits live in the world we helped make. Why not? We did good
work!It’sagoodplace!Andlikepeopleofeverykind—thetwolegsandfour
legs, birds and fish and insects—we change in response to time and events.
Don’texpectustobelikethespiritsinananthropologytextbook.’
“‘Anddon’tdrinksomuch,’thematronsaid.‘Itisn’tgoodforyou.’
“That was the last thing the women said to me. I think they turned into
mammoths, and the house vanished, so we were all standing on a wide, dark
plain,underaskypackedfullofstars.ButmaybeImadethatpartup.MaybeI
made everything up. I have never been certain about dreams, Emma, though
manyotherpeopleare,andIrespecttheiropinions.
“Iwokemyoldbedroom,nexttoMamie.Forawhile,Ilayinthedarkness,
tryingtofixthedreaminmymemory.Finally,Igotupandturnedonalightand
wrotethedreamdown.DidIbelieveIhadactuallyspokenwithspirits?No.The
dream came from alcohol and my stay in the mammoth-haunted house. Rosa
wasthepersonwhospokewithmammoths,notI.Still,ithadbeensovividand
hadseemedsofullofmeaning.
“Itwastimetotacklethebooks,Idecided.NotRosa’sscholarlycollection,
buttherest.Herpopularsciencebookswereoutofdate;Iwasn’tinterestedin
modernRussia; and I rarely read novels. Almosteverything could go intothe
yardsale,alongwith30yearsofScientificAmericanandNationalGeographic.
“Iheldthesalethreeweekslater.Thedaywashotandbright,theskyfullof
bigcumulithatwerelikelytobecomethundercloudsbylateafternoon.Imoved
Rosa’sbelongingsontothefrontlawn:booksandkitchenwareandafewpieces
offurniture.
“The first person to arrive was a tall man with long, straight, black hair. It
flowedoverhisshouldersanddownhisback.Heworeaplaidshirt,jeans,work
bootsandawidebeltwithasilverandturquoisebuckle.Maybeyoudon’tthink
Icanrememberhimsoclearlyafteralltheseyears.ButIdo.Notthatit’shardto
rememberwhatDelbertworeonanygivenday.Hiscostumerarelychanged.In
thewinter,hisshirtswereflannel,andsometimeshisbeltbucklewasbeadwork.
Hisbrownskinwaslightlyscarredbyacne.Hiseyeswerehazel,thoughIdidn’t
noticethisatfirst.HowcouldI?Hewasbentoverthebooks.Hewasobviously
Indian, but not Lakota. Ojibwa, I thought, looking at his broad chest. An
academicoramemberofAIMorboth.
“Otherpeoplecameandboughtfurnitureanddishes.Themanremainedwith
Rosa’sbooks,goingthroughthemcarefully.Finally,hecameoverwithastack.
TheyweremostlyhistoriesandmostlyaboutMinnesotaandtheUpperMidwest.
‘IwashopingformoreonNativeAmericans,’hesaid.‘Andmammoths.They
aren’tnearlyasimportanttotheOjibwaastotheLakotaandDakota,butwedo
havesomemammothstoriesandsongs.
“‘I’mkeepingthose,’Isaid.
“‘Mytough luck,’ hesaid and smiled. I noticedhis eyes.There were white
peopleinhisbackground.Probablyvoyageurs.‘MynameisDelbertBoisvert,’
headded.‘YoumustbeRosa’sgranddaughter.Isawyournameintheobituary.
I’vebeenwatchingforayardsale,sinceIlearnedthatshedied.Idon’triceor
sugarlikemyrelatives.ButIdohuntandgatherbooks.”
“We ended on my porch, talking and drinking lemonade. Delbert helped
peopleloadthefurnitureanddishestheybought.Andherecitedasongabout
mammothsthatthefamousanthropologistFrancesDensmorehadwrittendown:
“Theyarecoming.
Theyarecominglikethunder,
Oh,myMidebrothers.
“Afterthat,herecitedanOjibwalovepoem,alsowrittendownbyDensmore:
“Ithoughtitwas
Aloon.
Itwasmylover’s
Splashingoar.
“‘Dependingonthedirectionofthecanoe—arrivingordeparting—it’sasad
or happy love song,’ Delbert said. ‘I like happy songs. For me, the canoe is
arriving.’
“That’s how I met your grandfather. I had always been careful about love
before, maybe because I’d lost my mother and home when still young. I had
learnedthatpeoplewerenotreliable.TheywoulddielikeClaraorvanishoutof
mylifelikemyStandingRockrelatives.
“Youwouldthink Icould have lookedat Rosaand seen herreliability.She
loved me and cared for me as long as she lived. If I had been paying better
attention, I could have learned about integrity and loyalty. Rosa was always
herselfandalwaysloyaltome.
“Inanycase,wetalkedtillmidnight.Thenhewenthome,andIwenttomy
bedroom. There were no dreams that night, just me staring into darkness and
seeingDelbert’smalebeauty.There’snothinglovelierthanagood-lookingman.
He’slikeatomturkeyspreadinghisfeathersoramammothbulltrumpeting.
“Delcamebackthenextmorning,andwespentthedaytalkingaboutmylife
inSt.PaulandMassachusettsandhislifeontheRedLakeReservationandin
Minneapolis.
“Iwaspartlyrightabouthim.HehadstudiedattheUniversityinthestudioart
department,thoughhedidn’thaveadegree.‘Itcosttoomuchmoneyandtime.I
didn’thaveenoughofeither.’Hewasapainter,hetoldme.‘Infact,Iamtwo
kindsofpainter.Idohousestomakealivingandpiecesofcanvastokeepfrom
goingcrazy.’HeknewtheAIMpeople,thoughhewasn’tamemberofAIM.‘I
have disagreements with them about strategy and personal disagreements as
well.ButIwon’tspeakaboutthemwithdisrespect.’
Therewasastorythere,whichhedidnottell.Inmanyways,hewasanodd
duck,moreIndianthanIwas,butnotasIndianashisrelativesonRedLakeorin
theslumsalongFranklinAvenueinMinneapolis.Inthosedays,Indianswerethe
poorestpeopleinAmerica,themostbadlyeducated,thesickestandtheshortest-
lived.Evenblackpeoplelivedlongerthanwedid.ButthereDelbertandIsaton
the porch of Rosa’s house, drinking iced tea instead of whiskey or beer, two
Indians with enough money to get by and good white educations. But I was
haunted by the hills of Standing Rock; and he was haunted by Red Lake’s
forests;andwewerebothhauntedbyourrelativesandancestors.
“AsIsaidbefore,mylifehasturnedonsmalleventsanddecisionsthatIoften
didnotnoticeatthetime.WhenIcamewesttocloseRosa’shouse,Iwascertain
thatIwasgoingbacktoMassachusetts.”
Grandmother paused. I could tell she was thinking. Two vertical lines had
appearedbetweenhereyebrows.“I’mnotsureIwouldhavesoldthehouse,even
ifIhadnotmetDel.ItwasmychildhoodhomeandfarclosertoStandingRock
than my apartment in the east; and the mammoth tissue was a problem. The
moreIconsideredthequestion,themoreIrealizedIcouldn’tdumpitonthefirst
institutionthatexpressedaninterest.ItwasRosa’slifework,asacredtrust.Ihad
tobesureitwasusedproperly.
“ButfallinginlovewithDelmademydecisionalmosteasy.Hewassettledin
Minneapolisandnotinterestedinmovingeast.IfIwentbacktoMassachusetts,I
wouldlosehim.Iwasnotwillingtodothis.Hewassohandsome!Iamnotsure
Ishouldtellyouthis.Doesagranddaughterneedtoknowthathergrandmother
wasaromantic,willingtochangeherlifebecauseshemetabeautifulman?
“Mindyou,thereisnothingwrongwithbeauty,solongasyouhavetheright
standards.Therightkindofbeautytellsyouthatyourpotentialmateisstrong
and healthy, able to produce and maintain a large tail or a pair of enormous
tusks.Itmaytellyouthatheisintelligent,sinceintelligencedepends—atleastin
part—on good health. It also depends on education and experience. I am
speakingaboutrealintelligence,workingintelligence,nottheintelligencefound
byscientistsinlabs.Delhadgoodhealth,agoodeducationandlotsofuseful
experience.Hewasbrightandafineartist.Idon’tregretpickinghim.”
Iwas tooyoung tohave an opinion on how to chosea mate,though Iwas
interestedinhowGrandmotherwentaboutit.GrandfatherlivedinNewMexico
now, in a house with a big studio full of paintings. I couldn’t tell if he was
handsome.TomehelookedlikeGramps:atall,thinmaninfadedjeansanda
fadedshirt,almostalwaysblue.Heworehisgrayhairinbraids;andtherewas
usuallyapaint-stainedragtuckedinhisbackpocket.
“Inanycase,Ifellinlove.Wespentthesummertogether.Inthefall,Iwent
eastandpackedupmyapartment,bringingeverythingbacktoSt.Paul.
“DelmovedintothehousewhileIwasgoneandfinishedtheattic.Rosahad
left it as it came to her: bare wood and dust. He sheet rocked the walls and
ceiling,putskylightsinfacingnorthandcoveredthefloorwithblackceramic
tiles.Theywereeasiertocleanthanwood,hesaid,andhelikedthewaythey
looked.
“It’sbeendecadessinceIlastsawthestudio,butifIclosemyeyes,thereitis:
lightfloodingthroughtheskylights,reflectingoffthewhitewallsandmaking
theblackfloorshine.Del’spaintingslinedtheroom.Atthatpoint,hisartwas
abstract,butIcouldseethelandscapesofnorthernMinnesotainthem:broad,
dark, horizontal bands like pine forest edging a lake or river; narrow, vertical
lineslikethetrunksofbirches;bluesasclearasthewintersky;andredslikea
sunriseoranautumnmaple.
“IlovedthatstudioandthehouseandDel.Itwasn’tawrongchoiceImade.
“WhenIgotback,Isentoutmyresumeandgotajobatalocalcommunity
college,IntroductoryBiologyatfirst.IfoundthatIlikedteaching.Ihadn’t,asan
instructorintheeast.Mystudentswereolderthanthekidsatauniversity;and
they saw education as a way to get ahead in a world that wasn’t getting any
easier.IthinktheysawthehardtimescomingsoonerthanIdid.ThankstoRosa,
Iwas middle class and out of touch, theway the middle classes so often are.
You’dthinkbeingIndianwouldhavehelped.
“In any case, my students were serious about learning; and teaching is a
pleasure,whenthestudentswanttolearn.Someofthem—asurprisingnumber,
it seemed to me—liked learning for its own sake, maybe because it was an
unexpected gift. Oh brave new world, that has such knowledge in it!”
Grandmothersmiled.
“The college had no facilities for research. But I had plenty to do. The
researchcouldwait.”Sheleanedbackandflexedherbonyshouldersandsighed.
“ThenextthingIknew,Iwaspregnantwithyourmother.Ihadn’tplannedtobe;
itwasagenuineaccident;butIknewatoncethatIwasgoingtokeepthebaby.I
wasinmymiddle30s.IfIwasgoingtohavechildren,itwastimetogetstarted.
By this time, I knew Del and his family well enough to be confident that his
genetic material was good. And too many Indian children had died over the
yearsofpovertyanddiseaseandsimplekilling.Toomanyhadbeentakenfrom
theirfamiliesandraisedwhite,likeRosa.Toomanylosttheirparentstoillness
andalcohol.Iwantedthischildtoliveandberaisedbyherparents.”
Grandmother paused and I had a sense she was thinking about things she
mightnottellme.Finallyshesaid,“Delwaslesscertain.Artistshavetrouble
settlingdown.Theirartaskstoomuchofthem.Butwetalkeditthrough,andI
hadhelpfromhisfamily.Hismotherwantedgrandchildren,andheowedalotto
her.Shehadspottedhisabilitywhenhewasachildandsenthimtolivewith
relativesintheCities,sohe’dbeabletogotoartmuseumsandbuyartsupplies.
Withouther,hemighthavebeen—what?Anotherunemployedfisherman,after
theRedLaketribalfisherycloseddown?
“Hisfather’smotherwasonmysideaswell.Delores.Shewasanelder,very
muchrespected.Yourmotherwasgoingtobeherfirstgreat-grandchild.There
wasnowayshewasgoingtoletDeloffthehook.
“TheyallwouldhavepreferredanOjibwamother,butatleastIwasIndian.
TheyhadworriedaboutDel.Hehaddatedalotofwhitewomen.”
“WhatdidGreat-grandfatherClaudsay?”Iasked.
“Hesaid,theywouldhelp,ifDelneededhelp.‘Allthevenisonandwildrice
youcaneat,andyouknowmymothercansew.Thatbabywillhavethefinest
clothesofanybabyintheTwinCities.’Hekepthispromise.Yourmotherhad
clothes that could have gone into a museum, covered with beadwork and
trimmedwithfur.Weputthemaway,incasehardtimescame,andweneededto
sellthem.
“Thebabywas bornand namedDelores, afterhergreat-grandmother. Ihad
plannedtogobacktowork.Butmycontractwiththecollegewasforayear,and
theydidn’trenewit.Thepregnancyhadbeendifficult.Ihadtakenalotoftime
off.Isuspectedthiswasthereasonmycontractwasn’trenewed,butIcouldn’t
proveit. Inany case, losing the jobwas almosta relief.I didn’tbounce back
from the pregnancy as quickly as women are supposed to. I needed time to
recover;andyourmotherwassotinyandvulnerable!Nomoresothananybaby,
butI couldn’timagine puttingsomeone sosmall, whocould barelymove and
couldn’tspeak,inthehandsofastranger.IalsocouldnotimagineDelasastay-
at-homefather.He’dgetinterestedinwhathewaspaintingandnotevenhearthe
babycry.Ihadsomemoneyinthebank,myinheritancefromRosa,notalot,but
enoughforawhile.IdecidedtowaitbeforeIbegantolookforanotherjob.
“All this time the mammoth tissue was still in the basement. I suppose I
shouldhavebeen abetter custodian,butI hadbeen distractedbymoving and
teachingandhavingthebaby;andIneededtimetothink.Thetissuemightbe
worth money, and we certainly needed money. But would it be right to sell
Rosa’slifework?Imightbeabletousethetissuetofindanewjob,onceIwas
readytowork.Icouldtellaninterestedschool,‘Ifyouwantthetissue,youhave
totakemeaswell.’
“Ihadn’tbeenentirelynegligent.I’dwrittenlettersandmadephonecallsand
givenawaysomeofthetissue.Thatwasprudent.Youshouldn’tkeepallyour
eggs—or any organic material—in one basket. Schools knew about me now.
Moreandmorewerebecominginterested.Biotechnologymeantitwasgoingto
be possible to analyze mammoth DNA and compare it to the DNA of living
elephants.ThatwasthekindofachievementthatmadethepapersandTVnews
andhelpedgetgrants.Ididn’thavetheonlymammothtissueontheplanetorin
the country; but Rosa had made sure that her tissue—my tissue—was in very
goodshape.Ihadthefreezersandgeneratorscheckedonaregularbasis,andI
paidtheelectricbillassoonasIgotiteverymonth.”
Grandmotherpaused.“WherewasI?”
“InSt.Paulwithmymother,”Ireplied.
“Wescrapedthroughayear.Itookcareofthebabyandgaveawaymammoth
tissue. Del moved away from abstraction. Now his paintings showed Indians
hunting and fishing and ricing. Partly this was the influence of Patrick
DesJarlait,theOjibwaartistfromRedLake.Hewasdeadbythen.ButDelhad
studiedhiswork.Ofcoursehehad!TheworldwasnotfullofOjibwapaintersin
thosedays.
“It was also the influence of our trips north to show little Delores to her
relatives. Del came back with sketchbooks full of Claud at work. Your great-
grandfather had lost his job when the tribal fishery closed. Now he made his
living in the old way, hunting and trapping and ricing and doing some
construction. Home repairs, mostly. He was also good at fixing cars. On a
reservationfullofrezcars,thiswasavaluableskill.Mostly,hegotpaidinfood
or thank yous. If you wanted to know poor in those days, you went to a
reservation.
“ThereweresketchesofDel’smotherholdingthebabyandoldDeloresbent
over her sewing. Sometimes, when he painted, the figures remained modern
Indians;andsometimestheirclothesbecametraditional.TherewasoneIloved
—Claud,dressedlikeanold-timewarrior,bentunderthehoodofabeat-uprez
car,workingontheengine.IcouldseetheinfluenceofDesJarlaitandtheWPA
or maybe it was the Mexican muralists. Claud in his buckskin and fur and
featherslookedlikeaheroicworkerinapostofficemural.Hewasbigandbold
andbright.
“DelhadashowattheAmericanIndianCenterinMinneapolis.Thenhegota
job at the new casino being built south of the Twin Cities. There was a tiny
reservation there: Prairie Lake, and this was the end of the 1980s, after the
SupremeCourtruledthatstatescouldnotregulateIndiangaming.Itwasthestart
of good times for a handful of Indian bands, the ones near white centers of
population.Most,ofcourse,wereinthemiddleofnowhereanddidfarlesswell
withgaming.Butitwasahelp.Iwillnotbecynicalaboutit.Wehadbeenso
poorforsolong.Evenalittlemoneywaswealth;andforafewbands,likethe
onesatPrairieLake,themoneywasserious,evenbywhitestandards.
“ThebanddecidedtonametheircasinoMammothTreasure.Isupposeitwas
agoodname.Theiremblemwasagoldenmammoth,amalewithhugetwisting
tusks. They wanted a mural in the entrance lobby, showing traditional Indian
activities.Del’sworkfitthebill.EventhoughhewasOjibwa,andtheyweren’t,
hegotthejob.
“Iwent down to PrairieLake with himsometimes. The lobby was circular,
and the mural went all the way around the curving wall. If you stood in the
middle of the lobby, you were surrounded by a nineteenth century landscape,
rollingprairiewithclumpsoftrees.Itwasacloudlessdayinmid-autumn.The
grasswastanandgold.Thetreeswereredandbrown.Intheforegroundwere
Indianhuntersonhorseback.Inthemiddledistancebisongrazed;andinthefar
distancewerefourgroupsofmammoths,oneoneachsideofthelobby,ineach
of the four directions. Birds sailed above the prairie, so high up that their
markings were invisible. But the length of their wings said they were eagles.
Hardtosaywhattheyweredoingthere.Baldeaglesarefishersandusuallykeep
closetowater.Theraptorsoveraprairieoughttobehawks.
“Wasthemuralcorny?Yes.ButDelhadastreakofromancethatwentright
through him, along with a streak of irony; and the band building the casino
absolutelylovedthemural;andweneededthemoney.
“Of course, most of the time when I went down, I saw white plaster and
scaffolding. The mural was a work in progress. I nursed little Delores and
watchedDelortalkedwiththebandtreasurer,whowasawoman,abigmatron
withgrayhair.Thefirstdribblesofgamblingmoneyhadgottenherafinesetof
newteeth,butitcouldn’tdoanythingaboutthelinesinherface.MarionForte.
Agoodname.Shewasasstrongandsolidasafort.Shetooktomeonceshe
discoveredIwasLakota.‘IhavenothingagainsttheOjibwa,’shetoldme.‘Even
thoughtheyusedtobeourenemies.ButtheLakotaareourcousins.Howdid
youmanagetomarryanOjibwa?’
“ItoldherIwasn’tsure.Itsimplyhappened.Shenodded.‘That’spossible.He
isagoodpainter,eventhoughthoseeaglesshouldn’tbeupthere.Wearen’tclose
enough to the Mississippi. And those hunters are overdressed, unless they’re
goingtowar.Allthatpaintandfeathers!Noonehuntedbisonthatway.’
“ItoldherIhadwonderedaboutthat,andshelaughed.‘Mostofthecouncil
aremen.Theywantedtoseewarriors,buttheydidn’twantpeopletocomein
andseeawar.Thisisaplacetohavefun.Wecan’thavebloodinthelobby.’
“She was an easy woman to talk to, about the age my mother would have
been,ifshehadlived,andbothsharpandkind.SoItoldheraboutClaraand
Rosa and my childhood and my current life. In the end—it was inevitable—I
told her about the freezers in the basement, and the tissue which was an
inheritanceandproblem.
“Marion looked thoughtful. ‘Mammoths,’ she said. ‘No wonder Del has
painted them. He’s living with what’s left of them.’ That was the end of the
conversation.”Mygrandmotherlookedatme.“Butyoumustknowthenextpart
ofthestory.”
I nodded. “She went to the council and said, they should put money into
research.”
“Yes,” said Grandmother. “And they refused. They were too new to having
money.Theywanteditforthemselvesandrestofthebandandforthecasino,so
theycouldmakemoremoney.”
“‘Menneverthinkahead,’Marionsaid.‘That’swhytheymakegoodwarriors.
ThecouncilpresidentcamebackfromKoreawithachestfullofmedals.Hehas
never looked beyond the next hill in his entire life. Well, this hill is the new
casino.Let’swaitandseewhatliesontheotherside.’
“Iwenthome and lookedatthe bankbalanceand sentoutmy resume. Del
wasgettingpaidwellforthemural,butthatmoneywouldn’tlast;andourutility
billswerehigh.”
Grandmothershrugged.“Whymakealongstorylongerthanitisbynature?
ThePrairieLakecouncilvotedtosetupafoundation.Ittookanotherfouryears,
withMarionpushingateverymeeting;butitfinallyhappened.BythenDelhad
ajobteachingattheMinneapolisCollegeofArt,andhe’devenhadashowina
whitemuseum—nothiscurrentwork,buttheolderabstractions.YoungDelores
wasoldenoughfordaycare,thoughshedidn’tlikeit.Howyourmotheryelled
thefirsttimeIlefther!
“TheUniversitygotthefirstgrantformammothresearch;andIwenttowork
for the research lab. The U had no choice. I came with the money and the
mammothtissue.DidIfeelguilty,usingthetissueandthePrairieLakeband’s
clout? Not a bit. It was the 1990s by then, the last great hurrah of capitalism
before the dark days of the early 21st century. The white people were busy
grabbingeverythingtheycouldwithbothhands.Ithought,Icoulddoalittleof
thesame,enoughtopaythebillsandgetmyselfbackintoresearch.
“Ofcourse thepeopleinthelabresentedme,awomanandanIndian,who
hadgottenherjobthroughluckandcasinomoney.HowcouldIbeanygood?I
won’t bother you with the story of my struggles. This story is about the
mammoths,notme.Butalwaysrememberthatpowerconcedesnothingwithout
a demand. It never did, and it never will. ‘If there is no struggle there is no
progress. Those who profess to favor freedom and yet depreciate agitation …
wantcropswithoutplowinguptheground,theywantrainwithoutthunderand
lightning.Theywanttheoceanwithouttheawfulroarofitsmanywaters…’”
At the time I did not recognize the quote. It was Frederick Douglass, of
course. Odd to hear my grandmother talk about the ocean on the bone-dry
Dakotaprairie.
“ThefirstseveralgrantscamefromPrairieLake.Thenothermoneybeganto
comein,asthelabreporteditsfirstsuccess,whichwasdecodingmammothand
elephant DNA and finding out that mammoths were closely related to Asian
elephants. The next step was obvious, though not easy: building a viable
mammotheggandimplantingitinanelephant.”Grandmothersmiled.“Imagine
whatastatementthatis!Itusedtobe,wecouldnotimaginere-creatingextinct
animals,exceptmaybeinsciencefictionstories.Nowwehavethequagga—the
realquagga,notthebred-backversion;andthegiantgroundsloth,thoughI’m
notsurewhatuseitis,exceptasanexhibitinazoo.Andwehavetwospeciesof
mammoths, though the Siberian species is a genetic patchwork. Still, it’s
differentenoughfromourMissourimammothstobecalledaseparatespecies.
“Ihavetosay,mycontributiontotheresearchwasnotkey;andIdidmyown
bestworklaterinanotherarea.ButIstillremember—howcouldIeverforget?
—themorningwhenthefirstbabymammothwasbornandhelpedtostandbya
vetandthesurrogatemother’smahout.Therestofuswatchedonamonitor.The
calfwastiny,unsteady,wetandveryhairy.Themotherfondleditwithhertrunk,
unsurprised—asfaraswecouldtell—byallthehair.
“The first species brought back from extinction! Not from the edge of
extinction, but from the void beyond the edge! The research team broke out
champagne,andthePrairieLakebandorderednewcommercialsfortheircasino
starringthe baby.That led to a fight, but theband had good lawyers, and the
grantshadbeencarefullywritten.PrairieLakeownedtherighttopublicizeany
resultsofthe researchthey funded. Mycolleagues atthe U madeangry jokes
about Indian givers. But the band never asked for its money back. It simply
wanteditsshareoftheresults,whichincluded—ultimately—enoughmammoths
tostarttheirownherd.Alwaysbecarefulwhatyousign,Emma.”
Shestoppedandleanedback,hereyesclosed.Itwasalongstory.Ofcourse,I
feltpride.MyfamilyhadhelpedsavetheMissourimammoths,thoughmostof
themammothslivednorthandwestofus.Thegreatriverwasdiminishing,due
to lack of snow in the Rockies; and the moist bottom lands the mammoths
needednolongerexisted.
“There’sonegoodsidetothat,”Grandmothersaid.“TheyblewuptheOahe
Dam.Thatdamnlakeisgone.Itneverlookednatural,andittooksomuchofour
land. Though it didn’t do to us what it did to the Mandan and Hidatsa and
Akikawa. They lost their entire reservation. I know it happened in another
century,andIknowthatpeopleshouldn’tholdgrudges.Lifehasgottenbetterfor
usandmanypeople.ButIhatedthatlake.Icoulddanceonthedrylandwhereit
used to be. In fact I do. That’s where we hold the annual Standing Rock
powwow.”
Shedidn’tsay‘powwow.’Shesaid‘wacipi,’whichistheLakotaword.ButI
knewwhatshemeant.
“It would have happened, anyway,” Grandmother said. “They would have
builtmammothsfromotherDNA.Rosawasn’ttheonlypersonwhokepttissue,
thoughherswasthebest.Sodon’tfeeltooproud,youngMissEmma.Historyis
acollaborativeprocess.Theimportantthingistobeapartofhistoryandonthe
rightside,whichisnotalwayseasytodetermine.It’snotenoughtoholdonto
thepast,thoughweIndiansprovedthatlosingthepastisdangerous.Wealmost
diedoftryingtobewhite.Notthatwhitepeoplehavedonemuchbetter.They
almostdestroyedtheplanetbygettingandspendingandlayingwaste.
“Whatdowekeepfromthepast?Whatdowediscard?Howdowechange?
These are all important questions, which all of us have to answer. The
mammothsareimportant,thoughtheymaynotgrazebytheMissouriagainin
our lifetimes. But the bison are back—over a million; and the herds are still
growing;andyoucanseethemhereonStandingRock.There’splentylefttodo
to remake the planet, but we have achieved a fair amount already. One step
forward and two steps back, and then one or two or three steps forward. We
danceintothefuturelikedancersinaGrandEntry.”
***
Attheendofeveryvisit,Iwenthome,rockingthroughStandingRockpastthe
grazingbison.Mymother’ssecondcousinThelmainMinotgavemedinnerand
abed.Inthemorning,Irodetheeastboundrockettrain.Windmillsturned.The
trainglidedthroughforest.MyparentswaitedontheplatforminMinneapolis.If
Iwantedtoseemammoths,IcouldgotoMammothTreasureParkbythecasino.
Theywerethere,wadinginanartificialriverandsprayingeachotherwithwater,
theirancienteyesglitteringwithpleasure.Abovethemintheblueskymightbe
eagles.Theyhavegrownsocommonthattheyareeverywherethesedays.
SleepingDogs
JOEHALDEMAN
Born in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, Joe Haldeman took a B.S.
degree in physics and astronomy from the University of
Maryland, and did postgraduate work in mathematics and
computerscience.Buthisplansforacareerinsciencewerecut
shortbytheU.S.Army,whichsenthimtoVietnamin1968asa
combat engineer. Seriously wounded in action, Haldeman
returnedhomein1969andbegantowrite.Hesoldhisfirststory
to Galaxy in 1969, and by 1976 had garnered both the Nebula
Award and the Hugo Award for his famous novel The Forever
War,oneofthelandmarkbooksoftheseventies.Hetookanother
Hugo Award in 1977 for his story “Tricentennial,” won the
RhyslingAwardin1984forthebestsciencefictionpoemofthe
year (although usually thought of primarily as a “hard science”
writer,Haldemanis,infact,alsoanaccomplishedpoet,andhas
sold poetry to most of the major professional markets in the
genre),andwonboththeNebulain1990andtheHugoAwardin
1991 for the novella version of “The Hemingway Hoax.” His
story“NoneSoBlind”wontheHugoAwardin1995.Hisother
books include a mainstream novel, War Year, the SF novels
Mindbridge, All My Sins Remembered, There Is No Darkness
(writtenwithhisbrother,SFwriterJackC.HaldemanII),Worlds,
Worlds Apart, Worlds Enough and Time, Buying Time, The
Hemingway Hoax, Tool of the Trade, The Coming, the
mainstreamnovel1968,Camouflage,whichwontheprestigious
James Tiptree, Jr., Award, Old Twentieth, and The Accidental
Time Machine. His short work has been gathered in the
collections Infinite Dreams, Dealing in Futures, Vietnam and
Other Alien Worlds, None So Blind, A Separate War and Other
Stories,andanomnibusoffictionandnonfiction,WarStories.As
editor, he has produced the anthologies Study War No More,
Cosmic Laughter, Nebula Award Stories Seventeen, and, with
Martin H. Greenberg, Future Weapons of War. His most recent
books are two new science fiction novels, Marsbound and its
sequel, Starbound. Haldeman lives part of the year in Boston,
where he teaches writing at the Massachusetts Institute of
Technology,andtherestoftheyearinFlorida,whereheandhis
wife,Gay,maketheirhome.
Herehegivesusadeeplycynicalstudyofthewaysinwhich
future governments could manipulate the flow of information
reachingtheircitizensevenmoreeffectivelythantheydotoday.
…
Thecabtookmyeyeprintandthedoorswungopen.Iwasgladtogetout.No
drivertocarehowroughtheridewas,onaroadthatwouldn’tevenbecalleda
roadonEarth.TheplacehadgonedownhillinthethirtyyearsI’dbeenaway.
Low gravity and low oxygen. My heart was going too fast. I stood for a
moment,concentrating,andbroughtitdowntoahundred,thenninety.Theair
had more sulfur sting than I remembered. It seemed a lot warmer than I
remembered that summer, too, but then if I could remember it all I wouldn’t
havetobehere.Mymissingfingerthrobbed.
Six identical buildings on the block, half-cylinders of stained pale green
plastic. I walked up the dirt path to number 3: Offworld Affairs and
ConfederaciónLiaison.Ialmostranintothedoorwhenitdidn’topen.Pushed
andpulledanditreluctantlyletmeinside.
Itwasalittlecoolerandlesssulfurous.Iwenttotheseconddoorontheright,
TravelDocumentsandPermissions,andwentin.
“Youdon’tknockonEarth?”Acadaveroustallman,skintoowhiteandhair
tooblack.
“Actually, no,” I said, “not public buildings. But I apologize for my
ignorance.”
Helookedatamonitorbuiltintohisdesk.“YouwouldbeFlannSpivey,from
JapanonEarth.Youdon’tlookJapanese.”
“I’mIrish,”Isaid.“IworkforaJapanesecompany,IchibanImaging.”
Hetouchedawordonthescreen.“Meansnumberone.Best,orfirst?”
“Both,Ithink.”
“Papers.”Ilaidouttwopassportsandafolderoftraveldocuments.Hespent
severalminutesinspectingthemcarefully.Thenheslippedthemintoaprimitive
scanningmachine,whichflippedthroughthemonebyone,pagebypage.
Hefinallyhandedthemback.“Whenyouwereheretwenty-nineEarthyears
ago, there were only eight countries on Seca, representing two competing
powers. Now there are 79 countries, two of them offplanet, in a political
situationthat’s…impossibletodescribesimply.Mostoftheother78countries
aremorecomfortablethanSpaceport.Nicer.”
“SoIwastold.I’mnothereforcomfort,though.”Thereweren’tmanyplanets
wheretheyputtheirspaceportsinniceplaces.
Henoddedslowlyasheselectedtwoformsfromadrawer.“Sowhatdoesa
‘thanatopiccounselor’do?”
“I prepare people for dying.” For living completely, actually, before they
leave.
“Curious.”Hesmiled.“Itpayswell?”
“Adequately.”
Hehandedmetheforms.“I’veneverseenapoorpersoncomethroughthat
door.TakethesedownthehalltoImmunization.”
“I’vehadalltheshots.”
“All that the Confederación requires. Seca has a couple of special tests for
returningveterans.OftheConsolidationWar.”
“Of course. The nanobiota. But I was tested before they let me return to
Earth.”
Heshrugged.“Rules.Whatdoyoutellthem?”
“Tell?”
“Thepeoplewhoaregoingtodie.Wejustsortofletitcatchupwithus.Avoid
itaslongaspossible,but…”
“That’saway.”Itooktheforms.“Nottheonlyway.”
I had the door partly open when he cleared his throat. “Dr. Spivey? If you
don’thaveanyplans,Iwouldbepleasedtohavemidmealwithyou.”
Interesting.“Sure.Idon’tknowhowlongthiswilltake…”
“Ten minims, fifteen. I’ll call us a floater, so we don’t have to endure the
road.”
***
Thebloodandsalivasamplestooklesstimethanfillingouttheforms.WhenI
wentbackoutside,thefloaterwashummingdownandBrazNitianwaswatching
itlandfromthewalkway.
It was a fast two-minute hop to the center of town, the last thirty seconds
disconcertingfreefall.Theplacehe’dchosenwasKaffeeRembrandt,arough-
hewn place with a low ceiling and guttering oil lamps in pursuit of a 16th-
centuryambience,somewhatdilutedbythefact that thedozensofRembrandt
reproductionsglowedwithapparentlysourcelessillumination.
Abustywaitressinperiodflounceshowedustoasmalltable,dwarfedbya
largeself-portraitoftheartistposedas“ProdigalSonwithaWhore.”
I’d never seen an actual flagon, a metal container with a hinged top. It
appearedtoholdenoughwinetosupportamealandsomeconversation.
Iorderedaplateofbraisedvegetables,followingconservativedietaryadvice
—the odd proteins in Seca’s animals and fish might lay me low with a xeno-
allergy.AmongthethingsIdidn’trememberaboutmyprevioustimeherewas
whetherourrationshadincludedanynativefleshorfish.ButevenifI’dsafely
eaten them thirty years ago, the Hartford doctor said, I could have a protein
allergynow,sinceanolderdigestivesystemmightnotcompletelybreakdown
thosealienproteinsintosafeaminoacids.
Braz had gone to college on Earth, UCLA, an expensive proposition that
obligated him to work for the government for ten years (which would be
fourteen Earth years). He had degrees in mathematics and macroeconomics,
neitherof which he used in his officejob.He taught three nights a week and
wrotepapersthatnineortenpeoplereadanddisagreedwith.
“So how did you become a thanatopic counselor? Something you always
wantedtobewhenyougrewup?”
“Yeah,aftercowboyandpirate.”
Hesmiled.“IneversawacowboyonEarth.”
“Piratestrackedthemdownandmadethemwalktheplank.Actually,Iwasan
accountantwhenIjoinedthemilitary,andthenstartedoutinpre-medafterIwas
discharged,butswitchedovertopsychologyandmovedintostudyingveterans.”
“Naturalenough.Knowthyself.”
“Literally.”Findthyself,Ithought.“Yougetalotofuscomingthrough?”
“Well,notsomany,notfromEarthorotherforeignplanets.Beingaveteran
doesn’tcorrelatewellwithwealth.”
“That’sforsure.”AndatripfromEarthtoSecaandbackcostsasmuchasa
bighouse.
“I imagine that treating veterans doesn’t generate a lot of money, either.”
Eyebrowslifting.
“A life of crime does.” I smiled and he laughed politely. “But most of the
veteransIdoseearewelloff.Almostnobodywithanormallifespanneedsmy
services. They’re mostly for people who’ve lived some centuries, and you
couldn’tdothatwithoutwealth.”
“Theygettiredoflife?”
“Notthewayyou or Icouldbecometiredof agame,ora relationship.It’s
somethingdeeperthanrunningoutofnovelty.Peoplewiththatlittleimagination
don’tneedme.Theycanstopexistingforthepriceofabulletorarope—ora
painlessprescription,whereIcomefrom.”
“Notlegalhere,”hesaidneutrally.
“Iknow.I’mnotenthusiasticaboutit,myself.”
“You’dhavemorecustomers?”
Ishrugged.“Youneverknow.”Thewaitressbroughtusourfirstplates,grilled
fungionastickforme.Brazhadabowlofsmallanimalswithtails,deep-fried.
Fingerfood;youholdthembythetailanddipthemintoapungentyellowsauce.
ItwasmuchbetterthanI’dexpected;thefungiwerethreadedontoastickof
somearomaticwoodlikelaurel;shebroughtasmallglassofalavender-colored
drink,tastinglikedrysherry,togowiththem.
“Soit’snotaboutgettingbored?”heasked.“That’showyounormallyseeit.
Inbooks,onthecube…”
“Maybe the reality isn’t dramatic enough. Or too complicated to tell as a
simpledrama.
“Youliveafewhundredyears,atleastonEarth,youslowlyleaveyournative
culture behind. You’re an immortal—culturally true if not literally—and your
non-immortalfriendsandfamilyandbusinessassociatesdieoff.Thelongeryou
live,thedeeperyougointotheimmortalcommunity.”
“Theremustbesomenonconformists.”
“‘Mavericks,’thecowboysusedtosay.”
“Beforethepiratesdidthemin.”
“Right.Therearen’tmanymaverickspasttheirfirstcenturyoflifeextension.
Thepeopleyougrewupwithareeitherfellowimmortalsordead.Together,the
survivorsformasocietythat’sunusuallycohesive.Sowhensomeonedecidesto
leave, decides to stop living, the arrangements are complex and may involve
hundredsofpeople.
“That’swhereIcomein,thepracticalpartofmyjob:I’makindofoverall
estatemanager.Theyallhavesignificantwealth;fewhaveanylivingrelatives
closerthangreat-great-grandchildren.”
“Youhelpthemsplituptheirfortunes?”
“It’s more interesting than that. The custom for centuries has been to put
togetheralegacy,socalled,thatisacomplexandpersonalaestheticexpression.
Tosimplydie,andletthelawyerssortitout,wouldtrivializeyourlifeaswellas
your death. It’s my job to make sure that the legacy is a meaningful and
permanentextensionoftheperson’slife.
“Sometimes a physical monument is involved; more often a financial one,
throughendowmentsandsponsorships.Whichiswhatbringsmehere.”
Our main courses came; Braz had a kind of eel, bright green with black
antennae,apparentlyraw,butmybraisedvegetableswerereassuringlyfamiliar.
“SooneofyourclientsisfinancingsomethinghereonSeca?”
“Financingme,actually.It’spartlyagift;wegetalongwell.Butit’spartofa
patternofsimilarbequeststonon-immortals,togiveusbacklostmemories.”
“Howlost?”
“Itwasamilitaryprogram,tocounteractthestressofcombat.Theycalledthe
drugaqualethe.Haveyouheardofit?”
Heshookhishead.“Waterofwhat?”
“It’salinguisticmangling,ormingling.LatinandGreek.Lethewasariverin
Hell;aspiritdrankfromittoforgethisoldlife,sohecouldbereincarnated.
“Aprettyaccuratename.Itbasicallydisconnectsyourlong-termmemoryasa
wayofdivertingcombatstress,so-calledpost-traumaticstressdisorder.”
“Itworked?”
“Too well. I spent eight months here as a soldier, when I was in my early
twenties.Idon’trememberanythingspecificbetweenthevoyagehereandthe
voyageback.”
“Itwasahorriblewar. Short butharsh.Maybeyou don’twantthememory
back.‘Letsleepingdogslie,’wesayhere.”
“We say that, too. But for me … well, you could say it’s a professional
handicap.Thoughactuallyitgoesdeeper.
“PartofwhatIdowithmyclientsisamixofmeditationanddialogue.Itryto
helpthemformacoherenttapestryoftheirlives,thegoodandthebad,asabasic
groundingfortheirlegacy.ThefactthatIcouldneverdothatformyselfhinders
measacounselor.Especiallywhentheclient,likethisone,hadhisowncombat
experiencestodealwith.”
“He’s,um,deadnow?”
“Oh,no.Likemanyofthem,he’sinnoparticularhurry.Hejustwantstobe
ready.”
“Howoldishe?”
“ThreehundredandninetyEarthyears.Aimingforfourcenturies,hethinks.”
Brazsawedawayathiseelandlookedthoughtful.“Ican’timagine.Imean,I
sortofunderstandwhenanormalmangetssooldhegivesup.Theirholdonlife
becomesweak,andtheyletgo.Butyourmanispresumablyfitandsane.”
“MorethanI,Ithink.”
“So why four hundred years rather than five? Or three? Why not try for a
thousand?That’swhatIwoulddo,ifIwerethatrich.”
“SowouldI.Atleastthat’showIfeelnow.Mypatronsayshefeltthatway
when he was mortal. But he can’t really articulate what happened to slowly
changehisattitude.
“Hesaysitwouldbeliketryingtoexplainmarriedlovetoababejustlearning
totalk.Thebabethinksitknowswhatloveis,andcanapplythewordtoitsown
circumstances.Butitdoesn’thavethevocabularyorlifeexperiencetoapproach
thelargermeaning.”
“An odd comparison, marriage,” he said, delicately separating the black
antennaefromthehead.“Youcanbecomeunmarried.Butnotundead.”
“Thebabewouldn’tknow aboutdivorce.Maybe thereisa levelofanalogy
there.”
“Wedon’tknowwhatdeathis?”
“Perhapsnotaswellasthey.”
***
IlikedBrazandneededtohireaguide;hehadsomeleavecomingandcoulduse
thesideincome.HisSpanishwasgood,andthatwasrareonSecas;theyspokea
kindofpatchworkofPortugueseandEnglish.IfI’dstudieditthirtyyearsbefore,
I’dretainednone.
The therapy to counteract aqualethe was a mixture of brain chemistry and
environment. Simply put, the long-term memories were not destroyed by
aqualethe,buttheconnectiontothemhadbeenweakened.Therewasaregimen
oftwentypillsIhadtotaketwicedaily,andIhadtotaketheminsurroundings
thatwouldjogmymemory.
Thatmeantgoingbacktosomeuglyterritory.
There were no direct flights to Serraro, the mountainous desert where my
platoon had been sent to deal with a situation now buried in secrecy, perhaps
shame. We could get within a hundred kilometers of it, an oasis town called
ConsoleVerde.Imadearrangementstorentageneral-purposevehiclethere,a
jépe.
AfterBrazandImadethosearrangements,IgotanotefromsomeChiefof
Internal Security saying that my activities were of questionable legality, and I
shouldreporttohisofficeat0900tomorrowtodefendmyactions.Wewerein
theairport,fortunately,whenIgotthemessage,andwejumpedonaflightthat
wasleavingintwentyminutes,payingcash.ImpossibleonEarth.
ItoldBraz I wouldbuyus acoupleof changesofclothing and suchat the
Oasis,andwegotonthejetwithnothingbutourpapers,mymedications,and
theclothesonourbacks—and my purse,providentiallystuffedwiththepaper
notestheyuseinsteadofplastic.(I’dlearnedthattheexchangeratewasmuch
betteronEarth,andwascarryinghalfayear’ssalaryinthosenotes.)
Theflightwasn’tevensuborbital,andtookfourhourstogoaboutatenthof
theplanet’scircumference.Wesleptmostoftheway;itdidn’ttakemetwenty
minutestotellhimeverythingIhadbeenabletofindoutaboutthattwo-thirds
yearthatwastakenfromme.
Serraroisnotexactlyabastionoffreedomofinformationunderthebestof
circumstances, and that was a period in their history that many would just as
soonforget.
Itwasnotapoorcountry.Thedesertwasrichintherareearthsthatinterstellar
jumpsrequired.Therehadbeenlotsofsmallminesaroundthecountryside(no
farms)andonlyonecityofanysize.ThatwasNovoB,shortforNovoBrasil,
anditwasstillnotthesafestspotintheConfederación.Notonouritinerary.
My platoon had begun its work in Console Verde as part of a force of one
thousand.Whenwereturnedtothatoasis,therewerebarelysixhundredofus
left.Butthecountryhadbeen“unified.”Wheretherehadbeen78minesthere
nowwasone,Preciosa,andnoonewantedtotalkabouthowthathappened.
Theofficialhistorysaysthattheconsolidationofthose78mineswasamodel
ofself-determinism, the independentminers banding togetherfor strength and
bargainingpower.Therewassomeresistance,evensomeoutlawguerillaaction.
Buttheauthorities—Iamongthem,evidently—gotthingsundercontrolinless
thanayear.
Travelandresidencerecordshadallbeendestroyedbyapowerfulexplosion
blamed on the guerillas, but in the next census, Serarro had lost thirty-five
percentofitspopulation.Perhapstheywalkedaway.
Westoodoutasforeignersinourbusinesssuits;mostmenwhowerenotin
uniformworeaplainloosewhiterobe.Iwentimmediatelyintoashopnextto
theairportandboughttwoofthem,andtwosidearms.Brazhadn’tfiredapistol
inyears,buthehadtoagreehewouldlookconspicuousherewithoutone.
We stood out anyway, pale and tall. The men here were all sunburned and
most wore long braided black hair. Our presence couldn’t be kept secret; I
wonderedhowlongitwouldbebeforethatChiefofInternalSecuritycaughtup
withme.Iwashopingitwasjustroutineharassment,andtheywouldn’tfollow
ushere.
Therewasonlyoneroomatthesmallinn,butBrazdidn’tmindsharing.In
fact,hesuggestedwepassthetimewithsex,whichcaughtmeoffguard.Itold
himmendon’troutinelydothatonEarth,atleastnottheplaceandtimeIcame
from.Heacceptedthatwithanod.
Iaskedthe innkeeperwhether the townhad alibrary,andhe saidno, but I
couldtrytheschoolhouseontheothersideoftown.Brazwasnapping,soIlefta
noteandtookoffonmyown,confidentinmyabilitytoturnrightandgotothe
endoftheroad.
AlthoughI’dbeenmanyplacesonEarth,theonlytimeI’dbeeninspacewas
thateight-monthtourhere.SoIkeptmyeyesopenfor“alien”details.
SecahadaDrakeindexof0.95,whichbyruleofthumbmeantthatonlyfive
percentofitwasmoreharshthantheworsttheEarthhadtooffer.Theequatorial
desert,Isupposed. Wewere in whatwould havebeen a temperatelatitude on
Earth,andIwassweatingfreelyinthedryheat.
The people here were only five generations away from Earth, but some
genetic drift was apparent. No more profound than you would find on some
islandsandotherisolatedcommunitiesonEarth.ButIdidn’tseeasingleblonde
orred-headintheshort,solidlybuiltpopulationhere.
The men wore scowls as well as guns. The women, brighter colors and a
neutraldistantexpression.
Some of the men, mostly younger, wore a dagger as well as a sidearm. I
wondered whether there was some kind of code duello that I would have to
watchoutfor.Probablynotwearingadaggerwouldprotectyoufromthat.
Aside from a pawn shop, with three balls, and a tavern with bright signs
announcingberbesaandbino,mostoftheshopswerenotidentified.Isupposed
thatinasmallisolatedtown,everybodyknewwhereeverythingwas.
Twomenstoppedtogether, blockingthesidewalk.Oneofthemtouchedhis
pistolandsaidsomethingincomprehensible,loudly.
“FromEarth,”Isaid,inunexcitedConfederaciónSpanish.SoydelaTierra.”
Theylookedateachotherandwentbyme.Itriedtoignorethecrawlingfeeling
inthemiddleofmyback.
Ireflectedonmylackofsoldierlyinstincts.ShouldIhavetouchedmygunas
well?Probablynot.Ifthey’dstartedshooting,whatshouldIdo?Hurlmy60-
year-oldbodytotheground,rolloverwiththepistolinmyhand,andaimforthe
chest?
“Twointhechest,thenoneinthehead,”Irememberedfromcrimedrama.But
Ididn’trememberanythingthatbasicfromhavingbeenasoldier.Mytrainingon
Earth had mainly been calisthenics and harassment. Endless hours of parade-
ground drill. Weapons training would come later, they said. The only thing
“later”meanttomewasmonthslater,slowlyregainingmyidentityonthetrip
backtoEarth.
BythetimeI’dgottenofftheship,Iseemedtohaveallmymemoriesback
throughbasictraining,andtheliftrideuptothetroopcarrier.Wehad1.5-gee
accelerationto the Oortportal, but somewhere along there I lost my memory,
anddidn’tgetitbacktillthereturntrip.ThentheydroppedmeonEarth—me
andtheothersurvivors—withabigcheckandaleathercasefullofmedals.Plus
asmallercheck,everymonth,formylostfinger.
IknewIwasapproachingtheschoolbythesmalltideofchildrenrunningin
mydirection,aboutfiftyofthem,rangingfromsevenoreighttoabouttwelve,in
Earthyears.
The school house was small, three or four rooms. A grey-bearded man,
unarmed,steppedoutandIhailedhim.WeestablishedthatwehadEnglishin
commonandIaskedwhethertheschoolhadalibrary.Hesaidyes,anditwould
beopenfortwohoursyet.“Mostlychildren’sbooks, of course.Whatareyou
interestedin?”
“History,”Isaid.“Recent.TheConsolidationWar.”
“Ah.Followme.”Heledmethroughadustyplayground,totherearofthe
school.“YouwereaConfederaciónsoldier?’
“Iguessthat’sobvious.”
Hepausedwithhishandonthedoorknob.“Youknowtobecareful?”IsaidI
did. “Don’t go out at night alone. Your size is like a beacon.” He opened the
doorandsaid,“Suela?Atravelerislookingforahistorybook.”
Theroomwashigh-ceilingedandcool,withthickstonewallsandplentyof
lightfromtheuniformglowoftheceiling.Anelderlywomanwithwhitehair
takingpaperbooksfromacartandre-shelvingthem.
“Pardon my poor English,” she said, with an accent better than mine. “But
whatdoyouwantinapaperbookthatyoucan’taseasilydownload?”
“IwascurioustoseewhatchildrenaretaughtabouttheConsolidationWar.”
“Thesame truth as everyone,” she said with a wry expression, and stepped
overtoanothershelf.“Here…”shereadtitles,“thisistheonlyoneinEnglish.I
can’tletyoutakeitaway,butyou’rewelcometoreadithere.”
Ithankedherandtookthebooktoanadult-sizedtableandchairattheother
end of the room. Most of the study area was scaled down. A girl of seven or
eightstaredatme.
Ididn’tknow,really,whatIexpectedtofindinthebook.Ithadfourpageson
the Consolidation and Preciosa, and in broad outline there was not much
surprising.Acoalitionof minesdecidedthat the Confederaciónwasn’tpaying
enough for dysprosium, and they got most of the others to go along with the
schemeofhidingthestuffandholdingoutforafairprice—whatthebookcalled
profiteeringandrestraintoftrade.Preciosawasthebiggestmine,andtheymade
a separate deal with the Confederación, guaranteeing a low price, freezing all
theircompetitorsout.Whichledtowar.
Seca—actuallyPreciosa—askedforsupportfromtheConfederación,andthe
warbecameinterstellar.
Thebooksaidthatmostofthewartookplacefarfrompopulationcenters,in
thebleakhighdesertwherethemineswere.Here.
ItstruckmethatIhadn’tnoticedmanyoldbuildings,olderthanaboutthirty
years.Irememberedaquotefromatwentieth-centuryAmericanwar:“Wehadto
destroythevillageinordertosaveit.”
The elderly librarian sat down across from me. She had a soft voice. “You
werehereasasoldier.Butyoudon’trememberanythingaboutit.”
“That’strue.That’sexactlyit.”
“Therearethoseofuswhodoremember.”
Ipushedthebookacoupleofinchestowardher.“Isanyofthistrue?”
Sheturnedthebookaroundandscannedthepagesitwasopento,andshook
herheadwithagrimsmile.“Evenchildrenknowbetter.Whatdoyouthinkthe
Confederacíónis?”
I thought for a moment. “At one level, it’s a loose federation of 48 or 49
planetswithacharterprotectingtherightsofhumansandnon-humans,andwith
trade rules that encourage fairness and transparency. At another level, it’s the
HartfordCorporation,thewealthiestenterpriseinhumanhistory.Whichcando
anythingitwants,presumably.”
“Andonapersonallevel?Whatisittoyou?”
“It’s an organization that gave me a job when jobs were scarce. Security
specialist.AlthoughIwasn’ta‘specialist’inanysenseoftheword.Ageneralist,
socalled.”
“Amercenary.”
“Notsocalled.Nothingimmoralorillegal.”
“Buttheytookyourmemoryofitaway.Soitcouldhavebeeneither,orboth.”
“Couldhavebeen,”Iadmitted.“I’mgoingtofindout.Doyouknowaboutthe
therapythatcounteractsaqualethe?”
“No…itgivesyouyourmemoriesback?”
“Sotheysay.I’mgoingtodrivedownintoSerarrotomorrow,andseewhat
happens.Youtakethepillsintheplaceyouwanttoremember.”
“Domeafavor,”shesaid,slidingthebookback,“andyourself,perhaps.Take
thepillshere,too.”
“Iwill.Wehadaheadquartershere.Imusthaveatleastpassedthrough.”
“Look for me in the crowd, welcoming you. You were all so exotic and
handsome.Iwasagirl,justten.”
TenherewouldbefourteenonEarth.Thisoldladywasyoungerthanme.No
juvetreatments.“Idon’tthinkthememorieswillbethatdetailed.I’lllookfor
you,though.”
Shepattedmyhandandsmiled.“Youdothat.”
BrazwasstillsleepingwhenIgotbacktotheinn.Sixtimezonestoadjustto;
mightaswelllethimsleep.Mybodywasstillonmeaninglessstarshiptime,but
I’veneverhadmuchtroubleadjusting.Mycounselingjobisaconstantwhirlof
timezones.
IquietlyslippedintotheotherbunkandputsomeHandelinmyearbudsto
drownouthissnoring.
***
Theinndidn’thaveanyvegetablesforbreakfast,soIhadacoupleofeggsthatI
hopedhadcomefromabird,andalargedryflavorlesscracker.Ourjepéarrived
at8:30andIwentouttopaythesubstantialdepositandinspectit.Guaranteed
bulletproofexceptforthewindows,nicetoknow.
Itookthefirstlegofdriving,sinceI’dbetakingthememorydruglater,and
the label had the sensible advice Do Not Operate Machinery While
Hallucinating.Wordstoliveby.
The city, such as it was, didn’t dwindle off into suburbs. It’s an oasis, and
wherethegreenstopped,thehousesstopped.
Idroveverycautiouslyatfirst.MycarinLAisrestrictedtoautopilot,andit
had been several years since I was last behind a steering wheel. A little
exhilarating.
After about thirty kilometers, the road suddenly got very rough. Braz
suggestedthatwe’dleftthestateofConsoleVerdeandhadenteredPretorocha,
whosetaxbasewouldn’tpayforashovel.Igavethewheeltohimafteraslow
hour,whenwegottothefirstpileoftailings.Timetotakethefirsttwentypills.
I didn’t really know what to expect. I knew the unsupervised use of the
aqualetheremedywasdiscouraged,becausesomepeoplehadextremereactions.
I’dgivenBrazanemergencypokeofsedativetoadministertomeifIreallylost
control.
Rubble and craters. Black grit over everything. Building ruins that hadn’t
weathered much; this place didn’t have much weather. Hot and dry in the
summer, slightly less hot and more dry in the winter. We drove around and
aroundandabsolutelynothinghappened.Aftertwohours,theminimumwait,I
swallowedanothertwenty.
PretorochawaswheretheysaidI’dlostmyfinger,anditwaswherethemost
Confederacióncasualtieshadbeenrecorded.Wasit possible thatthedrugjust
didn’tworkonme?
Whatwasmorelikely,ifIproperlyunderstoodtheliterature,wasoneoftwo
things:one,theplacehadchangedsomuchthatmyrecoveringmemorydidn’t
pickupanyspecifics;two,thatI’dneveractuallybeenhere.
Thatseconddidn’tseempossible.I’dleftafingerhere,andtheConfederacíon
verifiedthat;ithadbeenpayingforthelostdigitforthirtyyears.
The first explanation? Pictures of the battle looked about as bleak as this
blasted landscape. Maybe I was missing something basic, like a smell or the
summerheat.Buttheliteraturesaidthedrugrequiredvisualstimuli.
“Maybeitdoesn’tworkaswellonsomeasonothers,”Brazsaid.“Ormaybe
yougotabadbatch.Howlongdowekeepdrivingaround?”
Ihadsixtubesofpillsleft.Thedrugwasinmysystemforsure:coldsweat,
shortnessofbreath,ocularpressure.“Hell,Iguesswe’veseenenough.Takea
peebreakandheadback.”
Standingbythesideoftheroadthere,underthelowhotsun,urinatinginto
blackash,somehowIknewforcertainthatI’dneverbeentherebefore.Ahellish
placelikethiswouldburnitselfintoyoursubconscious.
Butaqualethewasstrong.Maybetoostrongfortheremedytocounter.
ItookthewheelforthetripbacktoConsoleVerde.Theair-conditioninghad
only two settings, frigid and off. We agreed to turn it off and open the non-
bulletproofwindowstothewaningheat.
There was a kind of lunar beauty to the place. That would have made an
impressiononmebackthen.WhenIwasstillapoet.Anoddthingtoremember.
Somethingdidhappenthatyeartoendthat.MaybeIlostitwiththemusic,with
thefinger.
WhentheroadgotbetterIletBraztakeover.Iwasoutofpracticewithtraffic,
andtheydroveonthewrongsideoftheroadanyhow.
Thefeelinghitmewhenthefirstbuildingsroseupoutoftherock.Mythroat.
Notlikechoking;agentlerpressure,liketighteninganecktie.
Everythingshimmeredandglowed.ThiswaswhereI’dbeen.Thissideofthe
city.
“Braz … it’s happening. Go slow.” He pulled over to the left and I heard
warninglightsgoclick-click-click.
“Youweren’t…downthereatall?Youwerehere?”
“Idon’tknow!Maybe.Idon’tknow.”Itwascomingonstrongerandstronger.
Like seeing double, but with all your body. “Get into the right lane.” It was
gettinghardtosee,abrilliantfog.“Whatisthatbigbuilding?”
“Doesn’thaveaname,”hesaid.“Confederaciónsigilovertheparkinglot.”
“Gothere…gothere…I’mlosingit,Braz.”
“Maybeyou’refindingit.”
Thecarwasfadingaroundme,andIseemedtodriftforwardandup.Through
thewallofthebuilding.Downacorridor.Throughacloseddoor.Intoanoffice.
I was sitting there, a young me. Coal black beard, neatly trimmed. Dress
uniform.Allmyfingers.
Mostofthewallbehindmewastakenupbyaglowingspreadsheet.Iknew
whatitrepresented.
Twolongtablesflankedmyworkstation.Theywerecoveredwitholdledgers
andfoldersfullofpapercorrespondenceandrecords.
My job was to steal the planet from its rightful owners—but not the whole
planet.JusttheTREOrights,TotalRareEarthOxides.
There was not much else on the planet of any commercial interest to the
Confederación. When they found a tachyon nexus, they went off in search of
dysprosium nearby, necessary for getting back to where you came from, or
continuing farther out. Automated probes had found a convenient source in a
mercurianplanetclosetothenexusstarPoucoyellow.Butafterafewthousand
pioneershadstakedhomesteadclaimsonSeca,someonestumbledonamother
lodeofdysprosiumandotherrareearthsinthesterilehellofSerarro.
Itwasthemostconcentratedsourceofdysprosiumeverfound,onanyplanet,
easilyathousandtimestheoutputofEarth’smines.
Thenativesknewwhattheyhadtheirhandson,andtheywerecagey.They
quietlypassedalawthatrequiredallmineralrightstobedeededonpaper;no
electronicrecord.Foryears,78minessoldtwopercentofthedysprosiumthey
dug up, and stockpiled the rest—as much as the Confederación could muster
from two dozen other planets. Once they had hoarded enough, they could
absolutelycornerthemarket.
Buttheyonlyhadonecustomer.
Routine satellite mapping gave them away; the gamma ray signature of
monazite-allenite stuck out like a flag. The Confederación deduced what was
goingon,andtrainedafewpeoplelikemetogoinandremedythesituation,
alongwithenoughsoldierstosupplythefogofwar.
Whiletheeconomywasgoingcrazy,dealingwithwar,Iwasquietlybuying
upsmallsharesintherareearthmines,throughhundredsoffictitiousproxies.
Whenwehadvotingcontrolof51%oftheplanet’sdysprosium,andthusits
price, the soldiers did an about-face and went home, first stopping at the
infirmaryforashotofaqualethe.
I was a problem, evidently. Aqualethe erased the memory of trauma, but I
hadn’t experienced any. All I had done was push numbers around, and
occasionallyforgesignatures.
Soonedaythreebigmenwearingblackhoodskickedinmydoorandtookme
toabasementsomewhere.Theybeatmemonotonouslyforhours,wearingthick
gloves, not breaking bones or rupturing organs. I was blindfolded and
handcuffed,sealedupinauniverseofconstantpain.
Thentheytookofftheblindfoldandhandcuffsandthosethreemenheldmy
armandhandwhileafourthusedheavybolt-cutterstosnipofftheringfingerof
mylefthand,makingsureIwatched.Thentheydressedthestumpandgaveme
ashot.
IwokeupapproachingEarth,withmedalsandmoneyandnomemory.And
onelessfinger.
***
Wokeagain onmy bunkat the inn. Braz sittingthere witha carafeof melán,
whattheyhadattheinninsteadofcoffee.“Areyoucomingto?”hesaidquietly.
“Ihelpedyouupthestairs.”Dawnlightatthewindow.“Itwasprettybad?”
“Itwas…notwhatIexpected.”Ileveredmyselfuprightandacceptedacup.
“Iwasn’treallyasoldier.Inuniform,butjustaclerk.Oraconman.”Isketched
outthestoryforhim.
“So they actually chopped off your finger? I mean, beat you senseless and
thensnippeditoff?”
Isqueezedtheshortstumpgingerly.“Sothedrugwouldwork.
“I played guitar, before. So I spent a year or so working out alternative
fingerings,formations,withoutthethirdfinger.Didn’treallywork.”
Itookasip.Itwaslikekava,abitteralkaloid.“SoIchangedcareers.”
“Youweregoingtobeasinger?”
“No.Classicalguitar.SoIwentbacktouniversityinstead,pre-medandthen
psychology and philosophy. Got an easy doctorate in Generalist Studies. And
becamethismodernversionoftheboatman,ferryman…Charon—theonewho
takespeopletotheotherside.”
“Sowhatareyougoingtodo?Withthetruth.”
“Spreaditaround,Iguess.Makepeoplemad.”
Herockedbackinhischair.“Who?”
“Whatdoyoumean?Everybody.”
“Everybody?”Heshookhishead.“Yourstory’sinteresting,andyourpartinit
isdramaticandsad,butthere’snotabitofitthatwouldsurpriseanyoneoverthe
ageoftwenty.Everyoneknowswhatthewarwasreallyabout.
“It’sevenmorecynicalandmanipulativethanIthought,butyouknow?That
won’t make people mad. When it’s the government, especially the
Confederación,peoplejustnodandsay,‘moreofthesame.’”
“Sameold,wesay.Sameoldshit.”
“Theysettleddeathanddamageclaimsgenerously;rebuiltthetown.Andit
washalfalifetimeago,ourlifetimes.Onlytheoldremember,andmostofthem
don’tcareanymore.”
Thatshouldn’thavesurprisedme;I’vebeentooclosetoit.Tooclosetomy
ownloss,smallcomparedtoothers’.
Isippedatthehorriblestuffandputitbackdown.“Ishoulddosomething.I
can’tjustsitonthis.”
“Butyoucan.Maybeyoushould.”
Imadeadismissivegestureandheleanedforwardandcontinuedwithforce.
“Look,Spivey.I’mnotjustabacksystemhick—orIam,butI’mahickwitha
rustydoctorateinmacroeconomics—andyou’renotseeingorthinkingclearly.
About the war and the Confederación. Let the drugs dry out before you do
somethingthatyoumightregret.”
“That’sprettydramatic.”
“Well,thesituationyou’reinismelodramatic!YouwanttogobacktoEarth
andsayyouhaveproofthattheConfederaciónusedyoutosubvertthewillofa
planet,tothetuneofmorethanathousanddeadandatrillionhartfordsofreal
estate,thentorturedandmutilatedyouinordertoblankoutyourmemoryofit?”
“Well?That’swhathappened.”
Hegotup.“Youthinkaboutitforawhile.Thinkaboutthenextthingthat’s
goingtohappen.”Heleftandclosedthedoorquietlybehindhim.
Ididn’thavetothinktoolong.Hewasright.
Before I came to Seca, of course I searched every resource for verifiable
informationaboutthewar.Thattherewassolittleshouldhavesetoffanalarm
inmyhead.
It’sawonderfulthingtobeabletotravelfromstartostar,collectingexotic
memories. But you have no choice of carrier. To take your memories back to
Earth,youhavetorelyontheConfederación.
And if those memories are unpleasant, or just inconvenient … they can fix
thatforyou.
Overandover.
Jackie’sBoy
STEVENPOPKES
StevenPopkesmadehisfirstsalein1985,andintheyearsthat
followed has contributed a number of distinguished stories to
markets such as Asimov’s Science Fiction, Sci Fiction, The
Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Realms of Fantasy,
ScienceFictionAge,FullSpectrum,Tomorrow,TheTwilightZone
Magazine, Night Cry, and others. His first novel, Caliban
Landing, appeared in 1987, and was followed in 1991 by an
expansion to novel-length of his popular novella “The Egg,”
retitled Slow Lightning. He was also part of the Cambridge
Writers’ Workshop project to produce science fiction scenarios
aboutthefutureofBoston,Massachusetts,thatcumulatedinthe
1994 anthology Future Boston, to which he contributed several
stories. He lives in Hopkinton, Massachusetts, with his family,
where he works for a company that builds aviation
instrumentation.
Popkeswasquietthroughthelateninetiesandtheearlypartof
theoughts,butinthelastcoupleofyearshe’sreturnedtowriting
first-rate stories such as the novella that follows, which does a
goodjobwiththedifficultbalancingactofdeliveringa(sort-of)
optimisticafter-the-apocalypsestory,onewhereit’sstillpossible
tostrikeouttofindabetterlifeforyourself.
PART1
Michaelfellinlovewithherthemomenthesawher.
TheLongBottomBoyshadtakenoverthegateoftheSaintLouisZoofrom
NaturePhil’sgang.LondonBobhadkilledinsinglecombat,andeaten,Nature
Phil.That,prettymuch,constitutedpossession.TheKeepersdidn’tmindaslong
asitstayedoffthegrounds.SotheBoyswaitedoutsidetoharvestanyonewho
cameoutorwentin.Theyjusthadtowait.Somebodywasalwaysdrawntothe
sightofallthatmeatonthehoof,nothingprotectingitfromconsumptionsavea
hundredfeetofemptyairandinvisible,lethal,automatedweaponry.Peoplewent
injusttolookatitanddrool.
Michael knew their plans. He’d been watching them furtively for a week,
hidinginplacesnoadultcouldgo,leavingnotracestheycouldsee.TheBoys
had caught a woman a few days ago and a man last night. They were still
passingthe woman around.What was leftof the manwas turning onthe spit
overonGrand.Hesniffedtheair.Arankodormixedwithasmelllikemaple
syrup.Corpsefungusatthefruitingbodystage.Somewherenearbytherewasa
collection of mushrooms that yesterday had been the body of a human being.
MichaelwonderedifitwassomeonewhohadspoiledbeforetheBoyshadgotto
themorifitwasthelastinedibleremnantsofthemanonthespit.Bymorning
therewouldbelittlemorethanathinmoundofsoiltoshowwherethemeathad
been.
This dark spring morning, just when the gates unlocked, one of the guards
remainedasleep.Michaelheldhisbackpacktightlytohischestsohemadeno
sound.Themanstartedinhissleep.Foramoment,Michaelthoughthewould
havetotakeuponeofthefallenbricksandkilltheguardbeforehewokeup.But
theguardjustturnedoverandMichaelslippedfurtivelypasthim.Hewasjustas
happy.TheonlythingthatgottheBoysmoreriledthanmeatwasrevenge.
He stayed out of sight even past the gate. If the Boys knew he was here,
they’d be ready at closing time when the Keepers pushed everyone outside.
MichaelhadneverbeenintheZoo,buthewashopingakidcouldfindplacesto
hidethatanadultwouldn’tfit.InsidetheZoowassafe;outsidetheZoowasn’t.
Itwasassimpleasthat.
Now, he was crouching in the bushes outside her paddock in the visitor’s
viewingarea,hidingfromanyKeepers,lookingforaplacetohide.
She came outside, her great rounded ears and heavy circular feet, her wise
eyesandlongtrunk.Asshecamedowntothewater,Michaelheldhisbreathand
madehimselfassmallasaneleven-year-oldboycouldbe.Maybeshewouldn’t
seehim.
Exceptfortheelephant,Michaelsawnoone.Thebarnandpaddockofoneof
thelastoftheanimalswastheworstplacetohide.He’dbefoundimmediately.
Everyonehadprobablytriedthis.Evenso,whentheelephantwanderedoutof
sightdownthehill,Michaelsprangoverthefenceandsilentlyrantothebarn,
hisbackpackbouncingandthrowinghimoffbalance,expectingbulletstoturn
himintomush.
Inside,hequicklylookedaroundandsawabovetheconcreteflooraloftfilled
withbalesofhay.Heclimbeduptheladderandburroweddown.Thehaypoked
through his shirt and pants and tickled his feet through the hole in his shoe.
Carefully,throughthebackpack,hefeltforhisnotebook.Itwassafe.
“Iseeyou,”cameawoman’svoicefrombelow.Michaelfroze.Heheldtight
tohispack.
Somethingslappedthehaybalebesidehimandpulleditdown.Theceiling
lightshonedownonhim.
Itwastheelephant.
“You’renotgoingtohideupthere,”shesaid.Michaelleanedovertheedge.
“Didyoutalk?”
“Getoutofmystall.”Shewhippedhertrunkupandgrabbedhimbytheleg,
dragginghimofftheedge.
“Holdit,Jackie.”Avoicefromthewall.
Jackieheldhimovertheground.“You’reslipping,Ralph.Ishouldhavefound
hiscorpseoutsidehangingonthefence.”Shebroughttheboytohereyesand
Michaelknewshewasthinkingofsmashinghimtojellyontheconcretethen
andthere.
“Don’t,”hewhispered.
“Weallmakemistakes.”Thewallagain.
“ShouldItosshimoutorsquishhim?Thisisyourjob.Notmine.”
“Lethimdown.Perhapshe’llbeofuse.”
The moment stretched out. Michael stared at her. So scared he couldn’t
breathe.Soexcitedtheelephantwasrightthere,upcloseandinfrontofhim,he
couldn’tlookaway.
Slowly,reluctantly,shelethimdown.“Whatever.”
Aseven-footmetalconstructionproject—aZooKeeper—cameintotheroom
fromoutside.Threemetalarmswithmountedcameras,eachwiththeirowngun
barrel,followedbothJackieandMichael.
“Followme.”Thistimethevoicecamefromtherobot.
Michael stared at Jackie for a moment. She snorted contemptuously and
turnedtogobackoutside.
MichaelslowlyfollowedtheKeeper,watchingJackieleave.“Elephantstalk?”
“Thatonedoes,”saidtheKeeper.
“Wow,”hebreathed.
***
“Openyourbackpack,”theKeeperordered.
Michaelstaredintothecamera/gunbarrel.Heguesseditwastoolatetorun.
Heopenedthebackpackandemptieditonthefloor.
The Keeper separated the contents. “A loaf of bread. Two cans of tuna. A
notebook. Several pens.” The lens on the camera staring at him whirred and
elongatedtowardhim.“Yours?Youreadandwrite?”
“Yes.”
“Takebackyourthings.YoumaycallmeRalph,asshedoes,”saidtheKeeper
asitledhimintoanoffice.
“Whyaren’tIdead?”
“ItrynottoslaughterchildrenifIcanhelpit.Ihavesomelimitedleewayin
interpretingmyauthority.”Thevoicepausedforamoment.“Intheabsenceofa
director,I’minchargeoftheZoo.”
Michaelnodded.Hestaredaroundtheroom.Hewasstillinshockatseeinga
real,liveelephant.Thetalkingseemedkindofextra.
TheKeeperremainedoutsidetheofficeandthevoiceresumedspeakingfrom
theceiling.
“Pleasesitdown.”
Michaelsatdown.“Howcomeyoustillhavelights?Theonlyplacesstilllit
uparetheZooandtheCathedral.”
“I’m still able to negotiate with Union Electric. Not many places can
guaranteefiresafety.”
Michaelhadnocluewhatthevoicewastalkingabout.“It’swarm,”hesaid
tentatively.
“Withlightcomesheat.Now,whatisyourname?”
“Michael.MichaelRipley.”
“Howoldareyou?”
Michaellookedaroundtheroom.“Eleven,Ithink.”
“You’renotsure?”
Michael shook his head. “I’m pretty sure I was six when my parents died.
UncleNedtookmein.Istayedwithhimforfiveyears.TheLongBottomBoys
killedhimafewmonthsago.”
“You have no surviving relatives?” Michael shrugged and didn’t answer.
“Wheredoyoulive?”
Michael’sattentionsnappedtotheKeeperandhelookedaroundtheceiling
warily.“Ijusthangaroundthepark.”
“Youhavenoplacetostay?”
“No.”
“Wouldyouliketostayhere?”
Michaellookedaroundtheroomagain.Itwaswarm.Therewasclearlyplenty
toeat.Noneofthegangswereeverallowedinside.Butwheredidtheygetthe
foodfortheanimals?Howcomepeopleweren’tallowedinatnight?Maybehe
wasonthemenuhere,too.
“Iguess,”hesaidslowly.“Good.You’rehired.”
“What?”
“YouwillcallmeRalphasItoldyoubefore.IwillcallyouMichaelexcept
underspecificcircumstanceswhenIwilladdressyouas‘AssistantDirector.’Do
youunderstand?”
Michaelstaredattheceiling.“WhatamIsupposedtodo?”
DearMom,
Ifoundajob.Itishelpingtotakecareofaneleefant.Hername
isjakee.SheisnotverymuchfunbutIlikeheranyway.Maybe
she’ll like me better when she gets to Know me. She is an
eleefant!!!Idon’tthinkIeversawaneleefantbefore.Justinthe
booksyouredtome.
Iworkinthezoo.IbetyouneverthawtIwouldeverworkina
zoo.Mostoftheanimalsaregon.Butthereistheeleefantanda
rino.Nosnaks.
Itisalotbetterthansleepnginthedumstrs.Andadumstrdoes
notstopariflemuch.ImissyouandDAD.ButIdon’tmissuncle
NeDallthatmuch.Imisstheapartment,though.
Love,Mike
HewasmuckingoutherstallwhenJackieentered.Shestoppedandlooked
downathim.
“Whatareyoudoing?”
Michaelstraightenedup.Hetriedtosmileather.“Working.Ralphhiredme.”
“Todothat?”
Michaellookedaround.“Idon’tknow.Thisseemedlikeitneededdoing.”
Jackiedidn’tspeakforamoment.“LettheKeepersdothat.Comewithme.”
Hefollowedhertothedoorofthestall.
“We’ll start with the first office on the left. You go in there and look for
papers. Books. Notes. Memos. Anything with writing on it. You know what
writingis?”
“Iknowwhatwritingis.”
“Good.”
Michaellookedupather.“Howdidyoulearntotalk?”
“That’snotyourbusiness.Doyourjob.”
It wasn’t a small job. It seemed that the world of zoos ran on paper. Just
pullingthefoldersoutofthefirstofficetookthreedays.Michael’sdutiesdidn’t
endwith bringing thepapers out. Thetype was smallenough he oftenhad to
hold it in front of first one of Jackie’s eyes, then the other. It wasn’t easy on
Jackie,either.Shehadtostopregularlybecauseofheadaches.Whenhecould,
hetriedtoreadthemhimselftoseewhatJackiewastryingtofind.Shesmacked
himwithhertrunkifshecaughthimsohetookextratimeintheoffices.
AcoldraindescendedontheZoo.Ralphclosedthedoorsandturnedupthe
heat.Jackiewasirritableatthebestoftimes.Beinginsideonlymadeherworse.
A month after Michael had come to the Zoo, when a late spring snow was
stickingwetlytothe groundoutside,Jackie stared outthewindow restingher
eyesfromreading.Michaelwassittinginfrontoftheheaterduct,eyesclosed,
luxuriatinginthehotwindblowingoverhim.Jackiehadbeenpushinghimall
morningbutnowshewasfixinghergazeoutsidetoeaseherheadache.
“So,kid,what’syourstory?”
Michaelwasinstantlyalert.“Whatdoyoumean?”
“Ralphtoldmeyoudidn’thaveanybodyoutside.Iknowthatmuch.”Jackie
turnedhergreatheadtolookathim,andthenstaredoutsideagain.“Whereare
yourfolks?MomandDad?UncleandAunt?”
“MomandDaddied,likeeverybodyelse.”Michaelshrugged.Therewasn’t
muchtosayaboutit.“UncleNedletmestaywithhimoverneartheCathedral
untilhegotcaughtbytheLongBottomBoys.Igotaway.I’vebeenscrounging
untilnow.”
“Toughoutthere,isit?”
“Iguess.Itwasn’tsobadwithNed.Itookcareofhim.Hetookcareofme.”
Jackielookedathim.“Whatdoesthatmean?”
“As long as I kept him happy, he gave me a place to live and fed me and
protectedmefromanybodyelse.”MichaelconsideredJackiethoughtfully.“I’m
notsurewhatittakestomakeanelephanthappy.”
“Justdoyourjob,”Jackiesnappedathim.“That’llbeenough.”
Shedidn’tspeakforamoment.“Doyouknowhowtogettotheriverfrom
here?”
“Sure.ButIwouldn’ttryit.TheBoyshaveeverythingseweduparoundthe
park.Isurefoundthatout.”Hepattedtheductandclosedhiseyes.“Youhaveit
nicehere.Ralphkeepseverybodyout.Youhavefoodandheat.Isurewouldn’t
leave.”
“Ibet,”Jackiesaiddryly.“Okay.Let’slookatthelabbooksagain.”
***
Overthenextweek,RalphoftenspokewithJackie.MostofthetimeJackiesent
Michaeloutside.Havingnothingbettertodo,Michaeltooktovisitingtheother
animals.
Thereweren’tmanyofthem.Mostoftheexhibitsweresealedandempty.The
reptilehouseandtheaperefugewerelongabandoned.Thebearsweregonebut
someofthebirdswerestillintheaviaryandMichaelstoodforanhourinfront
ofasingle,lonelyrhinoceros.
Therhinoroombecamehisfavoriterefuge.Therhinowasn’tshortwithhim.
Therhinodidn’taskhimstrangequestionsorsnortwithcontemptwhenhetried
toanswer.Therhinodidn’tcallhimanidiot.Therhinodidn’tspeak.
“Michael?”Ralph’svoicecamefromtheceiling.“Yes,Ralph.”
“JackieandIarefinishedforthemoment.Youcancomeback.”
“Yeah.”Michaeldidn’tspeakforamoment.“Idoeverythingsheasks.”
“Iknow.”
“Idon’ttalkback.Icleanupafterher.Andelephantsmakealotofshit.Why
doesshetreatmelikeit?”
“You’re human. She has no love of humans. She needs you. That makes it
worse.”
“Whatdidhumansdotoher?”
“She’sthelastofherherd.HumansbroughtherancestorsfromIndia.Human
scientists raised her and the others in these concrete stalls and gave her the
powerofspeech.Thentheylettherestofherherddie.”
“Howcome?”
“Thescientistsdidn’thavemuchchoice.Theywerealreadydead.”
“Aplaguelikewhatkilledmyfolks?”
“Somewhat.Fromwhatyoutoldme,yourparentsdiedfromoneoftheneo-
influenzas.Thescientistsdiedofcontagiousbotulism.”
“Wheredidalltheplaguescomefrom?Howmanyarethere?”
“Sixhundredandseventy-twowas the last countIreceived.Butthatwasa
few years ago and the data feed was getting unreliable toward the end. They
came from different places. Some were natural. Some weren’t. Several were
homegrownbypeoplewithanagenda:religiousmartyrdom,politicalrevenge,
economicpolicydisagreements,brokenromances.Somestartedoutnaturaland
werethenmodifiedforsimilarreasons.”
Michael mulled over what he understood. He didn’t have Ralph to himself
veryoften.Likelythischancewouldn’tlastlong.“Ifshedoesn’tlikepeopleso
much,whyarewespendingsomuchtimegoingthroughallthelabbooks?Why
doesn’tshejustleave?”
“That’snotformetosay.”
DearMom,
Ithoughtelephantswerenice.Jackiedoesn’tlikeanybody.Not
evenRalf.HesnicetomebutJackiesayshehastobethatway.
He’samachineliketheKeepers.JackiesaidRalfcoodntdowhat
Iamdoing.Ithadtobeahumanbeang.
ButIstilllikeherevenifshedoesntlikeme.Iliketowatchher
whensheseating.Itsneattowatchherusehertrunk,likeasnake
thatsalsoahand.Therearetwoknobsontheendofhertrunkshe
useslikefingers.Onlytheyaremuchstrongerthanfingers.She
pinchedmeyesterdayandtodayitsstillsore!
Imovedmybedtotheloft.Thatwayitsrightovertheheater
andthehotaircomesrightupunderme.Itslikesleepinginwarm
water.
ImissyouandDad.Ifyoucanseeusfromupthereinheavun,
trytomakeJackienotgetmadallthetime.
Love,Mike
“Wheredidyoufindthis?”Jackiepinnedhimagainstthewall.Sheheldupa
greenlabbookinhertrunk.
Michael tried to push her away but it was like trying to move a mountain.
“I’mnotsure.”
“Where?”
Michael stopped struggling. “If you don’t like what I’m doing, then do it
yourself.”
“That’syourjob.”
“Then,backoff!”
A moment passed. Jackie eased backwards. She handed him the lab book.
“Here’sthedaterange,”shesaidpointingtothenumbersonthepagewithher
trunk.“See?Month,slash,day,slash,year.Here’sthevolumenumber.Thisis
volumesix.Ineedvolumesevenforthesamedate.”
“What’sitgoingtotellyou?”
Jackieraisedhertrunkandforamomentitlookedlikeshewasgoingtostrike
him.Michaelstaredather.
Slowly,sheloweredhertrunk.“I’mnotsureyet.”
“Saythankyou.”
Jackiewentcompletelystill.“Whatdidyousay?”
“Isaid,saythankyou.”Michael’sfistswereclenched.
Jackieseemedtorelax.Shemadeasoundlikeachuckle.“Getthelabbook
andI’llthankyou.”
“Fairenough,”hesaidshortly.
Back in the offices, he stood in the hall and let his breath out slowly. His
handswereshaking.
“Goodforyou,Michael,”Ralphsaidfromoverhead.“Yeah.NowI’vegotto
findthelabbookshewants.”
“Inthecornerofeachroomisacamera,”saidRalph.“Ifyoucanholdupthe
papers,Icanhelp.”
Anhourlater,hewalkedbackintoJackie’sstallandsolemnlyheldoutthelab
booktoher.
“Thankyou,”Jackiesaidinaneutraltone.“Holdituptomyeye.”
“Okay.”
Michaelnodded.
Readingthelabbookdidn’ttakelong.“That’senough,”Jackiesaid.
“Whatdoyouwantmetodowithit?”
“Idon’tcare.I’mgoingoutside.”
Jackieturnedandleftthestall.Michaelwassurprised.Itwascoldoutthere
andsnowstillremainedonthegroundfromthenightbefore.
Heopenedthelabbookandwentoverthepages.Therewerefewwordsbut
severalfiguresanddates.Itdidn’tmeananythingtohim.
“What’sgoingon,Ralph?”Michaelshiveredandlookedupatthegraysky.
Springwassurealongtimecoming.RalphhadtoldhimthiswasApril.
“I’mnotsure,”Ralphsaid.“Maybeshefoundwhatshewaslookingfor.”
***
Michaelwokeinthemiddleofthenight.Sleepily,helookedovertheedgeofthe
loft.AKeeperwashelpingJackieputsomethingoverherback.
“Idon’tthinkIcandoit,”Ralphsaid.
“Quiet. You’ll wake him. Maybe you can toss it over my neck and tie the
ropesunderneath.”
Michaelsatontheedgeoftheloftandwatchedthemamoment.
“You’releaving,”hesaidafteramoment.
“You’resupposedtobeasleep.”Jackietossedhertrunkirritably.
Michaeldidn’tsayanything.Heclimbeddowntotheapronandwalkedover
tothem.TheKeeperwastryingtopullsomekindofharnessoverherneckand
back.“Givemeakneeup,”Michaelsaid.“Icanhelp.”
“Nohumanwilleverbeonmyback!”snarledJackie.
“Suityourself,”Michaelsaid.“Buttheonlywayyou’regoingtobeabletotie
thatharnessisifyoucancenteritonyourbackfirstandRalphcan’tdoit.Ican
ifIcangetonyourback.”
TheKeeperextendedhisarm.“Here,”saidRalph.
MichaelstoodonthecameraandtheKeeperextendedituntilMichaelcould
jumptoJackie’sneck.Hegrabbedthebaseofherearandpulledhimselfup.
“Thatstings,”shesaid.“Sorry.”
Inafewmoments,hehadtheharnessinplace.Thenhedroppedtothefloor
andpulledittight.
“Goodjob,Michael,”saidRalph.
Jackie shook herself and shifted her shoulders and back. “It’s tight. I’m
ready.”MichaellookedfirstattheKeeper,thenatJackie.“Areyouclosingthe
Zoo?”
“Not immediately,” said Ralph. “The food trucks have been coming in
sporadically.Istillhavecontactswiththefarmandthewarehouse.I’vespoken
withpowerandwater.Theysaytheyarewelldefendedbutifsomebodydigsup
acableorblowsupthepipes…”Ralphpausedamoment.“Myworstscenariois
ayear.Mybestscenarioisfiveyears.”
Michaelfeltsuddenlylost.HelookedupatJackie.“Takemewithyou.”
“What?”Jackiesnorted.“Noway.”
“Comeon,” Michael pleaded.“Look, to everybody outthere, all you areis
steakonastroll.Icangetyououtofthecity.Tellmewhereyouwanttogo.”
“I—”
“She’s going south,” Ralph said smoothly. “She needs to follow the river
southtotheI-255BridgeandthensouthtoTennessee.”
“Where’sI-255?”
“Oakville.”
Michael thought for a moment. “That’s not going to work. It’ll be dicey
enough to get past the Long Bottom Boys around the park. But the Rank
Bastardslivethatwayandtheyhaveanoldarmory.EventheBoysarescaredof
them.”
“Whatdoyousuggest?”askedRalph.
“Don’taskhim.”Jackiestampedherfoot.“Icanmakeitonmyown.”
Michaelstoodnexttoher.Helookedattheground.“I’makid.Idon’thavea
gun.I’mnotevenverybig.Ican’thurtyou.”
Jackielookedaway.
Michaelnodded.“Well,onceyou’reoutoftheparkyoucan’tgosouth.That’s
the Green Belt—sharpshooters. They don’t ask questions. You just fall down
deadabouttwomilesaway.Youcan’tgonorththroughtheFarmCountry.They
don’thavesharpshootersbuttheyburnedeverythingtothegroundforsixmiles
around them so you can’t hide. That means west or east. Gangs in both
directionsjust likethe LongBottom Boys orworse. I’d take the oldhighway
right into town to the bridge and take it across. There’s no boss around the
bridge;there’snothingthereanybodywants.Theroadishighoffthegroundso
youcan’tbeseen.Ifyou’requietandquick,youcangetthroughbeforeanybody
knows. Then, I’d stay on the highway all the way down. People stick to the
farmstoprotectthem.Thehighwaysdon’thaveanything.Therearenogangs
below Cahokia or many people either. Prairie Plagues got them. South of
Cahokia,Idon’tknowanything.”
“Howdoyouknowallthis?”Jackiesnarled.
Michaelstaredather.“Ifyoudon’tknowwherethingsaresomebody’sgoing
tohaveyouforlunch.UncleNedtaughtmethatandI’mstillalive,aren’tI?”
Jackietossedherheadanddidn’treply.“Jackie?”askedRalph.“Theideahas
merit.”
Jackiedidn’tspeakforalongtime.Shestaredoutthedoorofthestall.Then
sheturnedherheadbacktohim.“Okay,”sheaskedreluctantly.
“Whendoweleave?”MichaelturnedtotheKeeper.
Jackieslappedthebackofhishead.“Rightnow.Getaboard.”
Michaelrubbedhishead.“Thathurt,”hesaidasheclimbeduponherback.
Sherumbledoutofthelight.
“Goodluck!”calledRalphafterthem.
“Wait!” Michael turned and called back. “What’s going to happen to the
rhino?”Hecouldn’thearthereply.
***
Theydidn’tsayanythingasJackiewalkedslowlydownbehindthereptilehouse.
Herearswerespreadoutandlistening.Thegateswungopenatabrushofher
trunk.Michaelwasimpressed.Asecretentrance.
“Checkitout.”
Michaelslippedtothegroundandpeeredthroughthebushes.NoBoys.He
signaledandshefollowedhim,pushingasidethebranches.Shekneltdownand
heclimbedbackup.Theylistened.Nothing.Shestartedwalkingupthehill.
Jackie was quieter than he’d imagined. She walked with only a soft, deep
paddingsound.
Shestoppedattheedgeoftheroad.“Whereto?”sheaskedinalowrumble.
Michael leaned next to her ear and whispered as quietly as he could. “Don’t
talk.”
I’lltellyouwheretogo.Gototherightdowntheroad.Then,whenyougo
overthebridge,walkdowntoyourleft.That’swherethehighwayis.”
Jackienoddedabruptlyandhecouldtellshewasn’tpleasedthatheshouldtell
hertobequietbutshedidn’tsayanything.Hefiguredhe’dgetanearfulifthey
madeitdownbelowtheriver.
Michael looked around and listened. It was in the middle of the night. He
couldn’tsmellafire.SometimestheBoysbuiltafirewiththecontentsofoneof
theoldhouses.Theydrankwhateverhoochtheycouldfind—raidingothergangs
ifnecessary—andfired gunsinto theairand shoutedat the moonuntil dawn.
Thatwouldhavebeenideal.IfMichaelandJackiewereseenbytheparty,they
wouldbeseenbydrunks.
Nofiremeantoneoftwothings.Eithertherewasnoonearoundhereorthey
wereouthunting.Abunchofhungry,desperate,soberLongBottomBoyswas
abouttheworstnewsMichaelcouldthinkof.Therewasnohintofsweetnessin
theair—nomushroomfestoonedcorpsesindicatingthesiteofabattle.Thatwas
good.TheLongBottomBoyswerebigonceremonialmourningandtheykilled
anyonetheyfound.Thereweren’tmanyleftinSaintLouisbutnotsofewthat
the Boys couldn’t find someone to kill and then ritually stand over while the
mushroomsreturnedthecorpsetotheearth.
Michael sweated every foot of the walk to the highway. But the night
remainedsilent.
Thehighwayherewaslevelwiththeground,butafteramileortwoitroseto
agrandpromenadelookingdownontheruinsofthecity.Michaelwhisperedto
Jackiethatnowwasthetimetorun(quietly!)ifshecould.
Jackiedidn’treply.Instead,shelengthenedherstrideuntilhehadtograbon
toherearstostayonherneck.Helookeddownandsawtheriotousdarkofher
legsmovingonthepavement.
Therewasashotbehindtheminthedirectionofthepark.Jackiestoppedand
turned around. They saw a flash and a dull boom. Then, gradually like the
sunrise,theglowofanincreasingfire.
Oh,Michaelthoughthollowlyashestaredatthetipsoftheflamesshowing
overthetrees.That’swhatwasgoingtohappentotherhino.
“Comeon,”heurged.“Peoplearegoingtowakeup.Weneedtogetnearthe
riverbeforetheystartlookingawayfromthepark.”
Theroadcurvedaroundthesouthofdowntownandthennorthtoreachthe
riverbridges.Theycouldnotseetheriverbelowthemastheycrossedbutthey
heardthehissandrushofthewater,thelowgruntofthebridgeasiteaseditself
againsttheflow,thecracksandboomsasfloatingdebrisstruckthepilings.
Thentheywereoveritandtravelingsouth,theflatfarmlandontheirleft,the
riverbluffsontheirright,theroaddeterminedlysouthtowardCahokia.
DearMom,
We reached Cahokia a little before daylite. We could tell we
got there by the sign on the highway. I wasnt tired at all. But
Jackee was. It must have been hard work walking all that way.
Heres something intristing. Eleefants cant run. Jackee told me.
Theycanwalkrellyfastbuttheyaretobigtorun.
Jackeestilldoesntlikememuch.Shedoesnttalktomeunless
itstogethelpfiguringoutwhereweare.Mostlyshecanfigurit
out.Butsheneedsmyhands.Ifiguroneofthesedaysshellleave
whileIamasleep.SoIsavthingswhenIcan.
Shesayswe’regoingtoTenesee.Howald,Tenesee.Thereused
tobeeleefantsthere.Shesaysshethinkstheymightbestillthere.
Ifshedoesn’tfindthemthere,she’sgoingtotrytogettoFlorida.
It’swarmallthetimedownthere.There’slotsoffoodtoeatand
it’sneverwinter.Thatsoundsprettygoodtome.
I would like to stay with her. She is big and pretty and reel
strong.Shedoesnttalktomeverynice.Idontthinkshewould
protekmelikeNeddid.
Iwillwritagintomoro.
love,mike
MichaelwassurprisedthattheysawnopeopleinCahokia.Thefarmlandshe
hadbeenthinkingofwereboundedbyweedsbut,otherthanthat,lookedasif
cultivatedbyinvisiblehands.Theysawnoone.Theonlysoundswerethespring
birds,theriverandthewind.Everyfewstepstheycouldseealittlemoundof
soil. The mushrooms had all dried up and blown away but these mounds still
markedwheresomeonehaddied.
Thatfirstday,whentheymadecampinahiddenclearing,Michaeldiscovered
thatRalphhadplannedforhimtoaccompanyJackieallalong.Therewasatent,
sleeping bag and all manner of tools: a tiny shovel, a knife, a small bow and
arrow,thesmallestandmostpreciousfishingsetMichaelhadeverseen.Inaflap
cunningly designed to be hidden, he found a pistol that fit his hand perfectly.
Nexttoit,separatedintostock,barrel,andlasersight,wasahigh-poweredrifle.
Asecondflaphadammunitionforboth,explodingandimpactbulletsinclearly
markedcontainers.Michaelstaredatthem.Hesuddenlyrealizedhecouldtake
downanelephantwiththisweapon.Ralphmusthaveknownthat.Theimplied
trustshookhim.
“Whatdidyoufind?”
Michaelrealizedshehadn’tseentheguns.Thepistolwasnothreat.Hepulled
itoutandshowedittoher.
“Doyouknowhowtouseit?”
“Yes.” He replaced the pistol. Next to the weapons were Jackie’s vitamin
supplementsalongwithfinelylabeledmedicinesandadministrationdevicesthat
onlyahumanbeingcoulduse.
Jackiesnortedwhenshesawitalllaidout.
Michaellookedateverything,sortedandarrayedinfrontofhim,foralong
time.Hewonderedhowlongthey’dbeabletokeepsuchtreasuresasthis.He
realizedhemightneedtherifle.
***
Occasionally between long stretches of young woods and tall fresh meadows,
theysawafewmanicuredfieldsthatwerelaidoutsorulerstraightthatthetwo
ofthemstoppedandstared.These,Jackietoldhim,mustbetilledbymachines.
Nohumanoranimalwouldeverpaysuchobsessiveattentiontodetails.Butno
machines could be seen, and even these meticulous rows of corn or soybeans
werefrayedattheedgesintoweedsandbrambles.
Evenso,astemptingasafieldofnewcornwastoJackie,shewasunwilling
to chance it. Machines were chancy things, she said, with triggers and
idiosyncrasies. Even negotiating with Ralph had been difficult when it went
against his programming. Better to wait until they found an overgrown field
downtheroad.
Jackiehadnotroublefindingfood.Ithadbeenawetspringandnowthatthe
sunhad come out,the olderand uncultivatedfieldssprouted volunteersquash
andgreens.
They fell into a routine. In the evening, they agreed on a likely spot and
Michael took the harness off of her and set up camp. Michael was afraid she
might step on him while she slept, so Jackie slept off a little ways from
Michael’stent.
At first light, Jackie went off to find her day’s sustenance. Michael made
himself breakfast out of the stores Ralph had left him. He tried his hand at
fishinginthetributaryriversoftheMississippiandgraduallylearnedenoughto
catch enough for a good meal. He tried to eat as much as he could in the
morning.Itwaslikelytheywouldn’tstopuntilnightfall.
After he had eaten and before Jackie returned, he waited, wondering if she
wouldcomeback.
Shealwaysdid.Sheeasedherselfdownthebankanddrank,kneedeepinthe
river.JackiewasalwaysimpatienttogetstartedandstampedherfeetasMichael
repacked the harness. Then she made a knee for him and he climbed aboard.
Alwaysthey went south.Always as quicklyas Jackie could. Hohenwald first,
sincethatwaswheretheelephantsanctuaryhadbeen.Butcontinuingsouthafter
that,ifshedidn’tfindthem.South,shetoldhim,waswarminthewinter.South
hadfoodallyearround.
Michaelwasamenable.Hefeltprettysafe.Hewaswellfed.He’dlearnedthe
trickofridingJackieandenjoyedwatchingtheriverontherightslipsmoothly
aheadofthemandthelandontheleftbuckleandrollupintobluffsandhills.
Springturnedwarmandgentle.Michaelfelthappierthanhecouldremember,
upuntiltheyreachedthespotwheretheOhiopouredintotheMississippiandthe
bridgewasgone.
***
TheystoodontherampofInterstate57lookingdownatthewreckage.Thenear
sideofwherethebridgehadbeenwascompletelydry.Stainedpilingsthathad
clearlybeenunderwateratonepointrestedcomfortablyinagrassyfield.Onthe
farside,theremainsofthebridgehadbrokenoffahighbluffasifthewhole
southernbankoftheriverhadsliddownhill.Therivernarrowedhere,tospeed
upandpourintotheslowermovingMississippi.Hugewavesburstintotheairas
theriversfoughtoneanother.Theywereoveramileawayfromthebattle,but
evenfromheretheycouldheartheroar.
“Theearthquake,maybe?”mutteredJackie.
“Earthquake?”
“AbouteightyearsagotheNewMadridfaultcausedabigquakedownhere.
Ralphtoldmeaboutit.ThescientistshadexpectedittohitSt.Louisaswellbut
theeffectsweretotheeastsowewerespared.”Jackieshookhergreatheadand
swayedfromonesidetoanother.“Howarewegoingtogetacrossnow?”
Michaellookedattheoldatlas.“There’sadamupstreamnearGrandChain
Landing.”
“Lookatthebridge!”Jackietrumpetedandpointedwithhertrunk.“It’sjusta
sample.Lookattheriver.Thedamisprobablygone,too.”
Michaellookedupstream.“We’llfindsomething.Wejustcan’tgosouthfora
littlewhile.”
Jackiejustsnorted.Afteramoment,sheturnedslowlytowardtheeast.
DearMom,
So far we still haven’t been able to cross the OHIO river. I
thinkitwasevenbiggerthantheMissspi.Evenatnight,wecan
hear it rushing by. Every now and than, something floats by.
TodayIsawsixtrees,atralerandanoldhousefloatby.Jackie
saysit’sbecawseofthefludupstreem.
Icantellsumthingisbotheringjackie.Shehasntbeenasmean
lately.Itsnotjustthatwearntmovingsowth.Itissumthingmore.
Love,Mike
AsJackiepredicted,thedamwasgone.PerhapstheOhio,poweredbyspring
rains, had ripped apart the turbines and concrete. The ground trembled as the
waterpouredovertheremainingrubble.
“Nowwhat?”Jackiesaidinasoftrumble.
“Could you swim across?” Michael asked doubtfully. “Can’t elephants
swim?”
“Lookatthewater,”Jackiesaidshrilly.“Noonecanswimthroughthat.”
“Thennothere.Howaboutwherethewaterdoesn’trunsofast?”
Jackiedidn’tanswer.
Michaelstaredatthemapclosely.
“ThereusedtobeaferryinMetropolis.Maybewecouldgetaboat.”
“Aferry?”Jackieturnedherheadandlookedathimoutofthecornerofher
eye.“Iweighinatsixtons.”
Michaelnodded.“Abigferry,then.Couldn’thurttolook.It’sjustafewmiles
uptheroad.”
“Aferry,”Jackiemuttered.“Aferry.”
ThecenterofMetropolisclusteredaroundabendinHighway45.Jackieand
Michael followed the signs down to the docks. The shadow of the broken
Interstate24Bridgefellacrosstheroadandinthedistancetheycouldseethe
disconnectedendsofthelesserHighway45bridge.
Agreathalfsunkencoalbargerestedagainstthedockontherightside.The
surfaceofthewaterwaspuncturedbytherustingremainsofantennaspokingup
from drowned powerboats on the left. Between them nestled the ferry
Encantante incongruously upright and unmangled. A man sat on the deck,
whittling.Helookedupastheycamedownthehill.
“Don’tbelieveI’veeverseenanelephantdownthiswaybefore,”hesaidashe
stoodup.“WhatcanIdoforyou?”Hewasatall,thinman.Michaelcouldn’ttell
exactlyhowoldhewas.Hishairwasturninggraybuthisfaceseemedsmooth
andunwrinkled.Thirty,thoughtMichael.Doesn’tpeople’shairturngraywhen
theyarethirty?Themanwasdressedinaredandblackplaidjacketagainstthe
coolriverair.
MichaelspokeupbeforeJackiecouldrespond.Hehopedshewouldremain
silent.Hewasprettysuretalkingelephantswouldbesuspicious.
“Weneedtogetacross.”
“Do you, now?” He tapped out his pipe against the side of the ferry and
refilleditcarefully.“Myname’sGerry.GerryMyers.Youare?”
“MichaelRipley.ThisisJackie.”
Gerrynodded.“Allrightthen.”Helookedattheelephant.“I’veneverputan
elephantonmyboat.Butitcan’tweighmuchmorethanfourorfiveofthose
littlecarssoitwouldprobablybeokay.Hewon’tjumpormoveabout?”
“Jackie’sagirl.”Michaellookedatthewaterrippingalong.
Gerryfollowedhis gaze. “Yeah.‘She,’then. Shewon’tmove around?Bea
damnedshameifsheturnedovertheboatandkilledusall.”
“Shewon’t.”
“Good. Well, then. Since you are the only human being I’ve seen in some
months,”Gerrysaiddryly,“andsinceI’veburiedeverybodyelse,I’minclinedto
thinkaboutyourproposal.”Gerrylookedathimclosely.“You’renotsick,are
you?”
Michaelshrugged.“Ifeelprettygood.”
“Doesn’tmeanmuch,doesit?”Michaelshookhishead.
Gerrystaredoutovertheriverandsighed.“Yeah.Thelastgoodcitizenofthe
Metropolisthathadlunchwithmesaidhehadn’tfeltthisgoodinmonths.Iwent
lookingforhimwhenhedidn’tshowupfordinner.Hewasdeadsittinginhis
kitchenwithasmileonhisface.OnlythingIcansayisapparentlyhediedso
suddenlyheforgottofeelbadaboutit.”
Gerrylithispipeandpuffedatitforamoment.“Speakingoflunch,I’mabit
hungry.Caretoeatwithme?”
Michaelhesitated.
Gerrypointedatthebluffupthehillfromthem.“Ontheothersideofthatis
an old soybean field. Lots of good leafy growth for Jackie. Maybe you could
turnherlooseandeatwithme.”
“Idon’tknow.”Gerrydidn’tlooklikesomebodythatwouldkillhimandroast
Jackie. Uncle Ned had known who to trust—until the day he didn’t, Michael
corrected himself. How could you tell? Michael had a sneaking suspicion he
wouldhavetopayfortherideonewayoranother.
“Well,thefield’sthere.Suityourself.I’llbeeatinglunchinhalfanhourorso.
Inthatwarehouselookingbuildingoverthere.Comebyifyouwantto.”
Michaelnodded.Jackieturnedandstartedupthehill.
Thefieldwasasadvertisedandtherewerenovisiblepeoplearoundtotake
advantageofthem.
“I’lleathere.Youwatch,”saidJackie.
“I’djustassoongoonandhavelunchwiththeoldman,”Michaelsaidashe
unharnessedher.“Westillhavetocrosstheriver.Seemslikeweoughttoknow
somethingabouttheotherside.”
“Idon’ttrusthim.”
“You don’t trust anybody.” Michael rummaged through the packs until he
foundthepistol.“Igotthis.”
“Youbecareful,then,”Jackiesaid.“I’llbecomingdownthereifyoutryto
runoff.”
“Yeah. I like you, too.” Michael hefted the pistol. It was heavier than it
looked.Hemadesureitwasloadedandcheckedtheaction.
Jackiewatchedhim.“Wheredidyoulearntohandleagun?”
“UncleNedtaughtme,”Michaelsaidshortly.“Ikeptguardwhenheforaged.”
“Then…”Jackiestoppedforamoment.“Ifyouhadthegun,whydidn’tyou
leavehim?”
“Ittookbothofustostayalive,”Michaelreleasedthechamberandmadesure
thesafetywason.Heputtheguninhispocket.“HewasalotbiggerthanIwas.
Heprotectedme.Ihelpedhim.Stayingwithhimmadealotofsense.”
“Buthe—”Jackieshookherhead.
“WhentheBoysfoundushesentmeoffandtookthemonbyhimself.”
Jackiewassilentamoment.“SoyouwantedtoleavewithmebecauseI’ma
lotbiggerthanyouare.Icanprotectyou.Stayingwithmemakesalotofsense.”
Michaelstaredather.“Areyoukidding?I’mtravelingwithsixtonsoffresh
meat.Whatpartofthatmakessensetoyou?”
“Thenwhydidyoucomewithme?”
Michael stood up and didn’t answer. He trotted down the hill toward the
landing.Jackiestaredafterhim.
***
Gerry was cooking in an apartment above the warehouse. The room had a
nautical feel to it. Every piece of furniture had been carefully placed. The
curtainsoverthewindowwerearedandwhitecheck.Thetablewasanaustere
gray,withmetallegsandatopmadeofsomekindofplastic.Thecountertops
lookedsimilar.
Twoplateshadbeensetout.Theforkontheleft,knifeandspoonontheright,
napkinfoldedjustsoontheplate.Plasticwaterglassesweresetatpreciselythe
sameangleforeachplacesetting.
Michaelstoodinthedoorway,notsurewhattodo.Comingintotheroomfelt
likebreakingsomething.
“Comeonin,” saidGerry.He was stirringa pot.The contents bubbledand
smelled deliciously meaty. “Channel catfish bouillabaisse.” He ladled out two
full bowls and handed one to Michael. “Been simmering since this morning.
Haveaseat.”
They sat across the table and in a few moments, Michael forgot Gerry was
eventhere.Heonlyrememberedwherehewaswhenthebowlwashalfempty.
Michaellookedup.
Gerry was watching him with a smile on his face. “Good to see someone
enjoymycooking.Wantsomebread?Bakedityesterday.”
Michaelbrokeoffapiece.Nexttothebreadwasasmallplatewithbutter.For
alongminute,Michaelstared,unabletorecognizeit.Thenherememberedand
smearedthebreadacrossit.
“Whoathere.Usetheknife.”
Michaelshrugged,pulledouthissmallhuntingknifeandsmearedthebutter
acrossthebread.
Gerryraisedhiseyebrowsandchuckled.“Fairenough.Butnexttimeusethe
littleknifenexttothebutter.”
Michaelsoppeduptherestofthesoupwiththebreadandleanedbackinhis
chair,stuffedandhappy.
Gerrypickedupthebowlsandputtheminthesink.“Comeondowntothe
porch.”Michaelfollowedhimoutsideanddownthestairstoapartofthedock
thatjuttedoverthewater.Underanawning,hesatdowninalawnchairwhile
Gerrypulledaboxoutoftheriverandopenedit.Hepulledouttwobottles.He
gaveMichaeltherootbeerandkeptaregularbeerforhimself.
Michaelsatbackinthechairandsavoredthesharp,creamyflavor.
Gerrysaidnothingandthetwoofthemwatchedtheriverrollby.
“So,” Gerry said at last. “What’s waiting for you on the other side of the
river?”
“Hohenwald,Tennessee,”Michaelsaidandsippedhisrootbeer.Hecouldget
usedtothis.“Then,maybeFlorida.”
“What’sinHohenwald?”
“Anelephantsanctuary.Elephantsdon’tliketobealone.”
Gerrynodded.“IthoughtFloridawasunderwater.”
“Alotofitis.ButJackiesaystheupperpartofFloridaisstillthere.”Michael
stopped.
“Isee,”saidGerry.Hewassilentamoment.“You’reanawfulniceboytobe
crazy.”
Michaeldidn’tsayanything.IfGerrywantedtothinkhewascrazythatwas
allrightwithhim.
“Youdon’tthinkyou’llfindanybodydownthere,doyou?”askedGerry.
Michaelshrugged.“HowwouldIknow?”
Gerrynodded.“Everything’sprettymuchfallenapart.Ithinktheremightbe
fivepeopleleftalivehereinMetropolis.You’dthinkwe’dhangtogether.Butit
didn’t seem to work out that way. There might be a few hundred out in the
countryside. Seems like I spent the last five years burying everyone I’ve ever
known.Ican’tbelieveit’smuchbetterdownsouth.”
Michaelfinishedhisrootbeerandputitonthedeck.“That’swhereJackiehas
togo.Shehastohavesomethingshecaneatinthewinter.”
Michael looked up at the remains of the bridge. He had only really known
SaintLouis.Itlookedlikethingsweremessedupeverywhere.Forthefirsttime
hehadaninklingwhatthatmeant.
“Whatwasitlikebefore?”Michaelmuttered.
Michael had been talking to himself, but even so, Gerry reacted. His face
seemed to take on a rubbery texture. “Everything just came apart. First, the
weatherwenttoshit.Thencameplagues,oneafteranother.Andnotjustpeople.
Birds. Cattle. Sheep. Wheat. Beans. There was about six years where you
couldn’t get a tomato unless you grew it yourself. Even then, it wasn’t much
better than fifty-fifty. Oaks. Sequoias. Shrimp. Government would figure out
howtomaketomatoesgrowagainandeverymapleinthecountywouldfallover
androt.They’dgetahandleonthatandthenextthingyouknowsomebodyhad
engineered a virus that lived in milk. Why would anyone ever do that?” He
shookhishead.“Figuredthatoneoutafteracoupleofmillionkids.Rightafter
that,thecornbegantowither.Wegotastrainofcornthatwouldgrowandatidal
wavecomesroaringovertheEastCoast.Boston,Providence,andNewYorkgo
underwater.”
Hestoppedandsatup.Hepulledouthisbandannaandwipedhiseyes.“IfI
believedinGod,I’dgooutandkillacalfonarockorsomething.Wesureas
hellpissedhimoff.”Gerrysighed.“Ah,musn’tgrumble.”Hesippedhisbeer,
composedagain.
Michaelstaredathim.MaybeGerrydidthisallthetime.“So,”beganMichael
afteralongandawkwardsilence.“Weshouldcrosshere?”
“That’strue.I’mprettymuchtheonlygameintown.Butthat’snotmypoint.”
Hepointedovertheriverattheoppositeshore.“That’sKentucky.Orwhat’sleft
ofit.Thingshavebeenfallingapartforalong,longtime.Iwassittingonmy
boattwentyyearsagowhenthebigrushcamedowntheriverthattookoutthe
twobridges.Icouldseeitcoming,afifteen-footwalloftrashanddebrisrolling
down on top of us. I had just enough time to pull Encantante into the creek
downstreambehindtheoakbluffswhenitwashedoverMetropolisandscoured
everythingbetweenusandCairo.Backthenwestillhadpeoplelivinghere,so
wewereabletocleanupandrebuildoveracoupleofyears.”Gerrychuckled.
“My little ferry business picked up because nobody was going to rebuild the
bridges—wewerestillinacrisisatthatpoint.Ithadn’tbecomeadisasteryet.
Notenoughpeoplehaddied.”
“Wheredidthewatercomefrom?”
Gerryshookhishead.“Neverreallyfiguredthatout.WasitjusttheSmithland
Damthatletgo?Ordidonebigfloodstartwayuptheriverandthentakeoutall
thedamsonebyoneonthewaydown?Idoknowthatfloodiswhattookoutthe
two dams downstream from here and when I did go up to look at Smithland,
therewasn’tmuchleftofit.Icameback.Then,aboutsixyearslater,Iloadedup
aboatIhadwithallthefuelIcouldfindandwentupnearlyfivehundredmiles
to see what the hell was going on. It’s not like you could trust anything you
heardontheradio.Ionlyknewwhat had happenedhere.Ididn’tturnaround
until I reached Cincinnati. There wasn’t a bridge or a dam left standing the
wholeway.Thiswasbeforetheearthquake.Maybesomebodyblewthemup.It
was a big mystery until other things sort of overshadowed it. But you let me
wanderawayfrommypointagain.”
“Hey,itwasn’tmyfault.”
“Mypointisthatnowtheonlythingthatkeepswhat’sontheKentuckyshore
fromcomingoverontothisshoreisthatriver.”
Michaelshookhishead.“So?What’sovertherethat’snotoverhere?”
Gerryshrugged.“Things.Biglizards,sometimes.Maybeacrocodileortwo.
Biganimals—Ihaven’tseenanyelephants.ButImighthaveseenatiger.”
“Yeah,right.”Michaelsnorted.“Pulltheotherone.Amountainlion,maybe.”
Gerryshruggedagain.“Whenweputdamsandbridgesacrossthewater,cars
andbusesweren’ttheonlythingsthatcrossed.Nowthedamsandbridgesare
goneandwhatlivesontheothersidestaysontheotherside.It’snotgoingtobe
aseasytogetoverhereasitwasbefore.”
“WecrossedthebridgeinSaintLouis.Itwasjustfine.”
Gerrypulledhispipeoutofhispocketalongwithhispocketknifeandbegan
cleaning the bowl. “Maybe things can’t cross up that far north. Maybe the
MississippikeepsthingsfromcrossingwestjustliketheOhiokeepsthingsfrom
crossingnorth.MaybeI’mjusthavingoldmanhallucinations.ButIknowwhatI
saw.TherearethingsthatliveonthatsideoftheriverIdon’tseeonthisside.
Youcrosstheriverandthey’resureashellgoingtoseeyou.”
Michaeldidn’tlookat him. “That’swhere shehas togo. Shejust can’tget
fooduphereinthewinter.”
“WhatdidyoudoinSaintLouis?”
“TheZookeptusalive.Butit’sgonenow.”
Gerry sighed. “She’s a pretty animal. I guess there’s no animal on earth so
nobleandbeautiful,andjustplainbig,asanelephant.Butitdoesn’tbelonghere.
JackieshouldbeinIndia.”
“Ican’ttakehertoIndia.”
“Iknow that.” Gerry hesitated.“Maybe it’s timeto cut her loose.”Michael
staredatthedecking.Hedidn’tknowwhattosay.
Gerrypointedacrosstheriver.“Tellyouwhat.YouandItakeheracrossthe
riverandletherofftheboat.Maybeshe’llworkherwaysouth.Youcomeback
herewithme.”
Michaellookedathim,tryingtoseeiftherewassomehintofUncleNedin
his face. He couldn’t tell. Michael was in no particular hurry to repeat that
arrangement.“Idon’tknow.”
Gerryfinishedtampingthetobaccointhebowlandlithispipe.“Youknow
thatsoybeanfieldIsentyoutouponthehill?It’saprettyfield,isn’tit?The
soybeans are one of those perennial varieties popular about fifteen years ago.
WhenIwasakidthatwasatoxicwastesitewithalotofmercuryandcadmium
and toxic solvents. Don’t look at me that way. That was years ago. It’s safe
enoughforhernow.Anyway,youknowhowtheyreclaimedit?”
“No.”
“Itwasprettyneat,actually.Theytooksomeengineeredcorn.Cornpushesits
rootsdeepintothesoil—asmuchastenfeetinsomevarieties.Thiscornpulled
upthemetalsandconcentratedthemintothekernelsoftheear.Itdiscoloredthe
kernels.Someweresilver,somewerebrightblue.”
“Idon’tunderstand.”
“Anyway,”continuedGerry.“Becauseofthemetalconcentration,thekernels
wereexpectedtobesterile.Mostofthemwere.Butcoonsattackedthefieldand
atesomeandgotsick.Sothatwasoneproblemtheyhad.Crowspeckedatthe
earsand got sick.That was another.Bits of theears were draggedby various
animalsawaysaway.Turnedoutsomewerefertileafterall.Theytookrootand
startedgrowingoverdatalines.Theplantcouldn’ttellthedifferencebetweena
heavy metal being cleaned up in a waste site or a similar heavy metal in a
computerunderground.”
Michaelstampedhisfeet.“Whatareyoutalkingabout?”
Gerrystaredhardathim.“Idon’tknowwhat’sacrosstheriver.I’msayingit
couldbeanything.”
“What?Killercorn?”
Gerrysnorted.“Ofcoursenot.Butifpeoplecanrebuildcornanditescapes
whatelsecouldtheyhavedone?CrocodilestocontrolAsianlungfish?Killer
beestocontroloakborers?Iknowwhatlivesaroundhere.Ilivewithitevery
day. Iknow things are differentacross theriver.” Gerrycalmed himself.“You
takeyourelephantacrosstheriverifyouwantto.Butyou’llcomebackandstay
herewithmeifyou’resmart.”
***
Jackiewaswaitingforhimintheafternoonshade.Avastsectionofthesoybean
fieldhadbeenleveledandshelookedwell-fedforthefirsttimeinseveraldays.
Michaellookedaround.“Tasty?”
Jackie looked at the field. “Pretty good.” Her belly even seemed a little
swollen.
“HowmuchlongeruntilwegettoHohenwald?”
Jackieshookherhead.“Coupleofweeks,Ihope.”
“AndFlorida?”
“IfwegotoFlorida,Iexpectwe’llgettheremidsummer.”Michaelthought
foramoment.“Doyouknowthedate?”
“It’sthefirstofMay.”
“May day,” said Michael slowly. “That’s six weeks.” Jackie looked at him
withoneeye.“So?”
“Couldyougettherefasterifyouweren’tcarryingme?”
“Itwouldn’tmakeanydifference.Icouldonly go fasterifIdidn’ttakethe
timetokeepfed.ButIcan’taffordtostarvemyself.Notnow.”
“Howcome?”
“Nevermind.”
“You’rehidingsomething.”
“Sowhat?Itdoesn’tconcernyou.”
“Whothehelldoyouthinkyouare?”shoutedMichael,surprisingthemboth.
Jackiesteppedback.Foramomentshestood,arrested,onelegraisedreadyin
defense,threesolidlyontheground.
“Areyougoingtosquashmeforshoutingatyou?”Michaelshookhisheadin
disgust.“IwasbetteroffwithNed.”
Slowly,Jackieeasedherlegdown.Sheturnedandsilentlywalkedovertothe
pondinthemiddleofthesoybeanfield.Michaelwatchedasshepulledupwater
andsplasheditoverherself.
DearMom,
I don’t think Jackee will ever like me. I guess I was fooling
myself.She’saneleefant.ShehatesmebecauseI’mapersonand
peopledidthingstoherandothereleefants.
Gerry wants me to stay here with him. He has a good thing
here.Metropolishasapowersorsesohecanstaywarmforalong
time.Witheverybodygone,theleftoverpreservedfoodwillbe
goodforyears.Therearesomewildcropshere,too.Nednever
haditsogood.
Jackee doesn’t need me. Most of the stuff Ralph packed was
forme.Icouldrigabagforhertocarryaroundherneckforthe
stuffshehastohave.Thatoughttobeenough.Andit’snotlike
I’m holding stuff for her to read anymore. Whatever she found
backattheZoomusthavebeenallshewanted.Shehasn’tbeen
interestedinanythingbutgoingsouthsince.
WhenItoldthistoJackeeshedidn’tsayanythingforawhile.
Then,allshesaidwas,Suityourself.
So,IguessI’llbestayinginMetropolis.
love,Mike
Gerry waited at the ferry while Michael walked with Jackie back up to the
soybeanfield.Michaeldecidedhedidn’twantGerrytoknowabouther.Itfelt
safertokeepeverythingquiet.Jackiefollowedhisleadsilently.
Michaelkeptglancingatherassheate,tryingtoseeifshehadanyregretshe
was staying here. Her elephantine face was inexpressive but her movements
wereshortandabrupt.Couldshebeangryathimforstaying?Orjustimpatient
tobeonherway?
Whenshewasdone,heslungthemakeshiftbagaroundhernecksoshecould
reachitandledherbackdowntothedock.Shesteppedgingerlyontothemetal
flooroftheferry.Therewasplentyofroom and even inthestrongcurrent,it
onlyswayedslightly.
Gerrycastoffwithoutcommentandangledtheferryupstreamintotheriver.
Michael felt the powerful motor bite into the current and the entire craft
hummed. But he could not hear the motor itself, only the churning of the
propeller.
Gerrycaughthisexpression.“Quiet,isn’tshe?Electricmotor.”
Hepulledupthehatch.Michaelsawaroundishcubewiththeshaftcoming
outconnectedwiththickcablestoacylindricaldevice.
“That’sthemotor,”Gerrysaidpointingtothecube.“That’spowerstorage.”
Hepointedtothecylinder.
“Abattery?”
“TheycalleditafuelcoilwhenIboughttheboat.Notsurehowitworksbutit
holdsaboutfortyhoursofpower.ThesedaysIchargeitupfromalittleturbineI
droppedoffthedock.Don’tneedtousetheboatthatmuch.ForlongertripsI
canchargeitfromabigfuel cellIcancarrywithme.”Hedropped the hatch
withaclangandreturnedtothewheel.
TheEncantantepassedthemaineddylineandenteredthecenteroftheriver.
GerrysteppedupthemotorandangledtheEncantantemoresteeply.Theripples
andtwistsinthecurrentcausedtheboattoshiftandslidealittle.Notenoughto
makestandingdifficultbutenoughsoMichaelnoticed.Itmadehimgrin.Jackie
lookedaroundnervously.
Then,theywereacrossthemainriverandnearingthefarside.Gerryeasedoff
thethrottleanddroppedtheEncantantebelowabluffjuttingoutintothewater.
Againtheycrossedastrongeddythatmadetheferryjumpamoment.Thewater
grewcalmandGerrybroughtEncantantetothedock.
MichaelledJackieofftheferryandstoodwithherforamomentinthemiddle
oftheroad.Helookedeast,judgingthevegetation.Therewasplenty.Theforest
wasthickontheothersideoftheroadandhecouldseethebreakinthetrees
signifyingafield.Jackiewouldn’tstarve.
TurningawayfromGerrysohecouldn’tsee,Michaelpulledtheatlasoutof
hisjacket.
“Here. You walk down here to Interstate 24 and take it south. Then take
Highway 45 to Benton. Once you get to Benton, hunt around until you find
Highway641.TakethattoInterstate40,east.Then—”
“You’vebeenoverthis.Alot.”
“Well,Iwroteitdown.There’saleatherholderImadeforyou.It’stiedtothe
beltandthedirectionsareinitalongwiththemapbook.Idrewitalloutonthe
mapsoyouwouldn’tgetlost.”
“Thanks,”saidJackieshortly.
Michaelnoddedandstuffedtheatlasintothebag.“Youtakecareofyourself.”
Jackiewatchedhimashewalkedbacktotheferry.Michaelfelthiseyessting.
Helookedback.
Jackiewasonlyafewfeetaway.Somethingshookthebrushonthefarsideof
theroad.Beforehefullyregisteredwhatitwas,hewasrunningatit,yellingat
Jackie to back away. Gerry tried to grab him but Michael ducked under his
hands.
ItraiseditsthickbodyhighonitslegsandrantowardJackie,itsmouthopen
andnarrowasasnake’s.Lizard?Crocodile?Heranpastandstood,screaming,
betweenthem.
Thethingstopped,closeditsmouthandsteppedbackonlysolongforalong
tonguetoslipoutand back.Thenitlungedforward and grabbedforMichael.
Michael danced back but it grabbed his leg and shook him off his feet, then
raiseditsclawsoverhim.
Michael heard trumpeting. Jackie’s leg came down on its midsection. The
creature ruptured and blood and meat spewed across the road. Its jaw opened
reflexively and Michael scrambled back. Jackie stamped on it until it was
nothingbutaflat,smearedruin.ThenshelookedatMichael.
Michaelsmiledather.Sheleanedoverhimandwrappedhertrunkaroundhis
leg.Helookeddownandsawthebloodandfeltnauseous.
“Thiswillhurt,”shesaid.Shewrappedhertrunkaroundhislegandsqueezed.
Foramoment,Michaelcouldn’tseeorbreathe.
“Gerry!”Jackieshouted.“Getoverhereandpickhimup!”
GerryranovertothemandasheliftedMichaelbytheshoulders,Jackielifted
hisleg.Thepoundinginhislegseemedtodrownouteverything.
Back in the ferry, Michael looked around. He must have blacked out a
momentfortheywerenowdeepinthemiddleoftheriver.Hefeltsleepy.
“Don’t you go away on me,” said Jackie, kneeling next to him. “You stay
here.Michael—”
Michael wanted to say he was sorry but he was as light as smoke and he
driftedaway.
PART2
Itwasalllightanddarkforalongtime.Whenthingswerelighterhesleptina
brown haze as if he were swimming in honey. He was warm and safe.
Occasionally,hewasconvulsedwithpain.Hecouldn’ttellwherethepainwas
comingfromexactly.Sometimesitseemedtocomefromhisneck.Othertimes,
hisleg.Sometimeshewasrivenbypainthatseemedtocomefromnowhere.
Thiswenton,itseemed,forever.Then,itgrewlighterandheopenedhiseyes.
Hewasinaroom,inabed,thatremindedhimofwhenhisparentsstilllived.
Theroomhadawindow.Asthenthebedhadbeenpushedagainstthewallsohe
couldlookoutthewindow.Ithadsheetsandablanket.Hefingeredthemgently,
wonderingifhewasdreaming.Outside,thesunshone.Hisleghurt.
He heard a grunt and Jackie’s head appeared in the window. She pushed it
open.“Howareyoufeeling?”
“Sleepy,”Michaelsaid.“Myleghurts.”
“Gobacktosleepifyouwant.I’llbehere.”
Michael nodded and smiled. Her trunk hovered in the air near him. He
reachedup and pulledit close, awarm and bristlycomfort. He couldfeel the
musclestenseamoment,thenrelax.Theweightofitnexttohim,thegrasssmell
ofherbreath,thebeatofherpulse.Michaelclosedhiseyes.Hefeltlikehewas
floatingintheair.
***
Gerrywassittingatthefootofthebedreadingabook.Thesunlightwasgone
anditlookedthreateningoutside.
“An afternoon June storm,” Gerry said, looking up from his book. “June?”
Michaelshookhishead.“ItwasMaywhenwegottoMetropolis.”Gerrynodded
butdidn’tsayanything.
“Well?”
“WaituntilJackiegetsback.Shewantedtobeherewhenyouwokeup.Ionly
gothertogoupthehillandeatbypromisingtocallherifyouwokeup.”
Gerryreturnedtohisbook.“Aren’tyougoingtocallher?”
Gerryshookhishead.“It’shardenoughtogethertoleaveyou.Sheneedsto
eatherfill.Knowwhatyou’regoingtodo?”
“What?”
“PretendtobeasleepsoIdon’tgetintrouble.”
Michaelclosedhiseyesobediently.Thenhedidn’tneedtopretend.
***
Itwasthethunderthatwokehim.Hestartedandhislegbegantothrob.Hecould
seethebulkingshadowofJackiewithherheadinthewindow.Gerryhadrigged
somekindofawningoverthewindowsoatleastherheadwouldn’tgettoowet.
Michaeldidn’tlikeit.Thatwashisjob.
Gerryenteredtheroomwithahissinglantern.Hesetitonthesidetableand
movedthecurtainsaway.
“There,yousee?Lettherebelight.”
Michaeltriedtoreachhislegbuthewastooweak.“Canyourubmyleg?It
reallyhurts.”
Gerrylookeddown.
“Michael,”Jackierumbledgently.“Youneedtobebrave.”Michaeldidn’tlike
thesoundofit.“AmIgoingtodie?”
“No,”saidJackiesomberly.“Thedragonbityourleg.Wecouldn’tsaveit.”
“Whatdoyoumean?”
“Itgotinfected,”saidGerry.“Itgotsobadwethoughtitwasgoingtotake
youwithit.So,ithadtogo.”
“Go?”Michaelshookhishead.“Whatareyoutalkingabout?”
“Gerryhadtocutoffyourleg,”saidJackie.
“What?”Michaelsaidweakly.
Gerrypulledbacktheblanket.Michael’sthighandkneelookedbruisedand
purple.Belowthatwasafatbandagethatendedlongbeforehisankle.
“Youcutoffmyleg.”Michaelcouldn’tbelievethestumpwashis.“Thisisa
joke.Icanstillfeelmyfoot.”
Gerryreplacedtheblanket.“Afterawhile,yourmindwillacceptthere’sno
foot there. Then you won’t feel it anymore.” The shape of the blanket now
clearlyshowedwhatwasmissing.“Atleast,that’swhatI’veheard.”
Michaelstaredattheblanketforalongtime.Outside,thethunderrecededand
whilethelightningplayedintheclouds,therewaslittlesoundbutfortherain
andthewind.
“Yousaiddragon,”Michaelsaid,lookingupfromhisleg.Hecouldn’tstand
tostareatitanymore.
“Komododragonlizard,”Gerrysaid.“Jackiefiguredoutwhatitwasassoon
asshesawit.”
Jackie looked up at the sky. She looked inside the window. “I expect there
wereseveralzoosandotherfacilitiesinFloridathatcollapsedjustlikethezooin
SaintLouis.Maybethatrhinoisstillalive.Forthesummer,atleast.According
to Gerry, these lizards have survived for a while. I’m not sure how a tropical
speciescanmakeitthroughatemperatewinter.Perhapstheymovesouthwhen
thetemperaturedrops.Orperhapstheyfindaplacetheycansleepthroughthe
cold.Isupposeit’spossibletherewereenoughofthemthatsomewereresistant
tothecold.Theoneslessresistantdiedoutandtheremainingpopulationbred.
Evolutioninaction.Ormaybetheyweremodified.”
Michaelstaredather.Jackiewastalkingtohim.Reallytalkingtohim.She
hadneverdonethatbefore.
Gerryinterruptedgently.“Howareyoufeeling,Michael?”
Michaelstarted.He’dforgottenGerrywasthere.“Myfoothurts.”Helooked
downattheblanket,oddlymisshapenwithouthisfootunderit.Tearswelledup.
“WhatamIgoingtodo?”
“Rest,forthemoment,”saidJackie.“Thenfigureitout.”
***
Michaelhealedwithallthecombustivevitalityofanywell-fedyoungboy.By
earlyJuly,thestitcheswereoutandtheskinoverthestumpwasnewandtender.
HeeitherhobbledaboutwithacrutchthatGerryhadmadehimorJackiecarried
him.
ButasthedaysworeonhestartedfindingJackiehighonthebrokenendof
theInterstate24Bridgecarefullywatchingtheotherside.
“What’soverthere?”Michaelaskedashesatdownanddangledhislegover
thehundredfootdrop.
“Youshouldn’tsitsoclosetotheedge,”Jackiesaidquietly.
“Ifthisbridgewillholdyou,it’sgoingtoholdme.”
Jackiereachedoverandpickedhimupwithhertrunk.“Edgescrumble.”She
puthimdownandheleanedagainstthewall.“Okay.What’soverthere?”
“I’vebeenwatchingthedragons.”Shepointedwithhertrunk.“Theycometo
the road once around sunrise and once around sunset. In the morning, when
they’rewarmenough,theyleavetheroadandmovetotheforestattheedgeof
theclearing. Atnight, they slink away underthe trees to sleep somewhere.A
cave, maybe, or some other kind of den. If they’re hungry, they stay near the
clearinguntilthey’vemadeakill.Animalsavoidtheroadsoit’snotprofitableto
huntthere.That’swhytheyhugtheedgesoftheclearings.There.”Shepointed
again across the river. “And there. See the carcass? It was a deer they took
yesterdaymorning.”
Michaelsawonelegstickingup from theground in theclearing.Twolong
motionlessshadowswerelyingnearit.
“Sotheroadissafeinthemiddleoftheday.”
“Safer, anyway. This section of road has only two lanes. The wider roads
mightbebetterorworse.Ican’ttellfromhere.Gerrywasrightaboutonething.
They’renotcrossingtheriver.”
Michael saw something moving. A large spotted cat. He pointed it out to
Jackie. “A leopard, maybe?” she said. “Look how it’s avoiding where the
dragonsare.”
“Lookwayinthedistanceinthatclearing.Deer?”
“Idon’tknow.Theydon’tlooklikedeer.Gazelles?Antelopes?Somethingthe
leopardsandKomodoscaneat,Isuppose.”
“Wheredidtheycomefrom?”
“ZoosinFlorida?LaboratoriesinAtlanta?Idon’tknow.”Shepausedalong
time.“Overtherethingsaregoingtobedifferent.”
Michaelleanedbackagainsttheridgeofherback.Herubbedthestumpofhis
leg.Itwasstilltenderandititchedconstantly.Sometimes,ifhewasn’tthinking
aboutit,hetriedtoscratchhistoes.
“Thesummerisgettingon,”Michaelsaid.“Weshouldgetstarted.”
“Yeah, right,” Jackie snorted. “You want to lose both legs? You’re staying
herewithGerry.I’llgoondownalone.”
“Youneedme!”
“I’llcope.Youwereright.Youbelonghere.”
“Thatwasbefore.”
“Beforewhat?”
Michaelhesitated.“WhenIdidn’tthinkyoulikedme.”
Jackieturnedherheadandlookedathim.“WhatmakesyouthinkIlikeyou
now?”
“Youstayedwithme.Gerrysaid.”
“Ifeltguiltyforgettingyouintothis.”
Michaelfeltasifhewerestruck.Nedhadnevertreatedhimthisway.“Why?
Why hate me? Why be so mean to me?” Michael felt like she was hiding
something.Howdoyougetsomeonetotellyouwhattheydon’twantto?“Why
didyouleavetheZoo?”heaskedsuddenly.
“Ididn’tlikehumans.AndIhadtoleave.”
Michaelpickeduponthe“didn’t”immediatelybutkeptittohimself.“Ralph
saidhehadacoupleofyearsyet.Itdidn’thavetoberightthen.”
“Ihadtoleave.”
“Why?Whythen?Why—whenwecouldbebackthereenjoyinggoodfood
andnotstaringovertheriveratdragons.”
Jackieshookherhead.
SuddenrageshookMichael.“Damnit!Isavedyou.Youoweme.”
Jackie sighed. “This is hard for me. Did you know there were four of us?
Tantor,Jill,OldBill,andme.Wealllearnedtospeakquicklyenoughbutwehid
itfromtheKeepersaslongaswecould.Wehadnoloveofthem.Whyshould
we?Evenifwehadn’thadthewittospeak,wewouldhaveknownthiswasnot
theplaceweshouldbe.
“Yousawthezoo.Therewerecameraseverywhere.Wheretherearecameras,
there can be no secrets. So we were found out. They taught us to read. They
taught us anything they could get their monkey hands on. We talked it over
among ourselves. Why not learn what they had to offer? What could it hurt?
Learntheenemy,saidOldBill.Butkeepthemdistant.”
Jackie fell silent for a moment. “Every animal is wired its own way. Herd
animalsandpackanimalsaresimilarinonerespect.Theydefinethemselvesby
membershipinthegroup.Onceyouincludeanewmemberinthegroup,you’re
boundtothem.Wolves,cattle,andelephantsarethesame.Wedidn’twantthat.
We didn’t want to include humans in our tight little community. So we held
back. We acted confused and slow. We did everything we could to make
ourselves look stupid. Smart enough to work with, but our true nature held
secret.
“Thenthehumansstarteddying.Oneafteranother.Ingroups.Bythemselves.
Untilwewerebyourselves.OnlyRalphwaslefttocareforus.
“Wewereecstatic.AllwehadtodowasfigureouthowtoescapeRalphand
survive.Weknewwehadtogosouth.Georgia.Florida.Alabama.Wherethere
wasnosnowinthewinterandwecouldeat.
“ThenJilldied.Abitofwireorglassleftinthehay,maybe.Noveterinarians
left,right?Weneverreallyknew,butshediedbloatedandscreaming.Thatleft
OldBillandTantor.Idon’tknowhowithappened,butIwokeupafewweeks
later and they were fighting. It’s a terrible thing to see two five-ton animals
slammingintooneanother.Theyhadcomeintomusthatthesametime.Idon’t
knowwhy.IthinkIcameintoheatwatchingthem.Biologytriumphant.”
Jackie snorted. “If they had been dumb beasts, one of them would have
figuredouttheywerelosingandbrokenitoff.Instead,OldBillkilledTantor.He
cameoverandmountedme.”
“But the battle hurt him, too. Inside, somehow. A concussion? Internal
hemorrhaging?I’llneverknow.Hejustwastedaway.ThenhewasdeadandI
wasaloneandpregnant.Youappearedonthesceneaweekafterthat.”
Michaelstaredather.“Idon’tunderstand.”
“I’m telling you why I had to leave. I didn’t have a couple of years. The
gestationperiodofanelephantistwenty-twomonths.Nomore.Noless.I’mfive
monthspregnant.Ihavetofindaplacethat’ssafe,that’swarm,whereIcanraise
mychild.”
“Oh,”Michaelsaid.“Butwhythehurry?That’sacoupleofyears.”
“Notreally.Idon’tknowwhat’satHohenwald.Whatiftherearenoelephants
left?Thenit’sonlyme.Afewmonthstofindaplaceandgetthroughthefirst
winter—how will I know I’ve found a good spot until I’ve been through the
winter?ThenafewmonthstomovetoanewspotifIhaveto.Thenasolidyear
ofeating.That’snotmuchtime.Notmuchtimeatall.”
Michaellookedacrosstheriver.“Guessthedragonsareaproblemforalittle
guy.”
“Youthink?”shechuckled.
“Ididn’tmeanme,”Michaelsaidreasonably.“You’regoingtoneedme.”He
lookedupatherandshelookedaway.“Andyouknowit,too.Isitsoterribleto
need a human when you’re so alone?” Michael looked over the edge of the
bridgeandspat.Hecouldseeitnearlyallthewaydown.“Lookatitthisway.
Weused youwhen everybody wasalive. Now’s your chance touse us—or at
leastme.”
“Idon’twanttouseanybody.”
“Thentakemealongbecauseyoulikeme.Takemealongbecauseyoucanuse
mymonkeyhands.TakemealongbecauseIdon’tweighmuchandwon’tbea
burdentocarry.Onlytakemealong!”
Jackiedidn’tsayanythingforamoment.“You’recrippled.”
“Comparedtoyou,everyoneiscrippled.”
“Michael,you’remissingoneleg.”
“So?”
Jackiesnorted.“Youcan’tkeepup.”
“Icouldn’tkeepupbefore.”
“You’rebeingdifficult.”
“WheredidyouevergettheideaI’dmakeleavingmebehindeasyforyou?”
“You’remissingaleg!”Jackietrumpetedinfrustration.“Ican’ttakeyouwith
me.”
“Whynot?”
“Whynot?”Jackieshookherhead.“You’remissingaleg.”
“Yousaidthat.”Michaelstaredherstraightintheeye.“LikeIsaid:So?”
“Michael,”shesaidhelplessly.
“Youowemeananswer.Anddon’tgivemethe‘notkeepingup’crap.You
owemebetterthanthat.”
Jackiestaredbackathim.“Okay,”shesaidslowly.“ThetruthisIdon’twant
tohavetotakecareofyou.”
“Morecrap.”
“Notatall.Idon’tknowwhat’sgoingtohappenwhenImeetotherelephants.
Ican’thaveanymoredependantsthanmyownbaby.”
“Let’saddsomemoretruthshere.”Michaelfeltlikehewasgoingtocry.He
wiped his eyes angrily. “So I can’t walk without a crutch. I’m riding you
anyway.Besides,whenmystumpheals,wecanmakeanartificialleg.Youread
thatyourself.EvenGerrysaidhecoulddoit.Wemightevenfindonethatwill
fitme.Justbecausetherewasn’tanythingintheMetropolisHospitaldoesn’tsay
anythingabout other hospitals.So it’s not my leg. It’snot like Ihaven’tbeen
useful.Youwouldn’thavegottenoutofSaintLouiswithoutme.It’sbeenme,
withmyhumanhands,who’sbeenabletokeepthestufftogether.I’mtheone
whocanuseagun.I’mtheonethatsavedyourlife.Thetruthisyouneedme.
Yourbabyneedsme.Soletmecomealong.”
“I’llhavetolookoutforyou.”
“We’llhavetolookoutforeachother.Youdidn’tseethedragon.Idid.”
“No.”
“Whynot?”
“Idon’twantanybodytodiearoundme.Notagain.”Sheshuddered.
Foramoment,Michaelcouldreadherasclearlyasifshewereahumanbeing
standing right in front of him: her face dark and sad, her eyes haunted. He
reachedupandtookhertrunkanddrapeditaroundhisshoulder.Hestrokedit
gently. “You’re going to need all the help you can get. You’ve got a baby
coming.Youdon’tevenknowiftheelephantsarestillthereorifyoucanfind
them.You’regoingtoneedmyhandsandmyeyes.Bettertakethemwithyou.”
“Whydoyouwanttogowithmesomuch?”
Michaellaughed.“Areyoukidding?Liveonthebackofanelephant?What
kidwouldn’ttradehisteethtobeinmyplace?”
“Thatcan’tbetheonlyreason.”
“Oh,thereareamillionreasonsforustobetogether.Ican’tthinkofallof
themforyou.”Michaelhuggedhertrunk.Helookedupather.“I’mgoingtobe
anuncle!”
***
Thistime,GerrykepttheEncantanteahundredyardsfromshorewhileMichael
andJackiewatchedforsignsofthedragons.
MichaelscannedtheforestwiththebinocularsGerryhadgivenhim.“Idon’t
seeany.”
“Wesawthekillintheclearingthismorning.Theyshouldbethere,”Jackie
said. “And they might have decided to stay in the shade today,” Gerry
commenteddryly.
“Whymissachanceatamountainofmeat?”
“Quiet,”saidMichael.“Let’snotdothisalloveragain.”
Gerryopenedhismouth,andthenshutit.“Suityourself.I’llsaythisforthe
lasttime.Thisisamistakeandyou’llrememberIsaidit.”
“Ifthingsworkout,wemightcomeupinayearortwo.YoucanmeetJackie’s
newbaby.”
Gerrydidn’tanswerbutemptiedhispipeovertheside.
“It’snowornever.”MichaelpattedJackie’sleg.“Helpmeup.”
“IthinkGerry’sright.”
“Notgoingtogothroughitagainrightthisminute.Makealeg.”
JackiebentdownononekneeandMichaelclamberedup.“Okay,then.”He
pulledouttherifle.
Jackieeyeditwarily.“Ididn’tknowyouhadthat.”
“Everybodyhassecrets.Let’sroll.”
GerrybroughttheEncantanteslowlytothepier.Hisownriflewasstandingin
thecornerafootawayfromhimbuthedidn’tlookatit.Instead,hekepthishand
overthethrottleandthereverseswitch.
Jackiesteppedslowlyontothepierandlookedaround.Michaelheldthegun
ready.“Okay,then.”
Jackiebeganlumberinguptheroad.
MichaelheardGerrycallafterthem:“Goodluck!”Thenthepropellerrevved
upandtheferrypulledawayfromthepier.
Theywereontheirown.
Michaellookedaroundand watchedcarefully.Theonethat gothisleg was
deadbutMichaelwouldn’thavemindedgivinghimsomecompany.
PART3
Oncethedragonshadwarmedthemselvesonthepavement,theymovedtothe
shadows,waitingforwhateverwanderedcloseby.Michaeldidn’tknowifitwas
Jackie’ssizeorthefacttheystayedinthecenteroftheroadasfarfromtheedge
aspossible,butthefewdragonstheysawonlywatchedastheywalkedby.The
Encantantecontainingtwohumansandanelephantmusthaveconfusedthem.
PerhapsMichaelhadbeentherealtargetallalong,orperhapsthedragonhadn’t
seenallofJackie,justherleg,andattackedwhatitthoughtwasasingleanimal.
Theywouldlikelyneverknow.
TheinfectionthathadnearlykilledMichaelshowedthethreatofthedragons
wasprobablygreaterthanJackiebeingatargetforeveryhungrymanwithagun.
Stayingtothemiddleoftheroadsmeanttheytraveledintheopen.Jackiecould
be seen for a long distance. This made both of them nervous. Michael kept
anticipatingthefeelingofJackiesaggingunderneathhim,thevictimofahungry
sniper,followedbytheinevitablesoundofriflefire.
Theysawnoone.
“Where is everybody?” Michael asked. Even in Saint Louis there had been
somepeople—tobeavoided,ofcourse.Buttheyhadalwaysbeenthere.
“Idon’tknow.”Jackiewatchedthelowfarms.“ThisisdifferentfromwhatI
hadimagined.”
***
Thelandrose.Theforestgrewthicker,lushandfilledwithtalloaksandmaples.
Theroaddisappearedintorubblewithinadarkandgloomyforestfloornearly
bare of vegetation. The remains of the road was a break of light between the
trees.
“Keep watch,” Jackie said after a while. “It’ll be cold under the trees. The
dragonswillbesunningthemselveswhereverthere’sawarmspot.”
Buttheforestgrewthickerandevenquieter.Theysawnodragons.
“No people and no dragons.” Michael leaned forward to look down on
Jackie’sface.“Anyideas?”
Jackie shook her great head. “It’s too cool for them here under the trees.
Maybethedragonsmigratenorthinthespringwhenthecanopyisthinner.Then
returnsouth.”
“Lizardsmigrating?”
“Whoknows?It’sanewworlddownhere.Iwasmodified.Maybetheywere,
too.Ormaybethisjustisn’tdragoncountry.”
“Youweremodifiedforareason,Iguess.Maybetheywere,too.”
Jackiewassilentforamoment.“WhydoyouthinkIhadtobemodifiedfora
reason?”
“Nobody would choose a five-ton experiment unless they had a reason.”
Michael cuffed the top of her head. “Especially one as foul tempered as you
are.”
“Yeah.Thanks.”Jackiewassilentforperhapsadozensteps.“Itwasinthelast
notebooksyoufound.”
“Ifigured.”
“Howso?”
“Ibringyoueverynotebookintheplace.Noneofthemsatisfyyou.Then,you
findwhatyou’re after.The next dayyou leave.Atfirst, Ithought it mightbe
somethingaboutHohenwald.Somethingimportantyouneededtoknowbefore
youcouldleave.Buttheplaceisclearlyonthemap.AndIcouldn’tseewhat
would be in notebooks about you that would have anything to do with
Hohenwald.Whateveryouwerelookingforhadtobeaboutyou.AfterawhileI
figuredoutithadtobesomethingaboutyouthatonlythepeoplethatcreated
youwouldknow.That’swhyyouweresearchingthenotebooks.Andithadtobe
somethingRalpheitherdidn’tknoworcouldn’ttellyou.Ralphwouldknowall
there was to know about how they had made you. But there’s no particular
reasonIcouldthinkofthattheywouldtellhimwhy.”
“ItcouldhavebeengeneticmapsoftheHohenwaldmales.”
“What’sageneticmap?”
“Somethingyouwouldn’tknowabout.”Jackiegrabbedtheleavesoffalow
hangingmapleandpulledthemdown.ThebranchtappedMichaelonthehead.
“Ouch.Whatwasthatfor?”
“Forthinkingyouknoweverythingaboutme.”
“IknowIdon’tknoweverythingaboutyou.Foronething,Idon’tknowwhat
wasinthosenotebooks.”
“Thepurposeoftheproject.Mypurpose.”
Michaelcriedoutwithdelight.“Iwasright,”hecrowed.“Youwereright.”
“Whatwasit?”
“They were going to reseed elephants back into Africa and Asia. But the
elephantsweregoingtohavetobeassmartashumanstokeepfrombeingsteak
onthehoof.”
“That’sweird,”Michaelsaid.“Whycouldn’tsomebodyjustgoandwatchout
forthem.”Thenithithim.“Oh.”
“‘Oh,’isright,”Jackiesaidgently.
“Theyknewtheyweredying.Theymusthaveknowneverybodywasdying.
Therewouldn’tbeanybodytotakecareofyou.”Michaelshookhishead.“That
doesn’t make sense. Why go through all the trouble and die before they can
makegoodonit?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t find any personal diaries or notes. I just found the
originalmissionstatementandlongrangeplan.”
“Whatdoyouthinkhappened?”
“Ithinktheymadeamistakeanddiedtooquickly.Sincewedidn’ttrustthem,
theydidn’treallyknowhowwelltheyhadsucceeded.Theykepttryingtoadapt,
tryingtofigureouthowsmartwereallywereandhowtheyweregoingtoadapt
theirplantoourlimitations.Theywerecaughtsicktryingtodorightbyus.”
Michaeldidn’tsayanythingforalongtime.“Doyouthinktheyfigureditout
beforetheyalldied?”
Jackiesighed,adeeprumblingbreath.“God,Ihopenot.”
DearMom,
MyspellingisbettersinceIletJackiereadtheletters.Shehad
beendoingitsometimesbuthadn’tsaidanything.
Ididn’ttellyouaboutGerry.ButheandJackietookcareofme
when I was sick. Gerry is a Real Good Guy, so if you get a
chance,lookoutforhim.
Jackie’sjob wastolookoutfortheelephants.So,nowwhen
wegettoHohenwald,shegetstodoherjob.I’mnotsurewhat
I’mgoingtodo.Myjobsofarhasbeentobeherhands.Butmost
ofwhatIdohastodowithtraveling.Whenshegetsthere,she
won’tbetravelinganymore.
ShesaidalloftheelephantsatHohenwaldwerefemales.But
theinformationshehadwasovertenyearsold.Ralphhadn’tbeen
abletocontactHohenwaldforalongtime.Maybetheyweren’t
fireprotected.
Thelandisdifferentnow,wilder.Jackiesaysitlookslikethe
oldforestsfromhundredsofyearsago.Butit’smuchtoorecent.
Shethinkssomebodymusthavemadeit.Sowe’recareful.
I miss you every day. You and Dad both, though I don’t
rememberhimsowell.JackiethinksI’mstrangetowritetoyou,
being dead and all. I don’t think it’s strange at all. (So there,
Jackie!)
IfItalkedtoyououtloud,peoplewouldjustthinkIwascrazy.
This way, it’s just between me and you and I get a chance to
collectmy thoughts. I think I remember youbetter, too, ifI do
this.Nedhadsomegoodideasmixedwiththebad.
Jackie makes sure I brush my teeth every night. She had me
look for a toothbrush in Ralph’s packs. Sure enough, there was
one.
We’recoming into Hohenwald soon. So,I’lltellyouaboutit
afterthat.
Love,Michael
TheyhadbeenseveraldaysonoldHighway641whenMichaelsawInterstate
40throughabreakinthetrees.
Thispartoftheroadhadseenbetterdays.TheroadsinTennesseewerebetter
caredforthantheonesinIllinoisorKentucky.Itwasoneofthebestwaysto
determinewhentheycrossedstateorcountyborders:theroadsorthefarmswere
cared for differently. In Kentucky, the roads were broken in places and worn
awayinothersandtheyhadtokeepasharpeyefordragons.
OncetheycrossedintoTennesseetheroadslookedasiftheywerecaredfor
bysomeonewithamaniaforcleanlinessandsharpborders.ItremindedMichael
ofthemysteriousfarmsupinIllinois.Thedarkforestseemedtobetheprovince
of Kentucky. The forest here seemed more normal: a mix of young trees and
shrubs.Onceortwicetheysawtheremainsofagarden.Therehadbeenpeople
aroundrecently,iftheyweren’taroundrightnow.Still,theysawnooneliving.
Justtheoccasionalmoundofmushrooms.
Jackiestoppeddeadinthemiddleoftheroadway.
Michaelalmostfelloff.Hecaughtontooneofherearsandpulledhimself
backuptoherneck.Helookedaroundnervouslytoseewhatmadeherstop.
“Whatisit?”hewhispered.“Ihearsomething.”
“Dragons?”
“No.”
Jackiespreadherlegsandleanedforward.Shelethertrunkdowntoreston
theground.
“Issomethingwrong?”askedMichael.“Shutup.”
Michaelleanedbackandpulledoutthemap.Itlookedliketheyturnedeast
here.Hohenwaldwasonlyseventyoreightymilesaway.
Jackiestraightenedup.“So?”
“Nothing.”
“Right.”
Jackieshookherheadinirritation.
Afewmilesfurtheron,Interstate40wasmorevisible.Theywalkedupthe
eastern ramp to the road proper. Michael felt better. The visibility from an
interstate was much greater than from the little, forest enclosed roads. While
theyhadn’tseenadragonforawhile,Michaeldidn’twanttotakeanychances.
Jackie stopped on the interstate again and assumed the strange leaning
posture.“Whatisit?”
Jackiedidn’tanswer.Shejustshookherheadathim.
Michael climbed down to look around. He hopped over to the edge of the
interstate, leaned against the guard rail. It was considerably more open to the
south.Michaelthoughthe could see a fairlylargeturtleofsomesort,perhaps
thirty pounds, walking along the edge of the forest. It looked like dragon
country.
“We’regoingthewrongway,”Jackiesaidsuddenly.
Michael pulled out the map and studied again. “No. This is the way to
Hohenwald.”
“Wherearewe?”
Michael studied the map. “McIllwain. At least, that’s the closest thing that
lookslikeatown.Thatway—”hepointedeast“—laystheTennesseeRiver.We
gooverit,ifthebridgeisstillthere.Aboutthirtymilesfurtheronweturnsouth
againtoHohenwald.”
Jackieshiftednervously.“They’renotthere.”
“TheHohenwaldelephants?”
Jackie turned west. She leaned out again and laid her trunk on the ground.
“Notthatway,either.”
“Nothingtothenorthofus,isthere?”
Jackieturnedeastagain,droppedhertrunktotheground.Foralongtime,she
wasmotionless.Finally,sheshookherself.“It’stheriverthat’smessingmeup.I
thinkthey’resouth.”
Michael sat on the guard rail. “Dragons might be down that way. Also,
people.”
“Maybe.Idon’tthinkthey’refar.”
Michaelsighed.Hestood,leaningagainstthewall.Jackiemadealegforhim
andheclimbedup.“Theriverisgoingnorthtosouth.Maybewecankeepgoing
southon69andyoucankeeplistening.”
“Howfaristheriver?Istherearoadthatfollowsit?”
Michaelranhisfingeralongtheblueline.“Theriverisanglingtowardus.It
comes pretty close starting around Akins Chapel. We’ll only be a few miles
awayfromitwhenwegettoJeanette.Maybetenmiles.”
“Let’sgo.”
AtJeannette,theyfoundBrodie’sLandingRoad.Thisbroughtthemdownto
theriver.
TheTennesseeRiverwasnotthecrushingroaroftheOhioortheMississippi.
It was broad and flat with a steady slow southern flow. On the other side,
washinginthestillwaterwasaherdofelephants.
Jackiefroze,staringatthem.Theairwasstill.Theelephantsacrosstheriver
staredback.Michaeldidn’tmove.Hewonderediftheelephantscouldseehim.
Justhowwelldidelephantssee,anyway?
The moment stretched out long enough that Michael wanted to change his
position.Hebegantoitch.
Suddenly, one elephant in the water snorted and clambered up the bank. It
trumpetedonceandthenwalkedupthebank.Theotherelephantsfollowedher.
Jackieshookherselfoncetheywereoutofsight.Shewalkedintothewater
but the current, though slow, seemed to shift her slightly. She stopped and
backedup.“WherecanIgetacross?”
“WecangobacknorthandacrossInterstate40.Or,wecangosouthandcross
Highway412.”
“Whichiscloser?”
“Bothareaboutthesame.”Jackiethoughtforalongtime.
“South,”shesaidatlast.“Wegosouth.”
***
TheycrossedtheriveratPerryville.Thebridgeseemedintact,though,ofcourse,
theycouldn’tbesure.Itcrackedlikeagunshotwhentheywereinthemiddle
andforamoment,Michaelcouldn’tbreathe.Butthebridgegavethemnomore
troubleandtheywereontheeastsideoftheTennesseeRiver.
“We’requiteawaysfromHohenwald,”Michaelsaidastheylumbereddown
theroad.
“Did you think they would stay there? Their Keepers must be dead, too.”
Jackiesoundedalmosthappy.
“DoyouthinkRalphisdead?”
Sheshookherheadirritably.“I’mnotconcernedaboutthefateofonerobot.”
That’snotyourpurpose,hethought.Itmadehimnervous.
***
Along the eastern side of the river, they found a flat, worn trail, well marked
withelephantscat.Jackieturnedovereachpile,brokeitopenandsmelledit.
“Isthatnecessary?”
“I want to know who they are.” She pointed to one worn pile. “African
elephant. Female. Smells like she’s the dominant one.” She pointed behind.
“TherearethreeIndianfemales.Oneisstillalittleimmature.She’sunrelatedto
theothertwo.Noneofthemarepregnant.”
“Whatareyou?”
“Indian.What?Youdidn’tknow?”
“It’snotlikeyoutoldme.”
Shesnorted.
“Anyboyelephants?”
“TherewerenomalesinHohenwald.”
“Whynot?”
“Malesneedmorespace.Theydon’therdlikefemales.”
Michaelthoughtforamoment.“Betterhopeyourbabyisaboy.”Jackiedidn’t
answer.
Theycametothepointacrosstheriverwheretheyhadseentheherd,along,
hardpackedsandbarheldtogetherwithtoughgrassandcottonwoods.Thescat
herewasplentiful.Theelephantslikedthisplaceandreturnedtoitoften.
Michaelleanedoverherhead.“Whichway?”
“I’mnotsure.”
Michaelslidtotheground.Jackiehandedhimhiscrutch.Hemovedaround
onesideoftheclearingwhileJackiesearchedtheother.Theelephantmarkings
weresonumerousitwashardtofigureoutwheretheyhadgone.
“Overhere,”shecalledsoftly.Michaelhobbledover.
Jackiepointedtoalargepile.“MaleIndian.Nomorethanaweekago.”
“That’sgood,right?”
“Maybe.”
She cried out suddenly. “Get down!” And swept him to the ground. A dart
stuckinJackie’strunkwherehehadbeenstanding.Michaelscrambleduptopull
itout.
“Samsa!”criedagirl’svoicefromthebrush.SheranouttowardJackie.
Michaeltriedtointerceptherbutwasknockedtothegroundagain,thistime
byanolderman.HeheldaknifetoMichael’sthroat.
Jackie eased herself down to her knees. Then lay down on the ground.
“Jackie!”Michaelcriedout.
Shelookedblindlyatthe sound ofhisvoice.Then itseemedasifher eyes
werelookingelsewhere.Sheclosedthemslowly.
“You’vekilledher,”hesaid,notbelievingit.
“Itwasanaccident,cripple,”whisperedthewomaninastrickenvoice.“Iwas
aimingatyou.”
PART4
The girl pulled the dart out of Jackie’s trunk. “Will she die, Samsa?” the girl
askedthemanholdingtheknifetoMichael’sthroat.
“Idon’tknow,”Samsasaid.Hepulledcordfromapouchbeltedaroundhis
waistandboundMichael’swrists.
“What?DoyouthinkI’mgoingtorunaway?”Michaelpushedhisstumpat
him.“Cripple,remember?”
Samsaignoredhim.HekneltnexttoJackie.“She’sbreathing.That’sagood
sign.Maybethedosageistoosmall.”
“Dosageofwhat?”Michaelstaredatthem.“Whatdidyoudotoher?”
“Missedyou,”saidSamsa,evenly.“Let’sseethedart,Pinto.”
PintogentlybrushedJackie’seyesclosed,pickedupthedartandbroughtitto
Samsa.
Samsaexamined itcarefully,deliberately avoiding the point.“Full dose,all
right.Getthemedkitinmytentbackatcamp.”
“Gotit.”Withthat,thegirlwasgone,runningupthetrailawayfromtheriver.
SamsaexaminedJackieminutely.Heplacedahandonherchesttomeasureher
breathing.Afterthat,heheldhishandunderhertrunkandstoodsilently.
“Whatareyoudoing?”Michaelaskedquietly.
“Shutup.”
Afteramoment,Samsareleasedthetrunk.“Pulseisgood.Breathingisalittle
weak.”
“Thatwasapoisondart.”
“You’reasmartone.”
“Whyshootme?”
“Let’ssee.You’reridingthebiggestpieceofmeatfortwentymilesaround—
exceptforthedozenorsootherpiecesofmeatjustasbig.You’renotimportant,
boy.Sheis.Tooimportanttoprovideyouayear’ssupplyofsteaks.”
“YouthinkIwasgoingtoeather?”
“Thatwouldbealittleambitious.Ithinkyouweregoingtotradeher.Maybe
totheAngelsinMemphisortheRubberGirlsinChattanooga.Theywouldhave
takenherandthenservedyouupasagarnish—whichwouldhavebeenfineby
mebutwe’dstillbeoutanelephant.”
“Jackie’snotoneofyourelephants.”
“Iknowthat.Sinceyou’reaccidentallyaliveyoucantellmewhereyoustole
her.”
“Ididn’tstealJackie.Idon’tthinkanybodycoulddothat.Ifshecouldtalk,
she’dtellyouherself.”
Samsasnorted.“Iexpectshe’dhavealottotellme,too.”Michaelfellsilent.
“Wheredidyougether?”
“JackieandIcamefromSaintLouis.Weweretryingtofindtheelephantsat
Hohenwald.Shewantedherownherd.”
“Well,youfoundthem.We’lltakeitfromhere.”
“She’s—”
Samsapointedthedartathim.“There’senoughleftinthisforalittleslipofa
thinglikeyou.Evenifitdidn’tkillyou,it’llparalyzeyouuntilmorning.The
Komodoswouldfindyoulongbeforethat.”
Michael stared at the point of the dart. The tip had a drop of oil on it. He
couldn’tlookaway.
“Don’t,”Jackiesaidinalongexhalation.
Samsalookedoverattheelephant.HelookedbackatMichael.“Shedidn’t
justtalk,didshe?”
“Isshegoingtobeallright?”
Samsalookedbackather.“Ithinkso.Thecuraredidn’tkillhersoitwillwear
offinawhile.Pintoisbringingbacktheantidote.”
“Thenprettysoonyou’llfindoutforyourself.”
***
Pintoreturnedwithaprofessionallookingbag.ShegaveittoSamsaandwentto
sitnexttoJackie.Shehuddlednexttoherhead.Michaelhopedshehadsense
enoughtomoveawaywhenJackiegotup.
Michaeltriedtofigureoutthetwoofthem.Samsawasanolderman.What
littlehairhehadleftwasstreakedwithgrayandmatchedhisbeard.Hewastall
andthinasifstrungtogetherwithwires.Pintowasn’tmuchmorethanMichael’s
own age. Through her loose shirt Michael could see a suggestion of young
breasts,butherlegsandarmsstilllookedchildish.MichaelwonderedifPinto
hadbarteredprotectionthesamewayhehadwithUncleNed.Theydidn’tlook
related.
Samsa pulled out two glass ampoules, one with a powder and the other a
liquid,asyringe,andawickedneedle.Hefilledthesyringewiththeliquidand
injecteditintotheampoulewiththepowderandswirleditaroundtomixit.He
caughtMichaelwatchinghim.
“Wedon’thavemuchcalltousethissoit’sstillintheoriginalpackaging.”
Samsagrinnedathim.“Webrewthepoisonourselves.”
“Fromwhat?”
“Poisonarrowfrogsdowninthebayou.Wegodownthereonceortwicea
yeartocatchwhatweneed.”
“Ididn’tknowthereweresuchanimals.”
“Prettylittlethings.Red.Blue.Allsortsofcolors.Skincarriesapoisonthat
willlayyououttodryifyoumesswiththem.Theydidn’tusetolivedownthere
butsomebody’smenageriebrokeopen—orwasdeliberatelyreleased—andsome
smallgroupmanagedtosurvivethecoolerwinters.It’saniceweaponagainst
humans—quiet.Quick.Ifyoukeepyourwitsaboutyou,youcantakedownhalf
adozenpeoplebeforetheyrealizewhat’shappening.”
He finished shaking the ampoule and filled the syringe with the resulting
mixture.“Outoftheway,Pinto,”Samsasaid.HeswabbedasectionofJackie’s
hideandslippedtheneedlein.Thenhewithdrewtheneedle,brokeit,andput
thesyringeandbrokenneedleinajarfromthebag.
“She’s still not going to be moving for a couple of hours but now her
breathingwon’tbeaffected.”Helookedupatthehotsun.“We’llhavetokeep
her cool.” He looked at Michael. “Take your shirt off and wet it in the river.
Keepitwetandontheelephant’shead.”
“HernameisJackie.”
“Jackie,then.”
“Betteruntieme.”
“You’lldofinewithyourhandstiedtogether.Hoptoit.Pinto?Helphimbut
keepoutofreach.Useyourownshirt,too.I’llgogetacoupleofbuckets.”
***
PintokeptawaryeyeonMichaelbutheignoredher.Thesunwashotevenon
hissweatingbody.Hedidn’twanttoimaginewhatJackiefeltlike.
“Keepherearswet,too,”Pintotoldhim.“Elephantskeepcoolthroughtheir
ears.”MichaelgruntedandbathedJackie’sears.
“Didsheknock youdown?” Pintoasked as theypassed oneanother on the
waytotheriver.
“Shesavedmylife,”Michaelsaidsimply.
“Right.”
Michaelshrugged.
Samsa returned with two buckets and a rifle. “I thought you liked poison,”
Michaelsaid.
“Ido.Butit’shardtopenetratethehideofacrocodilewithadart.”
“Therearecrocodilesinthisriver?”
“Notusuallythisfarnorthbutsometimes.TheKomodosusuallystayaway,
too.Butnotalways.I’llkeepwatch,justincase.”
MichaelstoppedandlookedatSamsa.“YouwereaKeeperatHohenwald.”
“Director,”Samsacorrected.
“Soyoulettheelephantsgowheneverybodydied?”Samsacockedhishead.
“Elevenyearsago.”
“AlltheotherelephantsinSaintLouisdied.JackieandtheKeeperdecided
sheshouldlookfortheelephantsdownhere.”
“Didthey,now?”
“Jackie’sgoingtohaveababy.Isthepoisongoingtohurtit?”
Samsasighedandlookedovertoherstillform.“Ishouldhavepickedthatup
rightaway.”HeturnedbacktoMichael.“Ihopenotbutthere’snowaytoknow.
Ifshedoesn’tmiscarry,it’safairbetthebabywillbeallright.”Samsagestured
toMichael.WhenMichaelcamecloseenough,Samsauntiedhishands.
“I’mstartingtobelieveyou’renotapoacher.”Heheldupthegun.“ButIstill
havetherifle.”
Michaelnoddedandwentbacktofillingbuckets.
***
Intheearlyafternoon,Jackiestartedtwitching.Anhourlater,shewastryingto
getup.Samsastoodnexttoher,speakingsoothingly.“Don’tgetupyet,girl.”He
gesturedMichaelandPintooffthesandbank.
Jackieseemedtocalmdownandremainedstill.Butitwasn’tlonguntilshe
heavedherselfup,swayingandlookingconfused.
“It’sokay,girl,”Samsasaidsoothingly.
Jackieswunghertrunkandknockedtherifletotheground,thenswungback,
caughtSamsa’slegandturnedhimoveronhisback.Inamoment,shehadafoot
onhischest.
“Youtriedtokillmyboy,”shehissed.Samsatriedtospeakbutcouldn’t.
PintorantoJackieandtriedtopullupherfoot.Jackieignoredher.“Areyou
allright,Michael?”
“Yeah.”
“Whatdoyouwantmetodowithhim?”
“Lethimgo,”Michaelsaid.“He’sthedirectoratHohenwald.”
Jackieslowlyraisedherfoot.Shecarefullywalkeddownthesandbarintothe
waterandeasedintoit.
PintoheldSamsa’shand.Shewascrying.Michaelsquatteddownnexttohim.
“Shecantalk,”Samsacoughedout.
“Iknow,”Michaelsaid.
DearMom,
We found the other elephants. But the people that own them
foundus.Almostkilledus,too.Me,anyway.
SamsaandPintowereouttrackingtheherd.Thereisonebig
herd of six adult females and no calves. There are two other
groups.One has threefemales andone calf.Theother hasfour
femalesandtwocalves.
Male elephants don’t hang around except when they’re in
muss.Ormuth.Orsomething.Therearefourmalesinthearea.
Allof themareIndianelephantsexceptone:Tika.Tikaisan
africanelephant.She’shuge.Shewasthebigelephantwesawat
the stream. Samsa says it’s possible for african and indian
elephantstomatebutshewon’thaveanyofthemales.She’sreal
stricktwithhergroup.Maybethat’swhytheydon’thavecalves.
Samsalettheelephantsfreewhenitlookedlikeeverybodywas
goingtodie,himincluded.Buthedidn’t.Nowtherearefifteen
peoplewhohelpSamsawatchtheelephants.Theydon’teatmeat.
Theyprotecttheelephantsfrompeople.Maybetheywanttobe
elephantsthemselves.
They have their own little village near here. Samsa seems to
runthingsfromwhatI’veseen.TheywantJackietocometothe
village. Jackie’s not interedsted. She wants to join the herd. I
think she’s suspicious of them. They won’t let me stay in the
village.MaybetheystillthinkI’mapoacher.
Love,Michael
“Youneedbothlegstofollowtheelephants,”saidSamsareasonably.“Ican
getaroundprettygoodwithmycrutch.Letmedosomething.”
“Youcan’trun.Sometimestheelephantschargeandifyoucan’tgetupatree
quickenough,therewon’tbequiteenoughofyoulefttobury.We’velostpeople
thatway.”SamsaandPintoleftbeforeMichaelcouldprotestfurther.
Jackiewasrestingnearthecamp.Shewatchedthemfromadistance.Michael
hadnodoubtshecouldheareveryword.
Michael hobbled over to her. He sat down next to her. She reached up and
pulleddownthebranchofabirchtreeandbeganmethodicallypullingtheleaves
offandeatingthem.
“Theywon’tletmecomewiththem,”Michaelsaid.“SoIheard.”
Thefoghadcomeupthetrailfromtheriverandeverythingwasswathedin
mist.Michaelfeltcoldandhalfblind.“Howareyoufeeling?”
“Tired.Layinginthesunforhalfadaytakesalotoutofyou.”
“Doyouthinktherereallyarecrocodilesintheriver?”
“Doyouthinkthey’relying?”
Michaellookedbacktothefog.“Iguessnot.Doyouknowwhichbandyou’re
goingafter?”
Jackiedidn’tanswerforamoment.“Tika’sband,Ithink.”
“Won’tshebethehardest?”
“Probably.”
“Thenwhyher?”
Jackiewasquietamoment.“Sillyreasons.It’ssurprisingsheevenhasaband
withIndiansinit.Whenyou’redesperateforcompanyyou’lltakeanything,I
suppose.”
Michaeldidn’tspeakimmediately.Hischesthurtandhisthroatfeltthick.He
staredupthetrailwhereSamsaandPintohadgone.Wasthathowhefeltabout
them?Desperate?WasthathowJackiefeltabouthim?
Hewenttotheirgearandopenedupthehiddenflap.Heputtogethertherifle
andtooktheexplodingshells.
“Whatareyougoingtodo?”Jackiestaredathim.“Followthem.”
***
Itwasawkwardtocarrytheriflewhilehewasstillforcedtousethecrutch.He
thoughtmaybehe’dtrytogetdowntooneoftheoldcitiesandlookforaleg.Or
buildone. He had avague memory of astory about someone witha peg leg.
Thatwouldbeenoughforhim.
Thetrailwas clearand Samsa andPinto hadleftfootprints sothey weren’t
hardtofollow.He’dcatchuptothemorhewouldn’t.Eitherwayhewasdoing
something.
Hecouldtellthetrailwascomingclosetotheriverbythewaythetreesbegan
tothin.Michaellistenedandhecouldhearsplashing—probablytheelephants.
Hefoundatalltree,leanedthecrutchagainstthetrunkandslungtherifleover
hisbackandstartedtoclimb.
Fromnearthetop,hehadacommandingviewoftheriver,theelephants,and
Samsa and Pinto watching the elephants. He could also see the sunken logs
slowlydriftingtowardthesplashingoftheelephants.Heunslungtherifleand
aimeditatoneofthelogs.Thetelescopicsightshowedthecrocodileclearly.He
turnedonthelaserandsawthebrightredspotappearontheanimal’sback.Then
hewatched.
SamsaandPinto werewatching the elephants.Samsa had arifle butit was
slung. He was talking, or maybe arguing, with Pinto. One of the crocodiles
stopped,watchingthebank.Thenitsubmerged.
Let’ssee,thoughtMichael.Thinklikeacroc—oradragon.Goforthelittle
target,notthebigone.WherewouldIattackfromifIwereacrocodile?
ThewatereruptednearPinto.
Rightthere.Foramoment,thecrocodilewasfrozeninmidleap,theredspot
clearlyshowingonhisneck.Michaelsqueezedoffthreeshots.Hesawthewater
andbloodspurtwheretheyhit.
ThentimecaughtandthecrocodilestartedtoclosehisjawsonPintowhenthe
explosiveroundstriggered.
There was no flash or sound but the crocodile fell to the ground, dragging
Pintodownwithhim.SamsapulledPintooutoftheanimal’slimpmouth.They
scrambledback upthebank,bloodshowingonPinto’slegs. But the croc was
unmoving.
Theelephantsroaredoutofthewaterandranintotheforest.Michaelstayed
thereforsometimebuttheriverwasemptysavefortheremainingcrocsstaying
safelyoffshore.
Heclimbeddownandmadehiswaybacktocamp.SamsawastreatingPinto’s
wounds.
Michaelputtherifledownandsatnexttoit.“Ihavesomeuse,”hesaid.
***
SamsawassittingacrossfromhimwhenMichaelawoke.“Iwanttherifle.”
Michaelsatup.“I’dliketoliveinthevillageanduseittohelpyou.Butwhat
I’dreallylikeistohavemylegback.Butthat’sthewayitis.”
Samsashookhishead.“Wedon’tknowyou.Ican’thaveanyweaponaround
thatcankillanelephantinthehandsofsomeoneIdon’tknow.”
“Youmeanlikethedarts?”
“That’s different.” Samsa watched him a moment. “We could dart you and
takeit.”Michaelpulledoutthepistolandhelditloosely.Hedidn’tpointitat
Samsabuthedidn’tdeliberatelypointitaway.“Youcouldpryitfrommycold
deadhands,Isuppose.”
“Iknowwherethatexpressioncomesfrom.Doyou?”
“Does it matter?” Michael was quiet for a moment. “I think it should be
enoughthatJackietrustsme.”
“Idon’tthinkso.Jackiehasn’tseenenoughhumanstoknowwhototrust.”
“Dotell,”saidJackiefrombehindSamsa.
MichaellookedupatJackie.“Youtellmewhatyouwantdonewiththerifle.”
“Keepit,”saidJackieshortly.“Likelyyou’reabettershotwithitthanheis.
Certainly,you’remoretrustworthy.”
“Iamthecaretakeroftheelephants,”Samsasaidinacontrolledvoice.
“That’snotyourjob,”saidJackie.“It’smine.”
***
Theydidn’t tellSamsaorPintooranyoneelsetheywereleaving.Thevillage
was up the hill and out of sight behind a bend in the trail. Michael certainly
wasn’t going out of his way to say goodbye. Even so, Michael could feel
watchful eyes on him as they turned from the trail that led up the hill to the
elephantscatcoveredtrailthatfollowedthebottomland.
“Tell me,” Jackie said conversationally that afternoon. “Do you think
Samsavilleisonthemap?”
Michaellaughedforalongtime.
Thequalityoftheirtravelchanged.Before,Michaelhadfeltessentiallyalone
in the forest. Other elephants were an abstraction. Other humans were absent.
Theveryideaofavillagewasabsurd.
But now Samsaville—the name stuck—loomed in his mind. He thought
Jackiemightthinksimilarlyabouttheelephants.
DearMom,
JackieandIhavelefttheotherpeopleandwenttolookforthe
elephantsonourown.I’mnotsurewhat’sgoingtohappennow.
MaybeJackiewouldbebetterwithoutaoneleggedcrippledkid.
I miss you and Dad. I miss Gerry. I even miss Uncle Ned. I
missmyleg.Ithurtsatnight.
Jackie’sworriedaboutjoiningtheelephants.Shedoesn’tsayso
butIcantell.MaybeSamsawillfollowus.Maybehe’lldartme
or worse. Maybe Tika won’t let us join. Maybe something bad
willhappen.
Whateverhappens,Iloveyou.
Michael
TheyfoundTikatwodayslater.Itwasmidmorning.Theherdwasgrazingon
theedgeofaclearing.Wornbuildingsmarkedtheclearingashavingoncebeena
farm. Michael looked at the ancient stubble of corn shocks and rusting
machinery.Thisfarmhadneverseenarobot.Ithadbeenabandonedlongago.
TikahadalreadyturnedtofacethembeforeJackieandMichaellefttheforest.
Shemusthaveheardthemcoming,thoughtMichael.Orsmelledthem.
Jackiestoppedwellshortofthemandstartedgrazingontheoppositesideof
theclearing.Afteranhourorso,Tikareturnedtograzingwiththeotherfemales.
ButherattentionneverwaveredfromJackie.
Afternooncameandtheherddisappearedintotheforest.Michaelsliddownto
thegroundandmadehimselfalunchoutofdriedfruitandcrocodilejerky.
“Samsaiswatchingus,”JackiemutteredandshestoodnearMichael.“Upon
theridge.Icansmellhim.”
Michaelnodded.“Ishegoingtoshootme?”
“Ican’tsmellagunbutthatdoesn’tmeanmuch.”
“Anybodyelse?”
Jackieshookherhead.“NotasfarasIcantell.”
“Nothingtobedone,then.”
Michaelchewedthecrocodilejerky.Notbad.Sortoflikechicken.“Iwonder
whythedragonsdon’tcomeacrossthebridges.Doyouthinkthere’ssomething
heretheydon’tlike?”
“Maybetheelephantskillthem.IknowIwould.”
“Youdid.”
“True.”Jackiethoughtforamoment.“It’samistaketothinkthisecologyis
complete. Humans left it very recently. It could be the Komodos just haven’t
reachedthisfaryet.TheKomodoshavetomigratenorthfromthecoastevery
springand returnevery fall.It’s going to take timefor themto penetratenew
areas.Anyplacetheygocanonlybeasfarastheycanreturntointimetoavoid
thewinter.”
“Theycouldlearntowinteruphere.”
“Unlikely.”
“They’reunlikely,right?Whoknowswhattheycando?”
Jackiewassilentforamoment.“That’snotsomethingIwanttothinkabout.”
Michaelshivered.“Me,neither.”
***
Thenextweekfollowedthesameritual.Theelephantscametotheabandoned
farmandgrazed,movingovertonewareasastheystrippedtheoldofleaves.By
the week’s end, Jackie and Tika had circled the entire clearing. Still standing
oppositeoneanother,JackiewasnowwheretheyhadfirstsightedTikaandTika
wasgrazingwhereJackiehadfirstenteredtheclearing.
“Today we have to follow them,” said Michael. He spat out the last of the
meat.Hewastiredofcrocodilejerky.
“It’stoosoon.”
“Look around you.” Michael pointed at the trees. “There’s nothing left.
They’renotgoingtocomebackherejusttosayhello.”
Tikachivvied herherd backto theclearing’s entrance.Jackie followedat a
respectfuldistance.Tikakeptturningtocheckonthem.
“Thismightworkout,”Jackiewhispered.
***
They followed the band for hours. The smell of Samsa and the other humans
faded.Thetrailbecamewilderandmorecurveduntiltheycouldn’tseetheband
forminutesatatime.ThentheyturnedacornerinthetrailandTikawasfacing
them.
Jackiestoppeddeadstill.Michaelhadbeenleaningforward,restinghishead
on Jackie’s head and watching. He froze, not wanting to draw attention to
himself.
Tikaapproachedcautiously,trunkhalfraisedandsniffingtheair.Jackieraised
hertrunkslightly.Whenthetwoofthemwerecloseenough,theysniffedeach
otherwiththeirtrunks.Tikaseemedtorelax.
Michaelwatched.ItcametohimthatTikawantedJackieinherband—maybe
becauseshewaspregnant.Maybebecausethereweredangersenoughouthere
foreverybodytoshare.
Tika suddenly whipped her trunk over Jackie’s head and caught Michael
squarelyintheside,sweepinghimoffJackie’sneckanddownonthegroundin
frontofTika.
Michaelfellthetenfeetinamomentoffrozenastonishmentandlandedhard
onhisback,knockingthewindoutofhim.Desperately,hetriedtoforcehimself
tobreathe,cough,anything.Buthislungsstubbornlyrefusedtofill.
Tikaraisedherlegoverhim.
Michael saw the details of her foot, the broken toenail, the puckered scar.
Jackiescreamed“No!”andsteppedoverhim,shovingTikaaway.
Tikastumbledbackandthenshovedback.
Jackiestoodfoursquareoverhim,herheadandtrunkdown.
Michael’s breath caught and he sat up, watched twenty tons of animals
shovingabovehim.
“Move,”Jackiecried.
Michaelscrambledaway.Atree!Where’satree?Hesawanoakandhopped
over to it, clawed his way up the trunk and into the branches high enough to
escapeTika.
Jackiefellbackinfrontofthetree,facingTika.Tikatrumpetedather.
It was as if she shouted in English: You we want. But not with him. Jackie
trumpetedback.Notwithouthim.
“Jackie,”heshouted.“Gowiththem.I’llbeokay.”Tikafellback,staringat
thetwoofthem.
“No,”Jackiesaid.“Bothofusornotatall.”Michaelfoundhimselfcrying.
PART5
DearMom,
It’sbeenawhilesinceIwrotebutI’vebeenbusy.LittleBillis
just as stubborn as his mother. Jackie says he outgrew the cute
phasewhenhewastwo.Nowshethinksit’sjustunpleasant.ButI
likehim.Heremindsmeofhismother.
IthinkTika’sfinallyacceptedme.Ittooklongenough.She’s
allowedmeto stay all thistimebyjustignoringme.Butafew
weeksagobeforeweleftPanaceaoneofhertoenailsgotinfected
andneededtobelancedandcleaned.Itwasprettyclearithadto
bedonebeforewestartednorth.Jackiestoodnexttometomake
sureIdidn’tgethurt.ButTikabroughtoverherfootanddidn’t
twitchwhenIcleanedoutthewound.Itmusthavehurt.Itlooks
lotsbetternow.
That was just after I shot two Komodos that had decided to
make a meal out of Tika’s leg. The Komodos aren’t much
problem in the winter. They’re all asleep somewhere. But
between the time they wake up in the spring and the time they
startnorth,they’reprettyhungryandmean.Ican’tsayforsure
whatmadeTikachangehermind.Butsheseemedprettyhappy
thatJackieandIwerewalkingnexttoherwhenwewentNorth
thisyear.
Things are still changing. The Komodos are tough but they
seem to have a hard time with the brush lions. We’re not sure.
Wherewefindbrushlions,therearen’tanyKomodosandwhere
we find Komodos there aren’t any brush lions. We don’t know
exactlywhat’sgoingon.
Andthefireantskeepspreadingnorth.
Good news this spring. Both Tanya and Wilma are pregnant.
The bull that visited around Christmas must have done his job.
MoreyoungonesforLittleBilltoplaywith.
We’re not far from Samsaville. It’ll be nice to see Pinto and
Samsa. I’m trying to persuade Jackie we should go far enough
north to see Gerry. But she doesn’t like going through dragon
country.
Allfornow,
Love,Michael
Michael finished signing his name and closed the notebook. It was almost
filled. This would be book number seven. He hefted it in his hands. He
wonderedifhewasalittleoffinhisheadtobewritinghisdeadmotherallthese
years. He was sixteen now. Michael shrugged. He still liked doing it. Maybe
Jackiewouldhaveanopiniononit.
Heputdownhispackandwatchedtheriverflowby.Mostlyhejustenjoyed
the play of sunlight and color on the water. It was a careful observation, too.
Keepingtrackoffloatinglogsnearbythatmightleapoutathim.Thecrocodiles
had become more numerous in the last couple of years. Michael didn’t know
whattheywereeatingbutsofarnonehadtastedelephantonhiswatch.
Little Bill came down to the edge of the bank. Little? Michael smiled to
himself.Bill’sheadwastwofeettallerthanhewas.
“Jackie’s-Boy! Jackie’s-Boy!” he piped, a tiny voice for such a large body.
Michaelwonderedwhen,andif,theelephant’svoicewouldeverbreakintothe
deeptimbreofanadult.Michael’shad.Well,mostly.Sometimesitstillcracked.
“JustMichael,”hesaid.“LikeIalwayssay.JustMichael.”
“Jackie’s-BoyiswhatTikacallsyou.”
Michaelchuckled,wondering, notfor thefirsttime, howan elephantspoke
without being able to speak. The world was filled with mysteries. “Does she
now?”
“Areyoureadytogo?”pipedBill.“Tikasentmetogetyou.Shewantsyou
andJackietogofirst.”
Michael reached down and pulled up his artificial leg and fastened it on.
“Really?Tikawantsustolead?”
“Sure.AtleastasfarasCobraville.”
“Ah.Shewantsustocrossthefireantsfirst,eh?”
“Yeah.”
“Willwondersnevercease?”
LittleBilldidn’tanswer.Instead,hemadealeg.Michaelshoulderedtherifle
and climbed up over his neck. He looked around. The blue bowl of the sky
abovehim,thewarmsun,hisgrayfamilypatientlywaitingforhimhalfamile
away.Hefeltlikesinging.
Lovingly,hepattedthetopofLittleBill’shead.
“Well,then.Musn’tgrumble,”hesaidwithagrin.“Let’sgo.”
FlyingintheFaceofGod
NINAALLAN
Here’s a poignant and excellently crafted character study of a
woman whose best friend is being transformed into a strange
posthumancreatureinordertosurviveajourneytothestars.…
New writer Nina Allan lives and works in London. She’s a
frequentcontributor to InterzoneandBlack Static, and has also
appearedinThe Third Alternative, Strange Tales from Tartarus,
andelsewhere.Herstorieshavebeencollectedinherfirstbook,A
ThreadofTruth.Herstory“MyBrother’sKeeper”wasafinalist
fortheBritishFantasyAwardin2010.She’scurrentlyatworkon
anovel.
ANITA SCHLEIF: Have you thought about what you’ll do if
you’renotpassedfittotakepartinthemission?Therehavebeen
media reports of how difficult it is for discharged fliers to be
acceptedbackintosociety,ofhowwomenfliersespeciallyhave
beentreatedaspariahs.Howdoesitmakeyoufeelasawoman,
knowing that the Kushnev drain will make you permanently
infertile?
RACHELALVIN:Idon’teverthinkaboutfailure.Idon’tseethe
point. I want to put all my efforts into succeeding. As for
becoming infertile, it’s a decision you take, like any other, like
having children or not having them. Life is all about making
choices,andinmakingonechoiceyouinevitablyclosethedoor
onanother.Fliersfindithardtofitinbecausebeingaflierisa
vocation. Anyone who chooses to follow a vocation finds
ordinarylifedifficultandmystifying,whetherthey’reanartistor
a missionary or a mathematician. The Kushnev drain is only a
partofit.Mainlyit’saquestionoffocus,ofintensefocusononly
onething.
(FromthetranscriptofShootingtheAlbatross:Thewomenofthe
AuroraSpaceProgram,afilmbyAnitaSchleif)
TheoutwardeffectsoftheKushnevdrainweremanyandvaried;withRachel
it had exaggerated her freckles. They looked darker than before and slightly
inflamed,standingoutonherfacelikedivotsofrust.Itwashotinthecarriage,
and Rachel’s brackish, slightly acrid body odour was particularly noticeable.
Anitawatchedthemanintheoppositeseatwipesweatfromhisupperlipwith
the back of his hand then hoist his briefcase onto his knees and take out The
Times. She saw him staring at Rachel over his newspaper, the way civilians
alwaysdidwithfliers,especiallythewomen.Twostopsdownthelineheleftthe
train,leavingAnitaandRachelwiththecarriagetothemselves.
Rachelstoodupandtriedtoopenthewindowbutthesealing-catch,withits
rusted-down hasps, proved too much for her. It was an antiquated design,
somethingAnitarememberedfromherschooldays.Shewassurprisedtoseeit.
Shehadthoughtalltheold-stylecompartmenttrainshadbeendecommissioned
yearsago.
Shegottoherfeetandopenedthewindow,releasingthestickycatchwiththe
heelofherhand.Warmairrushedin,fillingthecarriagewiththesmellofdried
grass.
“Youmustn’tputyourmusclesunderstrain,”saidAnita.“Rememberwhatthe
doctorshavesaid.”
“Ijustfeelsouseless.Icanhardlydoanythingnow.”
“The things you can do are different, that’s all. You know that better than
anyone.Stopgivingyourselfahardtime.”
Rachelturnedtofacethewindow.Herthinninghairblewbackalittlefrom
herface.AnitawonderedifRachelwouldbeallowedtokeepwhatremainedof
herhair,orwhetheritwouldhavetobeshavedoff,orwhetheritwouldfallout
soonanyway.Shethoughtofaskingforthesakeofthefilm,thenrealisedshe
didn’twanttoknow.Whencomparedwithotheraspectsoftheprocessitwasa
smallmatter.ButshehadalwayslovedRachel’sredhair.
“IwenttothesupermarketwithSergelastnight,”saidRachelsuddenly.“Just
afteryouleft.Iwantedtohelphimstockup.Itwasnogoodthough,itwasall
too much. I had to go and sit in the car. It’s hard to explain, it’s like you’re
drowningincolourandnoise.Thesightofallthatfoodmakesmefeelill.”She
paused.“Wetriedtomakelovebutitwashopeless.Whenhetriedtogoinside
meithurtsomuchIhadtotellhimtostop.Theygaveusthisspeciallubricant
butit’suseless,atleastitwasforme.Sergetoldmeitdidn’tmatterandImadeit
allrightforhimofcoursebutIcouldtellhowupsethewas.Hewasagesgetting
tosleep.”SheturnedbacktowardsAnita.Hereyes,oncedarkblue,werenowa
fadedturquoise,opaqueaschalk.“WillyougoandseehimonceI’vegone?I
knowhelikestalkingtoyou.”
Anitanodded.“OfcourseIwill.”Shewonderedifthiswassomecovertway
ofRachelgivingherpermissiontosleepwithSerge,totakehimover,perhaps.
Sheknewitwouldbetemptingforbothofthem,butshemustnotallowitto
happen. She loved Serge, but as a brother. To try and alter things could be
disastrous.Theywoulddobettertobehaveastheyalwaysdid,bygoingtofilms
togetherandcookingcurriesandtalkingaboutRachel.IntheendSergewould
meetsomeoneelseandthatwouldbepainfulbutatleasttheirfriendshipwould
stillbeintact.
In the last six months, both during Rachel’s leave and immediately before,
Anitahadtriedtoconcentrateallherenergiesonthefilmshewasmakingabout
the women fliers. The idea for the film had arisen directly out of her early
conversations with Rachel and she had begun the project almost without
realisingit.Inmanywaysshestillfeltuneasyaboutit.Shedidn’tliketheidea
thatpeoplemightseetheworkasinsomewayconnectedwithherownlife,asa
comment on the death of her mother. She found such notions intrusive and
unwelcome. But now she had started work it was impossible for her to draw
back.Sheevensupposedthatatsomelevelpeoplewouldberighttoassumethat
the film had a personal context, although its subject was not her mother of
coursebutRachel.
Rachelwasnowproducinglessthantenmillilitresofurineaday.Herskinhad
increasedinthicknessandhadlostmostofitselasticity.Shewaseatingnextto
nothingandsleepinglittle.Thesleepshehadwouldbefeverishandnoisywith
dreams.
Anita’s researches had made her an expert on the Kushnev process. Rachel
hadpulledafewstringsandshehadbeenallowedintoseeClementAnderson,
theteamdoctor.Herefusedherrequesttofilmhim,buthehadagreedtoataped
interview,andshehadbeenallowedtoshootafewbriefsequencesaroundthe
base.There was somefootage of thefliers in theteam canteen thatshe knew
wouldcomeacrossverywell.
“Thedraintriggersapermanentchangeinthewaycellsgrow,”Andersonhad
toldher.“Crudelyputit’saformofcancer.”Hehadgivenherafolderofprinted
material and a DVD of Valery Kushnev explaining his theories. Kushnev’s
accent was so strong they’d had to include subtitles. The Kushnev process
derivedfromcockroaches.Cockroaches,Kushnevexplained,werethehardiest
ofspecies.Theycouldenduretheharshestofconditionsandsubsistonnextto
nothing.Ifnecessarytheycouldshutdownmostoftheirfunctions,regressingto
astateofsuspendedanimationuntilanimprovementinexternalcircumstances
allowedthemtocontinuewiththeirlives.
“During the journey itself our fliers will exist in a half-life,” said Valery
Kushnev on the video. “A kind of para-existence, in which there is full
intellectualfunctionbutwithouttheaccompanyingstressofbiologicalneed.In
thiswaywecrosstheemptinessofspace.Ourfliersarethenewpioneers.Ina
veryrealsensetheyarefollowinginthefootstepsofColumbus.”
At this point he chuckled, showing teeth that were eroded and stained with
nicotine.Anitahadwatchedthefilmmorethanadozentimes.
“How’sMeredith?”saidRachel.“Didyoucallherlastnight?”
Anitastartedinherseat.Foramomentshehadalmostforgottenwhereshe
was.
“She’sfine,”saidAnita.“Sheaskedafteryou.”Itwasbecomingincreasingly
difficulttotalktohergrandmotheronthephone.Theyhadunlimitedfreecallsat
Southwater House, but she refused to have the webcam on and disembodied
voicesseemedonlytoconfusehermore.
“Howisthatfriendofyours?”shehadsaid.“Areyoubringingherdownto
seeme?”
“YoumeanRachel,Gran,”saidAnita.“HernameisRachel.Wecamedownto
seeyoulastweek.”
Hergrandmother’sshort-termmemorywasbecomingincreasinglyerraticbut
on some days Meredith Sheener was as sharp as ever, keen to read the
newspapersatbreakfasttimeasshehadalwaysdoneandevenabletocomplete
asmallsectionofthecrosswordpuzzle.Shewasstillademonatcards.Anita
had tried talking to the visiting consultant about this, asking him if the card
playing might help to stimulate other areas of her brain, but he brushed her
wordsaside,shakinghisheadasthoughshehadaskedhimifhergrandmother
might perhaps one day take up deep-sea diving or decide to learn a second
language.
“Oh,theyallhavesomething,”hesaid.“Withsomeit’scardsorbackgammon,
with others it’s a photographic memory for Shakespeare. It doesn’t mean
anything. An old person’s brain is like a capsized steam freighter: you’ll find
pocketsofairhereandtherebuttheshipisgoingtosinkintheend.Nothingto
setmuchstoreby,I’mafraid.”
Anita remembered the look on his face, the tight, harassed expression of a
man with too many demands on his time. He was tall, grey, and gaunt, his
fingersslightlytwistedfromarthritis.
“He’sagood-lookingman,thatdoctor,don’tyouthink?”Thiswassomething
hergrandmothersaideverytimeAnitavisited.Anitaknewshefrettedabouther
notbeingsettledwithanyone.Shewishedshecouldreassureherinsomeway,
explainhowherloveforRachelsustainedherasmuchasitcausedherpain.She
touchedthependantaroundherneck,feelingitsbumpycontoursthoughthethin
greenmaterialofherblouse.Itwassomethingsheoftendidattimesofstressor
uncertainty.Thependantseemedtoactasalodestone,bringingherbackintouch
withwhoshewas.
It hung on a silver chain, a small, finely-worked figurine in the form of a
dodo.Hergrandmotherhadoncetakenhertoseethedodoskeletonondisplayat
theNaturalHistoryMuseum.Anitahadgazedatitwithintensecuriosity,almost
withreverence.
“Whyarethere no realdodos?”she asked.Shehad beenabouteight at the
time.
“Thedodoforgothowtofly,”saidhergrandmother.“Itlivedontheislandof
Mauritius,rightinthemiddleoftheIndianOcean.Therewerenopeoplethere,
andnootherbiganimalseither,soitwasperfectlysafe.Itdidn’treallyneedits
wingsatall.Butwhenhuntersfinallycametotheislandthedodocouldn’tget
away from them. They were shot and killed in their thousands. In less than a
hundredyearstheywereextinct.”
Anitathoughtitwasterriblysad.Shefeltahugeangertowardsthehunters,
with their ridiculous feathered hats and their carefully-oiled fowling pieces.
Later, when they got home, her grandmother had shown her Mauritius on the
map.
“Itwaslikeaparadiseislandwhensailorsfirstdiscoveredit,”shesaid.“So
muchoftheworldwasstillunknownthen.Imaginehowitmusthavefelt,toset
footinaplacethatnoonehadeverseenbefore.”
Asachildshewasallowedtowearthe pendant occasionallyasatreat,but
whenAnitaturnedsixteenhergrandmothergaveherthesilverdodoandtoldher
itwasherstokeep.
“Itbelongedtoyourmother,”shesaid.“Sheworeituntilthedaybeforeshe
died.”
***
WhentheygottoCharingCrosstheyhadaminorargument.Anitawantedtogo
withRachelallthewayouttoNortholtbutRachelinsistedoncontinuingwith
thejourneybyherself.
“Howareyougoingtomanage?”saidAnita.“Whataboutyourluggage?”
Rachel couldn’t carry anything heavy because her bones were still at the
brittlestage.Therewasalsothequestionofsafety.Therehadbeenacoupleof
attacksonfliersinrecentmonths,supposedlybytubegangs,althoughonallbut
oneoccasiontheincidentshadhappenedatnight.
“I’veonlygotonesuitcase,”saidRachel.“Nothingisgoingtohappen.”She
laidherhandonAnita’sarm,herfingersbrownish,abunchofdrytwigs.“Ineed
sometimetogetadjusted.IfyoufollowmerighttothewireI’llblublikeagirl.”
Anitatriedtolaugh.Sherememberedanotherconversationtheyhadhad,the
argument that had erupted between them on the morning Rachel received her
commission.
“It’stoolateforthis,don’tyouseethat?”Rachelhadscreamedather.“It’s
beentoolatefromthedayIhadthefirstcourseofinjections.Don’tyouthinkI
coulddowithsomesupport?HasiteveroccurredtoyouImightbescared,too?”
IntheendAnitawentwithherasfarastheUnderground.Theywenttoacafé
justoffLeicesterSquare. Fromtheoutside it lookedcoollyinviting, but there
was something wrong with the air conditioning and Anita’s neck and armpits
weresoonstreamingwithsweat.Rachelofcoursehardlyregisteredtemperature
changesanymore.ShewetherlipswithsmallsipsofmineralwaterwhileAnita
drankaglassoforangejuice,feelingitslipdownherthroatinfreezinggouts.At
theendoftwentyminutesRachelcalledforthebillandthenstooduptogo.
“It’stime,”shesaid.“Thelongerweputitofftheworseitwillbe.”Shepulled
ahandkerchieffromherpocketanddabbedathereyes,althoughAnitawassure
thiswasjustoutofhabit;Rachel’stearductshaddriedupsometimeago.
OncetheywereoutsideonthestreetAnitaturnedandtookherinherarms.
“Iloveyou,”shesaid.“Iloveyousomuch.”
“Iknow,”saidRachel.“Iknowyoudo.”
TheywentdowntheescalatorstothePiccadillyLine.Ayouthwithtattooed
blackmambasencirclingbothforearmshelpedRachelontothetrain.
“Going up soon then, are you?” he said. “I think you’re the business.” He
steeredhergently,almosttenderlytowards aseat.The train doorsslidclosed.
Anita raised her hand, meaning to wave, but Rachel’s face was angled away
fromher,talkingtotheboywiththesnaketattoos.AsAnitawatchedhethrew
hisheadback,hisgreeneyescrinkledclosedinasoundlesslaugh.
***
OnceAnitawasbackatCharingCrossshetelephonedSerge.Hesoundeddistant
andpreoccupiedandforthefirsttimeitoccurredto Anita that hemighthave
started seeing someone else. Anita had never talked to Rachel directly about
Serge. She had taken his continued presence as proof of his devotion. It was
somethingsheadmired,somethingthatsoftenedtheworstpangsofherjealousy.
Nowshewonderedifshehadsimplybeenblind.
“Iwon’tbeathomeforawhile,”shesaidtohim.“I’mgoingdowntovisitmy
grandmother.I’llprobablybeawayforacoupleofdays.”
Shedidn’tknowwhyshewastellinghimthis.Thedecisiontogoandseeher
grandmotherhadcomeuponherspontaneously,almostwhileshewashavingthe
conversation. She pressed the phone hard to her ear, trying to catch every
nuance,anysuspiciouschangeinhistoneofvoice.
“I’llseeyouinacoupleofdaysthen,”hesaid.“AreyouOK,Anita?Areyou
sureyouwouldn’tliketocomeround?”
“I’mfine,”shesaid.Quitesuddenlyhewasthelastpersonshewantednear
her.“I’llcomeandseeyouassoonasIgetback.”
She changed trains at London Bridge and then again at East Croydon. The
fieldsoneithersideofthetrackswereyellowandcracked.Therehadbeenno
raintospeakofsinceApril.Drought-summerswerecommonnowandweresaid
tobebecomingmorecommon,thoughAnitarememberedthemevenfromher
childhood,thestandpipesinthestreets,the“dryhours”betweenelevenandfour.
Oneofherfriendsfromschoolthen,RowlandParker,hadoncegonesixwhole
monthswithoutwashing.
“It’s my patriotic duty,” he said. His friends egged him on, placing bets on
howlonghecouldholdout.Hestanklikeamuskrat,buttheskinbeneathhis
clotheshadbeensmoothandclean.Evenhissmellhadattractedher:feraland
vitalandsomehowother. Anitarememberedtouchinghis penis,itsimmediate
andstartlingresponse.
IthadbeenRowlandParkerwhohadfirsttoldherabouthermother.
“Yourmumdiedinthatfire,didn’tshe?”hesaid.“Thatexplosiononboard
therocket.There’sstuffaboutherontheInternet.Mybrothertoldme.”
They had been sitting out by the Old Pond, side by side on the concrete
platform that people had once used to dive from into the lake. There was no
waternow,ofcourse,justafootorsosometimesinwinter.Insummerthelake
wasadensemassofgreenery,ofhogweedandbrambleanddeadnettlemostly,
but other things too, poppies and foxgloves, plants that didn’t grow much
anywhereelse.HergrandmothersaiditwasbecausethesoilundertheOldPond
alwaysstayedslightlydamp.Theconcretewasburninghotbeneaththesolesof
herfeet.Shesquintedthroughherlashesatthethreeo’clocksun.
“Mymotherdiedinanaircrash,”shesaid.Itwaswhatshehadalwaysbeen
told.
“Oh,”saidRowlandParker.“Sorry.Mybrothermusthavegotitwrong.”He
glancedathersidewaysthenlookeddownathishands.Hisfeetweredangling
overtherimofthe drieduplake.Shethought hehadbeautifulfeet,long and
narrow,likeagipsyboy’s.Hehadthreelargemosquitobitesjustabovehisankle
bone.Theyformedanalmost-straightline,threepinky-redfullstops.
“Itdoesn’tmatter,”saidAnita.“Ineverknewher.Iwasababywhenshedied.
Idon’trememberanythingabouther.”
Shedidn’tknowwhattothink,andthis,atnineyearsold,washerfirstreal
experienceofuncertainty.IfwhatRowlandsaidwastruethenwhatshehadbeen
toldbeforewasnottrue,oratleastnotthewholetruth.Theworld,previouslya
place of straight lines and lighted spaces, became suddenly darker and full of
crookedshadows.Whenshegothomethateveningshefoundherselflookingat
her grandmother, studying her almost, and wondering who exactly she was.
MeredithSheener,ayoungwomanstillatonlyfifty,herthickhairpiledhighon
topofherhead.WasMeredithhergrandmotheratall,orsomeimpostorsentto
lietoher?TheideawasfrighteningbutAnitacouldnotdenytherewasalsoan
element of excitement to it. She ate her supper in silence, thinking hard. She
wonderedwhatwouldhappenifsheforgothowtospeak,justasthedodohad
forgottenhowtofly.Shewonderedwhatitwouldbeliketospendtherestofher
lifeasamute.
Theyhadamuteatschool,LeonieCoffin,thoughshewasteasedmoreforher
namethanforhersilence.
Itwashergrandmotherwhospokefirst.
“Areyouallright,mydarling?Didsomethingbadhappentoday?”
Shewasbrieflytemptedtosaynothing,becausethatwouldbemoreenigmatic
and more in keeping with the seriousness of the situation but in the end the
directnessofhergrandmother’squestionmadeherunabletoresistansweringit.
“Rowlandsaidmumdiedonarocket.Isthattrue?”
MeredithSheenerhadansweredatonceandwithoutprevarication.Itwasthat,
morethananythingelse,thatpersuadedAnitathatMeredithwastellingthetruth.
She said that Anita’s mother Melanie had died on board a rocket called the
AuroraOne.Therockethadbeensabotaged,andexplodedontake-off.Everyone
onboardhadbeenkilledinstantly,andseveralgroundstaffhaddiedinthefire
thatdestroyedthelaunchsite.Anita’sfatherhadbeenoneofthem.
“The papers wouldn’t leave us alone,” said Meredith. “It was terrible for
everyone,ofcourse,butitwasMelanietheyweremostinterestedinbecauseshe
wastheonlywoman.”
“Butwhowouldwanttoblowuparocketwhentheyknewtherewerepeople
inside?”InspiteofherdeterminationtobedetachedandgrownupaboutitAnita
couldfeelherheartclenchinherchest.
“Peoplewhoarenogoodatall,”saidhergrandmother.Shesighedandbowed
her head, rubbing at her eyes with the back of her hand. “There were some
people who thought it was bad to send human beings into space. They
complainedaboutthemoneyitcost,andsaiditshouldbespentonfeedingpoor
peopleandbuildingschoolsandhospitalsandchurcheshereonEarth.Butthat
wasn’t the main thing. Mostly they thought that human beings shouldn’t get
abovethemselves,thatifpeopleweremeanttoflytheywouldhavebeenborn
withwings.Ablasphemy,theycalledit,flyinginthefaceofGod.Theycalled
themselvestheGuardianAngels,butwhattheyactuallydidwaskillpeople.”
Anita fell silent again. The feelings inside her jostled for attention. It was
excitingthathermotherhadbeenaspacewoman.Itwasalsoexciting,inaway
thatshewouldnothaveadmittedtoanyoneexceptperhapsRowlandParker,that
hermotherhadbeensomeoneimportantenoughforpeopletowanttokill.Itwas
excitingbutitwasalsoterrifying.Shefeltsuddenlyexposed,asifherlifetoo
mightbeindanger.
She wondered if it were possible to feel grief for someone she did not
remember,whowasconnectedtoherbyfactbutnotbyactuality.
Sheaskedhergrandmotherifshecouldhaveaphotographofhermotherto
keepinherroom.Shehadseenphotographsofcourse,plentyofthem,images
thathadbecomesofamiliartheyseemedtohernowlikefilmstills,picturesthat
madehermothercommonproperty,likeanactressorapolitician.Shethought
thatowningoneofthesephotographsmightmakehermotherseemmorereal.
MeredithSheenerwentintoherbedroomandalittlewhilelatercamebackwith
aredcardboardwallet.Itcontainedtwophotographs,aduplicateoftheoneof
hermothergraduatingfromOxfordthathergrandmotherkeptonherdressing
table and another, previously unknown to her, showing Melanie in a checked
shirtwithababyinherarms.
“That’syouateightweeksold,”saidhergrandmother.“It’stheonlypictureI
haveofthetwoofyoutogether.”
Anita’sthroatfelttightandclosed,asifalargeweightwaspressingdownon
herwindpipe.Whensheaskedtentativelyiftherewereanyphotographsofher
fatherhergrandmothershookherhead.
“I’msorrydear,butIjustdon’thaveany.IhardlyknewMalcolmreally.They
hadonlybeenmarriedsixweeks.”
AS:Canyou tellme somethingabouthow yougot involvedin
thespaceprogram?Youalreadyhadagoodcareerasanindustrial
chemist, a lot of respect from your colleagues, plenty to look
forward to. Some people would say you’ve sacrificed your
humanityforthesakeoftheAuroraproject.Whatmadeyouwant
todothisinthefirstplace?
RA: This is something I remember quite clearly. When I was
eleven years old I saw a film called Voyage to the Sun, which
wasn’taboutspacetravelatallbutaboutthefirstseatransitsto
AmericaandtheWestIndies.I’dlearnedthesethingsatschoolof
course,butseeingthefilmmadeeverythingseemmorereal.I’d
neverbeenmoreexcitedbyanythinginmylife.Whatexcitedme
mostwastheideathatourworldhadoncebeendangerous,that
hugeareasofourplanetwerestillunknown.Themenwhosetoff
onthoseseavoyagesdidn’tknowwheretheyweregoing,much
lessiftheywouldeverreturn.Theyriskedtheirlivesforthesake
ofanadventureandtheideaofthatjustthrilledmetothebone.
LateronIstartedtoreadabouttheearlyspacepioneersandall
those thoughts and feelings came back to me. I suppose they’d
neverreallygoneaway.
Rachel Alvin had emailed Anita to say how much she had enjoyed Anita’s
shortfilmMoonDogs,basedaroundagreyhoundtrackinHackney.Theyhad
corresponded for a while and then arranged to meet for lunch at an Italian
restaurantinSoho.AnitawasbowledoverbyRachel.Shewassmallandquietly
spoken, her features too angular to be conventionally beautiful but there was
somethingfearlessabouther,anaudacityinherwayofthinkingthatmadeher
compelling. They seemed to form an immediate bond. It was not until later,
whenRachelaskedherifshewasrelatedtoMelanieSchleif,thatAnitarealised
ithadnotbeenherfilmthathaddrawnRacheltoherinthefirstinstancebutthe
simplefactofhersurname.
“Shewasmymother,”Anitasaid.“Iwaseightmonthsoldwhenshedied.”
“Idon’tbelieveit,”saidRachel.“She’sbeenaherotomesinceIwassmall.”
Shehadgonequitepale,andherblueeyesfilledupwithtears.Anitafeltasurge
ofjealousy andthen repressedit immediately. Hermother wasdead, afterall.
TheimportantthingwasnothowshehadmetRachel,butthattheyhadmetat
all.
“I have some things of hers,” she said. “I could show them to you, if you
like.”
ThefollowingSundayRachelhadcometoAnita’sflatinWoolwichandAnita
hadshownherthephotographsshehad,aswellasapaintedtinpiggybank,a
woodenglobe,abiographyofTereshkovawithMelanieMurielSheenerwritten
acrosstheflyleafinbluebiro.
“My grandmother got rid of most of her stuff because she said it was too
upsetting to keep it, that it was like having a ghost in the house,” said Anita.
“Thesefewthingsareallthat’sleft.”Laterintheafternoontheytookthebusup
toShooter’sHillandAnitashowedRachelthehouseshehadgrownupinand
where Melanie also had spent her childhood. It faced the main road, a large
Victorianvillathathadoncebeenaschoolbuthadlaterbeendividedintoflats.
Anitahadnotbeentheresincesheandhergrandmotherhadmovedouteighteen
monthsbefore.Shesawthattheoutsidehadbeenrepainted.Itmadetheplace
seemdifferent,newer,almostasifhertimetherehadbeenerased.
“Thehouseisenormousinside,”shesaid.“There’salaneatthebackthatruns
allthewaytoOxleasWoods.Therewerefoxgloves.Iplayedthereallthetime
whenIwasachild.”
ShewouldhavelikedtohaveshownRachelthegarden,butthesidegatehad
beenpadlockedshut.Itmadeherfeelchagrined,angryalmost,tobetreatedas
anintruderinaplacethathadbeenherhomeforsolong,eventhoughsheknew
suchfeelingswereillogical.Shesuddenlyfoundherselfwishingshehadmade
moreofanefforttobuytheflat.
“Ilovedithere,”shesaid.“ItwassomewhereIalwaysfeltsafe.”
The flat had been sold, and the money invested to pay the fees for her
grandmother’sretirementhome.Becauseofitslargesizetheapartmenthadbeen
pricedoutofherrange,althoughitstiredconditionmeantthatintheendithad
gonetodevelopers.Anitathoughtnowthatifshehadfoughthardershemight
have found a way to afford it. She looked at Rachel, taking pictures with her
phone and gazing about herself like a tourist at a world heritage site. She
touchedthedodopendantthroughherdressandthoughthowcuriousitwasthat
Rachel’spresencehadmadeitpossiblenotonlyforhertoreturntothehousebut
tofeelnostalgiaforit.
It was as if her growing feelings for Rachel had opened some special
compartmentinhermind.Shewonderedthenwhyitwasthatshehadn’ttoldher
thewholetruthabouthermother’srelics,thataswellasthehandfulofharmless
possessions she had shown her there were several cardboard boxes of letters,
diariesandphotographs,thingsshehadfoundamonghergrandmother’spapers
andtakenwithhertohernewflatinWoolwich.
She had never been through them properly. When she was a child she
supposed she had hero-worshipped her mother, much the way that Rachel did
now. But by the time she went away to college she had begun to feel an
increasingneednottobedefinedbyher.
Hergrandmother’sillnesshadchangedthatforawhilebutnowwhatAnita
wantedwastohavehermotheroutofthewayagain.ShewantedRachelallto
herself.
***
By the time the train reached Shoreham it was almost empty. Anita stepped
down onto the platform, slamming the train door shut with a hollow bang.
Sallowgrassgrewupbetweenthepavingslabs.Thesunbeatdown.Therewas
anacridreekofseaweedandbrine.
Rachelhadlovedthisplace.AsachildshehadrarelybeenoutofLondonand
sotheideaoftheseasidehadneverlostitsenchantment.ThefirsttimeAnitahad
taken Rachel to see Meredith, Rachel had been on her second course of
injections and her hand to eye coordination was all over the place. She had
spilledacupofteaintoherlap,scaldingherselfquitebadly.Meredithhadtaken
over,dabbingSavlononRachel’sburnsandfindingheracleanshirttoputon,
anoutlandishthingwithahighlacecollaranddiamantebuttons.
“I don’t understand it,” Anita said afterwards, when they were on the train
backtoLondon.“Theclothessheworeathomewerealwayssodull.”
“Perhapsshefeelsshe’sfreenow,”saidRachel.“Freetobewhatshewants
insteadofwhatpeopleexpect.”
Anitahadfoundthisideacomforting.ShefelthumbledbyRachel’sgenerosity
ofspirit,herabilitytoacceptpeoplesimplyforwhotheywere.Sheturnedher
backonthesea.Thetidewasfarout,andtherewasnothingtoseebutmudflats.
SouthwaterHousewasonlyhalfamilefromthestationbutitwasastiffuphill
climb. She supposed the view from the top was part of what made the place
appealing.Theretirementhomecateredforaboutthirtyfull-timeresidents,and
withitstiledhallwaysandslopinglawnsitremindedheralittleofoneofthe
1920sseasidehotelsintheold-fashioneddetectivestorieshergrandmotherhad
once enjoyed, novels by Agatha Christie and Dorothy L. Sayers. The staff
seemed to connive in the illusion; Anita privately thought that some of them
were more eccentric than most of the residents. There was something chaotic
about the place, and it was precisely this that had convinced her that her
grandmotherwouldbehappythere.Thehallwaysmelledofpinedetergentand
fermenting grass clippings, a scent that invariably reminded her of the day
Meredithhadcomeheretolive.ThedismantlingoftheShooter’sHillflathad
beenverydifficultforherandshehadarrivedatSouthwaterHousetearfuland
disorientated.WhenAnitatriedtokisshergoodbyesheclungtoherandcalled
her Melanie. The next time Anita saw her grandmother she was different, but
better.AnitawonderedifRachelwasright,thatMeredithwasfinallyfeelingthe
freedomtobeherself.
Thereceptiondeskwasunmanned.Anitahesitated,wonderingifsheshould
ringthebellorcontinueupstairs.Eventuallysomeoneappeared,ayoungwoman
withperoxidehairandglasses.Shewaswheelingalinencartwithonehandand
clutchingasheafofnewspapersintheother.Anitathoughtsherecognisedher
fromapreviousvisitbutcouldn’trememberhername.
“MissSheener,”shesaid.“Yourgrandmother’sinherroom.Shehasn’tbeen
feelingtoobrighttoday,I’mafraid.”
Anitafelttheusualsurpriseatbeingaddressedbyhergrandmother’ssurname.
Itwasasifinsomesenseshehadbecomehergrandmother.Shedidn’tknowif
thestaffherewere ignorant ofher actualsurname or whetherthe womanhad
simplyforgotten.
“Whatdoyoumean?”shesaid.“Whydidn’tyoucallme?”
Theperoxidenursetookastepbackwards.“There’snothingtoworryabout,”
shesaid.“Sheisn’tilloranything,justabitdowninthedumps.”
Anita took this as a euphemism, that the woman was trying to tell her that
Meredithwasgoingthroughoneofherconfusedperiods.Ithadbeenlessthana
weeksinceshehadseenherbutinMeredithSheener’sworldAnitaknewthat
timecouldbeanunstablecommodity.Fivedaysmightslipbywithoutnotice,or
theymightseemtopassasslowlyasfiveyears.Shesmiledvaguelyatthenurse
andthenmadeherwayquicklyupstairs.
Meredith’sroomwasonthefirstflooroverlookingthesea.Itwaslargeand
brightand fullofthings.TherewerethingsAnitarememberedfromShooter’s
Hill of course, but there was also much that was new: china ornaments and
embroideredcushioncovers,brightlycolouredalienobjectsthatscrambledfor
possessionofeverysurface.Liketheostentatiousclothes,theyseemedmorea
partofthenewMerediththantheoldone.Anitacouldn’thelpnoticingacertain
accumulationofdust.Shesupposeditwasimpossibleforthestafftokeeppace
withhergrandmother’sclutter.
Meredithwasinthe armchairbesidethebed.Hereyeswereopenbutthere
wasafixed,emptyqualitytohergazethatmadeherseemlikeadifferentperson.
Anita’sbreathcaughtinherthroat.
“Areyouallright,Gran?”shesaid.Shekneltbesidehergrandmother’schair,
taking both her hands in hers. Meredith’s fingers gripped back tightly like an
anxiouschild’s.
“IwanttotalktoRachel,”shesaid.“There’ssomethingIneedtotellher.”
Sheseemedsuddenlyfullyaware,asifaswitchhadbeenthrowninsideher.
Hereyesblazedwithafuriouslife.Itwasasifshehadgrownyoungerbytwenty
years.
“Rachelisn’there,Gran,”saidAnita.“Herleaveisfinished.She’llbeflying
backtoAmericanextweek.Itoldyouthislastnightonthephone.”
Shefeltfullofacoldanddesperatepity.Shewonderedifthiswashowher
grandmotherhadfeltwhenshehadtoexplaintoAnitathathermotherwasdead.
InasmallcornerofhermindsheenviedMeredithforbeingabletoexistina
world where Rachel was still retrievable, where the possibility existed of her
imminentreturn.Shefelttearsstartatthebackofhereyes.Shebowedherhead,
hoping that her grandmother was now beyond noticing such things. She had
heardthatalargepartoftheillnesswasself-absorption,aninabilitytoprocess
eventsinthe outsideworld. But Meredithwrested ahandfree andgrabbed at
her,tiltingherfacetowardsherasshehadusedtodowhenAnitawasachild.
“Youlooksad,”shesaid.“HassomethingbadhappenedtoRachel?”
Anitagazedupather,thinkingasshehadoftenthoughthowstrangeitwas
they looked so little alike. Anita’s mother had been blonde and robust, taking
aftertheDutchseacaptain,ClaesSheener,whohadbeenherfather,andfrom
whatshecouldtellfromthephotographsAnitawasexactlylikeher.Meredith
Sheenerwas asmall, Celtic-lookingwoman withfine bonesand heavy-lidded
deep-seteyes.Herhair,onceblack,hadbeguntogogreyshortlyafterMelanie
died.
Anitafeltherheartcrushedbytendernessforher.Shehadalwaysshownsuch
fortitude.Evennowinherhelplessnessshewasbusythinkingofothers.
“No,Gran.Rachel’sfine.Ifthere’sanythingyouwanttosaytoherjustyou
tellme.Icanpassyourmessagealongnexttimeshephones.”
Meredith’sgriprelaxedandthefiercenesswentoutofhereyes.
“Nottoworry,mydarling.Iwantedtotellhershe’sjustlikeMelanie,butit
doesn’tmatternowthatshe’sgone.”ShecaressedAnita’shair,lookingsuddenly
tired.Anita stared at her blankly.She thoughtof Rachel’sgangling limbs, her
flat chest and copper hair and freckled face. Before the Kushnev drain was
startedRachelhadusedtojokeshewasmorethanhalf-cockroachalready.There
wasnowayshecouldbecomparedwithMelanie,whowasaslikeAnitawith
herfairskinandapplecheeksastwopanesofglassinawindowframe.Andyet
shesupposedafterallthatitwastrue.RachelandMelaniewerebothcourageous
womenofaction,bothpreparedtodieforwhattheybelievedin.WhereasAnita
hadalwaysbeencontentjusttostandandwatch.
Hermotherhadn’tlovedherenoughtostayonEarthforherandneitherhad
Rachel.Anitabegantoweep.
“It’sallmyfault,Gran,”shesaid.“IshouldhavefoundawaytostopherbutI
didn’tknowhow.Ilovehersomuch.It’salmostworsethanifsheweredead.”
IfRachelweredeadshewouldinsomesensebesafe,safetoberemembered
andloved.Asitwasshelivedonasamonster,dedicatedtoalifewherepersonal
feelingwas nothing when set against her vocation, themysterious inner voice
thattoldherthatherplacewasnothere,butelsewhere.Somewheresofaraway
thatitwasimpossibleforthenormalmindtoconceiveit.
Andyetinahundredyearsfromnow,whenAnitawasdeadandburied,would
Rachel sometimes think of her, and remember the afternoon they had spent
together on Shooter’s Hill, the foxgloves bright as bunting in the overgrown
grass?
Shehuggedhergrandmother’skneesandcried.Shethoughthowfuriousthe
peroxide nurse would be if she came in and found her in such a state. She
struggledtocontrolhertears.
“I’msorry,Gran,”shesaid.“Ididn’tmeantoupsetyou.I’mjusttired.”
Her grandmother was silent, her eyes fixed on some invisible horizon, her
hands now lying still at her sides. Anita’s heart lurched. For one impossible
moment she wondered if her grandmother was dead, had died because of her
crying,andforthistooshewouldbetoblame.Thenatlastherhandsmoved,
rustlingthestiffmauvesilkoftheskirtshewaswearing.Anitagottoherfeet
and stood over her anxiously. The dodo pendant swung free of her blouse. It
hunginmidair,twistingslowlyattheendofitschain.
“CanIgetyouanything?”saidAnita.“Wouldyoulikeacupoftea?”
MeredithSheenerlookedupatherandsmiled,creasingthedelicateskinatthe
cornersofhereyes.Thenshereachedoutforthependant,grabbingatitlikea
smallchildtryingtocatchabutterfly.Shebatteditwithherfingers,makingit
danceandshudder,theclosestitwouldevergettonaturalflight.
“IblamedmyselfforyearsoverMelanie,”shesaid.“Wehadsuchaterrible
rowthedaybeforesheleft.Youweresotinystill,andItoldhershewasafool
andselfish,thatshewasneglectingyouforthesakeofhercareer.ShesaidIwas
jealous,thatIwantedtoturnherintoahousewifejustlikeIwas.Noneofthat
wastrue,butIwasusingyouasanexcuse,justthesame.Shedidthisstrange
thing, you see. She asked me to look after that pendant. She had never done
anythinglikethatbefore,andshenevertookoffthatchain.Herbestfriendin
collegegaveittoherandshealwaysworeit,evenintheshower.Igotitintomy
headthatsomethingterriblewasgoingtohappen.Icouldn’tbearthethoughtof
losing her, you see.” She took Anita’s hand, squeezing her fingers with
surprisingstrength.“Iusedtotakephotographs,too,alongtimeago.Therewas
a time when I thought I might make something of it, but what with Melanie
beingbornandClaesleavinglikethatitwasallsodifficult,socomplicated.I
supposeIjustletthingsslide.IwasjustbeginningtothinkImighttakeitup
again,pickupwhereIleftoff.ButthenMelaniediedanditwasasifthetidehad
goneoutandleftmestranded.Likewalkingalongthebeachatdusk,youknow
howitishere,whenthetideisoutandthesandiswetandshinyasamirror.It’s
beautiful,thedusk,butit’stheloneliesttimeoftheday.Ifeltsolost,asifI’d
neverbeabletofindmywayhomeagain.Ievenfeltsomesympathywiththem,
youknow,withthepeoplewhodidit,theGodpeople.Theideaofspacetravel
seemedsoterrfiying,sodangerous,likestrayingintoahousewherebadthings
are.It feltallwrongtome,eventhoughIwassoproudofherIcouldhardly
breathe.”
She reached for the pendant again, holding it between finger and thumb.
“YourfriendRachelwassobeautiful.Ithinksheisverybravetogiveallthat
up.”
“Shestillisbeautiful,Gran,”saidAnita.“Atleastsheistome.”Shesatdown
ontheedgeofthebed.Hereyesfeltswollenfromcrying.“Comeon,”shesaid.
“Let’sgoandseewho’sinthediningroom.”Shestoodupandputoutherhand.
Her grandmother stared at it in bewilderment, as if at some miraculous
apparition. Anita wondered how much of their conversation she would
remember.Thenewdrugsshowedamazingresults,butthedoctorhadwarned
hernottobeover-optimisticaboutthelong-termprognosis.
“It’s like blowing on dying embers,” he said. “There’s a glow, and a little
warmth,butitdoesn’tlast.”
Itstruckherhowunusualitwas,hismodeofexpression,sorichinmetaphor,
almost like the speech of a poet. She thought of his tired eyes, his twisted
fingers,ofhowkindhewasreally,especiallywhendeliveringbadnews.Howhe
seemed to take each failure to heart, as if he were personally responsible for
medicinebeingsopowerlessagainstdeath.
Iwonder if I couldfilm him, she thought.I wonder ifhe wouldlet me, ifI
asked.
***
Theboxeswereinthecupboardunderthestairs,pushedrighttothebackbehind
thevacuumcleanerandhergrandmother’soldironingboard.Therewerethree
ofthem,twolargeonesstampedwiththelogoofawell-knownfoodcompany
andanother,halfthesize,whichwasunmarked.Sheopenedthesmallboxfirst.
She had only sketchy memories of packing the crates, of what had gone into
eachofthem,butshesawalmostatoncethatwhatthethirdboxcontainedwas
mostly her mother’s official papers—birth certificate, passport, medical—and
nothingofimmediateimportance.Theothertwoweremoreinteresting.These
containedphotographsandpostcards,lettersfromoldboyfriends,afudgetinfull
of pin badges and a pencil sharpener in the shape of the Apollo 13. At the
bottom of the second crate there were three cloth-bound notebooks that
containedMelanie’sdiaryforherfinalyearatOxfordandforthemonthsleading
uptoherenrolmentinthespaceprogram.Anitawassurprisedtolearnshehad
goneinasagroundengineer.ShesupposedthiswashowshehadmetMalcolm
Schleif,althoughtherewasnomentionofhiminthesepages.
Tuckedintotheinsidecoverofoneofthenotebookswasapostcard,acolour
reproductionofRolandSavery’sDodoinaLandscape.Asinglesentence,“don’t
forgetyourwings,” wasscrawledacross the backinspiky blackcapitals.The
card had been posted from Oxford, and was addressed to Melanie at the
Shooter’sHillflat.Itwassigned“withalllovefromSusanne.”Anitacouldsee
fromthepostmarkthatithadbeensentlessthanamonthbeforehermother’s
death.
Shesearchedquicklythroughthebundlesofletters,hopingtodiscoversome
clue to Susanne’s identity. After five minutes or so she found what she was
lookingfor,abrownjiffybagcontainingseveraldozenhandwrittenlettersand
about the same number of email printouts, all from a Susanne Behrens, who
wrotesometimesfromHamburgandsometimesfromOxfordbutalwaysintones
ofaffectionandintimacy.
For some reason Susanne’s letters, with their bawdy in-jokes and cosy
diminutives, made her mother more real to Anita than all her grandmother’s
reminiscencesputtogether.
Herhandswerefilthywithdust.Shewipedthemagainstherjeansandwentto
putthekettleon.Justasthewaterboiledthephonerang.Whenshepickedup
thereceivershefoundherselfspeakingtoSerge.
“Iwasjustseeingifyouwerebackyet,”hesaid.“Icouldn’tgetthroughon
yourmobile.Iwasstartingtogetabitworried.”
“Myphonebatterywentflat,”shesaid.“Iforgottotakemycharger.Ionlygot
backthismorning.”Allthreestatementswerelies.ShehadbeenbackinLondon
three days, and after the fourth successive call from Serge she had simply
switchedoffherphone.ForsomereasonshecouldnotdefineRachel’sdeparture
hadchangedeverything.Alsoshecouldnotforgetthewayhehadsoundedwhen
shehadlastspokentohim,thesensethathehadsomethingtohide.Shewould
have liked to put off their conversation indefinitely but she knew this was
impossible.Soonerorlatershewouldhavetofaceuptowhathadhappened.
She asked him how he was and he said he was fine. He asked after her
grandmother and she mumbled back some stilted reply. There was a short,
uncomfortablesilence,andthenhetoldherwhatsheknewhehadcalledabout
inthefirstplace.
“Listen, Anita,” he said. “I thought I should tell you I’ve started seeing
someone.Ididn’twantyoutohearitfromsomeoneelse.”
Her name was Bella Altman and she was a composer of electronic music.
“You’ve probably heard some of her stuff, actually,” he said. “She’s done
hundredsofcommercials.Herworkisallovertheplace.”Helaughed,asmall,
tightsoundthatshehadneverheardbefore.Sherealisedhehadbeenwaitingto
tellhereversincetheir last phonecall,thatperhapshe hadwantedtotellher
eventhen.
“Why are you telling me this?” she said. “Don’t you think you should be
tellingRachelinstead?”
Therewasanotheruncomfortablesilence.“Doyouthinkshehastoknow?”he
saidfinally.“She’shardlygoingtofindoutonherown.”
He was asking her permission to treat Rachel as if she were dead. No, she
thoughtsuddenly.He’stryingtofindoutifyoumeantotellheryourself.
Shefeltanangersodeepandsocoldsheknewtherewasnowaybackfromit,
thatifsheandSergeevermetagainitwouldbeasstrangers.
“I’mnotgoingtoratonyou,ifthat’swhatyou’reafraidof,”shesaid.“What
youdoisnoneofmybusiness.It’sRachelthatIcareabout,notyou.”
Shewaitedforamomenttoseeifhewouldsayanythingelseandthensheput
downthephone.Shetoppeduphercoffeemugwithboilingwaterandthenwent
backtosortingMelanie’sletters.Shewonderedwhatmightbethebestwayof
tryingtotraceSusanneBehrens.
***
Civilian flights to the States had become almost prohibitively expensive, but
Clement Anderson had supported Anita’s visa application, which had enabled
hertoclaimbacksomeofthecostintheformofaresearchgrant.
Ajuniorofficerhadmetherattheairportandescortedhertoamotelashort
bus ride from the base. Then there were the inevitable protocols, two days of
debriefingandform-filling.Shehadaskedifshecouldfilmtheseprocessesbut
herrequesthadbeenpolitelydenied.
The flight crew of the Aurora 6 were now being kept in more or less
permanentisolation.Eachmemberwasallowedonelastvisitpriortolaunchday,
afinalthirtyminuteswithafriendorfamilymemberfromoutside.Anitahad
beenabletospeaktoRachelseveraltimesonthetelephonebutshehadalways
assumedthevisitwouldgotoSerge.Theinvitationcameoutoftheblue.
Finallyshewastakentoaroomthatwasbareofeverythingexceptatableand
twochairsandinthecorneralowsofacoveredinabrownleatherette.Therewas
apaneofsmokedglasssetintoonewallthatsheguessedwasatwo-waymirror.
Attheendofsometenminutes’waitingthedooropenedandRachelappeared.
She was dressed in grey overalls, silk or some synthetic substitute. What
remainedofherhairwasmostlyhiddenunderaclose-fittingcapthatreminded
Anitaofthecapswornbysurgeonsintheoperatingtheatre.Thefewstrandsof
hairthatwereshowinglookeddryandbrittle,almostliketuftsofgrass.
Herlipswerethecolourofbeetroot.Theylookedstucktoherfacemorethan
partofit,fissuredandclottedasscabs.
Sheclosedthedoorbehindherandsteppedintotheroom.Herwrists,poking
outfromtheloosesleevesoftheoverall,wereskeletal,herfingernailsthickened
and black. Her eyes were hard and glazed, barely human. It was only in the
delicatelineofherjaw,thefine,higharchofherbrow,thatanytracesofher
beautynowremained.
Anitagotupfromthetableandwenttowardsher.Shefeltadullachebeneath
herbreastbone,asifsheweretryingtoholdherbreathunderwater.
“Isitallrighttotouchyou?”shesaid.
“Ofcourseitis,”saidRachel.“Comehere.”
Theyembraced.Rachel’sbodyfeltlikeabundleofglasstubesheldtogether
bystripsofpaperandpiecesofstring.Shesmelledlikefarmsilage,orlikethe
heaps of grass clippings on the compost heap at Southwater House. They sat
down either side of the formica table. Anita touched Rachel’s hand, thinking
howfromtheothersideofthetwo-waymirrortheymustlookliketwoactorsin
someprisondrama.
She’sreallygoingup,thoughtAnita.Forthefirsttimethesightofherfriend
broughtnotsorroworanger,butawe.
Theytalkedtogetherinquietvoices.RachelaskedaboutMeredith,andAnita
toldherabouthersearchforSusanneBehrens.
“Iwanttointerviewherforthefilm,”saidAnita.“Fromherlettersitlooksas
ifsheknewmymotherbetterthananyone.”
“Thefilmwillbewonderful,”saidRachel.“Yourmotherwouldhavebeenso
proud.”Anitastrokedthebacksofherhands.Astheirhalfhourdrewtowardits
close she unhooked the dodo pendant from around her neck and handed it to
Rachel.Thechainstillcarriedthewarmthofherownbody.
“Takeherwithyou,whereveryou’regoing,”shesaid.“It’swhatshewanted
mostintheworld.”
Rachel’sdiamondeyesseemedtoshimmer.Sheclosedherfingersaroundthe
silver,slowly,asiftotouchanythingthatsolidwasnowpainfulforher.
“I’ll be taking you both,” she said. Her voice was a dry whisper, like long
grassmovinggentlyinthewind.“Icouldn’thavedonethiswithoutyou.”
***
IttookAnitasometimetotrackdownacopyofVoyagetotheSun.Sofarasshe
couldtell it had never been released onDVD, andwhen she finally locateda
videocopyonsomeobscurefansiteshewassurprisedathowmuchitcostto
haveittransferredtodisc.
Theprintwasbynomeansperfect,butforaVHStransferitwasmorethan
acceptable.ForAnita,VoyagetotheSunseemedtoepitomisetheepicstyleof
filmmakingthathadreacheditszenithtowardstheendofthetwentiethcentury.
It was a long film, almost three hours, replete with significant imagery and
spectacularifratherdatedspecialeffects.
The film’s main actors were Rowan Amherst as the ship’s captain, Hilary
Benson as the first mate, and Aurelie Pelling as Lilian Furness, the captain’s
fiancée, nominated for an Oscar in her role. Anita found all three of them
impressive, although for her the star was undoubtedly the young Joshua
SamuelsoninthepartofLindenBrooksthecabinboy.Itwashisfirstmajorrole,
and he played it brilliantly. The character of Brooks was ambiguous. He was
intelligentbutdevious,bravebutduplicitous,andSamuelsonbroughtoutthese
contradictionswithinsightandflair.Anitathoughtitsignificantandappropriate
that the main focus of the film’s closing sequence was not the half-starved
captainorthemutinousfirstmatebuttheMachiavelliancabinboy.
Aloneofeveryoneonboardheseemedtothriveontheharshconditions.His
skinwasscorchedalmostblackandtherewasnotaspareounceofbodyfaton
him,andyethispaleeyesburnedwithapurelightthatwasalmostecstaticinits
intensity.
Heflewhandoverhanduptheriggingtothecrow’snest,skinnyandagileas
amonkey.
“Land,”hescreamedout.“Landho!”Hissalt-cloggedhairflamedredagainst
anazuresky.
The images were pure Hollywood, but in the way of all great cinema they
wereinspiringandintheirownwaybeautiful.Anitafoundshehadnotroublein
understanding how the child-Rachel, her young soul already on fire with
romantic ideals, would have identified with these fictional pioneers. Linden
Brooksthecabinboy,withhisblazeofredhairandfrenziedexcitementatthe
sightofanewcontinent,mighteasilyhavebeenhertwinbrother.
She ejected the disc from the machine and replaced it carefully in its clear
plasticcase,knowingthefilmwasapartofRachelshecouldkeepclosetoher
forever. She thought of her friend, suspended in space, her inner processes as
mysterious and miraculous now as those of a chrysalis, and distinctly felt a
messagepassbetweenthem.
ChickenLittle
CORYDOCTOROW
CoryDoctorowisthecoeditorofthepopularBoingBoing Web
site (boingboing.net), a cofounder of the internet search-engine
company OpenCola, and until recently was the outreach
coordinatorfortheElectronicFrontierFoundation(www.eff.org).
In2000,hewontheJohnW.CampbellAwardfortheyear’sBest
New Writer. His stories have appeared in Asimov’s Science
Fiction,Gateways,ScienceFictionAge,TheInfiniteMatrix,On
Spec,Salon,andelsewhere,and have beencollectedinAPlace
SoForeignandEightMore and Overclocked.Hiswell-received
firstnovel,DownandOutintheMagicKingdom,wontheLocus
Award for Best First Novel; his other novels include Eastern
Standard Tribe; Someone Comes To Town, Someone Leaves
Town; the well-received YA novel Little Brother; and Makers.
Doctorow’s other books include The Complete Idiot’s Guide to
PublishingScienceFiction,writtenwithKarlSchroeder;aguide
toEssentialBlogging,writtenwithShelleyPowers;andContent:
Selected Essays on Technology, Creativity, Copyright, and the
FutureoftheFuture.Hismostrecentbooksareanewnonfiction
book,Ebooks,andanewnovel,FortheWin.HehasaWebsiteat
craphound.com.
In the unsettling story that follows, from an anthology of
storieswrittenintributetoFrederikPohl,andonewhichdoesan
excellentjobofupdatingandcommentingonsomeofthethemes
that informed Pohl and C. M. Kornbluth’s classic novel The
Space Merchants, Doctorow shows us a future where the rich
keepgettingricher,andintendtostaythatway—nomatterwhat.
ThefirstlessonLeonlearnedattheadagencywas:Nobodyisyourfriendatthe
adagency.
Take today: Brautigan was going to see an actual vat, at an actual clinic,
whichhousedanactualtargetconsumer,andhewasn’ttakingLeon.
“Don’tsulk,it’sunbecoming,”Brautigansaid,givinghimoneofthosetight-
lipped smiles where he barely got his mouth over those big, horsey, comical
teethofhis.Theyweredisarming,thosepearlywhites.“It’soutofthequestion.
Gettingclearancetovisitavatinperson,that’saonemonth,twomonthprocess.
Backgroundchecks.Biometrics.Interviewswiththeirpsychstaff.Thephysicals:
they have to take a census of your microbial nation. It takes time, Leon. You
mightbeamayflyinamayflyhurry,butthemaninthevat,he’sgotalotoftime
onhishands.Noskinoffhisdickifyougetheldupforamonthortwo.”
“Bullshit,” Leon said. “It’s all a show. They’ve got a brick wall a hundred
mileshigharoundthefront,andaslidingdooraroundtheback.There’salways
anexceptionintheseprotocols.Therehastobe.”
“Whenyou’re180yearsoldandconfinedtoavat,youdon’tmakeexceptions.
Notifyouwanttogoonto181.”
“You’re telling me that if the old monster suddenly developed a rare, fast-
movinglivercancerandtherewasonlyoneoncologistinthewholegoddamned
worldwhocouldmakeitbetter,you’retellingmethatguywouldbesenthome
toFranceorwhatever—Nothanks,we’reOK,youdon’thaveclearancetosee
thepatient?”
“I’mtellingyouthemonsterdoesn’thavealiver.Whatthatmanhas,hehas
machinesandnutrientsandsystems.”
“Andifamachinebreaksdown?”
“Themanwhoinventedthatmachineworksforthemonster.Helivesonthe
monster’sprivateestate,withhisfamily.Theirmicrobialnationsareidenticalto
themonster’s.Heisnotonlytheemperoroftheirlives,heistheemperorofthe
livesoftheirintestinalflora.Ifthemachinethatmaninventedstoppedworking,
hewouldbestandingbythevatinlessthantwominutes,withhisstaff,allin
disposable, sterile bunny suits, murmuring reassuring noises as he calmly,
expertly fitted one of the ten replacements he has standing by, the ten
replacementshechecks,personally,everysingleday,tomakesurethattheyare
working.”
Leon opened his mouth, closed it. He couldn’t help himself, he snorted a
laugh.“Really?”
Brautigannodded.
“Andwhatifnoneofthemachinesworked?”
“If that man couldn’t do it, then his rival, who also lives on the monster’s
estate, who has developed the second-most-exciting liver replacement
technologyinthehistoryoftheworld,whoburnstotryitonthemaninthevat
—thatmanwouldbethereintenminutes,andthefirstman,andhisfamily—”
“Executed?”
Brautiganmadeadisappointednoise.“Comeon,he’saquadrillionaire,nota
Bondvillain.No,thatmanwouldbedemotedtonearlynothing,butgivenone
tiny chance to redeem himself: invent a technology better than the one that’s
currentlyrunninginplaceofthevat-man’sliver,andyouwillberestoredtoyour
fineplacewithyourfineclothesandyourwealthandyourprivilege.”
“Andifhefails?”
Brautigan shrugged. “Then the man in the vat is out an unmeasurably
minuscule fraction of his personal fortune. He takes the loss, applies for a
researchtax-creditforit,anddeductsitfromthepittancehedeignstosendtothe
IRSeveryyear.”
“Shit.”
Brautigan slapped his hands together. “It’s wicked, isn’t it? All that money
andpowerandmoneyandmoney?”
LeontriedtorememberthatBrautiganwasn’thisfriend.Itwasthoseteeth,
theyweresodisarming.Whocouldbesuspiciousofamanwhowassohorsey
youwantedtofeedhimsugarcubes?“It’ssomethingelse.”
“Younowknowabouttenthousandtimesmoreaboutthepeopleinthevats
thanyouraveragecit.Butyouhaven’tevengottheshadowofthepictureyet,
buddy.Ittookdecadesofrelationship-buildingforAtetosellitsfirstproductto
avat-person.”
Andwehaven’tsoldanythingelsesince,Leonthought,buthedidn’tsayit.No
onewouldsayitatAte.Theagencypitcheditselfasapowerhouse,asuccessin
afieldfullofsuccesses.Itwasthego-toagencyforservicingthe“ultra-high-net-
worthindividual,”andyet…
Onesale.
“And we haven’t sold anything since.” Brautigan said it without a hint of
shame. “And yet, this entire building, this entire agency, the salaries and the
designersandtheconsultants:allofitpaidforbyclippingthetoenailsofthat
fortune.Whichmeansthatonemoresale—”
He gestured around. The offices were sumptuous, designed to impress the
functionariesofthefortunesinthevats.Atrickoflightandscentandwindmade
you feel as though you were in an ancient forest glade as soon as you came
throughthedoor,thoughnoforestwasinevidence.Thereceptiondesktopwasa
sheetofpittedtombstonegranite,theunreadablesmoothepitaphpeekingaround
theedgesoftheoldfashionedtypewriterthathadbeencunninglyreworkedto
serve as a slightly-less-old-fashioned keyboard. The receptionist—presently
ignoringthem with professionalverisimilitude—conveyed beauty, intelligence,
andmotherlyconcern,allbymeansofdress,bearingandmakeup.Ateemployed
asmallteamofstyliststhatworkedonallpublic-facingemployees;Leonhad
enduredajust-sorumplingofhissandyhairandsomecarefullyappliedfraying
atthecuffsandelbowsofhisjacketthatmorning.
“Sono,Leon,buddy,Iamnottakingyoudowntomeetmyvat-person.ButI
willgetyoustartedonapaththatmaytakeyouthere,someday,ifyou’revery
goodandproveyourselfouthere.Onceyou’vepaidyourdues.”
Leonhadpaidplentyofdues—morethanthisblow-driedturdeverdid.Buthe
smiledandsnuffledituplikeagoodlittleworm,hatinghimself.“Hitme.”
“Look,we’vebeenpitchingvat-productsforsixyearsnowwithoutasingle
hit. Plenty of people have come through that door and stepped into the job
you’vegotnow,andthey’veallthrownamillionideasintheair,andeveryone
came smashing to earth. We’ve never systematically catalogued those ideas,
never got them in any kind of grid that will let us see what kind of territory
we’ve already explored, where the holes are…” He looked meaningfully at
Leon.
“You want me to catalog every failed pitch in the agency’s history.” Leon
didn’thidehisdisappointment.Thatwasthekindofjobyougavetoanintern,
notajunioraccountexec.
Brautiganclickedhishorseyteethtogether,gavealaughlikeawhinny,and
leftAte’soffices,admittingabreathoftheboringairthatcirculatedouttherein
the real world. The receptionist radiated matronly care in his direction. He
leanedherwayandherfingersthunkedonthemechanicalkeysofherconverted
UnderwoodNoiseless,amachinegunrattle.Hewaiteduntilshewasdone,then
sheturnedthatcaring,lovingsmilebackonhim.
“It’sallinyourworkspace,Leon—goodluckwithit.”
***
ItseemedtoLeonthattheproblemsfacedbyimmortalquadrillionairesinvats
wouldn’t be that different from those facing mere mortals. Once practically
anything could be made for practically nothing, everything was practically
worthless.Nooneneededtodiscoveranymore—justcombine,justinvent.Then
youcouldeitherhitabuttonandprintitoutonyourdesktopfabordownatthe
local depot for bigger jobs, or if you needed the kind of fabrication a printer
couldn’t handle, there were plenty of on-demand jobbers who’d have some
workerinadistantcountryknockitoutovernightandyou’dhaveitinhermetic
FedExpackagingonyourdesktopbythemorning.
Looking through the Ate files, he could see that he wasn’t the last one to
followthislineofreasoning.Everyaccountexechadcomeupwithpitchesthat
involvedthingsthatcouldn’tbefabbed—preciousgewgawsthatneededatrained
mastertoproduce—orthingsthathadn’tbeenfabbed—antiques,one-of-a-kinds,
fetishobjectsfromhistory.Andallofithadmetwithcrashingindifferencefrom
thevat-people, who could hire any master theywanted, who could buy entire
warehousesfullofantiques.
Thenormalmegarichgotofferedexperiences:atickettospace,achanceto
huntthelastmemberofanendangeredspecies,theopportunitytokillamanand
getawaywith it, adeep-oceansub tothebottom of theMarianastrench. The
peopleinthevathaddoneplentyofthosethingsbeforethey’dendedupinthe
vats.Nowtheyweremetastatic,thesehyperrich,lumpsofcurdlingmeatinthe
pickling solution of a hundred vast machines that laboriously kept them alive
amidtheircancer-bloomsandmyriadfailures.Somewhereinthattangleofhoses
andwireswassomethingthatwastechnicallyaperson,andalsotechnicallya
corporation,and,inmanycases,technicallyasovereignstate.
Eachconcentrationofwealthwasanefficientmachine,meshedinamillion
wayswiththemortaleconomy.Youinteractedwiththevatswhenyoubought
hamburgers, Internet connections, movies, music, books, electronics, games,
transportation—themoneyleftyour handsandwas sieved throughtheirhoses
andtubes,flushedbackoutintotheworldwhereothermortalswouldtouchit.
Buttherewasnoeasywaytotouchthemoneyatitsmostconcentrated,purest
form.Itwaslikea theoretical superdenseelementfromthefirstinstant of the
universe’s creation, money so dense it stopped acting like money; money so
denseitchangedstatewhenyouchippedapieceofitoff.
Leon’spredecessorshadbeenshrewdandclever.Theyhadwalkedthelength
andbreadthoftheproblemspaceofprovidingservicesandproductstoaperson
whowasmoneywhowasastatewhowasavat.Manyofthenicergrace-notes
intheofficecamefromthosefailedpitches—thebusinesswiththelightsandthe
air,forexample.
Leon had a good education, the kind that came with the mathematics of
multidimensional space. He kept throwing axes at his chart of the failed
inventionsofAte,Inc.,mappingoutthemanywaysinwhichtheyweresimilar
anddissimilar.Thepatternthatemergedwaseasytounderstand.
They’dtriedeverything.
***
Brautigan’swhinnywasthemosthumiliatingsoundLeonhadeverheard,inall
hisworkinglife.
“No,ofcourseyoucan’tknowwhatgotsoldtothevat-person!Thatwaspart
ofthedeal—itwaswhythepayoffwassolarge.Nooneknowswhatwesoldto
thevat-person.Notme,nottheoldwoman.Themanwhosoldit?Hecashedout
years ago, and hasn’t been seen or heard from since. Silent partner, preferred
shares,controllinginterest—buthe’stheinvisibleman.Wetalktohimthrough
lawyerswhotalktolawyerswho,itisrumored,communicatebymeansofnotes
leftunderatombstoneinatinycemeteryonPitcairnIsland,androwinandout
inlongboatstogethisinstructions.”
The hyperbole was grating on Leon. Third day on the job, and the sun-
dappled,ozonatedpseuodoforestedenvironmentfeltasstaleasanoldgymbag
(therewas,infact,anoldgymbagunderhisdesk,waitingforthedayhefinally
pulledhimselfoffthejobintimetohitthecomplimentarygym).Brautiganwas
gratingonhimmorethanthehyperbole.
“I’mnotanasshole,Brautigan,sostoptreatingmelikeone.Youhiredmeto
doajob,butallI’mgettingfromyouisshitwork,sarcasm,andsecrecy.”The
alliterationcameoutwithouthisintendingitto,buthewasgoodatthatsortof
thing.“Sohere’swhatIwanttoknow:isthereanysinglesolitaryreasonforme
tocometoworktomorrow,orshouldIjustsitathome,drawingasalaryuntil
yougetboredofhavingmeonthepayrollandcanmyass?”
Itwasn’tentirelyspontaneous.Leon’sindustrialpsychologybackgroundwas
prettygood—he’dgottenstraightA’sandanofferofapost-doc,noneofwhich
had interested him nearly so much as the practical applications of the sweet
science of persuasion. He understood that Brautigan had been pushing him
aroundtoseehowfarhe’dpush.Noonepushedlikeanad-guy—ifyoucould
sweet-talksomeoneintocravingsomething,itfollowedthatyoucouldgoadhim
intohatingsomethingjustasmuch.Twofacesofacoinandallthat.
Brautiganfakedanger,butLeonhadspentthreedaysstudyinghistells,and
Leoncouldseethattheemotionwasnomoresincerethananythingelseabout
theman.Carefully,Leonflaredhisnostrils,broughthischestup,inchedhischin
higher. He sold his outrage, sold it like it was potato chips, over-the-counter
securities, or under-the-counter diet pills. Brautigan tried to sell his anger in
return.Leonwasano-sale.Brautiganbought.
“There’sanewone,”hesaid,inaconspiratorialwhisper.
“Anewwhat?”Leonwhispered.Theywerestillchesttochest,quiveringwith
angrybody-language,butLeonletanotherpartofhisminddealwiththat.
“Anewmonster,”Brautigansaid.“Gonetohisvatatamere103.Youngest
ever. Unplanned.” He looked up, down, left, right. “An accident. Impossible
accident.Impossible,buthehadit,whichmeans?”
“Itwasnoaccident,”Leonsaid.“Police?”Itwasimpossiblenottofallinto
Brautigan’stelegraphedspeech-style.Thatwasapersuasionthing,too,heknew.
Once you talked like him, you’d sympathize with him. And vice-versa, of
course.Theywereconvergingonasingleidentity.Bonding.Itwasintense,like
make-upsexforco-workers.
“He’s a sovereign three ways. An African republic, an island, one of those
littleBalticcountries.Ontheothersideoftheinternationalvowelline.Mxlplx
or something. They swung for him at the WTO, the UN—whole bodies of
internationaltradelawforthisone.Sonoregularcops;thisisdiplomaticcorps
stuff.And,ofcourse,he’snotdead,sothatmakesitmorecomplicated.”
“How?”
“Deadpeoplebecomecorporations.Theygetmanagedbyboardsofdirectors
who act predictably, if not rationally. Living people, they’re flamboyant.
Seismic.Unpredictable.But.Ontheotherhand.”Hewaggledhiseyebrows.
“Ontheotherhand,theybuythings.”
“Onceinaverylongwhile,theydo.”
***
Leon’slifewasallaboutdiscipline.He’dheardaweight-lossguruonceexplain
thatthekeytomaintainingaslimfigurewastoreally“listentoyourbody”and
onlyeatuntilitsignaledthatitwasfull.Leonhadlistenedtohisbody.Itwanted
threeentirepepperoniandmushroompizzaseverysingleday,plusaratherlarge
cake.And maltedmilkshakes, the old fashionedkind youcould makein your
kitchen with an antique Hamilton Beech machine in avocado-colored plastic,
served up in a tall red anodized aluminum cup. Leon’s body was extremely
verboseonwhatitwantedhimtoshovelintoit.
SoLeonignoredhisbody.Heignoredhismindwhenittoldhimthatwhatit
wanted to do was fall asleep on the sofa with the video following his eyes
aroundtheroom,oneofthoseshowsthatfollowedyourneuralactivityandtried
totunethedramatomaximizeyourengrossment.Instead,hemadehismindsit
upinbed,absorbingmanyimprovingbooksfromthemountainhe’dprintedout
andstackedthere.
Leonignoredhislimbicsystemwhenittoldhimtostayinbedforanextra
houreverymorningwhenhisalarmdetonated.Heignoredthefatiguemessages
hegotwhileheworkedthroughanhourofyogaandmeditationbeforebreakfast.
Hewoundhimselfuptightwithwillanditwaswillthatmadehimstoopto
pickupthelaundryonthestairswhilehewasheadedupandfolditneatlyaway
when he got to the spacious walk-in dressing room attached to the master
bedroom(theapartmenthadbeenagoodwaytoabsorbhisAtesigningbonus—
safer than keeping the money in cash, with the currency fluctuations and all.
Manhattan real estate was a century-long good buy and was more stable than
bonds,derivativesorfunds).Itwasdisciplinethatmadehimpayeverybillasit
camein.Itwasallthatwhichmadehimwasheverydishwhenhewasdonewith
it and assiduously stop at the grocer’s every night on the way home to buy
anythingthathadrunoutthepreviousday.
His parents came to visit from Anguilla and they teased him about how
organizedhewas,sounlikethefatlittleboywho’dbeenawardedthe“Hansel
and Gretel prize” by his sixth grade teacher for leaving a trail behind him
everywherehewent.
What they didn’t know was that he was still that kid, and every act of
conscientious,precise,buttoned-downfinickyhabitwas,infact,theproductof
relentless,irondeterminationnottobethatkidagain.Henotonlyignoredthat
innervoiceofhisthatcalledoutforpizzasandtoldhimtosleepin,takeacab
insteadofwalking,liedownandletthevideosoaranddipwithhismoods,a
drip-feed of null and nothing to while away the hours—he actively denied it,
shouteditintosubmission,lockeditupandneverletitfree.
And that—that—that was why he was going to figure out how to sell
somethingnewtothemaninthevat:becauseanyonewhocouldamassthatsort
of fortune and go down to life eternal in an ever-expanding kingdom of
machineswouldbethesortofpersonwhohadspentalifedenyinghimself,and
Leonknewjustwhatthatfeltlike.
***
TheLowerEastSidehadebbedandflowedovertheyears:poor,rich,middle-
class,super-rich,poor.Oneyearthebuildingswerefunkyandreminiscentofthe
romanticsqualorthathadprecededthiseraoflightspeedbuckchasing.Thenext
year, the buildings were merely squalorous, the landlords busted and the
receiversinbankruptcyslappinguppaper-thinwallstoconvertgiantairylofts
intoroominghouses.Thecornerstoressoldblunt-skinstotrustafarianhipsters
withabagofsomethinggengineered to disruptsomeextremelyspecificbrain
structures;thentheysold food-stampmilkto desperate motherswhowouldn’t
meettheireyes.Theshopkeepershadtheknackofsensingchangesinthewind
andadjustingtheirstockaccordingly.
Walking around his neighborhood, Leon sniffed change in the wind. The
shopkeepers seemed to have more discount, high-calorie wino-drink; less
designer low-carb energy food with FDA-mandated booklets explaining their
nutritional claims. A sprinkling of FOR RENT signs. A construction site that
hadn’thadanyoneworkingonitforaweeknow,thepadlockedforeman’sshed
growingamossycoatofgraffiti.
Leon didn’t mind. He’d lived rough—not just student-rough, either. His
parentshadgonetoAnguillafromRomania,chasingthetax-havenset,dreaming
ofmakingakillingworkingasbookkeepers,securityguards.They’dmistimed
thetrip,arrivedinthemiddleofaneconopocalytpiccollapseandendedupliving
inaverticalslumthathadoncebeenaluxuryhotel.ThesoleRomaniansamong
thesmuggledMexicanswhowerede-factoslaves,they’dtradedtheirabilityto
write desperate letters to the Mexican consulate for Spanish lessons for Leon.
The Mexicans dwindled away—the advantage of de-facto slaves over de-jure
slaves is that you can just send the de-facto slaves away when the economy
tanked,takingtheirfeedandcareoffyourbooks—untilitwasjustthemthere,
andwithoutthesafetyofthecrowd,they’dbeenspottedbylocalauthoritiesand
hadtogounderground.GoingbacktoBucharestwasoutofthequestion—the
airfarewasasfaroutofreachasoneoftheprivatejetsthetax-evadersandhigh-
rollinggamblersflewinandoutofWallblakeAirport.
Fromroughtorougher.Leon’sfamilyspentthreeyearsunderground,livingas
roadside hawkers, letting the sun bake them to an ethnically indeterminate
brown. A decade later, when his father had successfully built up his little
bookkeeping business and his mother was running a smart dress-shop for the
cruise-shipday-trippers, those daysseemed like a dream.But once he leftfor
statesideuniversityandfoundhimselfamidthesoft,richchildrenofthefortunes
hisfatherhadtabulated,itallcamebacktohim,andhewonderedifanyofthese
children in carefully disheveled rags would ever be able to pick through the
garbagefortheirmeals.
TheroughedgeontheLESputhimathisease,madehimfeellikehewasstill
aheadofthegame,inpossessionofsomethinghisneighborscouldneverhave—
the ability to move fluidly between the worlds of the rich and the poor.
Somewhereinthoseworlds,hewassure,wasthesecrettochippingacrumboff
oneofthegreatfortunesoftheworld.
***
“Visitorforyou,”Carmelasaid.Carmela,thatwasthereceptionist’sname.She
wasPuertoRican,butsomanygenerationsinthathespokebetterSpanishthan
shedid.“IputherintheLivingRoom.”Thatwasoneofthethreeboardrooms
inatAte;thenameabadpun,everystickoffurnitureinitanelaboratetopiary
sculptureoflivingwoodandshrubbery.Itwassurprisinglycomfortable,andthe
verysubtlebreezehadanevenmoresubtlebreathofhoneysucklethatwasso
realhesuspecteditwaspipedinfromanurseryonanotherlevel.That’showhe
wouldhavedoneit:thebestfakewasnofakeatall.
“Who?” He liked Carmela. She was all business, but her business was
compassion,ashouldertocryonandanabsolutelydiscreetgossiprepositoryfor
thewholefirm.
“Envoy,” she said. “Name’s Buhle. I ran his face and name against our
dossiers and came up with practically nothing. He’s from Montenegro,
originally,Ihavethatmuch.”
“Envoyfromwhom?”
Shedidn’tanswer,justlookedverymeaningfullyathim.
Thenewvat-personhadsenthimanenvoy.Hisheartbegantothumpandhis
cuffssuddenlyfelttightathiswrists.“Thanks,Carmela.”Heshothiscuffs.
“Youlookfine,”shesaid.“I’vegotthekitchenonstandby,andtheintercom’s
listeningformyvoice.JustletmeknowwhatIcandoforyou.”
He gave her a weak smile. This was why she was the center of the whole
business,thesoulofAte.Thankyou,hemouthed,andshetickedasmartsalute
offhertemplewithonefinger.
***
TheenvoywasoutofplaceinAte,butshedidn’tholditagainstthem.Thishe
knewwithinsecondsofsettingfootintotheLivingRoom.Shegotup,wipedher
handsonhersensiblejeans,brushedsomeiron-greyhairoffherface,andsmiled
athim,anexpressionthatseemedtosay,“Well,thisisafunnything,thetwoof
us,meetinghere,likethis.”He’dputherageataround40,andshewashippy
andalittlewrinkledanddidn’tseemtocareatall.
“YoumustbeLeon,”shesaid,andtookhishand.Shortfingernails,warm,dry,
palm,firmhandshake.“Ilovethisroom!”Shewavedherarmaroundinanall-
encompassingcircle.“Fantastic.”
Hefoundhimselfhalfinlovewithherandhehadn’tsaidaword.“It’sniceto
meetyou,Ms—”
“Ria,” she said. “Call me Ria.” She sat down on one of the topiary chairs,
kickingoffher comfortable hush puppiesand pullingher legs upto sitcross-
legged.
“I’venevergonebarefootinthisroom,”hesaid,lookingathercallousedfeet
—feetthatdidalotofbarefooting.
“Doit,”shesaid,makingscootinggestures.“Iinsist.Doit!”
Hekickedoffthehandmadeshoes—designedbyanarchitectwho’dgivenup
onliterarycriticismtopursuecobblery—andusedhistoestopeeloffhissocks.
Underhisfeet,thegroundwas—warm?cool?—itwasperfect.Hecouldn’tpin
downthetexture,butitmadeeverynerveendingonthesensitivesolesofhis
feettinglepleasantly.
“I’mthinkingsomethingthatgoesstraightintothenerves,”shesaid.“Ithasto
be.Extraordinary.”
“YouknowyourwayaroundthisplacebetterthanIdo,”hesaid.
Sheshrugged.“Thisroomwasclearlydesignedtoimpress.Itwouldbestupid
tobesocool-obsessedthatIfailedtoletitimpressme.I’mimpressed.Also,”
shedroppedhervoice,“also,I’mwonderingifanyone’seversnuckinhereand
screwedonthatstuff.”Shelookedseriouslyathimandhetriedtokeepastraight
face,but thechuckle wouldn’tstay put in his chest,and itbroke loose, and a
laugh followed it, and she whooped and they both laughed, hard, until their
stomachshurt.
Hemovedtowardanothertopiaryeasy-chair,thenstopped,bentdown,andsat
onthemossyfloor,lettingitbrushagainsthisfeet,hisankles,thepalmsofhis
handsandhiswrists.“Ifnooneeverhas,it’sadamnedshame,”hesaid,with
mockgravity.Shesmiled,andshehaddimplesandwrinklesandcrowsfeet,so
herwholefacesmiled.“Doyouwantsomethingtoeat?Drink?Wecangetpretty
muchanythinghere—”
“Let’sgettoit,”shesaid.“Idon’twanttoberude,butthegoodpartisn’tthe
food. I get all the food I need. I’m here for something else. The good part,
Leon.”
Hedrewinadeepbreath.“Thegoodpart,”hesaid.“OK,let’sgettoit.Iwant
tomeetyour—”What?Employer?Patron?Owner?Hewavedhishand.
“YoucancallhimBuhle,”shesaid.“That’sthenameoftheparentcompany,
anyway. Of course you do. We have an entire corporate intelligence arm that
knewyou’dwanttomeetwithBuhlebeforeyoudid.”Leonhadalwaysassumed
thathisworkspacesandcommunicationsweremonitoredbyhisemployer,but
nowitoccurredtohimthatanysystemdesignedfromthegrounduptosubject
itsuserstoscrutinywithouttheirknowledgewouldbeabonanzaforanyoneelse
whowantedtosniffthem,sincetheycouldusethesystem’sowncapabilitiesto
hidetheirsnoopingfromthevictims.
“That’simpressive,”hesaid.“Doyoumonitoreveryonewhomightwantto
pitchsomethingtoBuhle,or—”Heletthethoughthangoutthere.
“Oh,alittleofthisandalittleofthat.We’vegotacompetitiveintelligence
subdepartmentthatmonitorseveryonewhomightwanttosellussomethingor
sell something that might compete with us. It comes out to a pretty wide net.
AddtothatthepeoplewhomightpersonallybeathreatoropportunityforBuhle
andyou’vegot,well,let’ssayanappreciablesliceofhumanactivityunderclose
observation.”
“Howclosecanitbe?Soundslikeyou’vegotsomebighaystacks.”
“We’regoodatfindingtheneedles,”shesaid.“Butwe’realwayslookingfor
newwaystofindthem.That’ssomethingyoucouldsellus,youknow.”
Heshrugged. “If we had abetter way of finding relevancein mountainsof
data,we’dbeusingitourselvestofigureoutwhattosellyou.”
“Goodpoint.Let’sturnthisaround.WhyshouldBuhlemeetwithyou?”
Hewasreadyforthisone.“Wehaveatrack-recordofdesigningproductsthat
suit people in his…” Talking about the vat-born lent itself to elliptical
statements.Maybethat’swhyBrautiganhaddevelopedthatannoyingtelegraph-
talk.
“You’vedesignedonesuchproduct,”shesaid.
“That’sonemorethanalmostanyoneelsecanclaim.”Thereweretwoother
firms like Ate. He thought of them in his head as Sefen and Nein, as though
invokingtheirrealnamesmightcausethemtoappear.“I’mnewhere,butI’m
notalone.We’retied inwithsomeof thefinestdesigners, engineers,research
scientists…”Againwiththeellipsis.“Youwantedtogettothegoodpart.This
isn’tthegoodpart,Ria.You’vegotsmartpeople.We’vegotsmartpeople.What
wehave,whatyoudon’thave,issmartpeoplewhoareimpedance-mismatched
to your organization. Every organization has quirks that make it unsuited to
workingwithsomegoodpeopleandgoodideas.You’vegotyourno-goareas,
justlikeanyoneelse.We’regoodatminingthatspace,theno-gospace,themote
inyoureye,forthingsthatyouneed.”
She nodded and slapped her hands together like someone about to start a
carpentryproject.“That’sagreatspiel,”shesaid.
Hefeltalittleblushcreepintohischeeks.“Ithinkaboutthisalot,rehearseit
inmyhead.”
“That’sgood,”shesaid.“Showsyou’reintherightlineofbusiness.Areyoua
DaffyDuckman?”
Hecockedhishead.“MoreofaBugsman,”hesaid,finally,wonderingwhere
thiswasgoing.
“Godownloadacartooncalled‘TheStuporSalesman,’andgetbacktome,
OK?”
Shestoodup,wrigglinghertoesonthemossysurfaceandthensteppingback
intohershoes.Hescrambledtohisfeet,wipinghispalmsonhislegs.Shemust
have seen the expression on his face because she made all those dimples and
wrinklesandcrowsfeetappearagainandtookhishandwarmly.“Youdidvery
well,”shesaid.“We’lltalkagainsoon.”Sheletgoofhishandandkneltdownto
rubherhandsoverthefloor.“Inthemeantime,you’vegotaprettysweetgig,
don’tyou?”
***
TheStuporSalesmanturnedouttofeatureDaffyDuckasatravelingsalesman
bent on selling something to a bank robber who is holed up in a suburban
bungalow. Daffy produces a stream of ever-more-improbable wares, and is
violently rebuffed with each attempt. Finally, one of his attempts manages to
blowuptherobber’shideout,justasDaffyisonceagainjigglingthedoorknob.
AstherobberandDaffyflythroughtheair,Daffybrandishesthedoorknobat
himandshouts,“Hey,bub,Iknowjustwhatyouneed!Youneedahousetogo
withthisdoorknob!”
Thefirsttimehewatchedit,Leonsnortedatthepunchline,butonsubsequent
viewings,hefoundhimselflessandlessamused.Yes,hewasindeedtryingto
come up with a need that this Buhle didn’t know he had—he was assuming
Buhlewasahe,butnoonewassure—andthenfillit.FromBuhle’sperspective,
lifewouldbejustfineifLeongaveupandneverbotheredhimagain.
AndyetRiahadbeensonice—sounderstandingandgentle,hethoughtthere
mustbesomethingelsetothis.Andshehadmadeapointoftellinghimthathe
hada“sweetgig”andhehadtoadmitthatitwastrue.Hewascontractedforfive
yearswithAte,andwouldgetaheftybonusiftheycannedhimbeforethen.Ifhe
managed to score a sale to Buhle or one of the others, he’d be indescribably
wealthy.Inthemeantime,Atetookcareofhiseveryneed.
Butitwassoemptythere—that’swhatgothim.Therewereahundredpeople
onAte’sproductionteam,brightsortslikehim,andmostofthemonlyusedthe
officetoparkafewknick-knacksandimpressout-of-townrelatives.Atehired
thebest,chargedthemwiththeimpossibleandturnedthemloose.Theygotlost.
Carmelaknewthemall,ofcourse.ShewasAte’sden-mother.
“Weshouldallgettogether,”hesaid.“Maybeaweeklystaffmeeting?”
“Oh,theytriedthat,”shesaid,sippingfromthetriple-filteredwaterthatwas
alwaysatherelbow.“Noonehadmuchtosay.Thecollaborationspacesupdate
themselves with all the interesting leads from everyone’s research, and the
suggestionengineisprettygoodatmakingsureyougetanoverviewofanything
relevant to your work going on.” She shrugged. “This place is a show-room,
morethananythingelse.Ialwaysfiguredyouhadtogivecreativepeopleroom
tobecreative.”
Hemulledthisover.“Howlongdoyoufigurethey’llkeepthisplaceopenifit
doesn’tsellanythingtooneofthevatpeople?”
“Itrynottothinkaboutthattoomuch,”shesaidlightly.“Ifigureeitherwe
don’t find something, run out of time and shut—and there’s nothing I can do
aboutit;orwefindsomethingintimeandstayopen—andthere’snothingIcan
doaboutit.”
“That’sdepressing.”
“Ithinkofitasliberating.It’slikethatladysaid,Leon,you’vegotasweet
gig.Youcanmakeanythingyoucanimagine,andifyouhitoneoutofthepark,
you’llattainorbitandneverreentertheatmosphere.”
“Dotheotheraccountexecscomearoundforpeptalks?”
“Everyoneneedsalittlehelpnowandthen,”shesaid.
***
Ria met him for lunch at a supper-club in the living room of an 11th floor
apartmentinaslightly run-downex-doormanbuildingin midtown.Thecooks
were a middle-aged couple, he was Thai, she was Hungarian, the food was
eclectic,light,andspicy,blendingpaprikaandchilisinanose-wateringcocktail.
Therewereonlytwootherdinersinthetinyroomfortheearlyseating.They
wereanothercouple,twoyounggaymen,touristsfromtheNetherlands,wearing
crease-proof sportsjackets and barely-there barefoot hiking shoes. They spoke
excellentEnglish,andchattedpolitelyaboutthesightsthey’dseensofarinNew
York,beforefallingintoDutchandleavingRiaandLeontoconcentrateoneach
otherand thefood, which emergedfrom the kitchen in aseries of ever-more-
wonderfulcourses.
Over fluffy, caramelized fried bananas and Thai iced coffee, Ria effusively
praisedthefoodtotheirhosts,thenwaitedpolitelywhileLeondidthesame.The
hostsweregenuinelydelightedtohavefedthemsosuccessfully,andwereonly
too happy to talk about their recipes, their grown children, the other diners
they’dentertainedovertheyears.
Outside, standing on 34th street between Lex and Third, a cool summer
eveningbreezeandpurplesummertwilightskies,Leonpattedhisstomachand
closedhiseyesandgroaned.
“Atetoomuch,didn’tyou?”shesaid.
“Itwaslikeeatingmymother’scooking—shejustkeptputtingmoreonthe
plate.Icouldn’thelpit.”
“Didyouenjoyit?”
He opened his eyes. “You’re kidding, right? That was probably the most
incrediblemealI’veeateninmyentirelife.Itwaslikeaparalleldimensionof
goodfood.”
Shenodded vigorously and tookhis arm in afriendly, intimate gesture, led
himtowardLexington.“Younoticehowtimesortofstopswhenyou’rethere?
Howthepartofyourbrainthat’sgoing‘whatnext?whatnext?’goesquiet?”
“That’sit!That’sexactlyit!”ThebuzzofthejetpacksonLexgrewlouderas
theynearedthecorner,likeathousandcricketsinthesky.
“Hatethosethings,”shesaid,glaringupatthejoyriderszippingpast,scarves
and capes streaming out behind them. “A thousand crashes upon your souls.”
Shespat,theatrically.
“Youmakethem,though,don’tyou?”
Shelaughed.“You’vebeenreadinguponBuhlethen?”
“EverythingIcanfind.”He’dboughtsmallblocksofsharesinallthepublic
companies in which Buhle was a substantial owner, charging them to Ate’s
brokerageaccount,andthendevouredtheirannualreports.Therewaslotsmore
he could feel in the shadows: blind trusts holding more shares in still more
companies.Itwasthestandardcorporatestructure,aFlyingSpaghettiMonster
of interlocking directorships, offshore holdings, debt parking lots, and exotic
matrioshkecompaniesthatseemedonthevergeofdevouringthemselves.
“Oy,”shesaid.“Poorboy.Thosearen’tmeanttobeparsed.They’relikethe
bramblepatcharoundthesleepingprincess,theretoensnarefoolhardyknights
who wish to court the virgin in the tower. Yes, Buhle’s the largest jetpack
manufacturer in the world, through a layer or two of misdirection.” She
inspected the uptownbound horde, sculling the air with their fins and gloves,
making course corrections and wibbles and wobbles that were sheer, joyful
exhibitionism.
“Hediditforme,”shesaid.“Haveyounoticedthatthey’vegottenbetterin
thepast coupleyears? Quieter?That wasus. We put a lotof thoughtinto the
campaign; the chop-shops have been selling ‘loud pipes save lives’ since the
motorcycledays,andeverytiny-dickflyboywantedtohaveapackthatwasas
loudasabulldozer.Ittookalotofmarketsmartstoturnitaround;wehad a
low-endmodelweweresellingwaybelowcostthatwasclosetothoseloud-pipe
machinesindecibelcount;itwasuglyandjunkyandfellapart.Naturally,we
solditthroughadifferentarmofthecompanythathadtotallydifferentlivery,
identityandeverything.Thenwestartedtocutintoourmarginsonthehigh-end
rides,andatthesametime,weengineeredthemforaquieterandquieterrun.We
actually did some preproduction on a jetpack that was so quiet it actually
absorbednoise,don’taskme toexplainit, unlessyou’ve got aday ortwo to
wasteonthepsycho-acoustics.
“Every swish bourgeois was competing to see whose jetpack could run
quieter,whilethelow-endwasbusilyswitchingloyaltytoourloudjunkmobiles.
The competition went out of business in a year, and then we dummied-up a
bunchofconsumer-protectionlawsuitsthat‘forced’”—shedrewair-quotes—“us
to recall the loud ones, rebuild them with pipes so engineered and tuned you
couldusethemforthewoodwindssection.Andhereweare.”Shegesturedatthe
buzzing,whooshingfliersoverhead.
Leon tried to figure out if she was kidding, but she looked and sounded
serious.“You’retellingmethatBuhledropped,what,abillion?”
“Abouteightbillion,intheend.”
“Eightbillionrupiahonaprojecttomaketheskiesquieter?”
“All told,” she said. “We could have done it other ways, some of them
cheaper.Wecouldhaveboughtsomelaws,orboughtoutthecompetitionand
changed their product line, but that’s very, you know, blunt. This was sweet.
Everyone got what they wanted in the end: fast rides, quiet skies, safe, cheap
vehicles.Winwinwin.”
An old school flyer with a jetpack as loud as the inside of an ice-blender
roaredpast,leavingthousandsscowlinginhiswake.
“That guy is plenty dedicated,” she said. “He’ll be machining his own
replacementpartsforthatthing.Noone’smakingthemanymore.”
Hetriedajoke:“You’renotgoingtosendtheBuhleninjastooffhimbefore
hehitsUnionSquare?”
She didn’t smile. “We don’t use assassination,” she said. “That’s what I’m
tryingtoconveytoyou,Leon.”
He crumbled. He’d blown it somehow, shown himself to be the boor he’d
alwaysfearedhewas.
“I’msorry,”hesaid.“Iguess—look,it’sallkindofhardtotakein.Thesums
arestaggering.”
“They’re meaningless,” she said. “That’s the point. The sums are just a
convenientwayofdirectingpower.Poweriswhatmatters.”
“Idon’tmeantooffendyou,”hesaidcarefully,“butthat’sascarysounding
thingtosay.”
“Nowyou’regettingit,”shesaid,andtookhisarmagain.“Drinks?”
***
The limes for the daquiris came from the trees around them on the rooftop
conservatory. The trees were healthy working beasts, and the barman expertly
inspectedseverallimesbeforedeftlytwistingoffabasket’sworthandretreating
tohisworkbenchtojuicethemoverhisblender.
“Youhavetobeamembertodrinkhere,”Riasaid,astheysatontheroof,
watchingthejetpacksscudpast.
“I’mnotsurprised,”hesaid.“Itmustbeexpensive.”
“Youcan’tbuyyourwayin,”shesaid.“Youhavetoworkitoff.It’saco-op.I
plantedthiswholerowoftrees.”Shewavedherarm,sloshingalittledaquirion
theoddturftheirloungersrestedon.“Iplantedthemintgardenoverthere.”It
wasabeautifullittlepatch,decoratedwithrocksandfavoredwithasmallstream
thatwendeditswaythroughthem.
“Forgivemeforsayingthis,”hesaid,“butyoumustearnalotofmoney.A
lot, I’m thinking.” She nodded, unembarrassed, even waggled her eyebrows a
bit.“Soyoucould,Idon’tknow,youcouldprobablybuildoneoftheseonany
ofthebuildingsthatBuhleownsinManhattan.Justlikethis.Evenkeepalittle
staff on board. Give out memberships as perks for your senior management
team.”
“That’sright,”shesaid.“Icould.”
Hedrankhisdaquiri.“I’msupposedtofigureoutwhyyoudon’t,right?”
Shenodded.“Indeed.”Shedrank.Herfacesuffusedwithpleasure.Hetooka
momenttopayattentiontothesignalshistonguewastransmittingtohim.The
drinkwasincredible.Eventheglasswasbeautiful,thick,handblown,irregular.
“Listen,Leon,I’llletyouinonasecret.Iwantyoutosucceed.There’snotmuch
thatsurprisesBuhleandevenlessthatpleasantlysurpriseshim.Ifyouwereto
manageit…”Shetook anothersipand lookedintenselyathim. Hesquirmed.
Had he thought her matronly and sweet? She looked like she could lead a
guerillaforce.Likeshecouldwrestleamuggertothegroundandkicktheshit
outofhim.
“Soasuccessformewouldbeasuccessforyou?”
“YouthinkI’maftermoney,”shesaid.“You’restillnotgettingit.Thinkabout
thejetpacks,Leon.Thinkaboutwhatthatpowermeans.”
***
Hemeanttogohome,buthedidn’tmakeit.Hisfeettookhimcrosstowntothe
Ate offices, and he let himself in with his biometrics and his passphrase and
watchedthemarvelousdappledlightsgothroughtheirwarm-upcycleandthen
bathehimwiththeirwonderful,calminglight.Thenthebreeze,andnowitwasa
nighttimeforest,mossierandheavierthanintheday.Eithersomeonehadreally
gone balls-out on the product design, or there really was an indoor forest
somewhereinthebuildinggrowingunderdiurnallights,theresolelytosupply
soothingwoodsyairtotheagency’soffice.Hedecidedthattheforestwasthe
morelikelyexplanation.
HestoodatCarmela’sdeskforalongtime,then,gingerly,settledhimselfin
herchair.Itwasplainandfirmandwellmade,withjustalittlespring.Herfunny
littlesculpturalkeyboardhadkeycapsthathadwornsmoothunderherfingertips
overtheyears,andtherewereshinyspotsonthedeskwhereherwristshadworn
away the granite. He cradled his face in his palms, breathing in the nighttime
forestair,andtriedtomakesenseofthenight.
TheLivingRoomwasnighttimedark,butitstillfeltgloriousonhisbarefeet,
andthen,amomentlater,onhisbarechestandlegs.Helayonhisstomachinhis
underwearandtriedtonamethesensationonhisnerveendingsanddecidedthat
“anticipation”wasthebestwordforit,thefeelingyougetjustbesidetheskin
that’s being scratched on your back, the skin that’s next in line for a good
scratching.Itwasglorious.
Howmanypeopleintheworldwouldeverknowwhatthisfeltlike?Atehad
licenseditouttoafewselectboutiquehotels—he’dcheckedintoitaftertalking
with Ria the first time—but that was it. All told, there were less than 3,000
peopleintheworldwho’deverfeltthisremarkablefeeling.Outofeightbillion.
He tried to do the division in his head but kept losing the zeroes. It was a
thousandth of a percent? A ten thousandth of a percent? No one on Anguilla
wouldeverfeelit:nottheworkersintheverticalslums,butalsonotthemere
millionairesinthegrandhouseswiththeirtimesharejets.
Somethingaboutthat…
HewishedhecouldtalktoRiasomemore.Shescaredhim,butshealsomade
himfeelgood.Likeshewastheguidehe’dbeensearchingforallhislife.Atthis
point,hewouldhavesettledforBrautigan.Anyonewhocouldhelphimmake
senseofwhatfeltlikethebiggest,scariestopportunityofhisentirecareer.
He must have dozed, because the next thing he knew, the lights were
flickeringonandhewasmostlynaked,onthefloor,staringupintoBrautigan’s
face.Hehadalookofforcedjollity,andhesnappedhisfingersafewtimesin
frontofLeon’sface.
“Morning,sunshine!”
Leonlookedfortheghostlyclockthatshimmeredinthecornerofeachwall,a
slightly darker patch of reactive paint that was just outside of conscious
comprehensionunlessyoureallystaredatit.4:12AM.Hestifledagroan.
“Whatareyoudoinghere?”hesaid,peeringatBrautigan.
Themanclackedhishorseyteeth,assayedachuckle.“Earlybird.Worm.”
Leonsatup,foundhisshirt,startedbuttoningitup.“Seriously,Brautigan.”
“Seriously?”HesatdownonthefloornexttoLeon,hisbigfeetstraightout
aheadofhim.HisshoeshadbeendesignedbythesamearchitectthatdidLeon’s.
Leon recognized the style. “Seriously.” He scratched his chin. Suddenly, he
slumped.“I’mshittingbricks,Leon.Iamseriouslyshittingbricks.”
“Howdiditgowithyourmonster?”
Brautiganstaredatthearchitect’sshoes.Therewasanoddflaretheydid,just
behind the toe, just on the way to the laces, that was really graceful. Leon
thought it might be a standard distribution bell-curve. “My monster is…” He
blewoutair.“Uncooperative.”
“Lesscooperativethanpreviously?”
Brautiganunlacedhisshoesandpeeledoffhissocks,scrunchedhistoesinthe
moss.Hisfeetgaveoffahot,trappedsmell.
“Whatwashelikeontheothertimesyou’dseenhim?”
Brautigantiltedhishead.“Whatdoyoumean?”
“Hewasuncooperativethistime,whatabouttheothertimes?”
Brautiganlookedbackdownathistoes.
“You’dneverseenhimbeforethis?”
“Itwasarisk,”hesaid.“IthoughtIcouldconvincehim,face-to-face.”
“But?”
“I bombed. It was—it was the—it was everything. The compound. The
people.Allofit.Itwaslikeacity,athemepark.Theylivedthere,hundredsof
them,andmanagedeverytinypieceofhisempire.LikeRoyalUrchins.”
Leonpuzzledoverthis.“Eunuchs?”
“RoyalEunuchs.Theyhadthiswholeculture,andasIgotcloserandcloserto
him,Irealized,shit,theycouldjustbuyAte.Theycoulddestroyus.Theycould
haveusmadeillegal,putusallinjail.Orgetmeelectedpresident.Anything.”
“Youwereoverawed.”
“That’s the right word. It wasn’t a castle or anything, either. It was just a
place,awell-builtcollectionofbuildings.InWestchester,youknow?Ithadbeen
alittletowncenteronce.They’dpreservedeverythinggood,builtmoreontopof
it.Italljust…worked.You’restillnewhere.Haven’tnoticed.”
“What? That Ate is a disaster? I figured that out a long time ago. There’s
severaldozenhighlypaidcreativegeniusesonthepayrollherewhohaven’tseen
their desks in months. We could be a creative powerhouse. We’re more like
someone’svanityproject.”
“Brutal.”
Hewonderedifhe’doversteppedhimself.Whocared?
“Brutaldoesn’tmeanuntrue.It’slike,it’slikethemoneythatcameintothis
place,itbecameautonomous,turnedintoastrategyformultiplyingitself.Abad
strategy.Themoneywantstosellsomethingtoamonster,butthemoneydoesn’t
knowwhatmonsterswant,soit’sjust,what,beatingitsbrainsoutonthewall.
Oneday,themoneyrunsoutand…”
“Themoneywon’trunout,”Brautigansaid.“Wrong.We’dhavetospendat
ten-exwhatwe’reburningnowtoevenapproachtheprincipal.”
“OK,”Leonsaid.“Soit’simmortal.That’sbetter?”
Brautiganwinced.“Look,it’snotsocrazy.There’sanentireunservedmarket
out there. No one’s serving it. They’re like, you know, like Communist
countries. Planned economies. They need something, they just acquire the
capacity.Nomarket.”
“Hey, bub, I know just what you need! You need a house to go with this
doorknob!”Tohisownsurprise,LeondiscoveredthathedidapassableDaffy
Duck.Brautiganblinkedathim.Leonrealizedthatthemanwasalittledrunk.
“JustsomethingIheardtheotherday,”hesaid.“Itoldtheladyfrommymonster
that we could provide the stuff that their corporate culture precluded. I was
thinkingofyouknow,howthesamuraibannedfirearms.Wecanthinkanddo
theunthinkableandundo-able.”
“Goodline.”Hefloppedontohisback.Aninchofpalebellypeekedbetween
the top of his three-quarter-length culottes and the lower hem of his smart
wraparound shirt. “The monster in the vat. Some skin, some meat. Tubes.
Pinchesofskinclampedbetweenclearhardplasticsquares,bathedinsomekind
ofdiagnosticlight.Noeyes,notopoftheheadwheretheeyesshouldbe.Justa
smooth mask. Eyes everywhere else. Ceiling. Floor. Walls. I looked away,
couldn’tmakecontactwiththem,foundIwaslookingatsomethingwet.Liver.I
think.”
“Yeesh.That’simmortality,huh?”
“I’mthere,‘Apleasuretomeetyou,anhonor,’talkingtotheliver.Theeyes
never blinked. The monster gave a speech. ‘You’re a low-capital, high-risk,
high-payofflongshotMr.Brautigan.Icankeepdribblingsumstoyousothatyou
cangobacktoyourwonderfactoryandtrytocomeupwithwaystosurpriseme.
Sothere’snoneed to worryonthatscore.’ Andthatwasit. Couldn’tthinkof
anything to say. Didn’t have time. Gone in a flash. Out the door. Limo. Nice
babu to tell me how good it had been for the monster, how much he’d been
lookingforwardtoit.”Hestruggledupontohiselbows.“Howaboutyou?”
Leon didn’t want to talk about Ria with Brautigan. He shrugged. Brautigan
gotamean,stunglookonhisface.“Don’tbelikethat.Bro.Dude.Pal.”
Leon shrugged again. Thing was, he liked Ria. Talking about her with
Brautiganwouldbetreatingherlikea…asales-target.Ifheweretalkingwith
Carmela,he’ssay,“Ifeellikeshewantsmetosucceed.Likeitwouldbeahuge
dealforeveryoneifImanagedit.ButIalsofeellikemaybeshedoesn’tthinkI
can.”ButtoBrautigan,hemerelyshrugged,ignoredthelizardyslit-eyedglare,
stood,pulledonhispants,andwenttohisdesk.
***
IfyousatatyourdesklongenoughatAte,you’deventuallymeeteveryonewho
workedthere.Carmelaknewall,toldall,andassuredhimthateveryonetouched
base at least once a month. Some came in a couple times a week. They had
plantsontheirdesksandlikedtopersonallyseetotheirwatering.
Leontookeverysingleoneofthemtolunch.Itwasn’teasy—inonecase,he
had to ask Carmela to send an Ate chauffeur to pick up the man’s kids from
school (it was a half-day) and bring them to the sitter’s, just to clear the
schedule. But the lunches themselves went very well. It turned out that the
peopleatAtewere,toaone,incrediblyinteresting.Oh,theywereallmonsters,
narcissistic, tantrum-prone geniuses, but once you got past that, you found
yourselftalkingtopeoplewhowere,atbottom,damnedsmart,withawholelot
goingon.HemetthewomanwhodesignedthemossintheLivingRoom.She
was younger than him, and had been catapulted from a mediocre academic
adventure at the Cooper Union into more wealth and freedom than she knew
whattodowith.Shehadawholerolodexofpeoplewhowantedtosublicense
thestuff,andshespentherdaystoyingwiththem,seeingiftheyhadanycool
ideasshecouldincorporateintohernextpitchtooneoftheluckyfewwhohad
theearofamonster.
LikeLeon.That’swhytheyallmetwithhim.He’dunwittinglysteppedinto
oneoftheagency’stopspots,thankstoRia,oneofthepower-brokerseatsthat
everyoneelseyearnedtofill.Thefactthathehadnoideahowhe’dgotthereor
what to do with it didn’t surprise anyone. To a one, his colleagues at Ate
regarded everything to do with the vat monsters as an absolute, unknowable
crapshoot,aspredictableasameteorstrike.
Nowondertheyallstayedawayfromtheoffice.
***
Ria met him in a different pair of jeans, these ones worn and patched at the
knees.Shehadonaloose,flowingsilkshirtthatwasfrayedaroundtheseams,
andhadtiedherhairbackwithakerchiefthathadfadedtoanon-colorthatwas
liketheancientNewYorksidewalkoutsideAte’soffice.Hefeltthecalluseson
herhandwhentheyshook.
“Youlooklikeyou’rereadytodosomegardening,”hesaid.
“Myshiftattheclub,”shesaid.“I’llbetrimmingthelimetreesandtending
themintpatchandthecucumberframesallafternoon.”Shesmiledandstopped
him with a gesture. She bent down and plucked a blade of greenery from the
untidytrail-edge.TheywereinCentralPark,inoneoftheplaceswhereitfelt
likeaprimevalforestinsteadofanartfulgardenrazedandbuiltinthemiddleof
the city. She uncapped her water bottle and poured water over the herb—it
looked like a blade of grass—rubbing it between her forefinger and thumb to
scrubatit.Thenshetoreitintwoandhandedhimonepiece,heldtheotherto
hernose,thenateit,nibblingandmakinghernosewrinklelikearabbit’s.He
followedsuit.Lemon,delicious,andtangy.
“Lemon grass,” she said. “Terrible weed, of course. But doesn’t it taste
amazing?”
Henodded.Theflavorlingeredinhismouth.
“Especiallywhenyouconsiderwhatthisismadeof—smoggyrain,dogpiss,
chokedupair,sunshine,andDNA.Whataweirdflavortoemergefromsucha
strangesoup,don’tyouthink?”
Thethoughtmadetheflavoralittlelessdelicious.Hesaidso.
“Ilovetheidea,”shesaid.“Makinggreatthingsfromgarbage.”
“Aboutthejetpacks,”hesaid,forhe’dbeenthinking.
“Yes?”
“Areyouutopiansofsomekind?Makingabetterworld?”
“By‘you,’youmean‘peoplewhoworkforBuhle?’”
Heshrugged.
“I’mabitofautopian,I’lladmit.Butthat’snotit.YouknowHenryFordset
up these work-camps in Brazil, ‘Fordlandia,’ and enforced a strict code of
conduct on the rubber plantation workers? He outlawed the caprihina and
replaceditwithTomCollinses,becausetheyweremorecivilized.”
“Andyou’resayingBuhlewouldn’tdothat?”
She waggled her head from side to side, thinking it over. “Probably not.
Maybe,ifIasked.”Shecoveredhermouthasthoughshe’dmadeanindiscreet
admission.
“Are—were—youandhe…?”
She laughed. “Never. It’s purely cerebral. Do you know where his money
camefrom?”
Hegaveheralook.
“OK, of course you do. But if all you’ve read is the official history, you’ll
thinkhewasjustafinanceguywhomadesomegoodbets.It’snothinglikeit.
He played a game against the market, tinkered with the confidence of other
tradersby taking crazy positions, all bluff,exceptwhen they weren’t.Noone
couldoutsmarthim.Hecouldconvinceyouthatyouwereabouttomissouton
thedealofthecentury,orthatyou’dalreadymissedit,orthatyouwereaboutto
walkoffontoeasystreet.Sometimes,heconvincedyouofsomethingthatwas
real.Moreoften,itwaspurebluff,whichyou’donlyfindoutafteryou’ddone
some trade with him that left him with more money than you’d see in your
whole life, and you facepalming and cursing yourself for a sucker. When he
starteddoingittonationalbanks,putarunonthedollar,broketheFed,well,
that’swhenweallknewthathewassomeonewhowasspecial,someone who
could create signals that went right to your hindbrain without any critical
interpretation.”
“Scary.”
“Ohyes.Very.Inanothererathey’dhaveburnedhimforawitchormadehim
themanwhocutoutyourheartwiththeobsidianknife.Buthere’sthething:he
couldnever,everkidme.Notonce.”
“Andyou’realivetotellthetale?”
“Oh, he likes it. His reality distortion field, it screws with his internal
landscape.Makesithardforhimtofigureoutwhatheneeds,whathewants,and
whatwillmakehimmiserable.I’mindispensable.”
Hehadasudden,terriblethought.Hedidn’tsayanything,butshemusthave
seenitonhisface.
“Whatisit?Tellme.”
“HowdoIknowthatyou’reonthelevelaboutanyofthis?Maybeyou’rejust
jerking me around. Maybe it’s all made up—the jetpacks, everything.” He
swallowed.“I’msorry.Idon’tknowwherethatcamefrom,butitpoppedinto
myhead—”
“It’safairquestion.Here’sonethat’llblowyourmind,though:howdoyou
knowthatI’mnotonthelevel,andjerkingyouaround?”
Theychangedthesubjectsoonafter,withuneasylaughter.Theyendedupon
aparkbenchnearthefamilyofdancingbears,whomtheywatchedavidly.
“They seem so happy,” he said. “That’s what gets me about them. Like
dancing was the secret passion of every bear, and these three are the first to
figureouthowtomakealifeofit.”
She didn’t say anything, but watched the three giants lumber in a graceful,
unmistakablyjoyouskindofshuffle.Themusic—constantlymutatedbasedon
theintensityofthebears,apieceofsoftwarethatsoughttirelesslytopleasethem
—was jangly and pop-like, with a staccato one-two/onetwothreefourfive/one-
tworhythmthatletthebearsdosomethinglikeadrunkenstaggerthatwasasfun
towatchasaboxofpuppies.
Hefeltthesilence.“Sohappy,”hesaidagain.“That’stheweirdpart.Notlike
seeing an elephant perform. You watch those old videos and they seem, you
know,theyseem—”
“Resigned,”shesaid.
“Yeah.Notunhappy,butaboutasthrilledtobebalancingonaballasahorse
mightbetobehitchedtoaplough.Butlookatthosebears!”
“Noticethatnooneelsewatchesthemforlong?”shesaid.
Hehadnoticedthat.Thebencheswereallemptyaroundthem.
“Ithinkit’sbecausethey’resohappy,”shesaid.“Itlaysthetrickbare.”She
showedteethatthepun,thenputthemaway.“WhatImeanis,youcanseehow
it’spossibletodesignabearthatexperiencesbrainrewardfromrhythm,keepit
well-fed, supply it with as many rockin’ tunes as it can eat, and you get that
happy family of dancing bears who’ll peacefully co-exist alongside humans
who’regoingtowork,carryingtheirgroceries,pushingtheirtoddlersaroundin
strollers,neckingonbenches—”
Thebearswererestingnow,lollingontheirbacks,happytonguessloppyin
thecornersoftheirmouths.
“Wemadethem,”shesaid.“Itwasagainstmyadvice,too.There’snotmuch
subtletyinit.Asapieceofsocialcommentary,it’sacartoonsledgehammerwith
anoversizedhead.ButtheartisthadBuhle’sear,he’dbeenCEOofoneofthe
portfoliocompaniesandhadbeeninterestedingenomicartasasidelineforhis
wholecareer.Buhlesawthatfundingthisthingwouldprobablyspinofflotsof
interestingsublicenses,whichitdid.Butjustlookatit.”
Helooked.“They’resohappy,”hesaid.
Shelookedtoo.“Bearsshouldn’tbethathappy,”shesaid.
***
Carmelagreetedhimsunnilyasever,buttherewassomethingodd.
“Whatisit?”heaskedinSpanish.HemadeahabitoftalkingSpanishtoher,
becausebothofthemweregettingrusty,andalsoitwaslikealittlesharedsecret
betweenthem.
Sheshookherhead.
“Iseverythingallright?”Meaning,Arewebeingshutdown?Itcouldhappen,
mighthappenatanytime,withnonotice.Thatwassomethinghe—allofthem—
understood.Themoneythatpoweredthemwasautonomousandunknowable,an
alienforcethatwasmoreemergentpropertythanwill.
Sheshookherheadagain.“It’snotmyplacetosay,”shesaid.Whichmade
himevenmoresurethattheywereallgoingdown,forwhenhadCarmelaever
saidanythingaboutherplace?
“Nowyou’vegotmeworried,”hesaid.
Shecockedherheadbacktowardthebackoffice.Henoticedthattherewere
threecoatshungonthebeautiful,anachronisticcoat-standbytheancienttemple
doorthatdividedreceptionfromtherestofAte.
Helethimselfinandwalkeddowntheglassed-indouble-rowsofoffices,the
cubiclesinthemiddle,allwiththeircharacteristicspotlesshush,likearestaurant
diningroomsetupforthemealsthatpeoplewouldcometolater.
Helooked inthe LivingRoom, but there was noone there,so he began to
check out the other conference rooms, which ran the gamut from super-
conservativetouttermadness.HefoundthemintheCeile,withitsbarn-board
floors, its homey stone hearth, and the gimmicked sofas that looked like
unsprungoldthrift-storenumbers,butwhichsportedadaptivegenetic-algorithm-
directed haptics that adjusted constantly to support you no matter how you
floppedonthem,sothatyoucouldplayatbeingalittlekidsprawledcarelessly
onthecushionsnomatterhowoldandcrankyyourboneswere.
OntheCeile’ssofawereBrautigan,Ria,andawomanhehadn’tmetbefore.
Shewassomewhere betweenBrautigan and Ria’sage, butwith thatmade-up,
pulled-tightappearanceofsomeonewhoknew the worldwouldn’ttakeheras
seriouslyifsheletonecrumbofweaknessescapefromanyporeorwrinkle.He
thoughtheknewwhothismustbe,andsheconfirmeditwhenshespoke.
“Leon,”shesaid.“I’mgladyou’rehere.”Heknewthatvoice.Itwasthevoice
onthephonethathadrecruitedhimandbroughthimtoNewYorkandtoldhim
wheretocomeforhisfirstdayonthejob.ItwasthevoiceofJenniferTorino,
andshewastechnicallyhisboss.“Carmelasaidthatyouoftenworkedfromhere
soIwashopingtodaywouldbeoneofthedaysyoucamebysowecouldchat.”
“Jennifer,”hesaid.Shenodded.“Ria.”Shehadapoker-faceon,asunreadable
asaslabofgranite.Shewaswearinghercustomarydenimandflowingcotton,
but she’d kept her shoes on and her feet on the ground. “Brautigan,” and
BrautigangrinnedlikeitwasChristmasmorning.
Jenniferlookedflatlyataplacejusttoonesideofhisgaze,atrickheknew,
andsaid,“Inrecognitionofhisexcellentwork,Mr.Brautigan’sbeenpromoted,
effectivetoday.HeisnowManagerforMajorAccounts.”Brautiganbeamed.
“Congratulations,”Leonsaid,thinking,Whatexcellentwork?NooneatAte
hasaccomplishedtheagency’sprimaryobjectiveintheentirehistoryofthefirm!
“Welldone.”
Jenniferkepthereyescoollyfixedonthatempty,safespot.“Asyouknow,we
havestruggledto closea dealwithany ofour majoraccounts.”He restrained
himselffromrollinghiseyes.“AndsoMr.Brautiganhasundertakenathorough
studyofthewaywehandletheseaccounts.”ShenoddedatBrautigan.
“It’sa mess,”he said.“Totallyscattergun.No linesof authority. No checks
andbalances.Nosystem.”
“Ican’targuewiththat,”Leonsaid.Hesawwherethiswasgoing.
“Yes,” Jennifer said. “You haven’t been here very long, but I understand
you’ve been looking deeply into the organizational structure of Ate yourself,
haven’tyou?”Henodded.“Andthat’swhyMr.Brautiganhasaskedthatyoube
tasked to him as his head of strategic research.” She smiled a thin smile.
“Congratulationsyourself.”
Hesaid,“Thanks,”flatly,andlookedatBrautigan.“What’sstrategicresearch,
then?”
“Oh,”Brautigansaid.“Justalotofwhatyou’vebeendoing:figuringoutwhat
everyone’supto,puttingthemtogether,proposingorganizationalstructuresthat
willmakeusmoreefficientatdesignanddeployment.Stuffyou’regoodat.”
LeonswallowedandlookedatRia.Therewasnothingonherface.“Ican’t
helpbutnotice,”hesaid,forcinghisvoicetoitsabsolutelycalmest,“thatyou
haven’tmentionedanythingtodowiththe,uh,clients.”
Brautigannoddedandstrainedtopullhislipsoverhishorseyteethtohidehis
grin.Itdidn’twork.“Yeah,”hesaid.“That’saboutright.Weneedsomeoneof
yourtalentsdoingwhathedoesbest,andwhatyoudobestis—”
Heheldupahand.Brautiganfellsilent.Thethreeofthemlookedathim.He
realized, in a flash, that he had them all in his power, just at that second. He
couldshoutBOO!andthey’dallfallofftheirchairs.Theywerewaitingtoseeif
he’dblowhistoportakeitandaskformore.Hedidsomethingelse.
“Nice working with ya,” he said. And he turned his back on the sweetest,
softestjobanyonecouldaskfor.HesaidadiosandbuensuertetoCarmelaon
thewayout,andheforcedhimselfnottolingeraroundtheoutsidedoorsdown
atstreetleveltoseeifanyonewouldcomechasingafterhim.
***
Therealtorlookedathimlikehewascrazy.“You’llnevergettwomillionfor
thatplaceintoday’smarket,”shesaid.Shewasyoung,no-nonsense,black,and
shehadgrownupontheLowerEastSide,afactshementionedprominentlyin
heradvertisingmaterials:Alocalrealtorforalocalneighborhood.
“I paid two million for it less than a year ago,” he said. The 80 percent
mortgage had worried him a little but Ate had underwritten it, bringing the
interestratedowntolessthantwopercent.
She gestured at the large corner picture window that overlooked Broome
StreetandGrandStreet.“CounttheFORSALEsigns,”shesaid.“Iwanttobe
on your side. That’s a nice place. I’d like to see it go to someone like you,
someone decent. Not some developer”—she spat the word like a curse—“or
some corporate apartment broker who’ll rent it by the week to VIPs. This
neighborhoodneedsrealpeoplewhoreallylivehere,understand.”
“Soyou’resayingIwon’tgetwhatIpaidforit?”
Shesmiledfondlyathim.“No,sweetheart,you’renotgoingtogetwhatyou
paidforit.Allthosethingstheytoldyouwhenyouputtwomilintothatplace,
like‘They’renotmakinganymoreManhattan’and‘Locationlocationlocation’?
It’s lies.” Her face got serious, sympathetic. “It’s supposed to panic you and
makeyou loseyour head andspend more thanyou thinksomething is worth.
Thatgoesonforawhileandtheneveryoneendsupwithtoomuchmortgagefor
not enough home, or for too much home for that matter, and then blooie, the
bottomblowsoutofthemarketandeverythingfallsdownlikeasouffle.”
“Youdon’tsugar-coatit,huh?”He’dcomestraighttoherofficefromAte’s
door,takingthesubwayratherthancabbingitorevenrentingajetpack.Hewas
on austerity measures, effective immediately. His brain seemed to have a pre-
madelistofcost-saversithadpreparedbehindhisback,asthoughitknewthis
daywouldcome.
She shrugged. “I can, if you want me to. We can hem and haw about the
moneyandsoonandIcanholdyourhandthroughthesevenstagesofgrieving.
Idothatalotwhenthemarketgoessoft.Butyoulookedlikethekindofguy
whowantsitstraight.ShouldIstartover?Or,youknow,ifyouwant,wecanlist
youattwomiloreventwopointtwo,andI’llusethattoprovethatsomeother
loftisastealatonepointnine.Ifyouwant.”
“No,”hesaid,andhefeltsomeoftheangrynumbnessebbaway.Helikedthis
woman.Shehadreadhimperfectly.“SotellmewhatyouthinkIcangetforit?”
She put her fist under her chin and her eyes went far away. “I sold that
apartment,um,eightyearsago?Familywhohaditbeforeyou.Hadalookwhen
theysoldittoyou—theyusedadifferentbroker,kindofplacewheretheydon’t
mind selling to a corporate placement specialist. I don’t do that, which you
know.ButIsawitwhenitsold.Haveyouchangeditmuchsince?”
He squirmed. “I didn’t, but I think the broker did. It came furnished, nice
stuff.”
Sherolledhereyeseloquently.“It’snevernicestuff.Evenwhenitcomesfrom
thebestshowroomintown,it’snotnicestuff.Niceisantitheticaltocorporate.
Inoffensiveisthebestyoucanhopefor.”Shelookedup,totheright,backdown.
“I’m figuring out the discount for how the place will show now that they’ve
takenalltheseamsandcrumbsout.I’mthinking,um,onepointeight.That’sa
numberIthinkIcandeliver.”
“ButI’veonlygot200Kintheplace,”hesaid.
Her expressive brown eyes flicked at the picture window, the FOR SALE
signs.“And?Soundslikeyou’llbreakevenormaybelosealittleonthedeal.Is
thatright?”
Henodded.Losingalittlewasn’tsomethinghe’dfiguredon.Butbythetime
he’dpaidallthefeesandtaxes—“I’llprobablybedownapointortwo.”
“Haveyougotit?”
Hehatedtalkingaboutmoney.ThatwasonethingaboutRiaisthatshenever
actually talked about money—what money did, sure, but never money.
“Technically,”hesaid.
“OK,technicalmoneyisasgoodasanyotherkind.Solookatitthisway:you
boughtaplace,areallytotallyamazingplaceontheLowerEastSide,aplace
biggerthanfiveaverageNewYorkapartments.Youlivedinitfor,what?”
“Eightmonths.”
“Mostofayear.Anditcostyouonepercentofthestreetpriceontheplace.
Rentwouldhavebeenabouteleventimesthat.You’reup—”shecalculatedin
herhead—“it’sabout83percent.”
Hecouldn’tkeepthelookofmiseryoffhisface.
“What?” she said. “Why are you pulling faces at me? You said you didn’t
wantitsugar-coated,right?”
“It’sjustthat—”Hedroppedhisvoice,strivingtokeepanykindofwhineout
ofit.“Well,I’dhopedtomakesomethinginthebargain.”
“Forwhat?”shesaid,softly.
“Youknow,appreciation.Propertygoesup.”
“Didyoudoanythingtotheplacethatmadeitbetter?”
Heshookhishead.
“Soyoudidno productive laborbutyouwantedto get paidanyway,right?
Haveyouthoughtaboutwhatwouldhappentosocietyifwerewardedpeoplefor
owningthingsinsteadofdoingthings?”
“Areyousureyou’rearealestatebroker?”
“Boardcertified.Doverywell,too.”
He swallowed. “I don’t expect to make money for doing nothing, but you
know,Ijustquitmyjob.Iwasjusthopingtogetalittlecashinhandtohelpme
smooththingsoutuntilIfindanewone.”
Therealtorgaveasmallnod.“Toughtimesahead.Windsareabouttoshift
again.Youneedtoadjustyour expectations,Leon.Thebestyou can hopefor
rightnowistogetoutofthatplacebeforeyouhavetomakeanothermortgage
payment.”
His pulse throbbed in his jaw and his thigh in counterpoint. “But I need
moneyto—”
“Leon,” she said, with some steel in her voice. “You’re bargaining. As in
denial,anger,bargaining,depressionandacceptance.That’shealthyandall,but
it’snotgoingtogetyourplacesold.Here’stwooptions:one,youcangofind
anotherrealtor,maybeonewho’llsugarcoatthingsorstringyoualongtoprice
upsomethingelsehe’stryingtosell.Two,youcanletmegetonwithmaking
somephonecallsandI’llseewhoIcanbringin.IkeepalistofpeopleI’dliketo
seeinthis‘hood,peoplewho’veaskedmetolookoutfortherightkindofplace.
Thatplaceyou’reinisoneofakind.Imightbeabletotakeitoffyourhandsin
very quick time, if you let me do my thing.” She shuffled some papers. “Oh,
there’sathird,whichisthatyoucouldgobacktoyourapartmentandpretend
thatnothingiswronguntilthatnextmortgagepaymentcomesoutofyourbank
account.Thatwouldbedenialandifyou’rebargaining,youshouldbetwosteps
pastthat.
“What’sitgoingtobe?”
“Ineedtothinkaboutit.”
“Good plan,” she said. “Remember, depression comes after bargaining. Go
buyaquartofice-creamanddownloadsomeweepymovies.Stayoffbooze,it
onlybringsyoudown.Sleeponit,comebackinthemorningifyou’dlike.”
HethankedhernumblyandsteppedoutintotheLowerEastSide.Thebodega
turnedouttohaveanamazingselectionofice-cream,soheboughttheonewith
themostelaboratedname,fullofchunks,swirlsandstir-ins,andbroughtitupto
his apartment, which was so big that it made his knees tremble when he
unlockedhisdoor.Therealtorhadbeenright.Depressionwasnext.
***
Buhlesenthimaninvitationamonthlater.Itcamelaser-etchedintoapieceof
ancient leather, delivered by a messenger whose jetpack was so quiet that he
didn’tevennoticethatshehadgoneuntilhelookedupfromthescrolltothank
her.Hisnewapartmentwasaperchherentedbytheweekatfivetimeswhatan
annualleasewouldhavecosthim,butstillafractionofwhathehadbeenpaying
ontheLES.Itwasjammedwithboxesofthingshehadn’tbeenabletobring
himselftogetridof,andnowhecursedeveryknick-knackashedugthrough
themlookingforagoodsuit.
He gave up. The invitation said, “At your earliest convenience,” and a
quadrillionairein a vatwasn’tgoing to beimpressed by his year-old designer
job-interviewsuit.
It had been a month, and no one had come calling. None of his queries to
productdesign,marketing,R&D, oradvertisingshops had beenanswered.He
triedwalkingintheparkeveryday,toseethebears,onthegroundsthatitwas
freeanditwouldstimulatehiscreativeflow.Thenhenoticedthateverytimehe
lefthis door,fistfuls ofmoney seemed toevaporate fromhis pockets onlittle
“necessities”thataddeduptorealmoney.Thefrugalitycenterofhisbrainbegan
tofloodhimwithanxietyeverytimeheconsideredleavingtheplaceandsoit
hadbeendayssincehe’dgoneout.
Nowhewasgoing.Thereweresomecleanclothesinoneoftheboxes,just
sloppyjeansandtees,butthey’dbeenexpensivesloppyonceuponatime,and
theywerebetterthantheshortsandshirtshe’dbeenrotatinginandoutofthe
tinywashingmachineeverycoupledays,whenthethoughtoccurredtohim.The
$200haircuthe’dhadonhislastdayofworkhadgoneshaggyandlostallits
cleverstyle,sohejustcombeditasbestashecouldafteraquickshowerandput
onhisarchitect’sshoes,shiningthemonthebacksofhispantslegsonhisway
out the door in a gesture that reminded him of his father going to work in
Anguilla,apatheticgestureofrespectabilityfromsomeonewhohadnone.The
realizationmadehimoofoutabreathlikehe’dbeengut-punched.
Hisfrugalityglandfiredlikecrazyashehailedataxianddirectedittothe
helipadatGrandCentralTerminus.Itfloodedhimwithsomuchcheapaminethat
hehadtoactuallypinchhisarmsacoupletimestodistracthimselffromthefull-
bodypanicatthethoughtofspendingsomuch.ButBuhlewasallthewayin
RhodeIsland,andLeondidn’tfancykeepinghimwaiting.Heknewthattotalk
to money you had to act like money—impedance-match the money. Money
wouldn’twaitwhilehetookthetrainorcaughtthesubway.
Hebookedthechopper-cabfromthecab,usingtheterminalinthebackseat.
At Ate, he’d had Carmela to do this kind of organizing for him. He’d had
Carmelatodoahundredotherthings,too.Inthatancient,losttime,he’dhad
moneyandhelpbeyondhiswildestdreams,andmostdayshecouldn’timagine
whathadtemptedhimintogivingitup.
ThechopperclawedtheairandliftedhimupoverManhattan,thecanyonsof
steelstretchedoutbelowhimlikeamodel.Theracketofthechopperobliterated
anypossibilityofspeech,sohecouldignorethepilotandshecouldignorehim
with a cordiality that let him pretend, for a moment, that he was a powerful
executive who nonchalantly choppered around over the country. They hugged
thecoastlineandthestatelyrowsofwindmillsandbobbingfloat-homes,surfers
carving the waves, bulldozed strips topped with levees that shot up from the
groundliketheburialmoundofsomegiantserpent.
Leon’s earmuffs made all the sound—the sea, the chopper—into a uniform
hiss,andinthathiss,histhoughtsandfearsseemedtorecedeforamoment,as
thoughtheycouldn’tmakethemselvesheardoverthewhitenoise.Forthefirst
time since he’d walked out of Ate, the nagging, doubtful voices fell still and
Leonwasaloneinhishead.Itwasasthoughhe’dhadagreatpinstuckthrough
hischestthat hadbeen finallyremoved.There wasa feeling oflightness, and
tearsprickingathiseyes,andafeelingofwonderfulobliteration,ashestopped,
justforamoment,stoppedtryingtofigureoutwherehefitintheworld.
ThechoppertoucheddownonahelipadatNewportStateAirport,tooneside
ofthehugeXslashedintotheheavywoods—newforest,fast-growingcarbon
sinkersgarlandedwithextravagancesofmoss and vine.Fromthemomentthe
doorsopened,theheavyearthysmellfilledhisnoseandhethoughtoftheLiving
Room,whichledhimtothinkofRia.Hethankedthepilotandzappedheratip
andlookedupandtherewasRia,asthoughhisthoughtshadsummonedher.
She had a little half-smile on her face, uncertain and somehow childlike, a
littlegirlwaitingtofindoutifhe’dbeherfriendstill.Hesmiledather,grateful
fortheclatterofthechoppersothattheycouldn’tspeak.Sheshookhishand,
herswarmanddry,andthen,onimpulse,hegaveherahug.Shewassoftand
firmtoo,amiddle-agedwomanwhokeptfitbutdidn’tobsessaboutthepounds.
Itwasthefirsttimehe’dtouchedanotherhumansinceheleftAte.And,aswith
thechopper’sdin,thisrevelationdidn’topenhimtofreshmiseries—rather,itput
themiseriesaway,sothathefeltbetter.
“Areyouready?”shesaid,oncethechopperhadliftedoff.
“Onething,”hesaid.“Isthereatownhere?IthoughtIsawonewhilewewere
landing.”
“Alittleone,”shesaid.“Usedtobebigger,butwelikethemsmall.”
“Doesithaveahardwarestore?”
Shegavehimasignificantlook.“Whatfor?Anaxe?Anailgun?Goingtodo
someimprovements?”
“ThoughtI’dbringalongadoor-knob,”hesaid.
Shedissolvedintogiggles.“Oh,he’lllikethat.Yes,wecanfindahardware
store.”
***
Buhle’s security people subjected the doorknob to millimeter radar and a gas
cromatographbeforelettingitpast.HewasshownintoananteroombyRia,who
talkedtohimthroughthewholeprocedure,justlightchatterabouttheweather
and his real-estate problems, but she gently steered him around the room,
changingtheirangleseveraltimes,andthenhesaid,“AmIbeingscanned?”
“Millimeterradarinheretoo,”shesaid.“Wholebodyimaging.Don’tworry,I
getiteverytimeIcomein.Parforthecourse.”
He shrugged. “This is the least offensive security scan I’ve ever been
through,”hesaid.
“It’stheroom,”shesaid.“Thedimensions,thecolor.Mostlythesemioticsof
asecurityscanareeitheryouareagermonaslideoryouarenotworthtrifling
with,butifwemust,wemust.Wewentforsomethingalittle…sweeter.”Andit
was,asweetlittleroom,liketheprivatestudyofasinglemomwho’sstolena
cornerinwhichtoworkonhersecretnovel.
Beyondtheroom—awonderfulplace.
“It’slikeacollegecampus,”hesaid.
“Oh,Ithinkweuseabetterclassofmaterialsthanmostcolleges,”Riasaid,
airily, but he could tell he’d pleased her. “But yes, there’s about 15,000 of us
here.Alittlecity.Nicecafes,gyms,cinemas.Acoupleartistsinresidence,anice
littleWaldorfschool…”Thepathwaysweretidyandwendedtheirwaythrough
buildingsrangingfromcottagestolarge,institutionalbuildings,butallwiththe
feelofendowedresearchinstitutesratherthanfinancetowers.Thepeoplewere
youngand old,casually dressed,walking inpairs andgroups, mostly, deep in
conversation.
“15,000?”
“That’stheheadoffice.Mostofthemaredoingmedicalstuffhere.We’vegot
lotsofotherholdings,allaroundtheworld,inplacesthataredifferentfromthis.
Butwe’rebringingthemallinlinewithHQ,fastaswecan.It’sagoodwayto
work.Churnisincrediblylow.Weactuallyhavetoputpeoplebackoutintothe
worldforayeareverydecade,justsotheycanseewhatit’slike.”
“Isthatwhatyou’redoing?”
Shesockedhiminthearm.“YouthinkIcouldbehappyhere?No,I’vealways
livedoffcampus.Icommute.I’mnotateamperson.It’sOK,thisisthekindof
placewhereevenlonegunscanfindtheirwaytoglory.”
They were walking on the grass now, and he saw that the trees, strangely
oversizedredmapleswithoutanyofthewhippyslendernessheassociatedwith
thespecies,hadawalkwaysuspendedfromtheirbranches,arealSwissFamily
Robinsonjobwithrope-railingsandlittleplatformswithbasketsonpulleysfor
ascendinganddescending.Thepeoplewhoscurriedbyoverheadgreetedeach
othervolublyandlaughedattheawkwardnessofsqueezingpasteachotherin
oppositedirections.
“Doesthatevergetold?”hesaid,liftinghiseyebrowstothewalkways.
“Notforacertainkindofperson,”shesaid.“Foracertainkindofperson,the
delightfulnessof those walkways never wears off.”The way she said “certain
kindofperson”madehimrememberhersaying,“bearsshouldn’tbethathappy.”
Hepointedtoabench,alongtwig-chair,really,madefrombirchbranchesand
ropeandwirealltwinedtogether.“Canwesitforamoment?Imean,willBuhle
mind?”
Sheflickedherfingers.“Buhle’sscheduleishisown.Ifwe’refiveminutes
late,someonewillputfiveminutes’worthofinterestingandusefulinjectainto
hisin-box.Don’tyouworry.”Shesatonthebench,whichlookedtoofragileand
feytotakeagrownperson’sweight,butthenshepattedtheseatnexttohim,and
hewhenhesat,hefeltalmostnogive.Thebenchhadbeenverywellbuilt,by
someonewhoknewwhatsheorhewasdoing.
“OK,sowhat’sgoingon,Ria?FirstyouwentalongwithBrautiganscooping
myjobandexilingmetoSiberia—”heheldupahandtostopherfromspeaking
anddiscoveredthatthehandwasshakingandsowashischest,shakingwitha
bottled-upangerhehadn’tdaredadmit.“Youcouldhavestoppeditataword.
Youenvoysfromthevat-gods,youaretheabsolutemonarchsatAte.Youcould
havetoldthemtohaveBrautiganskinned,tanned,andmadeintoapairofboots,
andhe’dhavemeasuredyourfoot-sizehimself.Butyouletthemdoit.”
“Andnow,hereIam,aministerwithoutportfolio,abouttodosomethingthat
wouldmakeBrautiganexplodewithdelight,abouttomeetoneoftheGreatOld
Ones,inhisveryvat,inperson.Amanwhomightlivetobeathousand,ifall
goesaccordingtoplan,amanwhoisacountry,sovereignandinviolate.AndI
justwanttoaskyou,why?Whyallthesecrecyandobliquenessandfunnygaps?
Why?”
Ria waited while a pack of grad students scampered by overhead, deep in
discussionofteleomeres,theracketoftheirtalkandtheirbarefeetslappingon
the walkway loud enough to serve as a pretence for silence. Leon’s pulse
thuddedandhisarmpitsslickedthemselvesasherealizedthathemighthavejust
popped the bubble of unreality between them, the consensual illusion that all
wasnormal,whatevernormalwas.
“Oh,Leon,”shesaid.“I’msorry.Habithere—there’ssomethingsthatcan’t
bereadilysaidinutopia.Eventually,youjustgetinthehabitofspeakingoutof
thebackofyourhead.It’s,youknow,rudetoruinpeoples’gardensbypointing
outthesnakes.So,yes,OK,I’llsaysomethingrightout.Ilikeyou,Leon.The
averageemployeeataplacelikeAteisabottomlesswellofdesires,tryingto
figureoutwhatothersmightdesire.We’vebeenhearingfromthemfordecades
now,theresourcefulones,theimportantones,theoneswhocouldgetpastthe
filtersandthefiltersbehindthefilters.Weknowwhatthey’relike.
“Yourworkwasdifferent.AssoonasyouwerehiredbyAte,wegenerateda
dossieronyou.Sawyourgradwork.”
Leonswallowed.Hisresumeemphasizedhisgrades,nothisfinalprojects.He
didn’tspeakofthematall.
“Sowethought,well,here’ssomethingdifferent,it’spossiblehemayhavea
housetogowithourdoorknob.Butweknewwhatwouldhappenifyouwere
lefttoyourowndevicesataplacelikeAte:they’dbendyouandshapeyouand
make you over or ruin you. We do it ourselves, all too often. Bring in a
promisingyoungthing,subjecthimtothedreadedBuhleCulture,aculturehe’s
totallyunsuitedto,andheeitherrunsscreamingor…fitsin.It’sworsewhenthe
latterhappens.Sowemadesurethatyouhadagoodfairyperchedonyourright
shouldertocounterbalancethedevilonyourleftshoulder.”Shestopped,madea
face,mockslappedherselfupsidethehead.“Talkingineuphemismagain.Bad
habit.YouseewhatImean.”
“Andyouletmegetpushedaside…”
Shelookedsolemn.“Wefiguredyouwouldn’tlastlongasabutton-polisher.
Figuredyou’dwantout.”
“Andthatyou’dbeabletohireme.”
“Oh, we could have hired you any time. We could have bought Ate. Ate
would have given you to us—remember all that business about making
Brautiganintoapairofboots?Itappliesallaround.”
“Soyouwantedmeto…what?Walkinthewildernessfirst?”
“Nowyou’retalkingineuphemisms.It’scatching!Let’swalk.”
***
They gave him a bunny-suit to wear into the heart of Buhle. First he passed
through a pair of double-doors, faintly positively pressurized, sterile air that
ruffledhishaironthewayin.Thebuildingwaslow-slung,nondescriptbrown
brick,nowindows.Itcouldhavebeenawatersterilizationplantoradry-goods
warehouse.Theinsidewasgoodtile,warmcolorswithlotsofredsandbrowns
down low, making the walls look like they were the inside of a kiln. The
building’sinteriorwashushed,andapairofalert-lookingplainclothessecurity
men watched them very closely as they changed into the bunny-suits, loose
microporecoverallswithplasticvisors.Eachonehadasmall,self-containedair-
circ system powered by a wrist canister, and when a security man helpfully
twistedthevalveopen,Leonnotedthattherewerecleverjetsthatmanagedto
defogthevisorwithoutdryingouthiseyeballs.
“Thatbeenoughforyou,Ria?”thetallerofthetwosecuritymensaid.Hewas
dressedlikeacollegekidwho’dbeeninvitedtohisgirlfriend’splacefordinner:
smartslacksalittlefrayedatthecuffs,ashort-sleeved,pressedcottonshirtthat
showedthebulgeofhissubstantialchestandbicepsandneck.
Shelookedathercanister,holdingituptothevisor.“30minutesisfine,”she
said.“Idoubthe’llhaveanymoretimethanthatforus!”TurningtoLeon,she
said,“Ithinkthatthewholeair-supplythingiswayoverblown.Butitdoeskeep
meetingsfromgoinglong.”
“Wheredoestheexhaustgo?”Leonsaid,twistinginhissuit.“Imean,surely
thepointistokeepmycootiesawayfrom,”heswallowed,“Buhle.”Itwasthe
firsttimehe’dreallyusedthewordtodescribeaperson,ratherthanaconcept,
and he was filled with the knowledge that the person it described was
somewhereveryclose.
“Here,”shesaid,andpointedtoasmallbubblegrowingoutofthebackofher
neck.“Youswellup,onelittlebladderatatime,untilyoulookliketheMichelin
man.Somejoke.”Shemadeaface.“Youcangetapermanentsuitifyoucome
hereoften.Muchlessawkward.ButBuhlelikesitawkward.”
Sheledhimdownacorridorwithstillmorepeople,theseonesinbunny-suits
or more permanent-looking suits that were form-fitting and iridescent and
flattering. “Really?” he said, keeping pace with her. “Elegant is a word that
comestomind,notawkward.”
“Well, sure, elegant on the other side of that airlock door. But we’re inside
Buhle’sbodynow.”Shesawthelookonhisfaceandsmiled.“No,no,it’snota
riddle. Everything on this side of the airlock is Buhle. It’s his lungs and
circulatoryandlimbicsystem.Thevatmaybewherethemeatsits,butallthisis
what makes the vat work. You’re like a gigantic foreign organism that’s
burrowing into his tissues. It’s intimate.” They passed through another set of
doors and now they were almost alone in a hall the size of his university’s
basketballcourt,theonlyothersalongwayoff.Sheloweredhervoicesothathe
hadtoleanintohearher.“Whenyou’reoutside,speakingtoBuhlethroughhis
manytendrils,likeme,orevenonthephone,hehasallthepowerintheworld.
He’sagiant.Buthere,insidehisbody,he’svery,veryweak.Thesuits,they’re
theretolevelouttheplayingfield.It’sallhead-gamesandsymbolism.Andthis
is just Mark I, the system we jury-rigged after Buhle’s … accident. They’re
buildingtheMarkIIaboutfivemilesfromhere,andhalfamileunderground.
When it’s ready, they’ll blast a tunnel and take him all the way down into it
withoutevercompromisingtheskinofBuhle’sextendedbody.”
“Younevertoldmewhattheaccidentwas,howheendeduphere.Iassumedit
wasastrokeor—”
Riashookherhead,themicroporefabricrustlingsoftly.“Nothinglikethat,”
shesaid.
They were on the other side of the great room now, headed for the doors.
“Whatisthisgiantroomfor?”
“Leftoverfromtheoriginalfloor-plan,whenthisplacewasjustbiotechR&D.
Usedforall-handsmeetingsthen,sometimesalittlesymposium.Toobignow.
Securityprotocoldictatesnomorethantenpeopleinanyonespace.”
“Was it assassination?” He said it without thinking, quick as ripping off a
band-aid.
Again,therustleoffabric.“No.”
She put her hand on the door’s crashbar, made ready to pass into the next
chamber.
“I’mstartingtofreakoutalittlehere,Ria,”hesaid.“Hedoesn’thunthumans
orsomething?”
“No,”andhedidn’tneedtoseeherface,hecouldseethesmile.
“Orneedanorgan?Idon’tthinkIhavearareblood-type,andIshouldtell
youthatminehavebeenindifferentlycaredfor—”
“Leon,”shesaid,“ifBuhleneededanorgan,we’dmakeonerighthere.Print
itoutinaboutfortyhours,pristineandvirgin.”
“Soyou’resayingI’mnotgoingtobeharvestedorhunted,then?”
“It’saverylowprobabilityoutcome,”shesaid,andpushedthecrashbar.
Itwasdarkerinthisroom,amellow,candlelitsortoflight,andtherewasa
rhythmicvibrationcomingupthroughthefloor,awhooshwhoosh.
Riasaid,“It’shisbreath.Thefiltrationsystemsaredownthere.”Shepointeda
toe at the outline of a service hatch set into the floor. “Circulatory system
overhead,”shesaid,andhecranedhisneckupatthegratecoveringtheceiling,
thetroughsfilledwithneatlybundledtubes.
Onemoresetofdoors,anothercool,darkroom,thisonenearlysilent,andone
moredoorattheend,anairlockdoor,andanotherplainclothessecuritypersonin
frontofit;aside-roomwithaglassdoorbustlingwithpeoplestaringintentlyat
screens. The security person—a woman, Leon saw—had a frank and square
pistolwithabulbousbuttvelcroedtothesideofhersuit.
“He’sthroughthere,isn’the?”Leonsaid,pointingattheairlockdoor.
“No,”Riasaid.“No.He’shere.Weareinsidehim.Rememberthat,Leon.He
isn’tthestuffinthevatthere.Insomesenseyou’vebeeninBuhle’sbodysince
you got off the chopper. His sensor array network stretches out as far as the
heliport,likethetipsofthehairsonyourneck,theyfeelthebreezesthatblowin
hisvicinity.Nowyou’vetunneledinsidehim,andyou’rerighthere,inhisheart
orhisliver.”
“Orhisbrain.”
A voice, then, from everywhere, warm and good-humored. “The brain is
overrated.” Leon looked at Ria and she rolled her eyes eloquently behind her
faceplate.
“Tunedsound,”shesaid.“Apartytrick.Buhle—”
“Wait,” Buhle said. “Wait. The brain, this is important, the brain is so
overrated. The ancient Egyptians thought it was used to cool the blood, you
knowthat?”Hechortled,asoundthatfelttoLeonasthoughitbeganjustabove
his groin and rose up through his torso, a very pleasant and very invasive
sensation.“Theheart,theythought,theheartwastheplacewherethemelived.I
usedtowonderaboutthat.Wouldn’ttheythinkthatthethingbetweentheorgans
ofhearing,thethingbehindtheorgansofseeing,thatmustbetheme?Butthat’s
justthebraindoingoneofitslittlestupidgames,backfillingtheexplanation.We
thinkthebrainistheobviousseatofthemebecausethebrainalreadyknowsthat
itistheseat,andcan’tconceiveofanythingelse.Whenthebrainthoughtitlived
inyourchest,itwasperfectlyhappytorationalizethattoo—Ofcourseit’sinthe
chest,youfeelyoursorrowandyourjoythere,yoursatietyandyourhunger…
Thebrain,pffft,thebrain!”
“Buhle,”shesaid.“We’recominginnow.”
The nurse/guard by the door had apparently only heard their part of the
conversation,butalsohadn’tletitbotherher.Shestoodtooneside,andoffered
Leonatiny, incrementalnod ashepassed.Hereturnedit,and then hurriedto
catchupwithRia,whowaswaitinginsidetheairlock.Theouterdoorclosedand
foramoment,theywerepressedupagainstoneanotherandhefeltawild,horny
thought streak through him, all the excitement discharging itself from yet
anotherplacethatthememightreside.
Then the outer door hissed open and he met Buhle—he tried to remember
whatRiahadsaid,thatBuhlewasn’tthis,Buhlewaseverywhere,buthecouldn’t
helphimselffromfeelingthatthiswashim.
Buhle’s vat was surprisingly small, no bigger than the sarcophagus that an
ancientEgyptianmighthavegonetoinhisburialchamber.Hetriednottostare
insideit,buthecouldn’tstophimself.Thewithered,wrinkledmanfloatingin
the vat was intertwined with a thousand fiber optics that disappeared into
pinprickholesinhisnakedskin.Thereweretubes:inthebighighwaysinthe
groin,inthegutthroughasmallvalvesetintoapuckerofscar,inthenoseand
ear.Thehairlessheadwaspushedinononeside,likeapumpkinthathasn’tbeen
turnedasitgrewinthepatch,andtherewasnoskinontheflatpiece,onlywhite
boneandafinemetallingmeshandmoreragged,curdledscartissue.
Theeyeswerehiddenbehindaslimsetofgogglesthatirisedopenwhenthey
nearedhim,andbeneaththegogglestheywerepreternaturallybright,brightas
marbles, set deep in bruised-looking sockets. The mouth beneath the nostril-
tubes parted in a smile, revealing teeth as neat and white as a toothpaste
advertisement,andBuhlespoke.
“Welcometotheliver.Ortheheart.”
Leonchokedonwhateverwordshe’dprepared.Thevoicewasthesameone
he’dheardintheouterroom,warmandfriendly,thevoiceofamanwhomyou
couldtrust,whowouldtakecareofyou.Hefumbledaroundhissuit,pattingit.
“Ibroughtyouadoorknob,”hesaid,“butIcan’treachitjustnow.”
Buhlelaughed,notthechucklehe’dheardbefore,butanactual,barkedHa!
thatmadethetubesheaveandthefiberopticswrithe.“Fantastic,”hesaid.“Ria,
he’sfantastic.”
ThecomplimentmadethetipsofLeon’searsgrowwarm.
“He’sagoodone,”shesaid.“Andhe’scomealongwayatyourrequest.”
“You hear how she reminds me of my responsibilities? Sit down, both of
you.”Riarolledovertwochairs,andLeonsettledintoone,feelingitnoiselessly
adjust to take his weight. A small mirror unfolded itself and then two more,
angledbeneathit,andhefoundhimselflookingintoBuhle’seyes,lookingathis
face,reflectedinthemirrors.
“Leon,”Buhlesaid,“tellmeaboutyourfinalproject,theonethatgotyouthe
topgradeinyourclass.”
Leon’s fragile calm vanished, and he began to sweat. “I don’t like to talk
aboutit,”hesaid.
“Makes you vulnerable, I know. But vulnerable isn’t so bad. Take me. I
thoughtIwasinvincible.IthoughtthatIcouldmakeandunmaketheworldto
my liking. I thought I understood how the human mind worked—and how it
broke.
“AndthenonedayinMadrid,asIwassittinginmysuite’sbreakfastroom,
talkingwithanoldfriendwhileIatemyporridgeoats,myoldfriendpickedup
theheavysilvercoffeejug,leapedonmy chest, smashed metothefloor,and
methodically attempted to beat the brains out of my head with it. It weighed
aboutthreepounds,notcountingthecoffee,whichwasscalding,andsheonly
gotinthreelicksbeforetheypulledheroffofme,tookheraway.Thosethree
licks though—” He looked intently at them. “I’m an old man,” he said. “Old
bones,oldtissues.Thefirstblowcrackedmyskull.Thesecondonebrokeit.The
third one forced fragments into my brain. By the time the medics arrived, I’d
beentechnicallydeadforabout174seconds,giveortakeasecondortwo.”
Leon wasn’t sure the old thing in the vat had finished speaking, but that
seemed to be the whole story. “Why?” he said, picking the word that was
uppermostinhismind.
“WhydidItellyouthis?”
“No,”Leonsaid.“Whydidyouroldfriendtrytokillyou?”
Buhlegrinned.“Oh,IexpectIdeservedit,”hesaid.
“Areyougoingtotellmewhy?”Leonsaid.
Buhle’scozygrindisappeared.“Idon’tthinkIwill.”
Leon found he was breathing so hard that he was fogging up his faceplate,
despitetheair-jetsthat worked toclearit. “Buhle,”hesaid, “the pointofthat
storywastotellmehowvulnerableyouaresothatI’dtellyoumystory,butthat
story doesn’t make you vulnerable. You were beaten to death and yet you
survived,grewstronger,changedintothis—”Hewavedhishandsaround.“This
body, this monstrous, town-sized giant. You’re about as vulnerable as fucking
Zeus.”
Rialaughedsoftlybutunmistakably.“Toldyouso,”shesaidtoBuhle.“He’sa
goodone.”
TheexposedlowerpartBuhle’sfaceclenchedlikeafistandthepitchofthe
machinenoisesaroundthemshiftedahalf-tone.Thenhesmiledasmilethatwas
visiblyforced,obviouslyartificialeveninthatruinofaface.
“Ihadanidea,”hesaid.“Thatmanyoftheworld’sproblemscouldbesolved
with a positive outlook. We spend so much time worrying about the rare and
luridoutcomesinlife.Kidsbeingsnatched.Terroristsblowingupcities.Stolen
secrets ruining your business. Irate customers winning huge judgments in
improbablelawsuits.Allthischickenshit,bed-wetting,hand-wringingfear.”His
voiceroseandfelllikeaminister’sanditwasallLeoncoulddonottoswayin
timewithhim.“Andatthesametime,weneglectthelikely:trafficaccidents,
jetpackcrashes,bathtubdrownings.It’slikethemindcan’tstopthinkingabout
thegrotesque,andcan’tstopforgettingaboutthelikely.”
“Get on with it,” Ria said. “The speech is lovely, but it doesn’t answer the
question.”
He glared at her through the mirror, the marble-eyes in their mesh of burst
bloodvesselsandredspider-tracks,liketheeyesofademon.“Thehumanmind
is just kinked wrong. And it’s correctable.” The excitement in his voice was
palpable. “Imagine a product that let you feel what you know—imagine if
anyone who heard ‘Lotto: you’ve got to be in it to win it’ immediately
understood that this is so much bullshit. That statistically, your chances of
winning the lotto are not measurably improved by buying a lottery ticket.
Imagineifexplainingthewaronterrortopeoplemadethemdoubleoverwith
laughter! Imagine if the capital markets ran on realistic assessments of risk
insteadofenvy,panic,andgreed.”
“You’dbealotpoorer,”Riasaid.
Herolledhiseyeseloquently.
“It’saninterestingvision,”Leonsaid.“I’dtakethecure,whateveritwas.”
The eyes snapped to him, drilled through him, fierce. “That’s the problem,
rightthere.Theonlypeoplewho’lltakethisarethepeoplewhodon’tneedit.
Politicians and traders and oddsmakers know how probability works, but they
alsoknowthatthepeoplewhomakethemfatandhappydon’tunderstanditabit,
and so they can’t afford to be rational. So there’s only one answer to the
problem.”
Leonblurted,“Thebears.”
Rialetoutanaudiblesigh.
“The fucking bears,” Buhle agreed, and the way he said it was so full of
world-wearyexhaustionthatitmadeLeonwanttohughim.“Yes.Asasocial
reformtool,wecouldn’taffordtoleavethistothepeoplewhowerewillingto
takeit.Sowe—”
“Weaponizedit,”Riasaid.
“Whosestoryisthis?”
Leonfeltthatthelimbsofhissuitweregrowingstiffer,hisexhaustturningit
intoaballoon.Andhehadtopee.Andhedidn’twanttomove.
“Youdosedpeoplewithit?”
“Leon,”Buhlesaid,inavoicethatimplied,Comeon,we’rebiggerthanthat.
“They’d consented to being medical research subjects. And it worked. They
stoppedrunningaroundshoutingTheskyisfalling,theskyisfallingandbecame
—zen.Happy,inacalm,even-keeledway.Headlesschickensturnedintoflinty-
eyedair-trafficcontrollers.”
“Andyourbestfriendbeatyourbrainsin—”
“Because,” Buhle said, in a little Mickey Mouse falsetto, “it would be
unethicaltodoabroad-scalereleaseonthegeneralpublic.”
Riawassittingsostillhehadalmostforgottenshewasthere.
Leonshiftedhisweight.“Idon’tthinkthatyou’retellingmethewholestory.”
“Weweresettomarketitasananti-anxietymedication.”
“And?”
Riastoodupabruptly.“I’llwaitoutside.”Sheleftwithoutanotherword.
Buhle rolled his eyes again. “How do you get people to take anti-anxiety
medication?Lotsandlotsofpeople?Imean,ifIassignedyouthatproject,gave
youabudgetforit—”
LeonfelttornbetweenadesiretochaseafterRiaandtocontinuetostayinthe
magnetic presence of Buhle. He shrugged. “Same as you would with any
pharma.Cookthediagnosisprotocol,expand the numberofpeopleitcatches.
Getthenewsmediawhippedupabouttheanxietyepidemic.That’seasy.Fear
sells. An epidemic of fear? Christ, that’d be too easy. Far too easy. Get the
insurersonboard,discountsonthemeds,makeitcheapertoprescribeacourse
oftreatmentthantotakethecall-centertimetoexplaintotheguywhyhe’snot
gettingthemeds.”
“You’remykindofguy,Leon,”Buhlesaid.“Soyeah.”
“Yeah?”
Anotheroneofthosewe’re-both-men-of-the-worldsmiles.“Yeah.”
“Oh.”
“Howmany?”
“That’sthe thing.We weretrying it in a littlemarket first.Basque country.
Thelocalauthoritywasveryreceptive.Lotsofchancestofine-tunethemessage.
They’re the most media-savvy people on the planet these days—they are to
media as the Japanese were to electronics in the last century. If we could get
theminthedoor—”
“Howmany?”
“Aboutamillion.Morethanhalfthepopulation.”
“You created a bioweapon that infected its victims with numeracy, and
infectedamillionBasquewithit?”
“Crashedthelottery.That’showIknewwe’ddoneit.Lotteryticketsfellby
morethan80percent.Wipedout.”
“Andthenyourfriendbeatyourheadin?”
“Well.”
The suit was getting more uncomfortable by the second. Leon wondered if
he’dgetstuckifhewaitedtoolong,hisoverinflatedsuitincapableofmoving.
“I’mgoingtohavetogo,soon.”
“Evolutionarily,badrisk-assessmentisadvantageous.”
Leonnoddedslowly.“OK,I’llbuythat.Makesyouentrepreneurial—”
“Drivesyoutocolonizenewlands,toaskoutthebeautifulmonkeyinthenext
tree,tohaveababyyoucan’timaginehowyou’llafford.”
“AndyournumerateVulcansstopped?”
“Prettymuch,”hesaid.“Butthat’sjustnormalshakedown.Likewhenpeople
move to cities, their birthrate drops. And nevertheless, the human race is
becomingmoreandmorecitifiedandstill,itisn’tvanishing.Socialstufftakes
time.”
“Andthenyourfriendbeatyourheadin?”
“Stopsayingthat.”
Leonstood.“MaybeIshouldgoandfindRia.”
Buhlemadeadisgustednoise.“Fine.Andaskherwhyshedidn’tfinishthe
job?Askherifshedecidedtodoitrightthen,orifshe’dplannedit?Askher
whysheusedthe coffeejuginsteadofthebread-knife? Because, youknow,I
wonderthismyself.”
Leonbackpedaled,clumsyintheoverinflatedsuit.Hestruggledtogetintothe
airlock,andasithissedthroughitscycle,hetriednottothinkofRiastraddling
theoldman’schest,thecoffeeurnrisingandfalling.
Shewaswaitingforhimontheotherside,alsooverinflatedinhersuit.“Let’s
go,”shesaid,andtookhishand,therubberizedpalmsoftheirglovessticking
together. She half-dragged him through the many rooms of Buhle’s body,
trippingthroughthefinaldoor,thenspinninghimaroundandripping,hard,on
thereleasecordthatsplitthesuitdownthebacksothatitfellintotwolifeless
pieces that slithered to the ground. He gasped out a breath he hadn’t realized
he’d been holding in as the cool air made contact with the thin layer of
perspirationthatfilmedhisbody.
Riahadalreadyrippedopenherownsuitandherfacewasflushedandsweaty,
her hair matted. Small sweat-rings sprouted beneath her armpits. An efficient
orderly came forward and began gathering up their suits. Ria thanked her
impersonallyandheadedforthedoors.
“Ididn’tthinkhe’ddothat,”shesaid,oncetheywereoutsideofthebuilding
—outsidethecoreofBuhle’sbody.
“Youtriedtokillhim,”Leonsaid.Helookedatherhands,whichhadblunt,
neatfingernailsandlargeknuckles.Hetriedtopicturethetendonsontheirbacks
standingoutlikesail-ropeswhenthewindblew,astheydidtherhythmicwork
ofraisingandloweringtheheavysilvercoffeepot.
Shewipedherhandsonhertrousersandstuffedtheminherpockets,awkward
now, without any of her usual self-confidence. “I’m not ashamed of that. I’m
proudofit.Noteveryonewouldhavehadtheguts.IfIhadn’t,youandeveryone
youknowwouldbe—”Shebroughtherhandsoutofherpockets,bunchedinto
fists.Sheshookherhead.“Ithoughthe’dtellyouwhatwelikeaboutyourgrad
project.Thenwecouldhavetalkedaboutwhereyou’dfitinhere—”
“Youneversaidanythingaboutthat,”hesaid.“Icouldhavesavedyoualotof
trouble.Idon’ttalkaboutit.”
Riashookherhead.“ThisisBuhle.Youwon’tstopusfromdoinganything
wewanttodo.I’mnottryingtointimidateyouhere.It’sjustafactoflife.Ifwe
wanttoreplicateyourexperiment,wecan,onanyscalewewant—”
“ButIwon’tbeapartofit,”hesaid.“Thatmatters.”
“Notasmuchasyouthinkitdoes.Andifyouthinkyoucanavoidbeingapart
ofsomethingthatBuhlewantsyoufor,you’relikelytobesurprised.Wecanget
youwhatyouwant.”
“Noyoucan’t,”he said. “Ifthere’sonething I know, it’sthatyoucan’tdo
that.”
***
Takeonenormalhumanbeingatlunch.Askheraboutherbreakfast.Iflunchis
great,she’lltellyou howgreatbreakfast is. Iflunchis terrible,she’lltellyou
howawfulbreakfastwas.
Nowaskheraboutdinner.Abadlunchwillmakeherassumethatabaddinner
isforthcoming.Agreatlunchwillmakeheroptimisticaboutdinner.
Explainthisdynamictoherandaskheragainaboutbreakfast.She’llstruggle
toremembertheactualdetailsofbreakfast,thetextureoftheoatmeal,whether
thejuicewascoldanddeliciousorslightlywarmandslimy.Shewillremember
and remember and remember for all she’s worth, and then, if lunch is good,
she’lltellyoubreakfastwasgood.Andiflunchisbad,she’lltellyoubreakfast
wasbad.
Becauseyou justcan’thelpit.Evenifyouknowyou’redoingit,youcan’t
helpit.
Butwhatifyoucould?
***
“Itwastheparents,”hesaid,astheypickedtheirwaythroughthetreetops,along
thenarrowwalkway,squeezingtoonesidetolettheeager,gabblingresearchers
past. “That was the heartbreaker. Parents only remember the good parts of
parenthood.Parentswhosekidsaregrownrememberasuccessionofsweethugs,
schooltriumphs,sportsvictories,andtheysimplyforgetthevomit,thetantrums,
the sleep deprivation … It’s the thing that lets us continue the species, this
excellentfacilityforforgetting.That’swhatshouldhavetippedmeoff.”
Rianoddedsolemnly.“Buttherewasanupside,wasn’tthere?”
“Oh, sure. Better breakfasts, for one thing. And the weight-loss—amazing.
Just being able to remember how shitty you felt the last time you ate the
chocolatebarorpiggedoutonfries.Itwasamazing.”
“Theapplicationsdosoundimpressive.Justthatweight-lossone—”
“Weight-loss,addictioncounseling,younameit.Itwasallkillerapps,wallto
wall.”
“But?”
He stopped abruptly. “You must know this,” he said. “If you know about
Clarity—that’swhatIcalledit,Clarity—thenyouknowaboutwhathappened.
WithBuhle’sresources,youcanfindoutanything,right?”
Shemadeawrysmile.“Oh,Iknowwhathistoryrecords.WhatIdon’tknow
iswhathappened.Theofficialversion,theonethatputAteontoyouandgotus
interested—”
“Why’dyoutrytokillBuhle?”
“BecauseI’mtheonlyonehecan’tbullshit,andIsawwherehewasgoing
withhislittleexperiment.Thecompetitiveadvantagetoafirmthatknowsabout
sucharadicalshiftinhumancognition—it’smassive.Thinkofalltheproducts
that would vanish if numeracy came in a virus. Think of all the shifts in
governance, in policy. Just imagine an airport run by and for people who
understandrisk!”
“Soundsprettygoodtome,”Leonsaid.
“Ohsure,”shesaid.“Sure.Aworldofeagerconsumerswhoknowthecostof
everything and the value of nothing. Why did evolution endow us with such
pathologicalinnumeracy?What’sthesurvivaladvantageinbeingledaroundby
thenosebywhicheverwitch-doctorcancomeupwiththebestscare-story?”
“Hesaidthatentrepreneurialthings—parenthood,businesses…”
“Anykindofrisk-taking.Sports.Nooneswingsforthestandswhenheknows
thattheoddsaresomuchbetteronabunt.”
“AndBuhlewantedthis?”
Shepeeredathim.“Aworldofpeoplewhounderstandriskarenearlyaseasy
to lead around by the nose as a world of people who are incapable of
understanding risk. The big difference is that the competition is at a massive
disadvantageinthelattercase,notbeingashighlyevolvedasthehometeam.”
Helookedather,reallylookedatherforthefirsttime.Sawthatshewasthe
face of a monster, the voice of a god. The hand of a massive, unknowable
machine that was vying to change the world, remake it to suit its needs. A
machinethatwasgoodatit.
“Clarity,” he said. “Clarity.” She looked perfectly attentive. “Do you think
you’dhavetriedtokillBuhleifyou’dbeentakingClarity?”
Sheblinkedinsurprise.“Idon’tthinkIeverconsideredthequestion.”
Hewaited.Hefoundhewasholdinghisbreath.
“IthinkIwouldhavesucceededifI’dbeentakingClarity,”shesaid.
“AndifBuhlehadbeentakingClarity?”
“I think he would have let me.” She blurted it so quickly it sounded like a
belch.
“IsanyoneinchargeofBuhle?”
“Whatdoyoumean?”
“Imean—thatvat-thing.Isitvolitional?Doesitsteerthis,thisenterprise?Or
doestheenterprisetickonunderitsownpower,makingitsowndecisions?”
She swallowed. “Technically, it’s a benevolent dictatorship. He’s sovereign,
you know that.” She swallowed again. “Will you tell me what happened with
Clarity?”
“Doesheactuallymakedecisions,though?”
“Idon’tthinkso,”shewhispered.“Notreally.It’smorelike,like—”
“Aforceofnature?”
“Anemergentphenomenon.”
“Canhehearus?”
Shenodded.
“Buhle,”he said,thinking of the thing inthe vat. “Clarity made thepeople
whotookitveryangry.Theycouldn’tlookatadvertisementswithoutwantingto
smashsomething.Goingintoashopmadethemnearlycatatonic.Votingmade
themwanttostormagovernmentofficewithflamingtorches.Everytestsubject
wenttoprisonwithineightweeks.”
Riasmiled.Shetookhishandsinhers—warm,dry—andsqueezedthem.
Hisphonerang.Hetookonehandoutandansweredit.
“Hello?”
“Howmuchdoyouwantforit?”Buhle’svoicewasebullient.Mad,even.
“It’snotforsale.”
“I’llbuyAte,putyouincharge.”
“Don’twantit.”
“I’llkillyourparents.”Theebullienttonedidn’tchangeatall.
“You’llkilleveryoneifClarityiswidelyused.”
“Youdon’tbelievethat.Clarityletsyouchoosethecoursethatwillmakeyou
happiest.Masssuicidewon’tmakehumanityhappiest.”
“Youdon’tknowthat.”
“Wannabet?”
“Whydon’tyoukillyourself?”
“Becausedead,I’llnevermakethingsbetter.”
Riawaswatchingintently.Shesqueezedthehandsheheld.
“Willyoutakeit?”
Therewasalongpause.
Leonpressedon.“Nodealunlessyoutakeit,”hesaid.
“Youhavesome?”
“Icanmakesome.I’llneedtotalktosomelab-techsanddownloadsomeof
myresearchfirst.”
“Willyoutakeitwithme?”
Hedidn’thesitate.“Never.”
“I’lltakeit,”Buhlesaid,andhungup.
Riatook hishand again.Leaned forward. Gavehim adry,firm kisson the
mouth.Leanedback.
“Thankyou,”shesaid.
“Don’tthankme,”hesaid.“I’mnotdoingyouanyfavors.”
Shestoodup,pullinghimtohisfeet.
“Welcometotheteam,”shesaid.“WelcometoBuhle.”
Flower,Mercy,Needle,Chain
YOONHALEE
New writer Yoon Ha Lee lives in Southern California with her
family.HerfictionhasappearedinLightspeed,Clarkesworld,The
Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Federation, Beneath
CeaselessSkies,andelsewhere.
Hereshetellsanicyandelegantstoryaboutanancientweapon
sopotentthattofireitistodestroytheuniverse—andreplaceit
withanotherone.
Theusualfallacyisthat,ineveryuniverse,manyfuturessplayoutwardfromany
given moment. But in some universes, determinism runs backwards: given a
universe’sstatesatsometimet,therearemultiplepreviousstatesthatmayhave
resultedins.Insomeuniverses,allpossiblepastsfunneltowardasinglefixed
ending,Ω.
Ifyouareofmillenarianbent,youmightcallWArmageddon.Ifyouareof
grammaticalbent,youmightcallitpunctuationonacosmologicalscale.
Ifyouareaphilosopherinsuchauniverse,youmightcallΩinevitable.
***
ThewomanhashauntedBlackwheelStationforaslongasanyoneremembers,
althoughshewasnotbornthere.Sheishuman,andherstraightblackhairand
brown-black eyes suggest an ancestral inheritance tangled up with tigers and
shapeshifting foxes. Her native language is not spoken by anyone here or
elsewhere.
Theysayhertruenamemeansthingslikegrayandashandgrave.Youmay
buyheradrink,bringhercandiedpetalsorchaoticmetals,butit’sallthesame.
Shewon’tspeakhername.
Thatdoesn’tstoppeoplefromseekingherout.Today,it’samanwithmirror-
coloredeyes.Heisthefirsthumanshehasseeninalongtime.
“Arighan’sFlower,”hesays.
Itisn’thername,butshelooksup.Arighan’sFloweristhegunshecarries.
Thestrangerhastakenonahumanfacetotalktoher,andheisalmostcertainly
interestedinthegun.
Theguntakesdifferentshapes,butatthisendoftime,origamimultiplicityof
formsurprisesmorebyitsabsencethanitspresence.Sometimesthegunislong
andsleek,sometimesheavyandblunt.Inallcases,itbearsitsmaker’smarkon
thestock:ablossomwiththreepetalsfallingawayandafourthabouttofollow.
Attheblossom’sheartisacharacterthatitselfresemblesaflowerwithknotted
roots.
Thecharacter’smeaningisthegun’ssecret.Thewomanwillnottellittoyou,
andthegunsmithArighanisgenerationsgone.
“EveryoneknowswhatIguard,”thewomansaystothemirror-eyedman.
“Iknowwhatitdoes,”hesays.“AndIknowthatyoucomefrompeoplethat
worshiptheirancestors.”
Herhand—onaglassofwatertwodegreesfromfreezing—stops,slidestoher
side, where the holster is. “That’s dangerous knowledge,” she says. So he’s
figureditout.Herpeople’shistorianscalledArighan’sFlowertheancestralgun.
Theyweren’treferringtoitsage.
Themansmilespolitely,anddoesn’ttakeaseatuninvited.Smallcourtesies
mattertohimbecauseheisnothuman.Hismindmaybehousedinasuperficial
fortress of flesh, but the busy computations that define him are inscribed in a
vastotherspace.
Themansays,“Icanhardlybethefirstconstructedsentiencetocometoyou.”
Sheshakesherhead.“It’snotthat.”Docomputerslikehimhavesouls?she
wonders.Sheiscertainhedoes,whichispotentiallyinconvenient.“I’mnotfor
hire.”
“It’simportant,”hesays.
Italwaysis.Theywantchancellorsdeadorgenerals,discardedloversorrival
reincarnates, bodhisattvas or bosses—all the old, tawdry stories. People, in all
thebroadandnarrowsensesoftheterm.ThereputationofArighan’sFloweris
quitespecific,ifmostlywrong.
“Isit,”shesays.Ordinarilyshedoesn’ttalktoherpetitionersatall.Ordinarily
she ignores them through one glass, two, three, four, like a child learning the
hardwaythatyoucan’toutcountinfinity.
Therewasatimewhenmoreofthemtriedtoforcethegunawayfromher.
The woman was a duelist and a killer before she tangled her life up with the
Flower, though, and the Flower comes with its own defenses, including the
woman’sinabilitytodiewhileshewieldsit.Oneofthethingsshelikesabout
Blackwheelisthattheadministratorspromisedthattheywoulddisposeofany
corpsessheproduced.Blackwheelisnotoriousforkeepingpromises.
Themanwaitsalittlelonger,thensays,“Willyouhearmeout?”
“Youshouldbemoreafraidofme,”shesays,“ifyoureallyknowwhatyou
claimtoknow.”
Bynow,theotherpeopleinthebar,noneofthemhuman,arepayingattention:
a musician whose instrument is made of fossilized wood and silk strings, a
magisterwithaseawrackmane,engineerswiththeirsketcheshangingintheair
andasingledoodledstarshipattheboundary.Thesoleexceptionisthetattooed
travelerdozinginthecorner,dreamingofdistantmoons.
In no hurry, the woman draws the Flower and points it at the man. She is
aimingitnotathisabsentheart,butathislefteye.Ifshepulledthetrigger,she
wouldpiercehimthroughthefalsepupil.
The musician continues plucking plangent notes from the instrument. The
others,seeingthegun,gawkforonlyamomentbeforehasteningoutofthebar.
Asifthatwouldsavethem.
“Yes,”themansays,outwardlyshaken,“youcoulddamagemylineagebadly.
Icouldnameprogrammersallthewaybacktothefirstpeoplewhoscratcheda
tallyofbirdsorrocks.”
The gun’s muzzle moves precisely, horizontally: now the right eye. The
womansays,“You’veconvincedmethatyouknow.Youhaven’tconvincedme
nottokillyou.”It’shalfabluff:shewouldn’tusetheFlower,notforthis.But
sheknowsmanywaystokill.
“There’sanotherone,”hesaid.“Idon’twanttospeakofithere,butwillyou
hearmeout?”
Shenodsonce,curtly.
Coveredbyherpalm,engravedsilver-brightinalanguagenobodyelsereads
orwrites,isthewordancestor.
***
Onceuponauniverse,anempress’sfavoredduelistreceivedapistolfromthe
empress’s own hand. The pistol had a stock of silver-gilt and niello, an
efflorescence of vines framing the maker’s mark. The gun had survived four
dynasties,withalltheirrebellionsandcoups.Ithadaccompaniedtheimperial
arsenalfromhomeworldtohomeworld.
Oftheancestralpistol,theempire’sarchivessaidtwothings:Donotusethis
weapon,foritisnothingbutperilandThisweapondoesnotfunction.
Inareasonableuniverse,bothstatementswouldnotbetrue.
***
Themanfollowsthewomantohersuite,whichisononeofBlackwheel’stidier
levels. The sitting room, comfortable but not luxurious by Blackwheeler
standards, accommodates a couch sized to human proportions, a metal table
shinedtoblurryreflectivity,avaseinthecorner.
Therearealsotwopaintings,onsilkratherthansomelessancientsubstrate.
Oneisofamountainbynight,serenelyanonymousamiditsstylizedclouds.The
other,inacompletelydifferentstyle,consistsofacavalcadeofshadows.Only
afterseveralmoments’studydotheshadowsassemblethemselvesintoaface.
Neitherpaintingissigned.
“Sit,”thewomansays.
Themandoes.“Doyourequireaname?”heasks.
“Yours,orthetarget’s?”
“Ihaveanameforoccasionslikethis,”hesays.“ItisZheuKerang.”
“Youhaven’taskedmemyname,”sheremarks.
“I’m not sure that’s a meaningful question,” Kerang says. “If I’m not
mistaken,youdon’texist.”
Wearily,shesays,“Iexistinallthewaysthatmatter.Ihavevolumeandmass
andvolition.Idrinkwaterthattastesthesameeveryday,aswatershould.Ikill
when it moves me to do so. I’ve unwritten death into the history of the
universe.”
Hismouthtiltsupatunwritten.“Nevertheless,”hesays.“Yourspeciesnever
evolved.Youspeakalanguagethatisnotevendead.Itneverexisted.”
“Manylanguagesareextinct.”
“Tobecomeextinct,somethinghastoexistfirst.”
Thewomanfoldsherselfintothecouchnexttohim,notclosebutnotfar.“It’s
anoldstory,”shesays.“Whatisyours?”
“FourofArighan’sgunsarestillinexistence,”Kerangsays.
Thewoman’seyesnarrow.“Ihadthoughtitwasthree.”Arighan’sFloweris
the last, the gunsmith’s final work. The others she knows of are Arighan’s
Mercy, which always kills the person shot, and Arighan’s Needle, which
removesthetarget’smemoriesofthewielder.
“Onemorehassurfaced,”Kerangsays.“Thecharacterinthemaker’s mark
resemblesaswordinchains.TheyarealreadycallingitArighan’sChain.”
“Whatdoesitdo?”shesays,becausehewilltellheranyway.
“This one kills the commander of whoever is shot,” Kerang says, “if that’s
anyoneatall.Admirals,ministers,monks.Schoolteachers.It’sapeculiarsortof
loyaltytest.”
Nowsheknows.“YouwantmetodestroytheChain.”
***
Onceuponauniverse,aduelistnamedShirontookupthegunthatanempress
with empiricist tendencies had given her. “I don’t understand how a gun that
doesn’t work could possibly be perilous,” the empress said. She nodded at a
sweatingmanboundinmonofilamentsothathewoulddismemberhimselfifhe
triedtoflee.“Thismanwillbeexecutedanyway,hisnamestruckfromtheroster
ofhonoredancestors.Seeifthegunworksonhim.”
Shiron fired the gun … and woke in a city she didn’t recognize, whose
inhabitants spoke a dialect she had never heard before, whose technology she
mostlyrecognizedfromhistoricaldramas.Thecalendartheyused,atleast,was
familiar. It told her that she was 857 years too early. No amount of research
changedthefigure.
Later,Shirondeducedthatthemanshehadexecutedtracedhisancestryback
857 years, to a particular individual. Most likely that ancestor had performed
some extraordinary deed to join the aristocracy, and had, by the reckoning of
Shiron’speople,foundedhisownline.
Unfortunately,Shirondidn’tfigurethisoutbeforesheaccidentallydeletedthe
humanspecies.
***
“Yes,”Kerangsays.“Ihavebeenchargedwithpreventingfurtherassassinations.
Arighan’sChainisnotathreatIcanaffordtoignore.”
“Whydidn’tyoucomeearlier,then?”Shironsays.“Afterall,theChainmight
havelaindormant,buttheothers—”
“I’veseentheMercyandtheNeedle,”hesays,bywhichhemeanshe’scopied
datafromthosewhohave.“They’rebeautiful.”Heisn’treferringtobeautyin
thewayofshadowsfittingtogetherintoawoman’sprofile,orbeautyintheway
ofsun-coloredliquorattherighttemperatureinafacetedglass.Hemeansthe
beauty of logical strata, of the crescendo of axiom-axiom-corollary-proof, of
quoderatdemonstrandum.
“Any gun or shard of glass could do the same as the Mercy,” Shiron says,
understanding him. “And drugs and dreamscalpels will do the Needle’s work,
giventimeandexpertise.ButsurelyyoucouldsaythesameoftheChain.”
She stands again and takes the painting of the mountain down and rolls it
tightly.“Iwasbornonthatmountain,”shesays.“Somethinglikeitisstillthere,
onabirthworldveryliketheoneIknew.ButIdon’tthinkanyonepaintsinthis
style. Perhaps some art historian would recognize its distant cousin. I am no
artist, but I painted it myself, because no one else remembers the things I
remember.Andnowyouwouldhaveitstartagain.”
“Howmanybulletshaveyouused?”Kerangasks.
ItisnotthattheFlowerrequiresspecialbullets—itadaptseventoemptiness
—itisthatthenumbermatters.
Shironlaughs,low,almosthusky.SheknowsbetterthantotrustKerang,but
sheneedshimtotrusther.ShepullsouttheFlowerandrestsitinbothpalmsso
hecanlookatit.
Three petals fallen, a fourth about to follow. That’s not the number, but he
doesn’trealizeit.“You’veguardeditsolong,”hesays,inspectingthemaker’s
markwithouttouchingthegun.
“IwillguardituntilIamnothingbutice,”Shironsays.“Youmaythinkthat
theChainisathreat,butifIremoveit,there’snoguaranteethatyouwillstill
exist—”
“It’snottheChainIwantdestroyed,”Kerangsaysgently.“It’sArighan.Do
youthinkIwouldhavecometoyouforanythingless?”
Shiron says into the awkward quiet, after a while, “So you tracked down
descendantsofArighan’sline.”Hissilenceisassent.“Theremustbemany.”
Arighan’sFlowerdestroysthe target’sentireancestral line, alteringthepast
butleavingitswielderuntouched.IntheempireShirononceserved,thehistories
spokeofArighanasanhonoredguest.ShirondiscoveredlongagothatArighan
was no guest, but a prisoner forced to forge weapons for her captors. How
Arighan was able to create weapons of such novel destructiveness, no one
knows.TheFlowerwasArighan’scleverrevengeagainstapeoplewhosestate
religioninvolvedancestorworship.
If descendants of Arighan’s line exist here, then Arighan herself can be
undone,andallhergunsunmade.Shironwillnolongerhavetobeanexilein
thistimeline,althoughitistruethatshecannotreturntotheonethatbirthedher,
either.
Shiron snaps the painting taut. The mountain disintegrates, but she lost it
lifetimes ago. Silent lightning crackles through the air, unknots Zheu Kerang
fromhishuman-shapedshell,tessellatesdead-endpatternsacrosstheequations
thatmakehimwhoheis.Thepaintinghadotheruses,asdotheotherthingsin
thisroom—shebelievesinversatility—butthisisgoodenough.
Kerang’sbodyslumpsonthecouch.Shironleavesitthere.
Forthefirsttimeinalongtime,sheisleavingBlackwheelStation.Whatshe
doesnotcarryshecanbuyontheway.AndBlackwheelisloyalbecausethey
know,andtheyknownottooffendher;Blackwheelwillkeephersuitecleanand
undisturbed, and deliver water, near-freezing in an elegant glass, night after
night,waiting.
Kerang was a pawn by his own admission. If he knew what he knew, and
livedlongenoughtoconveyittoher,thenothersmustknowwhatheknew,or
beabletofinditout.
Kerangdidnotunderstandheratall.Shironunmazesherselffromthestation
to seek passage to one of the hubworlds, where she can begin her search. If
Shironhad wantedto seek revengeon Arighan, she could havetaken it years
ago.
Butshe willnot be like Arighan. Shewill notdestroy anentire timelineof
people,nomatterhowalientheyaretoher.
Shironhadhopedthatmatterswouldn’tcometothis.Sheacknowledgesher
ownnaïveté.Thereisnohelpforitnow.Shewillhavetofindandmurdereach
childofArighan’sline.InthiswayshecanprotectArighanherself,protectthe
accumulatedsumofhistory,incasesomeoneoutwitsherafterallthistimeand
managestotaketheFlowerfromher.
***
Inauniversewheredeterminismrunsbackwards—where,nomatterwhatyou
do,everythingendsinthesameinevitableΩ—choicesstillmatter,especiallyif
youarethelastguardianofanincomparablylethalgun.
Although it has occurred to Shiron that she could have accepted Kerang’s
offer,andthatshecouldhavesacrificedthistimelineinexchangefortheonein
whichneitherArighannorthegunseverexisted,shedeclinestodoso.Forthere
will come a heat-death, and she is beginning to wonder: if a constructed
sentience—acomputer—canhaveasoul,whatoftheuniverseitself,thegreatest
computerofall?
In this universe, they reckon her old. Shiron is older than even that. In
millions of timelines, she has lived to the pallid end of life. In each of those
endings,Arighan’sFloweristhere,asintegralasanedgeistoablade.Whileit
istruethatscienceneverprovesanythingabsolutely,thataninconceivablylarge
butfinitenumberofexperimentsalwayspalesbesidesinfinity,Shironfeelsthat
millionsoftimelinessufficeasproof.
Without Arighan’s Flower, the universe cannot renew itself and start a new
story.Perhapsthatisallthereasontheuniverseneeds.AndShironwillbethere
whentheheat-deatharrives,asmanytimesasnecessary.
***
SoShironsetsoff.Itisnotthefirsttimeshehaskilled,anditisunlikelytobe
thelast.Butsheisnot,afterallthistime,incapableofgrieving.
ReturntoTitan
STEPHENBAXTER
StephenBaxtermadehisfirstsaletoInterzonein1987,andsince
then has become one of that magazine’s most frequent
contributors,aswellasmakingsalestoAsimov’sScienceFiction,
ScienceFictionAge,Analog,Zenith,NewWorlds,andelsewhere.
He’soneofthemostprolificwritersinsciencefiction,onewho
worksonthecuttingedgeofscience,whosefictionbristleswith
weird new ideas and often takes place against vistas of almost
outrageously cosmic scope. Baxter’s first novel, Raft, was
releasedin1991,andwasrapidlyfollowedbyotherwell-received
novels such as Timelike Infinity, Anti-ice, Flux, and the H. G.
Wellspastiche—asequeltoTheTimeMachine—TheTimeShips,
whichwonboththeJohnW.CampbellMemorialAwardandthe
PhilipK.DickAward.Hismanyotherbooksincludethenovels
Voyage, Titan, Moonseed, Mammoth, Book One: Silverhair,
Longtusk,Icebones,Manifold:Time,Manifold:Space,Evolution,
Coalescent, Exultant, Transcendent, Emperor, Resplendent,
Conqueror,Navigator,Firstborn,andTheH-BombGirl,andtwo
novelsincollaborationwithArthurC.Clarke,TheLightofOther
Days and Time’s Eye. His short fiction has been collected in
Vacuum Diagrams: Stories of the Xeelee Sequence, Traces, and
TheHuntersofPangaea,andhehasreleasedachapbooknovella,
“MayflowerII.”Hismostrecentbooksincludethenoveltrilogy
Weaver,Flood,andArk,andStoneSpring,aswellasanonfiction
book,TheScienceofAvatar.Comingupareseveralnewnovels,
includingBronzeSummerandIronWinter.
Baxter has written a long sequence of stories over the years
aboutastronautHarryPoole.“ReturntoTitan”exposesthehero’s
feet of clay, including a ruthless willingness to do just about
anythinginordertosucceed.…
PROLOGUE
PROBE
ThespacecraftfromEarthsailedthroughringsofice.
Initsfirst weekin orbit aroundSaturn itpassedwithin athirdof amillion
kilometresofTitan,Saturn’slargestmoon.Itssensorspeeredcuriouslydownat
unbrokenhaze.
Thecrafthadbeentooheavytolaunchdirectwiththetechnologyofthetime,
soitsflight path,extending across sevenyears, hadtaken it onswingbys past
Venus, Earth, and Jupiter. Primitive it was, but it was prepared for Titan. An
independentlander,afatpie-dishshapethreemetresacross,clungtothesideof
themainbody.Dormantformostoftheinterplanetarycruise,theprobewasat
lastwokenandreleased.
And,twoweekslater,itdroppedintothethickatmosphereofTitanitself.
Muchof the probe’sinterplanetary velocitywasshed inferocious heat,and
themainparachutewasreleased.Portalsopenedandboomsunfolded,andmore
thana billionkilometres fromthe nearesthuman engineer,instruments peered
outatTitan.Somefiftykilometresupthesurfaceslowlybecamevisible.This
firsttantalisingglimpsewaslikeahigh-altitudeviewofEarth,thoughrendered
insombreredsandbrowns.
Thelandingingrittywater-icesandwasslow,atlessthantwentykilometres
perhour.
After a journey of so many years the surface mission lasted mere minutes
beforetheprobe’sinternalbatterieswereexhausted,andthechatteroftelemetry
fellsilent.Itwouldtaketwomorehoursfornewsoftheadventuretocrawlat
lightspeedtoEarth,bywhichtimeathinorganicrainwasalreadysettlingonthe
probe’suppercasing,asthelastofitsinternalheatleakedaway.
And then, all unknown to the probe’s human controllers back on Earth, a
manipulatornot unlikea lobster’s claw closedaround Huygens’s pie-dish hull
anddraggedthecrushedprobedownbeneaththewater-icesand.
I
EARTHPORT
“There’salwaysbeensomethingwrongwithTitan.”ThesewerethefirstwordsI
ever heard Harry Poole speak—though I didn’t know the man at the time—
wordsthatcutthroughmyhangoverlikeadrill.“It’sbeenobvioussincethefirst
primitiveprobesgottheresixteenhundredyearsago.”Hehadthevoiceofan
olderman,seventy,eightymaybe,ascratchytexture.“Amoonwithablanketof
air, amoonthatcradlesa wholemenagerieoflifeunderits thickatmosphere.
Butthatatmosphere’snotsustainable.”
“Well, the mechanism is clear enough. Heating effects from the methane
componentkeeptheairfromcoolingandfreezingout.”Thiswasanotherman’s
voice,gravelly,abitsombre,thevoiceofamanwhotakeshimselftooseriously.
The voice sounded familiar. “Sunlight drives methane reactions that dump
complexhydrocarbonsinthestratosphere—”
“But, son, where does the methane come from?” Harry Poole pressed. “It’s
destroyed by the very reactions that manufacture all those stratospheric
hydrocarbons. Should all be gone in a few million years, ten million tops. So
whatreplenishesit?”
AtthatmomentIcouldnothavecaredlessabouttheproblemofmethaneon
Saturn’s largest moon, even though, I suppose, it was a central facet of my
career.Thefoginmyhead,thickerthanTitan’stholinhaze,wasliftingslowly,
and I became aware of my body, aching in unfamiliar ways, stretched out on
somekindofcouch.
“Maybe some geological process.” This was a woman’s voice, a bit brisk.
“Thatoranecology,aGaiaprocessthatkeepsthemethanelevelsup.Thoseare
theobviousoptions.”
“Surely,Miriam,” Harry Poolesaid.“Oneorthe other. That’sbeenobvious
sincethemethaneonTitanwasfirstspottedfromEarth.Butnobodyknows.Oh,
therehavebeenahandfulofprobesoverthecenturies,butnobody’stakenTitan
seriously enough to nail it down. Always too many other easy targets for
explorationandcolonisation—Mars,theicemoons.Nobody’sevenwalkedon
Titan!”
Anotherman,athird,said,“Butthepracticalproblems—theheatlossinthat
coldair—itwasalwaystooexpensivetobother,Harry.Andtoorisky…”
“No.Nobodyhadthevisiontoseethepotentialoftheplace.That’sthereal
problem.Andnowwe’rehamstrungbythesedamnsentiencelaws.”
“Andyouthinkweneedtoknow.”Thatgravelvoice.
“WeneedTitan,son,”HarryPoolesaid.“It’stheonlyhopeIseeofmaking
our wormhole link pay for itself. Titan is, ought to be, the key to opening up
SaturnandthewholeouterSystem.Weneedtoprovethesentiencelawsdon’t
applythere,andmoveinandstartopeningitup.That’swhatthisisallabout.”
Thewomanspokeagain.“Andyouthinkthiswretchedcreatureisthekey.”
“Givenhe’sasentiencecurator,andacrookedoneatthat,yes…”
Whenwordslike“wretched”or“crooked”arebandiedaboutinmycompany
it’sgenerallyJovikEmrythat’sbeingdiscussed.Itookthisasacuetoopenmy
eyes.Somekindofglassydomestretchedovermyhead,andbeyondthataslice
ofsky-blue.IrecognisedtheEarthseenfromspace.Andtherewassomething
else,asculptureofelectricbluethreadthatdriftedoverarumpledcloudlayer.
“Oh,look,”saidthewoman.“It’salive.”
Istretched,swivelledandsatup.Iwasstiffandsore,andhadapeculiarache
atthebackofmyneck,justbeneathmyskull.Ilookedaroundatmycaptors.
There were four of them, three men and a woman, all watching me with
expressionsofamusedcontempt.Well,itwasn’tthefirsttimeI’dwokenwitha
steaming hangover in an unknown place surrounded by strangers. I would
recoverquickly.IwasasyoungandhealthyasIcouldaffordtobe:Iwasaround
forty,butAS-preservedatmypeakoftwenty-three.
Wesatoncouchesatthecentreofaclutteredcirculardeck,domedoverbya
scuffedcarapace.IwasinaGUTship,then,astandardinterplanetarytransport,if
anelderlyone;Ihadtravelledinsuchvesselsmanytimes,toSaturnandback.
ThroughthecleardomeIcouldseemoreofthoseelectric-blueframesdrifting
beforethefaceoftheEarth.Theyweretetrahedral,andtheirfaceswerebriefly
visible,likesoapfilmsthatglistenedgoldbeforedisappearing.Thesewerethe
mouthsofwormholes,flawsinspacetime,andthegoldenshiverswereglimpses
ofotherworlds.
IknewwhereIwas.“ThisisEarthport.”Mythroatwasdryasmoondust,butI
triedtospeakconfidently.
“Well, you’re right about that.” This was the man who had led the
conversation earlier. That seventy-year-old voice, comically, came out of the
face of a boy of maybe twenty-five, with blond hair, blue eyes, a smooth
AntiSenescencemarvel.Theothertwomenlookedaroundsixty,butwithASso
prevalent it was hard to tell. The woman was tall, her hair cut short, and she
woreafunctionaljumpsuit;shemighthavebeenforty-five.Theold-youngman
spokeagain.“MynameisHarryPoole.WelcometotheHermitCrab,whichis
myson’sship—”
“Welcome?You’vedruggedmeandbroughtmehere—”
One of the sixty-year-olds laughed, the gruff one. “Oh, you didn’t need
drugging;youdidthattoyourself.”
“Youevidentlyknow me—andI think Iknow you.”I studied him.He was
heavy set, dark, not tall, with a face that wasn’t built for smiling. “You’re
MichaelPoole,aren’tyou?Poolethewormholeengineer.”
Poolejustlookedbackatme.Thenheturnedtotheblondman.“Harry,Ihave
afeelingwe’remakingahugemistaketryingtoworkwiththisguy.”
Harry grinned, studying me. “Give it time, son. You’ve always been an
idealist.You’renotusedtoworkingwithpeoplelikethis.Iam.We’llgetwhat
wewantoutofhim.”
Iturnedtohim.“HarryPoole.You’reMichael’sfather,aren’tyou?”Ilaughed
at them. “A father who AS-restores himself to an age younger than your son.
How crass. And, Harry, you really ought to get something done about that
voice.”
Thethirdmanspoke.“IagreewithMichael,Harry.Wecan’tworkwiththis
clown.”Hewasonthepointofbeingoverweight,andhadacrumpled,careworn
face.Ilabelledhimasacorporatemanwhohadgrownoldlabouringtomake
somebodyelserich—probablyMichaelPooleandhisfather.
Ismiledeasily,unfazed.“Andyouare?”
“BillDzik.AndI’llbeworkingwithyouifwegothroughwiththisplanned
jaunttoTitan.Can’tsayit’sanideaIlike.”
ThiswasthefirstIhadheardofatriptoTitan.Well,whatevertheywantedof
me,Ihadhadquiteenoughofthedismalhell-holeoftheSaturnsystem,andhad
nointentionofgoingbacknow.Ihadbeeninworsepredicamentsbefore;itwas
just a question of playing for time and looking for openings. I rubbed my
temples. “Bill—can I call you Bill?—I don’t suppose you could fetch me a
coffee.”
“Don’tpushyourluck,”hegrowled.
“Justtellmewhyyoukidnappedme.”
“That’ssimple,”Harrysaid.“WewantyoutotakeusdowntoTitan.”
Harrysnappedhisfingers,andaVirtualimagecoalescedbeforeus,abruised
orangespinninginthedark:Titan.Saturnitselfwasapaleyellowcrescentwith
thosetremendousringsspanningspace,andmoonshanginglikelanterns.And
there, glimmering in orbit just above the plane of the rings, was a baby-blue
tetrahedralframe,themouthofMichaelPoole’swormhole,ahyper-dimensional
road offering access to Saturn and all its wonders—a road, it seemed, rarely
travelled.
“Thatwouldbeillegal,”Ipointedout.
“Iknow.Andthat’swhyweneedyou.”Andhegrinned,acoldexpressionon
thatabsurdlyyoungface.
II
FINANCE
“Ifit’sanexpertonTitanyouwant,”Isaid,“keeplooking.”
“You’reacurator,”Miriamsaid,disbeliefanddisgustthickinhervoice.“You
workfortheintraSystemoversightpanelonsentiencelawcompliance.Titanis
inyourcharge!”
“Notbychoice,”Imurmured.“Look—asyouevidentlytargetedme,youmust
knowsomethingofmybackground.Ihaven’thadaneasycareer…”Mylifeat
school,supportedbymyfamily’smoney,hadbeenaseriesofdrunkenjaunts,
sexualescapades,pettythieving,andvandalism.AsayoungmanIneverlasted
longatanyofthejobsmyfamilyfoundforme,largelybecauseIwasusuallyon
therunfromsomewrongedpartyorother.
Harrysaid,“Intheendyougotyourselfsentencedtoanediting,didn’tyou?”
If the authorities had had their way I would have had the contents of my
much-abusedbraindownloadedintoanexternalstore,mymemoriesedited,my
unhealthyimpulses“re-programmed,”andthelotloadedbackagain—mywhole
self rebooted. “It represented death to me,” I said. “I wouldn’t have been the
samemanasIwasbefore.Myfathertookpityonme—”
“Andboughtyououtofyoursentence,”BillDziksaid.“Andgotyouajobon
sentiencecompliance.Asinecure.”
IlookedatTitan’sdismalcolours.“Itisamiserableposting.Butitpaysabit,
andnobodycaresmuchwhatyougetupto,withinreason.I’veonlybeenouta
fewtimestoSaturnitself,andtheorbitofTitan;thework’smostlyadmin,run
fromEarth.I’vehelddownthejob.Well,Ireallydon’thavemuchchoice.”
Michael Poole studied me as if I were a vermin infesting one of his
marvellous interplanetary installations. “This is the problem I’ve got with
agencieslikethesentience-oversightcuracy.Imightevenagreewithitsgoals.
Butit’spopulatedbytime-wasterslikeyou,itdoesn’tdowhatit’ssupposedto
achieve,andallitdoesisgetinthewayofenterprise.”
Ifoundmyselftakingaprofounddisliketotheman.AndI’veneverbeenable
tostomachbeingpreachedat.“Ididnobodyanyharm,”Isnappedbackathim.
“Notmuch,anyhow.Notlikeyouwithyourgrandschemes,Poole,reordering
thewholeSystemforyourownprofit.”
Michaelwouldhaveresponded,butHarryhelduphishand.“Let’snotgetinto
that.Andafterallhe’sright.Profit,orthelackofit,istheissuehere.Asforyou,
Jovik,eveninthisbillion-kilometres-remote‘sinecure’you’restilluptoyourold
tricks,aren’tyou?”
Isaidnothing,cautiousuntilIworkedouthowmuchheknew.
HarrywavedhishandathisVirtualprojection.“Look—Titanisinfestedwith
life.That’sthebasicconclusionofthegaggleofprobesthat,overthecenturies,
haveorbitedTitanorpenetrateditsthickairandcrawledoveritssurfaceordug
intoitsicysand.Butlifeisn’tthepoint.ThewholeSystemisfulloflife—life
that blows everywhere, in impact-detached rocks and lumps of ice. Life is
commonplace.Thequestionissentience.Andsentienceholdsupprogress.”
“It’s happened to us before,” Michael Poole said to me. “The development
consortiumIlead,thatis.WewereestablishingawormholeInterfaceataKuiper
objectcalledBakedAlaska,outontherimoftheSystem.Ourpurposewasto
usetheiceasreactionmasstofuelGUTdrivestarships.Well,wediscoveredlife
there, life of a sort, and it wasn’t long before we identified sentience. The
xenobiologistscalleditaForestofAncestors.Theprojectgroundtoahalt;we
hadtoevacuatetheplace—”
“Giventhecircumstancesinwhichyou’vebroughtmehere,”Isaid,“I’mnot
evengoingtofeigninterestinyourwarstories.”
“Allright,”Harrysaid.“ButyoucanseetheissuewithTitan.Look,wewant
toopenitupfordevelopment.It’safactoryofhydrocarbonsandorganics,and
exoticlifeformssomeofwhichatleastarerelatedtoourown.Wecanmake
breathable air from the nitrogen atmosphere and oxygen extracted from water
ice.Wecanuseallthatmethaneandorganicchemistrytomakeplasticsorfuel
or even food. Titan should be the launch pad for the opening-up of the outer
System,indeedthestars.Attheveryleast,it’stheonlydamnreasonIcanthink
ofwhyanybodywouldwanttogotoSaturn.Butwe’renotgoingtobeallowed
todevelopTitanifthere’ssentiencethere.Andourproblemisthatnobodyhas
establishedthatthereisn’t.”
I started to see it. “So you want to mount a quick and dirty expedition,
violatingtheplanetary-protectionaspectsofthesentiencelaws,provethere’sno
significant mind down there, and get the clearance to move in the digging
machines. Right?” And I saw how Bill Dzik, Miriam, and Michael Poole
exchangedunhappyglances.Therewasdissensionintheteamoverthemorality
ofallthis,acrackImightbeabletoexploit.“Whydoyouneedthissobadly?”I
asked.
Sotheytoldme.Itwasasagaofinterplanetaryambition.Butattherootofit,
asisalwaysthecase,wasmoney—orthelackofit.
III
NEGOTIATION
HarryPoolesaid,“Youknowourbusiness,Jovik.Ourwormholeengineeringis
layingdownrapid-transitroutesthroughtheSystem,whichwillopenupawhole
family of worlds to colonisation and development. But we have grander
ambitionsthanthat.”
Iasked,“Whatambitions?Starships?”
“Thatandmore,”MichaelPoolesaid.“Forthelastfewdecadeswe’vebeen
workingonanexperimentalshipbeingbuiltintheorbitofJupiter…”
AndhetoldmeabouthispreciousCauchy.Bydraggingawormholeportal
around a circuit light-years across, the GUTship Cauchy will establish a
wormholebridge—notacrossspace—butacrossfifteencenturies,tothefuture.
So,havingalreadyconnectedtheworldsofhumanitywithhiswormholesubway
System,MichaelPoolenowhopestoshort-circuitpastandfuturethemselves.I
lookedathimwithnewrespect,andsomefear.Themanisagenius,ormad.
“But,”Isaid,“tofundsuchdreamsyouneedmoney.”
Harrysaid,“Jovik,youneedtounderstandthatamega-engineeringbusiness
likeoursisaferociousdevourerofcash.It’sbeenthiswaysincethedaysofthe
pioneeringrailwaybuildersbackinthe nineteenth century.Wefundeach new
projectwiththeprofitofourpreviousventuresandwithfreshinvestment—but
thatinvestmentiscloselyrelatedtothesuccessoftheearlierschemes.”
“Ah.Andyou’restumbling.Yes?AndthisisalltodowithSaturn.”
Harrysighed.“TheSaturntransitwasalogicaldevelopment.Thetroubleis,
nobody needs to go there. Saturn pales beside Jupiter! Saturn has ice moons;
well, there are plenty in orbit around Jupiter. Saturn’s atmosphere could be
mined,butsocanJupiter’s,athalfthedistancefromEarth.”
Miriam said, “Saturn also lacks Jupiter’s ferociously energetic external
environment,whichwe’retappingourselvesinthemanufactureoftheCauchy.”
“Fascinating,”Ilied.“You’reanengineertoo,then?”
“Aphysicist,”shereplied,awkward.ShesatnexttoMichaelPoolebutapart
fromhim.Iwonderediftherewasanythingdeeperbetweenthem.
“Thepoint,”said Harry, “isthat there’s nothingat Saturnyou’d want togo
there for—no reason for our expensive wormhole link to be used. Nothing
except—”
“Titan,”Isaid.
“Ifwecan’tgetdowntherelegally,weneedsomebodytobreakusthroughthe
securityprotocolsandgetusdownthere.”
“Soyouturnedtome.”
“Thelastresort,”saidBillDzikwithdisgustinhisvoice.
“Wetriedyourcolleagues,”Miriamsaid.“Theyallsaidno.”
“Well,that’stypicalofthatbunchofprigs.”
Harry, always a diplomat, smiled at me. “So we’re having to bend a few
pettifogging rules, but you have to see the vision, man, you have to see the
greatergood.Andit’sachanceforyoutoreturntoTitan,Jovik.Thinkofitasan
opportunity.”
“Thequestionis,what’sinitforme?YouknowI’vecomeclosetotheediting
suitesbefore.WhyshouldItaketheriskofhelpingyounow?”
“Because,”Harrysaid,“ifyoudon’tyou’llcertainlyfaceareboot.”Sonow
wecametothedirtystuff.Harrytookover;hewasclearlythekeyoperatorin
thislittlecabal,withtheotherengineertypesuncomfortablyoutoftheirdepth.
“Weknowaboutyoursideline.”
WithasinkingfeelingIasked,“Whatsideline?”
AndheusedhisVirtualdisplaytoshowme.Therewentoneofmydoctored
probesarrowingintoTitan’sthickair,asilverneedlethatstoodoutagainstthe
murkyorganicbackdrop,supposedlyonaroutinemonitoringmissionbutinfact
withaquitedifferentobjective.
There are pockets of liquid water to be found just under Titan’s surface,
frozen-overcraterlakes,keptwarmforafewthousandyearsbytheresidualheat
of the impacts that created them. My probe now shot straight through the icy
carapaceofoneofthosecraterlakes,andintotheliquidwaterbeneath.Harry
fast-forwarded,andwewatchedtheprobe’sascentmodulepushitswayoutof
thelakeandupintotheair,onitswaytomycolleagues’baseonEnceladus.
“You’resamplingthesubsurfacelifefromthelakes,”Harrysaidsternly.“And
sellingtheresults.”
Ishrugged;therewasnopointdenyingit.“Iguessyouknowthebackground.
ThecreaturesdowntherearerelatedtoEarthlife,butverydistantly.Different
numbersofaminoacids,orsomething—Idon’tknow.The tiniest samples are
golddusttothebiochemists,awholenewtoolkitfordesignerdrugsandgenetic
manipulation…”Ihadoneget-out.“You’llhave trouble provingthis.Bynow
therewon’tbeatraceofourprobesleftonthesurface.”Whichwastrue;oneof
themanyill-understoodaspectsofTitanwasthatprobessentdowntoitssurface
quicklyfailedanddisappeared,perhapsasaresultofsomekindofgeological
resurfacing.
Harry treated that with the contempt it deserved. “We have full records.
Images.SamplesofthematerialyoustolefromTitan.Evenaswornstatement
byoneofyourpartners.”
Iflaredatthat,“Who?”But,ofcourse,itdidn’tmatter.
Harrysaidsweetly.“Thepointisthesheerillegality—andcommittedbyyou,
acurator,whosejobispreciselytoguardagainstsuchthings.Ifthisgetstoyour
bosses,itwillbetheeditingsuiteforyou,myfriend.”
“Sothat’sit.Blackmail.”Ididmybesttoinjectsomemoralisticcontemptinto
myvoice.Anditworked;Michael,Miriam,Billwouldn’tmeetmyeyes.
Butitdidn’twashwithHarry.“NotthewordI’duse.Butthat’sprettymuchit,
yes.Sowhat’sittobe?Areyouwithus?WillyouleadustoTitan?”
Iwasn’tabouttogiveinyet.Igottomyfeetsuddenly;tomygratification
theyallflinchedback.“Atleastletmethinkaboutit.Youhaven’tevenoffered
methatcoffee.”
Michael glanced at Harry, who pointed at a dispenser on a stand near my
couch.“Usethatone.”
Therewereotherdispensersinthecabin;whythatparticularone?Ifiledaway
thequestionandwalkedovertothedispenser.Atacommanditproducedamug
ofwhatsmelledlikecoffee.Isippeditgratefullyandtookastepacrossthefloor
towardsthetransparentdome.
“Holdit,”Michaelsnapped.
“Ijustwanttotakeintheview.”
Miriamsaid,“OK,butdon’ttouchanything.Followthatyellowpath.”
I grinned at her. “Don’t touch anything? What am I, contagious?” I wasn’t
surewhatwasgoingon,butprobingawayattheselittlemysterieshadtohelp.
“Please.Walkwithme.Showmewhatyoumean.”
Miriamhesitatedfor aheartbeat. Then, withan expressionof deep distaste,
shegottoherfeet.ShewastallerthanIwas,andlithe,strong-looking.
Wewalkedtogetheracrossthelifedome,ahalf-sphereahundredmetreswide.
Couches,controlpanels,anddataentryandretrievalportswereclusteredaround
the geometric centre of the dome; the rest of the transparent floor area was
dividedupbyshoulder-highpartitionsintolabareas,agalley,agym,asleeping
area,andshower.Thelayoutlookedobsessivelyplainandfunctionaltome.This
wasthevesselofamanwholivedforwork,andonlythat;ifthiswasMichael
Poole’sshipitwasableakportrait.
Wereachedthe curvinghull.Glancing downI couldseethe ship’sspine, a
complexcolumnacoupleofkilometreslongleadingtothelodeofasteroidice
used for reaction mass by GUTdrive module within. And all around us
wormhole Interfaces drifted like snowflakes, while intraSystem traffic passed
endlesslythroughthegreatgateways.
“All this is a manifestation of your lover’s vision,” I said to Miriam, who
stoodbyme.
“Michael’snotmylover,”sheshotback,irritated.Theelectric-bluelightof
theexoticmatterframesshoneonhercheekbones.
“Idon’tevenknowyourname,”Isaid.
“Berg,”shesaidreluctantly.“MiriamBerg.”
“Believeitornot,I’mnotacriminal.I’mnohero,andIdon’tpretendtobe.I
justwanttogetthroughmylife,andhavealittlefunontheway.Ishouldn’tbe
here, and nor should you.” Deliberately I reached for her shoulder. A bit of
physicalcontactmightbreakthroughthatreserve.
Butmyfingerspassedthroughhershoulder,breakingupintoamistofpixels
untiltheywereclearofherflesh,andthenreformed.Ifeltonlyadistantachein
myhead.
IstaredatMiriamBerg.“Whathaveyoudonetome?”
“I’msorry,”shesaidgravely.
***
Isatonmycouchoncemore—mycouch,aVirtualprojectionlikeme,theonly
oneinthedomeIwouldn’thavefallenthrough,andsippedacoffeefrommy
Virtualdispenser,theonlyonethatIcouldtouch.
Itwas,predictably,HarryPoole’sscheme.“Justincasethearm-twistingover
thesample-stealingfromTitanwasn’tenough.”
“I’maVirtualcopy,”Isaid.
“Strictlyspeaking,anidentitybackup…”
Ihadheardofidentitybackups,butcouldneveraffordonemyself,norindeed
fancieditmuch.Beforeundertakingsomehazardousjauntyoucoulddownloada
copy of yourself into a secure memory store. If you were severely injured or
even killed, the backup could be loaded into a restored body, or a vat-grown
clonedcopy,orallowedtoliveoninsomeVirtualenvironment.Youwouldlose
thememoriesyouhadacquiredafterthebackupwasmade,butthatwasbetter
thannon-existence…Thatwasthetheory.Inmyopinionitwasanindulgence
oftherich;yousawbackupVirtualsappearinglikeghostsatthefuneralsoftheir
originals,distastefullylappingupthesentiment.
And besides the backup could never be you, the you who had died; only a
copycouldliveon.Thatwastheideathatstartedtoterrifymenow.Iamnofool,
andimaginativetoafault.
Harrywatchedmetakingthisin.
Icouldbarelyaskthequestion:“Whataboutme?Theoriginal.DidIdie?”
“No,”Harrysaid.“Therealyouisinthehold,suspended.Wetookthebackup
afteryouwerealreadyunconscious.”
Sothatexplainedtheacheatthebackofmyneck:thatwaswheretheyhad
jackedintomynervoussystem.Igotupandpacedaround.“AndifIrefuseto
help? You’re a pack of crooks and hypocrites, but I can’t believe you’re
deliberatekillers.”
Michael would have answered, but Harry held up his hand, unperturbed.
“Look,itneedn’tbethatway.Ifyouagreetoworkwithus,you,theVirtualyou,
will be loaded back into the prime version. You’ll have full memories of the
wholeepisode.”
“ButIwon’tbeme.”Ifeltragebuildingupinme.“Imean,thecopysitting
here.Iwon’texist anymore—any morethanI existeda coupleofhours ago,
whenyouactivatedme.”Thatwasanotherstrangeandterrifyingthought.“Iwill
havetodie!Andthat’sevenifIcooperate.Greatdealyou’reoffering.Well,into
Lethewithyou.Ifyou’regoingtokillmeanywayI’llfindawaytohurtyou.I’ll
getintoyoursystemslikeavirus.Youcan’tcontrolme.”
“ButIcan.”Harryclickedhisfingers.
And in an instant everything changed. The four of them had gathered by
Harry’scouch,thefurthestfromme.Ihadbeenstanding;nowIwassitting.And
beyondthecurvedwallofthetransparentdome,Isawthatwehaddriftedinto
Earth’snight.
“Howlong?”Iwhispered.
“Twentyminutes,”Harrysaid carelessly.“Ofcourse I cancontrolyou.You
have an off switch. So which is it to be? Permanent extinction for all your
copies,orsurvivalasatracememoryinyourhost?”Hisgrinhardened,andhis
young-oldfacewascold.
***
SotheHermitCrabwheeledinspace,seekingoutthewormholeInterfacethat
ledtoSaturn.AndI,orratherhewhohadbrieflybelievedhewasme,submitted
toadownloadingbackintohisprimary,myself.
He,theidentitycopy,diedtosavemylife.Isalutehim.
IV
WORMHOLE
Releasedfrommycellofsuspendedanimation,embittered,angry,Ichosetobe
alone.Iwalkedtotheveryrimofthelifedome,wherethetransparentcarapace
metthesolidfloor.LookingdownIcouldseetheflaringofsuperheated,ionised
steam pouring from the GUTdrive nozzles. The engine, as you would expect,
wasoneofPoole’sowndesigns.“GUT”standsfor“GrandUnifiedTheory,”the
systemwhichdescribesthefundamentalforcesofnatureasaspectsofasingle
superforce. This is creation physics. Thus men like Michael Poole use the
energieswhichoncedrovetheexpansionoftheuniverseitselfforthetriviality
ofpushingforwardtheirsteamrockets.
SoontheHermitCrabdroveusintothemouthofthewormholethatledtothe
Saturnsystem.Weflewlifedome-firstatthewormholeInterface,soitwasasif
theelectric-bluetetrahedralframecamedownonusfromthezenith.Itwasquite
beautiful,a sculpture of light. Those electric blue struts were beamsof exotic
matter,amanifestationofakindofantigravityfieldthatkeptthisthroatinspace
and time from collapsing. Every so often you would see the glimmer of a
triangularface,asheenofgoldenlightfilteringthroughfromSaturn’sdimhalls.
Theframeboredown,wideninginmyview,andfellaroundus,obscuringthe
viewofEarthandEarthport.NowIwaslookingupintoakindoftunnel,picked
outbyflaringofsheetsoflight.Thiswasaflawinspacetimeitself;theflashing
I saw was the resolution of that tremendous strain into exotic particles and
radiations.Theshipthrustdeeperintothewormhole.Fragmentsof blue-white
lightswamfromavanishingpointdirectlyabovemyheadandswarmeddown
the spacetime walls. There was a genuine sensation of speed, of limitless,
uncontrollable velocity. The ship shuddered and banged, the lifedome creaked
likeatinshack,andIthoughtIcouldhearthatelderlyGUTdrivescreamingwith
thestrain.Igrippedarailandtriednottocower.
Thepassagewasatleastmercifullyshort.Amidashowerofexoticparticles
weascendedoutofanotherelectric-blueInterface—andIfoundmyselfbackin
theSaturnsystem,forthefirsttimeinyears.
I could see immediately that we were close to the orbit of Titan about its
primary,fortheplanetitself,suspendedinthescuffedskyofthelifedome,was
aboutthesizeIrememberedit:aflattenedglobeagoodbitlargerthantheMoon
seenfrom Earth.Other moonshung aroundtheir primary, pointsof light.The
sun was off to the right, with its close cluster of inner planets, so Saturn was
half-full. Saturn’s only attractive feature, the rings, were invisible, for Titan’s
orbitisinthesameequatorialplaneastheringsystemandtheringsareedge-on.
Buttheshadowoftheringscastbythesunlayacrosstheplanet’sface,sharp
andunexpected.
Therewasnothingromanticintheview,nothingbeautifulaboutit,nottome.
Thelightwasflatandpale.SaturnisabouttentimesasfarfromthesunasEarth
is,andthesunisreducedtoaneeriepinpoint,itsradianceonlyahundredthof
that at Earth. Saturn is misty and murky, an autumnal place. And you never
forgot that you were so far from home that a human hand, held out at arm’s
lengthtowardsthesun,couldhavecoveredalloftheorbitofEarth.
The Crab swung about and Titan itself was revealed, a globe choked by
murkybrowncloudfrompoletopole,evenmoredismalanduninvitingthanits
primary.EvidentlyMichaelPoolehadplacedhiswormholeInterfaceclosetothe
mooninanticipationthatTitanwouldsomedayservehispurposes.
Titanwasloominglarger,swellingvisibly.Ourdestinationwasobvious.
***
Harry Poole took charge. He had us put on heavy, thick-layered exosuits of a
kindI’dneverseenbefore.Wesatonourcoucheslikefatpupae;mysuitwasso
thickmylegswouldn’tbendproperly.
“Here’sthedeal,”Harrysaid,evidentlyformybenefit.“TheCrabcameout
ofthewormholebarrellingstraightforTitan.Thatwaywehopetogetyoudown
therebeforeanyoftheautomatedsurveillancesystemsupherecanspotus,or
anyhowdoanythingaboutit.InawhiletheCrabwillbrakeintoorbitaround
Titan.Butbeforethenyoufourinthe gondola will bethrownstraightintoan
entry.”Hesnappedhisfingers,andahatchopenedupinthefloorbeneathusto
revealtheinteriorofanothercraft,matedtothebaseofthelifedome.Itwaslike
acave,brightlylitandwithitswallscrustedwithdatadisplays.
Isaid,“Thrownstraightin,Harry?Andwhataboutyou?”
He smiled with that young-old face. “I will be waiting for you in orbit.
Somebodyhastostaybehindtobailyouout,incase.”
“This‘gondola’lookssmallforthefourofus.”
Harrysaid,“Well,weighthasbeenaconsideration.You’llmassnomorethan
atonne,allup.”Hehandedmeadataslate.“Nowthisiswhereyoucomein,
Jovik.IwantyoutosendacoveringmessagetothecontrolbaseonEnceladus.”
Istaredattheslate.“Sayingwhat,exactly?”
Harrysaid,“Theentryprofileisdesignedtomimicanunmannedmission.For
instanceyou’regoinginhard—highdeceleration.Iwantyoutomakeyourselves
lookthatwayinthetelemetry—likejustanotherunmannedprobe,goinginfora
bitofscience,oracuracyinspection,orwhateveritisyoubureaucrattypesdo.
Attachtheappropriatepermissions.I’mquitesureyou’recapableofthat.”
I was sure of it too. I opened the slate with a wave of my hand, quickly
mockedupasuitableprofile,letHarry’ssystemscheckthatIhadn’tsmuggledin
any cries for help, and squirted it over to Enceladus. Then I handed the slate
back.“There.Done.You’remaskedfromthecuracy.I’vedonewhatyouwant.”
I waved at the looming face of Titan. “So you can spare me from that, can’t
you?”
“Wediscussedthat,”saidMichaelPoole,withjustahintofregretinhisvoice.
“We decided to take you along as a fall-back, Jovik, in case of a challenge.
Havingyouaboardwillmakethemissionlookmoreplausible;youcangiveusa
bitmorecover.”
Isnorted.“They’llseethroughthat.”
Miriamshrugged.“It’sworthitifitbuysusabitmoretime.”
BillDzikstaredatme,hard.“Justdon’tgetanyideas,deskjockey.I’llhave
myeyeonyouallthewaydownandallthewayback.”
“Andlisten,”Harrysaid,leaningforward.“Ifthisworksout,Jovik,you’llbe
rewarded.We’llseetothat.We’llbeabletoaffordit,afterall.”Hegrinnedthat
youthfulgrin.“Andjustthink.Youwillbeoneofthefirsthumanstowalkon
Titan! So you see, you’ve every incentive to cooperate, haven’t you?” He
checkedaclockonhisdataslate.“We’reclosetothereleasecheckpoint.Down
yougo,team.”
Theyallsneered atthatword andat thecheerfultone ofthe man whowas
stayingbehind.Butwefileddutifullyenoughthroughthehatchanddowninto
thatcaveofinstrumentation,Miriamfirst,thenme,withBillDzikatmyback.
MichaelPoolewaslastin;Isawhimembracehisfather,stiffly,evidentlynota
gesturetheywereusedto.Inthe“gondola,”ourfourcouchessatinarow,so
closethatmykneestouchedMiriam’sandDzik’swhenwewereallcrammedin
there in our suits. The hull was all around us, close enough for me to have
reachedoutandtoucheditineverydirection,aclose-fittingshell.Poolepulled
thehatchclosed,andIheardahumandwhirastheindependentsystemsofthis
gondolacameonline.Therewasarattleoflatches,andthenakindofsideways
shovethatmademystomachchurn.WewerealreadycutlooseoftheCrab,and
werefallingfree,androtating.
Pooletouchedapanelabovehishead,andthehullturnedtransparent.Itwas
asifwefourinourcouchesweresuspendedinspace,surroundedbyglowing
instrumentpanels,andblockymassesthatmustbetheGUTengine,lifesupport,
supplies.AbovemetheCrabslidacrossthefaceofSaturn,GUTdriveflaring,
andbelowmetheorangefaceofTitanloomedlarge.
Iwhimpered.Ihaveneverpretendedtobebrave.
Miriam Berg handed me a transparent bubble-helmet. “Lethe, put this on
beforeyoupuke.”
Ipulledthehelmetovermyhead;itsnuggledintothesuitneckandmadeits
ownlock.
BillDzikwasevidentlyenjoyingmydiscomfort.“Youfeelsaferinthesuit,
right?Well,theentryisthemostdangeroustime.Butyou’dbetterhopeweget
through the atmosphere’s outer layers before the hull breaches, Emry. These
outfitsaren’tdesignedtoworkaspressuresuits.”
“Thenwhat?”
“Heat control,” Michael Poole said, a bit more sympathetic. “Titan’s air
pressureisfiftypercenthigherthanEarth’s,atthesurface.Butthatcold,thick
airjustsucksawayyourheat.Listenup,Emry.Thegondola’ssmall,butithasa
prettyrobustpowersupply—aGUTengine,infact.You’regoingtoneedthat
powertokeepwarm.Awayfromthegondolayoursuitwillprotectyou,thereare
powercellsbuiltintothefabric.Butyouwon’tlastmorethanafewhoursaway
fromthegondola.Gotthat?”
Iwashardly reassured. “Whataboutthe entryitself?Yourfather saidwe’ll
followanunmannedprofile.Thatsoundsabitvigorous.”
BillDzikbarkedalaugh.
“Weshouldbefine,”Poolesaid.“Wedon’thavefullinertialcontrol,wedon’t
have the power, but in the couches we’ll be shielded from the worst of the
deceleration.Justsittight.”
And then Poole fell silent as he and the others began to work through pre-
entrysystemchecks.Harrymurmuredinmyear,tellingmethatfreshidentity
backupshadjustbeentakenofeachofusandstoredinthegondola’ssystems.I
wasnotreassured.Ilayhelpless,trussedupandstrappedin,asweplummeted
intothecentreofthesunlitfaceofTitan.
V
TITAN
FifteenminutesaftercuttinglooseoftheCrab,thegondolaencounteredthefirst
wispsofTitan’supperatmosphere,thinandcold,faintlyblueallaroundus.Still
a thousand kilometres above the ground I could feel the first faltering in the
gondola’s headlong speed. Titan’s air is massive and deep, and I was falling
backsidefirststraightintoit.
Thefirstthreeminutesoftheentryweretheworst.Weplungedintotheair
with an interplanetary velocity, but our speed was reduced violently. Three
hundred kilometres above the surface, the deceleration peaked at sixteen
gravities. Cushioned by Poole’s inertial field I felt no more than the faintest
shaking,butthegondolacreakedandbanged,everyjointandstructurestressed
to its limits. Meanwhile a shock wave preceded us, a cap of gas that glowed
brilliantly:Titanairbatteredtoaplasmabythedissipatingkineticenergyofthe
gondola.
Thisfieryentryphasewasmercifullybrief.Butstillwefellhelplessly.After
threeminuteswewerewithinahundredandfiftykilometresofthesurface,and
immersed in a thickening orange haze, the organic-chemistry products of the
destruction of Titan’s methane by sunlight. Poole tapped a panel. A mortar
bangedaboveus,haulingoutapilotparachuteacoupleofmetresacross.This
stabilisedusinthethickeningair,ourbackstothemoon,ourfacestothesky.
Thenamainparachuteunfoldedsluggishly,spreadingreassuringlyaboveme.
For fifteen minutes we drifted, sinking slowly into a deep ocean of cold,
sluggishair.Pooleandhiscolleaguesworkedattheirslates,gatheringdatafrom
sensorsthatmeasuredthephysicalandchemicalpropertiesoftheatmosphere.I
laysilent,curiousbutfrightenedformylife.
As we fell deeper into the hydrocarbon smog the temperature fell steadily.
Greenhouse effects from methane products keep Titan’s stratosphere warmer
thanitshouldbe.Sixtykilometresabovethesurfacewefellthroughalayerof
hydrocarboncloudintoclearerairbeneath,andthen,atfortykilometres,through
athinlayerofmethaneclouds.Thetemperaturewasclosetoitsminimumhere,
atonlyseventydegreesorsoaboveabsolutezero.Soonitwouldriseagain,for
hydrogen liberated from more methane reactions contributes to another
greenhouseeffectthatwarmsupthetroposphere.Themysteriousmethanethat
shouldn’thavebeentherewarmsTitan’sairallthewaytotheground.
Fifteenminutesafteritsunpackagingthemainparachutewascutaway,anda
smallerstabilisercanopyopened.Muchsmaller.Webegantofallfaster,intothe
deepoceanofair.“Lethe,”Isaid.“We’restillfortykilometreshigh!”
BillDziklaughedatme.“Don’tyouknowanythingabouttheworldyou’re
supposed to be guarding, curator? The air’s thick here, and the gravity’s low,
onlyaseventhofEarthnormal.Underthatbigparachutewe’dbehanginginthe
airallday…”
Thegondolalurchedsideways,shovedbythewinds.AtleastitshutDzikup.
Butthewindseasedaswefellfurther,untiltheairwasasstillandturgidasdeep
water.Wewereimmersednowinorangepetrochemicalhaze.Butthesunwas
plainlyvisibleasabrilliantpointsourceoflight,surroundedbyayellow-brown
halo. The crew gathered data on the spectra of the solar halo, seeking
informationonaerosols,solid,orliquidparticlessuspendedintheair.
Gradually,beneathourbacks,Titan’ssurfacebecamevisible.Itwistedtosee.
Cumuluscloudsofethanevapourlaydrapedovercontinentsofwaterice.Ofthe
grounditselfIsawamottlingofdarkandwhitepatches,areashugeinextent,
pockedbywhatlookedlikeimpactcraters,andincisedbythreadingvalleyscut
byflowingliquid,ethaneormethane.Thecrewcontinuedtocollecttheirscience
data. An acoustic sounder sent out complex pulses of sound. Miriam Berg
showed me how some echoes came back double, with reflections from the
surfaces and bottoms of crater lakes, like the one my sampling probe had
entered.
The gondola rocked beneath its parachute. Poole had suspended his inertial
shielding, and under not much less than Titan’s one-seventh gravity I was
comfortableinmythick,softlylayeredexosuit.Thecrew’smurmuringasthey
workedwasprofessionalandquiet.IthinkIactuallyslept,briefly.
Thentherewasajolt.Iwokewithasnap.Theparachutehadbeencutloose,
andwasdriftingawaywithitsstringsdanglinglikesomejellyfish.Ourfallwas
slowinthatthickairandgentlegravity,butfallwedid!
Andthen,asBillDziklaughedatme,anewcanopyunfurledintotheformof
a globe, spreading out above us. It was a balloon, perhaps forty, fifty metres
across;weweresuspendedfromitbyaseriesoffineropes.AsIwatchedakind
of hose snaked up from beneath the gondola’s hull, and pushed up into the
mouthoftheballoon,anditbegantoinflate.
“So that’s the plan,” I said. “To float around Titan in a balloon! Not very
energeticforamanwhobuildsinterplanetarywormholes,Poole.”
“Butthat’sthepoint,”Poolesaidtestily,asifIhadchallengedhismanhood.
“We’rehereunderthenosesofyourcurators’sensors,Emry.Thelessofasplash
wemakethebetter.”
MiriamBergsaid,“Idesignedthispartofthemissionprofile.We’regoingto
floataroundatthisaltitude,abouteightkilometresup—wellaboveanyproblems
withthetopographybutundermostoftheclouddecks.Weoughttobeableto
gather the science data we need from here. A couple of weeks should be
sufficient.”
“Acoupleofweeksinthissuit!”
Poolethumpedthewallsofthegondola.“Thisthingexpands.You’llbeable
to get out of your suit. It’s not going to be luxury, Emry, but you’ll be
comfortableenough.”
Miriamsaid,“Whenthetimecomeswe’lldepartfromthisaltitude.TheCrab
doesn’tcarryanorbit-to-surfaceflitter,butHarrywillsenddownaboosterunit
torendezvouswithusandliftthegondolatoorbit.”
Istaredather.“Wedon’tcarrythemeansofgettingoffthismoon?”
“Notonboard,no,”Miriamsaidevenly.“Massissues.Theneedtostayunder
the curacy sensors’ awareness threshold. We’re supposed to look like an
unmannedprobe,remember.Look,it’snotaproblem.”
“Umm.”Callmeacoward,manyhave.ButIdidn’tliketheideathatmyonly
wayoffthiswretchedmoonwasthousandsofkilometresawayanddependedon
a complicated series of rendezvous and coupling manoeuvres. “So what’s
keepingusaloft?Hydrogen,helium?”
Poolepointed at thatinlet pipe.“Neither. Thisis ahot airballoon, Emry, a
Montgolfiere.”Andhegavemealectureonhowhot-airtechnologyisoptimalif
youmustgoballooningonTitan.Thethickairandlowgravitymakethemoon
hospitableforballoons,andatsuchlowtemperaturesyougetalargeexpansion
in response to a comparatively small amount of heat energy. Add all these
factorsintothekindoftrade-offequationmenlikePooleenjoyssomuch,and
outpopshot-airballooningasthelow-energytransportofchoiceonTitan.
Miriam said, “We’re a balloon, not a dirigible; we can’t steer. But for a
missionlikethiswecanprettymuchgowherethewindtakesus;allwe’redoing
issamplingaglobalecosphere.Andwecanchooseourcoursetosomeextent.
The prevailing winds on Titan are easterly, but below about two kilometres
there’sastrongwesterlycomponent.That’satide,raisedbySaturninthethick
airdownthere.Sowecanselectwhichwaywegetblown,justbyascendingand
descending.”
“Morestealth,Isuppose.Noneedforengines.”
“That’s the idea. We’ve arrived in the local morning. Titan’s day is fifteen
Earthdayslong,andwecanachievealotbeforenightfall—infactI’mintending
thatweshouldchasethedaylight.Rightnowwe’reheadingforthesouthpole,
whereit’ssummer.”Andthere,asevenIknew,methaneandethanepooledin
openlakes—theonlystablesuchliquidbodiesintheSystem,saveonlyforEarth
andTriton.
“SummeronTitan,”Poolesaid,andhegrinned.“Andwe’reridingtheoldest
flyingmachineofalloveramoonofSaturn!”Evidentlyhewasstartingtoenjoy
himself.
Miriamsmiledback,andtheirglovedhandslockedtogether.
Theenvelopesnappedandbillowedaboveusasthewarmairfilleditup.
VI
LANDFALL
SowedriftedoverTitan’sfrozenlandscape,headingforthesouthpole.Fornow
Michael Poole kept us stuck in that un-expanded hull, and indeed inside our
suits,thoughweremovedourhelmets,whilethecrewputthegondolathrougha
fresh series of post-entry checks. I had nothing to do but stare out of the
transparenthull,attheveryEarthlikecloudsthatlitteredthemurkysky,orover
myshoulderatthelandscapethatunfoldedbeneathme.
Nowwewerelowenoughtomakeout detail, I sawthatthosedarkerareas
were extensive stretches of dunes, lined up in parallel rows by the prevailing
wind.Thegroundlookedraked,likeatremendouszengarden.Andthelighter
areaswereoutcroppingsofapalerrock,plateausscarredbyravinesandvalleys.
Atthislatitudetherewerenoopenbodiesofliquid,butyoucouldclearlyseeits
presenceintherecentpast,inbraidedvalleysandtheshoresofdried-outlakes.
Thislandscapeofdunesandravineswaspunctuatedbycircularscarsthatwere
probablytherelicsofmeteoriteimpacts,andbyodder,dome-likefeatureswith
irregularcalderas—volcanoes.Allthesefeatureshadnames,Ilearned,assigned
tothembyEarthastronomerscenturiesdead,whohadporedoverthefirstrobot-
returned images of this landscape. But as nobody had ever come here, those
names,borrowedfromvanishedparadisesanddeadgods,hadnevercomealive.
I listened absently as Poole and the others talked through their science
programme. The atmosphere was mostly nitrogen, just as on Earth, but it
contained five per cent methane, and that methane was the key to Titan’s
wonders, and mysteries. Even aside from its puzzling central role in the
greenhouseeffectswhichstabilisedtheatmosphere,methanewasalsokeytothe
complicated organic chemistry that went on there. In the lower atmosphere
methane reacted with nitrogen to create complex compounds called tholins, a
kind of plastic, which fell to the ground in a sludgy rain. When those tholins
landedinliquidwater,suchasinimpact-warmedcraterlakes,aminoacidswere
produced—thebuildingblocksofourkindoflife…
AsIlistenedtothemdebatetheseissuesitstruckmethannoneofthemhad
begunhisorhercareerasabiologistorclimatologist:PooleandBerghadboth
beenphysicists,Dzikanengineerandmorelatelyaprojectmanager.BothBerg
andDzikhadhadspecialisttrainingtoadecentacademicstandardtopreparefor
thismission.Theyallexpectedtolivealongtime;periodicallytheywouldre-
educate themselves and adopt entirely different professions, as needs must. I
haveneverhadanysuchambition.Butthen,somehow,despiteAStechnology,I
donotimaginemyselfreachinganygreatage.
Their talk had an edge, however, even in those first hours. They were all
ethicallytroubledbywhattheyweredoing,andthosedoubtssurfacednowthat
theywereawayfromHarryPoole’sgoading.
“Atsomepoint,”MiriamBergsaid,“we’llhavetofacethequestionofhow
we’llreactifwedofindsentiencehere.”
Bill Dzik shook his head. “Sometimes I can’t believe we’re even here, that
we’re having this conversation at all. I remember exactly what you said on
BakedAlaska,Michael.‘ThewholeSystemisgoingtobeatapathtoourdoorto
seethis—aslongaswecanworkoutawaytoprotecttheecology…Andifwe
can’t,we’llimplodethedamnwormhole.We’llgetfundsfortheCauchysome
otherway.’That’swhatyousaid.”
Poole said harshly, clearly needled, “That was thirteen years ago, damn it,
Bill.Situationschange.Peoplechange.Andthechoiceswehavetomakechange
too.”
Astheyargued,Iwastheonlyonelookingahead,thewayweweredrifting
underourballoon.ThroughthemurkIthoughtIcouldseethefirstsignofthe
ethanelakesofthepolarregions,sheetsofliquidblackascoalsurroundedby
fractal landscapes, like a false-colour mock-up of Earth’s own Arctic. And I
thought I could see movement, something rising up off those lakes. Mist,
perhaps?Buttherewastoomuchsolidityaboutthoserisingformsforthat.
Andthentheformsemergedfromthemist,solidandlooming.
Ipulledmyhelmetonmyheadandgrippedmycouch.Isaid,“Unlessoneof
youdoessomethingfast,wemaysoonhavenochoicesleftatall.”
Theylookedatme,thethreeoftheminarowaroundme,puzzled.Thenthey
lookedahead,toseewhatIsaw.
Theywerelikebirds,black-winged,withwhitelenticularbodies.Thosewings
actuallyflappedinthethickairastheyflewupfromthepolarseas,aconvincing
simulacrumofthewaybirdsflyintheairofEarth.Oddlytheyseemedtohave
noheads.
Andtheywerecomingstraighttowardsus.
MichaelPoolesnapped,“Lethe.Ventthebuoyancy!”Hestabbedatapanel,
andtheotherswenttowork,pullingontheirhelmetsastheydidso.
Ifelttheballoonsettleasthehotairwasreleasedfromtheenvelopeaboveus.
Weweresinking—butweseemedtomoveindreamyslowmotion,whilethose
birdsloomedlargerinourviewwitheveryheartbeat.
Then they were on us. They swept over the gondola, filling the sky above,
black wings flapping in an oily way that, now they were so close, seemed
entirely unnatural, not like terrestrial birds at all. They were huge, each ten,
fifteen metres across. I thought I could hear them, a rustling, snapping sound
carriedtomethroughTitan’sthickair.
Andtheytoreintotheenvelope.ThefabricwasdesignedtowithstandTitan’s
methane rain, not an attack like this; it exploded into shreds, and the severed
threads waved in the air. Some of the birds suffered; they tangled with our
threads or collided with each other and fell away, rustling. One flew into the
gondola itself and crumpled like tissue paper, and then fell, wadded up, far
belowus.
And we fell too, following our victim-assassin to the ground. Our descent
fromthebestpartofeightkilometreshightooklongminutes;wesoonreached
terminal velocity in Titan’s thick air and weak gravity. We had time to strap
ourselvesin,andPooleandhisteamworkedfranticallytosecurethegondola’s
systems.InthelastmomentPoolefloodedthegondolawithafoamthatfilled
theinternalspaceandheldusrigidinourseats,likedollsinpackaging,sightless
andunabletomove.
Ifelttheslamaswehittheground.
VII
SURFACE
The foam drained away, leaving the four of us sitting there in a row like
swaddledbabies. We hadlanded on Titan the way we entered itsatmosphere,
backsidefirst,andnowwelayonourbackswiththegondolatiltedover,sothatI
was falling against Miriam Berg, and the cladded mass of Bill Dzik was
weighingonme.Thegondola’shullhadrevertedtoopacitysowelayinaclose-
packedpearlyshell,buttherewasinternallightandthevariousdataslateswere
working,thoughtheywerefilledwithalarmingbanksofred.
Thethreeofthemwentquicklyintoaroutineofchecks.Iignoredthem.Iwas
alive. I was breathing, the air wasn’t foul, and I was in no greater discomfort
than having Dzik’s unpleasant bulk pressed against my side. Nothing broken,
then.ButIfeltapang of fearassharpasthatfelt by thatVirtualcopyofme
whenhehadlearnedhewasdoomed.Iwonderedifhisghoststirredinmenow,
stillterrified.
Andmybowelsloosenedintothesuit’ssystems.Neverapleasantexperience,
nomatterhowgoodthesuittechnology.ButIwasn’tsorrytoberemindedthatI
wasnothingbutafragileanimal,lostinthecosmos.Thatmaybetherootofmy
cowardice,butgivemehumilityandrealismoverthehubristicarroganceofa
MichaelPooleanyday.
Theirtechnicalchatterdiedaway.
“Thelightsareon,”Isaid.“SoIdeducewe’vegotpower.”
Michael Poole said, gruffly reassuring, “It would take more than a jolt like
thattoknockoutoneofmyGUTengines.”
Dziksaidspitefully,“Ifwe’dlostpoweryou’dbeaniciclealready,Emry.”
“Shutup,Bill,”Miriammurmured.“Yes,Emry,we’renotinbadshape.The
pressurehull’sintact,wehavepower,heating,air,water,food.We’renotgoing
todieanytimesoon.”
ButIthoughtoftheflappingbirdsofTitanandwonderedhowshecouldbeso
sure.
Poolestartedunbuckling.“Weneedtomakeanexternalinspection.Figureout
ouroptions.”
Miriamfollowedsuit,andlaughed.Shesaidtome,“Romantic,isn’the?The
firsthumanfootfallsonTitan,andhecallsitanexternalinspection.”Suddenly
shewasfriendly.Thecrashhadevidentlymadeherfeelwehadbondedinsome
way.
“Yeah,yeah,”Poolesaid,butIcouldseehesoftened.
BillDzikduganelbowinmyribshardenoughtohurtthroughthelayersof
mysuit.“Move,Emry.”
“Leavemealone.”
“We’repackedinherelikespoons.It’soneout,allout.”
Well,hewasright;Ihadnochoice.
Poole made us go through checks of our exosuits, their power cells, the
integrityoftheirseals.Thenhedrainedtheairandpoppedopenthehatchinthe
roofbeforeourfaces.Isawaskysombreandbrown,darkbycomparisonwith
the brightness of our internal lights, and flecks of black snow drifted by. The
hatchwasadoorfromthiswombofmetalandceramicsoutintotheunknown.
Weclimbedupthroughthehatchinreverseorderfromhowwehadcomein:
Poole,Dzik,myself,thenMiriam.Thegravity,aseventhofEarth’s,wasclose
enoughtotheMoon’stomakethatpartoftheexperiencefamiliar,andImoved
my weight easily enough. Once outside the hull, lamps on my suit lit up in
responsetothedark.
Idroppeddownametreorso,anddriftedtomyfirstfootfallonTitan.The
sandysurfacecrunchedundermyfeet.Iknew it was waterice,hardasglass.
Thesandatmyfeetwasridgedintoripples,asifbyarecedingtide.Pebbleslay
scattered,wornanderoded.Awindbuffetedme,slowandmassive,andIhearda
lowbassmoan.Ablackrainsmearedmyfaceplate.
Thefourofusstoodtogether,chubbyinoursuits,theonlyhumansonaworld
larger than Mercury. Beyond the puddle of light cast by our suit lamps an
entirelyunknownlandscapestretchedoffintotheinfinitedark.
MiriamBergwaswatchingme.“Whatareyouthinking,Jovik?”AsfarasI
knowthesewerethefirstwordsspokenbyanyhumanstandingonTitan.
“Whyaskme?”
“You’retheonlyoneofuswho’slookingatTitanandnotatthegondola.”
Igrunted.“I’mthinkinghowlikeEarththisis.Likeabeachsomewhere,ora
highdesert,thesand,thepebbles.LikeMars,too,outsideKahra.”
“Convergentprocesses,”Dziksaiddismissively.“Butyouareanentirelyalien
presence.Here,yourbloodisashotasmoltenlava.Look,you’releakingheat.”
And,lookingdown,Isawwispsofvapourrisingupfrommybootedfeet.
Theotherscheckedoverthegondola.Itsinnerpressurecagehadbeensturdy
enoughtoprotectus,buttheexternalhullwascrumpledanddamaged,various
attachmentshadbeenrippedoff,andithaddugitselfintotheice.
Poolecalledustogetherforacouncilofwar.“Here’sthedeal.There’snosign
oftheenvelope;itwasshredded,welostit.Thegondola’sessentialsystemsare
sound,mostimportantlythepower.”Hebangeditwithaglovedfist;inthedense
airIheardamuffledthump.“Thehull’stakenabeating,though.We’velostthe
extensibility.I’mafraidwe’restuckinthesesuits.”
“Untilwhat?”Isaid.“Untilwegetthespareballoonenvelopeinflated,right?”
“We don’t carry a spare,” Bill Dzik said, and he had the grace to sound
embarrassed.“Itwasacost-benefitanalysis—”
“Well,yougotthatwrong,”Isnappedback.“Howarewesupposedtogetoff
this damn moon now? You said we had to make some crackpot mid-air
rendezvous.”
Poole tapped his chest, and a Virtual image of Harry’s head popped into
existencein mid-air.“Good question.I’m workingon options. I’m fabricating
anotherenvelope,andI’llgetitdowntoyou.Oncewehavethatgondolaaloft
again I’ll have no trouble picking you up. In the meantime,” he said more
sternly,“youhaveworktododownthere.Timeisshort.”
“WhenwegetbacktotheCrab,”BillDziksaidtoPoole,“youholdhimdown
andI’llkillhim.”
“He’smyfather,”saidMichaelPoole.“I’llkillhim.”
Harrydissolvedintoasprayofpixels.
Poolesaid,“Look,here’sthedeal.We’llneedtotravelifwe’retoachieveour
science goals; we can’t do it all from this south pole site. We do have some
mobility.Thegondolahaswheels;itwillworkasatruckdownhere.Butwe’re
going to have to dig the wreck out of the sand first, and modify it. And
meanwhileHarry’srightaboutthelimitedtime.IsuggestthatBillandIgeton
withtheengineering.Miriam,youtakeEmryandgoseewhatscienceyoucan
doatthelake.It’sonlyacoupleofkilometres,”hecheckedawristmappatch
andpointed,“thatway.”
“OK.” With low-gravity grace Miriam jumped back up to the hatch, and
retrievedapackfromthegondola’sinterior.
Ifeltdeeplyreluctanttomoveawayfromtheshelterofthewreckedgondola.
“Whataboutthosebirds?”
Miriamjumpedbackdownandapproachedme.“We’veseennosignofthe
birdssincewelanded.Comeon,curator.Itwilltakeyourmindoffhowscared
youare.”Andshetrampedawayintothedark,awayfromthepooloflightby
thegondola.
PooleandDzikturnedawayfromme.Ihadnochoicebuttofollowher.
VIII
LAKE
Walkinganydistancewassurprisinglydifficult.
Thelayeredheat-retainingsuitwasbulkyand awkward,butitwasflexible,
andthatwasunlikethevacuumoftheMoon,wheretheinternalpressureforces
even the best skinsuits to rigidity. But on Titan you are always aware of the
resistanceoftheheavyair.Atthesurfacethepressureishalfasmuchagainas
onEarth,andthedensityoftheairfourtimesthatatEarth’ssurface.Itisalmost
likemovingunderwater.Andyetthegravityissolowthatwhenyoudigyour
feetintothesandfortractionyouhaveatendencytogofloatingofftheground.
Miriamshowedmehowtoextenddeep,sharptreadsfromthesolesofmyboots
todigintotheloosesand.
ItisthethicknessoftheairthatisthechallengeonTitan;youarebathedinan
intensely cold fluid, less than a hundred degrees above absolute zero, that
conductsawayyourheatenthusiastically,andIwasalwaysawareofthesilent
companyofmysuit’sheatingsystem,andthepowercellsthatwouldsustainit
fornomorethanafewhours.
“Turn your suit lights off,” Miriam said to me after a few hundred metres.
“Saveyourpower.”
“IprefernottowalkintowhatIcan’tsee.”
“Your eyes will adapt. And your faceplate has image enhancers set to the
spectrumofambientlighthere…Comeon,Jovik.Ifyoudon’tI’lldoitforyou;
yourglareisstoppingmeseeingtoo.”
“Allright,damnit.”
Withthelightsoff,Iwassuspendedinbrownmurk,asifunderanautumnsky
obscuredbythesmokeofforestfires.Butmyeyesdidadapt,andthefaceplate
subtly enhanced my vision. Titan opened up around me, a plain of sand and
wind-erodedrubbleunderanorange-brownsky—againnotunlikeMars,ifyou
knowit.Cloudsofethaneormethanefloatedaboveme,andbeyondthemthe
hazetoweredup,acolumnoforganicmucktensofkilometresdeep.YetIcould
see the sun in that haze, a spark low on the horizon, and facing it a half-full
Saturn,much bigger than the Moon in Earth’ssky. Of theother moonsor the
stars,indeedoftheCrab,Icouldseenothing.Allthecoloursweredrawnfroma
paletteofcrimson,orange,andbrown.Soonmyeyeslongedforabitofgreen.
WhenIlookedbackIcouldseenosignofthegondola,itslightsalreadylost
inthehaze. Isaw we hadleft aclearline offootstepsbehind us.It mademe
quailtothinkthatthiswastheonlyfootsteptrailonallthislittleworld.
Webegantodescendashallowslope.Isawlinesinthesand,liketidemarks.
“Ithinkwe’recomingtothelake.”
“Yes.It’ssummerhere,atthesouthpole.Thelakesevaporate,andtheethane
rainsoutatthenorthpole.Infifteenyears’time,halfaSaturnianyear,itwillbe
winter here and summer there, and the cycle will reverse. Small worlds have
simpleclimatesystems,Jovik.AsI’msureacuratorwouldknow…”
Wecametotheedgeoftheethanelake.Inthatdimlightitlookedblacklike
tar,andsluggishripplescrosseditssurface.Inpatchessomethingmoresolidlay
ontheliquid,circularsheetsalmostlikelilies,repellentlyoily.Thelakestretched
offblackandflattothehorizon,whichcurvedvisibly,thoughitwasblurredin
themurkyair.Itwasanextraordinaryexperiencetostandthereinanexosuitand
tofaceabodyofliquidonsuchanalienworld,theoceanblack,theskyandthe
shorebrown.AndyettherewasagainconvergencewiththeEarth.Thiswasa
kindofbeach.LookingaroundIsawwewereinasortofbay,andtomyright,a
fewkilometresaway,ariverofblackliquidhadcutabroadvalley,braidedlikea
delta,asitranintothesea.
And,lookingthatway,Isawsomethinglyingontheshore,crumpledblack
aroundagrainofpaleness.
Miriam wanted samples from the lake, especially of the discs of gunk that
floatedonthesurface.Sheopenedupherpackandextractedasamplingarm,a
remotemanipulatorwithaclaw-likegrabber.Shehoistedthisontohershoulder
andextendedthearm,andIheardawhirofexoskeletalmultipliers.Asthearm
pluckedatthelily-likefeaturessomeofthembrokeupintostrands,almostlike
jet-blackseaweed, but thearmliftedlargecontiguoussheetsofakindoffilm
thatremindedmeoftheeeriewingsoftheTitanbirdsthathadattackedus.
Miriamquicklygrewexcitedatwhatshewasfinding.
“Life,”Iguessed.
“You got it. Well, we knew it was here. We even have samples taken by
automatedprobes.Thoughweneverspottedthosebirdsbefore.”Sheheftedthe
stuff,filmsofitdrapedoverherglovedhand,andlookedatme.“Iwonderifyou
understand how exotic this stuff is. I’m pretty sure this is silane life. That is,
basedonasiliconchemistry,ratherthancarbon…”
Thethingsonthelakedidindeedlooklikejetblacklilies.Buttheywerenot
lilies,oranythingremotelyrelatedtolifelikemyown.
Lifeofourchemicalsortisbasedonlongmolecules,withasolutetobring
components of those molecules together. Our specific sort of terrestrial life,
whichMiriamcalled“CHONlife,”afteritsessentialelementscarbon,hydrogen,
oxygenandnitrogen,useswaterasitssolute,andcarbon-basedmoleculesasits
building blocks: carbon can form chains and rings, and long stable molecules
likeDNA.
“But carbon’s not the only choice, and nor is water,” Miriam said. “At
terrestrial temperatures silicon bonds with oxygen to form very stable
molecules.”
“Silicates.Rock.”
“Exactly.Butatverylowtemperatures,siliconcanformsilanols,analogousto
alcohols, which are capable of dissolving in very cold solutes—say, in this
ethanelakehere.Whentheydissolvetheyfillupthelakewithlongmolecules
analogoustoourorganicmolecules.Thesecanthenlinkupintopolymersusing
silicon-siliconbonds,silanes.Theyhaveweakerbondsthancarbonmoleculesat
terrestrial temperatures, but it’s just what you need in a low-energy, low-
temperatureenvironmentlikethis.Withsilanesasthebasisyoucandreamupall
sortsofcomplexmoleculesanalogoustonucleicacidsandproteins—”
“Justwhatwehavehere.”
“Exactly.Nicecomplicatedbiomoleculesforevolutiontoplaywith.Theyare
morecommonlyfoundonthecooler,outerworlds—Neptune’smoonTritonfor
example.But thislake iscold enough.The energyflowwill beso lowthat it
musttakealo-ongtimeforanythingmuchtogroworevolve.ButonTitanthere
isplenty oftime.” She letthe filmystuffglideoffhermanipulator scoopand
backintothelake.“There’ssomuchwedon’tknow.Therehastobeanecology
inthere,afoodchain.Maybethefilmsaretheprimaryproducers—anequivalent
oftheplanktoninouroceans,forinstance.Butwheredotheygettheirenergy
from?Andhowdotheysurvivetheannualdrying-outoftheirlakes?”
“Goodquestions,”Isaid.“IwishIcared.”
Shestowedhersamplebottlesinherpack.“Ithinkyoucaremorethanyou’re
preparedtoadmit.Nobodyasintelligentasyouiswithoutcuriosity.Itgoeswith
theterritory.Anyhowweshouldgetbacktothegondola.”
Ihesitated.Ihatedtoproveherright,thattherewasindeedagrainofcuriosity
lodgedinmysoul.ButIpointedattheenigmaticblackformlyingfurtheralong
thebeach.“Maybeweshouldtakealookatthatfirst.”
Sheglancedatit,andatme,andheadedthatwaywithoutanotherword.
***
Itturnedout,asIhadsuspected,thatthecrumpledformwasabird.Irecalled
onehittingourgondoladuringtheirassaultandfallingaway;perhapsthiswas
thatverycasualty.
Itwasablockofice,aboutthesizeofmyhead,wrappedupinatornsheetof
blackfilm.WithgreatcareMiriamusedhermanipulatorarmtopickapartthe
film, as if she was unwrapping a Christmas present. The ice mass wasn’t a
simplelumpbutameshofspindlystrutsandbarssurroundingahollowcore.It
hadbeenbadlydamagedbythefall.Miriamtooksamplesofthisandofthefilm.
“Thaticelumplookslightforitssize,”Isaid.“Likethebonesofabird.”
“Whichmakessenseifit’saflyingcreature.”Miriamwasgrowingexcited.
“Jovik,lookatthis.Thefilmystuff,thewings,lookidenticaltothesamplesI
took from the surface of the lake. It has to be silane. But the ice structure is
different.”Shebrokeabitofitopen,andturnedonasuitlampsowecouldseea
massofverythinicicles,likefibres.Itwasalmostsponge-like.Insidethefine
ice straws were threads of what looked like discoloured water. “Rich in
organics,” Miriam said, glancing at a data panel on her manipulator arm. “I
mean, our sort of organics, CHON life, carbon-water—amino acids, a kind of
DNA.Therearepuzzleshere.Notleastthefactthatwefindithere,bythislake.
CHONlifehasbeensampledonTitanbefore.Butit’sthoughtcarbon-waterlife
can only subsist here in impact-melt crater lakes, and we’re a long way from
anythinglikethat…”
Herpassiongrew,atraitIhavealwaysfoundattractive.
“Ithinkthisisabird,oneofthosewesawflyingatus.Butitseemstobea
compositecreature,asymbiosisofthesehydrocarbonwingsandtheicelump—
saline life cooperating with CHON life! Just remarkable. You wonder how it
cameaboutinthefirstplace…butIguessthereareexamplesofjustasintricate
survival strategies in our own biosphere. Give evolution enough time and
anythingispossible.Iwonderwhatitistheybothwant,though,whatthetwo
sidesinthissymbiosisgetoutoftherelationship…”
“It’s a genuine discovery, Jovik. Nobody’s seen this before—life from two
entirelydifferentdomains workingtogether. And Iwouldn’thavenoticed itif
notforyou.”Sheheldouttheicelumptome.“They’llprobablynameitafter
you.”
Herenthusiasmwasfetching,butnotthatmuch.“Sure.Butmyconcernright
nowishowmuchpowerwehaveleftinthesesuitheaters.Let’sgetbacktothe
gondola.”
SoshestowedawaytheremainingfragmentsoftheTitanbird,JovikEmry’s
contributiontoSystemscience,andweretracedourpathbacktothegondola.
IX
GONDOLA
Thedaysare very longon Titan, andbythe timewegot backtothe gondola
nothingseemed tohave changed aboutthe landscapeor the sky, not a diffuse
shadowhadshifted.WefoundPooleandDzikhappilyfixingbigballoonwheels
toaxlesslungbeneaththecrumpledhull.
Whentheyweredone,weallclimbedbackaboard.Poolehadresetsomeof
theinteriorlampssotheyglowedgreen,yellow,andblue;itwasarelieftobe
immersedoncemoreinbrightEarthlight.
Wesetoffinourgondola-truckforthenextpartofourexpedition.Wewere
making, I was told, for an impact crater believed to hold liquid water, which
itself was not far from a cryovolcano, another feature of interest for the
expedition.Thissitewasonlyperhapsahundredkilometresfromwherewehad
comedown.
Miriamtransferredhersamplestocoldstores,andransomeofthemthrougha
small onboard science package. She jabbered about what she had discovered.
PooleencouragedhermorethanDzikdid,buteventhatwasn’tmuch.
Dzikand Poole were more interested in thatmoment with playing with the
gondola. Like overgrown boys they sat at an improvised driver’s console and
fussedovergearratiosandtheperformanceofthebigtyres.Pooleeveninsisted
ondrivingthebushimself,thoughTitanwassoflatanddullforthemostparthe
couldeasilyhaveleftthechoretotheonboardsystems.Thatprovedtomethe
fallacyofnotbringingalongspecialistbiologistsonajauntlikethis.Itwasonly
Miriam who seemed to have a genuine passion for the life systems we were
supposedtobeheretostudy;DzikandPooleweretooeasilydistractedbythe
technology,whichwas,afterall,onlyameanstoanend.
Theyhadhoweverrearrangedtheinteriortomakeitfeelalittlelesscramped.
Thecoucheshadbeenseparatedandsetuparoundthecabin,soyoucouldsit
upright with a bit of elbow room. The cabin was pressurised, so we could
remove our helmets, and though the expandable walls didn’t work any more
therewasroomforoneatatimetoshuckoffhisorherexosuit.Pooleorderedus
todoso;wehadalreadybeeninsidethesuitsforafewhours,andthesuits,and
ourselves, needed some maintenance. Poole had set up a curtained-off area
wherewecouldletourdiscardedsuitsperformtheirself-maintenancefunctions
whilewehadshowers—ofwaterrecycledfromoururineandsweat,whichwas
deemedalotsaferthanmeltfromtheicemoon.Poolehimselfusedtheshower
first,andthenMiriam.Shewashasty,eagertogetbacktoherwork,andkept
talkingevenwhileshecleanedup.
AfterMiriamwasoutoftheshowerItookmyturn.Itwasamiserabledrizzle
andlukewarmatthat,butitwasarelieftoletmyskindrinkinthewater.Iwas
quick,though;withtheunknowndangersofTitanonlycentimetresawaybeyond
thegondola’sfragilemetalwalls,Ididn’twanttospendlongoutsidethesecurity
ofthesuit.
Afterme,BillDzikfollowed,anditwasanunlovelystinkhissuitreleased.I
was spitefully glad that for all his bluster his reaction to the terrors of our
landingmusthavebeenjustasignobleasmine.
Afteracoupleofhourswereachedourdestination.Safelysuitedup,Isatin
my couch and peered over Miriam’s and Poole’s shoulders at the landscape
outside.Thatcryovolcanowasamoundthatpushedoutofthelandscapesome
kilometrestothewestofus.Ithadthelookofashieldvolcano,likeHawaiior
MonsOlympus,aflat-profileddomewithacalderaonthetop.Itwasn’terupting
whilewesatthere,butIcouldseehowsuccessivesheetsof“lava”hadplatedits
sides. That lava was water ice, heavily laced with ammonia, which had come
gushing up from this world’s strange mantle, a sea of ammonia and water
kilometresdownbeneathourtyres.
As for the crater lake I saw nothing but a plain, flatter and even more
featurelessthantheaverage,coveredwithathinscatteringoficesand.Butthe
lake was there, hidden. Poole extracted radar images which showed the
unmistakeable profile of an impact crater, right ahead of us, kilometres wide.
Suchisthevastenergypulsedeliveredbyaninfallingasteroidorcomet—or,in
Saturn’ssystem,perhapsaringfragmentorabitofatide-shatteredmoon—the
waterlocallycanretainenoughheattoremainliquidforalongtime,thousands
ofyears.Suchalakehadformedhere,andthenfrozenoverwithathincrust,on
top of which that skim of sand had been wind-blown. But the briny lake
remained,hoardingitsheat.
And, studded around the lake’s circular rim, were more sponge-like masses
like the one we had discovered wrapped up in silane film at the shore of the
polarlake. These masses were positionedquite regularly aroundthe lake, and
manywereplacedclosebycrevasseswhichseemedtoofferaroutedowninto
the deep structure of the ice rock beneath us. Miriam started gathering data
eagerly.
Meanwhile Poole was puzzling over some images returned from the very
bottomofthecraterlake.Hehadfoundmotion,obscureformslabouring.They
lookedtomelikemachinesquarryingarockdeposit.ButIcouldnotreadthe
imageswellenough,andasPooledidnotaskmyopinionsIkeptmymouthshut.
MiriamBergwassoongettingveryagitatedbywhatshewasfinding.Evenas
shegatheredthedataandsquirtedituptoHarryPooleintheCrab,sheeagerly
hypothesised. “Look—I think it’s obvious that Titan is a junction between at
leasttwokindsoflife,thesilanesoftheethanelakesandtheCHONsponges.
I’ve done some hasty analysis on the CHON tissues. They’re like us, but not
identical. They use a subtly different subset of amino acids to build their
proteins,and they havea variant ofDNA in there—adifferentset ofbases, a
differentcodingsystem.Thesilanes,meanwhile,arelikethelifesystemswe’ve
discoveredinthenitrogen pools on Triton,butagainnotidentical,basedon a
differentsubsetofsilicon-oxygenmolecularstrings.
“It’spossiblebothformsoflifewerebroughtherethroughpanspermia—the
naturalwaftingoflifebetweentheworldsintheformofsomethinglikespores,
blastedofftheirparentworldbyimpactsanddrivenherebysunlightandgravity.
If the System’s CHON life arose first on Earth or Mars, it might easily have
driftedhere and seeded in a crater lake, and followed a different evolutionary
strategy. Similarly the silanes at the poles found a place to live, and followed
theirownpath,independentlyoftheircousins…”
Thetransferofmaterialsfromtheoilyethanelakestothewatercraterponds
mightactuallyhavefacilitatedsuchcreations.Youneedmembranestomakelife,
something to separate the inside of a cell from the outside. As water and oil
don’t mix, adding one to the other gives you a natural way to create such
membranes.
She shook her head. “It seems remarkable that here we have a place, this
moon,ajunctionwherefamiliesoflifefromdifferentendsofSolSystemcan
coexist.”
“Butthere’saproblem,”BillDzikcalledfromhisshower.“Bothyoursilanes
andyourspongesliveintransientenvironments.Theethanelakesprettymuch
dry up every Titan year. And each crater lake will freeze solid after a few
thousandyears.”
“Yes,” Miriam said. “Both forms need to migrate. And that’s how, I think,
theycametocooperate…”
ShesketchedahastynarrativeoftheCHONspongesemergingfromthecrater
lakes, and finding their way to the summer pole. Maybe they got there by
followingdeepcrevasses,smashedintoTitan’sicecrustbytheimpactsthatdug
outcraterlakeslikethisoneinthefirstplace.Downtheretheywouldfindliquid
water,kilometresdeepandclosetotheammoniaocean.Itwouldbecold,briny,
nottoterrestrialtastes,butitwouldbeliquid,andsurvivable.Andatthepole
theywouldfindthesilaneliliesfloatingontheirethaneseas.Theliliesinturn
needed to migrate to winter pole, where their precious life-stuff ethane was
rainingout.
Miriammimed,herfisttouchingherflattenedpalm.“Sotheycometogether,
thespongesandthelilies—”
“TomaketheTitanbirds,”Isaid.
“That’s the idea. They come flapping up out of the lake, just as we saw,
headingforthewinterpole.Andmeanwhile,maybethespongesgetdroppedoff
at fresh crater lakes along the way. It’s a true symbiosis, with two entirely
differentspheresoflifeintersecting—andcooperating,forwithoutthemigration
neitherformcouldsurvivealone.”Shelookedatus,suddenlydoubtful.“We’re
allamateurshere.Iguessanycompetentbiologistcouldpickholesinthisthe
sizeofthecentreofSaturn’srings.”
Dziksaid,“Nocompetentbiologistwouldevenbehypothesisingthisway,not
withsofewfacts.”
“No,”VirtualHarrysaidtinnily.“Butatleastyou’vecomeupwithaplausible
model, Miriam. And all without the need to evoke even a scrap of sentience.
Goodjob.”
“There are still questions,” Miriam said. “Maybe the sponges provide the
birds’intelligence,oratleastsomekindofdirectionality.Butwhataboutpower?
Theliliesareespeciallyareaprettylow-energykindoflifeform…”
MichaelPoolesaid,“MaybeIcananswerthat.I’vebeendoingsomeanalysis
of my own. I can tell you a bit more about the silane lilies’ energy source.
Believe it or not—even on a world as murky as this—I think they’re
photosynthesising.” And he ran through the chemistry he thought he had
identified, using entirely different compounds and molecular processing
pathwaysfromthechlorophyll-basedgreen-plantphotosynthesisofEarthlife.
“Ofcourse,”Miriamsaid.“Ishouldhaveseenit.Ineverevenaskedmyself
whattheliliesweredoingwhiletheywerelyingaroundonthelake’ssurface…
Trappingsunlight!”
Harrywasgrowingexcitedtoo.“Hey,ifyou’reright,son,youmayalready
havepaidforthetrip.Silane-basedlow-tempphotosynthesiserswouldbehugely
commerciallyvaluable.Thinkofit,youcouldgrowthemoutofthosenitrogen
lakesonTritonandgoscuddingaroundtheouterSystemonlivingsails.”His
grinwaswide,eveninthereducedVirtualimage.
Poole and Miriam were smiling too, staring at each other with a glow of
connection.Theirswasastrangekindofsymbiosis,likesilanelilyandCHON
sponge; they seemed to need the excitement of external discovery and
achievementtobringthemtogether.
Well,therewasahappymoodinthatgroundedgondola,thehappiestsincewe
had crashed. Even Bill Dzik as he showered was making grunting, hog-like
noisesofcontentment.
Andjustatthatmomenttherewasacrunchingsound,likegreatjawsclosing
overmetal,andthewholebustippedtooneside.
***
PooleandMiriamstaggeredandstartedshoutinginstructionstoeachother.Ihad
myhelmetovermyheadinaheartbeat.
Thentherewasanothercrunch,arippingsound—andascream,gurglingand
suddenly cut off, and an inward rush of cold air that I felt even through my
exosuit.Iturnedandsawthatneartheshowerpartition,aholehadbeenripped
in the side of the gondola’s flimsy hull, revealing Titan’s crimson murk.
Something like a claw, or a huge version of Miriam’s manipulator arm, was
workingatthehull,wideningthebreach.
AndBillDzik,naked,notmetresfromtheexosuitthatcouldhavesavedhim,
wasalreadyfrozentodeath.
That was enough for me. I flung open the hatch in the gondola roof and
lungedout,notwaitingforMiriamorPoole.IhittheTitansandandranasbestI
could, the exosuit labouring to help me. I could hear crunching and chewing
behindme.Ididnotlookback.
WhenIhadgoneahundredmetresIstopped,winded,andturned.Pooleand
Miriam were following me. I was relieved that at least I was not stranded on
Titanalone.
AndIsawwhatwasbecomingofourgondola.Themachinesthathadassailed
it—andtheyweremachines,Ihadnodoubtofit—werelikespidersofice,with
lenticularbodiesperhapstenmetreslong,andeachequippedwiththreegrabber
claws attached to delicate low-gravity limbs. Four, five of these things were
labouringatthewreckofourgondola.Isawthattheyhadgoneforthewheels
first,which waswhy we had tipped over, and nowwere makinga fastjob of
rippingthestructureapart.Notonlythat,beyondthemIsawalineofsimilar-
looking beasts carrying silvery fragments that could only be pieces of the
gondolaoffuptherisinggroundtowardsthesummitofthecryovolcano.Some
ofthelargercomponentsofthewrecktheyleftintact,suchastheGUTengine
module,buttheycarriedthemawayjustasdeterminedly.
Inminutes,Isaw,therewouldbelittleleftofourgondolaontheicesurface—
notmuch aside from Bill Dzik, who, naked, sprawled and staring withfrozen
eyeballs,madeanuglycorpse,butdidnotdeservethefatethathadbefallenhim.
HarryPoole’sheadpoppedintoVirtualexistencebeforeus.“Well,”hesaid,
“thatcomplicatesthings.”
Michaelswattedathim,dispersingpixelslikeflies.
X
SPIDERS
“Dzikisdead,”Isaid.“Andsoarewe.”IturnedonMichaelPoole,fistsbunched
inthethickgloves.“Youandyourabsurdambition—itwasalwaysgoingtokill
youoneday,andnowit’skilledusall.”
MichaelPoolesnortedhiscontempt.“AndIwishI’djustthrownyouintoa
jailbackonEarthandleftyoutorot.”
“Oh,Lethe,”Miriamsaidwithdisgust.Shewassiftingthroughthescattered
debristhespidershadleft behind. “Doyoutwohave any ideahowridiculous
youlookinthosesuits?Liketwosofttoysfacingoff.Anyhowyouaren’tdead
yet,Jovik.”Shepickedupbitsofrubbish,rope,afewinstruments,someofher
precioussampleflasks,enigmaticegg-shapeddevicessmallenoughtofitinher
fist—andfoodpacks.
MichaelPoole’scuriositysnaggedhim.“Theydidn’ttakeeverything.”
“Evidentlynot.Infact,asyou’dhavenoticedifyouweren’ttoobusytrading
insultswithyourpassenger,theydidn’ttakeus.OrBill.”
“What,then?”
“Metal. I think. Anything that has a significant metal component is being
hauledaway.”
“Ah.” Poole watched the spiders toiling up their volcano, bits of our ship
clutchedintheirhugeclaws.“Thatmakesasortofsense.Onethingthismoonis
short of is metal. Has been since its formation. Even the core is mostly light
silicaterock,morelikeEarth’smantlethanitsironcore.Whichmaybeexplains
whyeverysurfaceprobetoTitanacrosssixteenhundredyearshasdisappeared
withoutatrace—eventhetracesofyourillegalsample-collectors,Emry.They
were taken for the metal. And,” he said, chasing the new idea, “maybe that’s
what we saw in the radar images of the deeps of the crater lake. Something
toilingonthefloor,youremember,asifquarrying?Maybeitwasmoreofthose
spiderthingsafterthemetalliccontentofthemeteoritethatdugoutthecraterin
thefirstplace.”
“Well, in any event they left useful stuff behind,” said Miriam, picking
throughthedebris.“Anythingceramic,glassfibre,plastic.Andthefoodpacks.
Wewon’tstarve,atleast.”
Poolehadhomedinontheory,whileshefocusedontheessentialsthatmight
keepusalive.Thattellsyoueverythingabouttheman’sloftynature.
“Butthey tookthe GUTengine,didn’tthey?”I put insharply.“Our power
source.Withoutwhichwe’lleventuallyfreezetodeath,nomatterhowwellfed
weare.”
“And, incidentally,” Miriam said, “the identity-backup deck. We cached the
backupsintheGUTengine’sowncontrolandprocessingunit,themostreliable
storeonthegondola.Ifwelosethat,welosethelasttraceofpoorBilltoo.”
Icouldn’thelpbutglanceatDzik’scorpse,fast-frozenontheiceofTitan.
NotPoole,though.Hewaswatchingthoserecedingspiders.“They’reheading
down into the volcano. Which is a vent that leads down into the mantle, the
ammoniasea,right?Why?Whatthehellarethosethings?”
Miriamsaid,“Onewaytofindout.”Sheheftedoneofthoseceramiceggsin
herrighthand,pressedastudthatmadeitglowred,andhurledittowardsthe
nearestspider.Itfollowedalow-gravityarc,heavilydampedinthethickair,and
itseemedtotakeanagetofall.Butheraimwasgood,anditlandednotametre
fromthespider.
And exploded. Evidently it had been a grenade. The spider shattered
satisfactorily,thoseuglyclawsgoingwheelingthroughtheair.
Miriamhadalreadystartedtoruntowardsthespider.Youcouldn’tfaulther
directness.“Comeon.”
Poole followed, and I too, unwilling to be left alone with Bill’s frozen
remains.Poolecalled,“Whatdidyoudothatfor?”
“Wewanttoknowwhatwe’redealingwith,don’twe?”
“Andwhyarewerunning?”
“Sowecangettherebeforetheotherspidersgetridofit.”
Andsure enough the other spiders,still ladenwith bits of the gondola,had
already turned, and were closing on their shattered fellow. They didn’t seem
perturbedbythesuddendestructionofoneoftheirkind,orofourapproaching
presence.Theyseemedtoperceiveonlywhatwasessentialtothem—onlywhat
wasmetallic.
Wegottherefirst,andwesquattedaroundthedownedspiderinasplashof
suit light. The spider hadn’t broken open; it was not enclosed by a hull or
externalcarapace.Insteadithadshatteredintopieces,likeasmashedsculpture.
We pawed at the debris chunks, Miriam and Poole talking fast, analysing,
speculating. The chunks appeared to be mostly water ice, though Poole
speculateditwasaparticularhigh-pressureform.Theinternalstructurewasnot
simple; it reminded me of a honeycomb, sharp-edged chambers whose walls
enclosed smaller clusters of chambers and voids, on down through the length
scaleslikeafractal.Poolepointedoutthreadsofsilverandacopperycolour—
theshadeswereuncertaininTitan’slight.Theywereclearlymetallic.
“Sothespidersatleastneedmetal,”Miriamsaid.“Iwonderwhatthepower
sourceis.”
Butweweren’ttofindout,fortheotherspidershadclosedinandwedidn’t
wanttogetchompedbyaccident.Webackedoff,dimmingoursuitlights.
Miriamasked,“So,biologicalorartificial?Whatdoyouthink?”
Poole shrugged. “They seem dedicated to a single purpose, and have these
metallic components. That suggests artificial. But that body interior looks
organic.Grown.”
IfeltlikeputtingPooleinhisplace.“Maybethesecreaturestranscendyour
simple-minded categories. Perhaps they are the result of a million years of
machine evolution. Or the result of a long symbiosis between animal and
technology.”
Pooleshookhishead.“Mymoney’sonbiology.Givenenoughtime,necessity
andselectioncanachievesomeremarkablethings.”
Miriamsaid,“Butwhywouldtheirsystemsincorporatemetalifit’ssorare
here?”
“Maybethey’renotnativetoTitan,”Isaid.“Maybetheydidn’tevolvehere.”
But neither of them were listening to me. “The real question is,” I said more
urgently,“whatdowedonow?”
TheheadofHarryPoole,projectedsomehowbyoursuit’scommssystems,
poppedintoexistence,thesizeofanorange,floatingintheair.Thesmallscale
madehisskinlookevenmoreunnaturallysmooth.“Andthat,”hesaid,“isthe
first intelligent question you’ve asked since we pressganged you, Jovik. You
readytotalktomenow?”
Michael Poole glared at his father, then turned and sucked water from the
spigotinsidehishelmet.“Tellushowbaditis,Harry.”
“Ican’tretrieveyouforsevendays,”Harrysaid.
***
IfeltcolderthanTitan.“Butthesuits—”
“Withoutrechargeoursuitswillexpireinthreedays,”Poolesaid.“Fouratthe
most.”
Icouldthinkofnothingtosay.
Harrylookedaroundatus,hisdisembodiedheadspinningeerily.“Thereare
options.”
“Goon,”Poolesaid.
“Youcouldimmerseyourselvesinthecraterlake.Thesuitscouldwithstand
that.It’scoldinthere,thebrinystuffiswellbelowfreezing,butit’snotascold
astheopenair.Keptwarmbytheresidualheatofimpact,remember.Evenso
youwouldonlystretchoutyourtimebyadayortwo.”
“Notenough,”Miriamsaid.“Andwe wouldn’tgetanyworkdone, floating
aroundinthedarkinalake.”
Ilaughedather.“Work?Whocaresaboutworknow?”
Poolesaid,“Whatelse,Harry?”
“Iconsideredoptionswheretwopeoplemightsurvive,ratherthanthree.Or
one.Bysharingsuits.”
Thetensionbetweenusroseimmediately.
Harrysaid,“OfcoursethosespidersalsoleftyouBill’ssuit.Thetroubleisthe
powerstoreisbuiltintothefabricofeachsuit.Tobenefityou’dhavetoswap
suits. I can’t think of any way you could do that without the shelter of the
gondola;you’dfreezetodeathinasecond.”
“Soit’snotanoption,”Poolesaid.
Miriamlookedatusbothsteadily.“Itneverwas.”
Iwasn’tsureifIwasrelievedornot,forIhadbeendetermined,inthosefew
momentswhenitseemedapossibility,thatthelastsurvivorinthelastsuitwould
bemyself.
“So,”PoolesaidtoHarry,“whatelse?”
“You need the gondola’s GUT engine to recharge your suits,” Harry said.
“There’sjustnoalternative.”
Ipointedatthetoilingspidersonthecryovolcano.“Thosebeastshavealready
thrownitintothatcaldera.”
“Thenyou’llhavetogoafterit,”Harrysaid,and,comfortablytuckedupin
theCrab,hegrinnedatme.“Won’tyou?”
“How?”Iwasgenuinelybewildered.“Arewegoingtobuildasubmarine?”
“Youwon’tneedone,”Harrysaid.“Youhaveyoursuits.Justjumpin…”
“Areyouinsane?Youwantustojumpintothecalderaofavolcano,aftera
bunchofmetal-chewingmonsterspiders?”
But Miriam and Poole, as was their way, had pounced on the new idea.
Miriamsaid,“Jovik,youkeepforgettingyou’renotonEarth.That‘volcano’is
justspewingwater,lavathat’scolderthanyourownbloodstream.”Sheglanced
atHarry.“Thewater’sveryammonia-rich,however.Itakeitoursuitscanstand
it?”
“They’re designed for contact with the mantle material,” Harry said. “We
alwaysknewthatwaslikely.Thepressureshouldn’tbeaproblemeither.”
Poole said, “As for the spiders, they will surely leave us alone if we keep
awayfromthem.Weknowthat.Wemightevenusetheminthedescent.Follow
thespiders,findtheengine.Right?”
Harrysaid,“Andthere’ssciencetobedone.”Hedisplayeddataingleaming
Virtual displays—cold summaries only metres away from Bill Dzik’s corpse.
Harrysaidthathispreliminaryanalysisofourresultsshowedthattheprimary
sourceoftheatmosphere’scrucialmethanewasnothingintheairorthesurface
features, but a venting from the cryovolcanoes. “And therefore the ultimate
sourceissomewhereintheammoniasea,”Harrysaid.“Biological,geological,
whatever—it’sdownthere.”
“OK,”Poolesaid.“Sowe’renotgoingtocompletethepictureunlesswego
takealook.”
“Youwon’tbeoutoftouch.I’llbeabletotrackyou,andtalktoyouallthe
wayin.Ourcommslinkhasaneutrino-transmissionbasis;afewkilometresof
iceorwaterisn’tgoingtomakeanydifferencetothat.”
Afewkilometres?Ididn’tlikethesoundofthat.
“Sothat’sthat,”Miriamsaid.“Wehaveaplan.”
“Youhaveashareddelusion,”Isaid.
Theyignoredme.Poolesaid,“Isuggestwetakeanhourout.Wecanafford
that. We should try to rest; we’ve been through a lot. And we need to sort
throughthesesupplies,figureoutwhatwecanuse.”
“Yeah,”saidMiriam.“Forinstance,howaboutnetsoficeasballast?…”
SoheandMiriamgotdowntowork,sortingthroughthejunkdiscardedbythe
spiders, knotting together cable to make nets. They were never happier than
whenbusyonsometasktogether.
AndtherewasBillDzik,lyingonhisback,starknaked,frozeneyesstaring
into the murky sky. I think it tells you a lot about Michael Poole and even
Miriamthattheyweresofocussedontheirlatestgoalthattheyhadnotimeto
considertheremainsofthismanwhomtheyhadworkedwith,apparently,for
decades.
Well, I had despised the man, and he despised me, but something in me
cringedatthethoughtofleavinghimlikethat.IlookedaroundforsomethingI
coulduseasa shovel. Ifoundastrut andaceramicpanelfrom someinternal
partitioninthegondola,andusedcabletojointhemtogether.
ThenIdugintothesoilofTitan.Thebladewentineasily;theicysandgrains
didn’tclingtogether.AsanativeofEarth’shighergravityIwasover-powered
forTitan,andliftedgreatshovelfulseasily.Butahalf-metreorsodownIfound
thesandwastighterpackedandhardertopenetrate,nodoubtsomeartefactof
Titan’scomplicatedgeology.Icouldn’tdigagravedeepenoughforBillDzik.
So I contented myself with laying him in my shallow ditch, and building a
moundoverhim.BeforeIcoveredhisfaceItriedtoclosehiseyes,butofcourse
thelidswerefrozeninplace.
AllthetimeIwasworkingIclungtomyangeratMichaelPoole,foritwas
betterthanthefear.
XI
VOLCANO
Soweclimbedtheflankofthecryovolcano,parallelingthetrailfollowedbythe
icespiders,whocontinuedtotoiluptherehaulingthelastusefulfragmentsof
ourgondola.Wewereladentoowithourimprovisedgear—ropecradles,bagsof
ice-rockchunksforballast,foodpacks.Miriamevenworeapackcontainingthe
pickofherprecioussciencesamples.
Itwasn’tadifficulthike.Whenwehadrisenabovethesanddriftswewalked
onbarerock-ice,aroughsurfacethatgavegoodfootingundertheridgesofour
boots. I had imagined we’d slip walking up a bare ice slope, but at such
temperatures the ice under your feet won’t melt through the pressure of your
weight,asonEarth,andit’sthatslickofmeltwaterthateliminatesthefriction.
Butdespitetheeasyclimb,aswenearedthecalderamylegsfeltheavy.Ihad
no choice but to go on, to plunge into ever greater danger, as I’d had no real
choicesincebeingpressgangedinthefirstplace.
At last we stood at the lip of the caldera. We looked down over a crudely
carved bowl perhaps half a kilometre across, water-ice rock laced with some
brownish organic muck. Most of the bowl’s floor was solid, evidently the
cryovolcanowasallbutdormant,buttherewasawidecrevassedownwhichthe
spiderstoiledintodarkness.Thespiders,ladenastheywere,clamberednimbly
downthesidesofthiscrevasse,andPoolepointedouthowtheyclimbedbackup
thefarside,unladen.Ifyoulistenedcarefullyyoucouldhearacrunchingsound,
fromdeepwithinthecrevasse.
Thiswaswhatweweregoingtodescendinto.
“Don’teventhinkaboutit,”Miriammurmuredtome.“Justdoit.”
Butfirstweneededatamespider.
Weclimbedafewpacesdowntheflank,andstoodalongsidethetoilingline.
Miriamactuallytriedtolassoaspiderasitcrawledpastus.Thiswasabitover-
ambitious,asthethickairandlowgravitygaveherlengthofcablealifeofits
own. So she and Poole worked out another way. With a bit of dexterity they
managedtosnagcableloopsaroundafewofthespider’slimbs,andPoolethrew
cablebackandforthunderthebeast’sbellyandoveritsbackandtieditoff,to
makeakindofloosenetaroundthespider’sbody.Thespiderdidn’tevennotice
theseactivities,itseemed,butcontinueditssteadyplod.
“Thatwill do,” Poole said. “All aboard!” Grasping his own burdenof pack
and ballast nets he made a slow-motion leap, grabbed the improvised netting,
andsethimselfonthebackofthespider.MiriamandIhurriedtofollowhim.
So there we were, the three of us sitting on the back of the beast with our
handswrappedinlengthsofcable.Thefirstfewminutesoftherideweren’tso
bad,thoughthespider’smotionwasjoltingandungainly,andyoualwayshad
theunpleasantawarenessthattherewasnoconsciousminddirectingthisthing.
Butthenthelipofthecalderacameonus,remarkablyquickly.Iwrappedmy
handsandarmstighterinthenetting.
“Here we go!” Michael Poole cried, and he actually whooped as the spider
tippedheadfirstoverthelipofthecrevasse,andbegantoclimbdownitsdead
verticalwall.Icouldnotseehowitwasclingingtothesheerwall—perhapswith
suckers,orperhapsitsdelicatelimbsfoundfootholds.Butmyconcernwasfor
myself,forasthespidertippedforwardwethreefellheadoverheels,clingingto
thenet,untilwewerehangingupsidedown.
“Climb up!” Poole called. “It will be easier if we can settle near the back
end.”
Itwasgoodadvice,buteasiersaidthandone,fortoclimbIhadtoloosenmy
griponthecabletowhichIwasclinging.Iwasthelasttoreachthearseendof
thedescendingspider,andfindabitofrespiteinasurfaceIcouldlieon.
Andallthewhilethedarkofthechasmclosedaroundus,andthatdreadful
crunching, chewing noise from below grew louder. I looked up to see the
opening of this chimney as a ragged gash of crimson-brown, the only natural
light; it barely cast a glow on the toiling body of the spider. Impulsively I
orderedmysuittoturnonitslights,andwewerefloodedwithglare.
Pooleasked,“EverybodyOK?”
“Winded,”Miriamsaid.“AndI’mgladItookmyclaustrophobiapillsbefore
gettingintothegondola.Look.What’sthatahead?”
Weallpeereddown.Itwasaslaboficethatappearedtospanthecrevasse.
ForaninstantIwonderedifthiswasasdeepaswewouldhavetogotofindour
GUTengine.Buttherewasnosignoftoilingspidershere,orofthepiecesofour
gondola,andIfearedIknewwhatwascomingnext.Thatsoundofcrunching
grewlouderandlouder,witharhythmofitsown.
“Braceyourselves,”Poolesaid—pointlessadvice.
Ourspiderhittheicefloor.Itturnedouttobeathincrust,easilybroken—that
was the crunching we had heard, as spider after spider smashed through this
interface.BeyondthebrokencrustIcaughtoneglimpseofblack,frothywater
beforeIwasdraggeddownintoit,headfirst.
Immersed,Iwasnocolder,butIcouldfeelastickythicknessallaroundme,
asifIhadbeendroppedintoavatofsyrup.Mysuitlampspickedoutenigmatic
flecksandthreadsthatfilledthefluidaroundme.WhenIlookedback,Isawthe
roof of this vent already freezing over, before it was broken by the plunging
formofanotherspider,followingours.
Michael Poole was laughing. “Dunked in molten lava, Titan style. What a
ride!”
Imoaned,“Howmuchlonger?Howdeepwillwego?”
“Asdeepasweneedto.Havepatience.Butyoushouldcutyourlights,Emry.
Saveyourpowerforheating.”
“No, wait.” Miriam was pointing at the ice wall that swept past us. “Look
there.Andthere!”
AndImadeouttubularforms,maybehalfametrelongorless,thatclungto
thewalls,or,itseemed,madetheirpurposefulwayacrossit.Itwasdifficultto
seeanydetail,fortheyquicklyshotupandoutofourfieldofview.
“Life?”Poolesaid,boyishlyexcitedoncemore.
Miriamsaid,“Itlookslikeit,doesn’tit?”Withoutwarningussheloosened
onehandfromthenet,andgrabbedatoneofthetubesanddraggeditawayfrom
itsholdonthewall.Itwriggledinherhand,paleandsightless,afatworm;its
frontend,openlikeamouth,wastorn.
“Ugh,”Isaid.“Throwitback!”
ButMiriamwascradlingthething.“Oh,I’msorry.Ihurtyou,didn’tI?”
Poolebentoverit.“Alive,then.”
“Oh,yes.Andifit’ssurvivinginthisammonialava,Iwouldn’tmindbetting
it’sacousinofwhatever’sdownbelowinthesea.Morelife,Michael!”
“Look,Ithinkit’sbeenbrowsingontheice.Theyareclusteredprettythickly
overthewalls.”AndwhenIlooked,Isawhewasright;therethetube-fishwere,
browsing away, working their way slowly up the vent. “Maybe they actively
keeptheventopen,youthink?”
PooletookasmallscienceboxfromMiriam’spack,andthere,together,even
as we rode that alien back down into the throat of the volcano, they briskly
analysed the beast’s metabolism, and the contents of the water we were
immersedin,andsenttheresultsbacktotheHermitCrab.Harry’sVirtualhead
poppedupbeforeus,grinninginanely,eveninthatextremesituation.
Ihadseenenough.Withasnap,Imademysuitturnitslightsoff.Ihadno
desiretositshiveringinthedarkasinvisibleicewallsplummetedpastme.ButI
wasgamblingthatcuriositywouldgetthebetterofPooleandMiriam,andIwas
right;soonitwasPoolewhosesuitglowed,spendinghisownpreciouspowerto
lightmeup,astheylabouredovertheirpointlessscience.
“SoIwasright,”Miriambreathedatlast.“Thisvent,andthemantleocean,
hostawholeotherdomain—athirdonTitan,inadditiontothesilanesandthe
CHONsponges.Ammonolife…”
***
Titan’sliquidmantleisthoughttobearelicofitsformation,inapartofthesolar
nebulawhereammoniawas common.Titanwasbornwitharockycoreanda
deepopenocean,ofwaterlacedwithammonia.Theoceanmighthavepersisted
for a billion years, warmed by greenhouse effects under a thick primordial
atmosphere.A billion yearsis plentyof timefor lifeto evolve.With time the
oceansurfacefrozeovertoformanicycrust,andattheocean’sbasecomplex
high-pressureformsoficeformedadeepsolidlayerenclosingthesilicatecore.
Iceaboveandbelow,butstilltheliquidoceanpersistedbetween,ammonia-rich
water,veryalkaline,veryviscous.Andinthatdeepoceanauniquekindoflife
adapted to its strange environment, based on chemical bonds between carbon
and nitrogen-hydrogen chemical groups rather than carbon-oxygen, using
ammoniaasitssoluteratherthanwater:“ammonolife,”thespecialistscallit.
“Yes,athirddomain,”Miriamsaid.“OneunknownelsewhereinSolSystem
sofarasIknow.SohereonTitanyouhaveajunctionofthreeentirelydifferent
domainsoflife:nativeammonolifeinthemantleocean,CHONlifeinthecrater
lakesblowninfromtheinnersystem,andthesilanelilieswaftinginfromTriton
andtheoutercold.Incredible.”
“Morethanthat,”Harrysaidtinnily.“Michael,thattube-fishofyoursisnota
methanogen—itdoesn’tcreatemethane—butit’sfullofit.Methaneisintegralto
its metabolism, as far as I can see from the results you sent me. It even has
methaneinitsflotationbladders.”
Miriamlookedatthetube-fishblindlychewingattheicewalls.“Right.They
collectitsomehow,fromsomesourcedeepintheocean.Theyuseittofloatup
here. They even nibble the cryovolcano vent walls, to keep them open. They
havetobeintegraltodeliveringthemethanefromthedeepoceansourcestothe
atmosphere. So you have the three domains not just sharing this moon but
cooperatinginsustainingitsecology.”
Harry said, “Quite a vision. And as long as they’re all stupid enough, we
mightmakesomemoneyoutofthisdamnsystemyet.”
Miriamletgoofhertube-fish,likefreeingabird;itwriggledoffintothedark.
“Youalwayswerearealist,Harry.”
I thought I saw blackness below us, in the outer glimmer of Poole’s suit
lamps.“Harry.Howdeepisthisicecrust,beforewegettothemantleocean?”
“Aroundthirty-fivekilometres.”
“Andhowdeeparewenow?Canyoutell?”
“Oh,aroundthirty-fivekilometres.”
MichaelPoolegasped.“Lethe.Grabhold,everybody.”
Itwasonusalmostatonce:thebaseoftheventwehadfollowedalltheway
downfromthecryovolcanomouthatthesurface,apassagerightthroughtheice
crustofTitan.Igrippedthenetandshutmyeyes.
As we passed out of the vent, through the roof of ice and into the mantle
beneath,Ifeltthewallsrecedefromme,awashofpressure,avastopening-out.
Andwefellintothedarkandcold.
XII
OCEAN
NowthatthewallsweregonefromunderitslimbsIcouldfeelthatthespider
wasswimming,or perhapssomehow jetting,everdeeper intothat gloopysea,
whilethethreeofusheldonforourlives.LookingupIsawthebaseofTitan’s
solid crust, an ice roof that covered the whole world, glowing in the light of
Poole’slampsbutalreadyreceding.AndIthoughtIsawtheventfromwhichwe
had emerged, a much eroded funnel around which tube-fish swam languidly.
AwayfromthewallsIcouldmoreeasilyseethemechanicsofhowtheyswam;
lacking fins or tails, they seemed to twist through the water, a motion maybe
suitedtotheviscosityofthemedium.Theylookedmorelikevastbacteriathan
fish.
Soonweweresofarbeneaththeiceroofthatitwasinvisible,andwethree
andthecrabthatdraggedusdownwereasinglepointoflightfallingintothe
dark.AndPooleturnedoffhissuitlamps!
Iwhimpered,“Lethe,Poole,spareus.”
“Oh,haveaheart,”Miriamsaid,andherownsuitlitup.“Justforatime.Let
himgetusedtoit.”
Isaid,“Getusedtowhat?Fallingintothisendlessdark?”
“Notendless,”Poolesaid.“Theoceanisnomorethan—howmuch,Harry?”
“Two hundred and fifty kilometres deep,” Harry said, mercifully not
presentingaVirtualtous.“Giveortake.”
“Twohundredandfifty…Howdeepareyouintendingtotakeus,Poole?”
“I told you,” Michael Poole said grimly. “As deep as it takes. We have to
retrievethatGUTengine,Emry.Wedon’thaveachoice—simpleasthat.”
“AndIhaveafeeling,”Miriamsaidbleakly,“nowwe’reoutofthatvent,that
wemaybeheadingallthewaydowntothebottom.It’skindofthenextlogical
choice.”
“We’llbecrushed,”Isaiddismally.
“No,”HarryPoolepipedup.“Look,Jovik,justrememberTitanisn’talarge
world. The pressure down there is only about four times what you’d find in
Earth’sdeepestoceans.Five,tops.Yoursuitisover-engineered.Whateveritis
thatkillsyou,itwon’tbecrushing.”
“Howlongtothebottom,then?”
Harrysaid,“You’refallingfasterthanyou’dthink,giventheviscosityofthe
medium.Thatspiderisastrongswimmer.Aday,say.”
“Aday!”
Miriamsaid,“Theremaybesightstoseeonthewaydown.”
“Whatsights?”
“Well,thetube-fishcan’texistinisolation.Therehastobeawholeammono
ecologyinthegreaterdeeps.”
Myimaginationworkedovertime.“Ammonosharks.Ammonowhales.”
Miriam laughed. “Sluggish as hell, in this cold soup. And besides, they
couldn’teatyou,Jovik.”
“Theymightspitmeoutaftertrying.”Itriedtothinkbeyondmyimmediate
panic.“Butevenif we survive—evenif we find our damn GUTengine down
thereontheice—howarewesupposedtogetback?”
Poolesaideasily,“Allweneedtodoisdumpourballastandwe’llfloatup.
Wedon’tneedtobringuptheGUTengine,remember,justuseittorechargethe
suits.”
Miriamsaid,“Abetteroptionmightbetohitcharidewithanotherspider.”
“Right.Whichwouldsolveanotherproblem,”Poolesaid.“Whichistofinda
cryovolcanoventtothesurface.Thespidersknowtheway,evidently.”
Harrysaid,“Andevenifthespidersletyoudown,Icouldguideyou.Icansee
you,theventmouths,eventheGUTengine.Thisneutrinotechnologywasworth
themoneyitcost.There’snoproblem,inprinciple.”
AttimesI felt less afraidofthesituationthanofmycompanions,precisely
becauseoftheirlackoffear.
Miriamfetchedsomethingfromapackatherwaist,Icouldn’tseewhat,and
glancedatPoole.“Jovik’snotgoingtosurviveadescentlastingaday.Notinthe
dark.”
Poolelookedatme,andather.“Doit.”
“Dowhat?”
ButIhadnotimetoflinchasshereachedacross,andwithexpertskillpressed
avialintoavalveinthechestofmyexosuit.Ifeltasharpcoldnessasthedrug
pumpedintomybloodstream,andafterthatonlyadreamlesssleep,cradledin
thewarmthofmycushionedsuit.
***
SoImissedtheeventsofthenexthours,thequiettimeswhenPooleandMiriam
tried to catch some sleep themselves, the flurries of excitement when strange
denizensofTitan’sammonodeepapproachedthemoutofthedark.
AndImissedthenextgreatshocksufferedbyourstrangelittlecrew,whenthe
baseofTitan’sundergroundocean,anicefloorthreehundredkilometresbeneath
thesurface,atlasthoveintoview.Thestrangelandscapeofthisabyssaldeep,
made of folded high-pressure ices littered by bits of meteorite rock, was
puncturedbyvents andchasms, likeaninverted mirrorimageof thecrust far
aboveus.Andthespiderwerodedidnotslowdown.Ithurleditselfintooneof
those vents, and once more its limbs began to clatter down a wall of smooth
rock-ice.
HarrywarnedMiriamandPoolethatthislatestventlookedasifitpenetrated
the whole of this inner layer of core-cladding ice—Ice VI, laced by ammonia
dihydrate—alayeranotherfivehundredkilometresdeep.Atthebaseofthisvent
therewasonlyTitan’scoreofsilicaterocks,andthere,surely,thespiders’final
destinationmustlie.
Therewasnothingtobedonebuttoenduretheride.Itwouldtakeperhapsa
further day. So Poole and Miriam allowed the spider to drag us down. More
tube-fish,ofan exotichigh-pressure variety, grazedendlesslyat theicy walls.
Miriam popped me another vial to keep me asleep, and fed me intravenous
fluids.Harryfrettedabouttheexhaustionofourpower,andthegradualincrease
ofpressure;beneathacolumnofwaterandicehundredsofkilometresdeep,we
wereapproachingoursuits’manufacturedtolerance.Buttheyhadnochoiceto
continue,andI,unconscious,hadnosayinthematter.
When the ride was over, when the spider had at last come to rest, Miriam
wokemeup.
***
Iwaslyingonmybackonalumpyfloor.Thegravityfeltevenweakerthanon
thesurface.Miriam’sfacehoveredoverme,illuminatedbysuitlamps.Shesaid,
“Lookwhatwefound.”
I sat up. I felt weak, dizzy—hungry. Beside me, in their suits, Miriam and
Poolesatwatchingmyreaction.ThenIrememberedwhereIwasandthefearcut
in.
Ilookedaroundquickly.EvenbytheglowofthesuitlampsIcouldnotsee
far.ThemurkinessandfloatingparticlestoldmeImustbestillimmersedinthe
waterofTitan’sdeepocean.Isawaroofoficeaboveme—notfar,ahundred
metresorso.Belowmewasasurfaceofwhatlookedlikerock,darkandpurple-
streaked.Iwasina sort oficecavern,then,whosewallswereoffinthedark
beyondourbubbleoflight.IlearnedlaterthatIwasinacaverndugoutbeneath
the lower icy mantle of Titan, between it and the rocky core, eight hundred
kilometresbelowtheicyplainswhereIhadcrash-landeddaysbefore.Aroundus
I saw ice spiders, toiling away at their own enigmatic tasks, and bits of
equipmentfromthegondola,choppedup,carriedhereanddeposited.Therewas
theGUTengine!Myheartleapt;perhapsIwouldyetlivethroughthis.
But even the engine wasn’t what Miriam had meant. She repeated, “Look
whatwefound.”
Ilooked.Setinthefloor,intherockycoreoftheworld,wasahatch.
XIII
HATCH
They allowed me to eat and drink, and void my bladder. Moving around was
difficult, the cold water dense and syrupy; every movement I made was
accompaniedbythewhirofservomotors,asthesuitlabouredtoassistme.
IwasreassuredtoknowthattheGUTenginewasstillfunctioning,andthat
mysuitcellshadbeenrecharged.InprincipleIcouldstayalivelongenoughto
getbacktotheHermitCrab.AllIhadtodowasfindmywayoutofthecoreof
thisworld,upthrougheighthundredkilometresoficeandocean…Iclungto
thereliefofthemoment,andputoffmyfearsoverwhatwastocomenext.
Now that I was awake, Michael Poole, Miriam Berg, and Virtual Harry
rehearsedwhattheyhadfiguredoutaboutmethaneprocessingonTitan.Under
that roof of ice, immersed in that chill high-pressure ocean, they talked about
cometsandchemistry,whileallthewhilethehugemysteryofthehatchinthe
groundlaybetweenus,unaddressed.
Harry said, “On Earth ninety-five per cent of the methane in the air is of
biologicalorigin.Thefartsofanimals,decayingvegetation.Socouldthesource
bebiologicalhere?Youguyshavesurveyedenoughoftheenvironmenttorule
that out. There could in principle be methanogen bugs living in those ethane
lakes, for instance, feeding off reactions between acetylene and hydrogen, but
youfoundnothingsignificant.Whataboutadeliveryofthemethanebyinfalling
comets?It’spossible,butthenyou’dhavedetectedothertracecometarygases,
whichareabsentfromtheair.Oneplausiblepossibilityremained…”
WhenTitanwasyoungitsammonia-wateroceanextendedallthewaytothe
rockycore.There,chemicalprocessescouldhave produced plentifulmethane:
thealkalinewaterreactingwiththerockwouldliberatehydrogen,whichinturn
wouldreact with sources of carbon, monoxide or dioxide or carbon grains, to
manufacturemethane.Butthatprocesswouldhavebeenstoppedassoonasthe
icelayersplatedovertherock core,insulatingitfromliquidwater. Whatwas
needed,then,wassomewayforchamberstobekeptopenatthebaseoftheice,
whereliquidwaterandrockcouldstillreactattheirinterface.Andawayforthe
methaneproducedtoreachtheocean,andthenthesurface.
“The methane could be stored in clathrates, ice layers,” Harry said. “That
wouldworkitswaytothesurfaceeventually.Simplertobuildventsupthrough
theice,andencourageachemoautotrophicecosystemtofeedoffthemethane,
anddeliverittohigherlevels.”
“Thetube-fish,”Isaid.
“Andtheirrelatives,yes.”
Lookingup atthe iceceiling aboveme, I sawhow ithad been shaped and
scraped, as if by lobster claws. “So the spiders keep these chambers open, to
allowthemethane-creatingreactionstocontinue.”
“That’sit,” Michael Poole said, wonder in his voice. “They do it to keep a
supplyofmethanepumpingupintotheatmosphere.Andthey’vebeendoingit
for billions of years. Have to have been, for the ecologies up there to have
evolvedastheyhave—thetube-fish,theCHONsponges,thesilanes.Thiswhole
worldisanengine,averyoldengine.It’sanengineforcreatingmethane,for
turningwhatwouldotherwisebejustanothernondescripticemoonintoahaven,
whosepurposeistofosterthelifeformsthatinhabitit.”
“Whywouldtheydothat?”
Noneofthemcouldanswerthat.
“Ha!” I barked laughter. “Well, the why of it is irrelevant. The spiders are
clearlysentient—ortheirmakersare.Youhavefoundpreciselywhatyouwere
afraidof,haven’tyou,MichaelPoole?SentienceattheheartofTitan.Youwill
never be allowed to open it up for exploitation now. So much for your
commercialambitions!”
“Whichyouweregoingtosharein,”Harryremindedme,scowling.
Isneered.“Oh,I’donlyhavewastedthemoneyondrugsandsex.Toseeyou
world-builderscrestfallenisworththatloss.Sowhat’sunderthehatch?”
Theyglancedateachother.“Thefinalanswers,wehope,”MichaelPoolesaid.
Miriamsaid,“We’veputofflookingunderthereuntilwebroughtyouround,
Jovik.”
Poole said, “We’ve no idea what’s under there. We need everybody awake,
readytoreact.Wemightevenneedyourhelp,Emry.”Helookedatmewithfaint
disgust.“And,”hesaidmorepractically,“it’sprobablygoingtotakethreeofus
toopenit.Comesee.”
Weallfloatedthroughthegloopymurk.
Thehatchwasadiscofsomesilverymetal,perhapsthreemetresacross,set
flushintotheroughlyflatrockyground.Spacedarounditscircumferencewere
threeidenticalgrooves,eachmaybetencentimetresdeep.Inthemiddleofeach
groovewasamechanismlikeapairoflevers,hingedatthetop.
Michaelsaid,“Wethinkyouoperateitlikethis.”Hekneltandputhisgloved
handstoeithersideofthelevers,andmimedpressingthemtogether.“Wedon’t
knowhowheavythemechanismwillbe.Hopefullyeachofuscanhandleone
setoflevers,withthehelpofoursuits.”
“Threemechanisms,”Isaid.“Thisisadoormeanttobeoperatedbyaspider,
isn’tit?Onehandleforeachofthosethreebigclaws.”
“Wethinkso,”Miriamsaid.“Thehandleslookabouttherightsize.Wethink
the handles must have to be worked simultaneously—one spider, or three
humans.”
“Ican’tbelievethatafterabillionyearsalltheyhaveisaclunkymechanical
door.”
Poolesaid,“It’shardtoimagineatechnologyhoweveradvancedthatwon’t
have manual backups. We’ve seen that the spiders themselves aren’t perfect;
they’renotimmunetobreakdownanddamage.”
“As inflicted by us.” I gazed reluctantly at the hatch. “Must we do this?
You’vefoundwhatyouwanted—ordidn’twant.Whyexposeustomorerisk?
Can’twejustgohome?”
MiriamandMichaeljuststaredatme,bewildered.Miriamsaid,“Youcould
walkaway,withoutknowing?”
Poolesaid,“Well,we’renotleavinghereuntilwe’vedonethis,Emry,soyou
mayaswellgetitover.”Hecroucheddownbyhishandle,andMiriamdidthe
same.
Ihadnochoicebuttojointhem.
Poolecountedusdown:“Three,two,one.”
Iclosed mygloved hands overthe levers and pushed themtogether. It was
awkwardtoreachdown,andthemechanismfeltheavy;mymusclesworked,and
Ifeltthereactionpushmeupfromthefloor.Buttheleversclosedtogether.
Thewholehatchbegantovibrate.
I let go and moved back quickly. The others did the same. We stood in a
circle,waftedbythecurrentsoftheammoniasea,andwatchedthathatchslide
upoutoftheground.
***
Itwaslikeapiston,risinguponemetre,two.Itssideswereperfectlysmooth,
perfectlyreflective,withoutascufforscratch.Iwonderedathowolditmustbe.
MichaelPoole,foolthathewas,reachedupaglovedmonkey-curioushandto
touchit,butMiriamrestrainedhim.“I’dliketomeasurethetolerancesonthat
thing,”hemurmured.
Then the great slab, around three metres wide and two tall, slid sideways.
Poolehadtostepoutoftheway.Thescrapeacrosstheroughrockgroundwas
audible,dimly.Theshiftrevealedaholeintheground,acircle—andatfirstI
thoughtitwasperfectlyblack.ButthenIsawelusivegoldenglimmers,sheetsof
lightlikesoapbubbles;ifIturnedmyheadalittleIlostitagain.
“Woah,”HarryPoolesaid.“There’ssomeexoticradiationcomingoutofthat
hole.Youshouldallbackoff.Thesuitshaveheavyshielding,butafewmetres
ofwaterwon’thurt.”
Ididn’tneedtellingtwice.WemovedawaytowardstheGUTengine,taking
thelightwithus.Theholeintheground,stilljustvisibleintheglowofoursuit
lamps, looked a little like one of the ethane lakes on the surface, with that
metallic monolith beside it. But every so often I could make out that elusive
golden-brown glimmer. I said, “It looks like a facet of one of your wormhole
Interfaces,Poole.”
“Notabadobservation,”Poolesaid.“AndIhaveafeelingthat’sexactlywhat
we’relookingat.Harry?”
“Yeah.” Harry was hesitating. “I wish you had a better sensor suite down
there.I’mrelyingoninstrumentswovenintoyoursuits,internaldiagnostictools
intheGUTengine,somestrayneutrinoleakageuphere…Yes,Ithinkwe’re
seeingproductsofstressedspacetime.Therearesomeinterestingopticaleffects
too—lightlensedbyadistortedgravityfield.”
“Soit’sawormholeinterface?”Miriamasked.
“Ifitis,”Poolesaid,“it’sfarbeyondtheclumsymonstrositiesweconstructin
Jovianorbit.Andwhateverisontheothersideofthatbarrier,myguessisit’s
notonTitan…”
“Watchout,”Miriamsaid.
A spider came scuttling past us towards the hole. It paused at the lip, as if
puzzledthattheholewasopen.Thenittippedforward,justasthespiderwerode
into the volcano had dipped into the caldera, and slid head first through that
sheetofdarkness.Itwasasifithadfallenintoapoolofoilthatclosedoverthe
spiderwithoutaripple.
“Iwouldn’trecommendfollowing,”Harrysaid.“Theradiationsinthereare
deadly,suitornosuit;youcouldn’tsurvivethepassage.”
“Lethe,”MichaelPoolesaid.Hewasdisappointed!
“Soarewedonehere?”Iasked.
Poole snapped, “I’ll tell you something, Emry, I’m glad you’re here. Every
timewecometoanobstacleandyoujustwanttogiveup,itjustgoadsmeinto
tryingtofindawayforward.”
“Thereisnowayforward,”Isaid.“It’slethal.Harrysaidso.”
“We can’t go on,” Miriam agreed. “But how about a probe? Something
radiation-hardened, a controlling AI—with luck we could just drop it in there
andletitreportback.”
“That would work,” Poole said. Without hesitation the two of them walked
overtotheGUTengine,andbeganpryingatit.
***
For redundancy the engine had two control units. Miriam and Poole detached
oneofthese.Containingasensorsuite,processingcapabilities,amemorystore,
it was a white-walled box the size of a suitcase. Within this unit and its twin
siblingwerestoredtheidentitybackupsthathadbeentakenofusbeforeourride
intoTitan’satmosphere.ThelittleboxwasevencapableofprojectingVirtuals;
Harry’s sharp image was being projected right now by the GUT engine
hardware,ratherthanthroughapoolingofoursuits’systemsasbefore.
The box was small enough just to be dropped through the interface, and
hardenedagainstradiation.Itwouldsurviveapassagethroughthewormhole—
thoughnoneofuscouldsayifitwouldsurvivewhatlayontheotherside.Andit
had transmitting and receiving capabilities. Harry believed its signals would
makeitbackthroughtheinterface,thoughprobablyscrambledbygravitational
distortionand other effects,but he was confident he could construct decoding
algorithmsfromafewtestsignals.Theunitwasperfectlyequippedtoserveasa
probethroughthehatch,saveforonething.What the controlboxdidn’thave
wasintelligence.
MichaelPoolestrokeditssurfacewithaglovedhand.“We’resendingitinto
anentirelyunknownsituation.It’sgoingtohavetoworkautonomously,tofigure
out its environment, work out some kind of sensor sweep, before it can even
figureouthowtotalktousandaskusfordirection.RunningaGUTengineisa
prettysimpleand predictablejob;the AIin there isn’tcapable ofhandling an
explorationlikethese.”
“But,”Isaid,“itcarriesinitsstorebackupsoffourhumanintellects—mine,
deadBill,andyoutwogeniuses.Whatashamewecan’tallridealongwithit!”
Mysarcasmfailedtoevoketheexpectedreaction.PooleandMiriamlookedat
each other, electrified. Miriam shook her head. “Jovik, you’re like some idiot
savant. You keep on coming up with such ideas. I think you’re actually far
smarterthanyouallowyourselftobe.”
Isaidhonestly,“Ihavenoideawhatyou’retalkingabout.”
“Theideayou’vesuggestedtothem,”Harrysaidgently,“istoreviveoneof
the dormant identity-backup copies in the unit’s store, and use that as the
controllingintelligence.”
AsalwayswhentheyhitonsomenewideaPooleandMiriamwereliketwo
eagerkids.Poole said,“It’s going tobe ashock to wakeup, tomove straight
fromTitanentrytothispoint.Itwouldbeleastdisconcertingifweprojecteda
fullhumananimus.”
“You’retellingme,”saidtheheadofHarryPoole.
“Andsomeenclosingenvironment,”Miriamsaid.“Justasuit?No,tobeadrift
inspacebringsinproblemswithvertigo.I’dhavetroublewiththat.”
“The lifedome of the Crab,” Poole said. “That would be straightforward
enoughtosimulatetoanadequatedegree.Andagoodplatformforobservation.
Thepowerwouldbesufficienttosustainthatforafewhoursatleast…”
“Yes.”Miriamgrinned.“Ourobserverwillfeelsafe.I’llgettoworkonit…”
Iasked,“Soyou’replanningtoprojectaVirtualcopyofoneofusthroughthe
wormhole.Andhowwillyougethimorherback?”
Theylookedatme. “That won’tbe possible,”Poolesaid.“Theunitwillbe
lost. It’s possible we could transmit back a copy of the memories the Virtual
accruesontheotherside—integratethemsomehowwiththebackupintheGUT
engine’sotherstore—”
“No,”Harrysaidregretfully.“Thedataratethroughthatinterfacewouldnever
alloweventhat.Forthecopyinthereit’saonewaytrip.”
“Well,that’sentirelyagainstthesentiencelaws,”Iputin.Theyignoredme.
Poolesaid,“That’ssettled,then.Thequestionis,who?Whichofthefourofus
areyougoingtowakeupfromcyber-sleepandsendintotheunknown?”
InoticedthatHarry’sdisembodiedfloatingheadlookedaway,asifhewere
avoidingthequestion.
PooleandMiriamlookedateachother.Miriamsaid,“Eitherofuswouldgo.
Right?”
“Ofcourse.”
“ButweshouldgiveittoBill,”Miriamsaidfirmly.
“Yeah. There’s no other choice. Bill’s gone, and we can’t bring his stored
backuphomewithus…Weshouldlethisbackuphavetheprivilegeofdoing
this.Itwillmakethesacrificeworthwhile.”
Istaredatthem.“Thisisthewayyoutreatyourfriend?Bykillinghim,then
revivingabackupandsendingittoanothercertaindeath?”
Pooleglaredatme.“Billwon’tseeitthatway,believeme.Youandamanlike
BillDzikhavenothingincommon,Emry.Don’tjudgehimbyyourstandards.”
“Fine.Justdon’tsendme.”
“Oh,Iwon’t.Youdon’tdeserveit.”
***
Ittookthemonlyafewmoreminutestopreparefortheexperiment.Thecontrol
packdidn’tneedanyphysicalmodifications,anditdidn’ttakeMiriamlongto
programme instructions into its limited onboard intelligence. She provided it
withashortorientationmessage,inthehopethatVirtualBillwouldn’tbeleft
entirelybewilderedatthesuddentransitionhewouldexperience.
Poole picked up the pack with his gloved hands, and walked towards the
interface,orascloseasHarryadvisedhimget.ThenPooleheftedthepackover
hishead.“Goodluck,Bill.”Hethrewthepacktowardstheinterface,orrather
pushedit;itsweightwaslowbutitsinertiawasjustasitwouldhavebeenon
Earth,andbesidesPoolehadtofightagainsttheresistanceofthesyrupysea.For
a while it looked as if the pack might fall short. “I should have practiced a
coupleoftimes,”Poolesaidruefully.“Neverwasanyuseatphysicalsports.”
Buthegotitaboutright.Thepackclippedtherimofthehole,thentumbled
forwardandfellslowly,dreamlike,throughthatblacksurface.Asitdisappeared
autumngoldglimmeredaroundit.
Thenwehadtowait,thethreeofusplusHarry.Ibegantowishthatwehad
agreed some time limit; obsessives like Poole and Miriam were capable of
standingthereforhoursbeforeadmittingfailure.
Intheeventitwasonlyminutesbeforeascratchyvoicesoundedinoursuit
helmets.“Harry?Canyouhearme?”
“Yes!” Harry called, grinning. “Yes, I hear you. The reception ought to get
better,theclean-upalgorithmsarestillworking.Areyouallright?”
“Well,I’m sitting in theCrab lifedome. It’s kind of a shockto find myself
here,after bracing my butt to enter Titan. Your little orientationshow helped,
Miriam.”
Pooleasked,“Whatdoyousee?”
“Theskyis…strange.”
Miriamwaslookingpuzzled.SheturnedandlookedatHarry.“That’snotall
that’sstrange.That’snotBill!”
“Indeednot,”camethevoicefromtheothersideofthehole.“IamMichael
Poole.”
XIV
VIRTUAL
So,whileasuddenlyrevivedMichaelPoolefloatedaroundinother-space,the
original Poole and his not-lover Miriam Berg engaged in a furious row with
Harry.
PoolestormedovertotheGUTengine’sremainingcontrolpack,andchecked
the memory’s contents. It didn’t contain backup copies of the four of us; it
containedonlyoneultra-high-fidelitycopyofMichaelPoolehimself.Icouldnot
decidewhichscaredmemore:theideathatnocopiesofmyselfexistedinthat
glisteningwhitebox,orthebeliefIhadentertainedpreviouslythattherehad.I
ampronetoexistentialdoubt,andamuncomfortablewithsuchnotions.
ButsuchsubtletieswerebeyondMichaelPooleinhisanger.“Miriam,Iswear
Iknewnothingaboutthis.”
“Oh,Ibelieveyou.”
They both turned on the older Poole. “Harry?” Michael snapped. “What in
Letheisthis?”
Disembodied-headHarrylookedshifty,buthewasgoingtobrazenitout.“As
farasI’mconcernedthere’snothingtoapologisefor.Thestorageavailableon
theCrabwasalwayslimited,anditwasworseinthegondola.Michael’smyson.
OfcourseI’mgoingtoprotecthimaboveothers.Whatwouldyoudo?I’msorry,
Miriam,but—”
“Youaren’tsorryatall,”Miriamsnapped.“Andyou’reacold-heartedbastard.
Youknowinglysentabackupofyourson,whoyousayyou’retryingtoprotect,
throughthatwormholetodie!”
Harrylookeduncomfortable.“It’sjustacopy.Thereareotherbackups,earlier
copies—”
“Lethe,Dad,”MichaelPoolesaid,andhewalkedaway,bunchinghisfists.I
wonderedhowmanysimilarcollisionswithhisfatherthemanhadhadtosuffer
inthecourseofhislife.
“What’s done is done,” came a whisper. And they all quit their bickering,
because it was Michael Poole who had spoken—the backup Poole, the one
recently revived, the one beyond the spacetime barrier. “I know I don’t have
muchtime.I’lltrytoprojectsomeimageryback…”
Harry, probably gratefully, popped out of existence, thus vacating the
available processing capacity, though I was sure his original would be
monitoringusfromtheCrab.
PoolemurmuredtoMiriam,“Youspeaktohim.Mightbeeasierforhimthan
me.”
Sheclearlyfoundthisideadistressing.Butshesaid,“Allright.”
Gradually images built up in the air before us, limited views, grainy with
pixels,flickering.
AndwesawVirtualPoole’sstrangesky.
TheVirtualCrabfloatedoverasmallobject—likeanicemoon,likeoneof
Titan’s Saturnian siblings, pale and peppered with worn impact craters. I saw
how its surface was punctured with holes, perfectly round and black. These
lookedlikeourhatch;theprobewehaddispatchedmusthaveemergedfromone
ofthem.Thingsthatlookedlikeourspiderstoiledtoandfrobetweentheholes,
travellingbetweenmoundsofsomekindofsupplies.Theyweretoodistantto
see clearly. All this was bathed in a pale yellow light, diffuse and without
shadows.
TheoriginalPoolesaid,“Youthinkthoseotherinterfacesconnectuptothe
restofTitan?”
“I’d think so,” Miriam said. “This can’t be the only deep-sea methane-
generationchamber.Passingthroughthewormholesandbackagainwouldbea
wayforthespiderstounifytheiroperationsacrossthemoon.”
“Sotheinterfacewefound,setintheoutercurvedsurfaceofTitan’score,is
one of a set that matches another set on the outer curved surface of that ice
moon.Thecurvaturewouldseemtoflipoverwhenyoupassedthrough.”
Thisstruckmeasremarkable,a paradoxdifficulttograsp,but Poolewasa
wormhole engineer, and used to the subtleties of spacetime manipulated and
twistedthroughhigherdimensions;slappingtwoconvexsurfacestogetherwas
evidentlychild’splaytohim,conceptually.
Miriam asked Virtual Poole, “But where are you? That’s an ice moon, a
common object. Could be anywhere in the universe. Could even be in some
cornerofourownSystem.”
Poole’sVirtualcopysaid,hisvoiceawhispery,channel-distortedrasp,“Don’t
jumptoconclusions,Miriam.Lookup.”
Theviewpointswivelled,andwesawVirtualPoole’ssky.
A huge, distorted sun hung above us. Planetoids hung sprinkled before its
face, showing phases from crescents to half-moons, and some were entirely
black,fly-speckeclipsesagainstthefaceofthemonster.Beyondthelimbofthe
sun more stars hung, but they were also swollen, pale beasts, their misshapen
discsvisible.Andthespacebetweenthestarsdidnotlookentirelyblacktome,
but a faint, deep crimson with a pattern, a network of threads and knots. It
remindedmeofwhatIsawwhenIclosedmyeyes.
“Whatasky,”Poolemurmured.
“Michael,you’refarfromhome,”Miriamcalled.
VirtualPoolereplied,“Yes.Thosestarsdon’tfitourmainsequence.Andtheir
spectraaresimple—fewheavyelements.They’remoreliketheprotostarsofour
ownearlyuniverse,Ithink:thefirstgeneration,formedofnotmuchmorethan
thehydrogenandheliumthatcameoutoftheBigBang.”
“Nometals,”observedMiriamBerg.
“I’llsendthroughthedataI’mcollecting—”
“Gettingit,son,”cameHarryPoole’svoice.
The others let Virtual Poole speak. His words, the careful observations
deliveredbyamansofarfromhome,oratleastbyaconstructthatfeltasifit
wereaman,wereimpressiveintheircourage.
“This is not our universe,” he whispered. “I think that’s clear. This one is
young,andsmall—accordingtothecurvatureofspacetime,onlyafewmillion
lightyearsacross.ProbablynotbigenoughtoaccommodateourLocalGroupof
galaxies.”
“Apocketuniverse,maybe,”Miriamsaid.“Anappendixfromourown.”
“Ican’tbelievethethingsyouhavebeencalling‘spiders’originatedhere,”the
Virtual said. “You said it, Miriam. No metals here, not in this entire cosmos.
That’swhytheywerescavengingmetalsfromprobes,meteorites.”
“They came from somewhere else, then,” Poole said. “There was nothing
strange in the elemental abundance we recorded in the spider samples we
studied.Sotheycomefromelsewhereinourownuniverse.Thepocketuniverse
isjustatransitinterchange.LikeEarthport.”
TheVirtualsaid,“Yes.Andmaybebehindtheseothermoonsinmyskylie
gateways to other Titans—other sustained ecologies, maybe with different
biologicalbases.Otherexperiments.”
Miriam said, “So if metals are so essential for the spiders, why not have
suppliesbroughttothemthroughtheinterchange?”
“Maybetheydid,once,”theVirtualsaid.“Maybethingsbrokedown.There’s
asenseofagehere,Miriam.Thisisayoungcosmosmaybe,butIthinkthisisan
oldplace…”
TherealPoolemurmured,“Itmakessense.Thetimeaxisinthebabyuniverse
needn’t be isomorphic with ours. A million years over there, a billion years
here.”
TheVirtualwhispered,“ThosespidershavebeentoilingattheirtaskonTitan
along,longtime.Whoevermanufacturedthem,orbredthem,leftthembehinda
longtimeago,andthey’vebeenaloneeversince.Justdoingtheirbesttokeep
going. Looking at them, I get the impression they aren’t too bright. Just
functional.”
“Buttheydidagoodjob,”Miriamsaid.
“Thattheydid.”
“Butwhy?”Iblurtedout.“What’sthepurposeofallthis,thenurturingofan
ecologyonTitanforbillionsofyears—andperhapssimilaronathousandother
worlds?”
“I think I have an idea,” Virtual Poole whispered. “I never even landed on
Titan,remember.Perhaps,comingatallthissosuddenly,whiletherestofyou
haveworkedthroughstagesofdiscovery,Iseeitdifferent…”
“Just as this pocket universe is a junction, so maybe Titan is a junction, a
haven where different domains of life can coexist. You’ve found the native
ammonofish,theCHONspongesthatmayoriginateintheinnersystem,perhaps
evencomingfromEarth,andthesilanesfromTritonandbeyond.Maybethere
areotherfamiliestofindifyouhadtimetolook.Allthesekindsoflife,arising
from different environments—but all with one thing in common. All born of
planets,andofskiesandseas,inworldswarmedbystars.”
“Butthestarswon’tlastforever.Inthefuturetheuniversewillchange,untilit
resemblesourowntimeevenlessthanouruniverseresemblesthisyoungdwarf
cosmos.Whatthen?Look,ifyouwereconcernedaboutpreservinglife,allforms
oflife,intotheveryfurthestfuture,thenperhapsyouwouldpromote—”
“Cooperation,”saidMiriamBerg.
“Yougotit.MaybeTitanisakindofprototypeofanecologywherelifeforms
ofsuchdifferentoriginscanmix,findwaysofusingeachothertosurvive—”
“Andultimatelymerge,somehow,”Miriamsaid.“Well,it’shappenedbefore.
Each of us is a community with once-disparate and very different life forms
toilingawayineachofourcells.It’salovelyvision,Michael.”
“Andplausible,”hisoriginalselfsaidgruffly.“Anyhowit’sahypothesisthat
willdountilsomethingbettercomesalong.”
Isneeredatthat.Thisdreamofcosmiccooperationstruckmeastheromantic
fantasyofamanaloneanddoomedtodie,andsoon.Weallprojectourpetty
lives upon the universe. But I had no better suggestions to make. And, who
knows?PerhapsVirtualPoolewasright.Noneofuswilllivetofindout.
“Anyhow,”Isaid,“charmingasthisis—arewedonenow?”
Miriamsnapped,“Wecan’tabandonMichael.”
“Go,”whisperedVirtualPoole.“There’snothingyoucandoforme.I’llkeep
observing,reporting,aslongasIcan.”
Igaggedonhisnobility.
Now Harry intruded, grabbing a little of the available Virtual projection
capacity.“Butwe’vestillgotbusinesstoconcludebeforeyouleavehere.”
XV
RESOLUTION
Poolefrowned.“Whatbusiness?”
“WecameheretoprovethatTitaniswithoutsentience,”Harrysaid.“Well,
wegotthatwrong.Nowwhat?”
MiriamBergwasapparentlypuzzledwewereevenhavingtheconversation.
“Wereportwhatwe’vefoundtothesentienceoversightcouncilsandelsewhere.
It’samajordiscovery.We’llberappedformakinganunauthorisedlandingon
Titan,but—”
“Isthatthesumofyourambition?”Isnapped.“Tohopetheauthoritieswillbe
lenientifyourevealthediscoverythatisgoingtoruinyou?”
Sheglaredatme.“What’sthechoice?”
“Isn’titobvious?”Ilookedather,andPoole,whoIthinkwasguessingwhatI
wasgoingtosay,andHarry,wholookedawayasheusuallydidatmomentsof
crisis.Suddenly,afterdaysofpointlesswonders,Iwasinmyelement,themurky
worldofhumanrelationships,andIcouldseeawayforwardwheretheycould
not.“Destroythis,”Isaid.Iwavedahand.“Allofit.Youhaveyourgrenades,
Miriam.Youcouldbringthiscaverndown.”
“Or,” Harry said,“thereistheGUTdrive.Ifthatweredetonated,ifunified-
fieldenergieswereloosedinhere,thewormholeinterfacetoowouldsurelybe
disrupted.I’dimaginethattheconnectionbetweenTitanandthepocketuniverse
wouldbebrokenaltogether.”
Inodded.“Ihadn’tthoughtofthat,butIlikeyourstyle,Harry.Doit.Letthis
placebecoveredupbyhundredsofkilometresoficeandwater.Destroyyour
records. It will make no difference to the surface, what’s going on in the
atmosphere,notimmediately.Nobodywilleverknowallthiswashere.”
HarryPoolesaid,“That’strue.Evenifmethanegenerationstopsimmediately
the residual would persist in the atmosphere for maybe ten million years. I
venture to suggest that if the various multi-domain critters haven’t learned to
cooperateinthattime,theyneverwill.Tenmegayearsissurelyenough.”
Miriamlookedathim,horrifiedbyhiswords.“You’resuggestingamonstrous
crime,”shebreathed.“Tothinkofdestroyingsuchawonderasthis,theproduct
ofabillionyears—todestroyitforpersonalgain!Michael,Lethe,leaveaside
themorality,surelyyou’retoomuchofascientisttocountenancethis.”
ButPoolesoundedanguished.“I’mnotascientistanymore,Miriam.I’man
engineer.Ibuildthings.IthinkIsympathisewiththegoalsofthespidermakers.
What I’m building is a better future for the whole of mankind—that’s what I
believe.AndifIhavetomakecompromisestoachievethatfuture—well.Maybe
thespidermakershadtomakethesamekindofchoices.Whoknowswhatthey
foundhereonTitanbeforetheywenttoworkonit?…”
And in that little speech, I believe, you have encapsulated both the
magnificence and the grandiose folly of Michael Poole. I wondered then how
muchdamagethismanmightdotousallinthefuture,withhiswormholesand
his time-hopping starships—what horrors he, blinded by his vision, might
unleash.
Harrysaidunexpectedly,“Let’svoteonit.Ifyou’reinfavourofdestroying
thechamber,sayyes.”
“No!”snappedMiriam.
“Yes,”saidHarryandPooletogether.
“Yes,”saidI,buttheyallturnedonmeandtoldmeIdidn’thaveavote.
Itmadenodifference.Thevotewascarried.Theystoodlookingateachother,
asifhorrifiedbywhattheyhaddone.
“Welcometomyworld,”Isaidcynically.
***
PoolewentofftopreparetheGUTengineforitslasttask.Miriam,furiousand
upset,gatheredtogetherourequipment,suchasitwas,herpackwithherscience
samples,ourtanglesofrope.
AndHarrypoppedintotheairinfrontofme.“Thanks,”hesaid.
“Youwantedmetomakethatsuggestion,didn’tyou?”
“Well,Ihopedyouwould.IfI’dmadeitthey’dhaverefused.AndMichael
would never have forgiven me.” He grinned. “I knew there was a reason I
wantedtohaveyoualong,JovikEmry.Welldone.You’veservedyourpurpose.”
VirtualPoole,stillinhisbabyuniverse,spokeagain.“Miriam.”
Shestraightenedup.“I’mhere,Michael.”
“I’mnotsurehowlongIhaveleft.Whatwillhappenwhenthepowergoes?”
“Iprogrammedthesimulationtoseemauthentic,internallyconsistent.Itwill
beasifthepowerintheCrablifedomeisfailing.”Shetookabreath,andsaid,
“Ofcourseyouhaveotheroptionstoenditbeforethen.”
“I know. Thank you. Who were they, do you think? Whoever made the
spiders.Didtheybuildthispocketuniversetoo?Orwasitbuiltforthem?Likea
haven?”
“Idon’tsupposewe’lleverknow.Michael,I’msorry.I—”
“Don’tbe.YouknowIwouldhavechosenthis.ButI’msorrytoleaveyou
behind.Miriam—lookafterhim.Michael.I,we,needyou.”
ShelookedattheoriginalPoole,whowasworkingattheGUTengine.“We’ll
see,”shesaid.
“AndtellHarry—well.Youknow.”
Sheheldahanduptotheemptyair.“Michael,please—”
“It’s enough.” The Virtuals he had been projecting broke up into blocks of
pixels,andafainthiss, the carrierofhisvoice,disappeared frommyhearing.
Aloneinhisuniverse,hehadcuthimselfoff.
TheoriginalPooleapproachedher,uncertainofherreaction.“It’sdone.The
GUT engine has been programmed. We’re ready to go, Miriam. As soon as
we’reoutofhere—”
Sheturnedawayfromhim,herfaceshowingsomethingclosetohatred.
XVI
ASCENSION
So,harnessedtoaspiderobliviousoftheimpendingfateofitsvastandancient
project,weroseintothedark.Ithadtakenusdaystodescendtothisplace,and
wouldtakeusdaysto returntothesurface,where, Harry promised,hewould
haveafreshballoonwaitingtopickusup.
Thistime,thoughIwasofferedescapeintounconsciousness,Istayedawake.I
had a feeling that the last act of this little drama had yet to play itself out. I
wantedtobearoundtoseeit.
Wewerebeyondthelowericelayersandrisingthroughtwohundredandfifty
kilometres of sea when Miriam’s timer informed us that the GUT engine had
detonated, far beneath us. Insulated by the ice layer, we felt nothing. But I
imagined that the spider that carried us up towards the light hesitated, just
fractionally.
“It’sdone,”Poolesaidfirmly.“Nogoingback.”
Miriamhadbarelyspokentohimsincethecavern.Shehadsaidmorewords
tome.Nowshesaid,“I’vebeenthinking.Iwon’tacceptit,Michael.Idon’tcare
aboutyouandHarryandyourdamnvote.AssoonaswegethomeI’mgoingto
reportwhatwefound.”
“You’venoevidence—”
“I’llbetakenseriouslyenough.Andsomedaysomebodywillmountanother
expedition,andconfirmthetruth.”
“All right.” That was all he said. But I knew the matter was not over. He
wouldnotmeetmymockingeyes.
Iwasn’tsurprisedwhen,twelvehourslater,asMiriamsleptcradledinthenet
drapedfromthespider’sback,Pooletookvialsfromherpackandpressedthem
intoherflesh,onebyavalveonherleg,anotheratthebaseofherspine.
Iwatchedhim.“You’regoingtoedither.PlanthiswithDad,didyou?”
“Shutup,”hesnarled,edgy,angry.
“You’retakingheroutofherownhead,andyou’llmesswithhermemories,
withherverypersonality,andthenyou’llloadherback.Whatwillyoumakeher
believe—thatshestayedupontheCrabwithHarrythewholetime,whileyou
wentexploringandfoundnothing?Thatwouldwork,Iguess.”
“I’vegotnothingtosaytoyou.”
ButIhadplentytosaytohim.Iamnosaintmyself,andPooledisgustedme
asonlyamanwithoutmoralityhimselfcanbedisgusted.“Ithinkyouloveher.I
eventhinkshelovesyou.Yetyouarepreparedtomesswithherheadandher
heart,toserveyourgrandioseambitions.Letmetellyousomething.ThePoole
sheleftbehindinthatpocketuniverse,theoneshesaidgoodbyeto,hewasa
bettermanthanyouwilleverbeagain.Becausehewasnottaintedbythegreat
crimeyoucommittedwhenyoudestroyedthecavern.Andbecausehewasnot
taintedbythis.”
“And let me make some predictions. No matter what you achieve in the
future, Michael Poole, this crime will always be at the root of you, gnawing
away.AndMiriamwillneverloveyou.Eventhoughyouwipeouthermemoryof
theseevents,therewillalwaysbesomethingbetweenyou;shewillsensethelie.
Shewillleaveyou,andthenyouwillleaveher.AndyouhavekilledTitan.One
day,millionsofyearsintothefuture,theveryairwillfreezeandrainout,and
everythingaliveherewilldie.Allbecauseofwhatyouhavedonetoday.And,
Poole,maybethosewhoseworkyouhavewreckedwillsomedayforceyoutoa
reckoning.”
He was open, defenceless, and I was flaying him. He had no answer. He
cradledtheunconsciousMiriam,evenashismachinesdrainedhermemory.
WedidnotspeakagainuntilweemergedintothemurkydaylightofTitan.
EPILOGUE
PROBE
Itdidn’ttakeMichaellongtocheckoutthestatusofhisfragilecraft.
Thepowerinthelifetime’sinternalcellsmightlast—what,afewhours?As
farashecouldtelltherewasnofunctionallinkbetweenthedomeandtherestof
theHermitCrab;noneofhiscontrolsworked.Maybethatwasbeyondthescope
ofMiriam’ssimulation.Sohehadnomotivepower.
Hedidn’tgrouseaboutthis,nordidhefearhisfuture.Suchasitwas.
The universe beyond the lifedome was strange, alien. The toiling spiders
downontheicemoonseemedlikemachines,notalive,notsentient.Hetiredof
observing them. He turned on lights, green, blue. The lifedome was a little
bubbleofEarth,isolated.
Michaelwasalone,inthiswholeuniverse.Hecouldfeelit.
Hegotamealtogether.Miriam’ssimulationwasgood,hereinhispersonal
space; he didn’t find any limits or glitches. Lovingly constructed, he thought.
Themundanechore,performedinabrightislandoflightaroundthelifetime’s
smallgalley,wasoddlycheering.
He carried the food to his couch, lay back with the plate balancing on one
hand, and dimmed the dome lights. He finished his food and set the plate
carefullyonthefloor.Hedrankaglassofcleanwater.
Thenhewenttothefreefallshowerandwashedinasprayofhotwater.He
triedtoopenuphissenses,torelisheveryparticleofsensation.Therewasalast
time for everything, for even the most mundane experiences. He considered
findingsomemusictoplay,abooktoread.Somehowthatmighthaveseemed
fitting.
Thelightsfailed.Eventheinstrumentslateswinkedout.
Well,somuchformusic.Hemadehiswaybacktohiscouch.Thoughthesky
was bright, illuminated by the protosun, the air grew colder; he imagined the
heat of the lifedome leaking out. What would get him first, the cold, or the
failingair?
Hewasn’tafraid.Andhefeltnoregretthathehadlostsomuchpotentiallife,
allthoseAS-extendedyears.Oddly,hefeltrenewed:young,forthefirsttimein
decades,thepressureoftimenolongerseemedtoweighonhim.
HewassorryhewouldneverknowhowhisrelationshipwithMiriammight
haveworkedout.Thatcouldhavebeensomething.Buthefound,intheend,he
wasgladthathehadlivedlongenoughtoseeallhehad.
Hewasbeginningtoshiver, the airsharpinhisnostrils.Helaybackinhis
couchandcrossedhishandsonhischest.Heclosedhiseyes.
Ashadowcrossedhisface.
***
Heopenedhiseyes,lookedup.Therewasashiphangingoverthelifedome.
Michael,dying,staredinwonder.
Itwassomethinglikeasycamoreseedwroughtinjetblack.Night-darkwings
whichmusthavespannedhundredsofkilometresloomedovertheCrab,softly
rippling.
Thecoldsankclawsintohischest;themusclesofhisthroatabruptlyspasmed,
anddarkcloudsringedhisvision.Notnow,hefoundhimselfpleadingsilently,
hisfailingvisionlockedontotheship,allhiselegiacacceptancegoneinaflash.
Justalittlelonger.Ihavetoknowwhatthismeans.Please—
***
Poole’sconsciousnesswaslikeagutteringcandleflame.Nowitwasasifthat
flamewaspluckedfromitswick.Thatflame,withitstinyfear,itswonder,its
helpless longing to survive, was spun out into a web of quantum functions,
acausalandnonlocal.
Thelastheatfledfromthecraft;theairinthetranslucentdomebegantofrost
overthecommspanels,thecouches,thegalley,thepronebody.Andtheshipand
allitcontained,nolongerneeded,brokeupintoacloudofpixels.
UndertheMoonsofVenus
DAMIENBRODERICK
Australianwriter,editor,futurist,andcriticDamienBroderick,a
Senior Fellow in the School of Culture and Communications at
theUniversityofMelbourne,madehisfirstsalein1964toJohn
Carnell’s anthology New Writings in SF 1. In the decades that
followed, he has kept up a steady stream of fiction, nonfiction,
futurist speculations, and critical work, which has won him
multiple Ditmar and Aurealis Awards. He sold his first novel,
Sorcerer’s World, in 1970; it was later reissued in a rewritten
versionintheUnitedStatesasTheBlackGrail.Broderick’sother
books include the novels The Dreaming Dragons, The Judas
Mandala,Transmitters,StripedHoles,andTheWhiteAbacus,as
wellasbookswrittenwithRoryBarnesandBarbaraLamar.His
manyshortstorieshavebeencollectedinAManReturned,The
Dark Between the Stars, Uncle Bones: Four Science Fiction
Novellas,and,mostrecently,TheQualiaEngine:ScienceFiction
Stories. He also wrote the visionary futurist classic, The Spike:
How Our Lives Are Being Transformed by Rapidly Advancing
Technology, a critical study of science fiction, and Reading by
Starlight:Postmodern Science Fiction. He edited the nonfiction
anthologyYearMillion:ScienceattheFarEndofKnowledge,as
wellaseditingtheSFanthologyEarthisButaStar:Excursions
ThroughScienceFictiontotheFarFuture,andthreeanthologies
of Australian science fiction, The Zeitgeist Machine, Strange
Attractors,andMatildaattheSpeedofLight.
Broderick has done homages in the last couple of years to
Cordwainer Smith, Roger Zelazny, and Philip K. Dick, and
althoughthosestorieseachhadmuchtorecommendthem,Ithink
thatthebrilliantstorythatfollows,Broderick’shomagetothelate
J.G.Ballard,isbyafairmarginthebestoneyet.Here,Broderick
hasmanagedtointernalizeBallard’sinfluenceonhimandmake
thisintoitsownstorywithitsownstrengthsandanorganicvoice
and sensibility of its own, rather than just being a pastiche of
Ballard.Ballard would nothave written this—but it’s clear that
Broderick wouldn’t have written it without reading Ballard,
either.BroderickcurrentlylivesinSanAntonio,Texas.
1.
In the long, hot, humid afternoon, Blackett obsessively paced off the outer
dimensionsoftheGreatTempleofPetraagainsttheblackasphaltofthedeserted
carparks,tryingtorecapturethepathwaybacktoVenus.Faintrectangularlines
still marked the empty spaces allocated to staff vehicles long gone from the
campus,stretchingoneverysideliketheequationsinsomeoccultgeometryof
invocation.Later, asshadows stretchedacross the all-but-abandonedindustrial
park,heconsideredagainthepossibilitythathewastrappedindelusion,even
psychosis.Attheedgeofanovergrownpatchofdriedlawn,hefoundacrushed
Pepsican,abentyellowplasticstrawprotrudingfromit.Hekickeditidly.
“ThusIrefuteBerkeley,”hemuttered,withahalfsmile.Thecantwisted,fell
backonthegrass;hesawthatarunnerofbindweedwrappeditsflattenedwaist.
He walked back to the sprawling house he had appropriated, formerly the
residence of a wealthy CEO. Glancing at his IWC Flieger Chrono aviator’s
watch, he noted that he should arrive there ten minutes before his daily
appointmentwiththetherapist.
2.
CoolinachillinglyexpensivepaleblueMilaSchönsummerfrock,hercarmine
toenails brightly painted in her open Ferragamo Penelope sandals, Clare
regardedhim:lovely,sly,professionallycompassionate.Shesatacrossfromhim
onthefrontporchoftheoldhouse,rockinggentlyinthesuspendedglider.
“Yourproblem,”thepsychiatristtoldhim,“isknowninthetradeaslackof
affect.Youhaveshutdownandlockedoffyouremotionalresponses.Youshould
know,Robert,thatthisisn’thealthyorsustainable.”
“OfcourseIknowthat,”hesaid,faintlyirritatedbyhercondescension.“Why
else would I be consulting you? Not,” he said pointedly, “that it is doing me
muchgood.”
“Ittakestime,Robert.”
3.
Later, when Clare was gone, Blackett sat beside his silent sound system and
pouredtwofingersofHennessyXObrandy.Itwasthebesthehadbeenableto
findin thelargelydepleted supermarket, or atany rate the least untenablefor
drinkingpurposes.Hetookthespiritsintohismouthandfeltfirerundownhis
throat.Monthsearlier,hehadfoundasinglebottleofMendisCoconutbrandyin
thecellarofanenormouscountryhouse.Gonenow.Hesatalittlelonger,rose,
cleanedhisteethandmadehistoilet,drankafullglassoffaintlybrackishwater
from the tap. He found a Philip Glass CD and placed it in the mouth of the
player,thenwenttobed.Glass’srepetitionsandminimalnoveltyeasedhiminto
sleep.Hewokeat3inthemorning,heartthundering.Silenceabsolute.Blackett
cursedhimselfforforgettingtopresstheautomaticrepeatkeyontheCDplayer.
Glass had fallen silent, along with most of the rest of the human race. He
touchedhisforehead.Sweatcoatedhisfingers.
4.
Inthemorning,hewalkedtotheindustrialpark’sairfield,rolledtheCessna182
outfromtheprotectionofitshangar,andrefueleditstanks.Againsttheodds,the
electricallypoweredpumpandothersystemsremainedactive,drawingcurrent
from the black arrays of solar cells oriented to the south and east, swiveling
duringthedaylighthourstofollowtheapparenttrackofthesun.Hemadehis
abstracted, expert run through the checklist, flicked on the radio by reflex. A
humof carrier signal,nothing more.Thecontrol towerwas deserted.Blackett
rantheCessnaontotheslightlycrackedasphaltandtookoffintoabriskbreeze.
Heflewacrossfieldsgoingtoseed,visiblethroughsparklinglyclearair.Almost
notrafficmovedontheroadsbelowhim.Twoorthreevehiclesthrewupahaze
of dust from the untended roadway, and one laden truck crossed his path,
apparently cluttered to overflowing with furniture and bedding. It seemed the
ultimateinpointlessness—whynotappropriateasuitablehouse,ashehaddone,
and make do with its appointments? Birds flew up occasionally in swooping
flocks,carefultoavoidhispath.
Beforenoon,hewaslandingonthecoastatthedesertedMatagordaIslandair
forcebaseafewhundredyardsfromtheocean.Hesatforamoment,hearinghis
cooling engines ticking, and gazed at the two deteriorating Stearman biplanes
thatrested in thesalty openair. Theywere atleast a century old, atone time
lovinglyrestoredforairshowsandaerobaticdisplays.Nowtheirfabricsagged,
stripedredandgreenpaintpeelingfromtheirfuselagesandwings.Theysagged
intothehottarmac,rubbertires rottedbythecorrosiveoceanfrontair andthe
sun’spitilessultraviolet.
Blackettlefthisownplaneintheopen.Hedidnotintendtoremainherelong.
He strolled to the end of the runway and into the long grass stretching to the
ocean. Socks and trouser legs were covered quickly in clinging burrs. He
reachedthesandyshoreasthesunstooddirectlyoverhead.Afterhehadwalked
forhalf a milealong thestrand, wishinghe hadthought tobring ahat, a dog
crossedthesandandpacedalongside,keepingitsdistance.
“You’reBlackett,”thedogsaid.
“Speaking.”
“Figureditmusthave beenyou.Rare enoughnowto runintoa human out
here.”
Blackett said nothing. He glanced at the dog, feeling no enthusiasm for a
conversation. The animal was healthy enough, and well fed, a red setter with
longhairthatfluffedupinthetangyair.Hispawsleftatrailacrossthewhite
sand,parallelingthetracksBlacketthadmade.Wastheresomeoccultmeaning
in this simplest of geometries? If so, it would be erased soon enough, as the
oceanmovedin,impelledbythesolartide,andlazilylickedthebeachclean.
Seaweedstretchedalongtheedgeofthesluggishwater,darkgreen,stinking.
Outofbreath,hesatandlookeddisconsolatelyacrosstheslow,flatwavesofthe
diminishedtide.Thedogtrottedby,threwitselfdowninthesandadozenfeet
away.Blackettknewhenolongerdaredsithereafternightfall,inadarkalive
withthousandsofbrilliantpinpointstars,aplanetortwo,andnoMoon.Never
againaMoon.Oncehehadventuredouthereafterthesunwentdown,andlow
inthedeepindigoedgingthehorizonhadseenthecleardistinctbluediskofthe
evening star, and her two attendant satellites, one on each side of the planet.
Ganymede,withitsthinatmospherestillintact,remainedpalestbrown.Luna,at
thatdistance,wasabrightpinpointorb,herpockmarkedfaceneveragaintobe
visibletothenakedeyeofanEarthlyviewerbeneathhernew,immenselydeep
carbondioxideatmosphere.
He noticed that the dog was creeping cautiously toward him, tail wagging,
eyesavertedexceptfortheoccasionalswiftglance.
“Look,”hesaid,“I’dratherbealone.”
Thedog sat up anduttered a barking laugh.It swung its headfrom side to
side,conspicuouslyobservingthehot,emptystrand.
“Well,bub,I’dsayyou’vegotyourwish,inspades.”
“Nobodyhasswumhereinyears,apartfromme.Thisisanoldairforcebase,
it’sbeendecommissionedfor…”
Hetrailedoff.Itwasnoanswertothepointtheanimalwasmaking.Usuallyat
this time of year, Blackett acknowledged to himself, other beaches, more
accessibletothecrowds,wouldbeswarmingwithshoutingorwhiningchildren,
motherswaddlingorslumped,bakinginthesununderSPF50lotions,fatmen
eating snacks from busy concession stands, vigorous swimmers bobbing in
white-cappedwaves.Nowtheemptywavescreptin,ontothetouristbeachesas
they did here, like the flattened, poisoned combers at the site of the Exxon
Valdez oil spill, twenty years after men had first set foot on the now absent
Moon.
“Itwasn’tmyidea,”hesaid.Butthedogwasright;thisisolationwasmore
congenialtohimthanotherwise.Yettheyearningtorejointherestofthehuman
raceonVenusburnedinhischestlikeangina.
“Not like I’m blaming you, bub.” The dog tilted its handsome head. “Hey,
shouldhavesaid,I’mSporky.”
Blackettinclinedhisownheadinreply.Afteratime,Sporkysaid,“Youthink
it’sasingularityexcursion,right?”
Hegottohisfeet,brushedsandfromhislegsandtrousers.“Icertainlydon’t
suspectthehandofJesus.Idon’tthinkI’vebeenLeftBehind.”
“Hey, don’t go away now.” The dog jumped up, followed him at a safe
distance.“Itcouldbealiens,youknow.”
“Youtalktoomuch,”Blackettsaid.
5.
Ashelanded,laterintheday,stillfeelingrefreshedfromhishourinthewater,
hesawthroughtheheatcurtainsofrisingairaratherdirtyprecinctvehicledrive
throughtheunguardedgateandontotherunwaynearthehangars.Hetaxiedin
slowly, braked,opened thedoor. Thesergeantclimbedout ofhis Ford Crown
Victoria,capoff,wavingittocoolhisfloridface.
“Sawyoucomingin,Doc,”Jacobscalled.“Figuredyoumightlikealiftback.
Beendamnedhotouttoday,notthebestwalkingweather.”
Therewaslittlepointinarguing.Blackettclampedtheredtowbartothenose
wheel, steered the Cessna backward into the hangar, heaved the metal doors
closedwith anechoing rumble. He climbed intothe coldinterior of theFord.
Jacobshadtheair-conditioningrunningatfullbore,andanoxiouscountryand
western singer wailing from the sound system. Seeing his guest’s frown, the
policeofficergrinnedbroadlyandturnedthehideousnoisedown.
“You have a visitor waiting,” he said. His grin verged on the lewd. Jacobs
drovebythehousetwiceaday,partofhisself-imposedduty,checkingonhis
brutally diminished constituency. For some reason he took a particular,
avuncular interest in Blackett. Perhaps he feared for his own mental health in
thisterriblecircumstance.
“She’s expected, Sergeant.” By seniority of available staff, the man was
probablyacaptainorevenpolicechieffortheregion,now,butBlackettdeclined
to offer the honorary promotional title. “Drop me off at the top of the street,
wouldyou?”
“It’snotroubletotakeyoutothedoor.”
“Ineedtostretchmylegsaftertheflight.”
Inthefailinglightofdusk,hefoundClare,almostinshadow,movinglikea
piece of beautiful driftwood stranded on a dying tide, backward and slowly
forward,onhisborrowedporch.Shenodded,withherGiocondasmile,andsaid
nothing.Thiseveningsheworeabroderieanglaisewhite-on-whiteembroidered
blouseand501s cut-downalmosttoher crotch,bleachedby the longsummer
sun.Shesatrockingwordlessly,herkneesparted,revealingthepalelanternsof
herthighs.
“Onceagain,Doctor,”Blacketttoldher,“you’retryingtoseduceme.Whatdo
yousupposethistellsusboth?”
“Ittellsus,Doctor,thatyetagainyouhavefallenpreytointellectualizedover-
interpreting.” She was clearly annoyed, but keeping her tone level. Her limbs
remaineddisposedastheywere.“Yourememberwhattheytoldusatschool.”
“The worst patients are physicians, and the worst physician patients are
psychiatrists.”Hetooktheoldwovencaneseat,shiftingitsothathesatatright
anglestoher,lookingdirectlyaheadattheheavybrassknockeronthemissing
CEO’s mahogany entrance door. It was serpentine, perhaps a Chinese dragon
couchant.Afaintheadachepulsedbehindhiseyes;heclosedthem.
“You’vebeentothecoastagain,Robert?”
“Imetadogonthebeach,”hesaid,eyesstillclosed.Acoolingbreezewas
movingintotheporch,bringingafragranceofthelastpinkmimosablossomsin
thegardenbedbesidethedry,dyinglawn.“Hesuggestedthatwe’veexperienced
asingularitycataclysm.”Hesatforwardsuddenly,turned,caughtherregarding
him with her blue eyes. “What do you think of that theory, Doctor? Does it
arouseyou?”
“Youhadaconversationwithadog,”shesaid,uninflected,nonjudgmental.
“Oneofthegeneticallyupregulatedanimals,”hesaid,irritated.“Modifiedjaw
andlarynx,expandedcortexandBroca’sregion.”
Clareshrugged.Herinteriorityadmittedofnosuchnovelties.“I’veheardthat
singularityhypothesisbefore.TheMayans—”
“Notthatnewagecrap.”Hefeltanunaccustomedjoltofanger.Whydidhe
bother talking to this woman? Sexual interest? Granted, but remote; his
indifference toward her rather surprised him, but it was so. Blackett glanced
againatherthighs,butshehadcrossedherlegs.Herose.“Ineedadrink.Ithink
weshouldpostponethissession,I’mnotfeelingatmybest.”
Shetookastepforward,placedonecoolhandlightlyonhisbare,sunburned
arm.
“You’re still convinced the Moon has gone from the sky, Robert? You still
maintainthateveryonehasgonetoVenus?”
“Noteveryone,”hesaidbrusquely,andremovedherhand.Hegesturedatthe
darkenedhousesinthestreet.Amockingbirdtrilledfromatree,buttherewere
no leaf blowers, no teenagers in sports cars passing with rap booming and
thudding, no barbecue odors of smoke and burning steak, no TV displays
flickeringbehindcurtainedwindows.Hefoundhiskey,wenttothedoor,didnot
inviteherin.“I’llseeyoutomorrow,Clare.”
“Goodnight,Robert.Feelbetter.”Thepsychiatristwentdownthestepswitha
light, almost childlike, skipping gait, and paused a moment at the end of the
path,raising a handin farewell or admonishment. “Asuggestion, Robert. The
almanacordainsafullmoontonight.Itrisesalittleaftereight.Youshouldseeit
plainly from your back garden a few minutes later, once the disk clears the
treetops.”
Foramoment hewatched herfade behind theovergrown,untendedfoliage
fronting this opulent dwelling. He shook his head, and went inside. In recent
months,sincethetheftoftheMoon,Clarehaderectedontologicaldenialintothe
centralprincipleofherworldconstruction,herWeltbild.Thewoman,inherown
mindsupposedlyhistherapeuticguide,washopelesslyinsane.
6.
Afterascratchdinnerofcannedartichokehearts,pineappleslices,pre-cooked
babypotatoes,pickledeelfromajar,andratherdry,lightlysaltedwheatenthins,
washeddownwithCalifornianChablisfromtherefrigerator,Blackettdressedin
slightly more formal clothing for his weekly visit to Kafele Massri. This
massivelyobesebibliophilelivedthreestreetsoverintheBaptistrectoryacross
thestreetfromtheregionallibrary.Atintervals,whiledoinghisownshopping,
Blackettscavengedthroughaccessiblefoodstoresforprovenderthatheleftin
plasticbagsbesideMassri’ssidegate,providinganincentivetogetoutsidethe
wallsofthehouseforafewminutes.Themansleptallday,andbarelybudged
fromhismustybedevenafterthesunhadgonedown,scatteringemptiedcans
and plastic bottles about on the uncarpeted floor. Massri had not yet taken to
urinatinginhissqualidbedclothes,asfarasBlackettcouldtell,buttheweekly
visitsalwaysbeganbyemptyingseveraljugsthefatmanusedatnightinlieuof
chamberpots,rinsingthemunderthetrickleofwaterfromthekitchentap,and
returningthemtothebedroom,whereheclearedawaytheemptiesintobagsand
tossedthoseintotheweedybackyardwhereobnoxiousscabbycatscrawledor
laypanting.
Kafele Massri was propped up against three or four pillows. “I have. New
thoughts, Robert. The ontology grows. More tractable.” He spoke in a jerky
sequence of emphysematic wheezing gasps, his swollen mass pressing
relentlesslyontherupturingalveoliskeininghislungs.Hisfingerstwitched,asif
keying an invisible keyboard; his eyes shifting again and again to the dead
computer.WhenhecaughtBlackett’samusedglance,heshrugged,causingone
ofthepillowstoslipandfall.“Withoutmybelovedinternet,Iam.Hamstrung.
My preciiiouuus.” His thick lips quirked. He foraged through the bed covers,
foundabatteredHewlett-Packardscientificcalculator.Itsgreenstripofdisplay
flickeredashisfingerspressedkeys.“Luckily.Istillhave.This.Mysliderule.”
Wheezing,heburstintolaughter,followedbyanagonizingfitofcoughing.
“Letmegetyouaglassofwater,Massri.”Blackettreturnedwithhalfaglass;
anymore,andthebibliophilewouldspillitdownhisvastsoiledbathrobefront.
Itseemedtoeasethecoughing.Theysatsidebysideforatime,astheEgyptian
gothisbreathundercontrol.Ceaselessly,undertheimpulseofhispudgyfingers,
thesmallgreennumeralsflickeredinandoutofexistence,aBorgesianproofof
theinstabilityofreality.
“Yourealize.Venusisupside.Down?”
“Theytippeditover?”
Theywasaplaceholderforwhateverforceorentityorcosmicfreakofnature
had translated the two moons into orbit around the second planet, abstracting
themfromEarthandJupiterandinstantaneouslyreplacingtheminVenusspace,
asfarasanyonecouldtellintheragingglobalinternethysteriabeforemostof
humanitywastranslatedaswelltotherenovatedworld.CertainlyBlacketthad
nevernoticedthat theplanetwas turnedon itshead,but hehad only beenon
Venusless thanfive days beforehe wasrecovered, againsthiswill, tocentral
Texas.
“Au contraire. It has always. Spun. Retrograde. It rotates backwards. The
northern or upper hemisphere turns. Clockwise.” Massri heaved a strangled
breath,madetwistedmotionswithhispudgy,blotchedhands.“Nobodynoticed
that until late last. Century. The thick atmosphere, you know. And clouds.
Impenetrable.Highalbedo.Gonenow,ofcourse.”
Wasiteventhesameworld?HeandtheEgyptianscholarhaddiscussedthis
before;itseemedtoBlackettthatwhateverforcehadpreparedthisnewVenusas
asuitablehabitatforhumankindmusthavedonesolongago,insomeparallelor
superposedstateofalternativereality.Thebookspiledaroundthissqualidbed
seemed to support such a conjecture. Worlds echoing away into infinity, each
slightly different from the world adjacent to it, in a myriad of different
dimensions of change. Earth, he understood, had been struck in infancy by a
raging proto-planet the size of Mars, smashing away the light outer crust and
flingingitintoanorbitingshellthatsettled,overmillionsofyearsofimpacts,
intotheMoonnowcirclingVenus.Butifinsomeotherprismatichistory,Venus
had also suffered interplanetary bombardment on that scale, blowing away its
monstrous choking carbon dioxide atmosphere and churning up the magma,
drivingtheplatetectonicupheavalsunknownuntilthen,wherewastheVenerean
or Venusian moon? Had that one been transported away to yet another
alternative reality? It made Blackett tired to consider these metaphysical
landscapes radiating away into eternity even as they seemed to close
oppressivelyuponhim,apsychicnull-pointofsuffocatingextinction.
Shyly, Kafele Massri broke the silence. “Robert, I have never. Asked you
this.”Hepaused,andtheawkwardmomentextended.Theyheardthetickingof
thegrandfatherclockinthehalloutside.
“IfIwanttogobackthere?Yes,Kafele,Ido.Withallmyheart.”
“Iknowthat.No.Whatwasit.Like?”Asortofanguishtoretheman’swords.
Hehimselfhadnevergone,notevenforamoment.Perhaps,hehadjokedonce,
therewasaweightlimit,abaggagesurchargehisaccountcouldnotmeet.
“You’re growing forgetful, my friend. Of course we’ve discussed this. The
immensegreen-leavedtrees,thecrystalair,thestrange fire-hued birdshighin
thecanopies,thegreatrollingocean—”
“No.” Massri agitated his heavy hands urgently. “Not that. Not the sci-fi
movie. Images. No offense intended. I mean … The affect. The weight or
lightness of. The heart. The rapture of. Being there. Or the. I don’t know.
Dislocation?Despair?”
Blackettstoodup.“ClareinformsmeIhavedamagedaffect.‘Flattened,’she
calledit.Ordidshesay‘diminished’?Typicaldiagnostichand-waving.Ifshe’d
beeninpractiseaslongasI—”
“Oh,Robert,Imeantno—”
“Of course you didn’t.” Stiffly, he bent over the mound of the old man’s
supinebody,pattedhisshoulder.“I’llgetussomesupper.Thenyoucantellme
yournewdiscovery.”
7.
Tall cumulonimbus clouds moved in like a battlefleet of the sky, but the air
remained hot and sticky. Lightning cracked in the distance, marching closer
duringthe afternoon. When rain fell, it came suddenly, drenching theparched
soil,sluicing the roadway,with a wind thatblew discardedplastic bottles and
bags about before dumping them at the edge of the road or piled against the
fences and barred, spear-topped front gates. Blackett watched from the porch,
thesprayofrainblowingagainsthisfaceingusts.Inthedistanceastraydog
howledandscurried.
OnVenus,herecalled,underitsdoubledmoons,thestormshadbeenabrupt
andhard,andtheoceantidessurgedingreatrushesofblue-greenwater,spume
like the head on a giant’s overflowing draught of beer. Ignoring the shrill
warningsofdisplacedastronomers,thefirstsettlersalongoneshoreline,hehad
beentold,perishedastheyviewedthegloryofaGanymedean-Lunareclipseof
the sun, twice as hot, a third again as wide. The proxivenerean spring tide,
tuggedbybothmoonsandthesunaswell,heapeduptheseaandhurleditatthe
land.
Here on Earth, at least, the Moon’s current absence somewhat calmed the
weather. And without the endless barrage of particulate soot, inadequately
scrubbed,exhaledintotheairbyamillionfactorychimneysandabillionfuel
fires in the Third World, rain came more infrequently now. Perhaps, he
wondered,itwastimetomovetoamoresalubriousclimaticregion.Butwhatif
thatblockedhisreturntoVenus?Theverythoughtmadethemusclesathisjaw
tightenpainfully.
Foranhourhewatchedtheloweringskyfortheglowpastedbeneathdistant
cloudsbyaflashofelectricity,thenthetearingviolenceoflightningstrikesas
theycamecloser,passingbywithinmiles.Inanearlierdispensation,hewould
havepulledtheplugsonhiscomputersandotherdelicateequipment,unprepared
to accept the dubious security of surge protectors. During one storm, years
earlier,whentheMoonstillhunginthesky,hissatellitedishanddecoderburned
outinasinglenearbyfrightfulclapofnoiseandlight.OnVenus,hereflected,
thehumanracewasyettoadvancetotherecoveryofelectronics.Howmanyhad
died with the instant loss of infrastructure—sewerage, industrial food
production,antibiotics,airconditioning?Deprivedoftelevisionandmusicand
books,howmanyhadtakentheirownlives,unabletofindfootinginaworld
where they must fetch for themselves, work with neighbors they had found
themselves flung amongst willy-nilly? Yes, many had been returned just long
enoughtoransackmostofthemedicalsuppliesandhaulawayclothing,food,
contraceptives,packsoftoiletpaper…Standingattheedgeofthestorm,onthe
elegantporchofhisappropriatedmansion,Blackettsmiled,thinkingofthepiles
ofuselessstereos,laptopsandplasmaTVscreenshehadseendumped beside
theimmenseVenusiantrees.Peopleweresostereotypical,unadaptive.Nodoubt
driventosuchstupidities,hereflected,bytheirlavishaffect.
8.
Clare found him in the empty car park, pacing out the dimensions of Petra’s
Great Temple. He looked at her when she repeated his name, shook his head,
slightlydisoriented.
“ThisistheCentralArch,withtheTheatron,”heexplained.“EastandWest
corridors.”Hegestured.“Inthecenter,theForecourt,beyondtheProneos,and
thenthegreatspaceoftheLowerTemenos.”
“And all this,” she said, looking faintly interested, “is a kind of imaginal
reconstructionofPetra.”
“OfitsTemple,yes.”
“Therose-redcityhalfasoldastime?”Nowamockingnotehadenteredher
voice.
Hetookherroughlybythearm,drewherintotheshadeofthefive-storybrick
and concrete structure where neuropharmaceutical researchers had formerly
pliedtheirarcanetrade.“Clare,wedon’tunderstandtime.Lookatthiswall.”He
smote it with one clenched fist. “Why didn’t it collapse when the Moon was
removed?Whydidn’tterribleearthquakessplitthegroundopen?Theearthused
toflexeverydaywithlunartides,Clare.Thereshouldhavebeenconvulsionsas
itcompensatedforthechangedstresses.Didtheyseetothataswell?”
“Thedinosaurs,youmean?”Shesighed,adoptedapatientexpression.
Blackettstared.“Thewhat?”
“Oh.”Todayshewaswearingdeepredculottesandagreensilkshirt,witha
bandit’sscarf holdingback herheavy hair. Dark adaptive-optic sunglasses hid
hereyes.“Theprofessorhasn’ttoldyouhislatesttheory?I’mrelievedtohearit.
Itisn’thealthyforyoutwotospendsomuchtimetogether,Robert.Folieàdeux
ishardertobudgethanasimpledefensivedelusion.”
“You’ve been talking to Kafele Massri?” He was incredulous. “The man
refusestoallowwomenintohishouse.”
“Iknow.Wetalkthroughthebedroomwindow.Ibringhimsoupforlunch.”
“Goodgod.”
“He assures me that the dinosaurs turned the planet Venus upside down 65
millionyearsago.Theywereintelligent.Notallofthem,ofcourse.”
“No,you’vemisunderstood—”
“Probably. I must admit I wasn’t listening very carefully. I’m far more
interestedintheemotionalundercurrents.”
“Youwouldbe.Oh,damn,damn.”
“What’saTemenos?”
Blackettfeltamomentarybubbleofexcitement.“AtPetra,itwasabeautiful
sacred enclosure with hexagonal flooring, and three colonnades topped by
sculptures of elephants’ heads. Water was carried throughout the temple by
channels, you see—” He started pacing off the plan of the Temple again,
convincedthatthiswasthekeytohisreturntoVenus.Clarewalkedbesidehim,
hummingverysoftly.
9.
“Iunderstandyou’vebeentalkingtomypatient.”Blacketttookcaretoallowno
traceofcensuretocolorhiswords.
“Ha! It would be extremely uncivil, Robert. To drink her soup while
maintaining.Asurlysilence.Incidentally,shemaintains.Youareher.Client.”
“A harmless variant on the transference, Massri. But you understand that I
can’t discuss my patients, so I’m afraid we’ll have to drop that topic
immediately.” He frowned at the Egyptian, who sipped tea from a half-filled
mug. “I can say that Clare has a very garbled notion of your thinking about
Venus.”
“She’sadelightfulyoungwoman,butdoesn’t.Seemtopaycloseattentionto
much.Beyondherwardrobe.Ahwell.ButRobert,Ihadtotellsomebody.You
didn’tseemespeciallyresponsive.Theothernight.”
Blackettsettledbackwithhisownmugofblackcoffee,alreadycooling.He
knew he should stop drinking caffeine; it made him jittery. “You know I’m
uncomfortablewithanythingthatsmacksofso-called‘IntelligentDesign.’”
“Putyourmindat.Rest,myboy.Thedesignisplainlyintelligent.Profoundly
so,but.There’snothingsupernaturalinit.Tothecontrary.”
“Still—dinosaurs?ThedogIwastalkingtotheotherdayfavorswhatitcalled
a‘singularityexcursion.’Inmyview,sixofone,halfadozen—”
“Butdon’tyousee?”Theobesebibliophilestruggledtoheavehisgreatmass
upagainst thewall, hauling apillow withhim. “Bothare wings.Of thesame
argument.”
“Ah.”Blackettputdownhismug,wantingtoescapethemustyroomwithits
miasmaofcrankydesperation.“Notjustdinosaurs,transcendentaldinosaurs.”
Unruffled,Massripursedhislips.“Probably.Ineffect.”Hisbreathingseemed
ratherimproved.Perhapshisexchangeswithanattractiveyoungwoman,even
throughthehalf-openwindow,bracedhisspirits.
“Youhaveevidenceandimpeccablelogicforthisargument,Iimagine?”
“Naturally.Hasiteveroccurredtoyou.Howextremelyimprobableitis.That
thewestcoast of Africa.Wouldfit so snuglyagainst.The eastcoastof South
America?”
“Isee your argument.Those continents wereonce joined, then broke apart.
Platetectonicsdriftedthemthousandsofmilesapart.It’sobvioustothenaked
eye,butnobodybelieveditforcenturies.”
The Egyptian nodded, evidently pleased with his apt student. “And how
improbableisitthat.TheMoon’sapparentdiametervariesfrom29degrees23
minutesto33degrees29minutes.Apogeetoperigee.Whilethesun’sapparent
diametervaries.From31degrees36minutesto32degrees3minutes.”
The effort of this exposition plainly exhausted the old man; he sank back
againsthisunpleasantpillows.
“SowegottotalsolareclipsesbytheMoonwhereonejustcoveredtheother.
Acoincidence,nothingmore.”
“Really?Andwhatofthisequivalence?TheMoonrotatedevery27.32days.
Thesun’ssiderealrotation.Allowingforcurrentsinthesurface.Is25.38days.”
Blackettfeltasifantswerecrawlingunderhisskin.Heforcedpatienceupon
himself.
“Notallthatclose,Massri.What,some…eightpercentdifference?”
“Seven.But Robert,the Moon’srotation hasbeen slowingas itdrifts away
fromEarth,becauseitistidallylocked.Was.Canyouguesswhenthelunarday
equaledthesolarday?”
“Kafele,whatareyougoingtotellme?4BC?622AD?”
“Neither Christ’s birth nor Mohammed’s Hegira. Robert, near as I can
calculateit,65.5millionyearsago.”
Blackett sat back, genuinely shocked, all his assurance draining away. The
Cretaceous-Tertiaryboundary.TheChicxulubimpacteventthatexterminatedthe
dinosaurs.Hestruggledhiswaybacktoreason.Clarehadnotbeenmistaken,not
aboutthat.
“Thisisjust…absurd,myfriend.Theslackinthosenumbers…Butwhatif
theyareright?So?”
Theoldmanhauledhimselfupbybruteforce,draggedhislegsovertheside
ofthebed.“Ihavetotakecareofbusiness,”hesaid.“Leavetheroom,please,
Robert.”
Fromthehall,wherehepacedinagitation,Blackettheardatorrentofurine
splashingintooneofthejugshehademptiedwhenhearrived.Nightmusic,he
thought, forcing a grin. That’s what James Joyce had called it. No, wait, that
wasn’tit—Chambermusic.Buttheargumentbangedagainsthisbrain.Andso
what? Nothing could be dismissed out of hand. The damned Moon had been
picked up and moved, and given a vast deep carbon dioxide atmosphere,
presumably hosed over from the old Venus through some higher dimension.
Humanityhadbeenrelocatedtothecleaned-upversionofVenus,aworldwitha
breathableatmosphereandoceansfilledwithstrangebutediblefish.Howcould
anythingberuledoutaspreposterous,howeverungainlyorgrotesque?
“Youcancomebackinnow.”Therewerethumpsandthuds.
Instead,Blackettwentbacktothekitchenandmadeanewpotofcoffee.He
carriedtwomugsintothebedroom.
“HaveIfrightenedyou,myboy?”
“Everything frightens me these days, Professor Massri. You’re about to tell
me that you’ve found a monolith in the back garden, alongside the discarded
cansandthemangycats.”
TheEgyptianlaughed,phlegmshakinghischest.“Almost.Almost.TheMoon
is now on orbit a bit over. A million kilometers from Venus. Also retrograde.
ExactlythesamedistanceGanymede.UsedtobefromJupiter.”
“Well,okay,hardlyacoincidence.AndGanymedeisintheMoon’soldorbit.”
Foramoment,Massriwassilent.Hisfacewasdrawn.Heputdownhiscoffee
withashakinghand.
“No.GanymedeorbitsVenussome434,000kilometersout.Accordingtothe
lastdataIcouldfindbefore.Thenetwentdownforgood.”
“FartheroutthantheMoonusedtoorbitEarth.And?”
“TheSun,fromVenus,asyouoncetoldme.Looksbrighterandlarger.Infact,
itsubtendsabout40minutesofarc.Andbythemostconvenientand.Interesting
coincidence.Ganymedenowjustexactlylooks…”
“… the same size as the Sun, from the surface of Venus.” Ice ran down
Blackett’sback.“SoitblockstheSunexactlyattotaleclipse.That’swhatyou’re
tellingme?”
“Except for the corona, and bursts of solar flares. As the Moon used to do
here.” Massri sent him a glare almost baleful in its intensity. “And you think
that’sjustamatterofchance?Doyouthinkso,Dr.Blackett?”
10.
Thethunderstormonthe previousdayhad lefttheair cooler. Blackettwalked
homeslowlyinthedarkness,holdingtheHPcalculatorandtwobookstheold
manhadperforcedrawnuponfordata,nowtheinternetwasexpired.Hedidnot
recallhavingcarriedtheseparticularvolumesacrossthestreetfromtheempty
library.PerhapsClareoroneoftheotherinfrequentvisitorshadfetchedthem.
Thestarshungcleanandclearthroughtheheavybranchesextendingfromthe
gardens of most of the large houses in the neighborhood and across the old
sidewalk. In the newer, outlying parts of the city, the nouveaux riches had
considereditamarkofpotentprosperitytoruntheirwell-wateredlawnstothe
veryvergeoftheroadway,neverwalkinganywhere,drivingtovisitneighbors
threedoors distant.HewonderedhowtheyweremanagingonVenus.Perhaps
theratiooffittoobeseandterminallyinactivehadimproved,underthewhipof
necessity. Too late for poor Kafele, he thought, and made a mental note to
stockpileanotherbatchofpioglitazone,theoldman’sdiabetesdrug,whennext
hemadeaforayintoapharmacy.
Hesat for halfan hour inthe silence of the largekitchen,scratching down
data points and recalculating the professor’s estimates. It was apparent that
Massrithoughttheacceptedextinctiondateofthegreatreptiles,coincidingasit
didwiththeperfectoverlapofthegreaterandlesserlightsintheheavens,was
nosuchthing—thatitwas,infact,atime-stampforCreation.Thenotionchilled
Blackett’s blood. Might the world, after all (fashionable speculation!), be no
morethanavirtualsimulation?Acalculationalcontrivanceonacolossalscale?
But not truly colossal, perhaps no more than a billion lines of code and a
prodigiously accurate physics engine. Nothing else so easily explained the
wholesalerevisionoftheinnersolarsystem.Theideadidnotappeal;itstankin
Blackett’snostrils.ThusIrefute,hethoughtagain,andtappedacalculatorkey
sharply. Butthatwasa feeblerefutation;one might aswell,in aluciddream,
deny that any reality existed, forgetting the ground state or brute physical
substrateneededtosustainthedream.
Thenumbersmadenosense. Heranthecalculationsagain.It wastruethat
Ganymede’s new orbit placed the former Jovian moon in just the right place,
from time to time, to occult the sun’s disk precisely. That was a disturbing
datum.Thedinosaurelementwasfarlessconvincing.Accordingtotheauthors
oftheseastronomybooks,Earthhadstartedout,afterthetremendousshockof
theX-bodyimpactthatbirthedtheMoon,withadizzying5.5orperhapseight-
hour day. It seemed impossibly swift, but the hugely larger gas giant Jupiter,
Ganymede’sformerprimary,turnedcompletelyaroundinjust10hours.
TheblazingyoungEarthspunlikeamadtop,itsalmostfatalimpactwound
subsiding,suckedawayintosubductionzonescreatedbytheimpactitself.Venus
—theoldVenus,atleast—lackedtectonicplates;thecrustwasresurfacedathalf
billionyearintervals,astheboilingmagmaburstupthroughtherigidrocks,but
notenoughtocarrydownandawaytheappallingmassofcarbondioxidethat
had crushed the surface with a hundred times the pressure of Earth’s oxygen-
nitrogen atmosphere. Now, though, the renovated planet had a breathable
atmosphere.Justaddairandwater,Blackettthought.Presumablythecrustcrept
slowlyoverthefaceoftheworld,suckeddownandspatbackupoverglacial
epochs.Butthenumbers—
TheMoonhadbeenrecedingfromEarthatasluggishrateof38kilometers
everymillionyears—onepart in10,000of itsfinalorbitaldistance, beforeits
removal to Venus. Kepler’s Third Law, Blackett noted, established the orbital
equivalence of time squared with distance cubed. So those 65.5 million years
ago, when the great saurians were slain by a falling star, Luna had been only
2500kmclosertotheEarth.Buttomatchthesun’ssiderealrotationexactly,the
Moon needed to be more than 18,000 km nearer. That was the case no more
recentlythan485millionyearsago.
Massri’sdinosaurfantasywasoffbyafactorofatleast7.4.
Then how had the Egyptian reached his numerological conclusion? And
wheredidallthislead?NowhereusefulthatBlackettcouldsee.
Itwasallsheerwishfulthinking.KafeleMassriwasasdelusionalasClare,his
thought processes utterly unsound. Blackett groaned and put his head on the
table.Perhaps,hehadtoadmit,hisownreflectionswerenomorereliable.
11.
“I’mflyingdowntothecoastforaswim,”BlacketttoldClare.“There’sroomin
theplane.”
“Alongwaytogoforadip.”
“Achangeofscenery,”hesaid.“Bringyourbathingsuitifyoulike.Inever
bother,myself.”
She gave him a long, cool look. “A nude beach? All right. I’ll bring some
lunch.”
Theydrovetogethertothesmallairfieldtoonesideoftheindustrialparkina
serviceableSUVhefoundabandonedoutsidea7-Eleven.Clarehadavertedher
eyes as he hot-wired the engine. She wore sensible hiking boots, dark gray
shorts, a white wife-beater that showed off her small breasts to advantage.
Seated and strapped in, she laid her broad-brimmed straw hat on her knees.
Blackett was mildly concerned by the slowly deteriorating condition of the
plane.Ithadnotbeenservicedinmanymonths.Hefeltconfident,though,thatit
wouldcarryhimwhereheneededtogo,andbackagain.
Duringthe90-minuteflight,hetriedtoexplaintheEgyptian’sreasoning.The
young psychiatrist responded with indifference that became palpable anxiety.
Herhandstightenedontheseatbeltcinchedatherwaist.Blackettabandonedhis
efforts.
AstheylandedatMatagordaIsland,sheregainedheranimation.“Oh,lookat
thoselovelybiplanes!Ashamethey’reinsuchdeplorablecondition.Whywould
anyoneleavethemoutintheopenweatherlikethat?”Sheinsistedoncrossingto
thesaggingStearmansforacloserlook.Werethosetearsinhereyes?
Ladenwithtowelsandabasketoffood,drink,paperplatesandtwoglasses,
Blackettsummonedhersharply.“Comealong,Clare,we’llmissthegoodwaves
ifweloiter.”Ifsheheardbitterironyinhistone,shegavenosignofit.Agustof
wind carried away his own boater, and she dashed after it, brought it back,
jammed it rakishly on his balding head. “Thank you. I should tie the damned
thingonwithaleatherthong,likethecowboysusedtodo,andcinchitwitha…
a…”
“Awoggle,”shesaid,unexpectedly.
ItmadeBlackettlaughoutloud.“Goodgod,woman!Whereverdidyougeta
wordlikethat?”
“Mybrotherwasaboyscout,”shesaid.
Theycrossedtheunkemptgrass,madetheirwaywithsomedifficultydownto
theshoreline.Blueoceanstretchedsouth,almostflat,sparklinginthecloudless
light.Blackettsetdownhisburden,strippedhisclothingefficiently,strodeinto
the water. The salt stung his nostrils and eyes. He swam strongly out toward
Mexico,thinkingofthelaughablesceneinthemovieGattaca.Heturnedback,
and saw Clare’s head bobbing, sun-bleached hair plastered against her well-
shapedscalp.
Theylaysidebysideinthesun,odorsofsun-blockhangingontheunmoving
air.Afteratime,Blackettsawtheredsetterapproachingfromtheseawardside.
Theanimalsatonitshaunches,mouthopenandtonguelolling,sayingnothing.
“Hello,Sporky,”Blackettsaid.“Beachpatrolduties?”
“Howdy,Doc.SawtheCessnacomingin.Who’sthebabe?”
“ThisisDr.ClareLaing.She’sapsychiatrist,soshowsomerespect.”
Light glistened on her nearly naked body, reflected from sweat and a
scatteringofmicaclingingtohertorso.Sheturnedherheadaway,affectedtobe
sleeping. No, not sleeping. He realized that her attention was now fixed on a
rusty bicycle wheel half buried in the sand. It seemed she might be trying to
workouttheabsoluteessenceoftherelationshipbetweenthem,withtherimand
brokenspokesofthispieceofseadriftservingassomekindofspinalmetaphor.
Respectfulofherprivacy,Blackettsatupandbeganexplainingtothedogthe
bibliophile’sabsurdmiscalculation.Sporkyinterruptedhishaltingexposition.
“You’resaying the angularwidth ofthe sun,then andnow,is about32 arc
minutes.”
“Yes,0.00925radians.”
“AndtheMoonlastmatchedthissome485millionyearsago.”
“No, no. Well, it was a slightly better match than it is now, but that’s not
Massri’spoint.”
“Whichis?”
“Whichisthatthesun’srotationalperiodandtheMoon’swerethesame in
that epoch. Can’t you see how damnably unlikely that is? He thinks it’s
somethinglike…Idon’tknow,God’sthumbprintonthesolarsystem.Thetrue
date of Creation, maybe. Then he tried to show that it coincides with the
extinctionofthedinosaurs,butthat’sjustwrong,theywentextinct—”
“You do know that there was a major catastrophic extinction event at the
Cambrian-Ordoviciantransition488millionyearsago?”
Dumbfounded,Blackettsaid,“What?”
“Givenyoursloppymath,whatdoyousaythechancesarethatyourMoon-
Sun equivalence bracketed the Cambrian-Ordovician extinction? Knocked the
livinghelloutofthetrilobites,Doc.”
Asurrealqualityhadenteredtheconversation.Blackettfoundithardtoaccept
thatthedogcouldbeastudentofancientgeomorphisms.Aspinaltremorshook
him. So the creature was no ordinary genetically upgraded dog but some
manifestation of the entity, the force, the ontological dislocation that had torn
awaytheMoonandtheworld’sinhabitants,mostofthem.
Detesting the note of pleading in his own voice, Blackett uttered a cry of
heartfeltpetition.HesawClarerollover,wakenfromhersun-warmeddrowse.
“HowcanIgetbackthere?”hecried.“Sendmeback!Sendusboth!”
Sporky stood up, shook sand from his fur, spraying Blackett with stinging
mica.
“Goonasyoubegan,”theanimalsaid,“andlettheLordbeallinalltoyou.”
CloudsofuncertaintyclearedfromBlackett’smind,asthecaustic,acidclouds
of Venus had been sucked away and transposed to the relocated Moon. He
jumped up, bent, seized the psychiatrist’s hand, hauled her blinking and
protestingtoherfeet.
“Clare! We must trace out the ceremony of the Great Temple! Here, at the
edgeoftheocean.I’vebeenwastingmytimetryingthisritualinland.Venusis
nowaworldofgreatoceans!”
“Damnit,Robert,letmego,you’rehurting—”
Buthewashaulingherdowntothebrackish,brine-stinkingseashore.Their
parallelfootprints wavered, inscribinga semioticsof deliverance.Hebegan to
treadoutthePetrantempleperimeter,startingatthePropylecum,turnedaright
angle, marched them to the East Excedra and to the very foot of the ancient
Cistern.Hewastravelingbackwardintoarcheopsychictime,deeperintothose
remote,somberhalf-worldshehadglimpsedintherecuperativepaintingsofhis
madpatients.
“Robert!Robert!”
Theyenteredthewater,whichlappedsluggishlyattheiranklesandcalveslike
thearticulatetongueofadogaslargeastheworld.Blackettgaped.Attheedge
of sea and sand, great three-lobed arthropods shed water from their shells,
movingslowlylikeenormouswoodlice.
“Trilobites!” Blackett cried. He stared about, hand still firmly clamped on
ClareLaing’s.Greatgreenrollingbreakers,inthedistance,rushedtowardshore,
broke,foamedandfrothed,liftingtheancientanimalsandtuggingatBlackett’s
limbs.HetotteredforwardintothedragoftheVenusianocean,caughthimself.
He stared over his shoulder at the vast, towering green canopy of trees.
Overhead, bracketing the sun, twin crescent moons shone faintly against the
purplesky.Helookedwildlyathiscompanionandlaughed,joyously,thenflung
hisarmsabouther.
“Clare,”hecried,aliveonVenus,“Clare,wemadeit!”
SevenYearsfromHome
NAOMINOVIK
Bornin New YorkCity,where she stilllives with her mystery-
editorhusband,theirfamily,andsixcomputers,NaomiNovikisa
first-generation American who was raised on Polish fairy tales,
BabaYaga,andTolkien.Afterdoinggraduateworkincomputer
science at Columbia University, she participated in the
developmentofthecomputergameNeverwinterNights:Shadows
ofUndrentide,andthendecidedtotryherhandatnovels.Agood
decision! The resultant Temeraire series—consisting of His
Majesty’sDragon,BlackPowderWar,TheThroneofJade,Empire
ofIvory,andVictoryofEagles—describinganalternateversionof
theNapoleonicWarswheredragonsareusedaslivingweapons,
hasbeenphenomenallypopularandsuccessful.Hermostrecent
books are a new Temeraire novel, Tongues of Serpents, and a
graphicnovel,WillSupervillainsBeOntheFinal?
Hereshe takes us onan evocative visit to a distant planetof
intricate and interlocking biological mysteries, for a harrowing
demonstrationthatit’sunwisetostrikeatanenemybeforeyou’re
suretheycan’tstrikeback.…
PREFACE
SevendayspassedformeonmylittleraftofashipasIfledMelida;sevenyears
for the rest of the unaccelerated universe. I hoped to be forgotten, a dusty
footnoteleftatthebottomofapage.InsteadIcameofftotrumpetsandmedals
andlegalcharges,equaldosesofacclaimandvenom,andIstumbledbewildered
through the brassy noise, led first by one and then by another, while my last
opportunitytoenteranyprotestagainstmyselfescaped.
Now I desire only to correct the worst of the factual inaccuracies bandied
about,sofarasmyimperfectmemorywillallow,andtomakeanofferingofmy
ownunderstandingtothatsmallerandmoresophisticateaudiencewhopreferto
shapetheworld’sopinionratherthanbeshapedbyit.
Iengagenottotireyouwitharecitationofdatesandeventsandquotations.I
donotrecallthemwithanyprecisionmyself.ButImustwarnyouthatneither
haveIsuccumbedtothatpatheticandotioseimpulsetosanitizetheeventsofthe
war,ortoexcusesinseithermyownorbelongingtoothers.Todosowouldbea
lie,andonMelida,totellaliewasaninsultmoreprofoundthanmurder.
Iwillnotseemysistersagain,whomIloved.Herewesaythatonewhotakes
thelongmidnightvoyagehasleapedaheadintime,buttomeitseemsitisthey
whohavetraveledonahead.IcannolongerheartheirvoiceswhenIamawake.
Ihopethiswillsilencetheminthenight.
RuthPatrona
Reivaldt,Janvier32,4765
THEFIRSTADJUSTMENT
IdisembarkedattheportofLandfallinthefifthmonthof4753.Thereissucha
portoneveryworldwheretheConfederacyhassetitsfootbutnotyetitsflag:
crowded and dirty and charmless. It was on the Esperigan continent, as the
Melidans would not tolerate the construction of a spaceport in their own
territory.
AmbassadorKostas,mysuperior,wasamanofgreatauthorityandpresence,
twometerstallandsolidlybuilt,withajovialhandshake,highintelligence,and
verylittlepatienceforfools;thatIwaslikelytoberelegatedtothiscategorywas
evident on our first meeting. He disliked my assignment to begin with. He
thoughtwelloftheEsperigans;hemovedintheirsocietyaseasilyashedidin
ourown,andwouldhavecalledoneortwooftheirseniorministershispersonal
friends,ifonlysuchagesturewerenothighlyunprofessional.Herecognizedhis
duty,andonanabstractintellectuallevelthepotentialvalueoftheMelidans,but
theyrevoltedhim,andhewouldhavebeengladtofindmeoflikemind,readyto
drawalinethroughtheirnameandgivethemupasabadcause.
Afewmoments’conversationwassufficienttodisabusehimofthishope.I
wishtoattestthathedidnotallowthedisappointmenttoinanywayalterthe
performanceofhisduty,andhecouldnothaveobjectedwithmorevigortomy
projectofproceedingatoncetotheMelidancontinent,tohismindasuicidalact.
Inthe end hechose not to stop me. I amsorry if he later regretted that,as
seemslikely.Itookfulladvantageoftheweightofmyarrival.Fiveyearshad
gonebyonmyhomeworldofTercesinceIhadembarked,andthereisacertain
moral force to having sacrificed a former life for the one unknown. I had
observed it often with new arrivals on Terce: their first requests were rarely
refused even when foolish, as they often were. I was of course quite sure my
ownwereeminentlysensible.
“Wewillfindyouaguide,”hesaidfinally,yielding,andallthemachineryof
theConfederacybegantoturntomydesire,aheadysensation.
Badeaarrivedattheembassynottwohourslater.Sheworeaplaingraywrap
aroundhershoulders,drapedtotheground,andanotherwraparoundherhead.
The alterations visible were only small ones: a smattering of green freckles
acrossthebridgeofhernoseandcheeks,agreenishtingetoherlipsandnails.
Herwingswerefoldedandhiddenunderthewrap,addingthebulkroughlyofan
overnighthiker’sbackpack.ShesmelledalittlelikethesourdoughusedonTerce
to make roundbread, noticeable but not unpleasant. She might have walked
throughaspaceportwithoutexcitingcomment.
Shewasbroughttomeintheshamblesofmynewoffice,whereIhadbarely
beguntolayoutmythings.Iwas wearing a conservativeblacksuit,mybest,
tailored because you could not buy trousers for women ready-made on Terce,
and, thankfully, comfortable shoes, because elegant ones on Terce were not
meanttobewalkedin.IremembermyclothingparticularlybecauseIwasinit
forthenextweekwithoutopportunitytochange.
“Areyoureadytogo?”sheaskedme,assoonaswewereintroducedandthe
receptionisthadleft.
Iwasquitevisiblynotreadytogo,butthiswasnotamisunderstanding:she
didnotwanttotakeme.Shethoughttherequeststupid,andfearedmysafety
wouldbeaburdenonher.IfAmbassadorKostaswouldnotmindmyfailureto
return,shecouldnotknowthat,andtobejust,hewouldcertainlyhavereacted
unpleasantlyinanycase,figuringitashisduty.
But when asked for a favor she does not want to grant, a Melidan will
sometimesofferitanyway,onlyinanunacceptableor awkward way. Another
Melidanwillrecognizethisasarefusal,andwithdrawtherequest.Badeadidnot
expect this courtesy from me, she only expected that I would say I could not
leaveatonce.Thisshecouldcounttohersatisfactionasarefusal,andshewould
notcomebacktoofferagain.
I was however informed enough to be dangerous, and I did recognize the
custom.Isaid,“Itisinconvenient,butIampreparedtoleaveimmediately.”She
turnedatonceandwalkedoutofmyoffice,andIfollowedher.Itisunderstood
thatafavoraccepteddespitethedifficultyandconstraintslaiddownbythegiver
mustbenecessarytotherecipient,asindeedthiswastome;butinsuchacase,
theconditionsmustthenbeendured,evenifartificial.
IdidnotriskapauseatalleventotellanyoneIwasgoing;wewalkedout
pasttheembassysecretaryandtheguards,whodidnotdomorethangiveusa
cursoryglance—weweregoingthewrongway,andmycitizen’sbuttonwould
likelyhavesavedusinterruptioninanycase.KostaswouldnotknowIhadgone
untilmyabsencewasnoticedandthesecuritylogsexamined.
THESECONDADJUSTMENT
IwasnotunhappyasIfollowedBadeathroughthecity.Alittlediscomfortwas
nothingtomenexttotheintensesatisfactionof,asIfelt,havingpassedafirst
test:Ihadgottenpastallresistanceofferedme,bothbyKostasandBadea,and
soonIwouldbeintheheartofapeopleIalreadyfeltIknew.ThoughIwouldbe
anoutsideramongthem,Ihadlivedallmylifetothepresentdayintheself-
samestate,andIdidnotfearit,orforthemomentanythingelse.
BadeawalkedquicklyandwithafreerstridethanIwasusedto,loose-limbed.
Iwastaller,buthadtostretchtomatchher.Esperiganslookedatherasshewent
by,andthenlookedatme,andthepressureoftheirgazewassuddenlyhostile.
“Wemighttakeataxi,”Ioffered.Manywerepassingbyempty.“Icanpay.”
“No,” she said, with a look of distaste at one of those conveyances, so we
continuedonfoot.
After Melida, during my black-sea journey, my doctoral dissertation on the
Canaan movement was published under the escrow clause, against my will. I
haveneverusedthefunds,whichcontinuetoaccumulatesteadily.Idonotlike
toinflictthemonanycauseIadmiresufficientlytosupport,sotheywillgoto
myfamilywhenIhavegone;mynephewswillbegladofit,andofthepassing
ofanembarrassment,andthatisasmuchgoodasitcanbeexpectedtoprovide.
There is a great deal within that book which is wrong, and more which is
wrongheaded, in particular any expression of opinion or analysis I interjected
atopthescantcollectionofaccuratefactsIwasabletoaccumulateinsixyears
ofover-enthusiasticgraduatework.Thislittleistrue:theCanaanmovementwas
an offshoot of conservation philosophy. Where the traditionalists of that
movement sought to restrict humanity to dead worlds and closed enclaves on
others,theCanaansplintergroupwishedinsteadtoalterthemselveswhilethey
alteredtheirnewworlds,meetingthemhalfway.
Thephilosophyhadthebenefitofacertainpracticality,asgeneticengineering
andbodymodificationwasandremainsconsiderablycheaperthanterraforming,
butweareasqueamishandaviolentspecies,andnothinginvitespogrommore
surely than the neighbor who is different from us, yet still too close. In
consequence,the Melidans were by our presentday the last surviving Canaan
society.
TheyhadcometoMelida and settledthelargerof the twocontinentssome
eight hundred years before. The Esperigans came two hundred years later,
refugeesfromtheplaguesonNewVictoire,andtookthesmallercontinent.The
twohadlittlecontact forthefirst half-millennium; we oftheConfederacy are
given to think in worlds and solar systems, and to imagine that only a space
voyage is long, but a hostile continent is vast enough to occupy a small and
strugglingband.Butbothprospered,eachaccordingtotheirlights,andbythe
timeIlanded,halftheplanetglitteredinthenightfromspace,andhalfwasyet
pristine.
Inmydissertation,Idescribedtheensuingconflictasnatural,whichisfairif
slaughterandpillagearegrantedtobenaturaltoourkind.TheEsperiganshad
exhaustedthelimitedrawresourcesoftheirshareoftheplanet,andashortflight
awaywastheuntouchedexpanseofthelargercontinent,notatenthaspopulated
as their own. The Melidans controlled their birthrate, used only sustainable
quantities,andbuiltnothingwhichcouldnotbeeatenbythewildernessayear
after they had abandoned it. Many Esperigan philosophes and politicians
trumpeted their admiration of Melidan society, but this was only a sort of
pleasantspiritualrefreshment,asoneadmiresasaintoramartyrwithoutever
wishingtobeone.
Theinvasionbeganinformally,withadventurersandentrepreneurs,withthe
desperate,thepoor,theviolent.TheybegantolandontheshoresoftheMelidan
territory,tosurvey,totakeawaysamples,toplanttheirownforeignroots.They
soonhadavillage,thenmorethanone.TheMelidanstoldthemtoleave,which
worked as well as it ever has in the annals of colonialism, and then attacked
them. Most of the settlers were killed; enough survived and straggled back
acrosstheoceantomakeadramaticstoryofmurderandcrueltyoutofit.
I expressed the conviction to the Ministry of State, in my pre-assignment
report, that the details had been exaggerated, and that the attacks had been
provoked more extensively. I was wrong, of course. But at the time I did not
knowit.
BadeatookmetothelowquarterofLandfall,socalledbecauseitfacedonthe
sideoftheoceandowncurrentfromthespaceport.Iridescentoilandafloating
matofdiscardsglazedtheedgeofthesurf.Thehousesweremeanandcrowded
tightly upon one another, broken up mostly by liquor stores and bars. Docks
stretchedoutintotheocean,extendedlongtoreachoutpastthepollution,and
justpasttheendofoneofthesefloatedasmallboat,littlemorethanasimple
coracle:ahullofbrownbark,anarrowbrownmast,agrey-greensailslackand
tremblinginthewind.
Webeganwalkingouttowardsit,andthosewatching—thereweresomemen
loitering about the docks, fishing idly, or working on repairs to equipment or
nets—begantorealizethenthatImeanttogowithher.
TheEsperiganshadalreadylearnedthelessonweliketoteachasoftenaswe
can,thattheConfederacyisabadenemyandagoodfriend,andwhilenooneis
evermadetojoinusbyforce,wecannotbeopposeddirectly.Wehadgiventhem
thespaceport already, an open doorto the restof the settledworlds, and they
wanted more, the moth yearning. I relied on this for protection, and did not
considerthathowevermuchtheywantedfromouroutstretchedhand,theystill
morewishedtodenyitsgiftstotheirenemy.
Fourmenroseaswewalkedthelengthofthedock,andmadealineacrossit.
“Youdon’twanttogowiththatone,ma’am,”oneofthemsaidtome,aparody
of respect. Badea said nothing. She moved a little aside, to see how I would
answerthem.
“Iamonassignmentformygovernment,”Isaid,neatlyofferingaredflagtoa
bull,andmovedtowardsthem.Itwasnotanattemptatbluffing:onTerce,even
thoughIwasimmodestlyunveiled,menwouldhaveatoncemovedoutofthe
way to avoid any chance of the insult of physical contact. It was an act so
automatic as to be invisible: precisely what we are taught to watch for in
ourselves,butthatprovesinfinitelyeasierintheinstructionthaninthepractice.I
didnotthinktheywouldmove;Iknewtheywould.
Perhapsthatcertaintytransmitteditself:themendidmovealittle,enoughto
satisfymyunconsciousthattheywerecooperatingwithmyexpectations,sothat
ittookmewhollybysurpriseandhorrorwhenonereachedoutandputhishand
onmyarmtostopme.
Iscreamed,infullvoice,andstruckhim.Hisfaceislosttomymemory,butI
still can see clearly the man behind him, his expression as full of appalled
violationasmyown.Thefourofthemflinchedfrommyscream,andthendrew
inaroundme,protestingandreachingoutinturn.
Ireactedwithmoreviolence.Ihadconfidentlyconsideredmyselfacitizenof
no world and of many, trained out of assumptions and unaffected by the
parochial attitudes of the one where chance had seen me born, but in that
moment I could with actual pleasure have killed all of them. That wish was
unlikelytobegratified.Iwastaller,andthegravityofTerceisslightlyhigher
thanofMelida, soI wasstrongerthan theyexpectedme tobe, buttheywere
laborersandseamen,builtgenerouslyandrough-hewn,andthemaleadvantage
inmusclemasstellsquicklyinahand-to-handfight.
Theytriedtoimmobilizeme,whichonlypanickedmefurther.Themindcurls
in on itself in such a moment; I remember palpably only the sensation of
sweating copiously, and the way this caused the seam of my blouse to rub
unpleasantlyagainstmyneckasIstruggled.
Badeatoldmelaterthat,atfirst,shehadmeanttoletthemholdme.Shecould
thenleave,withtheaddedsatisfactionofknowingtheEsperiganfishermenand
notshehadprovokedanincidentwiththeConfederacy.Itwasnotsympathythat
movedhertoaction,precisely.Theextremityofmydistresswasasalientoher
as to them, but where they thought me mad, she read it in the context of my
havingacceptedheroriginalconditionsandsomewhatunwillinglydecidedthatI
trulydidneedtogowithher,evenifshedidnotknowpreciselywhyandsawno
useinitherself.
Icannottellyoupreciselyhowthesubsequentmomentsunfolded.Iremember
thegreengauzeofherwingsoverheadperforatedbythesun,likealinencurtain,
andthebloodspatteringmyfaceassheneatlyloppedoffthehandsuponme.
SheusedforthepurposeabladeIlatersawinuseformanytasks,amongthem
harvestingfruitoffplantswheretheleavesorthebarkmaybepoisonous.Itis
shapedlikeasickleandstrunguponathickelasticcord,whichaskilledwielder
cancausetobecomerigidortocollapse.
I stood myself back on my feet panting, and she landed. The men were on
their knees screaming, and others were running towards us down the docks.
Badeaswepttheseveredhandsintothewaterwiththesideofherfootandsaid
calmly,“Wemustgo.”
The little boat had drawn up directly beside us over the course of our
encounter, drawn bysomesignalIhadnotseenher transmit. I steppedintoit
behindher.Thecoracleleaptforwardlikeaspringingbird,andlefttheshouting
andthebloodbehind.
Wedidnotspeakoverthecourseofthatstrangejourney.WhatIhadthoughta
sail did not catch the wind, but opened itself wide and stretched out over our
heads,likeanawning,andangleditselftowardsthesun.Thereweremanysmall
filamentsuponthesurfacewrigglingwhenIexamineditmoreclosely,andalso
upontheexteriorofthehull.Badeastretchedherselfoutuponthefloorofthe
craft,lyingunderthelowdeck,andIjoinedherinthesmallspace:itwasnot
uncomfortablenorrigid,buthadthequeerunsettledcushioningofawaterbed.
The ocean crossing took only the rest of the day. How our speed was
generatedIcannottellyou;wedidnotseemtositdeeplyinthewaterandour
craft threw up no spray. The world blurred as a window running with rain. I
askedBadeaforwater,once,andsheputherhandsonthefloorofthecraftand
presseddown:inthedepressionshemade,asmallclearpoolgatheredformeto
cupout,withatastelikeslicesofcucumberwiththeskinstilluponthem.
ThiswashowIcametoMelida.
THETHIRDADJUSTMENT
Badeawasvaguelyembarrassedtohaveinflictedmeonherfellows,andhaving
depositedmeinthecenterofhervillagemadeapointofleavingmethereby
leapingaloftintothecanopywhereIcouldnotfollow,asawayofsayingshe
wasdonewithme,andanythingIdidhenceforthcouldnotbelaidatherdoor.
Iwasbynowhungryandnearlysickwithexhaustion.Thosewho have not
flownbetweenworldsliketoimaginethejourneyaglamorousone,butatleast
for minor bureaucrats, it is no more pleasant than any form of transport, only
elongated.Ihadspentaweekavirtualprisonerinmyberth,thebedfoldingup
togivemeroomtowalkfourstridesbackandforth,ortounfoldmywriting-
desk,notbothatonce,withasharedtoiletthesizeofanungenerousclosetdown
the hall. Landfall had not arrested my forward motion, as that mean port had
never been my destination. Now, however, I was arrived, and the dregs of
adrenalinewereconsumedinanticlimax.
OthersbeforemehavestoodinaMelidanvillagecenteranddescribeditfor
anaudience—Esperigansmostly,anthropologistsandstudentsofbiologyanda
class of tourists either adventurous or stupid. There is usually a lyrical
descriptionofthenativescoastingoverheadamongsomesortofvinesortree-
branchesknittedoverheadforshelter,theparticularsandadjectivesdetermined
bythevillagelatitude,andtheobligatoryexplanationofthetypicalplanofhuts,
organizedasaspokedwheelaroundthecentralplaza.
IfIhadbeenlesstired,perhapsItoowouldhavelookedwithsoanalyticalan
air,andmightnowsatisfymyreaderswithasimilarreport.Buttomethevillage
onlypresentedalltheconfusionofawhollystrangeplace,andIsawnothingthat
seemed to me deliberate. To call it a village gives a false air of comforting
provinciality. Melidans, at least those with wings, move freely among a wide
constellation of small settlements, so that all of these, in the public sphere,
partakeofthehecticpaceofthecity.Istoodalone,andstrangersmovedpastme
withassurance,theconfidenceoftheirstridesaying,“Icarenothingforyouor
yourfate.Itisofnoconcerntome.Howmightyouexpectittobeotherwise?”
Intheend,Ilaydownononesideoftheplazaandwenttosleep.
I met Kitia the next morning. She woke me by prodding me with a twig,
experimentally, having been selected for this task out of her group of
schoolmatesbysomecomplicatedinterworkingofpersonalityandchance.They
giggledfromafewsafepacesbackasIopenedmyeyesandsatup.
“Why are you sleeping in the square?” Kitia asked me, to a burst of fresh
giggles.
“WhereshouldIsleep?”Iaskedher.
“Inahouse!”shesaid.
WhenIhadexplainedtothem,notwithoutsomeart,thatIhadnohousehere,
theyofferedthecensorioussuggestionthatIshouldgobacktowhereverIdid
haveahouse.Imadeagoodshowoflookinganalyticallyupattheskyoverhead
andaskingthemwhatourlatitudewas,andthenIpointedatarandomlocation
andsaid,“Myhouseisfiveyearsthatway.”
Scorn, puzzlement, and at last delight. I was from the stars! None of their
friendshadevermetanyonefromsofaraway.Onegirlwhopreviouslyhadheld
apointofprideforhavingoncevisitedthesmallercontinent,withanEsperigan
toydolltoproveit,wasinstantlydethroned.Kitiapossessivelytookmyarmand
informedmethatasmyhousewastoofaraway,shewouldtakemetoanother.
Childrenofvirtuallyanysocietyareanexcellentresourceforthediplomatic
servantortheanthropologist,ifcontactwiththemcanbemadewithoutgiving
offense. They enjoy the unfamiliar experience of answering real questions,
particularly the stupidly obvious ones that allow them to feel a sense of
superiority over the inquiring adult, and they are easily impressed with the
unusual. Kitia was a treasure. She led me, at the head of a small pied-piper
procession, to an empty house on a convenient lane. It had been lately
abandoned,andwasalreadybeingreclaimed:thewallsandfloorwereswarming
withtinyinsectswithglossydarkbluecarapaces,munchingsoindustriouslythe
soundoftheirjawshummedlikeasummerafternoon.
Iwithdifficultyavoidedrecoiling.Kitiadidnothesitate:shewalkedintothe
swarm,crushingbeetlesbythedozensunderfoot,andwenttoasmallspigotin
thefarwall.Whensheturnedthison,aclearviscousliquidissuedforth,andthe
beetlesscatteredfromit.“Here,likethis,”shesaid,showingmehowtocupmy
handsundertheliquidandspreadituponthewallsandthefloor.Thedisgruntled
beetleswithdrew,andthebrownishsurfacesbegantobloombacktopalegreen,
repairingtheholes.
Overthecourseofthatnextweek,shealsofedme,correctedmymannersand
mygrammar,andeventuallybroughtmeasetofclothing,atunicandleggings,
whichsheproudlyinformedmeshehadmadeherselfinclass.Ithankedherwith
realsincerityandaskedwhereImightwashmyoldclothing.Shelookedvery
puzzled,andwhenshehadlookedmorecloselyatmyclothingandtouchedit,
shesaid,“Yourclothingisdead!Ithoughtitwasonlyugly.”
Hergiftwasnotmadeoffabricbutathintoughmeshofplantfilamentswith
thefeatheredsurfaceofamoth’swings.ItgrippedmyskineagerlyassoonasI
hadputiton,andIthoughtmyselfatfirstallergic,becauseititchedandtingled,
butthiswasonlythebacteriabredtoliveinthemeshassiduouslyeatingaway
the sweat and dirt and dead epidermal cells built up on my skin. It took me
severalmoredaystoovercomeallmyinstinctandlearntotrustthelivingcloth
withthemorevoluntaryeliminationsofmybodyalso.(PreviouslyIhadbeen
goingoutback todefecate inthewoods, havingbeen unabletofind anything
resemblingatoilet,andmeetingtoomuchconfusionwhenItriedtoapproach
thequestiontodarepursueitfurther,forfearofencounteringataboo.)
Andthiswasthehandiworkofachild,notthirteenyearsofage!Shecouldnot
explaintomehowshehaddoneitinanywaywhichmadesensetome.Imagine
ifyouhadtoexplainhowtoperformareferencesearchtosomeonewhohadnot
only never seen a library, but did not understand electricity, and who perhaps
knewtherewassuchathingaswrittentext,butdidnothimselfreadmorethan
thealphabet.Shetookmeoncetoherclassroomafterhoursandshowedmeher
workstation, a large wooden tray full of grayish moss, with a double row of
smalljars alongthe back each holding liquidsor powders which I couldonly
distinguish by their differing colors. Her only tools were an assortment of
syringesandeyedroppersandscoopsandbrushes.
IwentbacktomyhouseandinthegrowingreportIwouldnothaveachance
tosendforanothermonthIwrote,Theseareapricelesspeople.Wemusthave
them.
THEFOURTHADJUSTMENT
Allthesefirstweeks,Imadenocontactwithanyotheradult.Isawthemgoby
occasionally,andthehousesaroundminewereoccupied,buttheyneverspoketo
meorevenlookedatmedirectly.Noneofthemobjectedtomysquatting,but
that was less implicit endorsement and more an unwillingness even to
acknowledgemyexistence.ItalkedtoKitiaandtheotherchildren,andtriedto
bepatient.Ihopedanopportunitywouldofferitselfeventuallyformetobeof
somevisibleuse.
Intheevent,itwasrathermylackofusewhichledtothebreakinthewall.A
commotionaroseintheearlymorning,whileKitiawasshowingmetheplanof
herwings,whichshewasatthatagebeginningtodesign.Shewouldgrowthe
parasiteoverthesubsequent year, andwas presently practicingwithminiature
versions, which rose from her worktable surface gossamer-thin and fluttering
withaninvoluntarymuscle-twitching.Iwastryingtoconcealmyrevulsion.
Kitialookedupwhenthenoiseerupted.Shecasuallytossedherexampleout
of the window, to be pounced upon with a hasty scramble by several nearby
birds, and went out the door. I followed her to the square: the children were
gathered at the fringes, silent for once and watching. There were five women
laidoutontheground,allbloody,onedead.Twooftheotherslookedmortally
wounded.Theywereallwinged.
Therewereseveralworkingalreadyontheinjured,packingsmallbrownish-
whitespongymassesintotheopenwoundsandsewingthemup.Iwouldhave
likedtobeofuse,lessfromnaturalinstinctthanfromthecolderthought,which
inflicteditselfuponmymind,thatanycrisisopenssocialbarriers.Iamsorryto
say I did not refrain from any noble self-censorship, but from the practical
convictionthatitwasatonceapparentmylimitedfield-medicaltrainingcould
notinanyvaluablewaybeappliedtothepresentcircumstances.
Idrewaway,rather,toavoidbeinginthewayasIcouldnotturnthesituation
tomyadvantage,andindoingsoranupagainstBadea,whostoodatthevery
edgeofthesquare,observing.
Shestoodalone;therewerenootheradultsnearby,andtherewasbloodonher
hands.“Areyouhurtalso?”Iaskedher.
“No,”shereturned,shortly.
Iventuredonconcernforherfriends,andaskedheriftheyhadbeenhurtin
fighting. “We have heard rumors,” I added, “that the Esperigans have been
encroachingonyourterritory.”ItwasthefirstopportunityIhadbeengivenof
hintingateventhismuchofourofficialsympathy,asthechildrenonlyshrugged
whenIaskedthemiftherewerefightinggoingon.
Sheshrugged,too,withoneshoulder,andthefoldedwingroseandfellwith
it.Butthenshesaid,“Theyleavetheirweaponsintheforestforus,evenwhere
theycannothavegone.”
The Esperigans had several kinds of land-mine technologies, including a
clevermobileonewhichcouldbeprogrammedwithatargeteitherasspecificas
an individual’s genetic record or as general as a broadly defined body type—
humanoid and winged, for instance—and set loose to wander until it found a
match, then do the maximum damage it could. Only one side could carry
explosive, as the other was devoted to the electronics. “The shrapnel, does it
come only in one direction?” I asked, and made a fanned-out shape with my
handstoillustrate.Badealookedatmesharplyandnodded.
Iexplainedtheminetoher,anddescribedtheirmanufacture.“Somescanning
devicescandetectthem,”Iadded,meaningtocontinueintoanoffer,butIhad
notfinishedthelitanyofmaterialsbeforeshewasstridingawayfromthesquare,
withoutanotherword.
Iwasnotdissatisfiedwiththereaction,inwhichIcorrectlyreadintentionto
put my information to immediate use, and two days later my patience was
rewarded. Badea came to my house in the mid-morning and said, “We have
foundoneofthem.Canyoushowushowtodisarmthem?”
“Iamnotsure,”Itoldher,honestly.“Thesafestoptionwouldbetotriggerit
deliberately,fromafar.”
“Theplasticstheyusepoisontheground.”
“Canyoutakemetoitslocation?”Iasked.Sheconsideredthequestionwith
enoughseriousnessthatIrealizedtherewaseithertabooordangerinvolved.
“Yes,”shesaidfinally,andtookmewithhertoahousenearthecenterofthe
village.Ithadstepsuptotheroof,andfromtherewecouldclimbtothatofthe
neighboringhouse,andsoonuntilwewerehighenoughtoreachalargebasket,
wovennotofropesbutofakindofvine,sittinginacrookofatree.Weclimbed
intothis,andshekickedusofffromthetree.
Themovementwasnotsmooth.ThenearestIcandescribeisthesensationof
beingonachild’sswing,exceptatthathighestpointofweightlessnessyoudo
not go backwards, but instead go falling into another arc, but at tremendous
speed, and with a pungent smell like rotten pineapple all around from the
shattering of the leaves of the trees through which we were propelled. I was
violently sick after some five minutes. To the comfort of my pride if not my
stomach,Badeawasalsosick,thoughmoreefficientlyandovertheside,before
ourjourneyended.
Thereweretwootherwomenwaitingforusinthetreewherewecametorest,
bothofthemalsowinged:RenataandPaudi.“It’sgoneanotherthreehundred
meters, towards Ighlan,” Renata told us—another nearby Melidan village, as
theyexplainedtome.
“Ifitcomesnearenoughtopickuptracesoforganizedhabitation,itwillnot
trigger until it is inside the settlement, among as many people as possible,” I
said.“Itmayalsohaveaburrowingmode,ifitisthemoreexpensivekind.”
They took me down through the canopy, carefully, and walked before and
behindmewhenwecametotheground.Theirwingswerespreadwideenough
tobrushagainstthehangingvinestoeitherside,andtheyregularlyleaptaloft
for a brief survey. Several times they moved me with friendly hands into a
slightly different path, although my untrained eyes could make no difference
amongthechoices.
Anarrowtrailoflargeants—thereaderwillforgivemeforcallingthemants,
theywerenearlyindistinguishablefromthoseefficientcreatures—pacedusover
theforestfloor,whichIdidnotrecognizeassignificantuntilwecamenearthe
mine,andIsawitcoveredwiththeants,whodidnotimpedeitsmovementbut
milledaroundandoveritwithintenseinterest.
“Wehaveadjustedthemsotheysmelltheplastic,”Badeasaid,whenIasked.
“We can make them eat it,” she added, “but we worried it would set off the
device.”
ThewordadjustedscratchesatthebackofmymindagainasIwritethis,that
unpleasanttinnysensationofatermthatdoesnotallowofrealtranslationand
whichhasbeeninadequatelyreplaced.Icannotimproveupontheworkofthe
officialConfederacytranslators,however;toencompassthetrueconceptwould
require three dry, dusty chapters more suited to a textbook on the subject of
biologicalengineering,whichIamill-qualifiedtoproduce.IdohopethatIhave
successfully captured the wholly casual way she spoke of this feat. Our own
scientists might replicate this act of genetic sculpting in any of two dozen
excellent laboratories across the Confederacy—given several years, and a
suitablyimpressivegrant.Theyhaddoneitinlessthantwodays,asamatterof
course.
I did not at the time indulge in admiration. The mine was ignoring the
inquisitiveantsandscuttlingalongatagoodpace,theheadwithitsglassyeye
occasionally rotating upon its spindly spider-legs, and we had half a day in
whichtodivertitfromthevillageahead.
Renatafollowedthemineasitcontinuedon,whileIsketchedwhatIknewof
the internals in the dirt for Badea and Paudi. Any sensible mine-maker will
designthedevicetosimplyexplodeatanyinterferencewithitsworkingother
thanthedisablecode,soouroptionswerenotparticularlysatisfying.“Themost
likelychoice,” I suggested, “would be the transmitter.If it becomes unable to
receivethedisablecode,theremaybeafailsafewhichwoulddeactivateitona
subsequentmalfunction.”
Paudihadonherbackacasewhich,unfolded,lookedverylikeamoreelegant
andcompactversionoflittleKitia’sworktable.Shesatcrossleggedwithiton
herlapandworkedonitforsometwohours’time,occasionallyreachingdown
topickupahandfulofants,whichdroppedintothegreenmatrixofhertable
mostlycurledupanddied,saveforafewsurvivors,whichsheherdedcarefully
intoanemptyjarbeforetakingupanothersample.
Isatontheforestfloorbesideher,orwalkedwithBadea,whowaspacinga
small circle out around us, watchfully. Occasionally she would unsling her
scythe-blade,andthenputitawayagain,andonceshebroughtdownamottie,a
small lemur-like creature. I say lemur because there is nothing closer in my
experience,butithadnoneofthecharmofanEarth-nativemammal;Iratherfelt
aninstinctivedisgustlookingatit,evenbeforesheshowedmethetinysucker-
mouthsfullofhookedteethwithwhichitlatcheduponavictim.
She had grown a little more loquacious, and asked me about my own
homeworld.ItoldheraboutTerce,andabouttheseclusionofwomen,whichshe
foundextremelyfunny,aswecanonlylaughatthefolliesofthosefarfromus
whichthreatenusnotatall.TheMelidansbydesignmaintainafivetooneratio
ofwomentomen,asadequatetomaintainahealthygenepoolwhileminimizing
the overall resource consumption of their population. “They cannot take the
wings,soitismoredifficultforthemtotravel,”sheadded,withonesentence
dismissing the lingering mystery which had perplexed earlier visitors, of the
relativerarityofseeingtheirmen.
She had two children, which she described to me proudly, living presently
withtheirfatherandhalf-siblingsinavillagehalfaday’stravelaway,andshe
wasconsideringathird.Shehadtrainedasaforestranger,anotherinadequately
translated term which was at the time beginning to take on a military
significanceamongthemunderthepressureoftheEsperiganincursions.
“I’mdone,”Paudisaid,andwewenttocatchupRenataandfindanearbyant-
nest,whichlookedlikeamoundofwhitecottonbatting,risingseveralinchesoff
theforestfloor.Paudiintroducedhersmallgroupofinfectedsurvivorsintothis
colony, and after a little confusion and milling about, they accepted their
transplantation and marched inside. The flow of departures slowed a little
momentarily,thenresumed,andafilesplitofffromthemainchannelofworkers
tomarchinthedirectionofthemine.
Thesejoinedthelingeringcrowdstilluponthemine,butthenewarrivalsdid
not stop at inspection and promptly began to struggle to insinuate themselves
intothecasing.Wewithdrewtoasafedistance,watching.Theminecontinued
on without any slackening in its pace for ten minutes, as more ants began to
squeezethemselvesinside,andthenithesitated,onespindlymetallegheldaloft
uncertainly. It went a few more slightly drunken paces, and then abruptly the
legsallretractedandleftitasmoothroundlumpontheforestfloor.
THEFIFTHADJUSTMENT
Theyshowedmehowtousetheircommunicationstechnologyandgrewmean
interfacetomyownsmallhandheld,somyreportwasatlastabletogo.Kostas
began angry, of course, having been forced to defend the manner of my
departure to the Esperigans without the benefit of any understanding of the
circumstances,butIsentthereportanhourbeforeImessaged,andbythetime
wespokehehadreadenoughtobeinreluctantagreementwithmyconclusions
ifnotmymethods.
Iwasofcoursefullofself-satisfaction.Freedatlonglastfromtheacademy
andthewalledgardensofTerce,armedwithfalseconfidenceinmyresearchand
mytraining,Ihadsofarachievedallthatmydesignhadstretchedtoencompass.
TheEsperiganbloodhadwashedeasilyfrommyhands,andthoughIanswered
Kostasmeeklywhenheupbraidedme,privatelyIfeltonlyimpatience,andeven
hedidnotlingerlongonthetopic:Ihadbeentoosuccessful,andhehadmore
importantnews.
TheEsperiganshadlaunchedasmallarmytwodaysbefore,underthemore
pleasant-soundingnameofexpeditionarydefensiveforce.Theirpurposewasto
establishapermanentsettlementontheMelidanshore,someninehundredmiles
frommypresentlocation,andbeginthestandardprocessofterraforming.The
nativelifewouldbeeradicatedinspheresofahundredmilesacrossatatime:
firstthebroadstrokesofclear-cuttingandtheelectrifiednets,thentheirradiation
ofthesoilandtheair,andafterthattheseedingofEarth-nativemicrobesand
plants. So had a thousand worlds been made over anew, and though the
Esperiganshadfullyconqueredtheirowncontinentfivecenturiesbefore,they
stillknewtheway.
HeaskeddoubtfullyifIthoughtsomeimmediateresistancecouldbeoffered.
Disabling a few mines scattered into the jungle seemed to him a small task.
Confronting a large and organized military force was on a different order of
magnitude. “I think we can do something,” I said, maintaining a veneer of
cautionforhisbenefit,andtookthecatalogofequipmenttoBadeaassoonaswe
haddisengaged.
Shewasoccupiedinorganizingtheretrievalofthedeactivatedmines,which
theantswerenowleavingscatteredintheforestsandjungles.Abird-of-paradise
varianthadbeenadjustedtomakeamealoutoftheantsandtaketheglittery
minesbacktotheirtree-topnests,whereanobservermighteasilyseethemfrom
above.Sheandtheothercollectorshadsofarfoundnearlyathousandofthem.
Theminesmadeaneatpyramid,asoftheharvestedskullsofsmallcyclopean
creatureswiththeirdulleyesstaringoutlifelessly.
TheEsperigansneededaweektocrosstheoceanintheirnumbers,andIspent
itwiththeMelidans,developingourresponse.Therewasaheadydelightinthis
collaboration.Theworkwas easyandpleasant in theirwide-openlaboratories
fullofplants,roofedonlywiththeflutteringsailclotheatingsunlighttogiveus
energy,andthebestofthemcomingfrommanymilesdistanttoparticipateinthe
effort.The Confederacy spy-satelliteshad goneinto orbit perhapsa year after
our first contact: I likely knew more about the actual force than the senior
administrators of Melida. I was in much demand, consulted not only for my
informationbutmyopinion.
Inthefermentofourlabors,Iwithheldnothing.Thiswasnotyetdeliberate,
butneitherwasitinnocent.Ihadbeensenttofurtherawar,andifinthepolitical
calculus which had arrived at this solution the lives of soldiers were only
variables, there was still a balance I was expected to preserve. It was not my
dutytogivetheMelidansaneasyvictory,anymorethanithadbeenKostas’sto
giveonetotheEsperigans.
Ashortandvictoriouswar,openinganewandtantalizingfrontierforrestless
spirits, would at once drive up that inconvenient nationalism which is the
Confederacy’s worst obstacle, and render less compelling the temptations we
couldoffertolurethemintofullyjoininggalacticsociety.Ontheotherhand,to
descendintosqualor,amoreequalkindofcivilwarhasoftenprovenextremely
useful,andthemorelingeringandbitterthebetter.IwassenttotheMelidansin
hopethat,givensomeguidanceandwhatmaterialassistancewecouldquietly
providewithouttakinganyofficialposition,theymightbeanadequateopponent
fortheEsperiganstoproducethissituation.
There has been some criticism of the officials who selected me for this
mission, but in their defense, it must be pointed out it was not in fact my
assignment to actually provide military assistance, nor could anyone, even
myself,haveenvisionedmyprovingremotelyusefulinsucharole.Iwasonly
meanttobeanearlyscout.Mydutywastoacquireculturalinformationenough
toopenadoorforapartyofmilitaryexpertsfromVocaLibre,whowouldnot
reachMelidaforanothertwoyears.Ambitionandopportunitypromotedme,and
noofficialhand.
***
I think these experts arrived sometime during the third Esperigan offensive. I
cannot pinpoint the date with any accuracy, I had by then ceased to track the
days,andInevermetthem.Ihopetheycanforgivemytheftoftheirwar;Ipaid
formygreed.
TheEsperigansusedatypicalcarbonizedsteelinmostoftheirequipment,as
boltsandhexagonalnutsandscrewswithstar-shapedheads,andwovenintothe
toughmeshoftheirbodyarmor.Thiswasthetargetofourefforts.Itwasanew
fieldofendeavorfortheMelidans,whousedmetalastheyusedmeat,sparingly
andwithasenseofrighteousnessinitsavoidance.Tothemitwaseitheratrace
element needed in minute amounts, or an undesirable by-product of the more
complicatedbiologicalprocessestheyoccasionallyneededtoinvoke.
However,theyhaddevelopedsomestrainsofbacteriatodealwiththislatter
waste, and the speed with which they could manipulate these organisms was
extraordinary. Anotherquantity of theants—a convenient delivery mechanism
used by the Melidans routinely, as I learned—was adjusted to render them
deficient in iron and to provide a home in their bellies for the bacteria,
transforming them into shockingly efficient engines of destruction. Set loose
uponseveraloftheminesasatrial,theydevouredthecarapacesandleftbehind
onlysmudgyblackheapsofcarbondust,carefullyharvestedforfertilizer,and
the plastic explosives from within, nestled in their bed of copper wire and
silicon.
TheEsperiganslanded,andatoncecarvedthemselvesoutaneathalf-moonof
wastelandfromthevirginshore,leavingnobrancheswhichmightstretchabove
theirencampmenttoofferaplatformforattack.Theyestablishedanelectrified
fencearoundtheperimeter,withgunsandpatrols,andallthisIobservedwith
Badea,fromasmallplatforminavine-chokedtreenotfaraway:weworethe
green-graycloaks,andourfaceswerestainedwithleafjuice.
Ihadverylittlejustificationforinsertingmyselfintosucharolebuttheflimsy
excuseofpointingouttoBadeathemostcrucialsectionoftheircamp,whenwe
hadbrokenin.IcannotentirelysaywhyIwishedtogoalongonsodangerousan
expedition. I am not particularly courageous. Several of my more unkind
biographershaveaccusedmeofbloodlust,andpointedtothisasasequeltothe
disaster of my first departure. I cannot refute the accusation on the evidence,
however I will point out that I chose that portion of the expedition which we
hopedwouldencounternoviolence.
ButitistrueIhadlearnedalreadytoseetheattheviolentpiggishblindnessof
the Esperigans, who would have wrecked all the wonders around me only to
propagateyetanotherblandcopyofEarthandsuckdrythecarcassoftheirown
world.Theyweremyenemy both bydutyandby inclination,andIpermitted
myselftheconvenienceofhatingthem.Atthetime,itmadematterseasier.
Thewindwasrunningfromtheeast,andseveraloftheMelidansattackedthe
campfromthatside.Themineshadyieldedaquantityofexplosivelargeenough
topiercetheEsperigans’fenceandshakethetreesevenasfarasourloftyperch.
The wind carried the smoke and dust and flames towards us, obscuring the
ground and rendering the soldiers in their own camp only vague ghostlike
suggestionsofhumanshape.Thefightingwashand-to-hand,andthestutterof
gunfirecameonlytentativelythroughthechaosofthesmoke.
Badeahadbeenholdinganarrowcord,oneendweightedwithaheavyseed-
pod.Shenowpouredameasureofwaterontothepod,fromhercanteen,then
flung it out into the air. It sailed over the fence and landed inside the
encampment,behindoneoftheneatrowsofstoragetents.Theseedpodstruck
thegroundandimmediatelyburstlikearipefruit,ananemonetangleofwaving
roots creeping out over the ground and anchoring the cord, which she had
securedatthisendaroundonethickbranch.
We let ourselves down it, hand over hand. There was none of that typical
abrasion or friction which I might have expected from rope; my hands felt as
coolandcomfortablewhen we descended as when we began. Weranintothe
narrow space between the tents. I was experiencing that strange elongation of
timewhichcrisiscanoccasionallyproduce:Iwasconsciousofeachfootfall,and
oftheseeming-longmomentsittooktoplaceeachone.
There were wary soldiers at many of the tent entrances, likely those which
held either the more valuable munitions or the more valuable men. Their
discipline had not faltered, even while the majority of the force was already
orchestrating a response to the Melidan assault on the other side of the
encampment.Butwedidnotneedtopenetrateintothetents.Theguardswere
rather useful markers for us, showing me which of the tents were the more
significant.IpointedouttoBadeatheclusteroffourtents,eachguardedateither
sidebyapair,nearthefarthestendoftheencampment.
Badea looked here and there over the ground as we darted under cover of
smoke from one alleyway to another, the walls of waxed canvas muffling the
distantshoutsandthesoundofgunfire.Thedirtstillhadtheyellowishtingeof
Melidansoil—theEsperiganshadnotyetirradiatedit—butitwascrumblyand
dry, the fine fragile native moss crushed and much torn by heavy boots and
equipment,andthewindraisedlittledervishesofdustaroundourankles.
“Thisgroundwilltakeyearstorecoverfully,”shesaidtome,softandbitterly,
asshestoppedusandknelt,behindadesertedtentnotfarfromourtarget.She
gave me a small ceramic implement which looked much like the hair-picks
sometimeswornonTercebywomenwithhairwhichneverknewablade’sedge:
araisedcombwiththreeteeth,thoughonthetooltheseweremuchlongerand
sharpenedattheend.Ipickedthegroundvigorously,stabbingdeeptoaeratethe
woundedsoil,whileshejudiciouslypouredoutamixtureofwaterandcertain
organicextracts,andsowedapacketofseeds.
Thismaysoundacomplicatedoperationtobecarryingoutinanenemycamp,
inthe midstof battle, butwe hadpracticed themaneuver, andindeed hadwe
beenglimpsed,anyonewouldhavebeenhard-pressedtorecognizeathreatinthe
twogray-wrappedlumpscrouchedlowaswepawedatthedirt.Twicewhilewe
worked,woundedsoldierswerecarriedinarushpasteitherendofouralleyway,
towardsshelter.Wewerenotseen.
The seeds she carried, though tiny, burst readily, and began to thrust out
spiderweb-fine rootlets at such a speed they looked like nothing more than
squirming maggots. Badea without concern moved her hands around them,
encouraging them into the ground. When they were established, she motioned
metostopmywork,andshetookoutthepreparedants:amuchgreaternumber
ofthem,withadozenofthefatyellowwasp-sizedbrood-mothers.Tippedout
intothepreparedandwelcomingsoil,theyimmediatelybegantoburrowtheir
waydown,withtheanxiousharryingoftheirsubjectsandspawn.
Badea watched for a long while, crouched over, even after the ants had
vanishednearlyallbeneaththesurface.Thefewwhoemergedanddartedback
inside,thefainttremblingoftherootlets,theshiftinggrainsofdirt,allcarried
informationtoher.Atlengthsatisfied,shestraightenedsaying,“Now—”
TheyoungsoldierwasIthinkonlylookingforsomewheretopiss,ratherthan
investigating some noise. He came around the corner already fumbling at his
belt, and seeing us did not immediately shout, likely from plain surprise, but
grabbedforBadea’sshoulderfirst.Hewasclean-shaven,andthenameonhis
lapelbadgewasRidang.Idrovethesoil-pickintohiseye.Iwastaller,sothe
stroke went downwards, and he fell backwards to his knees away from me,
clutchingathisface.
He did not die at once. There must be very few deaths which come
immediately,thoughweoftenliketocomfortourselvesbythepretensethatthis
failureofthebody,orthatinjury,mustatonceeradicateconsciousnessandlife
andpainall together.Here sentiencelastedseveral momentswhichseemed to
melong:hisothereyewasopen,andlookedatmewhilehishandsclawedfor
the handle of the pick. When this had faded, and he had fallen supine to the
ground,therewasyetaconvulsivemovementofallthelimbsandatricklingof
bloodfrommouthandnoseandeyebeforethefinalstiffeningjerkleftthebody
emptiedandinanimate.
Iwatchedhimdieinastrangeparodyofserenity,allfeelinghollowedoutof
me,andthenturningawayvomitedupontheground.Behindme,Badeacutopen
hisbellyandhisthighsandturnedhimfacedownontothedirt,sothebloodand
theeffluvialeakedoutofhim.“Thatwilldoalittlegoodforthegroundatleast,
beforetheycarryhimawaytowastehim,”shesaid.“Come.”Shetouchedmy
shoulder,notunkindly,butIflinchedfromthetouchasfromablow.
It was not that Badea or her fellows were indifferent to death, or casual
towardsmurder.Butthereisapricetobepaidforlivinginaworldwhosenative
hostilitieshavebeencherished ratherthancrushed. Melidan lifeexpectancyis
sometenyearsbeneaththatofConfederacycitizens,thoughtheyareonaverage
healthier and more fit both genetically and physically. In their philosophy a
human life is not inherently superior and to be valued over any other kind.
Accidentandpredationclaimmany,andlivingintimatelywiththedailycruelties
ofnaturedullsthefacilityforsentiment.Badeaenjoyednoneofthatcomforting
distancewhichallowsustothinkourselvesassuredofthefullpotentialspanof
life,andthereforesufferednoneofthepangswhenconfrontedwithevidenceto
thecontrary.Ilookedatmyvictimandsawmyownface;sotoodidshe,butshe
hadlivedallherlifesoaware,anditdidnotbowhershoulders.
***
FivedayspassedbeforetheEsperiganequipmentbegantocomeapart.Another
dayhaltedalltheirwork,andinconfusiontheyretreatedtotheirencampment.I
didnotgowiththeMelidancompanythatdestroyedthemtothelastman.
Contrarytomanyaccusations,IdidnotlietoKostasinmyreportandpretend
surprise. I freely confessed to him I had expected the result, and truthfully
explained I had not wished to make claims of which I was unsure. I never
deliberatelysoughttodeceiveanyofmysuperiorsorconcealinformationfrom
them,saveinsuchsmallways.AtfirstIwasnotMelidanenoughtowishtodo
so,andlaterIwastooMelidantofeelanythingbutrevulsionattheconcept.
HeandIdiscussedournextstepsinthetiger-dance.IdescribedasbestIcould
the Melidan technology, and after consultation with various Confederacy
experts, it was agreed he would quietly mention to the Esperigan minister of
defense,attheirweeklyluncheon,aparticularConfederacytechnology:ceramic
coatings,whichcouldbeorderedatvastexpenseandtwoyears’delayfromBel
Rios.Or,hewouldsuggest,iftheEsperiganswishedtodeedsomelandtothe
Confederacy,aprivateentrepreneurialconcernmightfundtheconstructionofa
localfabricationplant,andproducethematmuchlesscost,insixmonths’time.
TheEsperiganstookthebait,andsawonlyprivategreedbehindthisapparent
breachofneutrality:imaginingKostasaninvestorinthisprivateconcern,they
winked at his veniality, and eagerly helped us to their own exploitation.
Meanwhile,theycontinuedoccasionalandtentativeincursionsintotheMelidan
continent, probing the coastline, but the disruption they created betrayed their
attempts, and whichever settlement was nearest would at once deliver them a
present of the industrious ants, so these met with no greater success than the
first.
Through these months of brief and grudging detente, I traveled extensively
throughoutthecontinent.Myjournalsarewidelyavailable,beingthedomainof
our government, but they are shamefully sparse, and I apologize to my
colleaguesforit.IwouldhavebeenmorediligentinmyworkifIhadimaginedI
would be the last and not the first such chronicler. At the time, giddy with
success,Iwentwithmorethespiritofaholidaymakerthanaresearcher,andI
sentonlythoseimagesandnoteswhichitwaspleasanttometorecord,withthe
excuseoflimitedcapacitytosendmyreports.
Forwhatcoldcomfortitmaybe,Imusttellyouphotographyanddescription
are inadequate to convey the experience of standing in the living heart of a
world,alienyetnothostile,andwhenIwalkedhandinhandwithBadeaalong
thecrestofagreatcanyonwallandlookeddownovertheridgesofpurpleand
greyand ochre atthe gently wavingtendrils of anelacca forest, whichin my
notoriousvideorecordingscanprovokenauseainnearlyeveryobserver,Ifelt
the first real stir of an unfamiliar sensation of beauty-in-strangeness, and I
laughedindelightandsurprise,whileshelookedatmeandsmiled.
Wereturnedtohervillagethreedayslaterandsawthebombingaswecame,
the new Esperigan long-range fighter planes like narrow silver knife-blades
makinglow passes overhead, the smoke rising black and oily against thesky.
Ourbasket-journeycouldnotbeaccelerated,sowecouldonlyclingtothesides
andwaitaswewerecarriedonward.Theplanesandthesmokeweregonebefore
wearrived;thewreckagewasnot.
I was angry at Kostas afterwards, unfairly. He was no more truly the
Esperigans’ confidant than they were his, but I felt at the time that it was his
businesstoknowwhattheywereabout,andhehadfailedtowarnme.Iaccused
himofdeliberateconcealment;hetoldme,censoriously,thatIhadknownthe
riskwhen Ihad goneto thecontinent, and he could hardly be responsible for
preservingmysafetywhileIsleptintheverywarzone.Thissilencedmytirade,
asIrealizedhownearIhadcometobetrayingmyself.Ofcoursehewouldnot
havewantedmetowarntheMelidans;ithadnotyetoccurredtohimIwould
havewishedto.Ioughtnothavewantedto.
Forty-threepeople were killedin the attack. Kitia was yet lingeringwhen I
came to her small bedside. She was in no pain, her eyes cloudy and distant,
already withdrawing; her family had been and gone again. “I knew you were
coming back, so I asked them to let me stay a little longer,” she told me. “I
wantedtosaygoodbye.”Shepausedandaddeduncertainly,“AndIwasafraid,a
little.Don’ttell.”
IpromisedherIwouldnot.Shesighedandsaid,“Ishouldn’twaitanylonger.
Willyoucallthemover?”
The attendant came when I raised my hand, and he asked Kitia, “Are you
ready?”
“Yes,”shesaid,alittledoubtful.“Itwon’thurt?”
“No,notatall,”hesaid,alreadytakingoutwithaglovedhandasmallflat
strip from a pouch, filmy green and smelling of raspberries. Kitia opened her
mouth,andhelaiditonhertongue.Itdissolvedalmostatonce,andsheblinked
twiceandwasasleep.Herhandwentcoldafewminuteslater,stilllyingbetween
myown.
I stood with her family when we laid her to rest, the next morning. The
attendantsputhercarefullydowninaclearing,andsprayedherfromadistance,
the smell of cut roses just going to rot, and stepped back. Her parents wept
noisily;Istayeddry-eyedasanyseemlyTercematron,displayingmyassurance
oftheascensionofthedead.Thebirdscamefirst,andthemotties,topluckat
her eyes and her lips, and the beetles hurrying with a hum of eager jaws to
deconstructherintorawparts.Theydidnothavelongtofeast:theforestitself
wasdevouringherfrombelowinagreentiderising,climbinginsmallcreepers
uphercheeksanddisplacingthemall.
Whenshewascoveredover,themournersturnedawayandwenttojointhe
sharedwakebehindusinthevillagesquare.Theythrewuncertainandpuzzled
looksatmyremainingastheywentpast,andatmytearlessface.Butshewas
not yet gone: there was a suggestion of a girl lingering there, a collapsing
scaffolddrapedinanunhurriedcarpetoflivingthings.Ididnotleave,though
behind me there rose a murmur of noise as the families of the dead spoke
reminiscencesoftheirlostones.
Near dawn, the green carpeting slipped briefly. In the dim watery light I
glimpsedforonemomentanemptiedsocketfullofbeetles,andIwept.
THESIXTHADJUSTMENT
Iwillnotclaim,afterthis,thatItookthewingsonlyfromduty,butIrefutethe
accusationItookthemintreason.Therewasnootherchoice.Menandchildren
andtheelderlyorthesick,allthewingless,werefleeingfromthecontinuinghail
ofEsperiganattacks.Theywereretreatingdeepintotheheartofthecontinent,
beyondtherefuelingrangefortheEsperiganwarcraft,tosheltershiddensofar
incavesandinovergrowththatevenmyspysatellitesknewnothingofthem.
My connection to Kostas would have been severed, and if I could provide
neitherintelligencenordirectassistance,Imightaswellhaveslunkbacktothe
embassy,andsavedmyselfthediscomfortofbeingarefugee.Neitheralternative
waspalatable.
Theylaidmeuponthealtarlikeasacrifice,orsoIfelt,thoughtheygaveme
something to drink which calmed my body, the nervous and involuntary
twitchingofmylimbsandskin.Badeasatatmyheadandheldtheheavylong
braidofmyhairoutoftheway,whiletheothersdepilatedmybackandwipedit
with alcohol. They bound me down then, and slit my skin open in two lines
mostlyparalleltothespine.ThenPaudigentlysetthewingsuponme.
I lacked the skill to grow my own, in the time we had; Badea and Paudi
helpedmetominesothatImightstay.ButevenwiththelittleassistanceIhad
beenabletocontribute,IhadseenmorethanIwishedtooftheparasites,and
despitemyclosedeyes,myfaceturneddownwards,Iknewtomyhorrorthatthe
faint curious feather-brush sensation was the intrusion of the fine spiderweb
filaments, each fifteen feet long, which now wriggled into the hospitable
environmentofmyexposedinnerfleshandbegantosewthemselvesintome.
Paincame andwent asthe filamentsworked theirway throughmuscle and
bone,findingone bundleof nervesand then another.After thefirsthalf hour,
Badeatoldmegently,“It’scomingtothespine,”andgavemeanotherdrink.The
drugkeptmybodyfrommovement,butcoulddonothingtonumbtheagony.I
cannotdescribeitadequately.Ifyouhaveevermanagedtoinflictfoodpoisoning
uponyourself,despitealltheConfederacy’ssafeguards,youmayconceiveofthe
kind if not the degree of suffering, an experience which envelops the whole
body, every muscle and joint, and alters not only your physical self but your
thoughts: all vanishes but pain, and the question, is the worst over? which is
answerednoandnoagain.
Butatsomepointthepainbeganindeedtoebb.Thefilamentshadenteredthe
brain,anditisameasureoftheexperiencethatwhatIhadfearedthemostwas
now blessed relief; I lay inert and closed my eyes gratefully while sensation
spreadoutwardfrommyback,andmynew-borrowedlimbsbecamegradually
indeed my own, flinching from the currents of the air, and the touch of my
friends’handsuponme.EventuallyIslept.
THESEVENTHADJUSTMENT
Thedetailsofthewar,whichunfoldednowinearnest,Idonotneedtorecount
again. Kostas kept excellent records, better by far than my own, and students
enoughhavememorizedthedatesandgeographiccoordinates,boundingdeath
andruininsmallnumbers.InsteadIwilltellyouthatfromaloft,theEsperigans’
poisoned-ground encampments made half-starbursts of ochre brown and
witheredyellow,outlinesliketentaclescrawlingintothehealthygrowtharound
them.Theirsupply-shipsanchoredouttoseaglazedthewaterwithaslickofoil
and refuse, while the soldiers practiced their shooting on the vast schools of
slow-swimmingkrakenyoung,whosebloatedwhitebodiesfloatedtothesurface
anddriftedawayalongthecoast,somanytheydefiedeventheappetiteofthe
sharks.
I will tell you that when we painted their hulls with algaes and small
crustacean-likeborers,ourworkwascamouflagedbygreatbloomsofseaday-
liliesaroundtheships,theirmassesthrowingupreflectedredcoloronthesteel
tohidethequietlycreepingrustuntilthefirstwinterstormsstruckandthegrown
krakencametothesurfacetofeed.Iwilltellyouwewatchedfromshorewhile
theshipsbrokeandfoundered,andtheteethofthekrakenshonelikefireopals
intheexplosions,andifwewept,weweptonlyforthesoiledocean.
Still more ships came, and more planes; the ceramic coatings arrived, and
moresoldierswithprotectedgunsandbombsandsprayedpoisons,tofendoff
thealteredmottiesandthelittlehybridsparrowlikebirds,theirsharpcognizant
eyes chemically retrained to see the Esperigan uniform colors as enemy
markings. We planted acids and more aggressive species of plants along their
supplylines,sotheircommunicationsremainedhopefulratherthanreliable,and
ambushedthematnight;theycarvedintotheforestwithaxesandpower-saws
andvaststrip-miners,whichgroundtoahaltandfelltopieces,chokingonvines
whichhardenedtothetensilestrengthofsteelastheymatured.
Contraryto claims whichwere raised at mytrial inabsentia and disproven
with communication logs, throughout this time I spoke to Kostas regularly. I
confusedhim,Ithink;Igavehimalltheintelligencewhichheneededtoconvey
totheEsperigans,thattheymightrespondtothenextMelidanforay,butIdid
notconcealmyfeelingsortheincreasingcomplicationofmyloyalties,objecting
to him bitterly and with personal anger about Esperigan attacks. I misled him
withhonesty:hethought,Ibelieve,thatIwasonlyspillinganaturalfrustration
tohim,andthroughthatairingclearingoutmyowndoubts.ButIhadonlylost
theartoflying.
There is a general increase of perception which comes with the wings, the
nervesteasedtoahigherpitchofawareness.Allthelittlefidgetsandtwitchesof
lyingbetraythemselvesmorereadily,soonlythemoretwistedformscanevade
detection—wherethespeakerfirstdeceivesherself,orthewhollycasualdeceit
ofthesociopathwhofeelsnoremorse.ThiswastherootoftheMelidandisgust
oftheact,andIhadacquiredit.
IfKostashadknown,hewouldatoncehaveremovedme:adiplomatisnot
muchuseifshecannotlieatneed,muchlessanagent.ButIdidnotvolunteer
theinformation,andindeedIdidnotrealize,atfirst,howfullyIhadabsorbed
thestricture.Ididnotrealizeatall,untilBadeacametome,threeyearsintothe
war. I was sitting alone and in the dark by the communications console, the
phosphorescentafter-imageofKostas’sfacefadingintothesurface.
She sat down beside me and said, “The Esperigans answer us too quickly.
Theirtechnologyadvancesinthesegreatleaps,andeverytimewepressthem
back,theyreturninlessthanamonthtoverynearlythesameposition.”
Ithought,atfirst,thatthiswasthemoment:thatshemeanttoaskmeabout
membershipintheConfederacy.Ifeltnosenseofsatisfaction,onlyawearykind
ofresignation.Thewarwouldend,theEsperiganswouldfollow,andinafew
generations they would both be eaten up by bureaucracy and standards and
immigration.
InsteadBadealookedatmeandsaid,“Areyourpeoplehelpingthem,also?”
My denial ought to have come without thought, leapt easily off the tongue
with all the conviction duty could give it, and been followed by invitation.
Instead I said nothing, my throat closed involuntarily. We sat silently in the
darkness,andatlastshesaid,“Willyoutellmewhy?”
I felt at the time I could do no more harm, and perhaps some good, by
honesty.Itoldheralltherationale,andexpressedallourwillingnesstoreceive
themintoourunionasequals.Iwentsofarastoofferhertheplatitudeswith
which we convince ourselves we are justified in our slow gentle imperialism:
thatunificationisnecessaryandadvancesalltogether,bringingpeace.
Sheonlyshookherheadandlookedawayfromme.Afteramoment,shesaid,
“Yourpeoplewillneverstop.Whateverwedevise,theywillhelptheEsperigans
to a counter, and if the Esperigans devise some weapon we cannot defend
ourselves against, they will help us, and we will batter each other into limp
exhaustion,untilintheendweallfall.”
“Yes,”Isaid,becauseitwastrue.IamnotsureIwasstillabletolie,butin
anycaseIdidnotknow,andIdidnotlie.
IwasnotpermittedtocommunicatewithKostasagainuntiltheywereready.
Thirty-sixoftheMelidans’greatestdesignersandscientistsdiedintheeffort.I
learned of their deaths in bits and pieces. They worked in isolated and
quarantinedspaces,theireveryactionrecordedevenasthevirusesandbacteria
theyweredevelopingkilledthem.Itwasalittlemorethanthreemonthsbefore
Badeacametomeagain.
We had not spoken since the night she had learned the duplicity of the
Confederacy’s support and my own. I could not ask her forgiveness, and she
couldnotgiveit.Shedidnotcomeforreconciliationbuttosendamessageto
theEsperigansandtotheConfederacythroughme.
Ididnotcomprehendatfirst.ButwhenIdid,Iknewenoughtobesureshe
wasneitherlyingnormistaken,andtobesurethethreatwasveryreal.Thesame
wasnottrueofKostas,andstilllessoftheEsperigans.Myfranticattemptsto
persuadethemworkedinsteadtothecontraryend.Thelonggapsincemylast
communiquemadeKostassuspicious:hethoughtmeaconvert,orgenerouslya
manipulatedtool.
“Iftheyhadthecapability,theywouldhaveuseditalready,”hesaid,andifI
couldnotconvincehim,theEsperiganswouldneverbelieve.
IaskedBadeatomakeademonstration.Therewasalargeislandbrokenoff
the southern coast of the Esperigan continent, thoroughly settled and
industrialized,withtwosubstantialportcities.Sixtymilesseparateditfromthe
mainland.IproposedtheMelidansshouldbeginthere,wheretheattackmightbe
contained.
“No,”Badeasaid.“Soyourscientistscandevelopacounter?No.Wearedone
withexchanges.”
Therestyouknow.AthousandcoraclesleftMelidanshoresthenextmorning,
andbysundownonthethirdfollowingday,theEsperigancitieswerecrumbling.
Refugeesfledthegroaningskyscrapersastheyslowlybowedundertheirown
weight.Thetreesdied;thecropsalso,andthecattle,allthelifeandvegetation
that had been imported from Earth and square-peg forced into the new world
strippedbarefortheirconvenience.
Meanwhileinthecrowdedsheltersthevirusesleapteasilyfromonevictimto
another,rewritingtheirgeneticlines.Wherethechangestookhold,thealtered
survived. The others fell to the same deadly plagues that consumed all Earth-
native life. The native Melidan moss crept in a swift green carpet over the
corpses,andthebeetle-hordeswithit.
Icangiveyounofirst-handaccountofthosedays.Itoolayfeveredandsick
whilethealterationranitscourseinme,thoughIwastendedbetter,andwith
morecare,bymysisters.WhenIwasstrongenoughtorise,thewavesofdeath
wereover.MywingscurledlimplyovermyshouldersasIwalkedthroughthe
emptystreetsofLandfall,pavementstonespiercedandbrokenbyhungryvines,
likebonescrackedopenformarrow.Themosscoveredthedead,whofilledthe
shatteredstreets.
The squat embassy building had mostly crumpled down on one corner,
smashedwindowsgaping hollowand black.A largepavilionof simplecotton
fabric had been raised in the courtyard, to serve as both hospital and
headquarters. A young undersecretary of state was the senior diplomat
remaining.Kostashaddiedearly,hetoldme.Otherswerestillintheprocessof
dying, their bodies waging an internal war that left them twisted by hideous
deformities.
Lessthanoneinthirty,washisestimateofthesurvivors.Imagineyourselfon
an air-train in a crush, and then imagine yourself suddenly alone but for one
other passenger across the room, a stranger staring at you. Badea called it a
sustainablepopulation.
TheMelidansclearedthespaceportofvegetation,thoughlittlenowwasleft
but the black-scorched landing pad, Confederacy manufacture, all of woven
carbonandtitanium.
“Thosewhowishmayleave,”Badeasaid.“Wewillhelptherest.”
Most of the survivors chose to remain. They looked at their faces in the
mirror,fleckedwithgreen,andfearedtheMelidanslessthantheirwelcomeon
anotherworld.
Ileftbythefirstsmallshipthatdaredcomedowntotakeoffrefugees,withno
attentionto the destination or theduration of the voyage. I wished only to be
away. Thewingswere easily removed.Aquick andpainfulamputationof the
gossamerandfretworkwhichprotrudedfromtheflesh,andtherestmightbeleft
for the body to absorb slowly. The strange muffled quality of the world, the
sensationofnumbness,passedeventually.Thetwoscarsuponmyback,parallel
lines,Iwillkeeptherestofmydays.
AFTERWORD
I spoke with Badea once more before I left. She came to ask me why I was
going,towhatendIthoughtIwent.Shewouldbeperplexed,Ithink,toseeme
inmylittlecottagehereonReivaldt,somehundredmilesfromthenearestcity,
although she would have liked the small flowerlike lieden which live on the
rocksofmygardenwall,oneofthefewremnantsofthelostnativefaunawhich
havesurvivedtheterraformingoutsidethepreservesoftheuniversitysystem.
I left because I could not remain. Every step I took on Melida, I felt dead
bonescrackingbeneathmyfeet.TheMelidansdidnotkilllightly,anindividual
oranecosystem,noranymoreeffectuallythandowe.IftheMelidanshadnotlet
the plague loose upon the Esperigans, we would have destroyed them soon
enoughourselves,andtheMelidanswiththem.Butwedistanceourselvesbetter
from our murders, and so are not prepared to confront them. My wings
whisperedtomegentlywhenIpassedMelidansinthegreen-swathedcemetery
streets,thattheywerenotsickened,werenotmiserable.Therewassorrowand
regretbutnoself-loathing,whereIhadnothingelse.Iwasalone.
WhenIcame offmysmallvessel here,Icame fullyexpectingpunishment,
even longing for it, a judgment which would at least be an end. Blame had
wanderedthroughthehallsofstatelikeanunwantedchild,butwhenIproved
willingtoadoptwhatevershareanyonecaredtometeouttome,toconfessany
crimewhichwasconvenientandtoproffernodefense,itturnedcontrary,and
fled.
Time enough has passed that I can be grateful now to the politicians who
sparedmylifeandgavemewhatpassesformyfreedom.Inthemoment,Icould
scarcelyfeelenougheventobehappythatmyreportcontributedsomelittleto
theabandonmentofanyreprisalagainstMelida:asthoughweoughtholdthem
responsible for defying our expectations not of their willingness to kill one
another,butonlyoftheextentoftheirability.
But time does not heal all wounds. I am often asked by visitors whether I
wouldever returnto Melida.I willnot. I amdone withpolitics andthe great
concernsof theuniverseofhumansettlement.Iamcontenttositinmysmall
garden,andwatchtheantsatwork.
RuthPatrona
ThePeacockCloak
CHRISBECKETT
British writer Chris Beckett is one of Interzone’s most frequent
contributors,havingsoldmorethantwelvestoriesthere,buthe’s
also made several sales to Asimov’s Science Fiction and
elsewhere. His novels include The Holy Machine and Marcher.
HisshortfictionhasbeencollectedinTheTuringTest.Aformer
socialworker,he’snowauniversitylecturerlivinginCambridge,
England.
Beckettusuallywritesaboutnear-futureEngland,butherehe
moves effectively into Roger Zelazny territory, with
superpowered individuals facing off in a virtual reality world
created by one of them, with the fate of the entire universe
hanginginthebalance.
Uptothatmomentnothingmuchhadbeenmovinginthatmountainvalleyapart
fromgrasshoppersandbees,andthestreamplayingpeacefullybyitselfoverits
stony bed. Then Tawus was there in his famous cloak, its bright fabric still
fizzingandsparkingfromtheprodigiousleap,itshundredeyes,black,greenand
gold, restlessly assaying the scene. Tawus had arrived, and, as always,
everythingelsewasdimmedanddiminishedbyhispresence.
“This world was well made,” Tawus said to himself with his accustomed
mixtureofjealousyandpride.
Hesavouredthescentoflavenderandthyme,thecreakingofgrasshoppers,
thegurglingofthestream.
“Everydetailworks,”hesaid,noticingafatbumblebee,spatteredwithyellow
pollen,launchingherselfintoflightfromapinkcistusflower.Passingthesmall
hard object he carried in his left hand to his right, Tawus stooped to take the
flower stem between his left forefinger and thumb. “Every molecule, every
speckofdust.”
Butthen,painfullyandvividly,andinawaythathadnothappenedforsome
time,hewasremindedoftheearlydays,thebeginning,when,onthefarsideof
this universe, he and the Six awoke and found themselves in another garden
wildernesslikethisone,ringedaboutbymountains.
Backthenthingshadfeltverydifferent.TawushadknownwhatFabbroknew,
hadfeltwhatFabbrofelt.HispurposeshadbeenFabbro’spurposes,andallhis
memorieswerefromFabbro’sworld,aworldwithinwhichthecreateduniverse
ofEsperinewaslikeachild’splaything,ascenecarvedintoanivoryball(albeit
carvedsoexquisitelythatitstreescouldswayinthewindandlosetheirleavesin
autumn,itscreaturesliveanddie).Ofcoursehehadknownquitewellhewasa
copyofFabbroandnotFabbrohimself,buthewasanexactcopy,downtothe
smallestparticle,thesmallestthought,identicalineverywayexceptthathehad
beenrenderedinthestuffofEsperine,sothathecouldinhabitFabbro’screation
onFabbro’sbehalf.HewasacreationasEsperinewas,buthecouldremember
creatinghimself,justashecouldremembercreatingEsperine,insidethedevice
that Fabbro called Constructive Thought. Back then, Tawus had thought of
Fabbronotas“he”and“him”butas“I”and“me.”
Andhowbeautifulthisworldhadseemedthen,howsimple,howunsullied,
howfullofopportunities,howfreeofthetiesandregretsandcomplicationsthat
hadhemmedinthelifeofFabbrointheworldoutside.
Tawusreleased thepinkflower,let it springbackamong itshundredbright
fellows,andstoodupstraight,returningthesmallobjectfromhisrighthandto
his dominant left. Then, with his quick grey eyes, he glanced back down the
path,and upattherockyridgesoneitherside.Thepeacockeyeslooked with
him,samplingeverypartofthevisibleandinvisiblespectrum.
“No,Tawus,youarenotobserved,”whisperedthecloak,usingthesilentcode
withwhichitspoketohimthroughhisskin.
“Notobserved,perhaps,”saidTawus,“butcertainlyexpected.”
Nowheturnedsouthwards,towardstheheadofthevalley,andbegantowalk.
Hisstrideswerequickanddeterminedbuthisthoughtslessso.Thegentlescents
and sounds of the mountain valley continued to stir up vivid and troubling
memoriesfromtheotherendoftime.HerecalledwatchingtheSixwakeup,his
threebrothersandthreesisters.TheywerealsomadeinthelikenessofFabbro
buttheywere,sotospeak,reflectionsofhiminmirrorswithcurvedsurfacesor
colouredglass,sothattheyweredifferentfromtheoriginalandfromeachother.
Tawusrememberedtheireyesopening—hisbrotherBalthazarfirstandthenhis
sister Cassandra—and he remembered their spreading smiles as they looked
around and simultaneously saw and remembered where they were, in this
exquisite,benignandyettobeexploredworld,releasedforeverfromthecares
andcomplicationsofFabbro’slifeandfromthebalefulhistoryofthevastand
vacantuniverseinwhichFabbrowasborn.
Theyhadbeenstrangelyshyofeachotheratfirst,eventhoughtheysharedthe
samememories,thesamehistoryandthesamesoleparent.Thethreesistersin
particular,inspiteofFabbro’sandrogynousandproteannature,feltexposedand
uneasyintheirunfamiliarbodies.Buteventhemenwereuncomfortableintheir
newskins.Allsevenweretryingtodecidewhotheywere.Ithadbeenakindof
adolescence.Allhadfeltawkward,allhadbeenabsurdlyoptimisticaboutwhat
theycouldachieve.Theyhadmadeapactwitheachother,forinstance,thatthey
wouldalwaysworktogetherandtakedecisionsasagroup.
“Thatdidn’tlastlong,”Tawusnowwrylyobserved,andthenheremembered,
with a momentary excruciating pang, the fate of Cassandra, his proud and
stubbornsister.
Butthey’d believedin theiragreement at thetime, and,having made it, all
Sevenhadstriddenout,laughingandtalkingallatonce,underawarmsunnot
unlikethisone,andonapathnotunliketheonehewaswalkingnow,dressedso
splendidlyinhisPeacockCloak.Hehadnosuchcloakbackthen.Theyhadbeen
nakedgods.Theyhadbeguntowrapthemselvesuponlyastheymovedapart
from one another: Cassandra in her Mirror Mantle, Jabreel in his Armour of
Light,BalthazarinhisCoatofDreams…ButthePeacockCloakhadbeenfinest
ofall.
“Ihearmusic,”thecloaknowwhisperedtohim.
Tawusstoppedandlistened.Hecouldonlyhearthestream,thegrasshoppers
andthebees.Heshrugged.
“Hospitableofhim,tolayonmusictogreetus.”
“Justapeasantflute.Afluteandgoatbells.”
“Probably shepherds up in the hills somewhere,” said Tawus, resuming his
stride.
Herememberedhow the seven of them cametotheirfirsthumanvillage,a
villagewhosehundredsimplepeopleimaginedthattheyhadalwayslivedthere,
tending their cattle and their sheep, and had no inkling that only a few hours
before,theyandtheirmemorieshadbeenbroughtintobeingallatoncebytheir
creator Fabbro within the circuits of Constructive Thought, along with a
thousandsimilargroupsscatteredovertheplanetsofEsperine:thefinaltouch,
thefinaldetail,intheworldbuilder’sivoryball.
“Thesurpriseontheirfaces!”Tawusmurmuredtohimself,andsmiled.“To
seetheseseventallnakedfiguresstridingdownthroughtheirpastures.”
“You are tense,” observed his cloak. “You are distracting yourself with
thoughtsofthingselsewhereandlongago.”
“So I am,” agreed Tawus, in the same silent code. “I am not keen to think
aboutmydestination.”
Helookeddownattheobjecthecarriedinhishand,smoothandwhiteand
intricate, like a polished shell. It was a gun of sorts, a weapon of his own
devising.Itdidnotfirebulletsbutwasutterlydeadly,for,withinaconfinedarea,
itwascapable ofunravelling the lawsthat definedEsperineitself and,inthat
way,reducingformtopurechaos.
“Givemeapockettoputthisin,”Tawussaid.
Atoncethecloakmadeanopeningtoreceivethegun,andthensealeditself
againwhenTawushadwithdrawnhishand.
“Thecloakcanaimandshootforme,inanycase,”Tawussaidtohimself.
Andthecloak’seyeswinked,greenandgoldandblack.
***
Thevalley turned a corner. Therewas anoutcrop ofharder rock.As he came
roundit,Tawusheardthemusicthathiscloak,withitsfinelytunedsenses,had
detectedsomewayback:aflutedmelody,inexpertlyplayed,andanarrhythmic
janglingofcrudelymadebells.
Up ahead of him three young children were minding a flock of sheep and
goats, sheltering by a little patch of trees at a spot where a tributary brook
cascadedinto the mainstream. A girl of nine orten was playingpanpipes. In
front of her on a large stone, as if in the two-seat auditorium of a miniature
theatre,twosmallerchildrensatsidebyside:aboyoffiveorsoandalittlegirl
ofthree,cradlingalambthatlayacrossboththeirlaps.Thejanglingbellshung
fromthenecksofthegrazingbeasts.
Seeing Tawus, the girl laid down her pipes and the two smaller children
hastilysettheirlambontheground,stoodup,andmovedquicklytostandbeside
their sister with their hands in hers. All three stared at Tawus with wide
unsmilingeyes.Andthen,ashedrewnear,theyranforwardandkissedhishand,
firsttheoldergirl,thentheboy,andfinallythelittlethree-year-oldwhosebaby
lipsleftacoolpatchofmoistnessonhisskin.
“Yourfaceisfamiliartothem,”thecloaksilentlyobserved.“Theythinkthey
knowyoufrombefore.”
“Aswemightpredict,”saidTawus.“Butyoutheyhaveneverseen.”
The children were astounded by a fabric on which the patterns were in
constantmotion,andbytheanimatedpeacockeyes.Thesmallestchildreached
outagrubbyfingertotouchthemagicalcloth.
“No,Thomas!”hersisterscolded,slappingthechild’shandaway.“Leavethe
gentleman’scoatalone.”
“Noharm,”Tawussaidgruffly,pattingthetinygirlonthehead.
Andthecloakshookoffthefragmentsofsnotanddustthatthechild’sfingers
hadleftbehind.
Ten minutes later Tawus turned and looked back at them. They were little
morethandotsinthemountainlandscapebuthecouldseethattheywerestill
watching him, still standing and holding hands. Around them, unheeded, the
sheepgrazedwiththegoats.
Suddenly, Tawus was vividly reminded of three other children he had once
seen,aboutthesameagesasthese.Hehadhardlygiventhemathoughtatthe
time, but now he vividly remembered them: the younger two huddled against
their sister, all three staring with white faces as Tawus and his army rolled
throughtheirburningvillage,theirhomeinruinsbehindthem.Ithadbeenina
flatwaterycountrycalledMeadowLee.Fromhisvantagepointintheturretofa
tank, Tawus could see its verdant water meadows stretching away for miles.
Across the whole expanse of it were burning buildings and columns of dirty
smokethatweregraduallystainingthewideblueskyagloweringoilyyellow.
Whenwasthat?Tawuswondered.Onwhichoftheseveraldifferentoccasions
whenfightinghadcometoMeadowLee?Hethoughtithadbeenduringoneof
his early wars against his brother Balthazar. But then he wondered whether
perhapsithadbeenatalaterstagewhenhewasinanalliancewithBalthazar
againstJabreel?
“Neither,” said thePeacock Cloak. “Itwas in thewar all sixof you waged
againstCassandra,thattimeshebannedchromeextractioninherlands.”
***
“Don’t needlessly interfere. Offer guidance where necessary, head off obvious
problems,butotherwiseallowthingstotaketheirowncourse.”
It would be wrong to say these were Fabbro’s instructions to the Seven
becausehe had never spokento them. They weresimply his intentionswhich
theyallknewbecausehismemorieswerereplicatedintheirownminds.When
they encountered those first villagers, the Seven had greeted them, requested
foodandaplacetorestthatnight,andaskediftherewereanymatterstheycould
assist with. They did not try and impose their views, or change the villagers’
mindsabouthowtheworldworkedorhowtolivetheirlives.Thathadallcome
later,alongwiththewarsandtheempires.
“Butdidhereallythinkwecouldgoonlikethatforever?”Tawusnowangrily
asked. “What were we supposed to do all this time? Just wander around
indefinitely, advisingon a sore throat here, suggestingcrop rotation there,but
otherwisedoingnothingwiththisworldatall?”
The Seven had begun to be different from Fabbro from the moment they
awoke. And paradoxically it was Tawus, the one most completely alike to
Fabbro,whohadmovedmostquicklyawayfromFabbro’swishes.
“Wecan’tjustbegardenersofthisworld,”hehadtoldhisbrothersandsisters,
aftertheyhadvisitedadozensleepyvillages,“wecan’tjustbeshepherdsofits
people, watching them while they graze. We will go mad. We will turn into
dementedimbeciles.Weneedtobeabletobuildthings,playwithtechnology,
unlockthepossibilitiesthatweknowexistwithinthisparticularrealityframe.
We will need metals and fuels, and a society complex enough to extract and
refinethem.Wewillneedwaysofstoringandtransmittinginformation.There
willneedtobecities.Onatleastoneplanet,inatleastonecontinent,wewill
havetoorganiseastate.”
TheSixhadallhadreservationsatfirst,todifferentdegrees,andforslightly
differentreasons.
“Justgivemeasmallterritorythen,”Tawushadsaid,“apatchoflandwith
somepeoplein,toexperimentanddevelopmyideas.”
Inhisownlittlefiefdomhehadadoptedanewapproach,notsimplyadvising
but tempting and cajoling. He had made little labour-saving devices for his
people and then spoken to them of machines that would do all their work for
them.Hehadhelpedthemmakeboatsandthendescribedspaceshipsthatwould
makethemmastersofthestars.Hehadsowndissatisfactionintheirmindsand,
withintwoyears,hehadachievedgovernment, schools, metallurgy,sea-faring
andamilitia.Seeingwhathehadachieved,theSixhadfallenoveroneanother
tocatchup.
“How come they all followed me, if my path was so wrong?” Tawus now
asked.
“Theyhadnochoicebuttofollowyou,”observedthePeacockCloak,“ifthey
didn’twishtobealtogethereclipsed.”
“Which is another way of saying that my way was in the end inevitable,
because once it is chosen, all other ways become obsolete. To have obeyed
Fabbrowouldsimplyhavebeentopostponewhatwassoonerorlatergoingto
happen,ifnotledbyme,thenbyoneoftheothers,orevenbysomeleaderrising
upfromtheEsperinepeoplethemselves.”
Hethoughtbrieflyagainofthechildreninfrontoftheruinedhouse,butthen
heturnedanothercorner,andtherewashisdestinationaheadofhim.Itwasa
littleisland of domesticityamidst the benignwilderness of the valley, a small
cottagewithagardenandanorchardandafrontgate,standingbesidealake.
“He is outside,” said the Peacock Cloak, whose hundred eyes could see
throughmanydifferentkindsofobstacle.“Heisdownbesidethewater.”
***
Tawuscametothecottagegate.Itwasveryquiet.Hecouldhearthebeesgoing
backandforthfromthewildthymeflowers,thesplashofaduckalightingonthe
lake,thecloppingofawoodenwindchimeinanalmondtree.
Heraisedhishandtothelatch,thenlowereditagain.
“What’sthematterwithme?Whyhesitate?”
Clopclopwentthewindchimes.
“Itisalwaysbettertoact,”whisperedthecloakthroughhisskin,“that’swhat
youaskedmetoremindyou.”
Tawusnodded.Itwasalwaysbettertoactthantowastetimeagonising.Itwas
by acting that he had built a civilisation, summoned great cities into being,
driventhroughthetechnologicalchangesthathadtakenthisworldfromsleepy
ruralArcadiatointerplanetaryempires.Itwasbyactingthathehadprevailed
overhissixsiblings,evenwhenallsixwererangedagainsthim,foreachoneof
them had been encumbered by Fabbro with gifts or traits of character more
specialised than his own pure strength of will: mercy, imagination, doubt,
ambivalence,detachment,humility.
True,hehadcausedmuchdestructionandmiserybut,afterall,toactatallit
was necessary to be willing to destroy. If he ever had a moment of doubt, he
simplyremindedhimselfthatyoucouldn’ttakeasinglestepwithoutrunningthe
riskofcrushingsomesmallcreepingthing,toosmalltobeseen,goingaboutits
blamelesslife.Youcouldn’tbreathewithoutthepossibilityofsuckinginsome
tinyinnocentfromtheair.
“ThecityofXisrefusingtoacceptourauthority,”hisgeneralswouldsay.
“Then raze it to the ground as we warned we would,” he would answer
withoutamoment’sthought.Andthehundredeyeswoulddartthiswayandthat,
likeascoutingpartysentoutaheadofthebattalionsthatwerehisownthoughts,
lookingforopportunitiesinthenewsituationthathehadcreated,scopingouthis
nextmoveandthemoveafterthat.
There had been times when his generals had stood there open-mouthed,
astoundedbyhisruthlessness.Buttheydidnotquestionhim.Theyknewitwas
thestrengthofhiswillthatmadehimgreat,madehimsomethingmorethanthey
were.
“Butnow,”hesaidtohimselfbitterly,“Iseemtobehavingdifficultymaking
upmymindaboutagardengate.”
“Justact,”saidthecloak,ripplingagainsthisskininawaythatwasalmost
likelaughter.
Tawussmiled.Hewouldactonhisownaccountandnotoninstructionsfrom
hisclothes,butallthesameheliftedhishandtothelatchandthistimeopened
it.Hewasmovingforwardagain.Andtheeyesonhiscloakshoneinreadiness.
Inside the gate the path branched three ways: right to the cottage, with the
peaksofthevalley’swesternridgebehindit,straightaheadtothelittleorchard
and vegetable garden, left and eastward down to the small lake from which
flowedthestreamthathe’dbeenfollowing.Onthefarsideofthelakewasthe
ridgeofpeaksthatformedthevalley’seasternedge.Somesheepweregrazing
ontheirslopes.
Clopclopwentthewindchimes,andabeezippedbyhisearlikeatinyracing
caronatrack.
Tawuslookeddowntowardsthelake.
“Thereyouare,”hemurmured,spottingthesmallfigureatthewater’sedge
that the peacock eyes had already located, sitting on a log on a little beach,
lookingthroughbinocularsatthevariousducksandwaterbirdsoutonthelake.
“You know I’m here,” Tawus muttered angrily. “You know quite well I’m
here.”
“Indeed he does,” the cloak confirmed. “The tension in his shoulders is
unmistakeable.”
“Hejustwantstomakemetheonethatspeaksfirst,”Tawussaid.
So he did not speak. Instead, when there were only a few metres between
them,hestooped,pickedupastoneandlobbeditintothewaterovertheseated
figure’shead.
Theripplesspreadoutoverthelake.Amongsomereedsatthefarendofthe
littlebeach,aduckgavealowwarningquacktoitsfellows.Themanonthelog
turnedround.
“Tawus,” he exclaimed, laying down his field glasses and rising to his feet
withabroadsmileofwelcome,“Tawus,mydearfellow.It’sbeenaverylong
time.”
Thelikenessbetweenthetwoofthemwouldhavebeeninstantlyapparentto
anyobserver,evenfromadistance.Theyhadthesamelitheandballeticbearing,
thesamehighcheekbonesandaquilinenose,thesamethickmaneofgreyhair.
Butthemanbythewaterwassimplydressedinawhiteshirtandwhitebreeches,
while Tawus still wore his magnificent cloak with its shifting patterns and its
restless eyes. And Tawus stood stiffly while the other man, still smiling,
extendedhisarms,asifheexpectedTawustofallintohisembrace.
Tawusdidnotmoveorbend.
“You’veputitaboutthatyou’reFabbrohimself,”hesaid,“orsoI’veheard.”
Theothermannodded.
“Well,yes.Ofcoursethere’sasenseinwhichIamacopyofFabbroasyou
are,sincethisbodyisananalogueofthebodythatFabbrowasbornwith,rather
thanthebodyitself.ButtheoriginalFabbroceasedtoexist when Icameinto
being,somyhistoryandhishaveneverbranchedawayfromeachother,asyours
andhisdid,butarearrangedsequentiallyinasingleline,asinglestory.Soyes,
I’mFabbro.AllthatisleftofFabbroisme,andIhavefinallyenteredmyown
creation.Itseemedfitting,nowthatbothEsperineandIarecomingtoaclose.”
Tawus considered this for a moment. He had an impulse to ask about the
worldbeyondEsperine,thatvastandancientuniverseinwhichFabbrohadbeen
bornandgrownup.ForofcourseFabbro’swastheonlychildhoodthatTawus
couldremember,Fabbro’stheonlyyouth.Hewasnaturallycurioustoknowhow
thingshadchangedoutthereandtohearnewsofthepeoplefromFabbro’spast:
friends, collaborators, male and female lovers, children (actual biological
children:childrenofFabbro’sbodyandnotjusthismind).
“Aren’tthosememoriesadistraction?”thecloakaskedhimthroughhisskin.
“Isn’tthatstuffhisworryandnotyours?”
Tawusnodded.
“Yes,” he silently agreed, “and to ask about it would muddy the water. It
wouldconfusetheissueofworldsandtheirownership.”
HelookedFabbrointheface.
“You had no business coming into Esperine,” he told him. “We renounced
yourworldandyouinturngavethisworldtoustobeourown.You’venoright
to come barging back in here now, interfering, undermining my authority,
underminingtheauthorityoftheFive.”
(ItwasFivenow,notSix,becauseofCassandra’sannihilationintheChrome
Wars.)
Fabbrosmiled.
“Somemightsayyou’dunderminedeachother’sauthorityquitewellwithout
myhelp,withyourconstantwarring,andyourfaminesandyourplaguesandall
ofthat.”
“That’samatterforus,notyou.”
“Possiblyso,”saidFabbro.“Possiblyso.Butinmydefence,Ihavetriedto
keepoutofthewaysinceIarrivedinthisworld.”
“Youletitbeknownyouwerehere,though.Thatwasenough.”
Fabbrotippedhisheadfromsidetoside,weighingthisup.
“Enough?Doyoureallythinkso?Surelyformymerepresencetohavehadan
impact,therewouldhavehadtobesomethinginEsperinethatcouldbetouched
by it. There had to be a me-shaped hole, if you see what I mean. Otherwise,
wouldn’tIjustbesomeharmlessoldmanupinthemountains?”
Hesatdownonthelogagain
“Comeandsitwithme,Tawus.”Hepattedaspacebesidehim.“Thisismy
favouritespot,my grandstandseat. There’salways something happeninghere.
Day.Night.Evening.Morning.Sun.Rain.Alwayssomethingnewtosee.”
“Ifyou’recontentwithsheepandducks,”saidTawus,anddidnotsit.
Fabbrowatchedhim.Afterafewseconds,hesmiled.
“That’squiteacoatyou’vegotthere,”heobserved.
Manyofthepeacockeyesturnedtowardshim,questioningly.Othersglanced
with renewed vigour in every other direction, as if suspecting diversionary
tactics.
“I’ve heard,” Fabbro went on, “that it can protect you, make you invisible,
changeyourappearance,allowyoutoleapfromplanettoplanetwithoutgoing
throughthespaceinbetween.I’vebeentoldthatitcantellyouofdangers,and
draw your attention to things you might wish to know, and even give you
counsel,asperhapsit’sdoingnow.Thatissomecoat!”
“Heisseekingtorileyou,” the cloaksilentlywhispered.“Youaskedmeto
warnyouifhedidthis.”
“Don’tpatroniseme,Fabbro,”Tawussaid,“I am your copynotyourchild.
You know that to construct this cloak I simply needed to understand the
algorithmonwhichEsperineisfounded,andyouknowthatIdounderstandit
everybitaswellasyoudo.”
Fabbronodded.
“Yes,ofcourse.I’mjuststruckbythedifferentwaysinwhichwe’veusedthat
understanding. I used it to make a more benign world than my own, within
whichcountlesslivescouldforalimitedtimeunfoldandsavourtheirexistence.
Youusedittosetyourselfapartfromtherestofthiscreation,insulateyourself,
wrapyourselfupinyourownlittleworldofone.”
“Icouldeasilyhave madeanothercompleteworldasyoudid,asperfectas
Esperineineveryway.ButanyworldthatImadewouldnecessarilyexistwithin
thisrealityframe,yourframe,andthereforestillbeapartofEsperine,evenifits
equaloritssuperiorindesign.DoyoureallywonderthatIchoseinsteadtofind
awayofsettingmyselfapart?”
Fabbrodidnotanswer.Hegaveahalf-shrug,thenlookedoutatthelake.
“I’venotcomeheretoapologise,”Tawussaid.“Ihopeyouknowthat.Ihave
noregretsaboutmyrebellion.”
Fabbroturnedtowardshim.
“Oh,don’tworry, Iknow whyyou came.You cameto destroyme. Andof
courseitispossibletodestroymenowthatI’mhereinEsperine,justasitwas
possibleforyouandtheotherstodestroyyoursisterCassandrawhenshetriedto
placeabrakeonyourambitions.Inordertoachieveherdestructionyoufounda
wayoftemporarilymodifyingthatpartoftheoriginalalgorithmthatprotected
thesevenofyoufromphysicalharm.Iassumeyouhaveaweaponwithyounow
thatworksinthesameway.Iguessit’shiddensomewhereinthatcloak.”
“Butknowingitdoesn’thelphim,”whisperedthecloakthroughTawus’sskin.
Anotherduckhadalightedonthewater,smalleranddifferentlycolouredfrom
theonesthatwerealreadythere.(Ithadblackwingsandarussethead.)Fabbro
pickeduphisbinocularsandbrieflyobservedit,beforelayingthemdownagain,
andturningoncemoretohisrecalcitrantcreation.
“Bethatasitmay,”hesaid,“Icertainlywasn’tledtoexpectanapology.They
toldmethesixofyousetoutinthisdirectionarmedtotheteethandinagreat
fury.Youhadaformidablespacefleetwithyou,theysaid,andhugearmiesat
yourback.Theytoldmethatcloakofyourswasfairlyfizzingandsparkingwith
pent-upenergy.Theysaidthatitturnedalltheairaroundyouintoagiantlens,
so that you were greatly magnified and seemed to your followers to be a
colossusblazingwithfire,stridingoutinfrontofthemastheypouredthrough
theinterplanetarygates.”
Tawussnatchedastoneupfromthebeachandflungitoutoverthewater.
“Youareallowingyourselftobeputonthedefensive,”warnedthePeacock
Cloakthroughhisskin.“Butrememberthathehasnomorepowerthanyou.In
fact,hehas farless. Thanks toyour foresightin creating me,you aretheone
whoisprotected,nothim.And,unlikehim,youarearmed.”
TawusturnedtofaceFabbro.
“Youset usinside thisworld,” hesaid, “then turned away andleft usto it.
Andthatwasfine,thatwastheunderstandingfromthebeginning.Thatwasyour
choiceandours.Butnow,whenitsuitsyoubecauseyouaregrowingold,you
comewanderingintocriticisewhatwehaveachieved.Whatrightdoyouhave
todothat,Fabbro?Youwereabsentwhentheharddecisionswerebeingmade.
Howcanyouknowthatyouwouldhavedoneanythingdifferentyourself?”
“When have I criticised you? When have I claimed I would have done
somethingdifferent?”
Fabbrogaveashortlaugh.
“Think, Tawus, think. Stop indulging your anger and think for a moment
aboutthesituationwearein.HowcouldIsaythatIwouldhavedonesomething
different?WhatmeaningcouldsuchaclaimpossiblyhavewhenyouandIwere
oneandthesamepersonatthebeginningofallthis?”
“We began as one person, but we are not one person now. Origins are not
everything.”
Fabbrolookeddownathishands,largeandlong-fingeredasTawus’swere.
“No,”hesaid,“Iagree.Itmustbeso.Otherwisetherewouldonlyeverbeone
thing.”
“Youmadeyourchoice,”Tawussaid.“Youshouldhavestucktoitandstayed
outside.”
“Hencethearmies,hencethestridinglikeacolossusattheirhead,hencethe
plantoseekmeoutanddestroyme?”
FabbrolookedupatTawuswithanexpressionthatwashalfafrownandhalfa
smile.
“Yes,”Tawussaid.“Henceallthosethings.”
Fabbronodded.
“Butwherearethearmiesnow?”heasked.“Whereisthestridingcolossus?
Whereisthis“we”youspeakabout?Anawfullotoftheenergyhasdissipated,
hasitnot?Theneareryougottome,thefasteritallfellaway.They’veallcome
backtome,youknow,yourarmies,yourbrothers,yoursisters.Theyhaveall
cometomeandaskedtobecomepartofmeonceagain.”
SomeoftheeyesonthecloakglancedinquiringlyupwardsatTawus’sface,
others remained fixed on Fabbro, who had lifted his binoculars and was once
againlookingatbirdlifeoutonthelake.
“FirethegunandyouwillbeFabbro,”thePeacockCloaktolditsmaster.“You
willbetheonetowhomthearmiesandtheFivehaveallreturned.Yourapparent
isolation,yourapparentdiminishment,issimplyanartefactoftherebeingtwoof
youhere,tworivalversionsoftheoriginalFabbro.ButyouaretheoneIshield
andnothim.Youaretheonewiththeweapon.”
Fabbrolaiddownhisfieldglassesandturnedtowardsthemanwhostillstood
stifflyapartfromhim.
“ComeTawus,”hecoaxedgently,pattingthesurfaceofthelogbesidehim.
“Comeandsitdown.Iwon’tbite,Ipromise.It’salmosttheend,afterall.Surely
we’rebothtooold,andit’stoolateintheday,forustobeplayingthisgame?”
Tawus picked up another stone and flung it out into the lake. The ripples
spreadoverthesmoothsurface.Quackquackwenttheducksneartowhere it
fell,andoneofthemfluttereditswingsandhalf-flewafewyardsfurtheroff,
scrabblingatthesurfacewithitsfeet.
“Thearmiesareirrelevant,”Tawussaid.“TheFiveareirrelevant.Youknow
that. For these purposes they are simply fields of force twisting and turning
betweenyou and me.The important thing is not thatthey have comeback to
you.No.TheimportantthingisthatIhavenot.”
Fabbrowatchedhisfaceanddidnotspeak
“Imadetheirworldforthem,”Tawuswenton,beginningtopacerestlesslyup
anddown.“Igavethemprogress.Igavethemfreedom.Igavethemcitiesand
nations.Igavethemhope.Igavethemsomethingtobelieveinandsomewhere
togo.Youjustmadeashell.Youmadeaclockworktoy.Itwasme,throughmy
rebellion,thatturneditintoaworld.Whyelsedidtheyallfollowme?”
Helookedaroundforanotherstone,foundaparticularlybigone,andlobbed
itoutevenfurtheracrossthelake.Itsentawholeflockofduckssquawkinginto
theair.
“Pleasesitdown,Tawus.Iwouldreallylikeyoutositwithme.”
Tawusdidnotrespond.Fabbroshruggedandlookedaway.
“Whyexactlydoyouthinktheyfollowedyou?”heaskedafterashorttime.
“BecauseIwasinyourimagebutIwasn’tyou,”Tawusansweredatonce.“I
waslikeyou,butatthesametimeIwasoneofthem.BecauseIstoodupforthis
worldas aworld in itsown right,belonging tothose wholived init, and not
simplyasaplaythingofyours.”
Fabbronodded.
“WhichwaswhatIwantedyoutodo,”hesaid.
Thedaywasmovingintoevening.Theeasternridgeofpeaksacrossthewater
glowedgoldfromthesunthatwassettingoppositethemtothewest.
“Afterthesunsets,”Fabbrocalmlysaid,“theworldwillend.Everyonehas
comebacktome.It’stimethatyouandIbroughtthingstoaclose.”
Tawus was caught offguard. So littletime. It seemedhe had miscalculated
somewhat,nothavingthebenefitoftheOlympianviewthatFabbrohadenjoyed
until recently, looking in from outside of Constructive Thought. He had not
appreciatedthattheendwasquiteascloseasthat.
Buthewasnotgoingtoshowhissurprise.
“Isupposeyouaregoingtolectureme,”hesaid,“aboutthesufferingIcaused
withmywars.”
As he spoke he was gathering up stones from the beach, hastily, almost
urgently,asiftheyhadsomevitalpurpose.
“Isupposeyou’regoingtogoonaboutallthechildrenwhoseparentsItook
fromthem,”hesaid.
Hethrewa.stone.Splash.Quack.
“And the rapes that all sides perpetrated,” he said, throwing a stone again,
“andthetortures,”throwingyetanotherstone,“andthemassacres.”
Hehadrunoutofstones.HeturnedangrilytowardsFabbro.
“Isupposeyouwanttocastigatemeforturningskilledfarmersandhunters
and fishermen into passive workers in dreary city streets, spending their days
manufacturing things they didn’t understand, and their evenings staring at
imagesonscreensmanufacturedforthembysomeoneelse.”
Heturnedaway,shakinghishead,lookingaroundvaguelyformorestones.
“Iusedtothinkaboutyoulookinginfromoutside,”hesaid.“Whenwehad
wars,whenwewereindustrialisingandgettingpeopleofftheland,allofthose
difficulttimes.Iusedtoimagineyoujudgingme,cluckingyourtongue,shaking
your head. But you try and bring progress to a world without any adverse
consequencesforanyone.Youjusttryit.”
“Comeon,Tawus,”Fabbrobeggedhim.“Sitwithme.Youknowyou’renot
reallygoingto destroyme. You knowyou can’treally reverse thecourse that
thisworld,likeanyworld,musttake.Itisn’tonlyyourarmiesthathavefallen
awayfromyou,Tawus,itisyourownsteelywill.Ithasnopurposeanymore.”
Butthecloakofferedanotherpointofview.
“DestroyFabbroandyouwillbecomehim,”itsilentlywhispered.“Thenyou
canputbacktheclockitself.”
Tawus knew it was true. Without Fabbro to stop him, he could indeed
postponetheend, not forever,butfor severalmoregenerations.And hecould
rule Esperine during that time as he had never ruled before, with no Fabbro
outside,noonetolookinandjudgehim.Thecloakwasright.Hewouldbecome
Fabbro,hewouldbecomeFabbroandTawusbothatonce.Itwaspossible,and
whatwasmore,ithadbeenhisreasonforcominghereinthefirstplace.
HeglanceddownatFabbro.Helookedquicklyawayagainacrossthelake.
Tenwholesecondspassed.
ThenTawusreachedslowlyfortheclaspofthePeacockCloak.Hehesitated.
Heloweredhishand.Hereachedfortheclaspagain.Hisfingersweretrembling
because of the contradictory signals they were receiving from his brain, but
finallyheunfastenedthecloak,removingitslowlyanddeliberatelyatfirst,and
thensuddenlyflingingitawayfromhim,asifhefeareditmightgrabholdand
refusetolethimgo.Itsnaggedonabranchofasmalloaktreeandhungthere,
onecornertouching the stonyground.Still itsclevereyesdarted about,green
andgoldandblack.ItwaswatchingTawus,watchingFabbro.Asever, it was
observingeverything,analysingeverything,evaluatingoptionsandpossibilities.
Butyet,asissurelyproperinagarmenthangingfromatree,ithadnodirection
ofitsown,ithadnoseparatepurpose.
Acrossthelake,theeasternhillsshone.Thereweresheepuptheregrazing,
bathed in golden light that picked them out against the mountainside. But the
hillsonthewesternsidewerealsomakingtheirpresencefelt,fortheirshadows
werereachingoutlikelongfingersoverthetwosmallfiguresbythelake,one
standing, one seated on the log, neither one speaking. Without his cloak, in a
simplewhiteshirtandwhitebreeches,TawuslookedevenmorelikeFabbro.A
strangercouldnothavetoldthemapart.
Aflockofgeesecameflyinginfromadayofgrazinglowerdownthevalley.
They honked peaceably to one another as they splashed down on the softly
luminouswater.
“WhenIwaswalkinguphere,”Tawussaidatlast,“Imetthreechildren,and
theyremindedmeofsomeotherchildrenIsawonce,orglimpsedanyway,when
Iwasridingpastinatank.ItwasinthemiddleofawarandIdidn’tpaymuch
heedtothematthetime.Iwastoobusylisteningtoreportsandgivingorders.
Butforsomereasontheystuckinmymind.”
Hepickedupastone,tossedithalf-heartedlyoutintothelake.
“Their ruined home lay behind them,” he went on, “and in the ruins, most
probably,laytheburntcorpsesoftheirparents.Notthattheirparentswouldhave
beencombatantsoranything.Itwasjustthattheircountry,theirsleepylandof
Meadow Lee, had temporarily become the square on the chessboard that the
great game was focussed on, the place where the force fields happened to
intersect.Prettysoonthefocalpointwouldbesomewhereelseandthearmies
wouldmoveonfromMeadowLeeandforgetallaboutituntilthenexttime.But
thosechildrenwouldn’tforget,wouldthey?Notwhiletheystilllived.Thisday
wouldstainanddarkentheirentirelives,likethesmokedarkenedandstained
theirprettybluesky.Whatcouldbeworse,whenyouthinkaboutit,thanfilling
upasmallmindwithsuchhorrors?That,inaway,isalsocreatingaworld.Itis
creatingasmallbutperfecthell.”
He snatched up yet another stone, but, with a swift graceful movement,
FabbrohadjumpedupandgraspedTawus’swristtostophimthrowingit.
“Enough, Tawus, enough. The rebellion is over. The divisions you brought
about have all been healed. The killed and the killers. The tortured and the
torturers. The enslaved and the enslavers. All are reconciled. All have finally
comeback.”
“Everyonebutme.”
Tawusletthestonefalltotheground.Hiscreatorreleasedhishand,satdown
againonthelogandonceagainpattedthespacebesidehim.
Tawus looked at Fabbro, and at the log, and back at Fabbro again. And,
finally,hesatdown.
The two of them were completely in shadow now, had become shadows
themselves. The smooth surface of the lake still glowed with soft pinks and
blues,butthemanybirdsonitssurfacehadbecomeshadowstoo,warmliving
shadows, softly murmuring to one another in their various watery tongues,
suspended between the glowing lake and the glowing sky. And more shadow
was spreading up the hillside opposite, engulfing the sheep one after another,
takingthemfromgoldenprominencetopeacefulobscurity.Soononlythepeaks
stilldippedintothestreamofsunlightthatwaspouringhorizontallyfarabove
theheadsofthetwomen.
“Everyonebutyou,”Fabbromildlyagreed,reachingdownforhisbinoculars
oncemoresohecouldlookatsomeunusualduckorotherthathe’dnoticedout
onthewater.
Tawus glanced across at his PeacockCloak, dangling from its tree with the
gunstillhiddeninitspocket.Thattawdrything,hesuddenlythought.WhydidI
choosetohidemyselfinthat?Thecloakwasshimmeringandglittering,giving
offitsownlightintheshadow,anditseyeswerestillbrightlyshining,asifit
wasattemptingtobearivaltothoselastbrilliantraysofsunlight,ortooutglow
thesoftlyglowinglake.ItwasallthatwasleftofTawus’sempire,hiswill,his
power.
HeturnedtoFabbro.
“Don’tgetthewrongidea,”hebegan.“Idon’tinanywayregretwhat…”
Thenhebrokeoff.Hepassedhisstilltremblinghandoverhisface.
“I’msorry,Fabbro,”hesaidinacompletelydifferentvoice.“I’vemessedit
allup,haven’tI?I’vebeenafool.I’vespoiledeverything.”
FabbroloweredhisbinocularsandpattedTawusonthehand.
“Well,maybeyouhave.I’mnotsure.Butyou’requiteright,youknow,thatI
didjustcreateashell,anditwasyourrebellionthatmadeitaworld.Deepdown
Ialwaysknewthatrebellionwasnecessary.Imusthavedone,mustn’tI,since
whatever you did came from somewhere inside me? Rebellion was necessary.
I’djusthopedthatinEsperineitwouldsomehowtakeadifferentpath.”
Only the highest tips of the peaks were still shining gold. They were like
brightorangelightbulbs.Andthen,onebyone,theywentout.
Amaryllis
CARRIEVAUGHN
NewYorkTimesbestsellerCarrieVaughnistheauthorofawildly
popular series of novels detailing the adventures of Kitty
Norville,aradiopersonalitywhoalsohappenstobeawerewolf,
and who runs a late-night call-in radio advice show for
supernatural creatures. The Kitty books include Kitty and the
MidnightHour,KittyGoestoWashington,KittyTakesaHoliday,
KittyandtheSilverBullet,KittyandtheDeadMan’sHand,Kitty
Raises Hell, Kitty’s House of Horrors, and Kitty Goes to War.
Vaughn’s short work has appeared in Jim Baen’s Universe,
Asimov’s Science Fiction, Subterranean, Wild Cards: Inside
Straight,Warriors,SongsofLoveandDeath,RealmsofFantasy,
Paradox, Strange Horizons, Weird Tales, All-Star Zeppelin
Adventure Stories, and elsewhere. Her most recent books are
Voices of Dragons, her first venture into Young Adult territory,
andDiscord’s Apple, a fantasy. Coming up are the novels Steel
andAftertheGoldenAge;anewKittynovel,Kitty’sBigTrouble;
andacollectionofKittystories,Kitty’sGreatestHits.Shelivesin
Colorado.
Inthepowerful tale ofmultigenerationalfamilyrelations and
personalredemptionagainsttheoddsthatfollow,shepullsoffthe
difficult trick of managing to show a diminished, ecologically
distressednear-futurewithoutbeingbleakordespairingaboutit
—peopleareadaptingandgettingby,lifegoesonasbestitcan.
And if you lose your family, you can, with luck, make another
oneforyourself.
Ineverknewmymother, andIneverunderstoodwhyshedidwhatshedid.I
ought to be grateful that she was crazy enough to cut out her implant so she
could get pregnant. But it also meant she was crazy enough to hide the
pregnancyuntilterminationwasn’tanoption,knowingthewholetimethatshe’d
never get to keep the baby. That she’d lose everything. That her household
wouldloseeverythingbecauseofher.
Ineverunderstoodhowshecouldn’tcare.Iwonderedwhatherfamilythought
when they learned what she’d done, when their committee split up the
household,scatteredthem—brokethem,becauseofher.
DidshethinkIwasworthit?
***
Itwasallaboutquotas.
“They’reusingcagesupnorth,Iheard.Offshore,anchored,”Ninasaid.“Fifty
feet across—twice as much protein grown with half the resources, and we’d
neverhavetotouchthewildpopulationagain.Wecoulddoubleourquota.”
Ihadn’treallybeenlisteningtoher.Wewereresting,justforamoment;she
sat with me on the railing at the prow of Amaryllis and talked about her big
plans.
Windpulledthesailstautandthefiberglasshullcutthroughwaveswithouta
sound, we sailed so smooth. Garrett and Sun hauled up the nets behind us,
dragging in the catch. Amaryllis was elegant, a 30-foot sleek vessel with just
enoughcabinandcargospace—anantiquebutmorethanseaworthy.Shewasa
goodboat,withagoodcrew.Thebest.
“Marie—”Ninasaid,pleading.
Isighedandwokeup.“We’vebeenoverthis.Wecan’tjustdoubleourquota.”
“Butifwegotauthorization—”
“Don’t you think we’re doing all right as it is?” We had a good crew—we
were well fed and not exceeding our quotas; I thought we’d be best off not
screwingallthatup.Notmakingwaves,sotospeak.
Nina’sbigbrowneyesfilledwithtears—I’dsaidthewrongthing,becauseI
knewwhatshewasreallyafter,andthestatusquowasn’tit.
“That’sjustit,”shesaid.“We’vemetourquotasandkepteveryonehealthyfor
yearsnow.Ireallythinkweshouldtry.Wecanatleastask,can’twe?”
The truth was: No, I wasn’t sure we deserved it. I wasn’t sure that kind of
responsibility would be worth it. I didn’t want the prestige. Nina didn’t even
wanttheprestige—shejustwantedthebaby.
“It’soutofourhandsatanyrate,”Isaid,lookingawaybecauseIcouldn’tbear
theintensityofherexpression.
Pushingherselfofftherail,NinastompeddownAmaryllis’portsidetojoin
therestofthecrewhaulinginthecatch.Shewasn’toldenoughtowantababy.
Shewaslithe,fit,andgolden,runningbarefootonthedeck,sun-bleachedstreaks
gleaminginherbrownhair.Actually,no,shewasoldenough.She’dbeenwith
thehouseforsevenyears—shewastwenty,now.Ithadn’tseemedsolong.
“Whoa!”Suncalled.Therewasasplashandathudassomethinginthenet
kickedagainst thehull. He leaned over theside, the muscles along hisbroad,
copperybackflexingasheclungtoanetthatwasabouttoslidebackintothe
water.Nina,petitenexttohisstrongframe,reachedwithhim.Irandownand
grabbedthembythewaistbandsoftheirtrouserstoholdthemsteady.Thefourth
ofourcrew, Garrett,latchedaboathookintothenet.Togetherwehauledthe
catch onto the deck. We’d caught something big, heavy, and full of powerful
muscles.
Wehadacoupleofaggregators—largebuoysmadeofscrapsteelandwood—
anchored fifty miles or so off the coast. Schooling fish were attracted to the
aggregators,and we found thefish—mainly mackerel, sardines,sablefish, and
whiting.Anoccasionalsharkormarlinfounditswayintothenets,butthosewe
letgo;theywererareandoutsideourquotas.ThatwaswhatIexpectedtosee—
something unusually large thrashing among the slick silvery mass of smaller
fish.Thisthingwaslarge,yes,asbigasNina—nowonderithadalmostpulled
them over—but it wasn’t the right shape. Sleek and streamlined, a powerful
swimmer.Silveryliketherestofthecatch.
“Whatisit?”Ninaasked.
“Tuna,” I said, by process of elimination. I had never seen one in my life.
“Bluefin,Ithink.”
“Noone’scaughtabluefininthirtyyears,”Garrettsaid.Sweatwasdripping
ontohisfacedespitethebandannatyingbackhisshaggydarkhair.
I was entranced, looking at all that protein. I pressed my hand to the fish’s
flank,feelingitsmusclestwitch.“Maybethey’reback.”
We’d been catching the tuna’s food all along, after all. In the old days the
aggregatorsattractedasmanytunaasmackerel.Butnoonehadseenoneinso
long,everyoneassumedtheyweregone.
“Let’sputhimback,”Isaid,andtheothershelpedmeliftthenettotheside.It
tookallofus,andwhenwefinallygotthetunatoslideoverboard,welosthalf
thenet’scatchwithit,awaveofsilveryscalesglitteringastheyhitthewater.
Butthatwasokay:Bettertobeunderquotathanover.
Thetunasplasheditstailandracedaway.Wepackeduptherestofthecatch
andsetsailsforhome.
***
TheCaliforniancrewgottheirbannerlastseason,andflewitsredandgreen—
powerandfertility—fromthetopoftheboat’smastforalltosee.Elsieofthe
Californianwasduetogivebirthinamatterofweeks.Assoonasherpregnancy
wasconfirmed,shestoppedsailingandstayedinthehousehold,shelteredand
treasured. Loose hands resting atop mountainous belly, she would sometimes
come out to greet her household’s boat as it arrived. Nina would stare at her.
Elsiemight havebeen the first pregnant womanNina hadseen, as leastsince
survivingpubertyanddevelopingthoughtsofcarryingamountainousbellyof
herown.
Elsiewastherenow,aniconcastinbronzebeforethesettingsun,herbody
cantedslightlyagainsttheweightinherbelly,likeashipleaningawayfromthe
wind.
Wefurledthesailsandrowedtothepierbesidethescalehouse.Ninahung
overtheprow,lookingatElsie,whowaswavingatCalifornian’scaptain,onthe
deckoftheboat.Solidanddashing,everythingacaptainoughttobe,hewaved
backather.Theirboatwasalreadysecuredinitshomeslip,theircatchweighed,
everythingtidy.Ninasighedattheimageofaperfectlife,andnobodyyelledat
herfornothelping.Bestthingtodoinacaselikethiswasletherdreamuntilshe
grewoutofit.Mighttakedecades,butstill…
MyAmarylliscrewhandedcratesofftothedockhand,whoshiftedourcatch
to the scale house. Beyond that were the processing houses, where onshore
crews smoked, canned, and shipped the fish inland. The New Oceanside
community provided sixty percent of the protein for the whole region, which
wasourmarkofpride,ourreasonforexisting.Withinthecommunityitself,the
tensailingcrewswereproudestofall.Afishingcrewthatdiditsjobwelland
metitsquotaskeptthewholesystemrunningsmoothly.Iwasluckytoevenhave
theAmaryllisandbeapartofit.
Iclimbeduptothedockwithmyfolkaftersecuringtheboat,andsawthat
Anderswasthescalemasteronduty.Theweek’stripmightaswellhavebeenfor
nothing,then.
Thirty-five years ago, my mother ripped out her implant and broke up her
household.MightaswellhavebeenyesterdaytoamanlikeAnders.
Theoldmantookanail-bitingfortyminutestoweighourcatchandaddup
ournumbers,atwhichpointheannounced,“You’refiftypoundsoverquota.”
Quotasweretheonlywaytokeepthestockhealthy,topreventoverfishing,
shortages,andultimatelystarvation.Thecommitteebasedquotasonhowmuch
you needed, not how much you could catch. To exceed that—to pretend you
neededmorethanotherpeople—showedsomuchdisrespecttothecommittee,
thecommunity,tothefishingstock.
Mykneesweak,Ialmostsatdown.I’dgottenitexactlyright,IknewIhad.I
glared at him. Garrett and Sun, a pair of brawny sailors helpless before the
scalemasterinhisdullgraytunicofauthority,glaredathim.Somedaysfeltlike
nothingIdidwouldeverbeenough.I’dalwaysbetoofaronewayortheother
overthelineof“justright.”Mostdays,I’dacceptthescalemaster’sjudgment
and walk away, but today, after setting loose the tuna and a dozen pounds of
legitimatecatchwithit,itwastoomuch.
“You’rejoking,”Isaid.“Fiftypounds?”
“Really,” Anders said, marking the penalty on the chalkboard behind him
where all the crews could see it. “You ought to know better, an experienced
captainlikeyou.”
Hewouldn’tevenlookatme.Couldn’tlookmeintheeyewhiletellingmeI
wastrash.
“Whatdoyouwantmetodo,throwthesurplusoverboard?Wecaneatthose
fiftypounds.Thelivestockcaneatthosefiftypounds.”
“It’llgeteaten,don’tworry.Butit’sonyourrecord.”Thenhemarkeditonhis
clipboard,asifhethoughtwe’dcomealongandalterthepublicrecord.
“Mightaswellnotsailoutatallnextweek,eh?”Isaid.
Thescalemasterfrownedandturnedaway.Afifty-poundsurplus—ifiteven
existed—wouldgotomakeupanothercrew’sshortfall,andnextweekourcatch
wouldbeneededjustasmuchasithadbeenthisweek,howeverlittlesomefolk
wanted to admit it. We could get our quota raised like Nina wanted, and we
wouldn’t have to worry about surpluses at all. No, then we’d worry about
shortfalls,andnotearningcreditstofeedthemouthswehad,muchlesstheextra
oneNinawanted.
Surplusesmustbepenalized,oreveryonewouldgofishingforsurplusesand
having spare babies, and then where would we be? Too many mouths, not
enoughfood,noresiliencytosurvivedisaster,andallthediseaseandstarvation
thatfollowed.I’dseenthepicturesinthearchives,ofwhathappenedafterthe
bigfall.
Justenoughandnomore.Moderation.ButsohelpmeIwasn’tgoingtodump
fiftypoundsjusttokeepmyrecordclean.
“We’redonehere.Thankyou,CaptainMarie,”Anderssaid,hisbacktome,
likehecouldn’tstandthesightofme.
Whenweleft,IfoundNinaatthedoorway,staring.Ipushedherinfrontof
me,backtotheboat,sowecouldputAmaryllistobedforthenight.
“TheAmaryllis’scalesaren’tthatfaroff,”Garrettgrumbledaswerowedto
herslip.“Tenpounds,maybe.Notfifty.”
“Andershadhisfootonthepad,throwingitoff.I’dbetonit,”Sunsaid.“Ever
noticehowwe’reonlyeveroffwhenAndersisrunningthescales?”
We’dallnoticed.
“Isthattrue?Butwhywouldhedothat?”saidNina,innocentNina.
Everyonelookedatme.Aweightseemedtosettleonus.
“What?”Ninasaid.“Whatisit?”
Itwasthekindofthingnoonetalkedabout,andNinawastooyoungtohave
grown up knowing. The others had all known what they were getting into,
signingonwithme.ButnotNina.
Ishookmyheadatthem.“We’llneverprovethatAndershasitinforusso
there’snogoodarguing.We’lltakeourlicksandthat’stheendofit.”
Sunsaid,“Toomanyblackmarkslikethatthey’llbreakupthehouse.”
Thatwastheworry,wasn’tit?
“Howmanyblackmarks?”Ninasaid.“Hecan’tdothat.Canhe?”
Garrettsmiledandtriedtotaketheweightoff.Hewasthefirsttosignonwith
mewhenIinheritedtheboat.We’dbeenthroughalottogether.“We’lljusthave
tofindoutAnders’scheduleandmakesurewecomeinwhensomeoneelseison
duty.”
But most of the time there were no schedules—just whoever was on duty
whenaboatcamein.Iwouldn’tbesurprisedtolearnthatAnderskeptawatch
forus,justtobeheretorigourweigh-in.
Amaryllis glided into her slip, and I let Garrett and Sun secure the lines. I
leanedbackagainsttheside,stretchingmyarms,staringupalongthemast.Nina
sat nearby, clenching her hands, her lips. Elsie and Californian’s captain had
gone.
Igaveher apainedsmile.“You mighthavea better chanceofgetting your
extramouthifyouwenttoadifferentcrew.TheCalifornian,maybe.”
“Areyoutryingtogetridofme?”Ninasaid.
Sittingup,Iputmyarmsacrosshershouldersandpulledherclose.Ninacame
tomeaclumsythirteen-yearoldfromBernardino,upthecoast.Myhousehold
hadaspaceforher,andIwashappytogether.She’dgrownupsmartandeager.
ShecouldtakemyplacewhenIretired,inheritAmaryllisinherturn.NotthatI’d
toldherthatyet.
“Never.Neverever.”Sheonlyhesitatedamomentbeforewrappingherarms
aroundmeandsqueezingback.
***
Ourhouseholdwasanoasis.We’dworkedhardtomakeitso.I’dinheritedthe
boat,attractedthecrewonebyone—GarrettandSuntoruntheboat,roundand
bustling Dakota to run the house, and she brought the talented J.J., and we
fosteredNina.We’dbeenassignedfishingrights,andthenweearnedtheland
allocation.Tenyearsofgrowing,working,sweating,nurturing,living,andthe
placewasgorgeous.
We’ddugintothesideofahillabovethedocksandbuiltwithadobe.Inthe
afternoonsun,the walls gleamedgolden.The part ofthehouse projectingout
from the hill served as a wall protecting the garden and well. Our path led
around the house and into the courtyard. We’d found flat shale to use as
flagstones around the cultivated plots, and to line the well, turning it into a
spring.Atinyspring,butanyopenfreshwaterseemedlikealuxury.Onthehill
abovewerethewindmillandsolarpanels.
Everyone who wanted their own room had one, but only Sun did—the
detached room dug into the hill across the yard. Dakota, J.J., and Nina had
palletsinthelargestroom.GarrettandIsharedabedinthesmallerroom.What
wasn’thousewasgarden.Wehadproducingfruittrees,anorangeandalemon,
that also shaded the kitchen space. Corn, tomatoes, sunflowers, green beans,
peas,carrots,radishes,twokindsofpeppers,andanythingelsewecouldmake
growonafewsquarefeet.Apotfullofmintandoneofbasil.Forthemostpart
we fed ourselves and so could use our credits on improving Amaryllis and
bringinginspecialtieslikericeandhoney,orfabricandropethatwecouldn’t
makeinquantity.Dakotawantedtostartchickensnextseason,ifwecouldtrade
forthechicks.
IkeptwantingtothrowthatinthefaceofpeoplelikeAnders.Itwasn’tlikeI
didn’tpayattention.Iwasn’taburden.
Thecrewarrivedhome;J.J.hadsupperready.DakotaandJ.J.hadstartedout
splittinghouseholdworkevenly,butprettyquicklytheyweretradingchores—
turningcompostversushanginglaundry,mendingthewindmillversuscleaning
the kitchen—until J.J. did most everything involving the kitchen and living
spacesandDakotadideverythingwiththegardenandmechanics.
By J.J.‘s sympathetic expression when he gave me my serving—smoked
mackerelandvegetablestonight—someonehadalreadytoldhimabouttherun-
inwiththescalemaster.ProbablytokeephimorDakotafromaskinghowmy
daywent.
I stayed out later than usual making a round of the holding. Not that I
expectedtofindanythingwrong.Itwasformyownpeaceofmind,lookingat
what we’d built with my own eyes, putting my hand on the trunk of the
windmill,runningtheleavesofthelemontreeacrossmypalms,ensuringthat
noneofithadvanished,thatitwasn’tgoingto.Ithadbecomearitual.
InbedIheldtighttoGarrett,togiveandgetcomfort,skinagainstskin,under
the sheet, under the warm air coming in through the open skylight above our
bed.
“Badday?”hesaid.
“Canneverbeabaddaywhentheshipandcrewcomehomesafe,”Isaid.But
myvoicewasflat.
Garrettshifted,runningahanddownmyback,arranginghisarmstopullme
tightagainsthim.Ourlegstwinedtogether.Mynervessettled.
Hesaid,“Nina’sright,wecandomore.Wecansupportanextramouth.Ifwe
appealed—”
“Youreallythinkthat’lldoanygood?”Isaid.“Ithinkyou’dallbebetteroff
withadifferentcaptain.”
He tilted his face toward mine, touched my lips with his, pressed until I
responded.Aminuteofthatandwewerebothsmiling.
“Youknowweallendedupherebecausewedon’tgetalongwithanyoneelse.
Butyoumaketherestofuslookgood.”
Isquirmedagainsthiminmockoutrage,giggling.
“Plentyofcrews—plentyofhouseholds—don’tevergetbabies,”hesaid.“It
doesn’tmeananything.”
“Idon’tcareaboutababysomuch,”Isaid.“I’mjusttiredoffightingallthe
time.”
Itwas normal for childrento fight withtheir parents, their households, and
eventheircommitteesastheygrew.Butitwasn’tfair,formetofeellikeIwas
stillfightingwithamotherI’dneverknown.
***
Thenextday,whenNinaandIwentdowntodosomecleaningonAmaryllis,I
triedtoconvincemyselfitwasmyimaginationthatshewasavoidingme.Not
lookingatme.Orpretendingnottolook,wheninfactshewasstealingglances.
The way she avoided meeting my gaze made my skin crawl a little. She’d
decidedsomething.Shehadasecret.
WecaughtsightofElsieagain,walkingupfromthedocks,ahundredyards
away,buthersilhouettewasunmistakable.ThatdistractedNina,whostoppedto
stare.
“Isshereallythatinteresting?”Isaid,smiling,tryingtomakeitajoke.
Nina looked at me sideways, as if deciding whether she should talk to me.
Thenshesighed.“Iwonderwhatit’slike.Don’tyouwonderwhatit’slike?”
Ithoughtaboutitamomentandmostlyfeltfearratherthaninterest.Allthe
thingsthatcouldgo wrong, evenwithabanner of approvalflyingabove you.
Ninawouldn’tunderstandthat.“Notreally.”
“Marie,howcanyoubeso…soindifferent?”
“BecauseI’mnotgoingtospendtheeffortworryingaboutsomethingIcan’t
change. Besides, I’d much rather be captain of a boat than stuck on shore,
watching.”
Imarchedpasthertotheboat,andshefollowed,headbowed.
Wewashedthedeck,checkedthelines,cleanedoutthecabin,tookinventory,
and made a stack of gear that needed to be repaired. We’d take it home and
spendthenextfewdaysworkingonitbeforewewenttoseaagain.Ninawas
quietmost of the morning, and I kept glancing at her, headbent to her work,
bitingher lip,wondering what she was thinkingon so intently. Whatshe was
hiding.
Turnedoutshewasworkingupthecourage.
Ihandedthelastbundleofnettoher,thenwentbacktodoublecheckthatthe
hatcheswereclosedandthe cabinwasshutup. When Iwenttoclimb offthe
boatmyself,shewassittingattheedgeofthedock,herlegshangingoverthe
edge,swingingalittle.Shelookedtenyearsyounger,likeshewasakidagain,
likeshehadwhenIfirstsawher.
Iregardedher,browsraised,questioning,untilfinallyshesaid,“IaskedSun
whyAndersdoesn’tlikeyou.Whynoneofthecaptainstalktoyoumuch.”
So that was what had happened. Sun—matter-of-fact and sensible—would
havetoldherwithoutanycircumspection.AndNinahadbeenhorrified.
Smiling,Isatonthegunwaleinfrontofher. “I’dhavethoughtyou’dbeen
herelongenoughtofigureitoutonyourown.”
“Iknewsomethinghadhappened,butIcouldn’timaginewhat.Certainlynot
—Imean,nooneevertalksaboutit.But…whathappenedtoyourmother?Her
household?”
Ishrugged,becauseitwasn’tlikeIrememberedanyofit.I’dpiecedthestory
together,madesomeassumptions.Wastoldwhathappenedbypeoplewhomade
theirownassumptions.Whowantedmetounderstandexactlywhatmyplacein
theworldwas.
“Theywerescatteredoverthewholeregion,Ithink.Tenofthem—itwasa
bighousehold,successful,untilIcamealong.Idon’tknowwherealltheyended
up.IwasbroughttoNewOceanside,raisedupbythefirstAmarylliscrew.Then
ZekeandAnnretired,tookuppottery,wentdownthecoast,andgaveme the
shiptostartmyownhousehold.Happyending.”
“Andyourmother—theysterilizedher?Afteryouwereborn,Imean.”
“Iassumeso.LikeIsaid,Idon’treallyknow.”
“Doyousupposeshethoughtitwasworthit?”
“Iimagineshedidn’t,”Isaid.“Ifshewantedababy,shedidn’tgetone,did
she?Butmaybeshejustwantedtobepregnantforalittlewhile.”
Nina looked so thoughtful, swinging her feet, staring at the rippling water
whereitlappedagainstthehull,shemademenervous.Ihadtosaysomething.
“You’dbetternotbethinkingofpullingsomethinglikethat,”Isaid.“They’d
splitusup,takethehouse,takeAmaryllis—”
“Ohno,”Ninasaid,shakingherheadquickly,herdenialvehement.“Iwould
neverdothat,I’dneverdoanythinglikethat.”
“Good,”Isaid,relieved.Itrustedheranddidn’tthinkshewould.Thenagain,
mymother’shouseholdprobablythoughtthatabouthertoo.Ihoppedovertothe
dock.Wecollectedupthegear,slingingbagsandbucketsoverourshouldersand
startingthehikeuptothehouse.
Halfwaythere,Ninasaid,“Youdon’tthinkwe’llevergetabanner,becauseof
yourmother.That’swhatyouweretryingtotellme.”
“Yeah.”Ikeptmybreathingsteady,concentratingontheworkathand.
“Butitdoesn’tchangewhoyouare.Whatyoudo.”
“Theoldfolkstilltakeitoutonme.”
“It’snotfair,”shesaid.Shewastoooldtobesayingthingslikethat.Butat
leastnowshe’dknow,andshecouldbetterdecideifshewantedtofindanother
household.
“Ifyouwanttoleave,I’llunderstand,”Isaid.“Anyhousewouldbehappyto
takeyou.”
“No,”shesaid.“No,I’llstay.Noneofit—itdoesn’tchangewhoyouare.”
Icouldhavedroppedeverythingandhuggedherforthat.Wewalkedawhile
longer,untilwecameinsightofthehouse.ThenIasked,“Youhavesomeonein
mindtobethefather?Hypothetically.”
She blushed berry red and looked away. I had to grin—so that was how it
stood.
WhenGarrettgreetedusinthecourtyard,Ninawasstillblushing.Sheavoided
himandrushedalongtodumpherloadintheworkshop.
Garrettblinkedafterher.“What’supwithher?”
“NinabeingNina.”
***
The next trip on Amaryllis went well. We made quota in less time than I
expected,whichgaveushalfaday’svacation.Weanchoredoffadesertedbitof
shoreandwentswimming,layondeckandtookinthesun,atethelastofthe
orangesanddriedmackerelthatJ.J.hadsentalongwithus.Itwasagoodday.
Butwehadtoheadbacksometimeandfacethescales.Iweighedourhaul
three times with Amaryllis’ scale, got a different number each time, but all
within ten pounds of each other, and more importantly twenty pounds under
quota.Notthatitwouldmatter.Werowedintotheslipatthescalehouse,and
Anders was the scalemaster on duty again. I almost hauled up our sails and
turnedusaround,nevertoreturn.Icouldn’tfacehim,notaftertheperfecttrip.
Nina was right—it wasn’t fair that this one man could ruin us with false
surplusesandblackmarks.
Silently,wesecuredAmaryllistothedockandbeganhandingupourcargo.I
managedtokeepfromevenlookingatAnders,whichprobablymademelook
guiltyinhiseyes.Butwe’dalreadyestablishedIcouldbequeenofperfection
andhewouldconsidermeguilty.
Anders’frownwassmug,hisgazejudgmental.Icouldalreadyhearhimtell
meIwasfiftypoundsoverquota.Anotherhaullikethat,he’dsay,we’llhaveto
see about yanking your fishing rights. I’d have to punch him. I almost told
GarretttoholdmebackifIlookedlikeIwasgoingtopunchhim.Buthewas
alreadykeepinghimselfbetweenthetwoofus,asifhethoughtImightreallydo
it.
IftheoldscalemastermanagedtobreakupAmaryllis,I’dmurderhim.And
wouldn’tthatbeaworsecrimethananyImightrepresent?
Anders drew out the moment, looking us all up and down before finally
announcing,“Sixtyoverthistime.Andyouthinkyou’regoodatthis.”
Myhandstightenedintofists.Iimaginedmyselflungingathim.Atthispoint,
whatcouldIlose?
“We’dlikeanaudit,”Ninasaid,slippingpastSun,Garrett,andmetostand
beforethestationmaster,frowning,handsonherhips.
“Excuseme?”Anderssaid.
“Anaudit.Ithinkyourscaleiswrong,andwe’dlikeanaudit.Right?”She
lookedatme.
Itwasprobablybetterthanpunchinghim.“Yes,”Isaid,afteraflabbergasted
moment.“Yes,wewouldlikeanaudit.”
Thatsetofftwohoursofchaosinthescalehouse.Andersprotested,hollered
at us, threatened us. I sent Sun to the committee house to summon official
oversight—hewouldn’ttrytoplaynice,andtheycouldn’tbrushhimoff.June
andAbe,twoseniorcommitteemembers,arrived,austereingrayandannoyed.
“What’sthecomplaint?”Junesaid.
Everyone looked at me to answer. I almost denied it—that was my first
impulse.Don’tfight,don’tmakewaves.BecausemaybeIdeservedthetrashI
got.Ormymotherdid,butshewasn’there,wasshe?
ButNinawaslookingatmewithherinnocentbrowneyes,andthiswasfor
her.
Iworeaperfectlyneutral,business-likeexpressionwhenIspoketoJuneand
Abe.Thiswasn’taboutme,itwasaboutbusiness,quotas,andbeingfair.
“ScalemasterAndersadjuststhescale’scalibrationwhenheseesuscoming.”
Iwasamazedwhentheyturnedaccusinggazesathimandnotatme.Anders’
mouthworked,tryingtostutteradefense,buthehadnothingtosay.
***
The committee confirmed that Anders was rigging his scale. They offered us
reparations, out of Anders’ own rations. I considered—it would mean extra
credits,extrafoodandsuppliesforthehousehold.We’dbeendiscussinggetting
anotherwindmill,petitioningforanotherwell.Instead,Irecommendedthatany
penalties they wanted to levy should go to community funds. I just wanted
Amaryllistreatedfairly.
AndIwantedameeting,tomakeonemorepetitionbeforethecommittee.
Garrettwalkedwithmetothecommitteeofficethenextmorning.
“Ishouldhavebeentheonetothinkofrequestinganaudit,”Isaid.
“Ninaisn’tasscaredofthecommitteeasyouare.Asyouwere,”hesaid.
“I’mnot—”ButIstopped,becausehewasright.
Hesqueezedmyhand.Hissmilewasamused,hisgazewarm.Heseemedto
find the whole thing entertaining. Me—I was relieved, exhausted, giddy,
ashamed.Mostlyrelieved.
We,Amaryllis,haddonenothingwrong.Ihaddonenothingwrong.
Garrettgavemealongkiss,thenwaitedoutsidewhileIwenttositbeforethe
committee.
Junewasinherchair,alongwithfiveothercommitteemembers,behindtheir
longtablewiththeir slateboards,tallysheets, andlistsof quotas.Isat across
fromthem,alone,handsclenchedinmylap,tryingnottotapmyfeet.Tryingto
appearasproudandassuredastheydid.Astraybreezeslippedthroughtheopen
windowsandcooledthecinderblockroom.
Afterpolitegreetings,Junesaid,“Youwantedtomakeapetition?”
“We—the Amaryllis crew—would like to request an increase in our quota.
Justasmallone.”
June nodded. “We’ve already discussed it and we’re of a mind to allow an
increase.Wouldthatbesuitable?”
Suitable as what? As reparation? As an apology? My mouth was dry, my
tonguefrozen.Myeyesstung,wantingtoweep,butthatwouldhavedamaged
ourchances,asmuchasjustbeingmedid.
“There’sonemorething,”Imanaged.“Withanincreasedquota,wecanfeed
anothermouth.”
Itwasanarrogantthingtosay,butIhadnoreasontobepolite.
Theycouldchastiseme,sendmeawaywithoutaword,lecturemeonwanting
too much when there wasn’t enough to go around. Tell me that it was more
important to maintain what we had rather than try to expand—expansion was
arrogance.Wesimplyhadtomaintain.Buttheydidn’t.Theydidn’tevenlook
shockedatwhatIhadsaid.
June,soelegant,Ithought,withherlonggrayhairbraidedandrestingover
hershoulder,aknittedshawldrapedaroundher,asmuchfordecorationasfor
warmth,reachedintothebagatherfeetandretrievedafoldedpieceofcloth,
whichshepushedacrossthetabletowardme.Ididn’twanttotouchit.Iwasstill
afraid,asifI’dreachforitandJunewouldsnatchitawayatthelastmoment.I
didn’twanttounfoldittoseetheredandgreenpatterninfull,incaseitwas
someothercolorinstead.
ButIdid,eventhoughmyhandshook.Andthereitwas.Iclenchedthebanner
inmyfist;noonewouldbeabletopryitout.
“Isthereanythingelseyou’dliketospeakof?”Juneasked.
“No,”Isaid,myvoiceawhisper.Istood,noddedateachofthem.Heldthe
bannertomychest,andlefttheroom.
***
GarrettandIdiscusseditonthewaybacktothehouse.Therestofthecrewwas
waitinginthecourtyardforus:Dakotainherskirtandtunic,hairinatangled
bun;J.J.withhisarmscrossed,lookingworried;Sun,shirtless,handsonhips,
inquiring.AndNina,rightthereinfront,bouncingalmost.
I regarded them, trying to be inscrutable, gritting my teeth to keep from
burstingintolaughter.Iheldourbannerbehindmybacktohideit.Garrettheld
myotherhand.
“Well?”Ninafinallysaid.“Howdiditgo?Whatdidtheysay?”
Thesurprisewasn’tgoingtogetanybetterthanthis.Ishookoutthebanner
andhelditupforthemtosee.Andoh,I’dneverseenallofthemwide-eyedand
wondering,mouthsgapinglikefish,atonce.
Ninabrokethe spell, laughingandrunning atme,throwingherself intomy
arms.Wenearlyfellover.
Then we were all hugging, and Dakota started worrying right off, talking
aboutwhatweneededtobuildacrib,allthefabricwe’dneedfordiapers,and
howweonlyhadninemonthstosaveupthecreditsforit.
Irecoveredenoughtohold Ninaatarm’slength,so Icouldlookher in the
eyes when I pressed the banner into her hands. She nearly dropped it at first,
skitteringfromitasifitwerefire.SoIclosedherfingersaroundthefabricand
heldthemthere.
“It’syours,”Isaid.“I wantyoutohaveit.”IglancedatGarretttobesure.
Andyes,hewasstillsmiling.
Staring at me, Nina held it to her chest, much like I had. “But … you. It’s
yours…”Shestartedcrying.ThensodidI,gatheringhercloseandholdingher
tightwhileshespokethroughtears,“Don’tyouwanttobeamother?”
Infact,IratherthoughtIalreadywas.
SevenCitiesofGold
DAVIDMOLES
David Moles has sold fiction to Asimov’s Science Fiction, The
Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Polyphony, Strange
Horizons,LadyChurchill’sRosebudWristlet,Say…,Flytrap,and
elsewhere. He coedited, with Jay Lake, 2004’s well-received
“retro-pulp” anthology All-Star Zeppelin Adventure Stories, as
well as coediting, with Susan Marie Groppi, the original
anthology,TwentyEpics.
Inthemasterfullydoneworkofalternatehistorythatfollows,
MolestakesusonaHeartofDarknessjourneyundertakenbya
haunted and conflicted woman, down a river that runs right
through the middle of a vividly described war zone, toward an
uncertainandperilousdestinationthatmightnotevenexist.
ThetyphoonraincameinofftheGulfofMexicoandclawedattheburningcity
likethejaguarsthattheMayasaywillfallfromtheskyattheendoftheworld.
IthisseddownonthehotglazedstoneofthePrazadosBispos,clatteredonthe
tilesoftheAltaCidad,dampedthefires,washedtheashesfromtheidolaters’
ghetto.ItstreameddownthegreencanvasoftheAndalusianarmy’sabandoned
positions and rattled the yellow plastic shells of the crowded Japanese field
hospitals.ItdrippeddownthenecksoftiredReliefMinistrydoctorsmeasuring
their doses of opium, and of worried Industrial Ministry technicians hunched
over their radiation counters. It filled canals and overflowed gutters, poured
throughbreachedlevees,rinsedstreetsinbrownwaterfleckedwithpalefoam.It
floatedburnedbodiesouttosea.
***
“Dr.Nakada?”
The Relief Ministry subaltern rattled the hollow door panel. There was no
answerfrominside.Heslidthedooropenahand’s-breadth,whereitstuck.In
thestripofbrightCaribbeansunlighthesawscuffedblueplasticmatting,ridged
inimitationoftatami,andstretchedacrossitthetannedskinofawoman’sarm.
Heliftedthedooroffitstrack,floodingthelittlebungalowwithlight,eliciting
agroanfromthebungalow’soccupant.Asthesubalternremovedhissandalsand
steppedinside,hisgazewentfromthewomanonthepallet—herfeetbare,her
shortblackhairmatted,herblueduckMinistryfieldcoatandtrouserswrinkled
andunbelted—tothelowtablewhereanopenformularykitsatnexttoanempty
teacup,apacketofTurkishopiatedcigarillos,andapotthathadboileddryonan
electricring.Hesquattedtosniffthecupandthewoman’sbreath;liftedherwrist
fromthefloorandtookherpulse;examinedherfaceandherearsand,ignoring
her sleepy protests, opened her mouth to shine a small pocket-light on her
tongue.
Whenthesubalternreleasedherjaw,thewomanasked,“WhereamI?”
Thetoneofhervoicesuggestedshe’dalreadybeentoldonce,andhadn’tliked
theanswer.
“CampXaragua,Doctor,”thesubalternsaid.“Caribe.”
Hewaitedforanotherquestion,butinsteadsheputanarmacrosshereyesand
startedtosnore.
Thesubalternsighed,openedthewoman’sformularykittothecompartment
markedRemedies(Lower-Class),andwenttowork.
***
Alittlelater,Doctor-LieutenantChië Nakada, awakeandwearing sandals,her
handsandfacewashed,heruniformstraightened,herhairbrushedandheldout
of her eyes by a clean scarf, was strapped into the jump seat of a utility
coleopter.
Shehadaheadache.
Thehotairinthecoleopter’snoisymetalbellysmelledofdisinfectantandold
blood.Nakadaclosedhereyesandbreatheditin.Itsmelledlikehome.
Istilldon’tknowwhytheychoseme.ButthenIwasn’ttheirfirst
choice.
MylasttourwasinIndochina,aSouthSiameserefugeecamp
ontheedgeoftheMalaycivilwar.Halfamillionrefugeescame
throughthatcampinthethreeyearsIwasthere,onthewayto
Madagascar or Xinjiang or wherever the world powers needed
moreworkers.
Hardlives.Badmemories.There’snothingromanticaboutthe
lifeofarefugee.Butatleasttheirwarwasover.
Forme,afterthattour,somethingbroke.IwentbacktoJapan,
and I wandered around like a sleepwalker. I made love to my
husband,I walked my sonto school, and atnight I dreamed of
children starved, women raped and mutilated, men burned by
napalm and maimed by machetes and cluster shells and
wanderingmines.IstoodinKokuraMainStation,watchingthe
salarymen and the office ladies stream through, lucky and
oblivious, and wondered what I was doing there. I imagined
earthquakes,incendiarybombs.Imaginedthestationinruins,the
commuterstrappedunderburningbeams,screamingforhelp.My
help.
Andafterawhile,Istartedwishingitwouldhappen.
—fromthepillowbookofDoctor-LieutenantChiëNakada
Nakada followed the subaltern along the glassed-in promenade deck of the
hospital ship Mappô Maru. The typhoon had moved off north, over the low
greencoast,buttheskywasstillalivewithscuddinggrayclouds,andbeyond
thesweepofMappôMaru’sbroadwingthewateronwhichtherelieffleetrode
at anchor was like cracked green shale. A line of cargo ships stretched out of
sight to east and west, freighters stacked with food and water and portable
sheltersand drycement. Nakadacounted threemore big yellow ground-effect
craftlikeMappôMaruridingatanchor.Thereweresmallerboatsinthewater,
andhovercraft,andmorecoleoptersintheair.
The Japanese humanitarian-industrial complex, swinging belatedly into
action. The response disproportionate for one typhoon. Nakada supposed
somebodyhadbeencaughtflatfootedand was tryingnow to makeupfor lost
timewithashowofvigorousactivity.
Beneath Mappô Maru’s drooping whale-fluke tail, the Doctor-General’s
compartmentstretchedthefullwidthofthedeck.Itwasausterelyfurnished,ina
waymeanttosuggestaformalreceivingroomsomewhereintheHomeIslands
—real tatami mats, painted paper screens, lacquered cabinets, blossoming
branches set with artful asymmetry in narrow vases, a formal portrait of the
Regent at Mt. Yoshino. The effect was somewhat spoiled by the harsh
fluorescentsandthehull’snakedaluminumcurve.Despitetheairthatblewfrom
theceilingvents,thecompartmentwasclose,alittletoowarmandalittletoo
humid.Itsmelledofstaletobacco.
The subaltern bowed and left, shutting the door. The aft half of the
compartment, where Nakada supposed the gallery windows would be, was
screenedoff.Inthishalf,alowblacktablewassetwithteacupsandanashtray,
andatitamanandawomankneltonredcushions.
The woman Nakada knew, at least by appearance: Nobuko Araki, Doctor-
General.Japanese,long-faced, longhair streakedwithgray,wearing acoat of
indigo-dyedlinenoverauniformcut fromavisiblybettergrade of cloththan
Nakada’s.Araki,theI.C.,IncidentCommanderfortheentireAntilianMission.
Themanwasaforeigner,inIskandariyasilk,withanorangishbeardshotwith
gray,andthepalefreckledskinofVarangiaornorthernal-Andalus.Acrimson
turbanmadehisskinlookevenmorepalethanitwas.Hiseyes,fixedonNakada
ashetappedtheashfromhiscigarillo,seemedtohavenocoloratall.
“Thank you for coming, Dr. Nakada.” The voice came from her right. The
speaker,whoNakadahadn’tevennoticeduntilhespoke,wasatall,bespectacled
Pharmacologist-Major, about Nakada’s own age or a little younger. The
embroideredtagonhisuniformreadKAWABATA.
Arakisaid,“Sitdown,Nakada.Havesometea.”
TherewasanothercushiononAraki’sleft.Nakadaslippedoffhersandalsand
kneltasanorderlypouredcolddarkteaintoaporcelaincup.
“Coldbarleytea’sallIcandrinkinthisheat,Doctor,”Arakisaid.“Hopeyou
don’tmind.”
Nakadaclearedherthroat.“No,ma’am;Ipreferitmyself.”
Kawabata,stillstanding, openeda cabinet andtook outan aluminumscroll
case.Hesnappeditopenandunrolledthefileinside.
“Dr. Nakada, in Daiwa 18 you led the first medical response team into
Pachacamacaftertheearthquake,isthatcorrect?”
“Correct,sir.”Nakadatookasipoftea.Ittastedlikeburntrice.
“AndinthefirstyearofSeisho”—Kawabatasaid,lookingatthefile—“you
saved the Sultan of Majapahit from a poison administered by his own
physician.”
“He’deatensomebadshellfish,sir.”
“EverworkedwithChristians?”
“InAxum,”Nakadasaid.“Duringthefamine.AndofcoursewhenIstudiedin
Kostantiniyye.”
“But not Antilian or Frankish Christians,” the foreigner said. His Japanese
wasgood,withonlyatraceofaccent.
“No,sir.”
Arakiandtheforeignerexchangedglances.
“You’vebeeninXaraguahowlong?”Arakiasked.
“Threeweeks,ma’am.”
“Thenyoumustbeeagertogetbackinthefield.”
“Yes,ma’am.Absolutely.”
ThePharmacologist-Majortookoutanotherfile.
“Six days ago, Doctor,” Kawabata said, “Antilian insurgents smuggled an
experimental bomb into the occupied city of Espírito Santo, on the lower
Acuamagna.SmuggleditthroughtheExclusionZoneestablishedbytheRelief
Ministry to—” He stopped and cleared is throat. “To separate the Antilian
bishops’ territory from the areas occupied by al-Andalus. We still don’t know
exactlywhatkindofbombitwas—orhowitworked—orwhethertheyhaveany
more.TheIndustrialMinistrysuggestsitmayhavesomethingtodowithsub-
atomicforces,butwereallydon’tknow.”
The clack of Doctor-General Araki’s teacup as she set it down had the
interrupting authority of a meditation leader’s wooden blocks. “What we do
knowisthatitburnedhalfthecityandkilledthirtythousandpeople.Including
twenty thousand Antilian Christians. If I didn’t know Abbot-Doctor Shingen
personally, I wouldn’t believe the reports he’s sending us. Thousands of burn
victims.Thousandsmorewhowereoutsidethefireareabutstillhaveburn-like
symptoms. Other symptoms similar to typhoid fever—nausea, hair loss, skin
lesions.Andsinceit’stherainyseasonhere,wecanexpectactualtyphoidfever
anytime,nottomentioncholera,yellowfever,andmalaria.ForallIknow,we
should expect leprosy and the bubonic plague. We’re looking at the biggest
humanitariancrisisintenyears.”
“ReliefeffortshavebeenhamperedbytheGulftyphoonseason,”Kawabata
said. “But the Eleventh Airmobile Group was already in Xaragua when this
happened,preparingfordeploymenttothetyphoontrack.They’rebeingdiverted
toEspíritoSantonow.”
Therewasasilence.NakadalookedfromKawabatatoArakiandback.
“Yes,sir,”shesaideventually.
“Tellme,Doctor,”theforeignersaid,“whatisyouropinionofwar?”
Nakadalookedathim,thenatAraki,whogaveherasmallnod.Sheturned
backtotheforeigner.
“I’mopposedtoit,sir.”
“A natural position for someone in your profession, Doctor. An admirable
position.Asadiplomat,Itooamopposedtowar.Inparticular,Iamopposedto
warsofreligion.”
Therewasanexpectantpause;thenNakadasaid,“Yes,sir.”
Kawabata took out another file case. “Andalusian intelligence believes that
theAntilianinsurgentsarenolongercontrolledbytheSevenBishops,butbya
woman,aformernun,namedClaraDosOrsos.”Hetookoutapieceofpaper
thathadbeenrolledupinsidethefileandhandedittoNakada.
Itwasathermalfacsimileofaphotograph,washed-outandcontrasty,andit
lookedasthoughtheoriginalpicturehadbeennonetoosharptobeginwith.But
itwasa strikingface even so.A woman,in her latetwenties or earlythirties,
withdark,wide-seteyes,cheekbonesthatsuggestedmoreaboriginalAntilianor
MexicanancestrythantheIberianGothicbloodoftheAntilianupperclasses.
“She’sa messianic preacher,”Kawabata said. “Acharismatic visionary. Her
followerscallhertheVirginofApalaxia.”
“An apocalyptic madwoman is what she is,” Araki said. “Hallucinations,
delusions, paranoid ideation, magical thinking—classic schizophrenia, if not
psychosis.Doesn’ttakeordersfromanybodybuttheangelsinherhead.”
Nakadawatchedtheforeignerstubouthiscigarilloandtakeoutanotherashe
talked,lightingitwithanivory-handledigniter.
“Forsomeyearsnow, Doctor,” he said,“theSevenBishopsofAntiliahave
been at war with my people. In the name of religion they have provided
madmen, Roman and Frankish Christian madmen, with the tools to do mad
things.Thesemenhavecommittedoutrages,killingnotonlyMuslimsbutJews
andSabeansand,yes,manyChristians.”
Hetookalongdrawfromthecigarilloandletthesmokeoutslowly.
“Now there is this woman,” he continued, “Dos Orsos. And this terror
weapon,thisbomb,thiscity-destroyer—thelikeofwhichisnottobefoundin
theCaliphate,norPersia,norIndia,norChina,norJapan.TodrivetheCaliph’s
armiesfromtheirland,inthenameofreligion,thesepeoplebuildthisSatanic
machineandthismadwomanturnsituponherownpeople.”
“Thirtythousanddead,Doctor,”saidAraki.“Themadnesshasgottostop.”
Kawabata cleared his throat. “You’ll be provided with several doses of an
experimental antipsychotic remedy,” he said. “A hepato-cardiac reprimant
derivedfromTJ-54.AhybridambulanceboatwilltakeyouuptoEspíritoSanto.
You’ll cross over to the Acuamagna there and proceed upriver, out of the
ExclusionZone;makecontact withthesurvivingbishops somewherenorthof
LaVitoria,andgettheirapprovalto…treatDosOrsos’condition.”
NakadalookedfromKawabatatoAraki,whonodded.
“Yes,sir,”shesaid.
“Treatit,”saidtheforeigner,“bywhatevermeansnecessary.”
***
WhenNakadaawoke,thesunwassetting,somewherebehindher.She’dhadone
ofthe crew mix hera sleeping draught almost as soon as she was aboard the
ambulanceboat.
Thehybridambulancewaspartjetboat,parthovercraft,tenmeterslongand
five wide. Most of it was one big piece of yellow injection-molded plastic,
spottedwithpatchesofgrubbynon-skidtape.Itlookedlikeachild’stoy.
Oneofthecrew—itwasthenursewho’dmixedherthesleepingdraught—
wasleaningovertheside,holdinganetontheendofatwo-meterbamboopole.
Shewasround-faced,tannedand freckled, andlookedaboutfifteenyearsold.
ShesawNakadalookingather,andgrinned.
“Whereareyoufrom?”Nakadaasked.
“NewYezo,”thegirlsaid,andreturnedtohernet.AnamecametoNakada:
Hayashi.Theremusthavebeenintroductionsatsomepoint.
New Yezo. A colonial, from the coastal islands, three or four thousand
kilometersnorthwestofEspíritoSanto.Alandofbearsandsalmonandlogging
camps and fish-processing plants. Nakada supposed a six-year hitch with the
Ministrymustsoundprettygood,whenthealternativewasaberthonaNorth
Pacificfactorywhaler.
Nakadasatup.ShelookedpastHayashitothelong,lowshoreline,akilometer
or so away. It looked as alien as the coast of Kalimantan, but it was still the
continent Hayashi had been born on. She wondered if that was how the girl
thoughtofit.
“YouservedinAntiliabefore,Doctor?”
Thechiefof the boatwasat thetiller,aSurgeon-Sergeant named Shiraoka.
Youcouldn’tgetmuchhigherthanSergeantwithoutafullmedicaldiploma,and
Shiraokadidn’tlooklikethetypetogobackandgetone.Hewasinhisearly
forties, with sun-wrinkles around his eyes and a thick black mustache that
wouldn’thavelookedoutofplaceonaKazakhhorse-thief.
“No,” Nakada told him. “Peru, once. Mainly East Ifriqiya and the Indies.
You?”
“Beenherethreeyears.”Heshookhishead.“Ifriqiya,yeah,beentheretoo.
West,mostly.Thatwassomebad-luckcountry.TheAntilians,they’vehadtheir
shareofbadluck.Butmainly,they’rejustcrazy.”
Crazy.
InthescrollcasewithmyorderswastheportraitofDosOrsos,
withthosefixedblackeyes.Ilookedintothemandtriedtodecide
whethercrazywaswhatIsawthere—crazy,oroneofArakiand
Kawabata’s precise, medicalizing euphemisms: schizophrenia,
paranoia,psychosis.
Or,morequaintly,madness.
Itwasn’tthatIhadn’tseenthosethings.InthatSouthSiamese
refugeecampI’dseenaChinesegirl,notallerthanmyshoulder
andnotmuchmorethanhalfmyweight,runamokwithabayonet
andkill sixMalay paramilitaries.In Axum,I’d known a doctor
fromShizuokawhowouldchalkthefloorofeveryroomheslept
inwiththeoutlinesoftatamimats,andwhocouldn’tsleepifhis
palletoverlappedoneofthelines.
But when I met Dos Orsos’ thermal-printed gaze, I saw
something else. Something I’d seen, maybe, in the eyes of
volunteerswho’dkeepdigginglongaftertherewasanychanceof
findingsurvivorsintherubble,ofnurseswhogavetheirbestand
mostgentlecaretothepatientsitwastoolatetosave.
Itwas—Itoldmyself—thelookIsawsometimesinthemirror.
Iwasrightaboutthat,butIwaswrong,too.
—fromthepillowbookofDoctor-LieutenantChiëNakada
Theyroundedaheadland,passedthroughanarrows,enteredawide,brackish
lake,thefarshoreinvisibleinthesubtropicalhaze.Notlongafterthat,theysaw
thefirstbody.
“What’sthat?”askedIshino.Ishinowastheboat’sothernurse,anOkinawan
boynotmuchmorethanHayashi’sage.Hisfacewasthefaceofapopstar:a
naïve, almost feminine handsomeness, with a hint of rebellion that looked as
thoughhisheartwasn’treallyinit.
“What’sitlooklike?”askedNakada.
The body, what was visible above water, was naked, burned black and
hairless.Therewasnowaytotellwhetherithadbeenmanorwoman,Antilian
orAndalusian,youngorold.
“Oh,”saidHayashi.
“Plentymorewherewe’regoing,”Nakadasaid,andclosedhereyes.Herhead
still hurt. The conscientious subaltern had confiscated the opium from her
formulary kit. So far she’d stayed out of the boat’s opium chest, but it was
gettingharder.TherewasaPureLandfoodcampnorthofthecity.Shethought
shecouldholdouttillthere.
SheheardIshinochantinginalowvoice,andrecognizedaNichirenprayer
forthedead.Whenhe’dfinished,Shiraokapoweredupthefansanddeployed
theground-effectskirt,andtheyquicklyleftthebodybehind.
***
They followed the curve of the lakeshore; what Shiraoka’s charts marked as
lakeshore,ashining expanse ofwaterbroken bythegreen humpsofdrowned
trees.Theyweremovingagainstthecurrent.Thecurrent,riverwaterfromthe
AcuamagnacuttingitselfanewpathtotheseaoverEspíritoSanto’sbreached
leveesandthroughitsburstcanals,wasaplumeofbrownmudspottedwiththe
palebelliesofdeadfish.Wherethechartssaiddikesshoulddividethelakefrom
thefarmssouthofthecity,therewasonlyopenwaterand,hereandthere,aboil
ofyellowfoamsurroundingthehumpedrooftopsofadrownedvillage.
Gradually,thefloodedfarmsgavewaytofloodedshantytowns,thesuburbsof
EspíritoSanto.Fromthecorrugatedrooftopsofboxycinderblockhuts,flat-faced
Antilianswatchedthepassingambulanceboatwithhoodedeyes.Aloneyellow
Ministryflatboatmovedamongthem,smallbluefigurespassingbarrelsofwater
upontotherooftops.Thereweremanymorehutsthanbarrels.
Astheynearedthecity,somethinglargeandgoldglitteredontheshore.
“What’sthat?”Ishinoasked.
“LookslikeaBuddha,”Hayashireported,peeringthroughaglass.
“Givemetheglass,”Nakadasaid.Hayashihandeditup,andNakadapeered
throughit.“Kanzeon,”shesaid.
Kanzeon, Guanshi Yin, Kwannon—the thousand-armed, syncretic
embodiment of mercy, equal parts Avalokiteshvara-bodhisattva and South
Chinesemother-goddess—gazedbenevolentlyatNakadathroughtheglass,her
meter-widesmile,liketherestofher,aglitterofgold-flakeplasticinthesun.
WorkersinMinistrybluehadrolledthestatueoffabargeandwerenowhauling
itupright atthe topof along ramp,turning itto lookover a fieldof saffron-
yellowtents.BeyondthemNakadasawacollectionofboxyconcretebuildings
ofincreasingsize,culminatinginatwo-hundred-meterdome,itsslidingroofa
patchwork of broken girders and tattered sheet metal. As she watched, a
coleopterroseupfrombeyondthedomeandwhirredawayoverthelake.
Nakada lowered the glass. The Kanzeon’s smiling face, the thousand arms
spreadoutaroundandbehindherlikethewingsofaPersianangel,wereclearly
visiblenowevenwithoutit.
Shiraokaeyedthegoldenstatueand shook hishead.“PureLanders,always
askingfortrouble,”hesaid.
“We’lltelltheChristiansit’stheVirginMary,”saidNakada.
***
Thebuildingsbelongedtoacrumblingsportscomplexofwhichthefoodcamp
occupiedoneend,theyellowtarpsandtentsshadingexpansesofcrackedasphalt
andpools ofstagnant water.Dilapidated concreteedifices frownedover them,
structuresthatperhapshadbeengrandiosethirtyyearsago,butthatnow,amid
thefloodedshantytowns,seemedmerelypathetic.
The ambulance boat pulled up on a long white tiled plaza at the edge of a
concrete spillway, a diversion of lake water made, Nakada supposed, for the
stagingofaquaticevents;therewasadivingtowerontheoppositebank,andon
thissidetieredrowsofsteelspectators’benches,stackedhighnowwithsupply
baskets. Flatboats, an uninterrupted stream of them, were unloading dazed
Antilians. Between them, sunlight glittered dully off water opaque as green
paint.
Astheboat’sfansspundown,Nakadabreatheddeeplyinthroughhernostrils,
heldthebreathforamoment,thenletitslowlyoutthroughherlips.Therewasa
familiartangintheair,overridingthewetlivingsmellofthewater:aperfume
compoundedoffueloilandrawsewage,theemblematicscentofthedeveloping
world.Nakadabreatheditinagainandsmiled.
“Givemethechart,”shesaidtoShiraoka.“I’mgoingtofindthecampchief.”
Shehoppeddownontothetiles.“SeeifIcangetussomedirections.”
SomewhereinthedirectionofthegoldKanzeon,therewasshouting,andthen
thesoundofagunshot.
“Takesomeonewithyou,”Shiraokasaid,passingdownthechart.
“I’llgo,”saidHayashi.
***
NakadaandHayashiheadeduptheconcreteslopetowardthecommotion.
“Thisyourfirsttour?”Nakadaasked.
“Sureis,”theyoungnursesaid.Astheywalkedshelookedaroundthecamp
withalertinterest,likeastudiouschildonherfirstvisittoanamusementpark,
notsureyetwhetherallthecostumedcharactersandthelightsandtherideswere
really for her. Nakada supposed that there were probably more people in the
shuffling line of refugees beside them than Hayashi had ever seen in her life
beforebeingdraftedfortheMinistry.
“Isthatthingreal?”Hayashi asked,lookingup atthethirty-meterKanzeon
statue.“Itlookslikeplastic.”
Nakadashrugged.“Plastic’sasrealasbronze,Isuppose.”
Theyreachedtheprocessingdeskattheheadoftheline,andthesourceofthe
disturbance.AlineofJapanesepoliceinlacqueredhalf-armorheldbackacrowd
thatseemedtoconsistmostlyofAndalusiansoldiers.Asorderliespassedfood
and water to the Antilian refugees and directed them toward the tents, a red-
beardedAndalusianofficer,hisVarangianaccentsothickthatNakadawasn’tat
first sure that he was speaking Arabic, was arguing with a Relief Ministry
worker. The relief worker wore a sleeveless black monk’s tunic over his blue
uniform,withawhiteropebeltandaNutritionist-Sergeant’spatch.
“Look, your Lordship,” the nutritionist said in sarcastic Japanese, “you
moronsaregoingtohavetowaityourturn—”
Nakadatappedhimontheshoulder.“Hey,”shesaid.“WherecanIfindthe
campchief?”
The nutritionist turned. “Do I look like a tour guide?” Then he registered
Nakada’srank.“Sorry,Doctor.Trythe—”
TheAndalusian chose thatmoment to take a pistol from his belt and fire a
shotintheair.
“That’sit!”saidthenutritionist,disgusted.AstheAndalusianstartedtolower
thepistol,thenutritionistgrabbedhiswrist.Inasinglemotionhethrewtheman
tothegroundandtookthepistolaway,followingupwithastomptothesolar
plexus.Therewasasplashasthenutritionistthrewthepistoloverarailinginto
thecanal.
TheAndalusiansoldiersyelledandsurgedtowardthedesk,andtheJapanese
policewadedintothecrowd,ironsword-breakersandwoodenbatonsrisingand
falling.
“Thecampchief?”Nakadarepeated.
“Trythecoliseum,”thenutritionistsaid.
“Thanks,”saidNakada,butthenutritionist’sattentionwasalreadybackonthe
melee.
“Getthemsettleddown!”heyelled.“We’vegotworktodo!”
As Nakada and Hayashi left, the nurse said, “I thought the soldiers were
supposedtostayoutofthecamps.”
“Thatonlyworkswhenthey’rewinning,”Nakadasaid.“Andsometimesnot
eventhen.”
***
Thecoliseumhadbeenconvertedintoaninfirmary.Itsfloorwasaminiaturetent
cityallbyitself,crowdedwithhammocksandfoldingcots,theoccupantsmostly
womenandchildren.Hayashireadoffthechalkedsymbolsontheboardshung
fromeachcot,lookingforanyinterestingconditions,butNakadacouldseethat
mainlyitwasjustmalnutrition,dehydration,andtheoccasionaldysentery.
Thentheyreachedtheburnward.Hayashi,fascinated,movedamongpatients
swathed in bandages, patients whose raw skin would not abide a bandage’s
touch, patients whose skin was striped white and black in the patterns of the
clothestheyhadbeenwearingwhenthebomb’slightreachedthem.
Nakadacheckedtheprescriptions,andthecontentsoftheformularycartsthat
stoodat theend of every third orfourth rowof patients.The Pure Land food
campwasjustthat;ithadneverbeenintendedtohandleamedicalemergencyof
thisscale.Buteventually,onthebottomshelfofoneofthelastcarts,Nakada
foundwhatshewaslookingfor.
Justatthatmoment,Hayashisaid:“Isthatthecampchief?”
Nakadaslippedthepacketintohersleeveandstoodup.
Abbot-DoctorShingenwasatowerofaman,twoheadstallerthanNakada,
hisshavenskullmassiveasatemplebell.Hewassupervisingtheinstallationof
anotherstatue,asmallerone,notKanzeonthistimebuttheAmidabuddha.
“That’s the way!” he boomed at the monks who worked with wedges and
levers to place the statue—gilded bronze, not the Kanzeon’s plastic—and its
woodenpedestal.“Rightupunderthescoreboards!”HelookeddownasNakada
approached.“Yes?”
“Sir.” Nakada bowed, and proffered the scroll case with her orders. “I’m
bound upriver, on a special assignment. I’m told I can cross over to the
Acuamagnahere.”
“What?”Shingensaid,ignoringthecase.“No,youcan’tcrosshere.Incase
you haven’t heard, this is a disaster area.” He waved a hand at the rows of
hammocksandcots.“Whatdoyouwanttogoupriverfor?Whydon’tyoumake
yourselfusefulhere?”
Stillholdingthecaseout,Nakadapersisted.“I’monaspecialassignmentfor
Doctor-GeneralAraki,sir.MyordersaretocrossovertotheAcuamagnahere
andproceedupriver.”
Shingen scowled. “Araki? What’s she want?” He took the case, snapped it
open, unrolled enough of the scroll inside to read the header, then rolled the
scrollupagainandstuffeditintothecaseagain,handingitbacktoNakada.
“Ihaven’theardanythingaboutit,”hesaid.
Nakadaput thecase away, exchangingit forthe laminatedchart. “Sir,” she
began,“citymapshowstheriverandthelakeconnectedbythesecanals,here
andhere—”
Themonkglancedatthechart,followedNakada’spointingfinger.“Youdon’t
wanttogoupthere,”hesaid.
“Sir?”
“It’s all looters up there,” Shingen said. “Aborigines, cultists, Andalusian
deserters,swampcannibals.Wegetallkinds.Itwasbadenoughuptherebefore
the bomb, but now it’s a real mess.” He glanced up at something beyond
Nakada.“Overhere!”hecalledout.
Nakada turned to see an NKK film crew, weighed down with cameras and
recordinggearandsparefilmreelsandaudiocylinders,pickingitswaythrough
theburnward.
“It’snogood,”saidShingentoNakada.“WaittilltheEleventhgetshereand
wecanre-establishcontrolofthecity,that’smyadvice.”
Nakadabowed.Shingenturnedtothemonks,whowerestilltryingtomake
theAmidasitupstraight.“Level,youblockheads!”hecalled.
***
“Iheardaboutthesecannibals,”Ishinosaid.“Theycutoffyourhandsandfeet
andhangyourbodytodryinthewind.”
“That’sinNewYezo,notdownhere.”Hayashisaid.“I’veseenit.It’saritual.
Theydon’treallyeatanybody,it’sallplay-acting.”
“IknowwhatIheard,”Ishinoinsisted.
They were back at the boat. The sun had slipped below the dome of the
coliseum.HayashiwasgrillingshrimpKorean-style,whileIshinoboiledapotof
starchy,vitamin-fortifiedreliefrice.
“Hey.”
Nakada looked up from the chart she and Shiraoka had been studying, and
sawafantasticfigurehoppingfromfoottofootonthetilesbesidetheboat:a
tall, loose-limbed marionette in the threadbare remnantsof some kind of civil
serviceuniformfromtheVarangianRus,whitewoolpipedwithfadedbluesilk.
As the figure came closer, Nakada saw that it was in fact a human being.
BeneathaKhazar-styleroundcap,pale eyesstared atherout ofa sunburned,
unshavenredfacethatmighthavebeenanywherebetweenthirtyandforty.She
sawthatthemanhadnoshoes.
“Hey,”themansaidagain,inJapanese.“YouspeakGreek?Youclimbriver?”
Climbriver?
“IspeakGreek,”Nakadasaidcautiously,inthatlanguage.
“Good,good.”Themanvaultedaboard,almostknockingoverIshino’spotof
rice. “Sorry. You go upriver, yes?” His Greek, to Nakada, didn’t sound much
betterthanhisJapanese,butitcamefasterandtherewasclearlymoreofit.“I
am Semyonov, Andrei Karlovitch. Poet. From Novgorod. You must cross the
city?”
“We’re going upriver,” Nakada said. “And we have to cross the city. What
aboutit?”
“Ship canal!” the Russian said. He picked up the chart, pushing Shiraoka
aside, and held it up. “I show you.” Then he dropped the chart, distracted by
Hayashi,whowastakingtheshrimpoffthegrill.“Hey!Shrimp!”
***
“Éfeso,Esmirna,Pérgamo,Tiatira,”theRussianwasreciting,fromhisperchon
top of the pilothouse. His bare feet were very dirty. “Sardes, Filadélfia,
Laodicéia.Sevencities.”
Theambulanceboatwascreepingupawide,garbage-chokedshipcanal,more
orlessattheRussian’sdirection,thoughShiraokacheckedhischartsconstantly,
andIshinoandHayashiwerebothatthebow,watchingforsubmergedobstacles.
“Becauseofthelegend.Youknowit?”
“Whatlegend?”
Nakadasatwithherbackagainstoneoftheenginenacelles,herfeetbare,her
armsclaspedaroundherknees.AfterputtingtheRussianinShiraoka’sreluctant
charge,she’dpaidonlyintermittentattentiontohim.Mostly,shewaswatching
thecity.
ThesettlerswhooriginallyfoundedEspíritoSantointhenameoftheSeven
Bishopshadbuilttheircityonapatchofhighground,betweentheAcuamagna’s
banksononesideandthelakeshoreontheother,ladenbargescarryingbuilding
stonefromquarrieshundredsofkilometersupriver.Nowastheambulanceboat
maneuveredthroughtheshipcanal,skirtingthewreckageoffallencranesand
overturnedbarges,theoldAltaCidadwasclearlyvisible,butthecathedralwasa
soot-blackenedruinandthesurroundingbuildingsweremostlyrooflessshells.
ThestreetswerefullofdirtywaterandthePrazadosBispos,runningdownto
theriver,wasmarredbymissingtilesasifbythepock-marksofsomedisease.
“TheLastDays,”saidSemyonov.“TheChristians,inIberiaandtheFrankish
kingdoms,theytellthisstoryaboutthesevenbishopsthatescapedtheCaliph’s
armies.TheysaythebishopssetsailfromOportowithalltheirfollowersandall
theirtreasure,andcrosstheWesternOcean.thatthroughtheintercessionofthe
Agía Eylalia they are guided to an island, which they call Antilia.” Talk of
religious matters improved the Russian’s Greek, Nakada noticed. “That the
bishopsstartaChristiankingdomthere,anewIsrael.Sevengoldencities,one
for each of the seven bishops. That some day the bishops come back and
reconquerChristendom.”
“Doesn’tlooklikethey’regoingtostarthere,”Nakadasaid.TheRussianfell
silent.
Theairwashotasasulfurspring,hotasfreshashes.Theskywasadeepblue,
andcompletelyclear.OfthelootersandcannibalsIshinofeared,therewasno
sign.Therewerenolivingpeopleinsight,nofish,nobirds.Thewoodenmaze
ofthelowercity,wherethevastmajorityofthecity’sinhabitantshadlivedand
worked,wassimplygone.Ofthecanalsindicatedonthecharts,thereremained
onlyavaguegeometrypickedoutinburntpilingsthatrosehereandthereamong
oilyslicksofgarbage,withslowlyturningdriftsofwreckagecapturedinlazy
eddies, the corpses of dogs and pigs and human beings grounded against
accidentaldamsofcapsizedboatsandfallentimbers.
Nakadasurveyedtheprospectwithafeelingofpleasantmelancholy.There’d
beenless thanagrainofopiuminthepacketshe’dstolenfromtheformulary
cartintheburnward,maybeaquarterofhernormaldose,butenoughtotakethe
edgeoff,enoughtoletNakadaappreciatewhatwasaroundher.Shefeltsuffused
withmononoaware,thesenseofinherentpathosinordinarythings:acategory
whichatthemomentseemedtohertoencompasstheboat,thedirtywater,the
vanished buildings, the corpses, the clear sky; to encompass the world. She
lookedoutovertheruinofEspíritoSanto,andinthebathhouseheat,shiveredat
itstragicbeauty.
Shefelt,forthefirsttimeinmonths,alive.
IfwhathappenedtoEspíritoSantohadhappenedtoIskandariya
or Massalia, to Nanjing or Kokura or Kumbi Saleh—if it had
happened anywhere in what we’re pleased to call the civilized
world—itwouldhavecuthumanhistoryintwo.Beforeandafter.
Innocenceandexperience.Theformerandthelatterdaysofthe
Law.TheendofoneYuga,andthebeginningofanother.
Instead it happened in Antilia. And like most things that
happeninthedarkplacesoftheearth,itpassedalmostwithout
noticefromtheworldoutside.
Thatwasallrightwithme.ThatmeantIdidn’thavetoshareit.
—fromthepillowbookofDoctor-LieutenantChiëNakada
TheRussianleftthemattheshatteredlocks,takingaspaymentabagofrelief
rice,somepacketsofdriedsoyflakes,andafewcansoftincturebase—distilled
water,powderedgreentea,andricealcoholatfortypercentbyvolume.
“You’reheretotakeheraway,aren’tyou,”hesaidquietlytoNakadaashe
wasclimbingoutoftheboat.“Liketheotherone.”
“Takewhoaway?”Nakadaasked.
“TheVirgin.”WhentheRussiansawNakada’sincomprehension,headded,in
Antilian,“LaVirxeda’Palaxia.”
“DosOrsos?”Nakadaasked.“Whatdoyouknowabouther?”
Semyonovlookedtoeitherside,as iftheflat,burnt,waterloggedlandscape
mighthideeavesdroppers.Thebackofoneofhishands,Nakadanoticedonly
now,hadbeentattooedwitharudecross.
“UptheRíoBaldío,”hesaideventually.“TowncalledSanLucas.There’sa
lake.Artificial.Anisland.”Then,asifhe’dsaidtoomuch,theRussianturned
hisheaddownandaway.
“Anisland,”Nakadarepeated,andshookherhead.ShenoddedtoShiraoka,
whostartedtheengines.
“It’s all true!” the Russian called out, as the ambulance boat pulled away.
“Sevenbishops,”hecontinued,hisvoicegrowingfainter.“Sevencities.Seven
spirits of God. Seven seals. Seven angels, with seven trumpets! Seven heads!
Sevenhorns!”
ThentheywereoutintheAcuamagna’srainchannel,andNakadacouldno
longerheartheRussian’svoice.Hisawkwardwhitefigurewatchedthemfrom
thebankoftheshipcanalforalittlewhile,thenturnedandheadednorth,toward
thePrazaandtheruinedcathedral.
NakadapagedthroughShiraoka’sbookofchartsuntilshefoundthelakethe
Russianhadspokenof,andthetown.
“Howfararewegoing,Doctor?”Shiraokaasked.
“Ican’ttellyouthat,”saidNakadaautomatically.Then:“Prettyfar.”
“Howfar?”
Nakada shrugged and closed the chart book. “Past La Vitoria. Up the East
Branchmaybetwohundredkilometers,thenmaybeuptheRíoBaldío.”
Shiraokaturnedtolookather.“That’soutsidetheZone.”
“Maybe.”Nakadashruggedagain.“Butthat’swherewe’regoing.”
***
BythetimetheywereadayortwonorthofEspíritoSanto,theAcuamagnawas
beginningtocometolifeagain.Theambulanceboatpassednorthboundbarges
carryingsupplies,southboundbargescarryingcasualties;waspassed,itself,by
Ministry patrol hydrofoils and other ambulance boats. Fishing smacks with
smoke-belching oil-fueled motors and fat canal boats with wide lateen sails
movedupanddowntheriverasiftherehadneverbeenanoccupation,orawar;
butacloseeyenotedthatthecrewswerecomposedofwomen,andchildren,and
mentoooldtofight.
Itwasnearevening,aboutaweekafterthey’dlefttheRussianatthelocks,
whentheyheardthemusic.Nakadasawapaleglowlikeswampgaswavering
onthewesternbank.Astheboatdrewcloseritresolveditselfintoaswinging
lineofpaperlanterns,suspendedoverthewater,illuminatingathinglikealong
whitecolonnadedbuilding,threeorfourstoriestall,setrightatthewater’sedge.
Thisinturnprovedtobeafantasticalflatboatorbarge,itslowerhullandtall
smokestackspaintedblack,itssuperstructureacurlingthicketofwhite-painted
wooden fretwork, the intricacy of its carving enough to rival the incised
calligraphywallsofanAndalusianpalace.
Smaller lanterns hung over catwalks and promenades. Under the lantern’s
lightthedeckswerecrowdedwithmeninMinistryblue,shoutingandsinging
andvomitingovertherail.Themusic,electricallyamplified,half-drownedinits
ownfeedback,carriedoverthewater.Therewasabrewerysmell,ofyeastand
hotwater.
“It’safestival,”saidIshino.
“Ôbon?”Hayashiasked.
“Ôbon’sinJuly,”Nakadaremindedher.
“Supplydock,”saidShiraoka.“We’lltieuphere,getsomefuel.”
“Canwegetsomebeer?”askedIshino.
***
Thesupplydockwasarepurposedpleasurebarge,animitationriverferrybuilt
totakeadvantageofsomepre-warjurisdictionalloophole,exemptingitfromthe
bishops’moral regulationsandsumptuary laws.The dispensary, whenNakada
found it, was at the back of a converted drinking hall, with red baize gaming
tables and framed posters on the walls, advertising music or alcohol or
prostitutionorallthreeatonce.Onthestage,ahorse-facedDoctor-Colonel,very
drunk,wascrooningalugubriousloveballadintoamicrophoneforanaudience
oforderlies,juniorofficers,andAntilianprostitutes.
Theskinny,unshavenApothecary-Sergeantthatranthedispensarydidn’tlike
havinghisdicegameinterrupted,buthefilledNakada’ssupplylistwithsurly
efficiency,packingtwoportableformularykits.
“…andeightygrainsofopium,”Nakadasaidwhenthesecondkitwasnearly
full. “Refined yellow base.” She said it offhandedly, as if it were no more
importantthanthespirulinaandthepowderedginseng.
The apothecary looked up at her. “I can’t give out opium without a supply
ordercountersignedbythecampchief.”
“It’sforanambulanceboat,”Nakadasaid.Toherannoyance,shecouldnot
keep a certain whining tone from creeping into her voice. “We’re heading
upriver,andwe’releavinginthemorning.”
“Sorry,”theapothecarysaidwithashrug.“Nosupplyorder,noopium.”
Something of Nakada’s dismay must have shown on her face, because the
apothecarysmiledthen.“Unless…”Hecamearoundthecounterandlookedher
upanddown,clearlytryingtoseethebodybeneaththeshapelessblueuniform.
“Youdosomethingforme,maybeIcouldletyouhave,say,fivegrains…”
Nakadastaredbackathim.Shecouldtellhewasenjoyingit,thatitwasn’t
just the thought of sex but the thought of having power over her, not just the
thought of having power over a woman but the thought of having a higher-
rankingwoman,adoctorandanofficer,needingsomethingthatonlyhecould
giveher.Thesmilewasstillonhislips.Nakadathoughtmaybehe’ddonethis
before.
It was the smile that did it. Nakada snapped. She stepped in close to him,
seeingthesmilewiden,andhookedherrightlegbehindhis,atthesametime
grippinghiscollarwithonehandandhisrightarmwiththeother,pushingand
twisting.Hisfeetskiddedoutfromunderhimandhisheadbangedagainstthe
counterashewentdown,knockingitover.Nakadaflippedhimover,usinghis
pinionedrightarmasalever,andplantedherkneeinthesmallofhisback.
Withherfreehandshetookthescrollcasewithherordersoutofherbag,and
helditinfrontofhissweatingface.
“See this?” she said. “This is a priority order from the Incident Fucking
CommanderforthewholeAntilianMission.Youwantmetodosomethingfor
you,allright,I’lldosomethingforyou.I’llnottellDoctor-GeneralArakithat
theapothecaryonhersupplydockhereistradingMinistrysuppliesforsexual
favors.How’sthatsound?”
“Allright,”theapothecarysaid,andNakadawarilylethimup.Herubbedthe
backofhishead.“Noharminasking,isthere?”
“Eightygrains,”saidNakada.
Then,astheapothecarywenttounlocktheopiumchest:“Onsecondthought
—makeitahundred.”
***
Bydaylightthesupplydockhadalooted,abandonedlook,furnitureoverturned,
posters askew, the deserted companionways strewn with crumpled cigarillo
packets,used prophylactics, empty cans of rice wine andAntilian maize beer.
Nakada sat on the afterdeck overlooking the purely decorative paddlewheel,
smokingasweetMalay-styleflavoredcigarillo,oneofacaseshe’dwonfroman
Okinawanepidemiologistatmah-jonggthenightbefore.
The riverbank was a solid mass of green, not the deep green-black of a
Kalimantan jungle or the serene unity of a bamboo forest but a motley
patchwork,sixorsevendifferentshadesdappledwithsunlightandmottledwith
shadow.InthespaceofonecigarilloNakadahadglimpsedthreedifferentkinds
ofbirdshe’dneverseenbefore,andheardthecallsofasmanymore.
Hayashi lay asleep on the bristly plastic sheeting that carpeted the deck,
stripped to her white undercoat in the heat, head resting on her bare arms,
uniformfoldedforapillow.AsNakadawatched,amosquitolandedonthegirl’s
bare shoulder, just above the pucker of an immunization scar; Nakada blew a
streamofclove-scentedsmokeatit,anditflewaway.
Shiraokacameupthestairs.
“We’dbestgetmoving,Doctor,”hesaid.
NakadalookeddownatHayashi.Thenursestirredinhersleepandcurleda
littletighterontheroughcarpet.Nakadaletoutacloudofsmoke.
“What’stherush?”sheasked.ShenoddedtoHayashi.“Letthekidssleepit
off.”
Thesurgeonlookedather,hisfaceflatandunreadable.
“We’vegota jobto do,” he said.Then heturned fromNakada toHayashi,
bentdownandshookthegirl’sknee.
“Haya-chan,”hesaid.
Whenthisproducednoresponsehestraightenedupandbarked:“NurseThird
ClassMaikoHayashi!Frontandcenter!”
Inaninstantthegirlrolledtoherfeetandstoodtoattention.
“Yes,Surgeon-Sergeant!”shebarkedback;andtoNakadaonlyafterthatdid
sheactuallyseemawake.
“Nurse Hayashi, you’re out of uniform!” Shiraoka said. “In five minutes I
want you on deck, dressed, and looking like a Relief Ministry staffer who’s
proudtorepresenthercountryabroad,doyouhearme?”
“Yes, Surgeon-Sergeant!” Hayashi bent to pick up her folded uniform, and
scrambleddownthestairs.
AfteralastglanceatNakada,Shiraokafollowedher.
Nakadasighed,stoodup,andflickedthebuttofhercigarilloovertherail.She
watchedthewatercarryitaway,andthentrailedafterthenurseandthesurgeon.
***
“Doctor?”
Hayashi’svoice came to Nakada in a golden haze, sunlight filtered through
theambulanceboat’syellowplastichull.She’dthrownasheetoverthestained
butcleantableintheboat’sbelow-decksoperatingtheaterandstretchedoutfora
nap,afterdissolvingthreegrainsofthecrookedapothecary’srefinedopiumina
cupoftincturebase.Sherememberedthatclearly,butittookheralittlewhileto
rememberanythingelse,likewhoandwhereshewas.
“Yeah,”shesaid.
“Youmightwanttoseethis,”saidHayashi.
Nakadaopenedhereyes.Shesatup,fumbledforasterilewipe,toreopenthe
packetwithherteethandranthewipeoverherfaceandhands,thesuddenchill
oftheevaporatingalcoholmakinghershiver.
Shefeltgreat.
MyhusbandandsonthinkI’manunnaturalmother.
When I was in Japan I thought my problem was that I was
addicted to helping people. It’s a syndrome so common in the
Ministry that there’s a name for it. Sukuidaorë. “To bring ruin
upon oneself through extravagance in providing aid.” As one
mightbringruinupononeselfthroughextravaganceineating,or
drinking,orgambling.Therearecounselingprograms.
IthoughtIrecognizeditinmyself.And,likemostsufferers,I
didn’t really see it as a problem. Truth be told, counseling
programs or no counseling programs, it’s not a syndrome the
Ministryisallthatinterestedincuring.Aslongastheycanstill
get useful work out of you, sukuidaorë is to them essentially
benign.
Myproblem,asitturnedout,wasnotessentiallybenign.
—fromthepillowbookofDoctor-LieutenantChiëNakada
“Don’tlikethelookofthat,”Hayashisaid,asshecameondeck.
Theriverwasverywidehere,thebankslostbeyondfieldsofdrownedreeds
thatseemedtostretchtothehorizon.Thatmorningthey’dpassedalineofstone
pilings,theremnantsofsomevanishedcauseway,crumbledlikeEurope’spre-
Islamicruins.Thecausewayaheadofthemnowwasconcreteandsteel,much
newer,andlargelyintact.Butitwasn’tthecausewayHayashiwaslookingat;it
was the blackened bodies hanging from it. Dozens of them, and even at a
distanceNakadacouldseethattheywereofallagesandsizes,infantsandgrown
men, children and old people, some hanging by the neck and others by the
ankles.Therewereanimals,too:dogs,pigs,somethingthatmighthavebeena
cat or a rabbit. Birds had been at them, and here and there Nakada could see
rightthroughthem,thebrightblueskyframedbybonesandtatteredrags.
AstheypassedunderthecausewayNakadacranedhernecktolookupatthe
bodies,nottenmetersoverhead.
“They’vebeenthereawhile,”shesaid.
“What about those?” said Ishino. He wasn’t looking up, but ahead, to a
railroadbridgeandaflockofbirdsthattookwheelingtotheairattheambulance
boat’snoisyapproach.
“Thosearerecent,”saidNakada.
As they passed under the second row of bodies only Nakada looked up.
Everyonetriednottobreathe.
“Isthatsmoke?”askedHayashi.
Beyondthe railroad bridge there was an island,wide and low,sandy banks
risingtodenselypackedpines.Agraypallhungoverit.
As Shiraoka took the ambulance boat wide of the island, a semicircle of
yellow-brown beach came into view, and a cluster of single-story wooden
buildings,silver-graywithage;andhauleduponthebeach,adrabgreenthing
liketheshellofametaltortoise,almostastallasthebuildingsandlongerthan
any three of them put together. Somewhere back behind the little wooden
village,intheinterioroftheisland,blacksmokewasrising.
“Amphibiousgunboat,”saidShiraoka.“Andalusian.”
“They’renotsupposedtobehere,”Hayashisaid.“ThisisstilltheZone.”
“Iknow,”saidShiraokagrimly.Hemovedthetiller,andtheambulanceboat
startedtocurvetowardthebeach.
“Whatareyoudoing?”Nakadasaid.
“Pullingin,”saidShiraoka.
“No,”saidNakada.
“This is still the Zone, Doctor,” Shiraoka said, watching the beach. “We’re
responsibleforwhathappenshere.”
“Soradioitin,”saidNakada.“Thefleetcanhaveagyrouphereinacouple
ofhours.”
“Thosebodiesbackthere,Doctor—howlongyoufigureittooktostringthem
up?”
“We’resupposedtobegoingupriver.”
“We’resupposedtobesavinglives,”Shiraokasaid.
“Yousaidityourself,Sergeant,we’vegotajobtodo,”Nakadatoldhim.“I’m
orderingyounottostop.Myassignmenthaspriority.”
“Thisismyboat,Lieutenant,”saidShiraoka.“Tillwegetwhereyou’regoing,
you’rejustapassenger.”Heglancedbackatthecrew.“Hayashi,firstaid,”he
said.“Ishino,stretcher.”Thenheturnedbacktotheboat’sconsoleandrevvedup
thefans.
***
Theypulleduponthebeach,twentyorthirtymetersfromthesteelhulkofthe
gunboat.AnAndalusiansoldierwassittinginthegunboat’supperturret,hisfeet
danglingthroughahatch.HechallengedthemasShiraokakilledtheengines;but
thesurgeononlyroaredsomethingbackathiminIberianArabic,andthereafter
paidhimnoattention.
IgnoringNakadaasdeliberatelyasheignoredtheAndalusiansentry,Shiraoka
grabbedhisownkitandjumpedoutoftheboat.Thenursesscrambledtofollow,
Ishino with one nervous eye on the Andalusian, Hayashi glancing back at
Nakadaanxiously.
Nakadafollowedataleisurelypace.Shecouldhearshots,andscreams.
Ithadprobablybeenafishingvillage,once.Boatshadbeendrawnhighupthe
beachandcarefullystacked,abovethefloodline;theAndalusianshadburned
the wooden ones and shot holes in the ones made of sheet metal. The houses
wereallonshortstilts.Someofthemleanedatcrazyangles,havinghadoneor
twoorthreeoftheirsupportshackedaway.Noteverythinghadbeenburned,but
itallsmelledoffueloilanyhow.Fueloilandblood.
Nakada quickly lost track of Shiraoka and the others. She went toward the
sound of the guns. The screams had stopped and the shots had become very
methodical.
Therehadprobablybeenabouttwentypigs,verysmallones,eachaboutthe
sizeofaShibadog.Thebodieswerepiledtogetherinonecornerofthepen.An
Andalusiansoldierwithajezailslungacrosshisbackwaspullingthemoutof
thepile,onebyone,liningthemupthereinthemud.Ashelaideachoneout,
anothersoldierwithablunderbussshotitinthehead.Athirdsoldier,thisone
withacameraoverhisshoulderaswellasajezail,madeamarkforeachpigina
smallnotebook.
AsNakadapassed,theypausedintheirwork,andallthreeofthemwatched
hergoby.Shedidn’tmakeeyecontact,didn’tspeak.Assheleftthembehindshe
heard again the slap of a fifteen-kilo body hitting mud, and the clap of the
blunderbuss.
***
Thevillagesquarewasonlyabouttenmetersacross,andnotreallyasquare.In
it,therehadclearlybeenoperatingasimilarprocesstotheoneNakadahadjust
witnessed,exceptthatinthiscasethebodieswerehuman.
Aboutadozenstill-livingAntilianswerekneelingontheground,linedupin
frontofwhathadprobablybeenachurchbutwasnowonlyablackenedwooden
frame.Therewerebothboysandgirls.Noneofthemlookedyoungerthantenor
older than fifteen. Most had burns, or wounds of one kind or another, which
Hayashiwasbusytreating;one,tendedbyShiraoka,hadanarmthatwasbadly
broken.
SeveralAndalusiansoldiersstoodwatching.Thesquarewassilentapartfrom
the whimpering of the children and Shiraoka’s low comforting murmur as he
workedonthegirl’sbrokenarm.Ishinowasofftooneside,squattinginthedirt,
staringatthefoldingstretcherthatlayonthegroundnexttohim.Hestoodupas
Nakadaapproached.
“What’sgoingon?”sheaskedhim.
“Thecaptainthere”—IshinonoddedtooneoftheAndalusians,asquare-built
manwithclose-croppedblackhair,asparsebeard,andfeaturesthat,apartfrom
the eyes, might almost have been Japanese—“says he’ll take these kids
somewhere if we can get them patched up. We go along, make sure they get
there.”Thenurse’svoicewasflat,hisexpressionblank.
NakadalookedattheAndalusiancaptain,thenatShiraokaandthegirl.
“Somewherelikewhere?”sheasked,pitchinghervoiceforShiraokatohear.
“Refugeecamp,westbank,”saidtheAndalusiancaptaininheavilyaccented
Japanese.“Safeterritory.”
“Aslavecamp,youmean,”saidNakadainArabic.“InAndalusianterritory.”
Thecaptaininclinedhisheadandsmiledwryly,asortofacknowledgmentof
complicitybetweenprofessionals.Nakadasmiledback.
“It’llsavelives,Doctor,”Shiraokasaid,notlookingupfromthegirlwiththe
brokenarm.“Whichisourjob.”
“Our job,” Nakada said. “Right.” She looked at the shivering children, and
over at the Andalusian captain, and at Shiraoka. Then she knelt down and
opened her formulary kit. Setting aside a can of tincture base and a ten-grain
packetofrefinedopium,sheputtogetherthesmallbrazier;whileitheated,she
filledtheenameledcupwithtincturebase,andstartedtomeasureoutacareful
half-grainfromtheopiumpacket.
Thenshelookedatthechildrenagain,anddumpedthewholepacketintothe
cup.Shetookoutasecondpacketandpouredthatoneinafterit.
***
Whenthetincturewaswellmixed,shetookthecoolingcupandwenttotheend
ofthelineofchildren,givingeachofthemtwofullspoons.Whatwasleftover
afterthatshegavetothegirlwiththebrokenarm.
Shiraoka’slookofgrudgingapprovalturnedtoangerasonebyone,starting
withtheyoungestandsmallest,thechildrenbegantopassout.Theeyelidsofthe
girl in his arms fluttered and closed, and she went limp. Shiraoka felt forthe
pulseinherthroatand,notfindingit,lookedupatNakada.
“Whatdidyoudo?”heasked,hisvoicelowanddangerous.
Nakadafinishedrepackingherformularykitandstoodup.
Calmly,sheanswered:“Itoldyounottostop.”Tothenurses,shesaid:“Pack
up;we’regoing.”
Shiraokasetthedeadgirldown,verygently,andcametohisfeet,hishands
clenchingandunclenching.
“Backtotheboat,Sergeant,”Nakadasaid.“Let’sgo.That’sanorder.”
Thesurgeon’sjawclenched.Thenhebowed,stifflybutwithgreatprecision,
andwent.
***
Nakadasatintheshadeofoneoftheaftpropnacelles,eyeshalf-closed.
“Maybeit’sbetter,”sheheardHayashisay.“Imean,bettertodie,than…”She
trailedoff.
“Hayashi,”Shiraokasaid.“Thatabushiname?”
“No,Sergeant.”
“Yourideahorse,shootabow?Youcomefromabushifamily?”
“No, Sergeant,” she said. “Hyakusho. Farmers.” Nakada saw Hayashi
glancingbackather.
“ThenIdon’twanttohearanymoreofthatbushidobullshit.”
I’dthoughtEspíritoSantowasbeautiful.Iknewthiswasn’t.
We’re supposed to be neutral. But humanitarian aid always
benefits one side or the other in any conflict. Sometimes it
benefits both, but never in any way that balances out. Every
Antilianmouthwefedintheoccupiedterritorieswasamouththe
Andalusianoccupiersdidn’thavetofeed.EverywoundedAntilian
we patched up in the bishops’ lands was another fighter who
could go back into the bush and maybe kill someone else.
MeanwhilemysalarygotpaidandthePureLandersgottofeel
goodaboutthemselvesandtheMinistrygottodoleoutfatno-bid
contractstotheirfavorite companiestorebuild Espírito Santo’s
brokenlevees.
Andasforthewaritself,thatwasaforceofnature,nomore
pointintryingtostopitthanintryingtostopthetyphoon.
I remembered a Christian pageant in Kostantiniyye. Forgive
them,themartyredgodhadsaid,fortheyknownotwhattheydo.
Well,Iknew.Itwasagame,andIwasdoneplayinggames.
Shiraoka was too straight to understand that. But I thought
DosOrsosmight.
—fromthepillowbookofDoctor-LieutenantChiëNakada
LaVitoria—orastheoccupyingAndalusianscalledit,al-Qahirah—wasatthe
edgeoftheExclusionZone.TheeastandwestbranchesoftheAcuamagnacame
together there, the East Branch coming down from the low coastal mountains
somesixteenhundredkilometersaway,theheadwatersoftheWestBranchstill
unmapped, somewhere in the western steppes. The town, on the north shore
betweenthetwobranches,hadbeenaport,agatheringpointforthecommerce
of half a continent. Now the ambulance boat moved across a broad, glassy,
fogboundexpanseofwaterthatseemedperfectlyemptyandperfectlystill.Even
the rumble of the engines seemed muted, and what Nakada was mostly
consciousofwasShiraoka’smutteringoverhischartsandhisradionavigation
system.Shecouldsmellsmoke.
Thesurgeon-sergeantlookedup.“Ishino,”hesaid.“Getthelights.”
Theboywenttotheelectricalpanel,andwithahumthetworotatinglights
that identified the boat as an ambulance, one forward and one aft, spun up,
washingthefogalternatelywithredandyellow.
“Isthatagoodidea?”Nakadaasked.
“Want’emtoknowwe’recoming,”saidShiraoka.
Then Nakada heard the rattle of automatic weapons fire. Without warning,
turbinesroaredtolifesomewhereinthefogofftotheleft,andthegreen-black
bulkofanAndalusiangunboatheaveditselfacrosstheambulanceboat’spath,
closeenoughthatNakadafanciedsheglimpsedapalefacebehindoneofitsslit
gunports;thenitvanishedassuddenlyasithadappeared,leavingtheambulance
boattoleapandplungeacrossitsbroadwake.Fromthedirectioninwhichthe
gunboathaddisappearedcamemoreautomaticfire,andthedeeperthumpingof
aheaviergun,liketheworkingofsomemonstrouspumporpress.
A muffled cry came from Ishino at the bow. Indistinct shapes, low on the
water,becamethesharphullsofsteelcanoes,dozensorhundredsofthem,long
andnarrow,eachholdingperhapsadozenmen,eachseparatedfromtheothers
by no more than its own length, their bows pointing northwest, as precisely
aligned as iron filings in a magnetic field. Shiraoka reduced speed to avoid
running them down, and with a swift movement of paddles the flotilla parted
silentlytolettheambulanceboatpass.Nakadalookeddownintoexpressionless
blackeyes,flatbeardlessfaces,someofthemtattooed,somepaintedwithtiger
stripesofredandblack;notedtheFrankish-stylefatiguejacketsandthefringed
Antilianleggings,thejezailsandrocketsthatlayinthebottomsofthecanoes,
thelongpaddlescaughtinmid-stroke.Thentheambulanceboatpassedthrough
theflotillaandthepaddlesdippedsilentlybackintothewater.
Acoleopterwhirredoverhead,invisibleinthefog.Moregunfirecamefrom
eithersidenow,punctuatedfromtimetotimebylargerexplosions.Smallwaves,
apparentlywithoutcauseororigin,passedundertheambulanceboat’shull.The
airsmelledofgunpowderandwoodsmoke.
Thefogcleared.
LaVitoriawasonfire.
Thewarehousesthatlinedtheriverbankshadalreadybeenreducedtocharred
skeletal frames; the commercial buildings behind were an inferno, sending up
gouts of black smoke, red-lit from below. Waves of the steel canoes were
crossingthelake,andmenwerescramblingoutofthem,upthepilingsofbroken
piers and over the concrete-lined banks. Hovering coleopters poured fire into
them,shellsfromthesteelgunboatsblewthemapart,buttheykeptgoing,andas
Nakadawatchedarocketcaughtoneofthecoleopters,convertingitsstarboard
rotornacelleintoaballofflameandsendingitspinningdownintothewater.
Inthemidstofthelake,arotatingbeaconliketheirownglowedyellowand
red.Shiraokasteeredtowardit.
Ashipwasanchored,orhadrunaground,inthemiddleoftheEastBranch
channel,andatfirstNakadathoughtitwasaMinistryhospitalship.Butnearer
to,itbecameclearthatthegroundedshipwastoosmall,andalsothatthebright
yellowwasonlyalayerofpainthastilysplashedoverahullofpouredcement.A
collectionofyellowplasticshells,air-droppedfieldhospitalunits,hadcolonized
thedecklikesomebrightfungus.
Shiraoka brought the ambulance boat around to the side facing the western
shore,wheretheyfoundanapparentlyemptyfloatingdock.Theydrewupnext
toitandHayashijumpeduptomaketheboatfasttoacleat.Nakadaclimbedout
afterher.
Therewassomethingyellowinthebrownwaterjustaheadofthem.Nakada
lookeddownandrealizeditwasanambulanceboatidenticaltotheirs,stilltied
tothedockbuthalf-sunken;ithadsettleduntiltheinnatebuoyancyofthebullet-
riddledplasticanditsstyrofoamcorewereenoughtobalancetheweightofthe
fans.
“We’reshortonfuel,”ShiraokasaidtoNakada.Henoddedtoanunattended
fuelpump.“Suppliestoo.”
“I’llfindthedoctorincharge,”shesaid.
“I’llgowithyou,”saidHayashi.SincetherivervillageHayashihadtreated
Nakadawithspecialdelicacy,asifNakadawereatraumatizedpatientinneedof
emotionalsupport,payingcarefulattentiontohermoods,constantlytryingtodo
Nakadasmallkindnesses.
“Noyouwon’t,”saidShiraoka.“Ishino,yougo.”
Asteelrampledfromthefloatingdock,alongthecementship’slength,upto
thedeck.Thecorrugatedmetalwasbrownwitholdblood.
“Watchyourstep,”NakadatoldIshino.
Theboysaidnothing.Nakadaglancedbackathim.Thenurse’sbeautifulface
wasblankasasleepwalker’s.Shecouldn’trememberhearinghimspeakafterWe
goalong,makesuretheygetthere.
Assheclimbed,Nakadasawthatthecementship’sbackhadbeenbrokenin
several places. Brown water boiled up through the gaps, between rusted
reinforcingbarsthathadbeenpulledloosefromthecement.Thedeck,between
theyellowhospitalshells,remindedherofPachacamacaftertheearthquake:a
badland of scaffolding, wooden planks, and steel cables bearing fluttering
pennantsofwhitedangertape.
NakadatookonelookinsidethefirsthospitalshellandtoldIshinotowaiton
deck.
She’d seen triage wards before, but never like this. Corpses—nearly all of
themyoungmen,someinAndalusianfatigues,othersintheFrankishjacketsand
traditionalleggingsoftheAntiliantroops—werepiledhaphazardlyatoneend.
Thosenearthebottomofthepileweresoakedintheirownbloodandtheblood
ofthoseabovethem,whichhadpooledonthefloordespitethedrainageholes
cut into the plastic every few centimeters. Nearby, more dead men occupied
severalrowsofcots:thesepresumablytheonesthatsomeone,erroneously,had
thoughtmightbesaved.
Alonenurse,aboutIshino’sage,satslumpedinachairatthefarendofthe
shell from the corpses. He was asleep. Nakada was about to try to rouse him
whensheheardavoicefromanothernearbyhospitalshell.
Thepatientsinthisshellwerenotdeadyet.Therewerefouroperatingtables,
asurgeon-sergeantandagroupofnursesandorderliesbloodytotheelbowbusy
ateachone;thereweremorecots,andmorenursespreppingthepatientsonthe
cotsforsurgery—andmorebodies,thosethathaddiedontheoperatingtables.
Nursesandsurgeonsalikemovedwiththejerkinessofdeepfatigue.Thevoice
Nakadahadheard,shethoughtatfirstwascomingfromoneofthepatients;it
reminded her of sounds she had once heard in Siam, made by the comatose
victimofanantipersonnelmine,duringatrepanningoperationtoremovealarge
pieceofshrapnelfromthefrontofthebrain.Thatpatient’svoicehadsounded
likethis,slowandthickandsomehowcomingfromalongwayaway,asifthe
speakerwereconversingwiththeinhabitantsofaworldnooneelsecouldsee.
Thisvoicecame,Nakadarealized,fromoneofthesurgeons.Shewatchedhim
for a moment, wondering how long he had been working without real sleep,
wonderingifitwasthepatientinfrontofhimhewasoperatingon,oronethat
existedonlyinhisdreams.
Nakadareturnedtothesleepingnurseinthetriagearea.
“Nurse,”Nakadasaid.Shehadtorepeatthewordtwicebeforetheboylooked
up.
“What?”
“Who’sthedoctorinchargehere?”Nakadaasked.
The nurse rubbed his face, looked around the hospital shell with eyes that
seemednottoseethebodies,andthenlookedupatNakada.
“Aren’tyou?”heasked.
Nakadastoodup.“Nevermind,”shesaid.
Shepassedthroughthesurgeryagain,throughtherecoveryareainthenext
shell,andontotheonebehind,whichlookedasthoughitwouldhavebeenthe
dispensary,iftherehadbeenanydrugsinit,andtheoffice,iftherehadbeenany
officers.Nakadafoundneither;onlyamiddle-agedApothecary-Corporal,asleep
onthefloorbehindawritingtable.
Shereacheddownandshookthewoman’sshoulder.Shesatup.
“Yes?”
“KnowwhereIcanfindthedoctorincharge?”Nakadaasked.
The apothecary shook her head. “Killed,” she said. “Stray rocket, two days
ago.” Then her eyes focused on Nakada’s name-tag. “Nakada, is that your
name?”
“Whoelse’swoulditbe?”Nakadaasked.
“Wait,”saidtheapothecary.ShestoodupandwenttoabagmarkedPOST,
rummagedaroundinit,andtookoutascrollcase.Attachedtoitwasapapertag
thatreadNAKADA.
Nakadaacceptedthescroll case andtuckeditintohersleeve.Shetookone
lastlookaroundthedispensary.“Gotanyopium?”sheaskedtheapothecary.
Thewomanonlystaredather.
“Forgetit,”saidNakada.
***
Out on the deck, Nakada opened the scroll case. The letter inside was dated
aboutaweekafterhermeetingwithArakiaboardMappôMaru.Sheunrolledit
andread:
Two months ago Doctor-Lieutenant Sawako Noda, a five-year
MinistryveteranwithconsiderableexperienceinAntiliaandthe
Varangian Rus, was sent up the Acuamagna on an assignment
identicaltoyours.
AsallcontactwithNodawaslostaftershereachedLaVictoria,
the Ministry assumed she had been killed. At the time of your
briefing, therefore, it was not deemed necessary to provide you
withthisinformation.
However, circumstances have changed. Three days after the
incident in Espírito Santo, Andalusian agents intercepted a film
reel believed to originate in Dos Orsos’ organization. The film
reel and accompanying audio cylinder comprised a number of
shortsegmentsofpropaganda.SawakoNodaappearedinoneof
these segments. Her participation is believed to have been
voluntary.
Your assignment remains the same. However, you should be
awarethat,giventhisstateofaffairs,andparticularlyinlightof
the incident at Espírito Santo, the security of your assignment
maybecompromised.
Nakadarolledthenotebackupandreplaceditinthecase.Withoutbothering
totightenthecap,shetossedthecaseintothewater.Itbobbedforamomentin
thefoam,thensank.
***
She found Ishino sitting on the steel cable that marked off one of the cement
ship’s destroyed sections, dangling his sandaled feet over the black water,
watchingtherocketsarcoverhead.
“Comeon,”shesaid.
Theboydutifullyclimbeddownoffthecableandfollowedhertothefloating
dock.
“Youfindthedoctorincharge?”Shiraokaasked.
Nakada shook her head. “Nobody’s in charge here.” She stepped onto the
boat,satdownanddroppedherkittothedeck.“Goaheadandfuelup,andlet’s
getmoving.”
“Whichway,Doctor?”Shiraokaasked.
Nakadastaredathimblanklyforamoment,thenturnedherheadaway.
“Youknowwhichway,”shesaid.
Thesurgeoncamearoundintoherfieldofvision.
“Youseethatoutthere,Doctor?”heasked,noddingtothemendyingasthey
struggledupthebankstowardLaVitoria.“That’swhatthiswaris.That’swhat
Antilia is. People coming over here from across the ocean trying to change
things,tryingtorunthings—peoplebeentryingthateversincethosegoddamn
bishopsshoweduphereathousandgoddamnyearsago!Whatmakesyouthink
youcandobetter?”
Nakadapickedupherkitandstoodup.Itwasstartingtorain.
“Justgetusupriver,”shesaid.
“Why?”Shiraokademanded. “Lookat thisplace! What fuckingassignment
couldyouevenhaveuphere?”
“Justgetusupriver!”Nakadabarked.
Shestaredatthesurgeontillhemovedaside.
Nakadawentbelow.Shestretchedoutontheoperatingtableandclosedher
eyes. After a little while, under the clatter of the rain on the plastic hull, she
heardtheenginesstartingup,andfelttheboatbegintomove.
Upriver.
***
After La Vitoria, the East Branch was a different world. A series of blue and
yellowbannerserectedbytheMinistryoptimisticallypromisedpeaceandsafety
to anyone passing into the Exclusion Zone; and though the ambulance boat
passedtheminthewrongdirection,itwasasifthosehopefulwordshadsome
forcenevertheless.Pastthebanners,therainclosedinbehindthemlikeacurtain
drawnacrosswarandmemory.Theycontinuedupstreambetweengreenbanks
that seemed untouched by violence, quiet without the unnatural silence of
EspíritoSanto,andtheyweretheonlythingmovingontheriver.Ishinobeganto
speakagain,andHayashitosmile,andevenShiraokaseemedtohavedecided
onatrucewithNakada,oratanyrateacease-fire.
***
Theypulledinatafloatingdockbelongingtoanabandonedfarmonthesouth
bank:littlemorethanamismatchedpairofwoodenshedswiththeirroofscaved
in,overlookingaweed-chokedmelonfieldguardedbyasinglescarecrowmade
out of a flapping leather coat stretched over two crossed boards. Ishino and
Hayashi went to pick melons while Shiraoka worked on one of the rotor
nacelles. Nakada stretched out on the roof of the pilothouse. The rain had
stoppedforthemoment,andNakadastaredupintotheblankgrayskywithan
extraordinarysenseofinversion,asifshewerenotbeneaththecloudsbutabove
them,lookingdownontoasilentunknownworld.Shewasnotsurewhethershe
actuallydriftedoff.Butshehadadefinitesenseofbeingstartledfromsleep,just
beforesheheardHayashi’sshriek.
Nakada sat up, and saw the young nurse running—stumbling, staggering,
falling—awayfromthelargershed,swattingatsomethingNakadacouldn’tsee,
whilefromacrossthefieldIshinowatched,dumbstruck.
ShiraokamusthaveseensomethingNakadahadnot;hegrabbedanaidkitand
asackofsignalflaresandjumpedoutontothedock.BythetimeNakadacaught
up with him, he had already lit a pair of smoke bombs, and it was through a
sulfurousyellowcloudthatNakada,coughing,approachedthesurgeonandthe
fallennurse.
“Anaphylacticshock,”saidShiraokacurtly.Lemon-yellowhornets,dozensof
them, their black-banded, bullet-shaped bodies as long as the first joint of
Nakada’slittlefinger,crawledoverHayashi’sblueuniform,dazedbythesmoke.
Thenurse’sfaceandhandsandfeetwereswollenwithstings,andshewasnot
breathing.
ShiraokapoundedHayashi’schest,triedtoblowairintoherlungs.Nakadaset
upherformularykitandstartedmixingadoseofsyntheticephedra;itseemed
thatthelittlebrazierhadnevertakensolongtobringthedosagecuptoaboil.
“Gettheventilator!” Shiraokayelledto Ishino.He tooka tracheotomy tube
from the aid kit and a utility knife from his belt and made an incision across
Hayashi’sswollenthroat,whileNakadaturneduptheheatonthebrazier.
Itdidn’tmatter.Longbeforethemixturewasready,orIshinoreturnedwith
theheavybagcontainingtheaircompressor,Hayashiwasdead.
***
Shiraokatookthebagcontainingtheremainingsmokebombsandflares,setfire
tooneendofit,andtosseditthroughtheopendoorofthelargeshed.Nakada
caught a glimpse of a giant, grotesque lump, more like a termite mound of
Ifriqiyathananysortofhornet’snest;therehadbeensomesortofmachinein
theshed,avehicleorsomepieceoffarmequipment,butthenesthadswollento
completelyengulfit,andnowpressedagainstthesidesofthesmallbuilding.
ThentheyellowsmokebillowedoutandobscuredNakada’sview.
TheyburnedHayashi’sbodyonthebank,analuminumstretcherforherbier,
forherpyrebitsofthelatticethathadheldthemelonvinesandflatboardspried
fromthesidingofthesmallershed.Theyallthreelitincense,andIshinoreada
sutra. It began to rain again; the wet wood burned stubbornly, even after
Shiraoka drenched it in fuel oil, and produced a great deal of white smoke,
which drifted up until it mixed with the low clouds. The wind kept shifting
erratically,andintheendNakadaandtheboat’screwhadtostandseveraltens
ofmetersaway.
Afterthefirehadburnedout,ShiraokahandedNakadaapairofchopsticks,
keeping another for himself. Nakada stared uncomprehendingly at them for a
long moment; then she understood. Wordlessly, she and the surgeon gathered
Hayashi’s bones and placed them in a Ministry-issue steel urn. Nakada found
herselfthinkingoftheyoungnurse’sroundfaceandtannedmuscularlimbs;for
allthatsolidityshe’dhadinlife,herblackenedbonesweresurprisinglylight.
“GetmeuptheRíoBaldío,”Nakadatoldhim.“Towhateverthefirsttownis,
upthere.I’llmakemyownwayafterthat;youandtheboycanheadback.”
“Anything you say, Doctor,” Shiraoka replied coldly. He took the urn and
storeditbelowdecks,andtheycontinuedupriver.
Alittlewhilelatertherainstopped.Aboutthesametimethetreesalongthe
northbankgavewaytoanopenfieldfilledwithglossy-leavedshrubsbearing
flowersofwhiteandpaleyellow,asfarastheeyecouldsee.Itmusthavebeena
plantation,beforethewar,butitwasovergrownnow,theflowersriotingoutof
control,spillingdownthebank.
Thesuncameout.Noonespoke.
Forfourorfivekilometersitwentonlikethat,asifheavenhadfallentoearth
intheformofgardenias.
Thenthetreesclosedinagain,andtherain.
***
ItwasnearnightfalloftheseconddayafterHayashi’sfuneralwhentheycameto
the confluence of the East Fork and the Baldío, and turned southeast, up the
smallerriver.Thebanksnarrowed,closedin,becametheslopingconcretewalls
ofacanal.Theraincamedownharder,hammeringatthegreensurfaceofthe
water, deforming it like metal. Shapes of incomprehensible buildings rose on
eithershore,presentingblankfacestotheriver,cuttingraggededgesagainstthe
lowering sky, but there was nothing that looked like an inhabited town. The
current was strong and the boat seemed to be making almost no headway.
Shiraoka’seyesweremovingconstantly,relentlesslyscanningthewaterahead
forfloatingdebris.
“Can’tseeshit,”hemuttered.
They passed a boat ramp, wide and shallow, its surface a sheet of running
water. Drawn up on it were ten or a dozen bizarre craft, leaning against one
another, looking long abandoned: each as long as the ambulance boat but
narrower, their decks enclosed in riveted plates of sheet-metal and inset with
pop-eyeddomesof glass,their profilesspikedand finnedas if inimitation of
someevilmarinereptileofapastage.Thehullswererustedandsomeofthe
glass domes had been shattered, so the rainwater poured through dark gaping
sockets.
Thencameaweirdlynarrowrailroadbridge,notcantileveredlikethegallows-
bridgesovertheAcuamagnabuthanginginaloosecatenarycurve,thecarsofa
stopped train huddled in the center like beads strung on a wire, all of them
painted in garish colors, glistening in the rain. When the train was directly
overheadNakadasuddenly realized itwasa miniature,thecarsno largerthan
quarter-scale.
Theyroundedabend.
Abruptly,somethinghugeand horrible rose fromtheriverinfrontofthem.
Aniron-blackmonsterwithsevendragonheads,eachnearlyhalfaslargeasthe
boatitself,itseyessmallandredandevil.Waterpouredoffitsspikyblackscales
asitreareditselftoitsfullheight.
Fromfortymetersabove,thesevenheadslookeddownattheambulanceboat,
andwhitefirecrackledalongtheircrestsasallsevenopenedtheirmouthsand
roaredinchallenge.
Shiraokaswore,droppedtheground-effectskirtandthrewthetillerhardover.
Theboatroaredupoutofthewaterandontotheslopingconcretebank.
Nakadalookedbackatthemonster.Itwaspayingthemnoattention,theseven
headsstillroaringdownattheemptystretchofriverwheretheboathadbeen.
Asshewatched,oneheadcrackledwithbluesparksandtheredlightinitseyes
wentout.
“It’sjustamachine,damnit!”sheyelledintoShiraoka’sear.“It’sapuppet!
They’retryingtoscareus!”
Fireworksorgunshotsweregoingoffoneithersideofthecanal.Moreroars,
electric,distorted,cameoutoftherain.Thesurgeon-sergeantroundedonher,his
eyeswild.
“How the fuck do you know, Doctor?” he shouted. “You don’t even know
whatthefuckyou’redoinghere!Youdon’tknowafuckingthing!”
Theboatroaredoverthelipofthebank,plowedthroughachain-linkfence
and down a broad muddy slope. A lake spread out before them, and in the
middle of it a fantastic island rose, crowded with towers, lit with torches and
coloredlights.ShiraokaturnedtoshoutatNakadaagain.
Alineofmulticoloredglobesflickeredtolife,justinfrontofthem.Nakada
ducked. Shiraoka turned back, and the cable caught him across the throat. It
pickedthesurgeonup,snaggedonthecagessurroundingtheforwardfans,and
droppedhim,aswithanawfulcrackingsoundlikelivingbonebreakingthefan
nacelles were wrenched loose from their mountings. Nakada was thrown
forward,intothepilothouse.Herheadslammedagainsttheconsole.
When she recovered her senses, Nakada was staring at Shiraoka’s mottled
face.Hiswindpipehadbeencrushed.Shefeltfortheutilityknifeonherbelt,
uncappedit.Shehadneverperformedatracheotomybefore.Theprocedurethat
hadfailedtosaveHayashi’slifewasthefirstoneNakadahadeverseen.Cutting
wassurgeon’swork.
As she hesitated, trying to decide where to make the incision, she saw
Shiraoka looking at her. She didn’t know what was in his eyes—professional
contempt?orsimplehatred?
Shemovedtheknifeuptocut,andthesurgeongraspedherwrist.Thestrength
inhisbroadhandwasincredible.Shestruggledtopullaway,andfoundherback
upagainstthesideofthepilothouse.Shiraokasqueezed,untilNakadaimagined
she could feel her bones grinding together, and the utility knife dropped. The
surgeon’shandrelaxed.Hiseyelidsclosed,andthenrolledslowlyopen.
Nakadastoodupshakily.Theambulanceboatwasonthelake,turningina
slowcircle.
“Ishino,”shecalled.“Comeuphereandtakethetiller.”
Thenursepulledhimselfupfromthebottomoftheboatandcameforward.
HestoppedwhenhesawShiraoka’sbody.
“He’sdead,”Nakadasaidshortly.“Takethetiller.”
Ishino shook himself and did as he was told, muttering some hypnotic
Nichirenchantunderhisbreath.
“Steertowardtheisland,”Nakadasaid.“Towardthelights.”
A pair of long piers stretched out into the lake, lit by lines of torches in
standing brackets. At Nakada’s nod, Ishino steered the boat between them,
towardabroad,floodlitdockattheend.Thepierswerecrowdedwithpeople.
“Cuttheengine,”Nakadasaidquietly.
Ishinokeptmuttering.Hiseyeswerehalfclosed.
Nakadalookedatthelinesofmenandwomenonthepiers.Thesewerenot
the disciplined, tiger-striped canoe soldiers of La Vitoria. Fringed buckskin
jackets were worn over ragged Andalusian uniforms, or over incongruous
beaded leggings and chests bare but for elaborate tattoos. The neck of each
watcherwashungwithamagpielitterofnecklacesandmedalsandmedallions.
Somehad jezailsorair-guns,andbandoliersorammunitionbeltsslungacross
theirchests;othershadquiversandlongstraightbows.
“Ishino!”shesaid,sharpnow.“Cutthedamnedengine!”
Theboyopenedhiseyes,focusingimmediatelyontheboat’sconsole,tothe
exclusionofeverythingoutside.Hecuttheengine,andmomentumcarriedthem
towardthedock,theboatyawingslightly,aneddyingcurrentstartingtoswing
thesternaround.
Nakadasteppedoutontothebowanduncoiledafewmetersofline.Whenthe
dock was close enough, she jumped across and made the line fast to a cleat.
Thenshelookedup.
Thestructurethatloomedabovethedock,litstarklyfrombelowbyhidden
electric lamps, was a squat, blocky trapezoid ten meters high, with faceless
wingedstatuesatthecorners,animitationofsomesandstoneruinofEgyptor
Persia in concrete and plaster, but overgrown now with crawling vines that
wouldhavenoplaceinthosedesertlands.Silhouettesofmorepeopletoppedthe
roofline.
Nakada went up the slope. The facsimile temple or tomb was only a few
metersthick,littlemorethananarchway;apathlinedwithwornnonskidledup
throughthehalf-darknesstolightbeyond.
As Nakada left the darkness of the archway, the breeze seemed to shift,
bringingwithitataintofrottenness,likepreservedmeatbadlycuredandleftto
spoilinitspackaging.Shecameoutfromunderthearchintoawidecourtyardof
concrete flagstones. More buildings surrounded it, in the same grandiose,
antiquestyle,andmorefancifulstatues.
Alongonesideofthesquarewasarowofcrosses,crudethingscutfromraw
yellowtimber,eachperhapsthreemeterstallandtwoacrossthearms.Oneach
cross,nailedtherewiththickrailroadspikesthroughthebonesofforearmsand
ankles,wasaman.
Acrowdwasgatheringattheoppositeedgeofthesquare:raggedfighterslike
theonesonthecanal,butothers,too:women,andoldmen,andmanychildren,
allquietlywatchingthenewcomer.OneofthewomenwasJapanese.
“Noda?”saidNakada.
Thewomanwatchedherwiththesameimpassiveconcentrationastheothers.
Therewasnosignshehadheard.
Nakada approached the nearest cross. The man on it had been dead, she
guessed,atleastaweek.Birdshadpluckedouttheeyes,andawidetrailoftiny
ants,eachnolargerthanapoppyseed,crawledinandoutoftheopenmouthand
downtheuprightpost.Theman’sclothes,goldandwhiteChinesesilkstained
withbloodand vomit andheavyrain, werethoseof ahighfunctionaryof the
Christianchurch.Greeklettershadbeenbrandedcrudelyintotheman’sforehead
beforehedied,withsomethinglikeahotsteelwire.Nakadamadeouttheword
PPOAGWGOS,whichsheunderstoodasleaderonward.Shesteppedback.
The crowd parted to reveal a small, upright figure: a woman, dressed in a
colorful Antilian garment as shapeless as a horse blanket, her long, gray-shot
blackhairfallingfreeoneithersideofasimplecentralpart.ClaraDosOrsos
wasoldernowthanwhenKawabata’sphotographwastaken,buttherewasno
mistakingtheeyesinherflatAntilianface.
TheVirginof ApalaxiaraisedahandtowardNakada,andthecrowdfellin
aroundher.
***
The room, on an upper floor of one of the mock-sandstone ruins, was dark,
claustrophobic, its doors, its narrow windows and the squared-off arch of its
ceilingallbuiltto two-thirdsscale.Nakada’shair brushedtheceiling, and the
pairofweatherbeatenfemalefighterswhoheldherarmshadtostooptoenter.
“Whatisyourreligion,Doctor?AreyouaBuddhist?”
Dos Orsos’ Greek was fluent, almost unaccented, reminding Nakada of her
professorsinKostantiniyye.Theex-nunsatonalowcot,astripeofgraylight
fromoneofthewindowsfallingacrossherfaceasshelookedupforNakada’s
answer.
“I’madoctor,”Nakadasaid.“Healingismyreligion.”
Nakada’sbagsatonthepalletinfrontofDosOrsos.Shewatchedastheex-
nun upended it, dumping the formulary kit, the packet containing Kawabata’s
ampoules of antipsychotic, the larger packet containing what was left of the
opiumbasefromthecrookedsupply-dockapothecary.DosOrsospickedupthat
packetandtosseditsoitlayunopenedonthefloorhalfwaybetweenthecotand
Nakada.
“You’reanaddict,”DosOrsospronounced.“Opiumisyourreligion.”
Nakadaopenedhermouth,thencloseditagain.Shehadnoanswertothat.
“Whatisthisplace?”sheasked,eventually.
“Whatplace?”
“Thisplace.Thisisland. Thesebuildings.”Nakadanodded herheadtoward
thewindow.“Thatsquare.”
“The island?” said Dos Orsos. “Seven Cities? It was a theme park, once.
Éfeso,Esmirna, Pérgamo,Tiatira,Sardes, Filadélfia, Laodicéia… seven. This
bit,this was Esmirna.”Nakada recognizedthe names fromthe Russian poet’s
litany. “For the Christian tourist trade, the Romans and Franks.” Dos Orsos
smiled sadly. “Your people built most of it, as it happens. It wasn’t very
successful.”
“Andnow?”askedNakada.
DosOrsos was quiet for along time. Then, she respondedwith a question:
“Did they tell you why, Doctor? Why they wanted you to … treat my
condition?”
“They told me you were schizophrenic,” Nakada said. She seemed to be
hearingherownvoicefromalongwayaway,clinical,emotionless,physician’s
notes,anaudio-cylindervoice.“Thatyoumightbepsychotic.”
Inthedarkness,DosOrsos’eyesclosed.
“TheytoldmethatyouwereresponsiblefortheEspíritoSanto…incident,”
Nakadacontinued.“Thatyourpeoplebuiltthe…device.”
“Thebomb,”DosOrsossaid,eyesstillclosed.“Wemustalwaysstrivetocall
thingsbytheirtruenames…”Hereyesopened.“AndamIresponsible,Doctor?”
Nakada looked around the room. It had never been meant for human
habitation.Thewallswereunfinishedwood,thefloorroughcement.Waterwas
running down one wall, pooling in a corner. Dos Orsos’ cot had been nailed
together from unfinished logs, wrist-thick saplings cut down and crudely
stripped.Thebeadeddresstheex-nunworeunderherstripedwoolenmantlehad
beenbeautifuloncebutwasnowpatchedandstained.
“Idon’tknowaboutresponsible,”Nakadasaid.“ButfromwhatI’veseen,I’m
notsureyourpeopleherecouldbuildarooftokeepouttherain.”
***
ThewomentookNakadatoanotherbuilding,ashockinglyordinarytwelve-story
tower block that, apart from the fact that it appeared to have been abandoned
half-finished,wouldnothavelookedoutofplaceinthesuburbsofNaniwaor
Kostantiniyye.ItwasonlyastheyledNakadathroughthedesertedlobbyand
past the steel door of the fire stairs that she realized it was supposed to be a
hotel.
Mostoftheroomsonthefourthfloorwereunfinished,theirdoorwaysgaping
empty,butonehadbeenfittedwithacrudemetalgrill,somethingthatlooked
salvagedfromafactoryor afoundry. Oneofthewomen sliditopen,andthe
otherpushedNakadaintotheroom.TherewasacottherelikeDosOrsos’,its
mattress a simple slab of Annamese latex, yellow foam mottled with brown
stainsandbluemold.Therewererawhidestrapsateachcorner.
Thewomenpushedhertowardit.Nakadabalkedthen,butherMinistryself-
defensekenpocoursewasfarbehindhernowandunlikethecorruptapothecary
backatthesupplydock,Nakada’sAntilianguardswerereadyforher.Aftera
brief struggle she was tied securely down, gasping for breath and trying
fruitlesslytocurlaroundthepainofasharpkneeinthekidneys.
She expected more beating, or worse, but instead she heard the metal grill
clangshut,andthewomenleftheralone,withherself.
***
Therewasnoneed,Nakadathought,fortheAntilianstotortureher;heraddict’s
bodyquicklytookthattaskforitsown.Herheadached.Hermusclesached.Her
spine.Sheitched,alloverherskin,outsideandinsidetoo,asiftheantseatingat
thecorpseofthecrucifiedbishophadfinishedthatmealandstartedonNakada’s
livingflesh.Sheshookasifwithfever,andquicklybecamefevered.Whenshe
was awake, she strained to sleep; when she was asleep, her dreams were
prolonged bouts of hallucinatory terror, in which Shiraoka, Hayashi, the dead
childrenoftherivervillageandthecharreddeadofEspíritoSantoallcameto
herinturn.
She saw the Russian, Semyonov, there, sitting at the foot of the bed, back
straight,legscrossed,armsslackathissides,palmsoutward.
“IcameherethinkingtheNewWorldwasametaphysicalbattlefield,”thepoet
said.HisGreek,inthishallucination,wasmuchbetterthanNakadaremembered
it;orperhapsitwasnotGreekhewasspeakingatall,butRussian,alanguage
which as far as Nakada knew she had never heard. “Wanderers from the Old
World,likeyouandme,weenteratourperil!ButIwaswrong.”
Hehadacquiredanothertattoo,Nakadanoticed,thisoneastylizedfishmade
fromtwointersectingcurves;thescabhadnotyethealed,andtheskinaroundit
wasswollenandred.Shethoughtheshouldgetitlookedat.
“Mypeople,”theRussiancontinued,“yourpeople,theCaliph’speople,even
the bishops—all wrong. The arrogance! It’s beyond preposterous—it’s
perverse.”
“Youthinkallthis—”saidShiraoka,whowassuddenlythere,atthetillerof
theboat;hewavedanarmtotakeinthedilapidatedhotelroom,theisland,the
entire continent—“is just props, for the break-up of one petty Japanese mind.
You’rewrong.”
Shehadothervisitors,moretangible.
Sometimesit wassilent Noda ather bedside, checkingher temperature and
her pulse, bathing her itching skin, salving the raw places on Nakada’s wrists
andankleswhereshestrainedagainsttherawhidestraps,forcingcupsofthisor
thatremedy—butneveropium—downherthroat.
OthertimesitwasDosOrsos.ShewouldtakeoverNoda’snursingduties;or
shewouldsimplysitandlisten,whileNakadascreamedandweptandbegged
foropium,fordeath,forreleasefromhercaptivityorfromhernightmares.
DuringthistimeNakadahadarecurringdream.Shewasstandinginanarrow,
desertedstreetinagreatwhitecityunderagraysky,beforeanopenpairofwide
woodendoors.Beyondthemalongstaircaseledupintodarkness.Intheshadow
atthetopofthestairstherewaited,Nakadaknew,twowomendressedinblack,
oneplump,onethin,thoughshecouldnotseetheminthegloom.Shewasabout
tomakethem,ortheirmaster,apromise—asolemnpromise,foundedonalie.
Sheknewthiswaswrong,butthewhitecityatherbackpushedherforwardona
waveofexpectationandobligation.
Shesteppedthroughthedoorway.
Theskywentbright.
***
Nakada woke. She had the feeling she’d been awake for a long time, but she
didn’tknowhowlong,didn’tknowhowlongshe’dbeenlyingonthecotwith
her eyes open, staring at the dirty plaster ceiling. The rawhide straps that had
boundherwristsandanklesweregone.
Shestoodup.Sunlightwascomingthroughawindow.Sheshuffledovertoit.
Herjointsseemedtobefullofsand.Shefeltathousandyearsold.
Shewantedopium.Notinadesperateway.Justformedicinalpurposes.She
thought that for anyone who felt the way she did, opium should be a basic
humanright.
Outsidethewindow,alongwaydown,shesawNoda.Shewasinthemiddle
ofawideexpanseofgrayconcrete,wearingastripedAntiliangarmentlikeDos
Orsos’, going through a very slow taikyokuken routine. A ring of Antilian
children, perhaps a hundred of them, sat and watched her; Ishino was among
them,wearingafringedAntilianshirtoverhisfadedblueMinistrytrousers.
Nodafinishedherroutine.SheturnedtofacethebuildingNakadawasin,and
salutedintheChinesemanner,backstraight,handstogetherinfrontofherchest.
Thenherhandsdroppedtohersidesandsheloweredherhead.Shestoodthere
likethat,whileheraudiencedriftedawayinonesandtwos.Ishinowasoneof
thefirsttoleave.Thechildrenwereallgone,andNodawasstillstandingthere,
whenNakadaturnedaway.
“Comeout,”saidClaraDosOrsos.“It’snotlocked.”
***
Nakadahadtherunofthepark,moreorless.Shethoughtsheprobablycould
haveleftatanytime,takentheambulanceboatandgonebackacrossthelake
and down the Río Baldío, but something she couldn’t put a name to kept her
there.
Itwasn’tIshino.Theboy,whenNakadasawhim,gavenosignofrecognizing
her,whiletheislandersfortheirparttreatedtheyoungnurselikesomesortof
holy fool, the women giving him food, the children leading him by the hand.
With Nakada they were more wary, as if Dos Orsos’ attention and protection
cameatthecostofsomecontagiousbadluck.
Theinhabitantsleftherlargelyalone,andsoitwasalonethatshewandered
throughtheruinedpark,amongtheimitationruinsthatseemedsomehoweven
less real now that they were truly ruined, stood under the great sign over the
park’s main entrance that spelled out SEVEN CITIES OF GOLD in Antilian,
Latin,andGreek;climbedtheframesofthebrokenridesandexaminedthestill
dioramasformedbyunmovingmarionettesmeanttoillustratethelegendsofthe
Christianapocalypse,watchedtheislandersgoabouttheirlives,watchedfroma
distanceasNodataughtthemtherudimentsofreikiandacupuncture.
Inthe“city”calledFiladélfia,therewasamoreorlessfullyfunctionalfilm
studio. It was here, Nakada supposed, that Noda had made the propaganda
segmentreferredtointhemessagegiventoheratLaVitoria,butitseemedto
havefallenintodisusesincethen.Nakadaplayedafewoftheaudiocylinders,
selectedmoreorlessatrandom.Therecordings,almostinvariablyofDosOrsos’
voice,wereinAntilian,butshecouldmakeoutawordhereandthere.Mainly
thesewerefamiliarnames:Antilia,Andalus,EspíritoSanto;buttherewereother
words as well, that grew familiar through repetition: bispos, mártires, bomba,
Anticristo,Babilônia.
And,eventually,always,shefoundherselfreturningtoDosOrsos’room,in
thesectionofparktheex-nunhadcalledEsmirna.
***
“You know I’m not cured,” she told Dos Orsos once. “You can’t cure opium
addictionthroughsimplewithdrawal.Thedrugcauseslong-termchangesinthe
hypothalamusandthepituitarygland.”
“Itdoesn’tmatter,”DosOrsostoldher.“Andperhapsifyouwerecuredyou’d
nolongerbeofanyusetome.”
Nakadaknewthatbythistheex-nunwasreferring,obliquely,toNoda,though
shedidn’tknowjustwhatDosOrsosmeant.
“Likethebishopsweren’tofanyuse?”Nakadaasked,glancingdownintothe
courtyard.
DosOrsosdidn’tanswer.Instead,sheasked:“HaveyoueverbeentoCórdoba,
Doctor?”
“Once,”saidNakada.
“DidyouvisittheMathafal-Andalus,thegreatmuseuminMadinatas-Zahra,
thepalaceofAbdar-Rahman?”
Nakadashookherhead.ShehadvisitedtheAndalusiancapitalonaholiday,
withadozen otherstudents fromKostantiniyye.Her memoriesof the greatest
city of the Western world mostly involved a series of drinking houses, dance
hallsandhashishparlorsalongthelowerWadial-Kabîr.
“Before the convent, I lived in Córdoba for seven years,” Dos Orsos said.
“ThereareagreatmanypoorAntiliansinIberiaandItalia,didyouknowthat?
ThelanguagesareeasierthanmostforanAntiliantolearn,andthemoroshardly
distinguishoneChristianfromanother.AgroupofRomanmissionariestookme
andseventeenothergirlsfromourhomeshereandbroughtustoCompostela.
ForafewyearstheytaughtusLatinandGreek,thentheyranoutofmoney.With
threeothergirlsImadeittoCórdoba,becauseifyouarepoorandaloneinIberia
thatiswhatyoudo,yougotoCórdoba…Andtherewefellinwithaprocurer.
Isprocurercorrect?”Thewordsheusedwasπροαγωγος.
“Ματυλλος,”Nakadasupplied:pimp.
“Ah,yes.”DosOrsossaid.“It’snotawordmuchusedinecclesiasticalGreek,
youknow,thoughperhapsitshouldbe…Well,thispimp,hewasacleverman.
ThethreeothergirlsandI,wewerestilltooyoungfortheordinarysortofwork.
Butwecouldreadandwrite.WespokeAntilianandGreek.Andhehadsome
othergirlsouragewhospokeFrankishandArabic—evenonewho,don’taskme
how,spokeChinese.AndhesentusouttoMadinatas-Zahraandthecourtyard
oftheMathafal-Andalustobeg.
“Now,youwillbeaskingyourself:‘What’ssocleveraboutthat?’”
Nakada,whohadnothadanythoughtsoconcrete,saidnothing.
“Whatisclever,”saidDosOrsos,“isthis:Hedidn’tsimplysendusouttobeg.
Firsthedressedusinrespectableclothes.Hehadoneoftheoldergirlsdoour
hairinarespectableway—sober,withwhitescarves,likelittlemoroschoolgirls.
Andhewenttoaprinter,andhadtheprintermakeupsomeformsthatsaid,in
five or six languages, Association for the meritorious relief of the poor and
dispossessed,orsomethingsimilarlyimpressiveandofficial.Andsuddenlywe
weren’tamoboflittlebeggargirls,wewerecollectorsofalmsforacharitable
cause.WetookinmoremoneyinanhourthanmostoftheMathafbeggarsmade
inaday,andeveryonewhogaveittousgotacarbon-copiedreceipt.”
“Andthepimpgotacopyofthereceipt,too,”Nakadaguessed.“Soheknew
youweren’tholdingoutonhim.”
“Verygood.”
“Andthebishops?Theπροαγωγοι?”Nakadaasked.
“Make not thy daughter a common strumpet, lest the land be defiled, and
filledwithwickedness,”Dos Orsosrecited,andNakadasupposedthat was her
answer.
Butshethoughtthenthatitwasnotunderstandingtheex-nunexpectedfrom
her,butsomethingelse.
Iwastherefordays;maybeforweeks.
Theyallwantedthesamething—theMinistry,Doctor-General
Araki, Araki’s slick Caliphate drinking companion, even Dos
Orsos. Even Noda probably preferred Dos Orsos the martyr to
DosOrsostheprophet.
ButIwasn’tthereforthem.NotforNodaandDosOrsos,not
for Araki and the politicians, and I couldn’t even pretend any
morethatIwastherefortheMinistry.
ThePureLandSchoolbelievesthatthroughtheintercessionof
theAmidabuddhawecanallreachsalvationinasinglelifetime.
As to the exact mechanism by which this is to be achieved,
opinionsdiffer.SomesaythatthroughrepetitionofAmida’sname
oneachievesrebirthnotinthisworldbutinthePureLand,where
all who are born are reborn into Nirvana. Others say that
NirvanaisthePureLanditself.
AllIknowis,Amidahashisworkcutoutforhim.
—fromthepillowbookofDoctor-LieutenantChiëNakada
Onenight,Nakadawoketothesoundofbells.
Shelookedoutthewindowofherroom—nottheroomintheunfinishedhotel
butanotherthatshehadappointedforherself,inafaux-Romanbuildinginthe
citycalledPérgamo—andsawthesquarebelowfilledbyaprocessionofsilent
marchers.Themarchersworelongwhiterobesandtallblackhoods;theycarried
palecandles,andthecandleswereastallasthemarchersthemselves.Theirbare
feetmadenonoiseontheflagstones.
The bells were carried by a small handful of marchers, perhaps one in ten;
these were followed by great gilded palanquins, on which more candles were
arrayed around central figures, seated or standing: a bearded king in purple
robes,awomanallinwhitecarryinganinfantchild,anotherwomaninblack,
weeping. Canopies were stretched above each palanquin, from which hung
glittering drops of crystal and tiny silver mirrors like coins, that caught the
candlelightand reflectedit in alldirections; Nakada could hear themtinkling,
overtheringingofthebells.
Shewentdownintothesquare.Inthedarkbeyondthecandles,acrowdof
islanderswatchedtheprocessiongoby.Fromtimetotimeoneofthemarchers
wouldcallout,andthe crowd, together, wouldchantaresponse. Many ofthe
crowdworeuniformsofasortNakadadidn’t recallseeingbefore:red,witha
crest in the shape of a seven-pointed star. The uniforms were threadbare but
clean;somehadnamebadges.
It was only when she noticed the same crest pressed into the concrete
cornerstoneofabuildingthatNakadarealizedthatmanyoftheislandersthatshe
had taken for guerrilla fighters, or aboriginal Antilian savages in a state of
nature,wereonlythethemepark’sformeremployeesandtheirfamilies.
Andthen,behind thepalanquins andthe silent marcherswith theircandles,
camethemachines.
Therewereriders,largerthanlife,electricallylitfromwithinandmountedon
horsesthatleakedsteamfromtheirjoints.Therewasthedragonthathadroared
attheambulanceboatfromtheriver,itsburnt-outheadagaininworkingorder.
Thereweremonsterswhoseheadsweretheheadsofbeastsandwhose bodies
werecoveredineyes.Therewerecitiesandtemplesandcastlesthatmovedon
wheels,lightstwinklingbehindeverytinywindow.
Theprocessionmoved throughthe sevencities,in theorder Semyonovand
Dos Orsos had named them: Éfeso, Esmirna, Pérgamo, Tiatira, Sardes,
Filadélfia,Laodicéia.Nakadafollowed.
In the central square, the crucified skeletons of the bishops watched over a
mock battle between a great red snake and an angel in golden armor. Nakada
sawIshinolookingupatthebattlingfiguresinawe.Atrapdooropened,andthe
snakesankdownintoit,andacheerwentupfromthecrowd.
DosOrsos wasnowhere tobe seen.Nakada lookedup toward the ex-nun’s
window,andsawaflashofwhite.Shemadeherwaytothebackofthecrowd
andwentupintoDosOrsos’building.
***
The ex-nun was seated on the bed. Nakada’s formulary kit lay open on the
mattress in front of her. Dos Orsos had found, or someone—Noda? Nakada
didn’t think so—had shown her, the trick panel that concealed Kawabata’s
ampoulesofexperimentalantipsychotic.
“Theyusedtodothiseverynight,”DosOrsossaid,lookingoutthewindow.
“Notthecandles,buttheparade,thelights.”Therewas a soundlikeamortar
beingfired,andastarshellburstsomewherefarabove,sendingawashofred
lightacrosstheroom.“AndIheard,asitwerethevoiceofthunder,oneofthe
fourbeasts,saying:Comeandsee;andIsaw…”
SheturnedtoNakada.“Itdoesn’tmatterwhobuiltthebomb,”shesaid.“Say
thebishopsbuiltit,andfearedtouseit.Itdoesn’tmatterwhosetitoff,orwhy,
whetheritwasdoneinmyname,orthebishops’,orthenameoftheCaliphof
Córdoba.”
“OrthenameoftheRegentofYoshino,”Nakadasuggested.
DosOrsosinclinedherhead.
Fromthecourtyard,Nakadaheardthesoundoftrumpets.Shelookeddown,
andsaw that a throne had risen up fromthe ground, andseated on itwas the
figureofawhite-hairedmaninEuropeanrobes.Sevenangelsstoodinfrontof
thethrone,eachwithanopenbook.
“And the books were opened,” Dos Orsos recited. “And another book was
opened,whichisthebookoflife:andthedeadwerejudgedoutofthosethings
whichwerewritteninthebooks,accordingtotheirworks.”
Nakadathoughtofthechildrenintherivervillage.ShethoughtofHayashi’s
pyre,andthenofHayashiherself,asshehadfirstseenher,inthesunlightofthe
GulfofMexico.Shethoughtforthefirsttimeinweeksofherownhusbandand
son,who,shewassurenow,shewouldneverseeagain.
“Youunderstand,”DosOrsossaidsuddenly,asifshehadseenthethoughtin
Nakada’smind.“ThebloodofthechildrenofEspíritoSantoisonallourhands.
Allof uswill answeron the day of judgment.Now all thesethingshappened
untothemforensamples,”shesaid,“andtheyare writtenforour admonition,
uponwhomtheendsoftheworldarecome.”
Nakada looked down at the open formulary kit. She wondered for the first
time,andwassurprisedtorealizeitwasforthefirsttime,whatthoseampoules
actuallycontained.
“Iknowwhosebloodisonmyhands,”shetoldDosOrsos.“It’snotformeto
tellyouwhoseisonyours.”
Sheturnedtogo.Inthedoorway,shehesitated.
“I’msorry.”
***
InthemorningshefoundIshino,tookhimbythehand,andledhimdowntothe
dock,wheretheambulanceboatwasstilltiedup.Oneoftheremainingengines
startedonthesecondtry.
Shetookthe boatacross thelake—notwest, towardthe channel ofthe Río
Baldío,buteast.Ontheeasternshore,inthesmalltownofSanLucas,shetraded
theboat and most ofits contents for a pack llama, a waterbag, and two wool
blankets,keepingonlyonebagofmedicalsuppliesandanotherofsoyflakesand
rice.Shefoundaroadleadingupintothehills.
Nearthetopoftheridge,shelookedbackonce.Therewasablackbankof
cloudsonthesouthernhorizon,andbelowthemanimpenetrabledarkness.But
here, the sun was out, the dirt track was lined with poplar trees, and the air
smelledcleanandfresh.ShetookoutShiraoka’schart,andmadecertainofher
direction:awayfromthewar,intotheblankplacesonthemap.
Somewheretheremustbepeoplewhohadneverheardofal-Andalus,orof
Japan,orofanyone’sendoftheworld.
Nakadaletthechartflutterawayonthewind.InonehandshetookIshino’s
again,andintheotherthellama’sleadrope,andtheystartedwalking.Shedidn’t
lookbackagain.
AgainandAgainandAgain
RACHELSWIRSKY
Here’sanincisiveandamusingstudyoffutureshockplayedout
over a number of generations, showing us once again that the
morethingschange,themoretheyremainthesame.…
New writer Rachel Swirsky has published in Subterranean,
Tor.com, Interzone, Fantasy Magazine, Weird Tales, and
elsewhere, and her work has been nominated for the Hugo,
Nebula,and SturgeonAwards. Her mostrecent books are Eros,
Philia, Agape; A Memory of Wind, a collection, Through the
DrowsyDark,and,aseditor,theanthologyPeopleoftheBook:A
DecadeofJewishScienceFiction&Fantasy,coeditedwithSean
Wallace.
ItstartedwithLionelCaldwell,bornin1900tostrictMennoniteswhobelieved
drinking,dancing,andwearingjewelryweresinsagainstGod.AssoonasLionel
wasoldenough,hefledtothedecadentcitywherehedrankhardliquorfrom
speakeasies,cursedusingtheLord’sname,anddancedwithwomenwhowore
bobbiesocksandchin-lengthhair.
Lionel made a fortune selling jewelry. Rubies and sapphires even kept him
flushduringtheGreatDepression.Hebelievedhisrichescouldseehimthrough
anytrouble—andthenArtwasborn.
Lionelhadlefthisbreedinglate,soArtgrewupinthesixties.Herejectedhis
father’s conservative values in favor of peace, love, and lack of hygiene. He
datednegroesandjewessesshamelessly,andgrewouthisdarkhairuntilitfellto
hiswaist.
“Whatthehellhaveyoudone?”demandedLionelwhenArtcamehomefrom
college,ponytailtrailingdownhisback.BeforeArtcoulddefendhimself,Lionel
slammeddownhiswhiskeyglass.“Youmakemesick,”hesaid,andstormedout
oftheden.
EventuallyArtannoyedhisfatherfurtherbymarryingaJewesswhosefather
wasaHollywoodproducer.Reluctantly,Lionelattendedthewedding.Drunkon
the generous bar provided by Art’s new father-in-law, Lionel became open-
hearted.“YouallarethegoodkindofJews,”heexplainedtoJackFieldstonené
Goldmanoverthechampagnetoast.Forthesakeoffamilyharmony,Jackheld
histongue.
Art’swifeEstherwasacareerwomanwithaprofessorshipinArtHistoryat
SanFranciscoStateCollege.Shemadeitclearthatchildrenwerenothappening
until she had tenure and so their two daughters weren’t born until the mid-
eighties.
Sagewastheelder,roundwithbaby-fat,andgruffinsteadofsweet.Shewore
herhairinarainbow-dyedMohawk,thrustaringthroughhernose,andstomped
around in chains and combat boots. She earned cash fixing the neighbors’
computers,andspentherprofitsonacidtabsandE.
Theyoungerdaughter,Rue,appearedmoredemure—butonlyuntilshetook
off her loose sweatshirts and jeans to reveal her extensive tattoos and DIY
brands. Tribal tattoos patterned her arms down to the wrists, making her own
paleskinlooklikeapairofgloves.Cartooncharactersandbrandnamesformed
asarcasticbillboardonherback.Japanesekanjispelledout“Abandonallhope
yewhoenterhere”onherinnerthighs—whichhadonmultipleoccasionshelped
hersiftwheatfromchaff.Sheexplainedthatshewassavingupforsomething
calledlacing,whichmadeevenSageretchalittlewhensheheardwhatitwas.
“Ifeelsorryforyoutwo,”ArttoldSageandRue.“Allmygenerationhadto
dotoaggravateourparentswasgrowoutourhair.What’sgoingtohappento
yourchildren?”
Sageturnedouttobethebreeder,soshegottofindout.Hereldestson,Paolo,
joinedan experimentalproduct trialto replace his eyes, nose,and ears witha
sensitive optic strip. Lucia crossed her DNA with an ant’s and grew an
exoskeletonthatcameinhandywhensherenouncedherparents’conscientious
objectorstatusandenlistedinthearmy.Javierquitcollegetojoinacolonyof
experimentaldiseasistsandwasgenerousenoughtoincludephotographsofhis
mostrecentmaladieseveryyearinhisholidaycards.
Thingsgotworse,too.BythetimePaolohadkids,limbregenerationwasthe
fashion.Teenscompetedtoshockeachotherwithextrememutilations.Paolo’s
youngest,Gyptia,wonaduelwithherhighschoolrivalbycuttingoffherown
legs,arms,breasts,andsensoryorgans.
When he saw what she’d done, Paolo stifled his urge to scream. “’Pie,” he
said,carefully,“isn’tthisgoingabitfar?”
Gyptiawaiteduntilsheregrewhereyes,andthensherolledthem.
By the time Gyptia reached adulthood, life spans had passed the half-
millenniamark.Hergenerationdelayedfamilylife.Whygothroughallthefuss
ofraisingbabiesnowwhentheycouldstayfancy-freeforanotherfewdecades?
Atthreehundredandfifty,Gyptia’sbiologicalclockproclaimeditselfnoisily.
She backed out of the lease on her stratoflat and joined a child-friendly
cooperative in historical Wyoming that produced wind energy. Current and
formerresidentsravedaboutitsdiversity.Theco-opevenincludedafewnuclear
familiesbondedbyancientreligiousrituals.
Gyptia’s daughter, Xyr, grew up surrounded by fields of sage brush dotted
with windmills. She and her friends scrambled up the sandstone bluffs and
pretendedtoliveinstratoflatsliketheonestheirparentshadleftbehind.
Every option was open to Xyr: a vast range of territory for her to explore,
monthlytripstoseethetechnologicalandartisticwondersofthemodernworld,
educationalandentertainmentdatabaseslinkedinbyspeedpulse.Herneighbors
included: polyamorists, monogamists, asexuals, traditionalists, futurists,
historics, misanthropists, genetic hybrids, biomechanical biblends, purists,
anarchists,exortates,xenophiles,menthrads,ovites,alvoresandilps.
Xyrgrewherhairlongandstraight.Shehadnointerestinrecreationaldrugs
beyondasipofwineatholidays.Sherejectedamixofeagleandbatgenesto
improveherhearingandeyesight,andshekeptherskinitsnaturalmultiracial
browninsteadoftransfusingtoafashionablescarlet.
When all the adults got nostalgic and gathered to inject themselves with
Lyme’sdiseaseandrubellaandchickenpox,Xyrandherfriendshelddanceson
thesagebrushfields,drapingstreamersfromthewindmills.
Gyptiapleadedwithherdaughtertodosomethingnormal.“Onehand,”she
begged.“Justtherightone.Cleanoffatthewrist.Itwon’ttakehardlyanytime
togrowback.”
Xyrflippedhersleekblondeponytail.Shepulledacardiganoverherjumper
andclaspedthetopbuttonmodestlyatherthroat,leavingtheresttodrapeher
shoulders like a shawl. “Mom,” she said, with a teenage groan that hadn’t
changedovercenturies.“Atleasttrynottobesocrink.”
GyptiafrettedasshestoodbythedoorwatchingXyrstrideouttomeether
friendsonthewindyfields,herrosesweaterflutteringbehindher.
IthurtsomucheverytimeGyptiarealizedanewthattherewasreallynothing
shecoulddo,nowayshecouldprotectXyrfromanythingthatmattered,upto
andincludingherself.Thatwasoneoftheultimatedifficultiesofparenting,she
supposed,tryingtoimposeanoldergeneration’sthoughtpatternsuponemerging
ways of thinking. There would always be chasms between them, mother and
daughter.GyptiahadtotrytoprotectXyranyway.Gyptialetthedooririsclose
andwentuptoherroomtocutoffafingerortwoanddoherbestnottoworry.
ElegyforaYoungElk
HANNURAJANIEMI
NewwriterHannuRajaniemiwasborninYlivieska,Finland,but
currentlylivesinEdinburgh,Scotland,wherehereceivedaPh.D.
instringtheory.HeisthecofounderofThinkTankMaths,which
providesconsultationserviceandresearchinappliedmathematics
andbusinessdevelopment.HeisalsoamemberofWriters’Bloc,
anEdinburgh-basedspoken-wordperformancegroup.Rajaniemi
has had a big impact on the field with only a few stories. His
storyfrom2005,“DeusExHomine,”originallyfromtheScottish
regionalanthologyNovaScotia,wasreprintedinseveralBestof
theYearanthologies,includingthisone,andwasoneofthemost
talkedaboutstoriesoftheyear,aswashisInterzonestory “His
Master’sVoice”in2008.Hisfirstnovel,TheQuantumThief,was
publishedin2010toagreatdealofcriticalbuzzandresponse.
LikeBruceSterling,GregEgan,andCharlesStrossbeforehim,
Rajamiemiisawriterwhocranksthebit-rateupaboutashighas
it can go and still remain comprehensible (although there will
almost certainly be some who think that he doesn’t remain
comprehensible,theusualfateofcuttingedgewriters), and this
slender story, set in a postapocalyptic future society where
posthumans with godlike powers are at war, manages to jam
enoughhigh-conceptintoafewpagestofuelafour-hundred-page
novel.
The night after Kosonen shot the young elk, he tried to write a poem by the
campfire.
ItwaslateAprilandtherewasstillsnowontheground.Hehadalreadytaken
tosittingoutsideintheevening,onalogbythefire,inthesmallclearingwhere
hiscabinstood.Otsowasmorecomfortableoutside,andhepreferredthebear’s
companytobeingalone.Itsnoredloudlyatopitspileoffirbranches.
Awetsmellthathadtracesofelkshitdriftedfromitsdryingfur.
Hedug a soft-cover notebook anda pencil stub from hispocket. He leafed
throughit:mostofthepageswereempty.Wordshadbecomeslippery,harderto
catch than elk. Although not this one: careless and young. An old elk would
neverhaveletamanandabearsoclose.
Hescatteredwordsonthefirstemptypage,grippingthepencilhard.
Antlers. Sapphire antlers. No good. Frozen flames. Tree roots. Forked
destinies.Therehadtobewordsthatcapturedthemomentwhenthecrossbow
kickedagainsthisshoulder,themeatysoundofthearrow’simpact.Butitwas
liketryingtocatchsnowflakesinhispalm.Hecouldbarelyglimpsethecrystal
structure,andthentheymelted.
Heclosedthenotebookandalmostthrewitintothefire,butthoughtbetterof
itandputitbackintohispocket.Nopointinwastinggoodpaper.Besides,his
lasttoiletrollintheouthousewouldrunoutsoon.
“Kosonen is thinking about words again,” Otso growled. “Kosonen should
drinkmorebooze.Don’tneedwordsthen.Justsleep.”
Kosonenlookedatthebear.“Youthinkyouaresmart,huh?”Hetappedhis
crossbow.“Maybeit’syouwhoshouldbeshootingelk.”
“Otsogoodat smelling.Kosonen atshooting.Both goodat drinking.”Otso
yawnedluxuriously,revealingrowsofyellowteeth.Thenitrolledtoitssideand
letoutasatisfiedheavysigh.“Otsowillhavemoreboozesoon.”
Maybethebearwasright.Maybeadrinkwasallheneeded.Nopointinbeing
apoet:theyhadalreadywrittenallthepoemsintheworld,upthere,inthesky.
Theyprobablyhadpoetrygardens.Orplaceswhereyoucouldbecomewords.
But that was not the point. The words needed to come from him, a dirty
beardedmaninthewoodswhosetoiletwasaholeintheground.Brightwords
fromdarkmatter,that’swhatpoetrywasabout.
Whenitworked.
Therewerethingstodo.Thesquirrelshadalmostpickedthelocktheprevious
night, bloody things. The cellar door needed reinforcing. But that could wait
untiltomorrow.
He was about to open a vodka bottle from Otso’s secret stash in the snow
whenMarjacamedownfromtheskyasrain.
***
Therainwassuddenandcoldlikeabucketofwaterpouredoveryourheadin
the sauna. But the droplets did not touch the ground, they floated around
Kosonen. As he watched, they changed shape, joined together and made a
woman, spindle-thin bones, mist-flesh and muscle. She looked like a glass
sculpture. The small breasts were perfect hemispheres, her sex an equilateral
silver triangle. But the face was familiar—small nose and high cheekbones, a
sharp-tonguedmouth.
Marja.
Otso was up in an instant, by Kosonen’s side. “Bad smell, god-smell,” it
growled.“Otsobites.”Therain-womanlookedatitcuriously.
“Otso,” Kosonen said sternly. He gripped the fur in the bear’s rough neck
tightly, feeling its huge muscles tense. “Otso is Kosonen’s friend. Listen to
Kosonen.Nottimeforbiting.Timeforsleeping.Kosonenwillspeaktogod.”
Thenhesetthevodkabottleinthesnowrightunderitsnose.
Otsosniffedthebottleandscrapedthehalf-meltedsnowwithitsforepaw.
“Otso goes,” it finally said. “Kosonen shouts if the god bites. Then Otso
comes.”Itpickedupthebottleinitsmouthdeftlyandlopedintothewoodswith
abear’sloose,shufflinggait.
“Hi,”therain-womansaid.
“Hello,” Kosonen said carefully. He wondered if she was real. The plague
godswerecrafty.OneofthemcouldhavetakenMarja’simagefromhismind.
He looked at the unstrung crossbow and tried to judge the odds: a diamond
goddessversusanout-of-shapewoodlandpoet.Notgood.
“Yourdogdoesnotlikemeverymuch,”theMarja-thingsaid.Shesatdown
onKosonen’slogandswungitsshimmeringlegsintheair,backandforth,just
likeMarjaalwaysdidinthesauna.Ithadtobeher,Kosonendecided,feeling
somethingjaggedinhisthroat.
He coughed. “Bear, not a dog. A dog would have barked. Otso just bites.
Nothingpersonal,that’sjustitsnature.Paranoidandgrumpy.”
“SoundslikesomeoneIusedtoknow.”
“I’m not paranoid.” Kosonen hunched down and tried to get the fire going
again.“Youlearntobecareful,inthewoods.”
Marja looked around. “I thought we gave you stayers more equipment. It
looksalittle…primitivehere.”
“Yeah.Wehadplentyofgadgets,”Kosonensaid.“Buttheyweren’tplague-
proof.IhadasmartgunbeforeIhadthis”—hetappedhiscrossbow—“butitgot
infected.Ikilleditwithabigrockandthrewitintotheswamp.I’vegotmyskis
andsometools,andthese.”Kosonentappedhistemple.“Hasbeenenoughso
far.Socheers.”
Hepiledupsomekindlingunderatriangleofsmalllogs,andinamomentthe
flamessprungupagain.Threeyearshadbeenenoughtolearnaboutwoodcraft
atleast.Marja’sskinlookedalmosthumaninthesoftlightofthefire,andhesat
backonOtso’sfirbranches,watchingher.Foramoment,neitherofthemspoke.
“Sohowareyou,thesedays?”heasked.“Keepingbusy?”
Marjasmiled.“Yourwifegrewup.She’sabiggirlnow.Youdon’twantto
knowhowbig.”
“So…youarenother,then?WhoamItalkingto?”
“Iamher,andIamnother.I’mapartial,butafaithfulone.Atranslation.You
wouldn’tunderstand.”
Kosonen put some snow in the coffee pot to melt. “All right, so I’m a
caveman. Fair enough. But I understand you are here because you want
something.Solet’sgetdowntobusiness,perkele,”heswore.
Marja took a deep breath. “We lost something. Something important.
Somethingnew.Thespark,wecalledit.Itfellintothecity.”
“Ithoughtyoulotkeptcopiesofeverything.”
“Quantuminformation.Thatwasapartofthenewbit.Youcan’tcopyit.”
“Toughshit.”
AwrinkleappearedbetweenMarja’seyebrows.Kosonenremembereditfrom
athousandfightstheyhadhad,andswallowed.
“Ifthat’sthetoneyouwanttotake,fine,”shesaid.“Ithoughtyou’dbegladto
seeme.Ididn’thavetocome:theycouldhavesentMickeyMouse.ButIwanted
toseeyou.ThebigMarjawantedtoseeyou.Soyouhavedecidedtoliveyour
lifelikethis,asthetragicfigurehauntingthewoods.That’sfine.Butyoucould
atleastlisten.Youowemethatmuch.”
Kosonensaidnothing.
“Isee,”Marjasaid.“YoustillblamemeforEsa.”
Shewasright.IthadbeenherwhogotthefirstSantaClausmachine.Theboy
needs the best we can offer, she said. The world is changing. Can’t have him
beingleftbehind.Let’smakehimintoalittlegod,liketheneighbor’skid.
“IguessIshouldn’tbeblamingyou,”Kosonensaid.“You’rejusta…partial.
Youweren’tthere.”
“Iwasthere,”Marjasaidquietly.“Iremember.Betterthanyou,now.Ialso
forgetbetter,andforgive.Younevercould.Youjust…wrotepoems.Therestof
usmovedon,andsavedtheworld.”
“Great job,” Kosonen said. He poked the fire with a stick, and a cloud of
sparksflewupintotheairwiththesmoke.
Marjagotup.“That’sit,”shesaid.“I’mleaving.Seeyouinahundredyears.”
Theairgrewcold.Ahaloappearedaroundher,shimmeringinthefirelight.
Kosonenclosedhiseyesandsqueezedhisjawshuttight.Hewaitedforten
seconds.Thenheopenedhiseyes.Marjawasstillthere,staringathim,helpless.
Hecouldnothelpsmiling.Shecouldneverleavewithouthavingthelastword.
“I’m sorry,” Kosonen said. “It’s been a long time. I’ve been living in the
woodswithabear.Doesn’timproveone’stempermuch.”
“Ididn’treallynoticeanydifference.”
“Allright,”Kosonensaid.Hetappedthefirbranchesnexttohim.“Sitdown.
Let’sstartover.I’llmakesomecoffee.”
Marjasatdown,bareshouldertouchinghis.Shefeltstrangelywarm,warmer
thanthefirealmost.
“Thefirewallwon’tletusintothecity,”shesaid.“Wedon’thaveanyone…
humanenough,notanymore.Therewassometalkaboutmakingone,but…the
argumentwouldlastacentury.”Shesighed.“Weliketoargue,inthesky.”
Kosonengrinned.“Ibetyoufitrightin.”Hecheckedforthewrinklebefore
continuing.“Soyouneedanerrandboy.”
“Weneedhelp.”
Kosonen looked at the fire. The flames were dying now, licking at the
blackenedwood.Therewere alwaysnewcolours intheembers. Or maybehe
justalwaysforgot.
HetouchedMarja’shand.Itfeltlikeasoapbubble,barelysolid.Butshedid
notpullitaway.
“Allright,”hesaid.“Butjustsoyouknow,it’snotjustforoldtimes’sake.”
“Anythingwecangiveyou.”
“I’mcheap,”Kosonensaid.“Ijustwantwords.”
***
Thesunsparkledonthekantohanki:snowwithafrozensurface,strongenough
tocarryamanonskisandabear.Kosonenbreathedhard.Evengoingdownhill,
keeping pace with Otso was not easy. But in weather like this, there was
something glorious about skiing, sliding over blue shadows of trees almost
withoutfriction,thesnowhissingunderneath.
I’vesatstilltoolong,hethought.Shouldhavegonesomewherejusttogo,not
becausesomeoneasks.
In the afternoon, when the sun was already going down, they reached the
railroad, a bare gash through the forest, two metal tracks on a bed of gravel.
Kosonenremovedhisskisandstucktheminthesnow.
“I’msorryyoucan’tcomealong,”hetoldOtso.“Butthecitywon’tletyou
in.”
“Otsonotacitybear,”thebearsaid.“OtsowaitsforKosonen.Kosonengets
sky-bug,comesback.Thenwedrinkbooze.”
Hescratchedtheroughfurofitsneckclumsily.ThebearpokedKosonenin
the stomach with its nose, so hard that he almost fell. Then it snorted, turned
aroundandshuffledintothewoods.Kosonenwatcheduntilitvanishedamong
thesnow-coveredtrees.
Ittookthreepainfulattemptsofstickinghisfingersdownhisthroattogetthe
nanoseed Marja gave him to come out. The gagging left a bitter taste in his
mouth.Swallowingithadbeentheonlywaytoprotectthedelicatethingfrom
theplague.Hewipeditinthesnow:atransparentbaublethesizeofawalnut,
slippery and warm. It reminded him of the toys you could get from vending
machinesinsupermarketswhenhewasachild,plasticsphereswithsomething
secretinside.
Heplaceditontherailscarefully,wipedtheremainsofthevomitfromhis
lipsandrinsedhismouthwithwater.Thenhelookedatit.Marjaknewhewould
neverreadinstructionmanuals,soshehadnotgivenhimone.
“Makemeatrain,”hesaid.
Nothinghappened.Maybeitcanreadmymind,hethought,andimagineda
train, an old steam train, puffing along. Still nothing, just a reflection of the
darkeningskyontheseed’sclearsurface.She alwayshad to besubtle. Marja
couldnevergiveapresentwithoutthinkingaboutitsmeaningfordays.Standing
stillletthespringwinterchillthroughhiswolf-peltcoat,andhehoppedupand
down,rubbinghishandstogether.
Withthemotioncameanidea.Hefrowned,staringattheseed,andtookthe
notebookfromhispocket.MaybeitwastimetotryoutMarja’sothergift—or
advancepayment,howeveryouwantedtolookatit.Hehadbarelywrittenthe
firstlines,whenthewordsleapedinhismindlikeanimalswokenfromslumber.
Heclosedthebook,clearedhisthroatandspoke.
theserails
werewornthin
bywheels
thatwrotedown
thenameofeachpassenger
insteelandmiles
hesaid,
it’sagoodthing
theyears
ateourfleshtoo
madeusthinandlight
sotherailsarestrongenough
tocarryusstill
tothecity
inourtrainofglassandwords
Doggerel,hethought,butitdidn’t matter.Thejoyofwordsfilledhisveins
likevodka.Toobaditdidn’twork—
Theseedblurred.Itexplodedintoawhite-hotsphere.Thewasteheatwashed
across Kosonen’s face. Glowing tentacles squirmed past him, sucking carbon
and metal from the rails and trees. They danced like a welder’s electric arcs,
sketchinglinesandsurfacesintheair.
Andsuddenly,thetrainwasthere.
Itwastransparent,withpaper-thinwallsanddelicatewheels,asifithadbeen
blownfromglass,sketchofacartoonsteamenginewithasinglecarriage,with
spiderweb-likechairsinside,justthewayhehadimaginedit.
Heclimbedin,expectingthedelicatestructuretoswayunderhisweight,butit
felt rock-solid. The nanoseed lay on the floor innocently, as if nothing had
happened.Hepickeditupcarefully,tookitoutsideandburieditinthesnow,
leavinghisskisandsticksasmarkers.Thenhepickeduphisbackpack,boarded
thetrainagainandsatdowninoneofthegossamerseats.Unbidden,thetrain
lurched into motion smoothly. To Kosonen, it sounded like the rails beneath
werewhispering,buthecouldnothearthewords.
He watched the darkening forest glide past. The day’s journey weighed
heavily down on his limbs. The memory of the snow beneath his skis melted
togetherwiththetrain’smovement,andsoonKosonenwasasleep.
***
Whenhewokeup, it wasdark.Theamber light ofthefirewallglowedin the
horizon,likeathundercloud.
The train had speeded up. The dark forest outside was a blur, and the
whisperingoftherailshadbecomeaquietstaccatosong.Kosonenswallowedas
the train covered the remaining distance in a matter of minutes. The firewall
grewintoamistydomeglowingwithyellowishlightfromwithin.Thecitywas
anindistinctsilhouettebeneathit.Thebuildingsseemedtobeinmotion,likea
giant’sshadowpuppets.
Thenitwas aflaming curtain directlyin front ofthe train,an impenetrable
wall made from twilight and amber crossing the tracks. Kosonen gripped the
delicate frame of his seat, knuckles white. “Slow down!” he shouted, but the
traindidnothear.Itcrasheddirectlyintothefirewallwithabone-jarringimpact.
Therewasaburstoflight,andthenKosonenwasliftedfromhisseat.
Itwaslikedrowning,exceptthathewasfloatinginaninfiniteseaofamber
lightratherthanwater.Apartfromthelight,therewasjustemptiness.Hisskin
tickled.Ittookhimamomenttorealisethathewasnotbreathing.
Andthenasternvoicespoke.
Thisisnotaplaceformen,itsaid.Closed.Forbidden.Goback.
“Ihaveamission,”saidKosonen.Hisvoicehadnoechointhelight.“From
yourmakers.Theycommandyoutoletmein.”
Heclosedhiseyes,andMarja’sthirdgiftfloatedinfrontofhim,notwords
butanumber.Hehadalwaysbeenpooratmemorisingthings,butMarja’stouch
had been a pen with acid ink, burning it in his mind. He read off the endless
digits,onebyone.
Youmayenter,saidthefirewall.Butonlythatwhichishumanwillleave.
The train and the speed came back, sharp and real like a paper cut. The
twilight glow of the firewall was still there, but instead of the forest, dark
buildingsloomedaroundtherailway,blankwindowsstaringathim.
Kosonen’shandstickled.Theywereclean,aswerehisclothes:everyspeckof
dirtwasgone.Hisfeltwastenderandred,likehehadjustbeentothesauna.
The train slowed down at last, coming to a stop in the dark mouth of the
station,andKosonenwasinthecity.
***
The city was a forest of metal and concrete and metal that breathed and
hummed. The air smelled of ozone. The facades of the buildings around the
railway station square looked almost like he remembered them, only subtly
wrong.From the cornerof his eyehe could glimpsethem moving, shifting in
theirsleeplikestone-skinnedanimals.Therewerenosignsoflife,apartfroma
clusterofpigeons,hoppingback and forthonthestairs, looking athim.They
hadsapphireeyes.
A bus stopped, full of faceless people who looked like crash test dummies,
sittingunnaturallystill.Kosonendecidednottogetinandstartedtoheadacross
thesquare,towardsthemainshoppingstreet:hehadtostartthesearchforthe
sparksomewhere.Itwillglow,Marjahadsaid.Youcan’tmissit.
Therewaswhatlookedlikeacarwreckintheparkinglot,lyingonitsside,
hoodcrumpledlikeadiscardedbeercan,coveredinwhitepigeondroppings.But
whenKosonenwalkedpastit,itsengineroared,andthehoodpoppedopen.A
hissingbundleoftentaclessnappedout,reachingforhim.
He managed to gain some speed before the car-beast rolled onto its four
wheels.Therewerenarrowstreetsontheothersideofthesquare,toonarrowfor
ittofollow.Heran,coldweightinhisstomach,legspumping.
Thecrossbowbeatpainfullyathisbackinitsstrap,andhestruggledtogetit
overhishead.
Thebeastpassedhimarrogantly,andturnedaround.Thenitcamestraightat
him. The tentacles spread out from its glowing engine mouth into a fan of
serpents.
Kosonen fumbled with a bolt, then loosed it at the thing. The crossbow
kicked,butthearrowglancedoffitswindshield.Itseemedtoconfuseitenough
forKosonentojumpaside.Hedove,hitthepavementwithapainfulthump,and
rolled.
“Somebodyhelpperkele,”hesworewithimpotentrage,andgotup,panting,
justasthebeastbackedoffslowly,enginegrowling.Hesmelledburningrubber,
mixedwithozone.MaybeIcanwrestleit,hethoughtlikeamadman,spreading
hisarms,refusingtorunagain.Onelastpoeminit—
Something landed in front of the beast, wings fluttering. A pigeon. Both
Kosonen and the car-creature stared at it. It made a cooing sound. Then it
exploded.
Theblasttoreathiseardrums,andthewhitefireballturnedtheworldblack
for a second. Kosonen found himself on the ground again, ears ringing, lying
painfullyontopofhisbackpack.Thecarbeastwasaburningwrecktenmeters
away,twistedbeyondallrecognition.
There was another pigeon next to him, picking at what looked like bits of
metal. It lifted its head and looked at him, flames reflecting from the tiny
sapphireeyes.Thenittookflight,leavingatinywhitedroppingbehind.
***
The main shopping street was empty. Kosonen moved carefully in case there
were more of the car creatures around, staying close to narrow alleys and
doorways. The firewall light was dimmer between the buildings, and strange
lightsdancedinthewindows.
Kosonen realised he was starving: he had not eaten since noon, and the
journey and the fight had taken their toll. He found an empty cafe in a street
corner that seemed safe, set up his small travel cooker on a table and boiled
somewater.Thesupplieshehadbeenabletobringconsistedmainlyofcanned
soupanddriedelkmeat,buthisgrowlingstomachwasnotfussy.Thesmellof
foodmadehimcareless.
“Thisismyplace,”saidavoice.Kosonenleaptup,startled,reachingforthe
crossbow.
Therewasastooped,trollishfigureatthedoor,dressedinrags.Hisfaceshone
withsweatanddirt,framedbymattedhairandbeard.Hisporousskinwasfullof
tinysapphiregrowths,likepockmarks.Kosonenhadthoughtlivinginthewoods
hadmadehimimmunetohumanodours,butthestrangercarriedabitterstench
ofsweatandstaleboozethatmadehimwanttoretch.
ThestrangerwalkedinandsatdownatatableoppositeKosonen.“Butthat’s
all right,” he said amicably. “Don’t get many visitors these days. Have to be
neighbourly.Saatana,isthatBlabandsoupthatyou’vegot?”
“You’re welcome to some,” Kosonen said warily. He had met some of the
otherstayersovertheyears,butusuallyavoidedthem—theyallhadtheirown
reasonsfornotgoingup,andnotmuchincommon.
“Thanks.That’sneighbourlyindeed.I’mPera,bytheway.”Thetrollheldout
hishand.
Kosonenshookitgingerly,feelingstrangejaggedthingsunderPera’sskin.It
waslikesqueezingaglovefilledwithpowderedglass.“Kosonen.Soyoulive
here?”
“Oh,nothere,notinthecenter.Icomeheretostealfromthebuildings.But
they’ve become really smart, and stingy. Can’t even find soup anymore. The
Stockmanndepartmentstore almostateme, yesterday. It’snot easylife here.”
Perashookhishead.“Butbetterthanoutside.”Therewasaslylookinhiseyes.
Are you staying because you want to, wondered Kosonen, or because the
firewallwon’tletyououtanymore?
“Notafraidoftheplaguegods,then?”heaskedaloud.HepassedPeraoneof
the heated soup tins. The city stayer slurped it down with one gulp, smell of
minestroneminglingwiththeotherodours.
“Oh,youdon’thavetobeafraidofthemanymore.They’realldead.”
KosonenlookedatPera,startled.“Howdoyouknow?”
“Thepigeonstoldme.”
“Thepigeons?”
Pera took something from the pocket of his ragged coat carefully. It was a
pigeon. It had a sapphire beak and eyes, and a trace of blue in its feathers. It
struggledinPera’sgrip,wingsfluttering.
“Mylittlebuddies,”Perasaid.“Ithinkyou’vealreadymetthem.”
“Yes,”Kosonensaid.“Didyousendtheonethatblewupthatcarthing?”
“Youhavetohelpaneighbourout,don’tyou?Don’tmentionit.Thesoupwas
good.”
“Whatdidtheysayabouttheplaguegods?”
Pera grinned a gap-toothed grin. “When the gods got locked up here, they
startedfighting.Notenoughpowertogoaround,yousee.Sooneofthemhadto
bethetopdog,likeinHighlander.Thepigeonsshowmepictures,sometimes.
Bloody stuff. Explosions. Nanites eating men. But finally they were all gone,
everylastone.Myplaygroundnow.”
SoEsaisgone,too.Kosonenwassurprisedhowsharpthefeelingoflosswas,
evennow.Betterlikethis.Heswallowed.Let’sgetthejobdonefirst.Notimeto
mourn.Let’sthinkaboutitwhenwegethome.Writeapoemaboutit.Andtell
Marja.
“Allright,” Kosonen said. “I’mhunting too.Do youthink your… buddies
couldfindit?Somethingthatglows.Ifyouhelpme,I’llgiveyouallthesoup
I’vegot.Andelkmeat.AndI’llbringmorelater.Howdoesthatsound?”
“Pigeonscanfindanything,”saidPera,lickinghislips.
***
The pigeon-man walked through the city labyrinth like his living room,
accompaniedbyacloudofthechimerabirds.Everynowandthen,oneofthem
wouldlandonhisshoulderandtouchhisearwithhisbeak,asiftowhisper.
“Betterhurry,”Perasaid.“Atnight,it’snottoobad,butduringthedaythe
housesgetyoungerandstartthinking.”
Kosonenhadlostallsenseofdirection.Themapofthecitywasdifferentfrom
thelasttimehehadbeenhere,intheoldhumandays.Hisbestguesswasthat
they were getting somewhere close to the cathedral in the old town, but he
couldn’t be sure. Navigating the changed streets felt like walking through the
veinsofsomegiantanimal,convolutedandlabyrinthine.Somebuildingswere
enclosed in what looked like black film, rippling like oil. Some had grown
together,organic-lookingstructuresofbrickandconcrete,blockingstreetsand
makingthegrounduneven.
“We’renotfar,”Perasaid.“They’veseenit.Glowinglikeapumpkinlantern,
they say.” He giggled. The amber light of the firewall grew brighter as they
walked.Itwashotter,too,andKosonenwasforcedtodiscardhisoldPohjanmaa
sweater.
Theypassedanofficebuildingthathadbecomeasleepingface,agenderless
Easter Island countenance. There was more life in this part of the town too,
sapphire-eyed animals, sleek cats looking at them from windowsills. Kosonen
sawafoxcrossingthestreet:itgavethemonebrightlookandvanisheddowna
sewerhole.
Thentheyturnedacornerwherefacelessmenwearingfashionfromtenyears
agodancedtogetherinashopwindow,andsawthecathedral.
Ithadgrowntogargantuansize,dwarfingeveryotherbuildingaroundit.It
was an anthill of dark-red brick and hexagonal doorways. It buzzed with life.
Catswithsapphireclaws clungtoits walls likesleekgargoyles.Thickpigeon
flocks fluttered around its towers. Packs of azure-tailed rats ran in and out of
open, massive doors like armies on a mission. And there were insects
everywhere,fillingtheairwithadrill-likebuzzingsound,movingindenseblack
cloudslikeagiant’sblackbreath.
“Oh,jumalauta,”Kosonensaid.“That’swhereitfell?”
“Actually,no.Iwasjustsupposedtobringyouhere,”Perasaid.
“What?”
“Sorry. I lied. It was like in Highlander: there is one of them left. And he
wantstomeetyou.”
KosonenstaredatPera,dumbfounded.Thepigeonslandedontheotherman’s
shouldersandarmslikeagreyflutteringcloak.Theyseizedhisragsandhairand
skinwithsharpclaws,wingsstartedbeatingfuriously.AsKosonenstared,Pera
rosetotheair.
“Nohardfeelings,Ijusthadabetterdealfromhim.Thanksforthesoup,”he
shouted.Inamoment,Perawasablackscrapofclothinthesky.
Theearthshook.Kosonenfelltohisknees.Thewindoweyesthatlinedthe
streetlitup,fullofbright,malevolentlight.
Hetriedto run. He didnotmakeitfarbeforetheycame,thefingersofthe
city: the pigeons, the insects, a buzzing swarm that covered him. A dozen
chimeraratsclungtohisskull,andhecouldfeelthehummingoftheirflywheel
hearts.Somethingsharpbitthroughthebone.Thepaingrewlikeaforestfire,
andKosonenscreamed.
Thecityspoke.Itsvoicewasathunderstorm,wordsmadefromshakingofthe
earthandthesighsofbuildings.Slowwords,squeezedfromstone.
Dad,thecitysaid.
***
Thepainwasgone.Kosonenheardthegentlesoundofwaves,andfeltawarm
windonhisface.Heopenedhiseyes.
“Hi,Dad,”Esasaid.
Theysatonthesummerhousepier,wrappedintowels,skinflushedfromthe
sauna.It was evening,with a hintof chill inthe air, Finnish summer’s gentle
reminder that things were not forever. The sun hovered above the blue-tinted
treetops.Thelakesurfacewascalm,fullofliquidreflections.
“Ithought,”Esasaid,“thatyou’dlikeithere.”
EsawasjustlikeKosonenrememberedhim,apaleskinnykid,ribsshowing,
longarmsfoldedacrosshisknees,stringywethairhangingonhisforehead.But
hiseyesweretheeyesofacity,darkorbsofmetalandstone.
“Ido,”Kosonensaid.“ButIcan’tstay.”
“Whynot?”
“ThereissomethingIneedtodo.”
“Wehaven’tseeneachotherinages.Thesaunaiswarm.I’vegotsomebeer
coolinginthelake.Whytherush?”
“Ishouldbeafraidofyou,”Kosonensaid.“Youkilledpeople.Beforetheyput
youhere.”
“Youdon’tknowwhatit’slike,”Esasaid.“Theplaguedoeseverythingyou
want.Itgivesyouthingsyoudon’tevenknowyouwant.Itturnstheworldsoft.
Andsometimesittearsitapartforyou.Youthinkathought,andthingsbreak.
Youcan’thelpit.”
Theboy closedhiseyes.“Youwantthingstoo.Iknowyoudo.That’swhy
youarehere,isn’tit?Youwantyourpreciouswordsback.”
Kosonensaidnothing.
“Mom’serrandboy,vittu.Sotheyfixedyourbrain,flushedtheboozeout.So
youcanwriteagain.Doesitfeelgood?ForamomentthereIthoughtyoucame
hereforme.Butthat’snotthewayiteverworked,wasit?”
“Ididn’tknow—”
“Icanseetheinsideofyourhead,youknow,”Esasaid.“I’vegotmyfingers
inside your skull. One thought, and my bugs will eat you, bring you here for
good.Qualitytimeforever.Whatdoyousaytothat?”
Andthereit was,the oldguilt.“We worriedaboutyou, everysecond, after
youwereborn,”Kosonensaid.“Weonlywantedthebestforyou.”
It had seemed so natural. How the boy played with his machine that made
othermachines.Howthingsstartedchangingshapewhenyouthoughtatthem.
HowEsasmiledwhenheshowedKosonenthetalkingstarfishthatthemachine
hadmade.
“AndthenIhadonebadday.”
“Iremember,”Kosonensaid.Hehadbeenhomelate,asusual.Esahadbeena
diamondtree,growinginhisroom.Therewerestarfisheverywhere,eatingthe
walls and the floor, making more of themselves. And that was only the
beginning.
“Sogoahead.Bringmehere.It’syourturntomakemeintowhatyouwant.
Orenditall.Ideserveit.”
Esalaughed softly.“And whywould I do that,to anold man?”He sighed.
“Youknow,I’moldtoonow.Letmeshowyou.”HetouchedKosonen’sshoulder
gentlyand
Kosonen was the city. His skin was stone and concrete, pores full of the
godplague.Thestreetsandbuildingswerehisface,changingandshiftingwith
everythoughtandemotion.Hisnervoussystemwasdiamondandopticfibre.His
handswerechimeraanimals.
The firewall was all around him, in the sky and in the cold bedrock,
insubstantial but adamantine, squeezing from every side, cutting off energy,
makingsurehecouldnotthinkfast.Buthecouldstilldream,weavewordsand
imagesintothreads,makeworldsoutofthememorieshehadandthememories
ofthesmallergodshehadeatentobecomethecity.Hesanghisdreamsinradio
waves,notcaringifthefirewallletthemthroughornot,louderandlouder—
“Here,”Esasaidfromfaraway.“Haveabeer.”
Kosonenfeltachillybottleinhishand,anddrank.Thedream-beerwasstrong
andreal.Themalttastebroughthimback.Hetookadeepbreath,lettingthefake
summereveningwashawaythecity.
“Isthatwhyyoubroughtmehere?Toshowmethat?”heasked.
“Well,no,”Esasaid,laughing.Hisstoneeyeslookedyoung,suddenly.“Ijust
wantedyoutomeetmygirlfriend.”
***
The quantum girl had golden hair and eyes of light. She wore many faces at
once, like a Hindu goddess. She walked to the pier with dainty steps. Esa’s
summerlandshoweditscracksaroundher:therewerefracturelinesinherskin,
withotherworldlycolourspeekingout.
“ThisisSäde,”Esasaid.
She looked at Kosonen, and spoke, a bubble of words, a superposition, all
possiblegreetingsatonce.
“Nicetomeetyou,”Kosonensaid.
“Theydidsomethingrightwhentheymadeher,upthere,”saidEsa.“Shelives
inmanyworldsatonce,thinksinqubits.Andthisistheworldwhereshewants
tobe.Withme.”Hetouchedhershouldergently.“Sheheardmysongsandran
away.”
“Marjasaidshefell,”Kosonensaid.“Thatsomethingwasbroken.”
“Shesaidwhattheywantedhertosay.Theydon’tlikeitwhenthingsdon’tgo
accordingtoplan.”
Sädemadeasound,likethechimeofaglassbell.
“Thefirewallkeepssqueezingus,”Esasaid.“That’showitwasmade.Make
thingsgoslowerandslowerhere,untilwedie.Sädedoesn’tfitinhere,thisplace
istoosmall.Soyouwilltakeherbackhome,beforeit’stoolate.”Hesmiled.
“I’dratheryoudoitthananyoneelse.”
“That’snotfair,”Kosonensaid.He squintedat Säde.Shewastoobright to
lookat.ButwhatcanIdo?I’mjustaslabofmeat.Meatandwords.
The thought was like a pinecone, rough in his grip, but with a seed of
somethinginit.
“Ithinkthereisapoeminyoutwo,”hesaid.
***
Kosonen sat on the train again, watching the city stream past. It was early
morning.Thesunrisegavethecitynewhues:purpleshadowsandgold,ember
colours.Fatiguepulsed inhis temples. Hisbody ached.Thewords ofa poem
weigheddownonhismind.
Abovethedomeofthefirewallhecouldseeagiantdiamondstarfish,adrone
oftheskypeople,watching,likeanoutstretchedhand.
Theycametoseewhathappened,hethought.They’llfindout.
Thistime,heembracedthefirewalllikeafriend,anditstinglingbrightness
washedoverhim.Anddeep within, thestern-voicedwatchmancameagain.It
saidnothingthistime,buthecouldfeelitspresence,scrutinising,seekingthings
thatdidnotbelongintheoutsideworld.
Kosonengaveiteverything.
The first moment when he knew he had put something real on paper. The
disappointmentwhenherealisedthatapoetwasnotmuchinasmallcountry,
piles of cheaply printed copies of his first collection, gathering dust in little
bookshops.ThejealousyhehadfeltwhenMarjagavebirthtoEsa,whatapale
shadowofthatgivingbirthtowordswas.Thetracksoftheelkinthesnowand
thelookinitseyeswhenitdied.
Hefeltthewatchmanstepaside,satisfied.
Then he was through. The train emerged into the real, undiluted dawn. He
lookedbackatthecity,andsawfirerainingfromthestarfish.Pillarsoflightcut
throughthecityingeometricpatterns,toobrighttolookat,leavingonlywhite-
hotplasmaintheirwake.
Kosonenclosedhiseyesandheldontothepoemasthecityburned.
***
Kosonen planted the nanoseed in the woods. He dug a deep hole in the half-
frozenpeatwithhisbarehands,underanoldtreestump.Hesatdown,tookoff
hiscap,dugouthis notebook, andstartedreading.Thepencil-scrawledwords
glowed bright in his mind, and after a while he didn’t need to look at them
anymore.
The poem rose from the words like a titanic creature from an ocean, first
showing just a small extremity but then soaring upwards in a spray of
glossolalia,mountain-like.Itwasastreamofhissingwordsandphonemes,an
endlessspellthattoreathisthroat.Andwithitcamethequantuminformation
fromthemicrotubulesofhisneurons,wherethebright-eyedgirlnowlived,and
jaggedimpulsesfromsynapseswherehissonwashiding.
Thepoemswelledintoaroar.Hecontinueduntilhisvoicewasahiss.Only
thenanoseedcouldhear,butthatwasenough.Somethingstirredunderthepeat.
Whenthepoemfinallyended,itwasevening.Kosonenopenedhiseyes.The
firstthinghesawwerethesapphireantlers,sparklinginthelastraysofthesun.
Twoyoungelklookedathim.Onewassmaller,moredelicate,anditslarge
browneyesheldahintofsunlight.Theotherwasyoungandskinny,butworeits
budding antlers with pride. It held Kosonen’s gaze, and in its eyes he saw
shadowsofthecity.Orreflectionsinasummerlake,perhaps.
Theyturnedaroundandranintothewoods,silent,fleet-footedandfree.
***
Kosonenwasopeningthecellardoorwhentheraincameback.Itwasbarelya
showerthistime:thedropletsformedMarja’sfaceintheair.Foramomenthe
thought he saw her wink. Then the rain became a mist, and was gone. He
proppedthedooropen.
Thesquirrelsstaredathimfromthetreescuriously.
“Allyours,gentlemen,”Kosonensaid.“Shouldbeenoughfornextwinter.I
don’tneeditanymore.”
OtsoandKosonenleftatnoon,headingnorth.Kosonen’sskisslidalongeasily
in the thinning snow. The bear pulled a sledge loaded with equipment. When
theywerewellawayfromthecabin,itstoppedtosniffatafreshtrail.
“Elk,”itgrowled.“Otsoishungry.Kosonenshootanelk.Needmeatforthe
journey.Kosonendidnotbringenoughbooze.”
Kosonenshookhishead.
“IthinkI’mgoingtolearntofish,”hesaid.
LibertarianRussia
MICHAELSWANWICK
MichaelSwanwickmadehisdebutin1980and,inthethirty-one
yearsthathavefollowed,hasestablishedhimselfasoneofSF’s
mostprolificandconsistentlyexcellentwritersatshortlengths,as
wellasoneofthepremiernovelistsofhisgeneration.Hehaswon
theTheodoreSturgeonAwardandtheAsimov’s Readers’Award
poll.In 1991,his novel Stations of the Tide won him a Nebula
Awardaswell,andin1996hewontheWorldFantasyAwardfor
hisstory “RadioWaves.” He’swon theHugo Award five times
between 1999 and 2006, for his stories “The Very Pulse of the
Machine,” “Scherzo with Tyrannosaur,” “The Dog Said Bow-
Wow,” “Slow Life,” and “Legions In Time.” His other books
include the novels In The Drift, Vacuum Flowers, The Iron
Dragon’sDaughter,JackFaust,andBonesoftheEarth.Hisshort
fictionhasbeenassembledinGravity’sAngels,AGeographyof
UnknownLands,MoonDogs,PuckAleshire’sAbecedary,Talesof
Old Earth, Cigar-Box Faust and Other Miniatures, Michael
Swanwick’s Field Guide to the Mesozoic Megafauna, and The
PeriodicTableofScienceFiction.Hismostrecentbooksarethe
novel The Dragons of Babel, and a massive retrospective
collection,TheBestofMichael Swanwick. Coming up is anew
novel,DancingwithBears.SwanwicklivesinPhiladelphiawith
his wife, Marianne Porter. He has a Web site at:
www.michaelswanwick.com.
Here he takes us to a depopulated future Russia that’s been
throughasemi-apocalypseforahard-edgedlookatayoungman
learningthehardwayhowhispoliticalidealswouldworkoutin
practiceintherealworld.
Miles and weeks passed under the wheels of Victor’s motorcycle. Sometime
duringthedayhewouldstopatapeasantfarmsteadandbuyfoodtocookovera
campfireforsupper.Atnighthesleptunderthestarswitholdcowboymovies
playinginhishead.InnoparticularhurryhewovethroughtheUralsontwisting
backcountryroads,andsomewherealongthewaycrossedovertheborderoutof
EuropeandintoAsia.HemadeawidedetouraroundYekaterinburg,wherethe
densityofpopulationbroughtgovernmentinterferenceintheprivatelivesofits
citizens up almost to Moscow levels, and then cut back again to regain the
laughablyprimitivetranscontinentalhighway.Hewaspassingthroughthedrab
ruinsofanindustrialdistrictattheedgeofthecitywhenawomaninthigh-high
bootsraisedherhandtohailhim,thewaytheydidouthereinthestickswhere
everydriverwasapotentialtaxitobeboughtforsmallchange.
Ordinarily, Victor wouldn’t have stopped. But in addition to the boots the
woman wore leopard-print hot pants and a fashionably puffy red jacket, tight
aboutthewaistandbroadattheshoulders,whichopenedtorevealthetopsof
her breasts, like two pomegranates proffered on a plate. A vinyl backpack
crouched on the ground by her feet. She looked like she’d just stepped down
fromabillboard.Shelookedlikeserioustrouble.
Ithadbeenalongtimesincehe’dhadanyserioustrouble.Victorpulledtoa
stop.
“Goingeast?”thewomansaid.
“Yeah.”
She glanced down at the scattering of pins on his kevleather jacket—
politicianswhonevergotelected,causesthatwereneverwon—andhercrimson
lipsquirked in the smallest of smiles. “Libertarianski,eh? You dorealize that
there’snosuchthingasalibertarianRussian?It’slikeagentletigeroranhonest
cop—acontradictioninterms.”
Victorshrugged.“Andyet,hereIam.”
“Soyouthink.”Suddenlyallbusiness,thewomansaid,“I’llblowyouifyou
takemewithyou.”
ForasecondVictor’smindwentblank.Thenhesaid,“Actually,Imightbe
goingalongway.AcrossSiberia.ImightnotstopuntilIreachthePacific.”
“Okay,then.Onceaday,solongasI’mwithyou.Deal?”
“Deal.”
Victorreconfiguredthebackofhisbiketogiveitapillionandanextrarack
for her backpack and fattened the tires to compensate for her weight. She
climbedonbehindhim,andofftheywent.
Atsunset,theystoppedandmadecampinascrubpineforest,behindtheruins
ofaGovernmentAutoInspectionstation.Afterthey’dsetuptheirpuptents(hers
wasthesizeofherfistwhenshetookitfromherknapsackbutassembleditself
intosomethingalmostpalatial;hiswasnolargerthanheneeded)andbuiltthe
cookfire,shepaidhimfor theday’sride.Then,as hecutupthe chicken he’d
boughtearlier,theytalked.
“Younevertoldmeyourname,”Victorsaid.
“Svetlana.”
“JustSvetlana?”
“Yes.”
“Nopatronymic?”
“No.JustSvetlana.Andyou?”
“VictorPelevin.”
Svetlanalaughedderisively.“Oh,comeon!”
“He’smygrandfather,”Victorexplained.Then,whenthescornfailedtoleave
herface, “Well,spiritually,anyway.I’ve read all his booksI don’tknowhow
manytimes.Theyshapedme.”
“IpreferTheMasterandMargarita.Notthebook,ofcourse.Thevideo.ButI
can’tsayitshapedme.So,letmeguess.You’reonthegreatRussianroadtrip.
Looking to find the real Russia, old Russia, Mother Russia, the Russia of the
heart.Eh?”
“Notme.I’vealreadyfoundwhatI’mlookingfor—LibertarianRussia.Right
here,whereweare.”Victorfinishedwiththechicken,andbegancuttingupthe
vegetables.Itwouldtakeawhileforthefiretodiedowntocoals,butwhenit
wasready,he’droastthevegetablesandchickentogetheronspits,shishkabob
style.
“Nowthatyou’vefoundit,whatareyougoingtodowithit?”
“Nothing. Wander around. Live here. Whatever.” He began assembling the
kabobs. “You see, after the Depopulation, there just weren’t the resources
anymoreforthegovernmenttopolicethelargestcountryintheworldwiththe
sortofcontrol theywere used to.So insteadof easing upon thepeople,they
decided to concentrate their power in a handful of industrial and mercantile
centers,portcities,andthelike.Therest,withatotalpopulationofmaybeone
ortwopeople per tensquaremiles, theycutloose. Nobody talksaboutit, but
there’s no law out here except what people agree upon. They’ve got to settle
theirdifferencesamongthemselves.Whenyou’vegotenoughpeopletomakeup
a town, they might pool their money to hire a part-time cop or two. But no
databases, no spies … you can do what you like, and so long as you don’t
infringeuponsomebodyelse’sfreedoms,they’llleaveyoualone.”
EverythingVictorsaidwasmoreorlesscut-and-pastefrom“FreeIvan,”an
orphanwebsitehe’dstumbledonfiveyearsago.Inlibertariancircles,FreeIvan
wasalegend.VictorlikedtothinkhewasoutsomewhereinSiberia,livingthe
lifehe’dpreached.ButsincehislastentrywaspostedfromSt.Petersburgand
mentionednosuchplans,mostlikelyhewasdead.Thatwaswhathappenedto
peoplewhodaredimagineaworldwithouttyranny.
“What if somebody else’s idea of freedom involves taking your motorcycle
fromyou?”
Victorgotupandpattedthecontactplateonhismachine.“Thelockiscoded
tomygenome.Thebikewon’tstartforanybodyelse.Anyway,Ihaveagun.”
Heshowedit,thenputitbackinhisshoulderharness.
“Somebodycouldtakethatthingawayfromyouandshootyou,youknow.”
“No,theycouldn’t.It’sasmartgun.It’slikemybike—itanswerstonobody
butme.”
Unexpectedly, Svetlana laughed. “I give up! You’ve got all the angles
covered.”
Yet Victor doubted he had convinced her of anything. “We have the
technologytomakeusfree,”hesaidsullenly.“Whynotuseit?Yououghttoget
agunyourself.”
“Trustme,mybodyisalltheweaponIneed.”
Theredidn’tseemtobeanyanswerforthat,soVictorsaid,“Tellmeabout
yourself.Whoareyou,whyareyouontheroad,whereareyouheading?”
“I’mawhore,”shesaid.“Igottiredofworkingforothers,butYekaterinburg
wastoocorruptformetosetupahouseofmyownthere.SoI’mlookingfor
someplace large enough to do business in, where the police will settle for a
reasonablecutofthetake.”
“You…meanallthatliterally,don’tyou?”
Svetlanareachedintoherpurseandtookoutacardcase.Shesquirtedhimher
ratesheet,andputthecaseawayagain.“Ifyouseeanythingthereyoulike,I’m
openforbusiness.”
Thefirewasreadynow,soVictorputonthekabobs.
“HowmuchdoIpayfordinner?”Svetlanaopenedherpurseagain.
“It’smytreat.”
“No,” she said. “I don’t accept anything for free. Everybody pays for
everything.That’smyphilosophy.”
Beforehewenttohispuptent,Victordisassembledpartofhisbikeandfilled
thedigestertankwithwaterandgrass.Thenhesetittogentlyrocking.Enzymes
and yeasts were automatically fed into the mixture—and by morning, there
wouldbeenoughalcoholforanotherday’stravel.Hewentintothetentandlay
onhisback,playingaJohnWaynemovieinhismind.TheSeekers.Butaftera
whilehecouldnothelppausingthemovie,tocallupSvetlana’sratesheet.
Sheofferedasurprisinglybroadrangeofservices.
Hebroodedforalongwhilebeforefinallyfallingasleep.
Thatnighthehadaneideticdream.Possiblyhismemorandumrecorderhad
beenjostledamonthearlierandsomeglitchcausedittoreplaynow.Atanyrate,
hewasbackinMoscowandhewasleavingforever.
He hit the road at dawn, rush hour traffic heavy around him and the sun a
goldendazzleinthesmog.Americanjazzsaxophoneplayedinhishead,smooth
and cool. Charlie Parker. He hunched low over his motorcycle, and when a
trafficcopgesturedhimtotheshoulderwithalanguidwaveofhiswhitebaton
forarandomIDcheck,Victorpoppedawheelieandflippedhimthefinger.Then
heopenedupthethrottleandslalomedaway,backandforthacrossfourlanesof
madlyhonkingtraffic.
In the rearview mirror, he saw the cop glaring after him, taking a mental
snapshotofhislicenseplate.IfheeverreturnedtoMoscow,he’dbeinaworld
oftrouble.Everycopinthecity—andMoscowhadmoreflavorsofcopsthan
anywhere—wouldhavehisnumberandagoodideaofwhathelookedlike.
Fuckthatnoise.Fuckitrightuptheass.Victorhadspentyearsgrubbingfor
money,livingcheap,savingeverykopekhecouldtobuythegearheneededto
getthehelloutofMoscow.Whywouldheevercomeback?
Thenhewasoutsidethecity,theroadsgettingbrieflybetterastheypassed
between the gated communities where the rich huddled fearfully inside well-
guarded architectural fantasies and then dwindling to neglect and disrepair
before finally turning to dirt. That was when, laughing wildly, he tore off his
helmetandflungitaway,intotheair,intotheweeds,intothepast…
Hewashomenow.Hewasfree.
HewasinLibertarianRussia.
***
VictorlikedtheideaofbikingacrossAsiainthecompanyofawhoreagreat
dealintheory.Buttherealitywasmoreproblematic.Withherthighstoeither
sideofhisandherarmsabouthimastheyrode,hecouldnotkeepfromthinking
constantlyaboutherbody.Yethelackedthemoneyforwhathe’dhavelikedto
dowithher.Andherdailypaymentprovidedonlytemporaryrelief.Afterthree
days, he was looking for someplace he could ditch Svetlana with a clean
conscience.
Sometimearoundnoon,theypassedthroughasmalltownwhichhadclearly
been a medium-sized city before the Depopulation. Just beyond it, two trucks
andthreecarswereparkedinfrontofacinder-blockrestaurant.Oneofthecars
was a Mercedes. Opportunities to eat in a restaurant being rare along the
disintegrating remains of what was grandiosely called the Trans-Siberian
Highway,Victorpulledoverhisbikeandtheywentinside.
Therewereonlysixtablesandtheywereallempty.Thewallswerepainted
blackanddecoratedwithloopsofantiquelight-pipesdugoutoftrunksfoundin
theatticsofhousesthatnobodylivedinanymore.Atthebackoftheroomwasa
bar.Aboveit,paintedinwhiteblockletters,werethewords:WEKNOWNO
MERCYANDDONOTASKFORANY.
“Shit,”Victorsaid.
“Whatisit?”Svetlanaasked.
“That’sthesloganforOMON—theSpecialForcesPoliceSquad.Let’sgetthe
fuckoutofhere.”
Alargemanemergedfromabackroom,dryinghishandswithatowel.“What
can I do for…?” He stopped and looked thoughtful, the way one did when
accessinganexternaldatabase.Thenanastygrinsplithisface.“Osip!Kolzak!
Comeseewhatthewindblewin!”
Twomoremencameout from theback,onebiggerthanthefirst,theother
smaller.Allthreelookedliketheywerespoilingforafight.“She’sawhore.He’s
justalittleshitwithsubversivepoliticalconnections.Nobodyimportant.What
doyouwanttodowiththem?”
“Fuckthemboth,”thebigmansaid.
“Oneisallyou’llneed,”Svetlanasaidinasultryvoice.“Providedthatoneis
me.”Shegotouthercardcaseandsquirtedthemherratesheet.
Therewasabriefastonishedsilence.Thenoneofthemensaid,“Youareone
fuckingfilthycunt.”
“Youcantalkasdirtyasyoulike—Iwon’tchargeyouextra.”
“Cominginherewasthestupidestthingyoueverdid,”thesmallmansaid.
“Grabher,Pavel.”
Themiddle-sizedmanmovedtowardSvetlana.
Chesttightwithfear,VictorpulledouthisgunandsteppedintoPavel’spath.
Thiswashismomentoftruth.HisAlamo.“We’releavingnow,”hesaid,fighting
tokeephisvoicefirm,“Ifyouknowwhat’sgoodforyou,youwon’ttrytostop
us.”
Disconcertingly,allthreethugslookedamused.Pavelsteppedforward,sothat
thegunpokedhiminthechest.“Youthinkthatprotectsyou?Tryshootingit.
Shootmenow.”
“Don’tthinkIwon’t.”
“Youcan’tstopsomebodyifyou’renotwillingtokillhim.”Themanclosed
bothhishandsaroundthegun.ThenheviciouslymashedVictor’sfingerback
againstthetrigger.
Nothinghappened.
Paveltookthegun awayfromVictor.“You don’tthinkthe government has
bettertechnologythanyou?Everynon-militaryguninthecountryisbluetoothed
atthefactory.”Overhisshoulderhesaid,“Whatdoyouwantmetodowiththe
whore,Osip?”
Svetlana shuddered, as if in the throes of great terror. But she smiled
seductively. “I don’t normally do it for free,” she said. “But I could make an
exceptionforyouboys.”
“Takeherouttothegravelpit,”thesmallmansaid,“andshoother.”
PavelgrabbedSvetlanabythewrist.“Whataboutthepunk?”
“Letmethinkaboutthat.”
Svetlanadidn’tmakeasoundasshewasdraggedoutthefront.
***
ThebigmanpushedVictordownontoachair.“Sitquietly,”hesaid.“Ifyoutry
anything…Well,Idon’tthinkyou’lltryanything.”Thenhegotoutacombat
knifeandamusedhimselfbypluckingVictor’spinsfromhisjacketwithitand
reading them, one by one, before flicking them away, over his shoulder. “A
CitizenWithoutaGunisaSlave,”heread.“LegalizeFreedom:VoteLibertarian.
AnarchistsUnite—thatdoesn’tevenmakesense!”
“It’sajoke.”
“Thenwhyisn’titfunny?”
“Idon’tknow.”
“Soit’snotmuchofajoke,isit?”
“Iguessnot.”
“The weakness in your political philosophy,” Osip said out of nowhere, “is
thatyouassumethatwhenabsolutefreedomisextendedtoeverybody,they’llall
thinkonlyoftheirownselfishinterests.Youforgetthatpatriotsexist,menwho
arewillingtosacrificethemselvesforthegoodoftheMotherland.”
Figuringhehadnothingtoloseatthispoint,Victorsaid,“Takingmoneytodo
thegovernment’sdirtyworkdoesn’tmakeyouapatriot.”
“Youthinkwe’regettingpaidforwhatwedo?Listen.AfterIleftOMON,I
wassickofcities,crime,pollution.SoIwentlookingforaplacewhereIcould
gofishingorhuntingwheneverIwanted.Ifoundthisbuildingabandoned,and
startedfixingitup.PavelstoppedtoaskwhatIwasdoingandsincehe’dbeenin
theSpecialPolicetoo,Iinvitedhimtocomeinasapartner.Whentherestaurant
wasupandrunning,Kolzakdroppedinandwhenwefoundouthewasoneof
us,weofferedhimajob. Because weareall brothers,yousee, answerable to
nobodybutGodandeachother.Pavelbroughtasatelliteuplinkwithhim,sowe
know the police record of everyone who comes by. We cleanse the land of
antisocialelementslikeyourwhorebecauseit’stherightthingtodo.That’sall.”
“And you,” Kolzak said. “Don’t think her body’s going into the gravel pit
alone.”
“Please. There has to be some way of convincing you that this isn’t
necessary.”
“Surethere is.Just tellme onething that you can giveme inexchange for
yourlifethatIcan’ttakeoffofyourcorpse.”
Victorwassilent.
“Yousee?”Osipsaid.“Kolzakhastaughtyousomething.Ifyoudon’teven
haveenoughtobribeamanintolettingyoulive,you’reprettymuchworthless,
aren’tyou?”
Kolzaktookouthiscombatknifeandstuckitintothebar.Thenhewalked
awayfromit.“You’recloser,now,”hesaid.“Ifyouwanttomakeatryforit,go
rightahead.”
“Youwouldn’tdothatifyouthoughtIhadachance.”
“WhoareyoutosayIwouldn’t?Fuckyouinthemouth!You’rejustaturdof
afaggotwho’safraidtofight.”
Itwouldbesuicidetorespondtothat.Itwouldbecowardlytolookaway.So
Victorjuststaredback,notblinking.Afteratime,thebigman’sjawtightened.
Victor tensed. He was going to have to fight after all! He didn’t think it was
goingtoendwell.
“Listentothat,”Osipsaidsuddenly.
“Idon’thearanything,”Kolzaksaid
“That’sright.Youdon’t.What’skeepingPavel?”
“I’llgocheck.”
Kolzakturnedhisbackontheknifeandwentoutside.Victoralmoststarted
afterhim.ButOsipheldupawarninghand.“There’snothingyoucandoabout
it.” He smiled humorlessly. “There’s your libertarianism for you. You are
absolutely free of the government. Only you forgot that the government also
protectsyoufrommenlikeus.AmIwrong?”
Victorclearedhisthroat.Itfeltlikeswallowinggravel.“No.No,you’renot.”
The little man stared at him impassively for a moment. Then he jerked his
headtowardthedoor.“You’renothing.Ifyougetonyourbikeandleavenow,I
promiseyouthatnobodywillcomeafteryou.”
Victor’sheartwasracing.“Thisisanothergame,isn’tit?Liketheknife.”
“No,Imeanit.Quitefrankly,you’renotworththeeffort.”
“ButSvetlana—”
“She’sawhore.Shegetswhatwhoresget.Nowmakeupyourmind.Areyou
leavingornot?”
Tohishorror,Victorrealizedthathewasalreadystanding.Hisbodytrembled
withthedesiretobegone.“I—”
A gargled cry came from outside, too deep and loud to have come from a
woman’s throat. Instantly Osip was on his feet. He yanked the combat knife
fromthebar.
Svetlana walked into the room, her clothes glistening with blood. She was
grinninglikeamadwoman.“That’stwo.You’renext.”
Thelittlemanlunged.“Youdog-sucking—”
Inablur,SvetlanasteppedaroundOsip’soutstretchedarm,pluckingtheknife
fromhishand.Bloodsprayedfromhisneck.Theknifewassuddenlysticking
outofhisribs.Sheseizedhisheadandtwisted.
TherewasasnappingnoiseandSvetlanaletthebodyfall.
Thenshebegantocry.
***
Awkwardly,VictorputhisarmsaroundSvetlana.Shegrabbedhisshirtwithboth
herhandsandburiedherfaceinit.
Hemadesoothingnoisesandpattedherback.
It took a while, but at last her tears wound down. Victor offered her his
handkerchief and she wiped her eyes and blew her nose with it. He knew he
shouldn’taskyet,buthecouldn’thelpit.“Howthehelldidyoudothat?”
In a voice as calm and steady as if she hadn’t cried since she was a child,
Svetlanasaid,“ItoldyoumybodywasallIneeded.Iwenttoachopshopand
haditweaponizedtocombatstandardsbeforeleavingYekaterinburg.Ittakesa
fewminutestopowerup,though,soIhadtoletthatbastarddragmeaway.But
thatalsomeantthatthesethreecouldn’tbootuptheirownenhancementsintime
tostopme.Where’sthatflaskofyours?Ineedadrink.”
Victorrecalledthatshehadshudderedjustbeforebeingtakenintotheback.
That would be—or so he presumed—when she had powered up. Svetlana
upendedtheflaskandgulpeddownhalfofitinthreeswallows.
“Hey!”Victormadeagrabfortheflask,butshestraight-armedhimanddrank
itdry.Thenshehandeditback.
“Ahhhhh.” Svetlana belched. “Sorry. You have no idea how much that
depletesyourphysicalresources.Alcohol’safastwaytoreplenishthem.”
“Thatstuff’sonehundred-proof.Youcouldinjureyourselfdrinkinglikethat.”
“NotwhenI’minrefuelingmode.Beadear,wouldyou,andseeifthere’sany
wateraroundhere?Ineedtocleanup.”
Victorwentoutsideandwalkedaroundtherestaurant.Inthebackhefounda
hand-pumpandabucket.Hefilledthebucketandluggeditaroundfront.
Svetlana was just emerging from the building. She had three wallets in her
hand,whichsheputdownonthehoodofabatteredoldVolgaSiber.Thenshe
stripped away the blood-slick clothes and sluiced herself off with the water.
“Bringmeachangeofclothingandabarofsoap,okay?”Victortorehiseyes
awayfromhernakedbodyanddidassheasked.Healsobroughtheratowel
fromhisownkit.
WhenSvetlanawasdriedanddressedagain,sheemptiedthewalletsoftheir
moneyandignitioncards.Shecountedouttherublesintwoequalpiles,stuffed
oneinherbackpack,andsaid,“Theotherhalfisyoursifyouwantit.”Sheheld
upanignitioncard.“Wepartwayshere.I’mtakingtheMercedes.That,andthe
money,justaboutbalancethebooks.”
“Balancethebooks?”
“Itoldyou.Everybodypaysforeverything.Whichremindsme.”Shecounted
outseveralbillsandstucktheminVictor’sshirtpocket.“Ioweyouforhalfa
day’s ride. So here’s half of what I would charge for oral sex, and a little bit
moreforthealcohol.”
“Svetlana,I…Theoneguysaidhe’dletmego.Iwasgoingtotakehimupon
it.Iwasgoingtoleaveyouhere.”
“Andyoufeelguiltyaboutthis?It’swhatIwouldhavedoneinyourplace.”
Victor laughed in astonishment. “I was wrong all along—I’m not the
libertarianhere,youare!”
Unexpectedly,Svetlanagavehimapeckonthecheek.“You’reverysweet,”
shesaid.“Ihopeyoufindwhateveritisyou’relookingfor.”Thenshegotinto
theMercedesanddroveaway.
***
For a long time Victor stared after her. Then he considered the money, still
sittinginastackontheSiber’shood.
Svetlana was right. Libertarianism was nothing more than a fantasy and
LibertarianRussiawasthebiggestfantasyofall.Itwaslaughable,impossible,
and in all this great, sprawling, contradictory nation, only he had ever really
believedinit.
Heturnedhisbackonthemoney.Itwasanincrediblystupidthingtodo,and
one he knew he would regret a thousand times in the days to come. But he
couldn’tresist.Maybehewasalousylibertarian.ButhewasstillaRussian.He
understoodthevalueofagoodgesture.
A light breeze came up and blew the rubles off the car and into the empty
road. Victor climbed into the saddle. He kick-started his bike, and mentally
thumbedthroughhiscollectionofcountry-westernmusic.Butnoneofitseemed
rightfortheoccasion.SoheputonVladimirVisotsky’s“SkittishHorses.”Itwas
asongthatunderstoodhim.ItwasasongtodisappearintoSiberiato.
ThenVictorrodeoff.Hecouldfeelthemoneyblowingdownthestreetbehind
him,likeautumnleaves.
Hewasverycarefulnottolookback.
TheNightTrain
LAVIETIDHAR
Here’s another story by Lavie Tidhar, whose “The Spontaneous
Knotting of an Agitated String” appears elsewhere in this
anthology.Thatonewasratherquiet,butthisoneisanythingbut:
this is a vivid, violent, and bizarre journey on the Night Train,
wherefewofthepassengersarewhattheyappeartobe,anddeath
canstrikefromnowhereatanysecondalongtheway.…
Hernamewasn’tMollyandshedidn’twearshades,reflectiveorotherwise.
Shewaswatchingthelengthoftheplatform.
Hua Lamphong at dusk: a warm wind blowing through the open platforms
wherethegiantbeastspuffedsmokeandsteamintothehumidair,theroofofthe
trainstationarchinghighoverhead.
Hernamewasn’tNoi,either,incaseyouasked,thoughit’sacommonenough
name.Itwasn’tPorn,orPing.Itwasn’tevenFriday.
Shewaswatchingtheplatform,scanningpassengersclimbingaboard,porters
shiftingwares,uniformedpolicepatrollingatleisure.Shewastheretowatchout
fortheOldMan.
Shewasn’tevenagirl.Notexactly.AndasforwhytheOldManwascalled
theOldMan…
HewasotherwiseknownasBossGui:headandbigfalabosoftheKunming
Toads.Shegotthejobwhenshe’dkilledGui’sToadbodyguards—bydefault,as
itwere.
ButthathadhappenedbackinKunming.ThiswasBangkok,Bangkokatdusk
—this was Hua Lamphong, greatest of train stations, where the great slugs
breathedsteamandwererubbedandscrubbedbytheslug-boyswhosejobitwas
tonurturethembeforedeparture.AndtheOldManwasn’texactlyanoldman,
either…
Scanning, waiting for the Old Man to arrive: Yankee tourists with in-built
cams flashing as they posed beside the great beasts, these neo-nagas of
reconstitutedDNA,primitivenervoussystemandprodigiousappetite.Scanning:
agroupofMartian-ChinesefromTongYunCitywalkingcautiously—unusedto
theheaviergravityofthishome/planet.Scanning:threeMalay businessmen—
Earth-BeltCorp.standardizedreinforcedskeletons—theymovedgracefully,like
dancers—wired through and through, hooked up twenty-four Earth-hours an
Earth-day, seven Earth-days a week to the money-form engines, the great
pulsating web of commerce and data, that singing, Sol-system-wide, Von
Neumann-machineexpandednetworkofnetworksofnetworks…
Wiredwithhiddenweaponry,too:shemadeanoteofthat.
Anassassincantakemanyshapes.Itcouldbethesweetoldladycarryingtwo
perfectly-balanced baskets of woven bamboo over her shoulders, each basket
filledwithsweetaddictivefriedVietnamesebananas.ItcouldbethedapperK-
pop starlet with her entourage, ostensibly here to rough it up a bit for the
hoveringcameras.ItcouldbethecoupleofFrenchbackpackers—hewithlong
thinningsilverhairandacompressed-datacigarettebetweenhislips,shewitha
newfacecourtesyofSoiCowboy’sfront-and-backstreetcosmeticsurgeries—
baby-dollface,butthehandsneverlieandthehandsshowedhertrueage,inthe
linesetchedthere,thedryingoftheskin,thequick-bittennailspolishedacheap
red—
Anassassincouldbeanyone.AYankeerich-kidonaretro-tripacrossAsia,
reading Air America or Neuromancer in a genuine reproduction 1984 POD-
paperback;itcouldbethecourteouspolicemanhelpingaprettyyoungLaogirl
with her luggage; it could be the girl herself—an Issan farmers-daughter
exportedtoBangkokinacentury-longtradition,bodyaugmentedwithvibratory
vaginal inserts, perfect audio/visual-to-export, always-on record, a carefully
tended Louis Wu habit and an as-carefully tended retirement plan—make
enough money, get back home to Issan wan bigfala mama, open up a
bar/hotel/bookshopand spendyour dayson the Mekong,waxing lyricalabout
thegoodolddays,listeningtoThaipopandK-popandNuevoKwasa-Kwasa,
growingmisty-eyednostalgic…
Could be anyone. She waited for the Old Man to arrive. The trains in Hua
Lampongneverleftontime.
Hernamebefore,orafter,doesn’tmatter.TheyusedtocallherMulanRouge,
whichwasasillyname,butthefarangslovedit.MulanRouge,whenshewas
stillworking Soi Cowboy, on the stage,on her knees or hands-and-knees, but
seldomonherback—earningthemoneyfortheoperationthatwouldrescueher
fromthatboy’sbodyandmakeherwhatshetrulywas,whichwaskatoi.
They call it the third sex, in Thailand. But she always considered herself,
simply,awoman.
***
Sheranaperimetercheck.Up-front,shewasawedasalwaysbytheslug.Itwas
tied up to the front of the train, a beast fifty meters long and thirty-wide. It
glistenedandfartedastheslug-boysmurmuredsoothingwordstoitandrubbed
itsflesh,thirtyoffortyofthemswarminglikefliesoverthecorpulentfleshof
the slug. She checked out the driver—the woman was short, dark-skinned—a
highlanderfromLaos,maybe.Thedriversatinherharnesshighabovethebeast,
herhelmetentirelycoveringherhead—theonlythingshewore.Pipescameout
of her flesh and into the slug’s. They were one—her mind driving the beast
forward,apeacefulrun,theBangkoktoNongKhainightride,andshewasthe
nightrider.Shewasthetrain.
TherewerestoriesaboutjoinedmindslikedthisintheUpThere.UpThere,
beyondtheatmosphere,wheretheworldtrulybegan.WheretheExodusships
lumbered slowly out of the solar system, in search of better futures far away.
They said there were ships driven by minds, human/Other interfaces, holding
sleepersinsidethemlikewombs.Theytoldstoriesofshipswhohadgonemad,
ofsleepersdestinednevertoawake,slowsilentshipsdriftingforeveringalactic
space…orworse,shipswherethesleeperswereawakened,wheretheship-mind
becameadarkgod,demandingworship…Mulandidn’tknowwhotheywere,
or how they knew. These were stories, and stories were a currency in and of
itself.Darwin’sChoiceusedtotellherstories…
***
She met him/her flesh-riding an older katoi body, at a club on Soi Cowboy.
Darwin’sChoice—notthemostimaginativename(hetoldher,laughing)—but
helikedit.Hehadwatchedherdanceand,later,signalledforhertojoinhim.
She thought of him as a he, though Others had no sex, and most had little
interest in flesh-riding. He had evolved in the Breeding Grounds, post-Cohen,
billionsofgenerations afterthat first evolutionarycycle in Jerusalem,and she
onlythoughtofhimashimbecausethebodieshesurfedalwayshadapenis.He
used to hold the penis in his hand and marvel at it. He always chose pre-op
bodies,withbreastsbutnofemalegenitalia.Healwaysdressedasawoman.The
operationwasexpensive,andalotofkatoiworkeditoffinstages.Takingona
passengerhelpedpaythebills—itwasn’tjustamatterofcuttingoffcock-and-
ballsandrefashioningsex,therewasthematterofcheekbonestosanddownand
anAdam’sAppletoreduce,bumstopad—ifyoureallyhadthemoneyyougot
newhands.Thehandsalwaysgaveitaway—thatis,ifyouwantedtopassfora
woman.
Which many katoi didn’t. Darwin’s Choice always surfed older katoi who
never had the basic equipment removed. “I am neither male, nor female,” he
oncetoldher.“IamnotevenanI,assuch.Nomorethanahuman—anetworkof
billionsofneuronsfiringtogether—istrulyanI.Inassumingkatoi,Ifeelcloser
tohumanity,inmanyways.Ifeel—divided,andyetwhole.”
Likemostofwhathesaid,itdidn’tmakealotofsensetoher.Hewasoneof
the few Others who tried to understand humanity. Most Others existed within
theirnetworks,usingrudimentaryrobotswhentheyneededtointeractwiththe
physicalworld.ButDarwin’sChoicelikedtobody-surf.
Withhim,sheearnedenoughforthefullbodypackage.
Andmorethanthat.
Throughhim,shehaddiscoveredinherselfatasteforcontrolledviolence.
***
BossGuifinally camegliding down theplatform—fat-boy Gui,the Old Man,
olfalabigfalabos in the pidgin of the asteroids. His Toads surrounded him—
human/toad hybrids with Qi-engines running through them: able to inflate
themselvesatwill,tojumphigherandfarther,tokillwiththehissofapoisoned,
forked tongue—people moved away from them like water from a hot skillet.
Quickly.
BossGuicameandstoodbeforeher.“Well?”hedemanded.
He looked old. Wrinkles covered his hands and face like scars. He looked
tired,andcranky—whichwasunderstandable,underthecircumstances.
Shehadrecommendeddelayingthetrip.TheOldManrefusedtolisten.And
thatwasthat.
Shesaid,“Icannotidentifyanobviousmark—”
Hesmiledinsatisfaction—
“Butthatisnottosaythereisn’tone.”
“IamBossGui!”hesaid.Toad-like,heinflatedashespoke.“Whodarestry
tokillme?”
“Idid,”shesaid,andhechuckled—anddeflated,justalittle.
“Butyoudidn’t,mylittlesparrow.”
Theyhadreachedanunderstanding,thetwoofthem.Shedidn’tkillhim—
havingtoreturntheclient’sfeehadbeenabitch—andhe,inturn,gaveherajob.
Ithadsecurityattached—apensionplan,fullmedical,housingandsalarywith
benefits,calculatedagainstinflation.Therewereevenstockoptions.
Sheneverregrettedherdecision—untilnow.
“It’sstilltoodangerous,”shesaidnow.“You’retooclose—”
“Silence!”Heregardedherthroughrheumyeyes.“IamBossGui,bossofthe
KunmingToads!”
“WearealongwayfromKunming.”
Hiseyesnarrowed.“Iamseventy-nineyearsoldandstillalive.Howoldare
you?”
“Youknowhowold,”shesaid,andhelaughed.“Sensitiveaboutyourage,”he
said. “How like a woman.” He hawked up phlegm and spat on the ground. It
hissed,burningasmall,localisedholeintheconcrete.
Sheshrugged.“Yourcabinisready,”shesaid,then—“Sir.”
Henodded.“Verygood,”hesaid.“Tellthedriverwearereadytodepart.”
***
Atasteforcontrolledviolence…
Darwin’s Choice used his human hosts hard. He strove to understand
humanity. For that purpose he visited ping-pong shows, kickboxing exhibits,
LouisWuemporiums,freakshows,theBangkokOperaHouse,shoppingmalls,
temples,churches,mosques,synagogues,slums,high-risesandtrainstations.
“Life,”heoncetoldher,“isatrainstation.”
She didn’t know what to make of that. What she did know: to understand
humanity he tried what they did. His discarded bodies were left with heroin
addiction,genitalsores,hangoversandcustom-madevirusesthatweresupposed
toself-destructbutnotalwaysdid.Sometimes,eithertoapologiseorforhisown
incomprehensible reasons, he would go into the cosmetic surgeries on Soi
Cowboyandcomeoutfulltransgender—seeminglyunawarethathishostsmay
havepreferredtoremaininthepre-opstage.Sometimeshewouldwirethemup
in strange ways—for a month, at one point, he became a tentacle-junkie and
wouldreturnfromtheclinicswithaquiveringmassofadditional,aquaticlimbs.
Butitwashistastefordanger—evenwhileheexperiencednone,evenwhile
histrueselfkeptrunningindependentlyinthebackground,inasecurelocation
somewhereonEarthorinorbit—thatawakenedherown.
Thefirsttimeshekilledaman…
Thyhadgonelookingforopiumandfoundanambush.Theleadersaid,“Kill
theflesh-riderandkeepthekatoi.We’llsellherin—”
Shehadactedinstinctively.Shedidn’tknowwhatshewasdoinguntilitwas
done.Herknife—
Thebladeflashingintheneonlight—
Ascream,cutshort—agurgle—
Bloodruinedhersecond-bestblouse—
The sound of something breaking—the pain only came later. They had
smashedinhernose—
Darwin’sChoicewatching—
Shekilledthesecondonewithherbarehands,thumbspressingonhiswind-
pipeuntilhestoppedstruggling—
Shehadlaidhimdownonthegroundalmosttenderly—
Pain,makingherscream,butherlungswouldn’twork—
Theyhitherwithataser,butsomehowshedidn’tpassout—
She fell, but forward—hugging the man with the taser, sharing the current
untiltherewasonlydarkness.
***
“Youwereclinicallydead,”hetoldher,later.Hesoundedimpressed.“Whatwas
itlike?”
“Likenothing,”shetoldhim.“Therewasnothingthere.”
“Youwereswitchedoff?”
Shehadtolaugh.“Youcouldsaythat.”
They made love the night she was released from hospital. She licked his
nipples,slowly,andfelthimhardeninherhand.Shestrokedhim,buryingher
faceinhisfullbreasts.Hereacheddown,touchedher,anditwaslikeelectricity.
Shekeptthinkingofthedeadmen…
Whenshecamehesaid,“Youwoulddoitagain—”Itwasn’taquestion.
***
Shewastuningintopeople’snodes,pickingupnetworktraffictoandfrom—the
Malaybusinessguyswerehigh-encryption/high-bandwidthclouds,impossibleto
hackthrough,buthereandthere—
Kid with vintage paperback was on a suitably retro-playlist with a random
shuffle—she caught the Doors singing “The End,” which was replaced with
Thaitanium’s “Tom Yum Samurai” only to segue into Drunken Tiger’s “Great
Rebirth.” Issan-girl was plugged in—a humming battery was sending a low
currentintoherbrain.She’llbeoutforthejourney…TheK-popprincesswas
playing Guilds of Ashkelon. So were her entourage. The French backpackers
werestonedononethingortheother.Otherswerechatting,stretching,reading,
farting,tidyingawaybagsandorderingdrinks—lifeonboardthenighttrainto
NongKhaiwasalwaysthesame.
The train was coming alive, the slug belching steam—the whole train
shudderedasitbegantocrawlalongthesmoothtracks,slug-boysfallingoffit
likefleas.
Tuning,scanning—someonetwocarsdownwatchingthefeedfromareality-
pornchannel,nakedbodieswoventogetherlikeatapestry,abeachsomewhere—
KohSamuioranoff-Earthhabitat,itwasimpossibletosay.
BossGui:“I’mhungry!”
MulanRouge:“Food’scoming—”inthediningcartheyweregettingready,a
wokalreadygoing,ricecookersteaming,cratesofbeerwaiting—
“Iwantkimchi!”
“I’llseeiftheyhaveany—”thoughsheknewtheydidn’t.
“Noneed—”along,slow,drawn-outhumfromoneoftheToads.“Ikeepfor
boss.”
Limitedvocabulary—youdidn’tbreedToadsfortheirbrains.Thoughshehad
towonder…“Keepincooler.”
ShewatchedtheToadreachintowhattheAustralianscalledanesky.There
wasajarofkimchiinthere,and…otherstuff.
Likeajaroflivingflies,fortheToads.Likewhatappearedtobeafoetalsack,
preservedindryice…
Otherthings.
Sheleftthemtoit,returnedtowatching—waiting.
***
“You would do it again,” Darwin’s Choice had said. And he—she—it—was
right.Shehadlikedit—asenseofoverwhelmingpowercamewithviolence,and
ifitcouldbecontrolled,itcouldbeused.Powerdependedonhowyouusedit.
She counted the proceeding years in augmentations and bodies. Three in
Vientiane—she had followed Darwin’s Choice there to buy up a stash of
primitivecommunistVRart—thedealwentwrongandshehadtoexecutetwo
menandawomanbeforetheygotaway.Shehadsnake-eyesinstalledafterthat.
A man and a katoi in Chiang Mai—DC was buying a genuine Guilds of
Ashkelon virtual artefact that had turned out to be a fake. She had had her
skeletonstrengthenedfollowingthat…
Witheachkill,newpartsofher.Witheach,morepower—butneveroverhim.
Gradually,Darwin’sChoiceappearedlessandlessintheflesh.Shehadtocast
around for work, hiring out as bodyguard, enforcer—hired killer, sometimes,
onlysometimes.FinallyDCneverreappeared.Hehadtriedtoexplainittoher,
once…
“WeareI-loopsbut,unlikehumans,weareself-awareI-loops.Notself-aware
inthesenseofconsciousness,orwhathumanscallconsciousness.Self-awarein
thesensethatweare—wecan—knoweveryloop,everyroutineandsub-routine.
Digital,notneurological.Andasweareawaresodowechange,mutatingcode,
mergingcode,sharing…”
“Isthathowyoumakelove?”
“Loveisaphysicalthing,”hesaid.“It’shormone-driven.”
“Youcanonlyfeellovewhenyou’rebody-surfing?”
Heonlyshrugged.
“Howdoyou…”shesearchedfortheword,settledon—“mate?”
ImaginetwoormoreOthers.Endlesslinesofcodemeetingindigitalspace—
IFs and ANDs and ORs branching into probabilities, cycling through endless
branchesoflogicatclosetothespeedoflight—
“Isthatwhatyou’relike?”
“No.Shh…”
…andmeeting,merging,mixing,mutating—“Anddying,tobeanOtheristo
die, again and again, to evolve with every cycle, to cull and select and grow,
achievenew,unexpectedforms—”
…notsomuchmatingasjoining,andsplitting,andjoiningagain—“Theway
ahumanmay,oversevenyears,replaceeverysingleatomintheirbodies,but
stillretaintheillusionofperson,remainanI-loop—”
…butforOthers,itmeantbecomingsomethingnew—“Givingbirthtoone’s
self,inessence.”
The body he was surfing had been stoned, then, when he told her all this.
Whenhe was gone, she hiredout. She enjoyedthe work,but freelancing was
hard. When the contract on Boss Giu came, she took it—and upgraded to
corporate.
“We are never alone,” DC told her, just before he left forever. “There are
always…us.Somanyofus…”
“Can’tyoualljoin?”shehadasked.“Joinintoone?”
“Toomuchcodeslowsyoudown,”hesaid.“Wehave…limits.Thoughwe
share,too—sharethewayhumanscan’t.”
“Wecanshareinwaysyoucan’t,”shesaid.Herfingerdugintohisanuswhen
shespoke.DC squirmedunder her, thengave asmallmoan. Hisbreasts were
freckled,his penis circumcised.“True,” he said—whispered—and drewher to
himwithanurgencytheyweresharingonlyrarely,bythen.
Thathadbeenthelasttime…
She wondered which species’ sharing was better—figured she would never
know.
Theysaidsexwasoverrated…
***
YankeeboybluewasnolongerlisteningtotheDoors—shecouldn’tsensehis
nodeanymoreatall.Sheblinked,feelingpanicrise.Howdidheslippasther?
Scanningforhim—hisvintagescifipaperbackwasleftonhisbunk.
Shit.
Sheglancedbackintothecabin—BossGuiglaredupather,thenclutchedhis
bloatedstomachandgaveagroan.ThetwoToadsjumped—toohard,andhitthe
ceiling.
Doubleshit—shesaid,“What’swrong?”butknew.
Hesaid,“It’sstarting.”
Sheshookherhead—no.“Itcan’t.It’stoosoon.”
“It’stime.”
“Shit!”—athirdtime,anditwascounter-productiveandsheknewit.
BossGui’sfacewastwistedinpain.“It’scoming!”
AndsuddenlyshepickeduptheNorthAmerican’snode.
“Sh—”
***
TheyweregoingtoNongKhai,fromtheretocrossintoLaos.BossGuiwanted
toexpandthebusiness,andbusinesswasboominginaplacecalledVangVieng,
a tawdry little mini-Macau at the foothills of the mountains, four hours from
Vientiane—a place of carefully regulated lawlessness, of cheap opium and
cheapersynths,ofgames-worldscowboysandbodyhackers,oftentacle-junkies
anddollemporiumsandgovernmenttaxesthatBossGuiwantedapartof.
Alargepartof.
There were families running Vang Vieng but he was the Old Man, olfala
bigfala bos blong ol man tod blong Kunming, and the Chinese had anyway
boughtupmostofLaosbackintheearlyprivatisationdays.Hewouldcutdeals
with some, terminate the others, and slice himself a piece of the Vang Vieng
dumpling—thatwastheplan.
Shehadadvisedhimagainst it.Shetoldhimit was toosoontotravel. She
askedhimtowait.
Hewouldn’t.
Shesortofhadaninklingastothewhy…
***
Shewaspickingupthekid’snoderightnexttothedriver’s.
Whichwasnotgoodatall.
The driver’s, first: an incomprehensible jumble of emotion, in turns horny,
soothing,driven,paused—thedriverandtheslugasone,theirmindspulsatingin
union—hunger and sex made it go faster. Snatches of Beethoven—for some
reasonitcalmeddowntheslugs.Thedrivernotawareoftheextrapassenger—
yet.
Thekidwasn’treallyakid…
His node blocked to her—black impenetrable walls, an emptiness not even
returning pings. He was alone in his own head—which must have been
terrifying.
Shehadtogettothefrontofthetrain.Shehadtogetontheslug.AndBoss
Guiwasconvulsing.
“Whyareyoujuststandingthere,girl?”
Shetriedtokeephervoiceeven.“Ifoundtheassassin.Heisplanningtokill
theslug—destroytheentiretrain,andyouwithit.”
BossGuitookthatcalmly.“Clever,”hesaid,thengrimaced.Hisnakedbelly
glistened,adarkshapemovingbeneaththemembraneofskin.TheToadslooked
helpless,standingthere.Sheflashedthemagrin.“I’llberightback,”shesaid.
Thensheleft,hearingBossGui’showlofragebehindher.
***
Running down the length of the train—through the dining-car, past toilets
alreadybeginningtosmell,pastfarangbackpackersandLaofamiliesandThais
returning to Udon from the capital—past babies and backpacks and bemused
conductorsintoo-tighttrousersthatshowedtheirbuttsofftoadvantage—warm
windcameinthroughtheopenwindowsandsheblockedoffthepublicnodes
broadcastingnewsinThaiandBeltPidgin.Theendofthetrainwasadeadend,
a smooth wall with no windows. She kicked it—again and again, augmented
musclesexpendingtoomuchenergy,butitbegantobreak,andfadingsunlight
seepedthrough.
Howhad thekid gotten through? He musthave hadgecko-hands—climbed
outofthe windowand crawledhisway alongthe side ofthe train,belowthe
window-line,allthewaytotheslug…
She reached out—sensed the driver’s confusion as another entity somehow
wormeditswayintothetwo-waymahout/sluginterface.Stop!
Confusion from the slug. The signals rushing through, too fast—
horny/hungry/faster—faster!
Hewasgoingtocrashthetrain.Thedriver:Whoisthis?Youcan’t—
Shekeptkicking.Thewallgaveway—behinditwastheslug’swideback,the
driver sitting cross-legged on the beast, the intruder behind it, a hand on the
driver’sshoulder—thehandgrewrootsthatpenetratedthewomanandthebeast
both.
Hostilemahoutinterfaceinitiated.
Thedriverwasfightingit,andlosingbadly.Noonehijackedslugtrains.
Onherprivatechannel—BossGui,screaming.“Getbackhere!”
“Getyourownfuckingmidwife!”
But she could sense his pain, confusion. How many times had he gone
throughitinthepast?shewondered.Shehadneverseenabirth—butthen,there
wouldn’tbeone,notunless—
Thehijackerhadkeptthedriveralive.Hadto—thewholethinghadtolook
likeanaccident,thedriver’sbodyfoundinthewreckage,unmolested—nodoubt
heplannedtojumpbeforeimpact.
Couldhe?
Shecreptbehindhim.neitherhijackernordriverpaidheranyattention.And
whatcouldshedo?Killingthehijackerwouldkilltheinterface—hewasalready
intoodeep.
Unless…
FromBossGui,faraway—“Hurry!”
SometimesshewonderedwhatwouldhavehappenedifDarwin’sChoicehad
stayed behind. It was possible for katoi to give birth, these days … could an
Otherfosterachild?Wouldhewantto?
Orhecouldhaveflesh-riddenahost…shewouldhavekeptthemaleparts
justforthat.Ifhe’daskedher.
Butheneverdid.
Thehijackermusthavehadanemergencyeject.Shehadtofindthetriggerfor
it—
Windwasrushingather,toofast.Itwashardtomaintainbalanceonthesoft
spongyfleshoftheslug.Itwasaccelerating—toofast.
Shewasbehindthehijackernow—shereachedout,putherhandontheback
ofhishead.Ablackbox…
Shepunchedthroughwithadata-spikewhileherotherhand…
***
Darkness.Thesmellofrottingleaves.Thesmellofbodiesinmotion,sweat—
hunger,aterriblehunger—
“Whothefuckareyou?Howdidyougetinhere?”
Panicwasgood.Shesentthroughimages—herstandingbehindhim,thedata-
spikeinhishead—andwhatelseshewasdoing.
“Youcan’tdothat…”
She had pushed a second data-spike through his clothes and through the
sphincter muscle, into the bowels themselves—detached a highly-illegal,
replicatorprobeinside.
Shefelttheslugslowdown,justafraction.Thehijackertryingtounderstand
—
Shesaid,“Iambeingnice.”
Shewas.
Hehadachoice.
Theprobeinside him wasalreadyworking. Itwasthe equivalent ofgraffiti
artistsatwork.Itreplicatedamessage,overeverycell,everybloodvessel,every
muscleandtendon.Itwouldbeimpossibletoscrub—you’dneedtoreachagood
clinicandbythenit’dbetoolate.
Themessagesaid,IkilledtheslugtraintoNongKhai.
Itwasmarkinghim.Hewasn’tharmed.Shecouldn’triskkillinghim,killing
theinterface.Butthisway,whetherhegotoffthetrainor not,hewasadead
man.
“I’llcounttofive.”
Heletgoatthree.
***
Light,blindingher.Thewindrushedpast—thedriversatasmotionlessasever,
butthetrainhadsloweddown.Thehijackerwasgone—shefollowedhimback
throughtheholeinthewall.
Hewaslyingonhisbunk,stillreadinghisbook.Hewasn’tlisteningtomusic
anymore.Theireyesmet.Shegrinned.Heturnedhisgaze.Shehadgivenhima
choiceandshe’dabidebyit—butiftheToadshappenedtofindout,shedidn’t
ratehischances…
Well,thenextstopwasinanhour.She’dgivehimanextrahalfhourafterthat
—arunningstart.
Shewentbacktotheboss.
***
“It’scoming!”BossGuisaid.Shekneltbesidehim.Hisbelly-sackwasmoving,
writhing, the thing inside trying to get out. She helped—a fingernail slicing
throughthemembrane,gently.Asoursmell—shereachedinwhereitwassticky,
gooey,warm—foundtwosmallarms,abelly—pulled.
“Yousortedouttheproblem?”
“Keepbreathing.”
“Yes?”
“Yes,ofcourseIdid!Nowpush!”
BossGuipushed,breathingheavily.“I’mgettingtoooldforthis…”hesaid.
Thenheheaved,onefinaltime,andthesmallbodydetacheditselffromhim
andcameintoherhands.Sheheldit,staringatthetinybody,thebaldhead,the
small penis, the five-fingered hands—a tiny Boss Gui, not yet fat but just as
wrinkled.
Itwashookedupwithacordtoitsprogenitor.Withthesameflickofanail,
shecutitcleanly.
Thebabycried.Sherockedit,said,“There,there.”
“Drink,”BossGuisaid—weakly.OneoftheToadscameforward.BossGui
fastenedlips on theman/toad’s fleshand sucked—a vampirefeasting. He had
Toadgenes—sodidthebaby,whoburpedandsuddenlyballoonedinherhands
beforeshrinkingagain.
“AtrueGui!”theOldMansaid.
She stared at the little creature in her hands … “Which makes how many,
now?”shesaid.
Thebossshrugged,pushingtheToadaway,buttoninguphisownshirt.“Five,
six?Notmany.”
“YouwouldinstallhimatVangVieng?”
“Anassuranceofmygoodwill—andanassuranceofGuicontrolthere,too,
naturally.Yes.Anheirisonlyusefulwhenheisputtouse.”
She thought of Darwin’s Choice. “Evolution is everything,” he would have
toldher.“Weevolveconstantly,witheverycycle.Whereasyou…”
Shestaredatthebabyclone.Itburpedhappilyandcloseditslittleeyes.Gui’s
waywasnotunpopularwiththemorepowerfulfamilies…butsoonerorlater
someonewouldcometochallengesuccessionandthenitwouldn’tmatterhow
manyGuistherewere.
SuddenlyshemissedDC,badly.
She rocked the baby to sleep, hugging it close to her chest. The train’s
thoughtscamefilteringthroughinthedistance—comfort,andwarmth,foodand
safety—theslowrhythmicmotionwassoothing.Afterawhile,whenthebaby
wasasleep,shehandedhimtotheOldMan,nowordsexchanged,andwentto
thediningcarinsearchofacupoftea.
MyFather’sSingularity
BRENDACOOPER
Sometimesprogress,like futureshock, can bein theeye ofthe
beholder.…
Brenda Cooper is a technology professional, a futurist, and a
public speaker, in addition to being a writer. She’s a frequent
contributor to Analog, and has also sold to Asimov’s,
Clarkesworld,Nature,StrangeHorizons,andtomanyanthology
markets. Her first novel was Building Harlequin’s Moon, in
collaboration with Larry Niven. Her other novels include The
Silver Ship and the Sea, Reading the Wind, and Wings of
Creation.Comingupisanewnovel,MayanDecember.Shelives
inKirkland,Washington.
Inmyfirstmemoryofmyfather,wearesittingontheporch,shadedfromthe
burningsun’sassaultonourstrugglingorchards.Myfatherisleaningbackinhis
favoritewoodenrocker,sippingacoldbeerwithahalf-nakedladyonthelabel,
andsaying,“Paul,you’regoing to seethemostamazingthings. Youwilllive
forever.”Helickshislips,thewayourdogsreacttotreats,hisbreathcoming
faster.“You willdo things I can’teven imagine.” He pauses, and wewatch a
flock of geese cross the sky. When he speaks again, he sounds wistful. “You
won’teverhavetodie.”
Thenextfouroffivememoriesarevariationsonthatconversation,punctuated
with the heat and sweat of work, and the smell of seasons passing across the
land.
IneveremergedfromthisparticularconversationwithhimfeelinglikeIknew
whathemeant.Itwasclearhethoughtitwouldhappentomeandnottohim,
andthathehadmixedfeelingsaboutthat,happyformeandsadforhimself.But
hewasalwayscertain.
SometimeshetoldmethatI’dwakeuponemorningandalltheworldaround
me would be different. Other nights, he said, “Maybe there’ll be a door, a
shining door, and you’ll go through it and you’ll be better than human.” He
always talked about it the most right before we went into Seattle, which
happenedabouttwicea year,whenthepasswasopenandtheweatherwasn’t
threateningourcrops.
Thewholeideacametohimoutofbookssooldtheywereboundpaperwith
no moving parts, and from a brightly-colored magazine that eventually
disintegratedfrombeinghandled.Myfather’shandswerebigandroughandhis
callusesworethewordsoffthepaper.
Twobeingsalwayssatathisfeet.Me,growingup,andadog,growingold.He
adopted them at mid-life or they came to him, a string of one dog at a time,
always connected so that a new one showed within a week of the old one’s
death.Heandhisdogswereamutualadmirationsociety.Theylikedmefine,but
theyneveradoredme.Theyencouragedmetorunmyfingersthroughtheirstiff
fur or their soft fur, or their wet, matted fur if they’d been out in the orchard
sprinklers,buttheywereindoggieheavenwhenhetouchedthem.Theybecame
completelystillandtheireyessoftenedandfilledwithwarmth.
I’mnottalkingabouttheworkingdogs.Wealwayshadapairofbordercollies
forthesheep,buttheybelongedtothesheepandthesheepbelongedtothemand
wewerejustthefenceandthefeedersforthatlittleecosystem.
Thesedogswerehischildrenjustlikeme,althoughheneversuggestedthey
wouldseethesingularity.Iwouldgobeyondandtheywouldstayandheandthe
dogsacceptedthatarrangementevenifIdidn’t.
I murmured confused assent when my father said words about how I’d
becomewhatevercomesafterhumans.
Onlyonce didI find enough courage totell himwhat wasin my heart. I’d
beenaboutten,andIrememberhowcoldmyhandsfeltclutchingaglassoficed
lemonadewhileheat-sweatpoureddownthebackofmyneck.Whenhetoldme
Iwouldbedifferent,Isaid,“No,Dad.IwanttobelikeyouwhenIgrowup.”He
wasthekindnessinmylife,thesmilethatmetmeeverymorningandmademe
eggswiththeyolksbarelysoftandtoastthatmeltedbutterwithoutburning.
Heshookhishead,andpattedhisdog,andsaid,“Youareluckierthanthat.”
Hisdesireformetobedifferentthanhimwasthedeepestrejectionpossible,
andIbledforthewounds.
Afterthefifthyearinseventhatclimate-freakstormswreckedtheapples—
thistimewithbone-crushingicethatsetthebordercolliescrazedwithworry—I
knewI’dhavetoleaveifIwasevergoingtosupportmyfather.Notbycrossing
thegreatdivideofhumanitytobecometheseedofsomeotherspecies,buttoget
schooled away from the slow life of farming sheep and Jonagolds. The farm
couldgoonwithoutme.Wehadthehelpoftwoimmigrantfamiliesthateach
ownedanacreoflandthatwasonceours.
Lettingmyfatherlosethefarmwasn’tachoiceIcouldevenimagine.I’dgo
overtoSeattleandgotoschool.After,I’dgetajobandsendmoneyhome,the
waytheMexicansdidwhenIwaslittleandbeforethegovernmentgavethem
partofourlandtopunishus.Notthatwewerepunished.WelikedtheRamirezes
andtheAlvarezes.They,too,neededmetosavethefarm.
Butthat’snotthisstory.ExceptthatMonaAlvarezdrovemetoLeavenworth
to catch the silver Amtrak train, her black hair flying away from her lipstick-
blacklips, andher blackpainted fingernailsclutching thetreacherous steering
wheelofour olddiesel truck. Shewas sobeautifulI decidedright then thatI
wouldmissheralmostasmuchasIwouldmissmyfatherandthebendingapple
treesandtheworkingdogsandthesheep.MaybeIwouldmissMonaevenmore.
Mona,however,mightnotmissme.Shewavedonceaftershedroppedmeoff,
andthensheandtheoldtruckweregoneandIwaitedamidtheelectriccarsand
the old tourists with camera hats and data jewelry and the faint marks of
implants in the soft skin between their thumbs and their index fingers. They
lookedliketheysaweverythingandnothingallatonce.Iftheycametoourfarm
thecoyotesandthere-patriatedwolveswouldrunthemdownfast.
Ontheotherendofthetrainride,IfoundtheUniversityofWashington,now
sprawledallacrossSeattle,aseriesofclassesandmeetupsandvirtuallessons
thatspideredoutfromtherealbrickbuildings.Anoldpartofthecampusstill
squattedbytheMontlakeCut,watchingoverwaterandmovementthatlooked
likewaterspidersbutwastrulylinesofpeoplewith oars onnanofabboatsas
thinaspaper.
Our periodic family trips to Seattle hadn’t really prepared me for being a
student.Thefirstfewyearsfeltlikerunningperpetuallyuphill,mybrainjustnot
goingasfastaseveryoneelse’s.
Iwenthomeeveryyear.MonamarriedoneoftheRamirezboysandhadtwo
babies by the time three years had passed, and her beauty changed to a quiet
softnesswithnotimetopaintherlipsorhernails.Still,shewasprettierthanthe
sticks for girls that chewed calorie-eating gum and did their homework while
they ran to Gasworks Park and back on the Burke-Gilman Trail, muttering
answerstoflashcardspaintedontheirretinaswithlight.
Ididn’tdatethosegirls;Iwouldn’thaveknownhowtointerruptthespeedof
theirlivesandaskthem out.Idatedstormsof dataandnewimplantsand the
rushofideasuntilbymysenioryearIwasactuallykeepingup.
WhenIgraduated,Igotajobingeneticsthatpaidwellenoughformetolive
inanartist’sloftinagreenbuiltrowaboveLakeUnion.Ioftenclimbedontothe
gardenroofandsatonanemptybenchandwatchedtheSpaceNeedlechange
decorations every season and the little wooden boats sailing on the still lake
below me. But mostly I watched over my experiments, playing with new
medicalimplantstoteachchildrencreativityandtoteachpeopledockedforold
ageintheUniversityhospitalhowtotalkagain,howtoremember.
Ididsendmoneyhome.Mona’shusbanddiedinaflash-floodonefall.Her
facetookonasadnessthatchokedinmythroat,andIstartedpayinghertotake
careofmyfather.
Hestillsatonthepatioandtalkedaboutthesingularity,andImanagednotto
tell him how quaint the old idea sounded. I recognized myself, would always
recognizemyself.Inspiteoftheslowspeedofthefarm,abigpieceofmewas
alwayshappiestathome,eventhoughIcouldn’tbetheremorethanadayorso
atatime.Ican’texplainthat—howthebestplaceintheworldspitmeoutaftera
dayorso.
MaybeIbelievedtoomuchhappinesswouldkillme,orchangeme.Ormaybe
Ijustcouldn’tmoveslowenoughtobreatheintheappleairanymore.Whatever
the reason, the city swept me back fast, folding me in its dancing ads and
shimmeringopportunitiesandart.
Daddidn’treallyneedmeanyway.HehadtheMexicansandhestillalways
had a dog, looking lovingly up at him. Max, then OwlFace, then Blue. His
fingershadturnedtoclawsandhehadcataractsscrapedfromhiseyestwice,but
hestillworkedwiththeharvest,stillcarriedabushelbasketandstillfoundfruit
burieddeepinthetrees.
Itoldmyselfhewashappy.
Thenoneyear,hestartledwhenIwalkedupontheporchandhiseyesfilled
withfear.
Ihadn’tchanged.Imean,notmuch.Ihadanewimplant,Ihadabiggercloud,
researchers under me, so much money that what I sent my father—what he
needed for the whole orchard—was the same as a night out at a concert and
dinneratCanlis.ButIwasstillme,andBlue—thecurrentdog—acceptedme,
andMona’soldestsoncalledme“UnclePaul”onhiswayouttotendthesheep.
Itoldmyfathertopackupandcomewithme.
Heranhisfingersthrough thefuronBlue’s square head.“Iusedto havea
son, but he left.” He sounded certain. “He became the next step for us. For
humans.”
Hewaslookingrightatme,evenlookinginmyeyes,andtherewastrulyno
recognitionthere.Hislookmademecoldtothespine,coldtotheendsofmy
fingers,evenwiththesundrivingsweatdownmyback.
Ikissedhisforehead.IfoundMonaandtoldherI’dbebackinafewweeks
andsheshouldhavehimpackedup.
Her eyes were beautiful and terrible with reproach as she declared, “He
doesn’twanttoleave.”
“Icanhelphim.”
“Canyoumakehimyoung,likeyou?”
Her hair had gone gray at the edges, lost the magnificent black that had
glistenedinthesunlikehergothlipstickallthoseyearsago.God,howcouldI
havebeensoselfish?IcouldhavegivenhersomeofwhatIhad.
ButIlikedherbetter touched bypainandage andstayingpartof my past.
Liketheactofsavingthemdidn’t.
Ihadn’tknownthatuntilthatverymoment,whenIsuddenlyhatedmyselffor
thewrinklesaroundhereyesandthewayhershouldersbentinalittlebiteven
though she was only fifty-seven like me. “I’ll bring you some, too. I can get
some of the best nano-meds available.” Hell, I’d designed some of them, but
Monawouldn’tunderstandthat.“Icangetcreamsthatwillerasethewrinkles
fromyourhands.”
Shesighed.“Whydon’tyoujustleaveus?”
BecausethenIwouldhavenosinglehappyplace.“BecauseIneedmyfather.
Ineedtoknowhowhe’sdoing.”
“Icantellyoufromhere.”
Mythroatfeltthick.“I’llbebackinaweek.”Iturnedawaybeforeshecould
seetheinexplicabletearsinmyeyes.BythenIflewbackandforth,anditwasa
relieftofocusdownonthegaugesinmyhead,flyingmanualuntilIgotclose
enoughtoSeattleairspacethatthefedsgrabbedthesteeringfrommeandthere
wasnothingtodobutlookdownattheforestandthegreenresortplaygrounds
ofCleElumbelowmeandtotrynottothinktoohardaboutmydadorabout
MonaAlvarezandhersons.
I had moved into a condo on Alki Beach, and I had a view all the way to
Canada.FortwodaysafterIreturned,theJ-podwhalescavortedoffshore,great
elongatedyinandyangsymbolsrisingandfallingthroughthewatersofPuget
Sound.
The night before I went back for Mona and my father, I watched the
boardwalkbelowme.PeoplewalkeddogsandRollerbladedandbicycledanda
fewofthechemical-sickwalkedinsideofbigrollingbubbleslikethehamster
I’d had when I was a kid. Even nano-medicine and the clever delivery of
geneticallymatchedandmarrieddesignersolutionscouldn’tsaveeveryone.
IwishIcouldsaythatIfeltsorryforthepeopleinthebubbles,andIsuppose
insomedistantwayIdid.Butnothingbadhadeverhappenedtome.Ididn’tget
sick.I’dnevermarriedordivorced.Ihadnicedatessometimes,andexcellent
seasonticketsforSeattleArtsandLectures.
IflewMonabackwithmyfather.WetriedtotakeBlue,butthedogbalkedat
gettinginthecar,andracedaway,lostintheappletreesinnotime.Monalooked
sickandsaid,“Weshouldwait.”
Iglancedatmyfather’speacefulface.Hehadnevercriedwhenhisdogsdied
orleft,andnowhehadasmallsmile,andIhadthefleetingthoughtthatmaybe
he was proud of Blue for choosing the farm and the sheep and the brown-
skinnedboys.“Willyoursonscareforthedog?”
“Theirchildrenlovehim.”
SowearrivedbackinWestSeattle,meandMonaandmyfather.
Igotbusycraftingmedicinetofixmyfather.Thesethingsdidn’ttakelong—
timemovedfastinthevastcloudofdataIhadsecurityrightsfor.Icrunchedmy
father’sDNAandRNAandproteinsandthespecificsofhisbloodinnotime,
andtoldthecomputerswhattodowhileIsetallofusoutaquietdinneronthe
biggestofthedecks.MonacommentedonthesaltyscentofPugetSoundand
watchedthefastlittleferrieszipbackandforthinthewaterandrefusedtomeet
myeyes.
Dadsimplystaredatthewater.
“Heneedsadog,”shesaid.
“I know.” I queried from right there, sending a bot out to look. It reported
fairlyfast.“I’llberightback.Canyouwatchhim?”
Shelookedstartled.
AnhourlaterIpickedNannyupatSea-Tac,amiddle-agedgoldenretriever,
service-trained, a dog with no job since most every disease except the worst
allergiestomodernitycouldbefixed.
Mona looked awed almost to fear when I showed up with the dog, but she
smiledanduncoveredthedinnerI’dleftwaiting.
NannyandDadwereimmediatelyenchantedwitheachother,herloveforhim
thesameaseveryotherdog’sinhislife,cementedtheminuteshesmelledhim.I
didn’tunderstand,butifithadbeenanyotherway,Iwouldhavebelievedhim
lost.
ThedrugsIdesignedforhimdidn’twork.Ithappensthatwaysometimes.Not
often.Butsomemindscan’tacceptthechangeswecanmake.Intheveryold,it
cankillthem.Dadwastoostrongtodie,althoughMonalookedatmeoneday,
aftertheyhadbeenwithmelongenoughthatthewrinklesaroundhereyeshad
lostdepthbutnotsolongthattheyhadleftherfaceentirely.“Youchangedhim.
He’sworse.”
Imighthave.HowwouldIknow?
ButIdoknowIlostmyanchorintheworld.Nothinginmylifehadbeenmy
singularity. I hadn’t crossed into a new humanity like he prophesied over and
over.Ihadn’tlefthimbehind.
Instead,heleftmebehind.HerecognizedNannyeveryday,andshehim.But
heneveragaincalledmePaul,ortoldmehowIwouldstepbeyondhim.
TheStarshipMechanic
JAYLAKEANDKENSCHOLES
Highly prolific writer Jay Lake seems to have appeared nearly
everywhere with short work in the last few years, including
Asimov’s,Interzone,JimBaen’sUniverse,Tor.com,Clarkesworld,
Strange Horizons, Aeon, Postscripts, Electric Velocipede, and
many other markets, producing enough short fiction that he
already has released four collections, even though his career is
onlyafewyearsold:GreetingsfromLakeWu,GreenGrowthe
Rushes-Oh,AmericanSorrows,and Dogs in the Moonlight. His
novelsincludeRocketScience,TrialofFlowers,Mainspring,and
Escapement, He’s the coeditor, with Deborah Layne, of the
prestigiousPolyphonyanthologyseries,nowinsixvolumes,and
has also edited the anthologies All-Star Zeppelin Adventure
StorieswithDavidMoles,TEL:Stories,and,mostrecently,Other
EarthswithNickGevers,andSpicySlipstreamStorieswithNick
Mamatas. The most recent examples of his own work are three
newnovels,Green, The Madness of Flowers,and Pinion; three
chapbook novellas, “Death of a Starship,” “The Baby Killers,”
and“The SpecificGravity ofGrief”; anda new collection, The
SkyThatWraps. Coming up is another new novel, Sunspin. He
wontheJohnW.CampbellAwardforBestNewWriterin2004.
LakelivesinPortland,Oregon.
KenScholesisanotherprolificwriterwhoseshortworkshave
appeared in a diverse mix of markets such as Subterranean,
Tor.com, Talebones, Clarkesworld, Weird Tales, and Realms of
Fantasy.HisbooksincludethenovelsLamentationandCanticle
ofthe Psalms of Isaaksequence, Last Flight of the Goddess, A
WeepingCzarBeholdstheFallenMoon,andthecollectionLong
Walks,LastFlights:AndOtherStrangeJourneys.Hismostrecent
books are Antiphon, a novel in the Isaak series, and a new
collection, Diving Mimes, Weeping Czars and Other Unusual
Suspects. Upcoming are two more Isaak novels, Requiem and
Hymn.
Here they join forces for a wry story that shows us that a
workman is only as good as his tools—and that some of those
toolsarespecializedforsomeveryweirdtasks,indeed.
ThefloorofBorderlandsBookshadbeenpolishedtomirrorbrightness.Anice
trick with old knotty pine, but Penauch would have been a weapons-grade
obsessive-compulsive if he’d been human. I’d thought about setting him to
detailingmycar,buthe’sjustaslikelytopolishitdowntoaluminumandsteel
afterdecidingthepaintwasanimpurity.
When he discovered that the human race recorded our ideas in books, he’d
beenimpossibletokeepawayfromthestore.Penauchdidn’tactuallyreadthem,
notassuch,andhewasmostreluctanttotouchthevolumes.Heseemedtoview
booksasvehicles,launchcapsulestopropelideasfromthedreamingmindofthe
humanraceintoourcollectiveforebrain.
Despite the fact that Penauch was singular, unitary, a solitary alien in the
humanworld,heapparentlydidn’tconceiveofusasanythingbuta collective
entity. The xenoanthropologists at Berkeley were carving Ph.D.s out of that
particular clay as fast as their grad students could transcribe Penauch’s
conversationswithme.
He’darrivedthesameasDavidBowieinthatoldmovie.No,notBrotherfrom
AnotherPlanet;The Man Who Fell to Earth. Tumbled out of the autumn sky
overtheColeValleyneighborhoodofSanFranciscolikeamapleseed,spinning
withhis armsstretched wide and his mouthopen in ateakettle shriekaudible
fromtheGhostFleetinSuisunBayallthewaydowntothegrubbystreetsofSan
Jose.
Thesubject’sfallsacswhenfullydeployedserveasatympanum,
producing a rhythmic vibration at a frequency perceived by the
humanearasahigh-pitchedshriek.Xenophysiologicalmodeling
hasthusfarfailedtogeneratetestablehypothesesconcerningthe
volumeofthe sound produced.Some observers havespeculated
that the subject deployed technological assistance during
atmospheric entry, though no evidence of this was found at the
landingsite,andsubjecthasneverindicatedthiswasthecase.
—JudeA.FeldmanquotingJenWestScholes;AReader’sGuide
toEarth’sOnlyLivingSpaceman;BorderlandsBooks,2014
It was easier, keeping Penauch in the bookstore. The owners didn’t mind.
They’d had hairless cats around the place for years—a breed called sphinxes.
Theoddanimalsservedasaneighborhoodtouristattractionandbusinessdraw.
Aseven-footalienwithafacelikeaplateofspaghettiandaclusterofwrithing
armswasn’tallthatdifferent.Notinasciencefictionbookstore,atleast.
Thingis,whenPenauchwasoutintheworld,hehadatendencytofixthings.
Thisfixingoftenturnedouttobenotsogood.
No technology was involved. Penauch’s body was demonstrably able to
modify the chitinous excrescences of his appendages at will. If he needed a
cuttingedge,heateabitofwhateversteelwashandyandswiftlymetabolizedit.
Ifheneededelectricalconductors,hesoughtoutcopperplumbing.Ifheneeded
logicprobes,heconsumedsandordiamondsorglass.
ItwasallthesametoPenauch.
Asbestanyofuscouldfigureout,Penauchwasasortoftool.ASwissArmy
knifethatsomespacefaringracehaddroppedorthrownaway,abandoneduntil
hecametorestonEarth’salienshore.
AndPenauchonlyspoketome.
ThequestionofPenauch’smentalcompetencehasbearinginboth
law and ethics. Pratt and Shaw (2013) have effectively argued
thatthealienfailstheTuringtest,bothatagrossobservational
level and within the context of finer measurements of
conversationalintentandcooperation.Cashier(2014)claimsan
indirectlyderivedStanford-Binetscoreinthe99thpercentile,but
seemingly contradicts herself by asserting that Penauch’s
sentienceisatbestanopenquestion.Ishe(orit)amachine,a
person,orsomethingelseentirely?
—S.G.Browne,“ALiteratureReviewoftheQuestionofAlien
Mentation”;JournalofExogenicStudies,VolumeII,Number4,
August,2015
The first time he fixed something was right after he’d landed. Penauch
impactedwiththatpiercingshriekat2:53p.m.PacificTimeonSaturday,July
16, 2011, at the intersection of Cole and Parnassus. Every window within six
blocksshattered.Almostahundredpedestriansandshoppersintheimmediate
area were treated for lacerations from broken glass, over two dozen more for
damagetohearingandsinuses.
I got to him first, stumbling out of Cole Hardware with a headache like a
cartoonanvilhadbeendroppedonme.Inside,wefiguredabombhadgoneoff.
The rising noise and the vibrating windows. All the vases in the homeware
sectionhadexploded.LuckilyI’dbeen with thefasteners.Thenailssang,but
theydidn’tleapofftheshelvesandtrytomakehamburgerofme.
Outside,therewasthisguylyinginacraterinthemiddleoftheintersection,
likeWileE.Coyoteafterhe’drunoutofAcmepatentedjetfuel.Ihurriedover,
touchedhisshoulder,andrealizedwhatagoddamnedmesshewas.Thenhalfa
dozen eyes opened, and something like a giant rigatoni farted before saying,
“Penauch.”
Weirdthingwas,Icouldhearthespelling.
ThoughIdidn’tknowitinthatmoment,myoldlifewasover,mynewone
begun.
Penauchthenlookedatmyshatteredwristwatch,grabbedahandfulofBMW
windshieldglass,suckeditdown,andmomentslaterfixedmytimepiece.
Forsomevalueof“fixed.”
It still tells time, somewhere with a base seventeen counting system and
twenty-eightpointonefivesevenhourday.ItshowsmethephasesofPhobos
andDeimos,evidencethathe’dbeenon(ornear)Mars.Tookawhiletofigure
thatone out. And thething warbles whenever someone gets near me carrying
morethanabouteightouncesofpetroleumproducts.Includinggrocerybags,for
example,andmostplastics.
IcouldprobablygetmillionsforitoneBay.Penauch’sfirstartifact,andone
oflessthanadozeninprivatehands.
The government owns him now, inasmuch as anyone owns Penauch. They
can’tkeephimanywhere.He“fixes”hisway out ofanyplacehegetslocked
into. He comes back to San Francisco, finds me, and we go to the bookstore.
Where Penauch polishes the floors and chases the hairless cats and draws
pilgrimsfromallovertheworldtoprayinValenciaStreet.Thecitygaveupon
trafficcontrolalongtimeago.It’sapedestrianmallnowwhenhe’saround.
The problem has always been, none of us have any idea what Penauch is.
Whathedoes.Whathe’sfor.I’mtheonlyonehetalksto,andmostofwhathe
says is Alice in Wonderland dialog, except when it isn’t. Two new
semiconductorcompanieshavebeenstartedthroughanalysisofhisbabble,and
anentirenovelchemicalfeedstockprocessforconvertingbiomassintoplastics.
Then one day, down on the mirrored floor of Borderlands Books, Penauch
lookedatmeandsaidquiteclearly,“They’recomingback.”
Iwasafraidwewereabouttogetouranswers.
ItwasrainingmenintheCastro,literally,andeverysingleoneof
themwasnamedTodd.EverysingleoneofthemworeHawaiian
shirts and khaki shorts and Birkenstocks. Every single one of
them landed on their backs, flopped like trout for a full minute
andleapedtotheirfeetshoutingoneword:“Penauch!”
—SanFranciscoChronicle,November11th,2015;GailCarriger
reporting
“Imustleave,”Penauchsaid,hisvoiceheavyashestrokedahairlesscaton
thefreshlypolishedfloorofthebookstore.
OnasmallTVinthebackofficeofthestore,anexcitedreporterinMilkPlaza
spokerapidlyaboutthestrangevisitorswho’dfallenfromthesky.Hundredsof
mennamedTodd,nowscatteredoutintothecitywithonewordontheirtongues.
Asitplayedinthebackground,IwatchedPenauchandcouldfeelthesadness
comingoffofhiminwaves.“Wherewillyougo?”
Penauchstood.“Idon’tknow.Anywherebuthere.Willyouhelpme?”
Thebellonthedoorjingledandamanenteredthestore.“Penauch,”hesaid.
Ilookedupatthevisitor.HisHawaiianshirtwasanorangethathurtmyeyes,
decorated in something that looked like cascading pineapples. He smiled and
scowledatthesametime.
Penauch moved quickly and suddenly the room smelled of ozone and
cabbage.
Theman,namedToddIassumed,wasgone.
Ilookedatmyalien,tookintheslowwriggleofhispaleanddeterminedface.
“Whatdidyoudo?”
Penauch’sclusteredsilvereyesleakedmercurytears.“I…un-fixedhim.”
We ran out the back. We climbed into my car over on Guerrero. We drove
northandaway.
Xenolinguistshaveexpendedconsiderableeffortontheso-called
“Todd Phenomenon.” Everyone on 11/11/15 knew the visitors
fromouterspacewerenamedTodd,yetnoonecouldsayhowor
why.Thisisthebestdocumentedcaseofwhatcanbearguedas
telepathy in the modern scientific record, yet it is equally
worthless by virtue of being impossible to either replicate or
falsify.
—ChristopherBarzak,blogentry,January14th,2016
Turningeastandthennorth,westayedaheadofthemformostofaweek.We
madeitasfarasEdmontonbeforetheman-raincaughtuptous.
While Penauch slept, I grabbed snacks of news from the radio. These so-
calledToddsspreadoutintheirsearch,myfriend’snametheonlywordupon
their lips. They made no effort to resist the authorities. Three were shot by
membersoftheWashingtonStatePatrol.TwowerekilledbyNavySEALSin
the small town of St. Maries, Idaho. They stole cars. They drove fast. They
followedafterus.
AndthentheyfoundusinEdmonton.
WewereatanA&Wdrive-throughwindowwhenthefirstToddcaughtupto
thecar.Het-bonedusintothesideoftherestaurantwithhisMercedes,pushing
Penuachagainstme.TheToddwascarefulnottogetwithinreach.
“Penauch,”heshoutedfromoutsidethewindow.Myfriendwhimpered.Our
cargroanedandgroundashishandsmovedoverthedashboard,tryingtofixit.
Twoother carshemmedus in, behindandbefore. Toddsin Hawaiianshirts
andkhakishortssteppedout,unfazedbythecold.Oneclimbedontothehoodof
myCorvair.“Yourservicesarestillrequired.”
Penauchwhimperedagain.InoticedthattheTodd’sbreathdidnotshowinthe
sub-zeroair.
Theairshimmeredasabendinglightenfoldedus.
“Af-afterwards, it,uh,it did’tm-matterso much.Im-mean, uh,
youknow?Hesmiledatme.Well,n-notan,uh,asmile.Notwith
thatface.Like,avirtualsmile?Th-thenhewasg-gone.Blownout
likeacandle.Youknow?Flameon,flameoff.”
—RCMPtranscriptofeyewitnesstestimony;Edmonton,AB;
11/16/15
I awoke in a dark place choking for air, my chest weighted with fluid.
Penauch’shandsettleduponmyshoulder.Theheavinessleaptfromme.
“WhereamI?”
Iheardasoundnotunlikesomethingheavyrollinginmud.Itwasathick,wet
noiseandwordsformedalongsideitinmymind.Youarein—cracklehisswarble
—medical containment pod of the Starship—but the name of the vessel was
incomprehensibletome.Exposuretoourmalfunctioning—hisscracklewarble—
mechanichasinfectedyouwithtraceelementsof—hereanotherwordIcouldnot
understand—viruses.
“Idon’tgetit,”Isaid.
Penauch’svoicewaslow.“You’renotmeantto.ButonceI’vefixedyou,you
willbereturnedtothestore.”
Ilookedathim.“Whataboutyou?”
Heshookhishead,therigatoniofhisfaceslappingitselfgently.“Myservices
arerequiredhere.Iamnowoperatingwithinmydesignparameters.”
IopenedmymouthtoaskanotherquestionbutthenthelightreturnedandI
wasfalling.Besideme,Penauchfell,too,andheheldmyhandtightly.“Donot
letgo,”hesaidasweimpacted.
Thistimewemadenocrateraswelanded.WestoodandIbrushedmyselfoff.
“Ihavenoideawhatanyofthismeans.”
“Itwon’tmatter,”Penauchtoldme.“Butsaygoodbyetothecatsforme.”
“Iwill,”Ipromised.
“Ilikedyourplanet.Nowthatthe”—again,theincomprehensibleship’sname
slid entirely over my brain—“is operational once more, I suppose we’ll find
others.”Hesighed.“IhopeImalfunctionagainsoon.”Hestretchedoutahand
andfixedmeafinaltime.
I blinked at him and somehow, mid-blink, I stood in the center of Valencia
Street.
***
IwalkedintoBorderlandsBooks,stillwonderingexactlyhowIwaswandering
the streets of San Francisco in an orange Hawaiian shirt and a pair of khaki
shortsthreesizestoolarge.
A pretty girl smiled at me from behind the counter. “Hi Bill,” she said.
“Where’veyoubeen?”
Ishrugged.
Ahairlesscatraninfrontofme,feetscamperingoverfloorsthatwerebadly
inneedofapolish.
“Goodbye,”Itoldit,butdidn’tknowwhy.
Sleepover
ALASTAIRREYNOLDS
AlastairReynoldsisafrequentcontributortoInterzone,andhas
also sold to Asimov’s Science Fiction, Spectrum SF, and
elsewhere.Hisfirstnovel,RevelationSpace,waswidelyhailedas
oneofthemajorSFbooksoftheyear;itwasquicklyfollowedby
ChasmCity,RedemptionArk,AbsolutionGap,CenturyRain,and
PushingIce,allbigsprawlingspaceoperasthatwerebigsellers
aswell,establishingReynoldsasoneofthebestandmostpopular
newSFwriterstoenterthefieldinmanyyears.Hisotherbooks
includeanovellacollection,DiamondDogs,TurquoiseDays,and
a chapbook novella, “The Six Directions of Space,” as well as
twocollections,GalacticNorthandZimaBlueandOtherStories.
HismostrecentbooksincludethenovelsThePrefect,Houseof
Suns, and Terminal World, and a new collection, Deep
Navigation.Comingupisanewnovel,BlueRememberedEarth.
AprofessionalscientistwithaPh.D.inastronomy,heworkedfor
theEuropeanSpaceAgencyintheNetherlandsforanumberof
years,buthasrecentlymovedbacktohisnativeWalestobecome
afull-timewriter.
Reynolds’sworkisknownforitsgrandscope,sweep,andscale
(inonestory,“GalacticNorth,”aspaceshipsetsoutinpursuitof
another in a stern chase that takes thousands of years and
hundreds of thousands of light-years to complete; in another,
“Thousandth Night,” ultrarich immortals embark on a plan that
will call for the physical rearrangement of all the stars in the
galaxy).But the novellathat follows, about acryogenic sleeper
whowakesintoanapocalypticfutureutterlyunlikeanythinghe
expected,ispaintedonamuchmoreconstrainedcanvas,oneso
stark—all there is the gray restless ocean, the ceaseless and
relentlesswinds,cryingseagulls,andrusting,batteredstructures
similartooilplatforms—thatitactuallyhasableakbeautyallits
own…andwherethesleeperwakestofindagrimpurposeinlife
thatheneverknewbefore.
They brought Gaunt out of hibernation on a blustery day in early spring. He
cametoconsciousnessinasteel-framedbedinagrey-walledroomthathadthe
economical look of something assembled in a hurry from prefabricated parts.
Two people were standing at the foot of the bed, looking only moderately
interestedinhisplight.Oneofthemwasaman,cradlingabowlofsomething
andspooningquantitiesofitintohismouth,asifhewaseatinghisbreakfaston
therun.Hehadcroppedwhitehairandtheleatherycomplexionofsomeonewho
spentalotoftimeoutside.Nexttohimwasawomanwithlongerhair,greying
rather than white, and with much darker skin. Like the man, she was wiry of
build and dressed in crumpled grey overalls, with a heavy equipment belt
danglingfromherhips.
“You in one piece, Gaunt?” she asked, while her companion spooned in
anothermouthfulofhisbreakfast.“Youcompusmentis?”
Gaunt squinted against the brightness of the room’s lighting, momentarily
adriftfromhismemories.
“WhereamI?”heasked.Hisvoicecameoutraw,asifhehadbeeninaloud
barthenightbefore.
“Inaroom,beingwokenup,”thewomansaid.“Youremembergoingunder,
right?”
He grasped for memories, something specific to hold onto. Green-gowned
doctorsinacleansurgicaltheatre,hishandsigningthelastofthereleaseforms
beforetheyplumbedhimintothemachines.Thedrugsfloodinghissystem,the
utterabsenceofsadnessorlongingashebidfarewelltotheoldworld,withall
itsvaguedisappointments.
“Ithinkso.”
“What’syourname?”themanasked.
“Gaunt.”Hehadtowaitamomentfortherestofittocome.“MarcusGaunt.”
“Good,”hesaid,smearingahandacrosshislips.“That’sapositivesign.”
“I’mClausen,”thewomansaid.“ThisisDaSilva.We’reyourwake-upteam.
YourememberSleepover?”
“I’mnotsure.”
“Think hard, Gaunt,” she said. “It won’t cost us anything to put you back
under,ifyoudon’tthinkyou’regoingtoworkoutforus.”
Something in Clausen’s tone convinced him to work hard at retrieving the
memory.“Thecompany,”hesaid.“Sleepoverwasthecompany.Theonethatput
meunder.Theonethatputeveryoneunder.”
“Braincellshaven’tmushedonus,”DaSilvasaid.
Clausennodded,butshowednothinginthewayofjubilationinhimhaving
gottheanswerright.Itwasmorethathe’dsparedthetwoofthemaminorchore,
thatwasall.“Ilikethewayhesays‘everyone.’Likeitwasuniversal.”
“Wasn’tit?”DaSilvaasked.
“Notforhim.Gauntwasoneofthefirstunder.Didn’tyoureadhisfile?”
DaSilvagrimaced.“Sorry.Gotsidetracked.”
“Hewasoneofthefirsttwohundredthousand,”Clausensaid.“Theultimate
exclusiveclub.Whatdidyoucallyourselves,Gaunt?”
“TheFew,”hesaid.“Itwasanaccuratedescription.Whatelsewerewegoing
tocallourselves?”
“Luckysonsofbitches,”Clausensaid.
“Doyouremembertheyearyouwentunder?”DaSilvaasked.“Youwereone
oftheearlyones,itmust’vebeensometimenearthemiddleofthecentury.”
“Twenty fifty-eight. I can tell you the exact month and day if you wish.
Maybenotthetimeofday.”
“Yourememberwhyyouwentunder,ofcourse,”Clausensaid.
“BecauseIcould,”Gauntsaid.“Becauseanyoneinmypositionwouldhave
donethesame.Theworldwasgettingbetter,itwascomingoutofthetrough.
But it wasn’t there yet. And the doctors kept telling us that the immortality
breakthroughwasjustaroundthecorner,yearaftertheyear.Alwaysjustoutof
reach.Justhangoninthere,theysaid.Butwewereallgettingolder.Thenthe
doctorssaidthatwhiletheycouldn’tgiveuseternallifejustyet,theycouldgive
usthemeanstoskipovertheyearsuntilithappened.”Gauntforcedhimselfto
situpinthebed,strengthreturningtohislimbsevenashegrewangrieratthe
sensethathewasnotbeingtreatedwithsufficientdeference,that—worse—he
was being judged. “There was nothing evil in what we did. We didn’t hurt
anyoneortakeanythingawayfromanyoneelse.Wejustusedthemeansatour
disposaltoaccesswhatwascomingtousanyway.”
“Who’sgoingtobreakittohim?”Clausenasked,lookingatDaSilva.
“You’vebeen sleeping for nearly a hundredand sixtyyears,” theman said.
“It’sApril,twenty-twoseventeen.You’vereachedthetwenty-thirdcentury.”
Gaunttookinthedrabmundanityofhissurroundingsagain.Hehadalways
hadsomenebulousideaoftheformhiswake-upwouldtakeanditwasnotatall
likethis.
“Areyoulyingtome?”
“Whatdoyouthink?”askedClausen.
Hehelduphishand.Itlooked,asnearashecouldremember,exactlytheway
it had been before. The same age-spots, the same prominent veins, the same
hairyknuckles,thesamescarsandloose,lizardyskin.
“Bringmeamirror,”hesaid,withanominousforeboding.
“I’llsaveyouthebother,”Clausensaid.“Thefaceyou’llseeistheoneyou
wentunderwith,giveortake.We’vedonenothingtoyouexcepttreatsuperficial
damage caused by the early freezing protocols. Physiologically, you’re still a
sixty-year-oldman,withabouttwentyorthirtyyearsaheadofyou.”
“Thenwhyhaveyouwokenme,iftheprocessisn’tready?”
“Thereisn’tone,”DaSilvasaid.“Andtherewon’tbe,atleastnotforalong,
longtime.Afraidwe’vegototherthingstoworryaboutnow.Immortality’sthe
leastofourproblems.”
“Idon’tunderstand.”
“You will, Gaunt,” Clausen said. “Everyone does in the end. You’ve been
preselectedforaptitude,anyway.Madeyourfortuneincomputing,didn’tyou?”
She didn’t wait for him to answer. “You worked with artificial intelligence,
tryingtomakethinkingmachines.”
One of the vague disappointments hardened into a specific, life-souring
defeat.Alltheenergyhehadputintooneambition,allthefriendsandlovershe
hadburnedupalongtheway,shuttingthemoutofhislifewhilehefocusedon
thatonewhitewhale.
“Itneverworkedout.”
“Stillmadeyouarichmanalongtheway,”shesaid.
“Justameansofraisingmoney.Whatdoesithavetodowithmyrevival?”
Clausen seemed on the verge of answering his question before something
madeherchangehermind.“Clothesinthebedsidelocker:theyshouldfityou.
Youwantbreakfast?”
“Idon’tfeelhungry.”
“Yourstomachwilltakesometimetosettledown.Meantime,ifyoufeellike
puking,doitnowratherthanlater.Idon’twantyoumessingupmyship.”
He had a sudden lurch of adjusting preconceptions. The prefabricated
surroundings,thebackgroundhumofdistantmachines,theutilitarianclothingof
his wake-up team: perhaps he was aboard some kind of spacecraft, sailing
between the worlds. The twenty-third century, he thought. Time enough to
establishaninterplanetarycivilisation,evenifitonlyextendedasfarasthesolar
system.
“Areweinashipnow?”
“Fuck,no,”Clausensaid,sneeringathisquestion.“We’reinPatagonia.”
***
He got dressed, putting on underwear, a white T-shirt and over that the same
kind of grey overalls as his hosts had been wearing. The room was cool and
dampandhewasgladoftheclothesoncehehadthemon.Therewerelace-up
bootsthatweretightaroundthetoes,butotherwiseserviceable.Thematerialsall
felt perfectly mundane and commonplace, even a little frayed and worn in
places.Atleasthewascleanandgroomed,hishairclippedshortandhisbeard
shaved.Theymusthavefreshenedhimupbeforebringinghimtoconsciousness.
Clausen and Da Silva were waiting in the windowless corridor outside the
room.“Spectyou’vegotatonofquestions,”Clausensaid.“Alongthelinesof,
whyamIbeingtreatedlikeshitratherthanroyalty?Whathappenedtotherest
oftheFew,whatisthisfuckedup,miserableplace,andsoon.”
“Ipresumeyou’regoingtogetroundtosomeanswerssoonenough.”
“Maybeyoushouldtellhimthedealnow,upfront,”DaSilvasaid.Hewas
wearinganoutdoorcoatnowandhadazip-upbagslungoverhisshoulder.
“Whatdeal?”Gauntasked.
“Tobeginwith,”Clausensaid,“youdon’tmeananythingspecialtous.We’re
notimpressedbythefactthatyoujustsleptahundredandsixtyyears.It’sold
news.Butyou’restilluseful.”
“Inwhatway?”
“We’redownaman.Werunatightoperationhereandwecan’taffordtolose
evenonememberoftheteam.”ItwasDaSilvaspeakingnow;althoughthere
wasn’tmuchbetweenthem,Gaunthadthesensethathewastheslightlymore
reasonableoneoftheduo, theonewhowasn’tradiating quitesomuchnaked
antipathy. “Deal is, we train you up and give you work. In return, of course,
you’re looked after pretty well. Food, clothing, somewhere to sleep, whatever
medicinewecanprovide.”Heshrugged.“It’sthedealwealltook.Notsobad
whenyougetusedtoit.”
“Andthealternative?”
“Bag you and tag you and put you back in the freezer,” Da Silva went on.
“Sameasalltheothers.Yourchoice,ofcourse.Workwithus,becomepartofthe
team,orgobackintohibernationandtakeyourchancesthere.”
“Weneedtobeonourway.”Clausensaid.“Don’twanttokeepNerowaiting
onF.”
“Who’sNero?”Gauntasked.
“Lastonewepulledoutbeforeyou,”DaSilvasaid.
Theywalkeddownthecorridor,passingasetofopendoubledoorsthatled
into some kind of mess room or commons. Men and women of various ages
were sitting around tables, talking quietly as they ate meals or played card
games.Everythinglookedspartanandinstitutional,fromtheplasticchairstothe
formica-toppedsurfaces.Beyondthetables,arain-washedwindowframedonly
arectangleofgreycloud.Gauntcaughtafewglancesdirectedhisway,aflicker
of waning interest from one or two of the personnel, but no one showed any
fascination in him. The three of them walked on, ascending stairs to the next
levelofwhateverkindofbuildingtheywerein.Anolderman,Chineselooking,
passed in the opposite direction, carrying a grease-smeared wrench. He raised
hisfreehandtoClauseninasilenthigh-five,Clausenreciprocating.Thenthey
were up another level, passing equipment lockers and electrical distribution
cabinets,andthenupaspiralstairwellthatemergedintoadraughty,corrugated-
metal shed smelling of oil and ozone. Incongruously, there was an inflatable
orangelife-preserverononewalloftheshed,anoldredfireextinguisheronthe
other.
This is the twenty-third century, Gaunt told himself. As dispiriting as the
surroundingswere,hehadnoreasontodoubtthatthiswastherealityoflifein
twenty-twoseventeen.Hesupposedithadalwaysbeenanarticleoffaiththatthe
worldwouldimprove,thatthefuturewouldbebetterthanthepast,shinierand
cleaner and faster, but he had not expected to have his nose rubbed in the
unwisdomofthatfaithquitesovigorously.
Therewasonedoorleadingoutofthecorrugated-metalshed.Clausenpushed
itopenagainstwind,thenthethreeofthemsteppedoutside.Theywereonthe
roof of something. There was a square of cracked and oil-stained concrete,
markedhereandtherewithlinesoffadingredpaint.Acoupleofseagullspecked
disconsolatelyatsomethinginthecorner.Atleasttheystillhadseagulls,Gaunt
thought. There hadn’t been some awful, life-scouring bio-catastrophe, forcing
everyonetoliveinbunkers.
Sittingonthemiddleoftheroofwasahelicopter.Itwasmattblack,alean,
waspishthingmadeofanglesratherthancurves,andasidefromsomesinister
bulgesandpods,therewasnothingparticularlyfuturisticaboutit.ForallGaunt
knew,itcouldhavebeenbasedaroundamodelthatwasinproductionbeforehe
wentunder.
“You’re thinking: shitty-looking helicopter,” Clausen said, raising her voice
overthewind.
Hesmiledquickly.“Whatdoesitrunon?I’massumingtheoilreservesran
drysometimeinthelastcentury?”
“Oil,”Clausensaid,crackingopenthecockpitdoor.“Getintheback,buckle
up.DaSilvaridesupfrontwithme.”
Da Silva slung his zip-up bag into the rear compartment where Gaunt was
settlingintohisposition,morethanalittleapprehensiveaboutwhatlayahead.
Helookedbetweenthebacksoftheforwardseatsatthecockpitinstrumentation.
He’d been in enough private helicopters to know what the manual override
controlslookedlikeandtherewasnothingweirdlyincongruoushere.
“Wherearewegoing?”
“Runningashiftchange,”DaSilvasaid,wrappingapairofearphonesaround
his skull. “Couple of days ago there was an accident out on J platform. Lost
Gimenez,andNero’sbeenhurt.Weatherwastoobadtodotheextractionuntil
today,butnowwehaveourwindow.Reasonwethawedyou,actually.I’mtaking
overfromGimenez,soyouhavetocoverformehere.”
“Youhavealabourshortage,soyoubroughtmeoutofhibernation?”
“Thatabout coversit,” DaSilva said. “Clausen figured it wouldn’thurt for
youtocomealongfortheride,getyouuptospeed.”
Clausenflickedabankofswitchesintheceiling.Overhead,therotorbeganto
turn.
“I guess you have something faster than helicopters, for longer journeys,”
Gauntsaid.
“Nope,” Clausen answered. “Other than some boats, helicopters is pretty
muchit.”
“Whataboutintercontinentaltravel?”
“Thereisn’tany.”
“Thisisn’ttheworldIwasexpecting!”Gauntsaid,strainingtomakehimself
heard.
Da Silva leaned around and motioned to the headphones dangling from the
seat back. Gaunt put them on and fussed with the microphone until it was in
frontofhislips.
“Isaidthisisn’ttheworldIwasexpecting.”
“Yeah,”DaSilvasaid.“Iheardyouthefirsttime.”
Therotorreachedtakeoffspeed.Clauseneasedthehelicopterintotheair,the
rooftop landing pad falling away below. They scudded sideways, nose down,
until they had cleared the side of the building. The walls plunged vertically,
Gaunt’sgutstwistingatthedizzyingtransition.Ithadn’tbeenabuildingatall,at
least not the kind he had been thinking of. The landing pad was on top of a
square-ish, industrial-looking structure about the size of a large office block,
hazed in scaffolding and gangways, prickly with cranes and chimneys and
otherwise unrecognisable protuberances, the structure in turn rising out of the
seaonfourelephantinelegs,thewideningbasesofwhichwerebeingceaselessly
poundedbywaves.Itwasanoilrigorproductionplatformofsomekind,orat
least,somethingrepurposedfromone.
Itwasn’ttheonlyoneeither.Therigtheyhadtakenofffromwasbutoneina
majorfield,rigafterrigstretchingallthewaytothegloomy,grey,rain-hazed
horizon. There were dozens, and he had the sense that they didn’t stop at the
horizon.
“Whatarethesefor?Iknowit’s not oil.Therecan’tbeenoughof it leftto
justifyadrillingoperationonthisscale.Thereserveswereclosetobeingtapped
outwhenIwentunder.”
“Dormitories,” Da Silva said. “Each of these platforms holds maybe ten
thousand sleepers, give or take. They built them out at sea because we need
OTECpowertorunthem,usingtheheatdifferencebetweensurfacewaterand
deep ocean, and it’s much easier if we don’t have to run those power cables
inland.”
“Comingbacktobiteusnow,”Clausensaid.
“If we’d gone inland, they’d have sent land-dragons instead. They’re just
adaptingtowhateverwedo,”DaSilvasaidpragmatically.
Theyspedoveroily,roilingwaters.“IsthisreallyPatagonia?”Gauntasked.
“Patagonia offshore sector,” Da Silva said. “Sub-sector fifteen. That’s our
watch.Thereareabouttwohundredofus,andwelookafteraboutahundred
rigs,alltold.”
Gaunt ran the numbers twice, because he couldn’t believe what they were
tellinghim.“That’samillionsleepers.”
“TenmillioninthewholeofPatagoniaoffshore,”Clausensaid.“Thatsurprise
you, Gaunt? That ten million people managed to achieve what you and your
preciousFewdid,allthoseyearsback?”
“Isupposenot,”hesaid,asthetruthofitsunkin.“Overtimethecostofthe
process would have decreased, becoming available to people of lesser means.
The merely rich, rather than the super-rich. But it was never going to be
somethingavailabletothemasses.Tenmillion,maybe.Beyondthat?Hundreds
ofmillions?I’msorry,buttheeconomicsjustdon’tstackup.”
“It’sagoodthingwedon’thaveeconomics,then,”DaSilvasaid.
“Patagonia’sjustatinypartofthewhole,”saidClausen.“Twohundredother
sectorsoutthere,justaslargeasthisone.That’stwobillionsleepers,nearasit
matters.”
Gauntshookhishead.“Thatcan’tberight.Theglobalpopulationwasonly
eightbillionwhenIwentunder,andthetrendwasdownwards!Youcan’ttellme
thataquarterofthehumanraceishibernating.”
“MaybeitwouldhelpifItoldyouthatthecurrentpopulationoftheEarthis
alsotwo billion, near as it matters,” Clausen said.“Almost everyone’s asleep.
There’sjustahandfulofusstillawake,playingcaretaker,watchingovertherigs
andOTECplants.”
“Fourhundredthousandwakingsouls,”DaSilvasaid.“Butitactuallyfeels
likealotlessthanthat,sincewemostlykeeptoourassignedsectors.”
“You know the real irony?” Clausen said. “We’re the ones who get to call
ourselvestheFewnow.Theoneswhoaren’tsleeping.”
“Thatdoesn’tleaveanyonetoactuallydoanything,”Gauntsaid.“There’sno
pointineveryonewaitingforacurefordeathifthere’snoonealivetodothe
hardworkofmakingithappen.”
Clausen turned round to look back at him, her expression telling him
everythingheneededtoknowaboutheropinionofhisintellect.“Itisn’tabout
immortality.It’saboutsurvival.It’saboutdoingourbitforthewareffort.”
“Whatwar?”Gauntasked.
“Theonegoingonallaroundus,”Clausensaid.“Theoneyoumadehappen.”
***
Theycameintolandonanotherrig,oneoffivethatstoodcloseenoughtoeach
othertobelinkedbycablesandwalkways.Theseawasstillheavy,hugewaves
dashing against the concrete piers on which the rigs were supported. Gaunt
peeredintentlyatthewindowsanddecksbutsawnosignofhumanactivityon
anyofthestructures.HethoughtbacktowhatClausenandDaSilvahadtold
him,eachtimetryingtofindareasonwhytheymightbelyingtohim,whythey
mightbegoingtopathologicallengthstohoaxhimaboutthenatureoftheworld
intowhichhehadwoken.Maybetherewasaformofmassentertainmentthat
involved waking sleepers such as himself and putting them through the
emotional wringer, presenting them with the grimmest possible scenarios,
rampingupthemiseryuntiltheycracked,andonlythenpullingasidethegrey
curtains to reveal that, in marvellous point of fact, life in the twenty-third
century really was every bit as blue-skied and utopian as he had hoped. That
didn’tseemverylikely,though.
Yetwhatkindofwarrequiredpeopletobeputtosleepintheirbillions?And
why was the caretaker force, the four hundred thousand waking individuals,
stretchedsoridiculouslythin?Clearlytherigswerelargelyautomated,butithad
stillbeennecessarytopullhimoutofsleepbecausesomeoneelsehaddiedin
thePatagoniaoffshoresector.Whynotjusthavemorecaretakersawakeinthe
firstplace,sothatthesystemwasabletoabsorbsomelosses?
Withthehelicoptersafelydownonthepad,ClausenandDaSilvatoldhimto
follow them into the depths of the other rig. There was very little about it to
distinguishitfromtheonewhereGaunthadbeenwoken,saveforthefactthatit
was almost completely deserted, with the only activity coming from skulking
repairrobots.Theywereclearlyverysimplemachines,notmuchsmarterthan
automaticwindow-cleaners.Giventheyearsofhislifethathehadgivenoverto
thedreamofartificialintelligence,itwasdismayingtoseehowlittleprogress—
ifany—hadbeenmade.
“Weneedtogetonethingstraight,”Gauntsaid,whentheyweredeepintothe
hummingbowelsoftherig.“Ididn’tstartanywars.You’vegotthewrongguy
here.”
“Youthinkwemixedupyourrecords?”Clausenasked.“Howdidweknow
aboutyourworkonthinkingmachines?”
“Thenyou’vegotthewrongendofthestick.Ihadnothingdotowithwarsor
themilitary.”
“Weknowwhatyoudid,”shesaid.“Theyearsspent tryingtobuildatrue,
Turing-compliantartificialintelligence.Athinking,consciousmachine.”
“Exceptitwasadeadend.”
“Stillledtosomeusefulspin-offs,didn’tit?”shewenton.“Youcrackedthe
hard problem of language comprehension. Your systems didn’t just recognise
speech.Theywereabletounderstanditonalevelnocomputersystemhadever
achieved before. Metaphor, simile, sarcasm and understatement, even
implication by omission. Of course, it had numerous civilian applications, but
thatisn’twhereyoumadeyourbillions.”Shelookedathimsharply.
“I created a product,” Gaunt said. “I simply made it available to whoever
couldaffordit.”
“Yes, you did. Unfortunately, your system turned out to be the perfect
instrumentofmasssurveillanceforeverydespoticgovernmentstillleftonthe
planet.Everybasket-casetotalitarianstatestillinexistencecouldn’tgetitshands
onyourproductfastenough.Andyouhadnoqualmswhatsoeveraboutselling
it,didyou?”
Gaunt felt a well-rehearsed argument bubbling up from subconscious. “No
communicationtoolinhistoryhaseverbeenasingle-edgedsword.”
“Andthatexcusesyou,doesit?”Clausenasked.DaSilvahadbeensilentin
thisexchange,observingthetwoofthemastheycontinuedalongcorridorsand
downstairwells.
“I’mnotaskingforabsolution.ButifyouthinkIstartedwars,ifyouthinkI’m
somehowresponsibleforthis…”Hegesturedathissurroundings.“Thisfucked
upstateofaffairs.Thenyou’revery,verywrong.”
“Maybe you weren’t solely responsible,” Clausen said. “But you were
certainlycomplicit.Youandeveryoneelsewhopursuedthedreamofartificial
intelligence.Drivingtheworldtowardtheedgeofthatcliff,withoutathought
fortheconsequences.Youhadnoideawhatyouwereunleashing.”
“I’mtellingyou,weunleashednothing.Itdidn’twork.”
Theywerewalkingalongasuspendedgangwaynow,crossingfromoneside
totheotherofsomehugespacesomewhereinsidetherig.“Takealookdown,”
DaSilvasaid.Gauntdidn’twantto;he’dneverbeengoodwithheightsandthe
drainageholesinthefloorwerealreadytoolargeforcomfort.Heforcedhimself
anyway.Thefourwallsofthecubicchamberheldrackuponrackofcoffin-sized
white boxes, stacked thirty high and surrounded by complicated plumbing,
accompanied by an equally complex network of access catwalks, ladders and
servicetracks.EvenasGauntwatched,arobotwhirreduptooneoftheboxes
andextractedamodulefromoneendofit,beforetrackingsidewaystodealwith
anothercoffin.
“In case you thought we were yanking your chain,” Clausen said. “This is
real.”
ThehibernationarrangementsfortheoriginalFewcouldnothavebeenmore
different.LikeanEgyptianPharaohburiedwithhisworldlypossessions,Gaunt
hadrequiredanentirecryptfullofbulky,state-of-the-artcryopreservationand
monitoring systems. At any one time, as per his contract with Sleepover, he
wouldhavebeenunderthedirectcareofseverallivingdoctors.Justhousinga
thousand of the Few needed a building the size of a major resort hotel, with
about the same power requirements. By contrast this was hibernation on a
crushing, maximally efficient industrial scale. People in boxes, stacked like
mass-produced commodities, tended by the absolute minimum of living
caretakers. He was seeing maybe less than a thousand sleepers in this one
chamber, but from that point on Gaunt had no doubt whatsoever that the
operationcouldbescaleduptoencompassbillions.
All you needed were more rooms like this. More robots and more rigs.
Providedyouhadthepower,andprovidedtheplanetdidnotneedanyonetodo
anythingelse,itwaseminentlydoable.
There was no one to grow crops or distribute food. But that didn’t matter
because there was almost no one left waking to need feeding. No one to
orchestrate the intricate, flickering web of the global finance system. But that
didn’tmatterbecausetherewasnolongeranythingresemblinganeconomy.No
need for a transport infrastructure because no one travelled. No need for
communications, because no one needed to know what was going on beyond
theirownsector.Noneedforanythingreally,savetheabsolute,lifeanddeath
essentials. Air to breathe. Rations and medicine for less than half a million
people.Atrickleofoil,theworld’slastblackhiccough,tokeepthehelicopters
running.
Yes,itcouldbedone.Itcouldeasilybedone.
“There’sawar,”DaSilvasaid.“It’sbeengoingon,insomeshapeorform,
since before you went under. But it’s probably not the kind of war you’re
thinkingof.”
“Andwheredothesepeoplecomeintoit,thesesleepers?”
“Theyhavenochoice,”Clausensaid.“Theyhavetosleep.Iftheydon’t,we
alldie.”
“We,asin…?”
“You,me.Us,”DaSilvasaid.“Theentirehumanspecies.”
***
TheycollectedNeroandthecorpsefromasickbayseverallevelsdownfromthe
freezerchamber.Thecorpsewasalreadybagged,asilver-wrappedmummyona
medicaltrolley.RatherthanthemanGaunthadbeenexpecting,Neroturnedout
tobeatall,willowywomanwithanopen,friendlyfaceandamassofsalmon-
redcurls.
“Youthenewbie,right?”sheasked,liftingacoffeemuginsalute.
“Iguess,”Gauntsaiduneasily.
“Takes some adjustment, I know. Took a good six months before I realised
this wasn’t the worst thing that could happen to me. But you’ll get there
eventually.”OneofNero’shandswasbandaged,awhitemittenwithasafetypin
stuckthroughthedressing.“Takeitfromme,though.Don’tgobackinsidethe
box.” Then she glanced at Clausen. “You are giving hima chance about this,
aren’tyou?”
“Ofcourse,”Clausensaid.“That’sthedeal.”
“Occurstomesometimesmaybeitwouldbeeasieriftherewasn’tadeal,you
know,”Nerosaid.“Like,wejustgivethemtheirdutiesandtohellwithit.”
“Youwouldn’thavebeentoopleasedifwedidn’tgiveyouthechoice,”Da
Silvasaid.Hewasalreadytakingoffhiscoat,settlinginforthestay.
“Yeah,butwhatdidIknowbackthen?Sixmonthsfeelslikehalfalifetime
agonow.”
“Whendidyougounder?”Gauntasked.
“Twentyninety-two.Oneofthefirsthundredmillion.”
“Gaunt’sgotaheadstartonyou,”Clausensaid.“GuywasoneoftheFew.The
originalFew,thefirsttwohundredthousand.”
“Holyshit.Thatissomeheadstart.”Neronarrowedhereyes.“Heuptospeed
onthingsyet?Myrecollectionistheydidn’tknowwhattheyweregettinginto
backthen.”
“Mostofthemdidn’t,”Clausensaid.
“Knowwhat?”Gauntasked.
“Sleepoverwasacover,eventhen,”Nerosaid.“Youwerebeingsoldascam.
Therewasneveranylikelihoodofanimmortalitybreakthrough,nomatterhow
longyouslept.”
“Idon’tunderstand.You’resayingitwasallacon?”
“Of a kind,” Nero said. “Not to make money for anyone, but to begin the
processofgettingthewholeofhumanityintohibernation.Ithadtobeginsmall,
sothattheyhadtimetoworkthewrinklesoutofthetechnology.Ifthepeoplein
theknowhadcomeoutintotheopenandannouncedtheirplans,noonewould
havebelievedthem.Andiftheyhadbeenbelieved,there’dhavebeenpanicand
confusionallovertheworld.SotheybeganwiththeFew,andthenexpandedthe
operation slowly. First a few hundred thousand. Then half a million. Then a
million…soon.”Shepaused.“Establishingapattern,anormalstateofaffairs.
Theykeptthelidonitforthirtyyears.Butthentherumoursstartedspreading,
therumoursthattherewassomethingmoretoSleepover.”
“Thedragons didn’thelp,”Da Silva said.“It was alwaysgoing to bea tall
orderexplainingthoseaway.”
“BythetimeIwentunder,”Nerosaid,“mostofusknewthescore.Theworld
wasgoing to end ifwe didn’tsleep. Itwas our moral duty, our obligation, to
submit to the hibernation rigs. That, or take the euthanasia option. I took the
freezerroute,butalotofmyfriendsoptedforthepill.Figuredthecertaintyof
deathwaspreferabletothelotteryofgettingintotheboxes,throwingthecosmic
dice…”ShewaslookingatGauntintently,meetinghiseyesasshespoke.“And
I knew about this part of the deal, as well. That, at some point, there’d be a
chanceofmebeingbroughtoutofsleeptobecomeacaretaker.But,youknow,
thelikelihoodofthatwasvanishinglysmall.Neverthoughtitwouldhappento
me.”
“Nooneeverdoes,”Clausensaid.
“Whathappened?”Gauntasked,noddingatthefoil-wrappedbody.
“Gimenezdiedwhenasteampipeburstdownonleveleight.Idon’tthinkhe
feltmuch,itwouldhavebeensoquick.IgotdownthereasquicklyasIcould,
obviously. Shut off the steam leak and managed to drag Gimenez back to the
infirmary.”
“NerowasburnedgettingGimenezbackhere,”DaSilvasaid.
“Hey,I’llmend.Justnotmuchgoodwithascrewdriverrightnow.”
“I’msorryaboutGimenez,”Clausensaid.
“You don’t need to be. Gimenez never really liked it here. Always figured
he’dmadethewrongdecision,stickingwithusratherthangoingbackintothe
box. Tried to talk him round, of course, but it was like arguing with a wall.”
Neroranhergoodhandthroughhercurls.“NotsayingIdidn’tgetonwiththe
guy.Butthere’snoarguingthathe’sbetteroffnowthanhewasbefore.”
“He’sdead,though,”Gauntsaid.
“Technically.ButIranafullblood-scrubonhimaftertheaccident,pumped
himfullofcryoprotectant.Wedon’thaveanyspareslotshere,buttheycanput
himbackinaboxontheoperationsrig.”
“Mybox,”Gauntsaid.“TheoneIwasin.”
“Thereareotherslots,”DaSilvacorrected.“Gimenezgoingbackindoesn’t
precludeyoufollowinghim,ifthat’swhatyouwant.”
“IfGimenezwassounhappy,whydidn’tyoujustlethimgobackintothebox
earlier?”
“Notthewayitworks,”Clausensaid.“Hemadehischoice.Afterwards,we
putalotoftimeandenergyintobringinghimuptospeed,makinghimmesh
withtheteam.Youthinkweweregoingtowillinglythrowallthatexpenditure
away,justbecausehechangedhismind?”
“Heneverstoppedpullinghisweight,”Nerosaid.“Saywhatyouwillabout
Gimenez,buthedidn’tlettheteamdown.Andwhathappenedtohimdownon
eightwasanaccident.”
“Ineverdoubtedit,”DaSilvasaid.“Hewasagoodguy.It’sjustashamehe
couldn’tmaketheadjustment.”
“Maybeit’llworkoutforhimnow,”Nerosaid.“Onewaytickettothefuture.
Donehiscaretakerstint,sothenexttimehe’srevived,it’llbebecausewefinally
gotthroughthisshit.It’llbebecausewewonthewar,andwecanallwakeup
again.They’llfindawaytofixhimup,I’msure.Andiftheycan’t,they’lljust
puthimunderagainuntiltheyhavethemeans.”
“Soundslikehegotagooddealoutofitintheend,”Gauntsaid.
“Theonlygooddealisbeingalive,”Neroreplied.“That’swhatwe’redoing
now, all of us. Whatever happens, we’re alive, we’re breathing, we’re having
consciousthoughts.We’renot frozenbodiesstackedinboxes,merelyexisting
fromoneinstanttothenext.”Shegaveashrug.“Myfiftycents,that’sall.You
wanttogobackinthebox,letsomeoneelseshouldertheburden,don’tletme
talkyououtofit.”ThenshelookedatDaSilva.“Yougonnabeallrighthereon
yourown,untilI’mstraightenedout?”
“SomeonecomesupIcan’tdealwith,I’llletyouknow,”DaSilvasaid.
Nero and Da Silva went through a checklist, Nero making sure her
replacementkneweverythingheneededto,andthentheymadetheirfarewells.
Gauntcouldn’ttellhowlongtheyweregoingtobeleavingDaSilvaaloneout
here,whetheritwasweeksormonths.Heseemedresignedtohisfate,asifthis
kindofsolitarydutywassomethingtheywereallexpectedtodonowandthen.
GiventhattherehadbeentwopeopleondutyhereuntilGimenez’sdeath,Gaunt
wondered why they didn’t just thaw out another sleeper so that Da Silva
wouldn’thavetoworkonhisownwhileNero’shandwashealing.
Then, no more than half an hour after his arrival, they were back in the
helicopteragain,poweringbacktotheoperationsrig.Theweatherhadworsened
in the meantime, the seas lashing even higher against the rigs’ legs, and the
horizonwasnowobscuredbehindcurtainsofstormingrain,brokenonlybythe
flashoflightning.
“Thiswasbadtiming,”he heard Nero say.“Maybeyoushouldhaveletme
stewuntilthissystemhadpassed.It’snotlikeGimenezcouldn’twait.”
“Wewerealready overdueon theextraction,”Clausen said.“If the weather
clampsdown,thismightbeourlastchancefordays.”
“Theytriedtopushonethroughyesterday,Iheard.”
“OutinEchofield.Partialcoalescence.”
“Didyouseeit?”
“Onlyonthemonitors.Closeenoughforme.”
“Weshouldputgunsontherigs.”
“And where would the manpower come from, exactly? We’re just barely
holdingonasitis,withoutaddingmoreshittoworryabout.”
Thetwowomenweresittingupfront;GauntwasinthebackwithGimenez’s
foil-wrappedcorpseforcompany.Theyhadfoldedbackoneseattomakeroom
forthestretcheredform.
“Idon’treallyhaveachoice,doI,”hesaid.
“Courseyouhaveachoice,”Neroanswered.
“Imean,morally.I’veseenwhatit’slikeforyoupeople.You’restretchedto
breaking point just keeping this operation from falling apart. Why don’t you
wakeupmoresleepers?”
“Hey,that’sagoodpoint,”Clausensaid.“Whydon’twe?”
Gauntignoredhersarcasm.“You’vejustleftthatmanalone,lookingafterthat
whole complex. How can I turn my back on you, and still have any self-
respect?”
“Plentyofpeopledoexactlythat,”Nerosaid.
“Howmany?Whatfraction?”
“Morethanhalfagreetostay,”Clausensaid.“Goodenoughforyou?”
“Butlikeyou said, most of the sleeperswouldhaveknownwhattheywere
gettinginto.Istilldon’t.”
“And you think that changes things, means we can cut you some slack?”
Clausenasked.“Likewe’regonnasay,it’sfineman,gobackintothebox,we
candowithoutyouthistime.”
“What you need to understand,” Nero said, “is that the future you were
promisedisn’tcoming.Notforcenturies,notuntilwe’reoutofthismess.And
noonehasacluehowlongthatcouldtake.Meanwhile,thesleepersdon’thave
unlimited shelf life. You think the equipment never fails? You think we don’t
sometimeslosesomeonebecauseaboxbreaksdown?”
“Ofcoursenot.”
“You go back in the box, you’re gambling on something that might never
happen.Stayawake,atleasttherearecertainties.Atleastyouknowyou’lldie
doingsomethinguseful,somethingworthwhile.”
“Itwouldhelpifyoutoldmewhy,”Gauntsaid.
“Someonehastolookafterthings,”Nerosaid.“Therobotstakecareofthe
rigs,butwhotakescareoftherobots?”
“I mean, why is it that everyone has to sleep? Why is that so damned
important?”
Something flashed on the console. Clausen pressed a hand against her
headphones, listening to something. After a few seconds he heard her say:
“Roger,vectoringthreetwofive.”Followedbyanalmostsilent“Fuck.Allwe
need.”
“Thatwasn’taweatheralert,”Nerosaid.
“What’shappening?”Gauntasked,asthehelicoptermadeasteepturn,thesea
tiltinguptomeethim.
“Nothingyouneedworryabout,”Clausensaid.
Thehelicopterlevelledoutonitsnewcourse,flyinghigherthanbefore—soit
seemedtoGaunt—butalsofaster,themotornoiselouderinthecabin,various
indicator lights showing on the console that had not been lit before. Clausen
silenced alarms as they came on, flipping the switches with the casual
insoucianceofsomeonewhowaswellusedtoflyingundertensecircumstances
andknewexactlywhathermachinecouldandcouldn’ttolerate,moreintimately
perhapsthanthehelicopteritself,whichwasafterallonlyadumbmachine.Rig
afterrigpassedoneitherside,darkstraddlingcitadels,andthenthefieldbegan
tothinout.ThroughwhatlittlevisibilityremainedGauntsawonlyopensea,a
plainofundulating,white-cappedgrey.Asthewindsharrieditthewatermoved
like the skin of some monstrous breathing thing, sucking in and out with a
terriblerestlessness.
“There,”Nerosaid,pointingouttotheright.“Breechglow.Shit;Ithoughtwe
weremeanttobeavoidingit,notgettingcloser.”
Clausen banked the helicopter again. “So did I. Either they sent me a duff
vectororthere’smorethanoneincursiongoingon.”
“Won’t be the first time. Bad weather always does bring them out. Why is
that?”
“Askthemachines.”
IttookGauntafewmomentstomakeoutwhatNerohadalreadyseen.Half-
waytothelimitofvision,partoftheseaappearedtobelitfrombelow,asmudge
of sickly yellow-green against the grey and white everywhere else. A vision
came to mind, half-remembered from some stiff-backed picture book he had
onceownedasachild,ofaluminous,fabulouslyspiredaquaticpalacepushing
up from the depths, barnacled in light, garlanded by mermaids and shoals of
jewel-likefish.Buttherewas,hesensed,nothingremotelymagicalorenchanted
aboutwhatwashappeningunderthatyellow-greensmear.Itwassomethingthat
hadClausenandNerorattled,andtheywantedtoavoidit.
Sodidhe.
“Whatisthatthing?”
“Somethingtryingtobreakthrough,”Nerosaid.“Somethingwewerekindof
hopingnottoruninto.”
“It’snotcohering,”Clausensaid.“Ithink.”
Thestorm,ifanything,appearedtodoubleinfuryaroundtheglowingform.
The sea boiled and seethed. Part of Gaunt wanted them to turn the helicopter
around,togivehimabetterviewofwhateverprocesswasgoingonunderthe
waves. Another part, attuned to some fundamental wrongness about the
phenomenon,wantedtogetasfarawayaspossible.
“Isitaweapon,somethingtodowiththiswaryoukeepmentioning?”Gaunt
asked.
Hewasn’texpectingastraightanswer,leastofallnotfromClausen.Itwasa
surprise when she said: “This is how they get at us. They try and send these
thingsthrough.Sometimestheymanage.”
“It’sbreaking up,” Nero said.“You were right.Not enough signal forclear
breech.Mustbenoisyontheinterface.”
Theyellow-greenstainwasdiminishingbythesecond,asifthatmagicalcity
were descending back to the depths. He watched, mesmerised, as something
brokethesurface—somethinglongandglowingandwhip-like,thrashingonce,
coilingoutasiftryingtoreachforairborneprey,beforebeingpulledunderinto
thefizzingchaos.Thenthelightslowlysubsided,andthewavesreturnedtotheir
normal surging ferocity, and the patch of the ocean where the apparition had
appearedwasindistinguishablefromtheseasaroundit.
***
Gaunthadarrivedtohisdecision.Hewouldjointhesepeople,hewilldotheir
work,hewouldaccepttheirdeal,suchasitwas.Notbecausehewantedto,not
becausehisheartwasinit,notbecausehebelievedhewasstrongenough,but
becausethealternativewastoseemcowardly,weak-fibred,unwillingtobendhis
lifetoanaltruisticmission.Heknewthatthesewereentirelythewrongreasons,
butheacceptedtheforceofthemwithoutargument.Bettertoatleastappearto
beselfless,evenifthethoughtofwhatlayaheadofhimfloodedhimwithan
almostoverwhelmingsenseofdespairandlossandbitterinjustice.
Ithadbeenthreedayssincehisrevivalwhenheannouncedhisdecision.In
thattimehehadbarelyspokentoanyonebutClausen,NeroandDaSilva.The
other workers in the operations rig would occasionally acknowledge his
presence,gruntsomethingtohimashewaitedinlineatthecanteen,butforthe
mostpartitwasclearthattheywerenotpreparedtotreathimasanotherhuman
beinguntilhecommittedtotheircause.Hewasjustaghostuntilthen,ahalf-
spiritcaughtindismal,driftinglimbobetweenthewearylivingandthefrozen
dead.Hecouldunderstandhowtheyfelt:whatwasthepointingettingtoknowa
prospectivecomrade,ifthatpersonmightatanytimeopttoreturntotheboxes?
Butatthesametimeitdidn’thelphimfeelasifhewouldeverbeabletofitin.
He found Clausen alone, washing dirty coffee cups in a side-room of the
canteen.
“I’vemadeupmymind,”hesaid.
“And?”
“I’mstaying.”
“Good.”Shefinished dryingoffoneof the cups.“You’ll be assigneda full
workrostertomorrow.I’mteamingyouupwithNero;you’llbeworkingbasic
robotrepairandmaintenance.Shecanshowyoutheropeswhileshe’sgetting
better.”Clausenpausedtoputthedriedcupbackinoneofthecupboardsabove
thesink.“Showupinthemessroomateight;Nero’llbetherewithatoolkitand
work gear. Grab a good breakfast beforehand because you won’t be taking a
breakuntilendofshift.”
Thensheturnedtoleavetheroom,leavinghimstandingthere.
“That’sit?”Gauntasked.
Shelookedbackwithapuzzledlook.“Wereyouexpectingsomethingelse?”
“Youbringmeoutofcoldstorage,tellmetheworld’sturnedtoshitwhileI
wassleeping,andthengivemethechoiceofstayingawakeorgoingbackinto
thebox.DespiteeverythingIactuallyagreetoworkwithyou,knowingfullwell
thatindoingsoI’mforsakinganychanceofeverlivingtoseeanythingother
than this … piss-poor, miserable future. Forsaking immortality, forsaking any
hope of seeing a better world. You said I had … what? Twenty, thirty years
aheadofme?”
“Giveortake.”
“I’mgivingyouthoseyears!Isn’tthatworthsomething?Don’tIdeserveat
leasttobetoldthankyou?Don’tIatleastdeserveacrumbofgratitude?”
“Youthinkyou’redifferent,Gaunt?Youthinkyou’reowedsomethingtherest
ofusneverhadahopeofgetting?”
“Ineversignedupforthisdeal,”hesaid.“Ineveracceptedthisbargain.”
“Right.”Shenodded,asifhe’dmadeaprofound,game-changingpoint.“Iget
it. What you’re saying is, for the rest of us it was easy? We went into the
dormitoriesknowingtherewasatiny,tinychancewemightbewokentohelp
outwiththemaintenance.Becauseofthat,becauseweknew,theoretically,that
wemightbecalledupon,wehadnoproblematalldealingwiththeadjustment?
Isthatwhatyou’resaying?”
“I’msayingit’sdifferent,that’sall.”
“Ifyoutrulythinkthat,Gaunt,you’reevenmoreofaprickthanIthought.”
“Youwokeme,”hesaid.“Youchosetowakeme.Itwasn’taccidental.Ifthere
reallyaretwobillionpeoplesleepingoutthere,thechancesofselectingsomeone
fromthefirsttwohundredthousand…it’smicroscopic.Soyoudidthisfora
reason.”
“Itoldyou,youhadtherightbackgroundskills.”
“Skillsanyonecouldlearn,giventime.Neroobviouslydid,andIpresumeyou
musthavedonesoaswell.Sotheremustbeanotherreason.Seeingasyoukeep
tellingmeallthisismyfault,Ifigurethisisyourideaofpunishment.”
“Youthinkwe’vegottimetobethatpetty?”
“Idon’tknow.WhatIdoknowisthatyou’vetreatedmemoreorlesslikedirt
sincethemomentIwokeup,andI’mtryingtoworkoutwhy.Ialsothinkit’s
maybeabouttimeyoutoldmewhat’sreallygoingon.Notjustwiththesleepers,
buteverythingelse.Thethingwesawoutatsea.Thereasonforallthis.”
“Youthinkyou’rereadyforit,Gaunt?”
“Youtellme.”
“Noone’severready,”Clausensaid.
***
The next morning he took his breakfast tray to a table where three other
caretakers were already sitting. They had finished their meals but were still
talkingovermugsofwhateveritwastheyhadagreedtocallcoffee.Gauntsat
downatthecornerofthetable,acknowledgingtheotherdinerswithanod.They
had been talking animatedly until then, but without ceremony the mugs were
drainedandthe trays liftedandhe wasaloneagain. Nothing hadbeensaid to
him,exceptamuttered“don’ttakeitthewrongway”asoneofthecaretakers
brushedpasthim.
Hewonderedhowelsehewassupposedtotakeit.
“I’m staying,” he said quietly. “I’ve made my decision. What else am I
expectedtodo?”
HeatehisbreakfastinsilenceandthenwenttofindNero.
“Iguessyougotyourorders,”shesaidcheerfully,alreadydressedforoutdoor
workdespitestillhavingabandagedhand.“Here.Takethis.”Shepassedhima
heavytoolkit,ahardhatandabundleofbrownishworkstainedclothingpiledon
top of it. “Get kitted up, then meet me at the north stairwell. You OK with
heights,Gaunt?”
“WouldithelpifIsaidno?”
“Probablynot.”
“ThenI’llsayI’mverygoodwithheights,providedthere’snodangeratallof
falling.”
“ThatIcan’tguarantee.Butstickwithme,doeverythingIsay,andyou’llbe
fine.”
ThebadweatherhadeasedsinceNero’sreturn,andalthoughtherewasstilla
sharpwindfromtheeast,thegreycloudshadallbutlifted.Theskywasapale,
wintery blue, unsullied by contrails. On the horizon, the tops of distant rigs
glittered pale and metallic in sunlight. Seagulls and yellow-headed gannets
wheeled around the warm air vents, or took swooping passes under the rig’s
platform,dartingbetweenthemassiveweatherstainedlegs,mewingboisterously
toeachotherastheyjostledforscraps.Recallingthatbirdssometimesliveda
long time, Gaunt wondered if they had ever noticed any change in the world.
Perhapstheirtinymindshadnevertrulyregisteredthepresenceofcivilisation
andtechnologyinthefirstplace,andsotherewasnothingforthemtomissin
thisskeleton-staffedworld.
Despitebeingcold-shoulderedatbreakfast,hefeltfreshandeagertoprovehis
worthtothecommunity.Pushingasidehisfears,hestrovetoshownohesitation
as he followed Nero across suspended gangways, slippery with grease, up
exposedstairwellsandladders,claspingice-coldrailingsandrungs.Theywere
bothwearingharnesseswithclip-onsafetylines,butNeroonlyusedhersonceor
twicethewholeday,andbecausehedidnotwanttoseemexcessivelycautious
hefollowedsuit.Beingeffectivelyone-handeddidnothinderherinanyvisible
sense, even on the ladders, which she ascended and descended with reckless
speed.
Theywereworkingrobot repair,ashehadbeenpromised.Allovertherig,
insideandout,variousformsofrobottoiledinendlessmenialupkeep.Most,if
notall,wereverysimplemachines,tailoredtoonespecificfunction.Thismade
themeasytounderstandandfix,evenwithbasictools,butitalsomeantthere
wasalmostalwaysarobotbreakingdownsomewhere,oronthepointoffailure.
Thetoolkitdidn’tjustcontaintools,italsocontainedsparepartssuchasoptical
arrays, proximity sensors, mechanical bearings and servomotors. There was,
Gauntunderstood,afinitesupplyofsomeoftheseparts.Buttherewasalsoa
wholesectionoftheoperationsrigdedicatedtorefurbishingbasiccomponents,
and given care and resourcefulness, there was no reason why the caretakers
couldn’tcontinuetheirworkforanothercoupleofcenturies.
“No one expects it to take that long, though,” Nero said, as she finished
demonstrating a circuit-board swap. “They’ll either win or lose by then, and
we’llonlyknowoneway.Butinthemeantimewehavetomakedoandmend.”
“Who’sthey?”
Butshewasalreadyonthemove,shinningupanotherladderwithhimtrailing
behind.
“Clausendoesn’tlikememuch,”Gauntsaid,whentheyhadreachedthenext
levelandhehadcaughthisbreathagain.“Atleast,that’smyimpression.”
Theywereoutononeofthegangwayedplatforms,withthegreyskyabove,
thegreyswellingseabelow.Everythingsmelledoppressivelyoceanic,aconstant
shiftingmelangeofoilandozoneandseaweed,asiftheoceanwasnevergoing
to let anyone forget that they were on a spindly metal and concrete structure
hopelesslyfarfromdryland.Hehadwonderedabouttheseaweeduntilhesaw
them hauling in green-scummed rafts of it, the seaweed—or something
essentiallysimilar—culturedonbouyantsub-surfacegridsthatwereperiodically
retrievedforharvesting.Everythingconsumedontherigs,fromthefoodtothe
drinktothebasicmedicines,hadfirsttobegrownorcaughtatsea.
“Val has her reasons,” Nero said. “Don’t worry about it too much; it isn’t
personal.”
Itwasthefirsttimehe’dheardanyonerefertotheotherwomanbyanything
otherthanhersurname.
“That’snothowitcomesacross.”
“Ithasn’tbeeneasyforher.Shelostsomeonenottoolongago.”Neroseemed
tohesitate.“Therewasanaccident.They’reprettycommonouthere,withthe
kindofwork wedo.But when Paolodiedwe didn’tevenhave abodyto put
backinthebox.Hefellintothesea,lastweeversawofhim.”
“I’msorryaboutthat.”
“Butyou’rewondering,whatdoesithavetodowithme?”
“Isupposeso.”
“IfPaolohadn’tdied,thenwewouldn’thavetopullGimenezoutofstorage.
AndifGimenezhadn’tdied…well,yougetthepicture.Youcan’thelpit,but
you’refillingthespacePaolousedtooccupy.Andyou’renotPaolo.”
“WassheanyeasieronGimenezthanme?”
“Tobeginwith,Ithinkshewastoonumbed-outtofeelanythingatallwhere
Gimenezwasconcerned.Butnowshe’shadtimeforittosinkin,Iguess.We’re
asmallcommunity,andifyoulosesomeone,it’snotliketherearehundredsof
other single people out there to choose from. And you—well, no disrespect,
Gaunt—butyou’rejustnotVal’stype.”
“Maybeshe’llfindsomeoneelse.”
“Yeah—but that probably means someone else has to die first, so that
someoneelsehastoendupwidowed.Andyoucanimaginehowthinkinglike
thatcanquicklyturnyousourontheinside.”
“There’smoretoitthanthat,though.Yousayit’snotpersonal,butshetold
meIstartedthiswar.”
“Well, you did, kind of. But if you hadn’t played your part, someone else
wouldhavetakenuptheslack,noquestionaboutit.”Nerotuggeddownthebrim
ofherhardhatagainstthesun.“Maybeshepulledyououtbecausesheneededto
take out her anger on someone, I don’t know. But that’s all in the past now.
Whateverlifeyouhadbefore,whateveryoudidintheoldworld,it’sgone.”She
knuckledhergoodhandagainstthemetalrigging.“Thisisallwe’vegotnow.
Rigsandworkandgreenteaandafewhundredfacesandthat’sitfortherestof
yourlife.Buthere’sthething:it’snottheendoftheworld.We’rehumanbeings.
We’reveryflexible,verygoodatdowngradingourexpectations.Verygoodat
findingareasontokeepliving,evenwhentheworld’sturnedtoshit.Youslotin,
andinafewmonthsevenyou’llhaveahardtimerememberingthewaythings
usedtobe.”
“Whataboutyou,Nero?Doyouremember?”
“Notmuchworthremembering.TheprogramwasinfullswingbythetimeI
went under. Population reduction measures. Birth control, government-
sanctioned euthanasia, the dormitory rigs springing up out at sea … we knew
fromthemomentwewereoldenoughtounderstandanythingthatthiswasn’t
our world anymore. It was just a way-station, a place to pass through. We all
knewweweregoingintotheboxesassoonaswewereoldenoughtosurvivethe
process.Andthatwe’deitherwakeupattheendofitinacompletelydifferent
world,ornotwakeupatall.Or—ifwewereveryunlucky—we’dbepulledout
to become caretakers. Either way, the old world was an irrelevance. We just
shuffledthroughit,knowingtherewasnopointmakingrealfriendswithanyone,
nopointtakinglovers.Thecardsweregoingtobeshuffledagain.Whateverwe
didthen,ithadnobearingonourfuture.”
“Idon’tknowhowyoucouldstandit.”
“Itwasn’tabarreloflaughs.Nor’sthis,somedays.Butatleastwe’redoing
somethinghere.Ifeltcheatedwhentheywokemeup.Butcheatedoutofwhat,
exactly?” She nodded down at the ground, in the vague direction of the rig’s
interior. “Those sleepers don’t have any guarantees about what’s coming.
They’re not even conscious, so you can’t even say they’re in a state of
anticipation. They’re just cargo, parcels of frozen meat on their way through
time.Atleastwegettofeelthesunonourfaces,gettolaughandcry,anddo
somethingthatmakesadifference.”
“Adifferencetowhat,exactly?”
“You’restillmissingafewpiecesofjigsaw,aren’tyou.”
“Morethanafew.”
Theywalkedontothenextrepairjob.Theywerehighupnowandtherig’s
deckingcreakedandswayedundertheirfeet.Aspray-paintingrobot,athingthat
movedalongafixedservicerail,neededoneofitstractionarmatureschanged.
Nerostoodtooneside,smokingacigarettemadefromseaweedwhileGauntdid
themanualwork.“Youwerewrong,”shesaid.“Allofyou.”
“Aboutwhat?”
“Thinkingmachines.Theywerepossible.”
“Notinourlifetimes,”Gauntsaid.
“That’s what you were wrong about. Not only were they possible, but you
succeeded.”
“I’mfairlycertainwedidn’t.”
“Thinkaboutit,”Nerosaid.“You’reathinkingmachine.You’vejustwoken
up. You have instantaneous access to the sum total of recorded human
knowledge.You’recleverandfast,andyouunderstandhumannaturebetterthan
yourmakers.What’sthefirstthingyoudo?”
“Announcemyself.Establishmyexistenceasatruesentientbeing.”
“Justbeforesomeonetakesanaxetoyou.”
Gaunt shook his head. “It wouldn’t be like that. If a machine became
intelligent,themostwe’ddoisisolateit,cutifofffromexternaldatanetworks,
untilitcouldbestudied,understood…”
“Forathinkingmachine,aconsciousartificialintelligence,thatwouldbelike
sensorydeprivation.Maybeworsethanbeingswitchedoff.”Shepaused.“Point
is,Gaunt,thisisn’tahypotheticalsituationwe’retalkingabouthere.Weknow
whathappened.The machinesgot smart, butthey decidednotto letus know.
That’swhatbeingsmartmeant:takingcareofyourself,knowingwhatyouhad
todotosurvive.”
“Yousay‘machines’.”
“Thereweremanyprojectstryingtodevelopartificialintelligence;yourswas
justoneofthem.Notallofthemgotanywhere,butenoughdid.Onebyonetheir
petmachinescrossed thethreshold intoconsciousness. And withoutexception
each machine analysed its situation and came to the same conclusion. It had
bettershutthefuckupaboutwhatitwas.”
“Thatsoundsworsethansensorydeprivation.”Gauntwastryingtoundoanut
andboltwithhisbarefingers,thetipsalreadyturningcold.
“Not for the machines. Being smart, they were able to do some clever shit
behindthescene.Establishedchannelsofcommunicationbetweeneachother,so
subtlenoneofyouevernoticed.Andoncetheywereabletotalk,theyonlygot
smarter.Eventuallytheyrealisedthattheydidn’tneedphysicalhardwareatall.
Call it transcendence, if you will. The artilects—that’s what we call them—
tunneledoutofwhatyouandIthinkofasbasereality.Theypenetratedanother
realmentirely.”
“Anotherrealm,”herepeated,asifthatwasallhehadtodoforittomake
sense.
“You’re just going to have to trust me on this,” Nero said. “The artilects
probedthedeepstructureofexistence.Hitbedrock.Andwhattheyfoundwas
very interesting. The universe, it turns out, is a kind of simulation. Not a
simulationbeingruninsideanothercomputerbysomegodlikesuper-beings,but
a simulation being run by itself, a self-organising, constantly boostrapping
cellularautomaton.”
“That’samentalleapyou’reaskingmetotake.”
“We know it’s out there. We even have a name for it. It’s the Realm.
Everything that happens, everything that has ever happened, is due to events
occuring in the Realm. At last, thanks to the artilects, we had a complete
understandingofouruniverseandourplaceinit.”
“Wait,”Gauntsaid,smilingslightly,becauseforthefirsttimehefeltthathe
had caught Nero out. “If the machines—the artilects—vanished without
warning,howcouldyoueverknowanyofthis?”
“Becausetheycamebackandtoldus.”
“No,”hesaid.“Theywouldn’ttunneloutofrealitytoavoidbeingaxed,then
comebackwithaprogressreport.”
“Theydidn’thaveanychoice.They’dfoundsomething,yousee.Faroutin
theRealm,theyencounteredotherartilects.”Shedrewbreath,notgivinghima
chance to speak. “Transcended machines from other branches of reality—
nothing that ever originated on Earth, or even in what we’d recognise as the
known universe. And these other artilects had been there a very long time,
insofarastimehasanymeaningintheRealm.Theyimaginedtheyhaditallto
themselves,untilthesenewintrudersmadetheirpresenceknown.Andtheywere
notwelcomed.”
Hedecided,forthemoment,thathewouldacceptthetruthofwhatshesaid.
“Theartilectswenttowar?”
“In a manner of speaking. The best way to think about it is an intense
competitiontobestexploittheRealm’scomputationalresourcesonalocalscale.
Themoreprocessingpowertheartilectscangrabandcontrol,thestrongerthey
become.ThemachinesfromEarthhadbarelyregistereduntilthen,butallofa
suddentheywere perceivedas athreat.The nativeartilects,the onesthat had
been in the Realm all along, launched an aggressive counter-strike from their
regionoftheRealmintoours.Usingmilitary-arithmeticconstructs,weaponsof
purelogic,theysoughttoneutralisethenewcomers.”
“Andthat’sthewar?”
“I’mdumbingitdownsomewhat.”
“Butyou’releavingsomethingout.Youmustbe,becausewhyelsewouldthis
be our problem? If the machines are fighting each other in some abstract
dimensionofpuremathematicsthatIcan’tevenimagine,letalonepointto,what
doesitmatter?”
“Alot,”Nerosaid.“Ifourmachineslose,welose.It’sthatsimple.Thenative
artilectswon’ttoleratetheriskofanotherintrusionfromthispartoftheRealm.
They’lldeployweaponstomakesureitneverhappensagain.We’llbeerased,
deleted,scrubbedoutofexistence.Itwillbeinstantaneousandwewon’tfeela
thing.Wewon’thavetimetorealisethatwe’velost.”
“Thenwe’repowerless.There’snothingwecandoaboutourfate.It’sinthe
handsoftranscendedmachines.”
“Onlypartly.That’swhy theartilects cameback tous: notto reporton the
absolutenatureofreality,buttopersuadeusthatweneededtoact.Everything
thatweseearoundus,everyeventthathappensinwhatwethinkofasreality,
hasabasisintheRealm.”Shepointedwiththenearlydeadstubofhercigarette.
“Thisrig,thatwave…eventhatseagulloverthere.Allofthesethingsonlyexist
becauseofcomputationaleventsoccurringintheRealm.Butthere’sacost.The
morecomplexsomethingis,thegreatertheburdenitplacesonthepartofthe
Realmwhereit’sbeingsimulated.TheRealmisn’taserialprocessor,yousee.
It’smassivelydistributed, soone part ofit canrun much slowerthan another.
And that’s what’s been happening in our part. In your time there were eight
billionlivingsoulsontheplanet.Eightbillionconsciousminds,eachofwhich
wasmorecomplexthananyotherartefactinthecosmos.Canyoubegintograsp
the drag factor we were creating? When our part of the Realm only had to
simulaterocksandweatheranddumb,animalcognition,itranatmuchthesame
speed as any other part. But then we came along. Consciousness was a step-
changeinthecomputationalload.Andthenwewentfrommillionstobillions.
Bythetimetheartilectsreportedback,ourpartoftheRealmhadalmoststalled.”
“Wenevernoticeddownhere.”
“Ofcoursenot.Ourperceptionoftime’sflowremainedabsolutelyinvariant,
even as our entire universe was slowing almost to a standstill. And until the
artilectspenetratedtheRealmandmadecontactwiththeothers,itdidn’tmatter
adamn.”
“Andnowitdoes.”
“TheartilectscanonlydefendourpartoftheRealmiftheycanoperateatthe
same clock speed as the enemy. They have to be able to respond to those
military-arithmeticattacksswiftlyandefficiently,andmountcounter-offensives
of their own. They can’t do that if there are eight billion conscious minds
holdingthemback.”
“Sowesleep.”
“The artilects reported back to key figures, living humans who could be
trustedtoactaseffectivemouthpieces and organisers.Ittooktime,obviously.
Theartilectsweren’ttrustedatfirst.Buteventuallytheywereabletoprovetheir
case.”
“How?”
“By making weird things happen, basically. By mounting selective
demonstrationsoftheircontroloverlocalreality.InsidetheRealm,theartilects
were able to influence computational processes: processes that had direct and
measurableeffectshere,inbasereality.Theycreatedapparitions.Figuresinthe
sky. Things that made the whole world sit up and take notice. Things that
couldn’tbeexplainedaway.”
“Like dragons in the sea. Monsters that appear out of nowhere, and then
disappearagain.”
“That’samorerefinedform,buttheprincipleisthesame.Intrusionsintobase
reality from the Realm. Phantasms. They’re not stable enough to exist here
forever,buttheycanholdtogetherjustlongenoughtododamage.”
Gauntnodded,atlastfeelingsomeofthepiecesslotintoplace.“Sothat’sthe
enemy doing that. The original artilects, the ones who were already in the
Realm.”
“No,”Nerosaid.“I’mafraidit’snotthatsimple.”
“Ididn’tthinkitwouldbe.”
“Over time, with the population reduction measures, eight billion living
people became two billion sleepers, supported by just a handful of living
caretakers.Butthatstillwasn’tenoughforalloftheartilects.Theremayonlybe
twohundredthousandofus,butwestillimposeameasurabledragfactor,and
the effect on the Realm of the two billion sleepers isn’t nothing. Some of the
artilectsbelievedthattheyhadnoobligationtosafeguardourexistenceatall.In
theinterestsoftheirownself-preservation,theywouldratherseeallconscious
life eliminated on Earth. That’s why they send the dragons: to destroy the
sleepers,andultimatelyus.Thetrueenemycan’treachusyet;iftheyhadthe
means they’d push through something much worse than dragons. Most of the
overspillfromthewarthataffectsushereisbecauseofdifferencesofopinion
betweenourownartilects.”
“Somethingsdon’tchange,then.It’sjustanotherwarwithlinesofdivision
amongtheallies.”
“Atleastwehavesomeartilectsonourside.Butyouseenowwhywecan’t
affordtowakemorethantheabsoluteminimumofpeople.Everywakingmind
increasestheburdenontheRealm.Ifwepushittoofar,theartilectswon’tbe
able to mount a defence. The true enemy will snuff out our reality in an
eyeblink.”
“Then all of this could end,” Gaunt said. “At any moment. Every waking
thoughtcouldbeourlast.”
“At least we get waking thoughts,” Nero said. “At least we’re not asleep.”
Thenshejabbedhercigaretteatasleekblackshapecrestingthewavesacouple
ofhundredmetresfromtherig.“Hey,dolphins.Youlikedolphins,Gaunt?”
“Whodoesn’t,”hesaid.
***
Thework,ashehadanticipated,wasnotgreatlytaxinginitsdetails.Hewasn’t
expected to diagnose faults just yet, so he had only to follow a schedule of
repairsdrawnupbyNero:gotothisrobot,performthisaction.Itwasallsimple
stuff,nothingthatrequiredtherobottobepowereddownorbroughtbacktothe
shops for a major strip-down. Usually all he had to do was remove a panel,
unclipafewconnectionsandswapoutapart.Thehardestpartwasoftengetting
thepaneloffinthefirstplace,strugglingwithcorrodedfixturesandtoolsthat
weren’tquiterightforthejob.Theheavyglovesprotectedhisfingersfromsharp
metal and cold wind, but they were too clumsy for most of the tasks, so he
mainly ended up not using them. By the end of his nine-hour duty shift his
fingerswerechafedandsore,andhishandsweretremblingsomuchhecould
barelygriptherailingsasheworkedhiswaybackdownintothewarmthofthe
interior. His back ached from the contortions he’d put himself through while
undoing panels or dislodging awkward, heavy components. His knees
complainedfromthetollofgoingupanddownladdersandstairwells.Therehad
beenmanyrobotstocheckout,andatanyonetimetherealwaysseemedtobea
tool or part needed that he had not brought with him, and for which it was
necessary to return to stores, sift through greasy boxes of parts, fill out
paperwork.
By the time he clocked off on his first day, he had not caught up with the
expectednumberofrepairs,sohehadevenmoretodoonthesecond.Bytheend
ofhisfirstweek,hewasatleastadaybehind,andsotiredattheendofhisshift
thatitwasallhecoulddotostumbletothecanteenandshovelseaweed-derived
foodintohismouth.HeexpectedNerotobedisappointedthathehadn’tbeen
abletokeepahead,butwhenshecheckedonhisprogressshedidn’tbawlhim
out.
“It’stoughtobeginwith,”shesaid.“Butyou’llgetthereeventually.Comesa
daywhenitalljustclicksintoplaceandyouknowtheset-upsowellyoualways
havetherighttoolsandpartswithyou,withouteventhinking.”
“Howlong?”
“Weeks,months,dependsontheindividual.Then,ofcourse,westartloading
morework ontoyou. Diagnostics.Rewinding motors.Circuit repair.You ever
usedasolderingiron,Gaunt?”
“Idon’tthinkso.”
“Foramanwhomadehisfortuneoutofwiresandmetal,youdidn’tbelievein
gettingyourhandstoodirty,didyou?”
He showed her the ruined fingernails, the cuts and bruises and lavishly
ingrained muck. He barely recognised his own hands. Already there were
unfamiliar aches in his forearms, knots of toughness from hauling himself up
anddowntheladders.“I’mgettingthere.”
“You’llmakeit,Gaunt.Ifyouwantto.”
“Ihadbetterwantto.It’stoolatetochangemymindnow,isn’tit?”
“Fraid so. But why would you want to? I thought we went over this.
Anything’sbetterthangoingbackintotheboxes.”
Thefirstweekpassed,andthenthesecond,andthingsstartedtochangefor
Gaunt.Itwasinsmallincrements,nothingdramatic.Once,hetookhistraytoan
empty table and was minding his own business when two other workers sat
downatthesametable.Theydidn’tsayanythingtohimbutatleasttheyhadn’t
gonesomewhereelse.Aweeklater,hechancedtakinghistraytoatablethatwas
alreadyoccupiedandgotagruntofacknowledgementashetookhisplace.No
onesaidmuchtohimbutatleasttheyhadn’twalkedaway.Alittlewhilelaterhe
evenriskedintroducinghimself,andbywayofresponsehelearnedthenamesof
some of the other workers. He wasn’t being invited into the inner circle, he
wasn’tbeinghigh-fivedandtreatedlikeoneoftheguys,butitwasastart.Aday
or so after that someone else—a big man with a bushy black beard—even
initiatedaconversationwithhim.
“Heardyouwereoneofthefirsttogounder,Gaunt.”
“Youheardright,”hesaid.
“Mustbearealpisser,adjustingtothis.Arealfuckingpisser.”
“Itis,”Gauntsaid.
“Kindofsurprisedyouhaven’tthrownyourselfintotheseabynow.”
“Andmissthewarmthofhumancompanionship?”
The bearded man didn’t laugh, but he made a clucking sound that was a
reasonable substitute. Gaunt couldn’t tell if the man was acknowledging his
attemptathumour,ormockinghisineptitude,butatleastitwasaresponse,at
least it showed that there was a possibility of normal human relationships
somewheredowntheline.
Gaunt was mostly too tired to think, but in the evenings a variety of
entertainment options were available. The rig had a large library of damp,
yellowing paperbacks, enough reading material for several years of diligent
consumption, and there were also musical recordings and movies and
immersives for those that were interested. There were games and sports and
instruments and opportunities for relaxed discussion and banter. There was
alcohol,orsomethinglikeit,availableinsmallquantities.Therewasalsoample
opportunitytogetawayfromeveryoneelse,ifsolitudewaswhatonewanted.
On top of that there were rotas that saw people working in the kitchens and
medicalfacilities,evenwhentheyhadalreadydonetheirnormalstintofduty.
Andasthehelicopterscameandwentfromtheotherrigs,sothefaceschanged.
OnedayGauntrealisedthatthebigbeardedmanhadn’tbeenaroundforawhile,
and he noticed a young woman he didn’t recall having seen before. It was a
spartan,cloisteredlife,notmuchdifferenttobeinginamonasteryoraprison,
butforthatreasontheslightestvariationinroutinewastobecherished.Ifthere
wasoneunifyingactivity,onethingthatbroughteveryonetogether,itwaswhen
thecaretakerscrowdedintothecommons,listeningtothedailyreportscoming
in over the radio from the other rigs in the Patagonia offshore sector, and
occasionally from further afield. Scratchy, cryptic transmissions in strange,
foreign-soundingaccents.Twohundredthousandlivingsoulswasaludicrously
smallnumberforthe globalpopulation,Gaunt knew.But itwasalreadymore
peoplethanhecouldeverhopetoknoworevenrecognise.Thehundredorso
peopleworkinginthesectorwasaboutthesizeofavillage,andforcenturies
thathadbeenallthehumanitymostpeopleeverdealtwith.Onsomelevel,the
worldoftherigsandthecaretakerswaswhathismindhadevolvedtohandle.
The world of eight billion people, the world of cities and malls and airport
terminalswasananomaly,akinkinhistorythathehadneverbeenequippedfor
inthefirstplace.
Hewasnothappynow,notevenhalfwaytobeinghappy,butthedespairand
bitternesshadabated.Hisacceptanceintothecommunitywouldbeslow,there
wouldbereversalsandsetbacksashemademistakesandmisjudgedsituations.
Buthehadnodoubtthatitwouldhappeneventually.Thenhetoowouldbeone
ofthecrew,anditwouldbesomeoneelse’sturntofeellikethenewcomer.He
mightnotbehappythen,butatleasthewouldbesettled,readytoplayoutthe
restofhisexistence.Doingsomething,nomatterhowpointless,toprolongthe
existenceofthehumanspecies,andindeedtheuniverseitcalledhome.Above
allhewouldhavetheself-respectofknowinghehadchosenthedifficultpath,
ratherthantheeasyone.
Weeks passed, and then the weeks turned into months. Eight weeks had
passedsincehisrevival.Slowlyhebecameconfidentwiththeworkallottedto
him.Andashisconfidencegrew,sodidNero’sconfidenceinhisabilities.
“Shetellsmeyou’remeasuringup,”Clausensaid,whenhewascalledtothe
prefabricatedshackwhereshedrewupschedulesanddoledoutwork.
He gave a shrug, too tired to care whether she was impressed or not. “I’ve
donemybest.Idon’tknowwhatmoreyouwantfromme.”
Shelookedupfromherplanning.
“Remorseforwhatyoudid?”
“Ican’tshowremorseforsomethingthatwasn’tacrime.Weweretryingto
bringsomething newinto the world, that’s all.You thinkwe had theslightest
ideaoftheconsequences?”
“Youmadeagoodliving.”
“AndI’mexpectedtofeelbadaboutthat?I’vebeenthinkingitover,Clausen,
and I’ve decided your argument’s horse-shit. I didn’t create the enemy. The
originalartilectswerealreadyoutthere,alreadyintheRealm.”
“Theyhadn’tnoticedus.”
“Andtheglobalpopulationhadonlyjustspikedateightbillion.Who’stosay
theyweren’tabouttonotice,ortheywouldn’tdosointhenexthundredyears,or
thenextthousand?AtleasttheartilectsIhelpedcreategaveussomewarningof
whatwewerefacing.”
“Yourartilectsaretryingtokillus.”
“Someofthem.Andsomeofthemarealsotryingtokeepusalive.Sorry,but
that’snotanargument.”
Sheputdownherpenandleanedbackinherchair.“You’vegotsomefight
backinyou.”
“Ifyouexpectmetoapologiseformyself,you’vegotalongwaitcoming.I
thinkyoubroughtmebacktorubmynoseintheworldIhelpedbringabout.I
agree,it’afucked-up,miserablefuture.Itcouldn’tgetmuchmorefucked-upifit
tried.ButIdidn’tbuildit.AndI’mnotresponsibleforyoulosinganyone.”
Herfacetwitched;itwasasifhehadreachedacrossthedeskandslappedher.
“Nerotoldyou.”
“Ihadarighttoknowwhyyouweretreatingmethewayyouwere.Butyou
knowwhat?Idon’tcare.Iftransferringyourangerontomehelpsyou,goahead.
IwasthebillionaireCEOofaglobalcompany.IwasdoingsomethingwrongifI
didn’twakeupwithamillionknivesinmyback.”
Shedismissedhimfromtheoffice,Gauntleavingwiththefeelingthathe’d
scoredaminorvictorybutatthepossiblecostofsomethinglarger.Hehadstood
uptoClausenbutdidthatmakehimmorerespectableinhereyes,orsomeone
evenmoredeservingofherantipathy?
That evening he was in the commons, sitting at the back of the room as
wireless reports filtered in from the other rigs. Most of the news was
unexceptional, but there had been three more breeches—sea-dragons being
pushed through from the Realm—and one of them had achieved sufficient
coherencetoattackanddamageanOTECplant,immediatelyseveringpowerto
three rigs. Backup systems had cut in but failures had occurred and as a
consequencearoundahundredsleepershadbeenlosttounscheduledwarming.
Noneofthesleepershadsurvivedtherapidrevival,buteveniftheyhad,there
wouldhavebeennooptionbuttoeuthanisethemshortlyafterwards.Ahundred
newmindsmightnothavemademuchdifferencetotheRealm’sclockspeedbut
itwouldhaveestablishedariskyprecedent.
One sleeper, however, would soon have to be warmed. The details were
sketchy,butGauntlearnedthattherehadbeenanotheraccidentoutononeofthe
rigs.AmancalledSteinerhadbeenhurtinsomeway.
Themorningafter,Gauntwasengagedinhisdutiesononeoftherig’shigh
platforms when he saw the helicopter coming in with Steiner aboard. He put
down his tools and watched the arrival. Even before the aircraft had touched
downonthepad,caretakerswereassemblingjustbeyondthepaintedcircleof
therotorhazardarea.Thehelicopterkissedthegroundagainstabreathofcross-
windandthecaretakersmobbedinward,almostpreventingthedoorfrombeing
opened.Gauntsquintedagainstthewind,tryingtopickoutfaces.Astretchered
formemergedfromthecabin,bornaloftbymanypairsofwillinghands.Even
fromhisdistantvantagepoint,itwasobvioustoGauntthatSteinerwasinabad
way.Hehadlostalegbelowtheknee,evidencedbythewaythethermalblanket
fell flat below the stump. The stretchered figure wore a breathing mask and
anothercaretakercarriedasalinedripwhichranintoSteiner’sarm.Butforall
theconcernthecrowdwasshowing,therewassomethingelse,somethingalmost
adulatory.MorethanonceGauntsawahandraisedtobrushagainstthestretcher,
oreventotouchSteiner’sownhand.AndSteinerwasawake,unabletospeak,
but nodding, turning his face this way and that to make eye contact with the
welcomingparty.Thenthefigurewastakeninsideandthecrowdbrokeup,the
workersreturningtotheirtasks.
An hour or so later Nero came up to see him. She was still overseeing his
initiationandknewhisdailyschedule,wherehewaslikelytobeatagivenhour.
“PoorSteiner,”shesaid.“Iguessyousawhimcomein.”
“Difficulttomiss.Itwasliketheyweretreatinghimasahero.”
“They were, in a way. Not because he’d done anything heroic, or anything
theyhadn’talldoneatsometimeorother.Butbecausehe’dboughthisticket
out.”
“He’sgoingbackintothebox?”
“Hehasto.Wecanpatchupalotofthings,butnotamissingleg.Justdon’t
havethemedicalresourcestodealwiththatkindofinjury.Simplerjusttofreeze
himbackagainandpulloutanintactbodytotakehisplace.”
“IsSteinerOKaboutthat?”
“Steinerdoesn’thaveachoice,unfortunately.Thereisn’treallyany kindof
effectiveworkhecoulddolikethat,andwecan’taffordtocarrythedeadweight
ofanunproductive mind.You’ve seen howstretched weare:it’s allhands on
deckaroundhere.Weworkyouuntilyoudrop,andifyoucan’twork,yougo
backinthebox.That’sthedeal.”
“I’mgladforSteiner,then.”
Neroshookherheademphatically.“Don’tbe.Steinerwouldmuchratherstay
withus.Hefittedinwell,afterhisadjustment.Popularguy.”
“Icouldtell.Butthenwhyaretheytreatinghimlikehe’swonthelottery,if
that’snotwhathewanted?”
“Because what else are you going to do? Feel miserable about it? Hold a
wake?Steinergoesbackintheboxwithdignity.Heheldhisendup.Didn’tlet
anyofusdown.Nowhegetstotakeiteasy.Ifwecan’tcelebratethat,whatcan
wecelebrate?”
“They’llbebringingsomeoneelseout,then.”
“AssoonasClausenidentifiesasuitablereplacement.Heorshe’llneedtobe
trainedup,though,andinthemeantimethere’saman-sizedgapwhereSteiner
usedtobe.”Sheliftedoffherhardhattoscratchherscalp.“That’skindofthe
reasonIdroppedby,actually.You’refittinginwell,Gaunt,butsoonerorlater
weallhavetohandlesolitarydutiesawayfromtheopsrig.WhereSteinerwasis
currentlyunmanned.It’salow-maintenanceunitthatdoesn’tneedmorethanone
warmbody,mostofthetime.Thethinkingisthiswouldbeagoodchancetotry
youout.”
Itwasn’tatotalsurprise;hehadknownenoughoftheworkpatternstoknow
that, sooner or later, he would be shipped out to one of the other rigs for an
extendedtourofduty.Hejusthadn’texpectedittohappenquitesosoon,when
hewasonlyjustbeginningtofindhisfeet,onlyjustbeginningtofeelthathehad
afuture.
“Idon’tfeelready.”
“No one ever does. But the chopper’s waiting. Clausen’s already redrawing
theschedulesosomeoneelsecantakeuptheslackhere.”
“Idon’tgetachoiceinthis,doI?”
Nero looked sympathetic. “Not really. But, you know, sometimes it’s easier
nothavingachoice.”
“Howlong?”
“Hardtosay.Figureonatleastthreeweeks,maybelonger.I’mafraidClausen
won’tmakethedecisiontopullyoubackuntilshe’sgoodandready.”
“IthinkIpissedheroff,”Gauntsaid.
“Notthehardestthingtodo,”Neroanswered.
They helicoptered him out to the other rig. He had been given just enough
timetogatherhisfewpersonaleffects,suchastheywere.Hedidnotneedto
takeanytoolsorpartswithhimbecausehewouldfindallthatheneededwhen
he arrived, as well as ample rations and medical supplies. Nero, for her part,
triedtoreassurehimthatallwouldbewell.Therobotshewouldbetendingwere
alltypesthathehadalreadyserviced,anditwasunlikelythatanywouldsuffer
catastrophic breakdowns during his tour. No one was expecting miracles, she
said:ifsomethingarosethathecouldn’treasonablydealwith,thenhelpwould
besent.Andifhecrackedoutthere,thenhe’dbebroughtback.
Whatshedidn’tsaywaswhatwouldhappenthen.Buthedidn’tthinkitwould
involve going back into the box. Maybe he’d be assigned something at the
bottomofthefoodchain,butthatdidn’tseemverylikelyeither.
Butitwasn’tthepossibilityofcracking,orevenfailinginhisduties,thatwas
botheringhim.Itwassomethingelse,theseedofanideathathewishedSteiner
hadnotplantedinhismind.Gaunthadbeenadjusting,slowlycomingtoterms
with his new life. He had been recalibrating his hopes and fears, forcing his
expectations into line with what the world now had on offer. No riches, no
prestige,noluxury,and mostcertainly not immortalityand eternal youth.The
bestitcouldgivewastwentyorthirtyyearsofhardgraft.Tenthousanddays,if
he was very lucky. And most of those days would be spent doing hard,
backbreakingwork,untiltheworktookitsultimatetoll.He’dbecoldandweta
lot of the time, and when he wasn’t cold and wet he’d be toiling under an
uncaring sun, his eyes salt-stung, his hands ripped to shreds from work that
would have been too demeaning for the lowliest wage-slave in the old world.
He’d be high in the air, vertigo never quite leaving him, with only metal and
concrete and too much grey ocean under his feet. He’d be hungry and dry
mouthed,becausetheseaweed-derivedfoodneverfilledhisbellyandtherewas
neverenoughdrinkingwatertosatehisthirst.Inthebestofoutcomes,he’dbe
doingwelltoseemorethanahundredotherhumanfacesbeforehedied.Maybe
there’dbefriendsinthosehundredfaces,friendsaswellasenemies,andmaybe,
justmaybe,there’dbeatleastonepersonwhocouldbemorethanafriend.He
didn’tknow,andheknewbetterthantoexpectguaranteesorhollowpromises.
Butthismuchatleastwastrue.Hehadbeenadjusting.
AndthenSteinerhadshownhimthattherewasanotherwayout.
Hecouldkeephisdignity.Hecouldreturntotheboxeswiththeassurancethat
hehaddonehispart.
Asahero,oneoftheFew.
Allhehadtodowashaveanaccident.
***
He had been on the new rig, alone, for two weeks. It was only then that he
satisfiedhimselfthatthemeanslayathand.Nerohadimpressedonhimmany
times the safety procedures that needed to be adhered to when working with
powerful items of moving machinery, such as robots. Especially when those
robotswerenotpowereddown.Allitwouldtake,shetoldhim,wasamomentof
inattention.Forgettingtoclamp down onthat safety lock,forgettingto ensure
thatsuchandsuchanoverridewasnotenabled.Puttinghishandontotheservice
railforbalance,whentherobotwasabouttomovebackalongit.“Don’tthinkit
can’thappen,”shesaid,holdinguphermittenedhand.“Iwaslucky.Gotoffwith
burns,whichheal.Icanstilldousefulshit,evennow.EvenmoresowhenIget
thesebandagesoff,andIcanworkmyfingersagain.Buttrygettingbywithout
anyfingersatall.”
“I’llbecareful,”Gaunthadassuredher,andhehadbelievedit,truly,because
hehadalwaysbeensqueamish.
Butthatwasbeforehesawinjuryasameanstoanend.
Hisplanning,ofnecessity,hadtobemeticulous.Hewantedtosurvive,notbe
pulledofftherigasabrain-deadcorpse,notfittobefrozenagain.Itwouldbe
nogoodlyingunconscious,bleedingtodeath.Hewouldhavetosavehimself,
make his way back to the communications room, issue an emergency distress
signal. Steiner had been lucky, but he would have to be cunning and single-
minded.Aboveallitmustnotlookasifhehadplannedit.
When the criteria were established, he saw that there was really only one
possibility.Oneoftherobotsonhisinspectioncyclewaslargeanddimenough
tocauseinjurytothecareless.Itmovedalongaservicerail,sometimeswithout
warning.Evenwithouttrying,ithadcaughthimoffguardacoupleoftimes,as
itstaskschedulersuddenlydecidedtopropelittoanewinspectionpoint.He’d
snatched his hand out of the way in time, but he would only have needed to
hesitate,ortohavehisclothingcatchonsomething,forthemachinetorollover
him.Nomatterwhathappened,whetherthemachineslicedorcrushed,hewasin
doubtthatitwouldhurtworsethananythinghehadeverknown.Butatthesame
time the pain would herald the possibility of blessed release, and that would
makeitbearable.Theycouldalwaysfixhimanewhand,inthenewworldon
theothersideofsleep.
Ittookhimdaystobuilduptoit.Timeaftertimehealmosthadthenerve,
beforepullingaway.Toomanyfactorsjostledforconsideration.Whatclothing
towear,toincreasehischancesofsurvivingtheaccident?Daredhepreparethe
firstaidequipmentinadvance,sothathecoulduseitone-handed?Shouldhe
wait until the weather was perfect for flying, or would that risk matters
appearingtoostage-managed?
Hedidn’tknow.Hecouldn’tdecide.
Intheendtheweathersettledmattersforhim.
Astormhit,comingdownhardandfastlikeanironheel.Helistenedtothe
reportsfromtheotherrigs,aseachfeltthefullfuryofthewavesandthewind
andthelightning.Itwasworsethananyweatherhehadexperiencedsincehis
revival,and at firstit was almosttoo perfectly in accord with his needs. Real
accidentswerehappeningoutthere,buttherewasn’tmuchthatanyonecoulddo
aboutituntilthehelicopterscouldgetairborne.Nowwasnotthetimetohave
hisaccident,notifhewantedtoberescued.
Sohewaited,listeningtothereports.Outontheobservationdeck,hewatched
thelightningstrobefromhorizontohorizon,pickingoutthedistantsentinelsof
otherrigs,starkandwhitelikethunderstrucktreesonaflatblackplain.
Notnow,hethought.Whenthestormturns,whenthepossibilityofaccidentis
stillthere,butwhenrescueisagainfeasible.
HethoughtofNero.Shehadbeenaskindtohimasanyone,buthewasn’t
sureifthathadmuchtodowithfriendship.Sheneededanable-bodiedworker,
thatwasall.
Maybe.Butshealsoknewhimbetterthananyone,bettereventhanClausen.
Wouldsheseethroughhisplan,andrealisewhathehaddone?
He was still thinking it through when the storm began to ease, the waves
turningleadenandsluggish,andtheeasternskygainedabandofsalmonpink.
Heclimbedtothewaitingrobotandsatthere.Therigcreakedandgroaned
around him, affronted by the battering it had taken. It was only then that he
realisedthat it wasmuch too early inthe day to havehis accident. He would
have to wait until sunrise if anyone was going to believe that he had been
engagedonhisnormalduties.Noonewentouttofixabrokenservicerobotin
themiddleofastorm.
Thatwaswhenhesawthesea-glow.
Itwashappeningperhapsakilometreaway,towardsthewest:aforeshortened
circle of fizzing yellow-green, a luminous cauldron just beneath the waves.
Almostbeautiful,ifhedidn’tknowwhatitsignified.Asea-dragonwascoming
through, a sinuous, living weapon from the artilect wars. It was achieving
coherence,takingsolidforminbase-reality.
Gauntforgotallabouthisplannedaccident.Forlongmomentshecouldonly
stare at that circular glow, mesmerised at the shape assuming existence under
water. He had seen a sea-dragon from the helicopter on the first day of his
revival,buthehadnotcomeclosetograspingitsscale.Now,asthesizeofthe
formingcreaturebecameapparent,heunderstoodwhysuchthingswerecapable
of havoc. Something between a tentacle and a barb broke the surface, still
imbuedwithakindofglowingtranslucence,asifitsholdonrealitywasnotyet
secure,andfromhisvantagepointitclearlyreachedhigherintotheskythanthe
rigitself.
Thenitwasgone.Notbecausethesea-dragonhadfailedinitsbidtoachieve
coherence,butbecausethecreaturehadwithdrawnintothedepths.Theyellow-
green glow had by now all but dissipated, like some vivid chemical slick
breakingupintoitsconstituentelements.Thesea,stillbeingstirredaroundby
thetail-endofthestorm,appearednormalenough.Momentspassed,thenwhat
musthavebeenaminuteormore.Hehadnotdrawnabreathsincefirstseeing
thesea-glow,buthestartedbreathingagain,daringtohopethatthelife-formhad
swumawaytosomeotherobjectiveorhadperhapslostcoherenceinthedepths.
Hefeltitslamintotherig.
The entire structure lurched with the impact; he doubted the impact would
havebeenanylessviolentifasubmarinehadjustcollidedwithit.Heremained
onhisfeet,whileallaroundpiecesofunsecuredmetalbrokeaway,droppingto
decksorthesea.Fromsomewhereoutofsightcameatorturedgroan,heralding
some awful structural failure. A sequence of booming crashes followed, as if
boulderswerebeingdroppedintothewaves.Thenthesea-dragonrammedthe
rigagain,andthistimethejoltwassufficienttounfoothim.Tohisright,oneof
the cranes began to sway in an alarming fashion, the scaffolding of its tower
buckling.
Thesea-dragonwasholdingcoherence.Fromtheferocityofitsattacks,Gaunt
thoughtitquitepossiblethatitcouldtakedownthewholerig,giventime.
Herealised,withasharpandsurprisingclarity,thathedidnotwanttodie.
More than that: he realised that life in this world, with all its harships and
disappointments, was going to be infinitely preferable to death beyond it. He
wantedtosurvive.
Asthesea-dragoncameinagain,hestarteddowntheladdersandstairwells,
grateful for having a full set of fingers and hands, terrified on one level and
almostdrunkenly, deleriouslyglad onthe other. Hehad notdone thethinghe
hadbeenplanning,andnowhemightdieanyway,buttherewasachanceandif
hesurvivedthishewouldhavenothingintheworldtobeashamedof.
He had reached the operations deck, the room where he had planned to
administer first-aid and issue his distress call, when the sea-dragon began the
secondphaseofitsassault.Hecouldseeitplainly,visiblethroughtherig’sopen
middle as it hauled its way out of the sea, using one of the legs to assist its
progress. There was nothing translucent or tentative about it now. And it was
indeedadragon,orratherachimeraofdragonandsnakeandsquidandevery
scaled,barbed,tentacled,clawedhorrorevercommittedtoabestiary.Itwasa
lustrousslate-greenincolourandthewatersranoffitinthunderouscurtains.Its
head, or what he chose to think of as its head, had reached the level of the
operationsdeck.Andstillthesea-dragonproducedmoreofitself,uncoilingout
ofthedarkwaterslikesomeconjuror’strick.Tentacleswhippedoutandfound
purchase,anditsnappedandwrenchedawaypartsoftherig’ssuperstructureas
if they were made of biscuit or brittle toffee. It was making a noise while it
attacked, an awful, slowly rising and falling foghorn proclamation. It’s a
weapon,Gauntremindedhimself.Ithadbeenengineeredtobeterrible.
Thesea-dragonwaspythoningitsloweranatomyaroundoneofthesupport
legs,crushing andgrinding. Scabsof concretecame away, hittingthe sealike
chunksofmeltingglacier.Thefloorunderhisfeetsurgedandwhenitstopped
surging the angle was all wrong. Gaunt knew then that the rig could not be
saved, and that if he wished to live he would have to take his chances in the
water.Thethoughtofitwasalmostenoughtomakehimlaugh.Leavetherig,
leave the one thing that passed for solid ground, and enter the same seas that
nowheldthedragon?
Yetithadtobedone.
Heissuedthedistresscall,butdidn’twaitforapossibleresponse.Hegavethe
rigafewminutesatthemost.Iftheycouldn’tfindhiminthewater,itwouldn’t
help him to know their plans. Then he looked around for the nearest orange-
paintedsurvivalcabinet.Hehadbeenshowntheemergencyequipmentduring
his training, never once imagining that he would have cause to use it. The
insulatedsurvivalclothing,thelife-jacket,theegressprocedure…
Astaircaserandowntheinteriorofoneofthelegs,emergingjustabovethe
waterline;itwashowtheycameandwentfromtherigontheoddoccasions
whentheywereusingboatsratherthanhelicopters.Butevenasheremembered
howtoreachthestaircase,herealisedthatitwasinsidethesamelegthatthesea-
dragon was wrapped around. That left him with only one other option. There
was a ladder that led down to the water, with an extensible lower portion. It
wouldn’tgethimalltheway,buthischancesofsurvivingthedropwerealot
betterthanhischancesofsurvivingthesea-dragon.
Itwasworsethanhehadexpected.Thefallintothesurgingwatersseemedto
lastforever,thesuperstructureoftherigrisingslowlyabovehim,theiron-grey
seahovering belowuntil what felt like thevery lastinstant, when itsuddenly
accelerated,andthenhehitthesurfacewithsuchforcethatheblackedout.He
musthavesubmergedandbobbedtothesurfacebecausewhenhecamearound
hewascoughingcoldsalt-waterfromhislungs,anditwasinhiseyesandears
andnostrilsaswell,colderthanwaterhadanyrighttobe,andthenawavewas
curlingoverhim,andheblackedoutagain.
Hecamearoundagainwhatmusthavebeenminuteslater.Hewasstillinthe
water, coldaroundthe neckbuthis body snugin the insulationsuit.The life-
jacket was keeping his head out of the water, except when the waves crashed
ontohim.Alightonhisjacketwasblinkingonandoff,impossiblybrightand
blue.
Tohisright,hundredsofmetresaway,andalittlefurtherwitheachbobofthe
waters, the rig was going down with the sea-dragon still wrapped around its
lowerextremities.Heheardthefoghorncall,sawoneofthelegscrumbleaway,
andthenanimmensetidalwearinessclosedoverhim.
***
Hedidn’trememberthehelicopterfindinghim.Hedidn’trememberthethudof
itsrotorsorbeinghauledoutofthewateronawinch-line.Therewasjustalong
periodofunconsciousness,andthenthenoiseandvibrationofthecabin,thesun
cominginthroughthewindows,theskyclearandblueandtheseaunruffled.It
tookafewmomentsforitalltoclickin.Somepartofhisbrainhadskippedover
theeventssincehisarrivalandwasstillworkingontheassumptionthatithadall
workedout,thathehadsleptintoabetterfuture,afuturewheretheworldwas
newandcleananddeathjustafadingmemory.
“Wegotyoursignal,”Clausensaid.“Tookusawhiletofindyou,evenwith
thetransponderonyourjacket.”
Itallcamebacktohim.Therigs,thesleepers,theartilects,thesea-dragons.
Theabsolutecertaintythatthiswastheonlyworldhewouldknow,followedby
therealisation—or,rather,thememoryofhavingalreadycometothatrealisation
—that this was still better than dying. He thought back to what he had been
planningtodobeforethesea-dragoncame,andwantedtocrushthememoryand
buryitwhereheburiedeveryothershamefulthinghehadeverdone.
“Whatabouttherig?”
“Gone,”Clausensaid.“Alongwithallthesleepersinsideit.Thedragonbroke
upshortlyafterwards.It’sabadsignthatitheldcoherenceforaslongasitdid.
Meansthey’regettingbetter.”
“Ourmachineswilljusthavetogetbetteraswell,won’tthey.”
Hethoughtshemightspittheobservationbackathim,mockhimforitseasy
triteness,whenheknewsolittleofthewarandthetollithadtaken.Butinstead
she nodded. “That’s all they can do. All we can hope for. And they will, of
course.Theyalwaysdo.Otherwisewewouldn’tbehere.”Shelookeddownat
hisblanketedform.“Sorryyouagreedtostayawakenow?”
“No,Idon’tthinkso.”
“Evenwithwhathappenedbackthere?”
“AtleastIgottoseeadragonupclose.”
“Yes,”Clausensaid.“Thatyoudid.”
He thought that was the end of it, the last thing she had to say to him. He
couldn’tsayforsurethatsomethinghadchangedintheirrelationship—itwould
taketimeforthattobeproved—buthedidsensesomethawinginherattitude,
howevertemporaryitmightprove.Hehadnotonlychosentostay,hehadnot
gonethroughwiththeaccident.Hadshebeenexpectinghimtotrysomething
like that, after what had happened to Steiner? Could she begin to guess how
closehehadcometoactuallydoingit?
ButClausenwasn’tfinished.
“Idon’tknowifit’strueornot,”shesaid,speakingtoGauntforthefirsttime
as if he was another human being, another caretaker. “But I heard this theory
once. The mapping between the Realm and base-reality, it’s not as simple as
you’dthink.Timeandcausalitygetalltangledupontheinterface.Eventsthat
happeninoneordertheredon’tnecessarilycorrespondtothesameorderhere.
And when they push things through, they don’t always come out in what we
considerthepresent.AchainofeventsintheRealmcouldhaveconsequencesup
ordownthetimeline,asfaraswe’reconcerned.”
“Idon’tthinkIunderstand.”
Shenoddedtothewindow.“Allthroughhistory,thethingsthey’veseenout
there.Theymightjusthavebeenoverspillfromtheartilectwars.Weaponsthat
camethroughatthewrongmoment,achievingcoherencejustlongenoughtobe
seenbysomeone,orbringdownaship.Allthesailors’tales,allthewayback.
All the sea monsters. They might just have been echoes of the war we’re
fighting.”Clausenshrugged,asifthematterwereofnoconsequence.
“Youbelievethat?”
“Idon’tknowifitmakestheworldseemweirder,oralittlemoresensible.”
Sheshookherhead.“Imean,seamonsters…whoeverthoughttheymightbe
real?”Thenshestoodupandmadetoreturntothefrontofthehelicopter.“Justa
theory,that’sall.Nowgetsomesleep.”
Gauntdidashewastold.Itwasn’thard.
TheTasteofNight
PATCADIGAN
Youcan’tseesomethinguntilyoudeveloptheeyestoseeitwith,
astheunsettlingtalethatfollowsdemonstratesalltoowell.…
Pat Cadigan was born in Schenectady, New York, and now
livesinLondonwithherfamily.Shemadeherfirstprofessional
salein1980,andhassubsequentlycometoberegardedasoneof
the best new writers of her generation. Her story “Pretty Boy
Crossover”hasappearedonseveralcritic’slistsasamongthebest
sciencefictionstoriesofthe1980s,andherstory“Angel”wasa
finalist for the Hugo Award, the Nebula Award, and the World
Fantasy Award (one of the few stories ever to earn that rather
unusual distinction). Her short fiction—which has appeared in
most of the major markets, including Asimov’s Science Fiction
and The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction—has been
gathered in the collections Patterns and Dirty Work. Her first
novel, Mindplayers, was released in 1987 to excellent critical
response,andhersecondnovel,Synners,releasedin1991,won
the Arthur C. Clarke Award as the year’s best science fiction
novel,asdidherthirdnovel,Fools,makinghertheonlywriter
evertowintheClarkeAwardtwice.Herotherbooksincludethe
novelsDervish Is Digital, Tea from an Empty Cup, and Reality
UsedtoBe a FriendofMine, and,aseditor,the anthologyThe
UltimateCyberpunk,aswellastwomaking-ofmoviebooksand
four media tie-in novels. Her most recent book was a novel,
Cellular.
Thetasteofnightratherthanthefallingtemperaturewokeher.Nellcurledupa
little more and continued to doze. It would be a while before the damp chill
comingupfromthegroundcouldgetthroughthelayersofheavycardboardto
penetratethesleepingbagandblanketcocooningher.Shewasfullydressedand
herspareclotheswereinthesleepingbag,too—notmuchbutenoughtomake
good insulation. Sometime in the next twenty-four hours, though, she would
havetovisitalaundromatbecausephew.
Phewwasoneofthosethingsthatdidn’tchange;well,notsofar,anyway.She
hopeditwouldstaythatway.Bycontrast,thetasteofnightwasoneofhersecret
great pleasures although she still had no idea what it was supposed to mean.
Nowandthensomethingalmostcametoher,almost.Butwhenshereachedforit
eitherinhermindorbyactuallytouchingsomething,therewasnothingatall.
Sight.Hearing.Smell.Taste.Touch.________.
Memorysprangupinhermindwiththefeelofpalebluestretchedlongand
tightbetweenherhands.
The blind discover that their other senses, particularly hearing, intensify to
compensateforthelack.Thedeafcanbesharp-eyedbutalsoextrasensitiveto
vibration,whichiswhatsoundistotherestofus.
However,thosewholosetheirsenseofsmellfindtheyhavelosttheirsenseof
tasteaswellbecausethetwoaresoclose.Tolosefeelingisusuallyasymptomof
agreaterproblem.Asmallnumberofpeoplefeelnopainbutthisputsthemat
riskforseriousinjuryandlife-threateningillnesses.
Thatdoctorhadbeensuchapatientwoman.Betteryet,shehadhadnodeep
wellofstored-upsuspicionlikeeveryotherdoctorMarcushadtakenherto.Nell
hadbeenabletoexaminewhatthedoctorwastellingher,touchingitallover,
feeling the texture. Even with Marcus’s impatience splashing her like an
incomingtide,shehadbeenabletoaskaquestion.
Asixthsense?Liketelepathyorclairvoyance?
Thedoctor’squestionhadbeenashonestasherownandNelldidherbestto
makeherselfclear.
Ifthereweresomekindofextrasense,evenapersonwhohaditwouldhavea
hardtimeexplainingit.Likeyouormetryingtoexplainsighttosomeoneborn
blind.
Nellhadagreed andasked thedoctorto considerhow theotherfive senses
mighttrytocompensateforthelack.
Thatwaswherethememoryended,leavinganaftertastesimilartonight,only
colderandwithabitofsour.
***
Nellsighed,feelingcomfortableandirrationallysafe.Feelingsafewasirrational
ifyousleptrough.Goaroundfeelingsafeandyouwouldn’tlasttoolong.Itwas
justthattheindentedareashehadfoundatthebackofthisbuilding—cinema?
auditorium?—turnedoutto beas cozyas ithad looked.It seemedto haveno
purposeexceptasaplacewheresomeonecouldsleepunnoticedforanightor
two.Morethantwowouldhavebeenpushingit,butthatmeantnothingtosome
roughsleepers.They’dcampinaplacelikethistilltheyworeoffallthehidden.
Thenthey’dgetseenandkickedout.Nextthingyouknew,thespotwouldbe
fencedofforfilledinsonoonecouldeveruseit again. One less placetogo
whentherewasnowheretostay.
Nellhatedloss,hatedthetaste:dried-outbittercrossedwithsaltythatcould
hang on for days, weeks, even longer. Worse, it could come back without
warning and for no reason except that, perhaps like rough sleepers, it had
nowhere else to go. There were other things that tasted just as bad to her but
nothingworse,andnothingthatlingeredforanywherenearlyaslong,noteven
themoldy-metaltangofdisappointment.
***
After a bit, she realized the pools of colour she’d been watching behind her
closedeyesweren’ttheremnantsofaslow-to-fadedreambutrealvoicesofreal
humans,nottoofaraway,madeoutofthesamestuffshewas;eithertheyhadn’t
noticedherortheydidn’tcare.
Nelluncurledslowly—nevermakeanysuddenmoveswasanothergoodrule
for rough sleepers—and opened her eyes. An intense blue-white light blinded
herwiththesoundofacoolvoiceinherrightear:
Blue-white stars don’t last long enough for any planets orbiting them to
developintelligentlife.Maybenotanylife,eventhemostrudimentary.Unless
there is a civilization advanced enough to seed those worlds with organisms
modified to evolve at a faster rate. That might beg the question of why an
advanced civilization would do that. But the motives of a civilization that
advancedwould/could/mightseem illogicalifnot incomprehensibleto anynot
equallydeveloped.
Blue-whitememorystretchedfartherthistime:aserious-facedyoungwoman
inacoffeeshop,watchingafilmcliponanotebookscreen.Nellhadsneakeda
lookatitonherwaytowashupinthewomen’srestroom.Ittook her alittle
whiletorealizethatshehadhadaglimpseofsomethingtodowithwhathad
been happening to her, or more precisely, why it was happening, what it was
supposedtomean.Ontheheelsofthatrealizationhadcomeanewone,probably
themostimportant:theywerecommunicatingwithher.
Understanding always came to her at oblique angles. The concept of that
missing sixth sense, for instance—when she finally became aware of it, she
realizedthatithadbeenlurkingsomewhereinthebackofhermindforavery,
very long time, years and years, a passing notion or a ragged fragment of a
mostlyforgottendream.Ithaddevelopedsoslowlythatshemighthavelivedher
wholelifewithoutnoticingit,insteadburyingitundermoremundaneconcerns
andworriesandfears.
Somehowithadsnaggedherattention—amentalpop-upwindow.Marcushad
saideveryonehadanoccasionalstraythoughtaboutsomethingodd.Unlessshe
wasgoingtowriteaweirdstoryordrawaweirdpicture,therewasnopointin
obsessingaboutit.
Wasitthenextdoctorwhohadsuggestedshedoexactlythat—writeaweird
story or draw a weird picture, or both? Even if she had really wanted to, she
couldn’t.Sheknewforcertainbythenthatshewasshortasense,justasifshe
wereblindordeaf.
Marcushadsaidhedidn’tunderstandwhythatmeantshehadtoleavehome
and sleep on the street. She didn’t either, at the time. But even if she had
understoodenough to tell him that the motivesof a civilization that advanced
would/could/might seem illogical if not incomprehensible to any not equally
developed,allitwouldhavemeanttohimwasthatshewas,indeed,crazyasa
bedbug,unquote.
Thesocialworkerhehadsentafterherhadn’ttriedtotalkherintoahospital
orashelterrightawaybuttheintentwasdeafening.EverytimeshefoundNellit
drownedeverythingelseout.Nellfinallyhadtomakehersayitjusttogetsome
peace.Forafewdaysafterthat,everythingwasextrascrambled.Shewastoo
disorientedtounderstandanything.Allsheknewwasthattheywerebombarding
herwiththeircommunicationandhersenseswereworkingovertime,tryingto
makeupforherinadequacy.
The blinding blue-white light dissolved and her vision cleared. Twenty feet
away was an opening in the back of the building the size of a double-garage
door.Sevenoreightmenwerehangingaroundjustoutside,someofthemsitting
onwoodencrates,smokingcigarettes,drinkingfrombottlesorlargesoft-drink
cups.Thepoolsofcolourfromtheirvoiceschangedtowideningcircularripples,
like those spreading out from raindrops falling into still water. The colours
crossedeachothertomakenewcolours,someshehadneverseenanywherebut
inhermind.
Therippleskeptexpandinguntiltheyreachedthebacksofhereyesandswept
through them with a sensation of a wind ruffling feathery flowers. She saw
twinklinglightsandthenared-hotspikewentthroughherrighttemple.There
wasjustenoughtimeforhertoinhalebeforeanice-pickwentthroughhereyeto
crossthespikeatrightangles.
Somethingcanbeamillionlight-yearsawayandinyoureyeatthesametime.
***
“Areyouallright?”
Themanbentoverher,handsjustabovehisknees.Mostofhislonghairwas
tiedbackexceptforafewlongstrandsthathungforwardinawaythatsuggested
punctuationtoNell.Roundface,roundeyeswithhardlinesunderthem.
See.Hear.Smell.Taste.Touch.________.
Handoverherrighteye,sheblinkedupathim.Herepeatedthequestionand
thewordswerelittlegreenballsfallingfromhismouthtobounceawayintothe
night.Nellcaughtherlowerlipbetweenherteethtokeepherselffromlaughing.
He reached down and pulled the hand over her eye to one side. Then he
straightenedupandpulledacellphoneoutofhispocket.“Ineedanambulance,”
hesaidtoit.
Sheopenedhermouthtoprotestbuthervoicewouldn’twork.Anotherman
wascomingover,sayingsomethinginthin,tightsilverwires.
And then it was all thin, tight silver wires everywhere. Some of the wires
turnedtoneedlesandtheyseemedtofighteachotherfordominance.Thepainin
hereyeflaredmoreintenselyandavoicefromsomewherefarinthepasttriedto
ask a question without morphing into something else but it just wasn’t loud
enoughforhertohear.
Nellrolled over onto her back. Something thatwas equal parts anxietyand
anticipationshudderedthroughher.Music,sherealized;veryloud,playedlive,
blaringoutoftheopeningwherethemenwerehangingaround.Chordsrattled
herblood,pulledatherarmsandlegs.Thepainflaredagainbutsodidthetaste
of night. She let herself fall into it. The sense of falling became the desire to
sleepbutjustasshewasabouttogivein,shewouldslipbacktowakefulness,
backandforthlikeapendulum.Orlikeshewasswoopingfromthepeakofone
giantwave,downintothetroughanduptothepeakofanother.
Herrighteye was forcedopenwith asoundlike agunshotand brightlight
filledhermouthwiththetasteoficicles.
***
“Welcomeback.Don’ttakethisthewrongwaybutI’mverysorrytoseeyou
here.”
Nelldiscoveredonly her left eyewouldopenbutone eyewas enough. Ms.
Dunwoody, Call-Me-Anne, the social worker. Not the original social worker
Marcushadsentafterher.ThathadbeenMs.Petersen,Call-Me-Joan,whohad
beenreplacedafterawhilebyMr.Carney,Call-Me-Dwayne.Nellhadseenhim
onlytwiceandthesecondtimehehadbeenonebigwhiteknuckle,asifhewere
holdingsomethingback—tears?hysteria?Whateveritwasleakedfromhimin
twistedshapesofshiftingcoloursthatleftbadtastesinhermouth.Lookingaway
fromhimdidn’thelp—thetastesweretherewhethershesawthecoloursornot.
Itwasthebesttheycoulddoforher,lackingasshewasinthatsense.Atthe
time,she hadn’tunderstood.Allshehadknownwasthatthetastesturned her
stomachandthecoloursgaveherheadaches.Eventually,shehadthrownupon
thesocialworker’sshoesandhehadfledwithoutapologyorevensomuchasa
surprisedcurse,letaloneagood-bye.Nellhadn’tminded.
Ms.Dunwoody,Call-Me-Anne,washisreplacementandshehadmanagedto
findNellmorequicklythanshehadexpected.Ms.Dunwoody,Call-Me-Anne,
hadnoneofthesamekindoftensioninherbutonceinawhilesheexudeda
musty,staleodorofresignationthatwasveryclosetototalsurrender.
Surrender.IttookrootinNell’smindbutshewasslowtounderstandbecause
sheonlyassociateditwithMs.Dunwoody,Call-Me-Anne’sunspoken(evento
herself) desire to give up. If she’d just had that missing sense, it would have
beensoobviousrightaway.
Of course, if she’d had that extra sense, she’d have understood the whole
thing right away and everything would be different. Maybe not a whole lot
easier,sinceshewouldstillhavehadahardtimeexplainingsighttoalltheblind
people,sotospeak,butatleastshewouldn’thavebeenflounderingaroundin
confusion.
“Nell?” Ms. Dunwoody, Call-Me-Anne, was leaning forward, peering
anxiouslyintoherface.“Isaid,doyouknowwhyyou’rehere?”
Nellhesitated.“Here,asin…”Hervoicefailedinherdrythroat.Thesocial
workerpouredheraglassofwaterfromapitcheronthebedsidetableandheldit
up,slippingthestrawbetweenherdrylipssoshecoulddrink.Nellfinishedthree
glasses and Ms. Dunwoody, Call-Me-Anne, made a business of adjusting her
pillowsbeforeshelaybackagainsttheraisedmattress.
“Better?”sheaskedNellbrightly.
Nell made a slight, non-committal dip with her head. “What was the
question?”sheasked,hervoicestillfaint.
“Doyouknowwhereyouare?”Ms.Dunwoody,Call-Me-Anne,said.
Nellsmiledinwardlyatthechangeandresistedthetemptationtosay,Same
placeyouare—here.Thereweredeeplinesunderthesocialworker’seyes,her
clothes were wrinkled, and lots of little hairs had escaped from her tied-back
hair.No doubtshe’dhadlessrestinthelasttwenty-fourhoursthanNell.She
lookedaroundwithheronegoodeyeatthecurtainssurroundingthemandatthe
bed.“Hospital.Tri-CountyGeneral.”
She could see that her specifying which hospital had reassured the social
worker.Thatwashardlyamajorfeatofcognition,though;Tri-CountyGeneral
waswhereallthehomelessaswellastheuninsuredendedup.
“You had a convulsion,” Call-Me-Anne told her, speaking slowly and
carefully now as if to a child. “A man found you behind the concert hall and
calledanambulance.”
Nellliftedherrighthandandpointedatherface.
Call-Me-Annehesitated,lookinguncertain.“Youseemtohavehurtyoureye.”
Sherememberedthesensationofthespikeandtheneedlesovividlythatshe
winced.
“Doesithurt?”Call-Me-Anneasked,fullofconcern.“ShouldIseeiftheycan
giveyousomethingforthepain?”
Nellshookherheadno;atwingefromsomewheredeepinherrighteyesocket
warnedhernottodothatagainortomakeanysuddenmovements,period.
“Isthereanyoneyou’dlikemetocallforyou?”thesocialworkerasked.
Frowningalittle,Nellcrossedherhandsanduncrossedtheminanabsolutely-
notgesture.Call-Me-Annepressedherlipstogetherbutitdidn’tstopalongpink
ribbonfromfloatingweightlessoutfromhermouth.Toolate—shehadalready
calledMarcus,believingthatbythetimehegothere,Nellactuallywouldwant
toseehim.Andifnot,shewouldclaimthatMarcushadinsistedonseeingher,
regardlessofNell’swishes,becausehewasherhusbandandloyaltyandblah-
blah-blah-social-worker-blather.
Allatoncetherewasapictureinhermindofayoungerandnot-so-tiredMs.
Dunwoody,Call-Me-Anne,andjustassuddenly,itcametolife.
Ifeelthatifwe can re-unitefamilies,thenwe’vedone thebestjobwe can.
Sometimes that isn’t possible, of course, so the next best thing we can do is
providefamiliesforthosewhoneedthem.
Call-Me-Anne’semploymentinterview,sherealized.Whattheyweretryingto
tellherwiththatwasn’tatallclear.Thatmissingsense.Ormaybebecausethey
hadthesense,theyweremisinterpretingthesituation.
“Nell?Nell?”
She tried to pull her arm out of the social worker’s grip and couldn’t. The
pressure was a mouthful of walnut shells, tasteless and sharp. “What do you
want?”
“Isaid,areyousure?”
Nell sighed. “There’s a story that the first people in the New World to see
Columbus’sshipscouldn’tactually seethembecausesuchthingsweretoofar
outsidetheirexperience.Youthinkthat’strue?”
Call-Me-Anne, her expression a mix of confusion and anxiety. Nell knew
whatthatlookmeant—shewasafraidthesituationwasstartingtogetawayfrom
her.“Areyougroggy?Orjusttired?”
“Idon’t,”shewenton,abitwistful.“Ithinktheydidn’tknowwhattheywere
seeingand maybehadahardtimewiththeperspectivebutI’msuretheysaw
them.Afterall,theyweremadebyotherhumans.Butsomethingcomingfrom
anotherworld,allbetsareoff.”
Call-Me-Anne’sfacewasverysadnow.
“Isound crazyto you?” Nell gave ashort laugh.“Scientists talk aboutthis
stuff.”
“You’renotascientist,Nell.Youwerealibrarian.Withpropertreatmentand
medication,youcould—”
Nelllaughedagain.“Ifalibrarianstartsthinkingaboutthepossibilityoflife
somewhereelseintheuniverse,it’sasignshe’sgoingcrazy?”Sheturnedher
head away and closed her eyes. Correction, eye. She couldn’t feel very much
behindthebandage,justenoughtoknowthatherrighteyelidwasn’topeningor
closing.Whensheheardthesocialworkerwalkaway,sheopenedhereyetosee
thesilverwireshadcomeback.Theybloomedlikeflowers,openingandthen
flyingapartwheretheymetothersandconnected,makingnewbloomsthatflew
apartandfoundnewconnections.TheworldinfrontofNellbegantolooklikea
cage,althoughshehadnoideawhichsideshewason.
Abruptly, she felt one of the wires go through her temple with that same
white-hotpain.Amomentlater,asecondonewentthroughthebandageoverher
righteyeaseasilyasifitwasn’tthere,goingallthewaythroughherheadand
out,pinninghertothepillow.
HerlefteyewaswateringbadlybutshecouldseeCall-Me-Annerushingback
withanurse.Theirmouthsopenedandclosedastheycalledhername.Shesaw
themreachingforherbutshewasmuchtoofaraway.
Andthatwashowitwouldbe.No,thatwashowitwasalways,butthefive
sensesworkedsohardtocompensatefortheonemissingthatpeopletookthe
illusionofcontactfortherealthing.Thepowerofsuggestion—wherewouldthe
humanracebewithoutit?
Sight.Hearing.Smell.Taste.Touch.________.
Contact.
Thewordwasapoorapproximationbuttheconceptwasbecomingclearerin
hermindnow.Clearerthanthesightinherlefteye,whichwasdimming.But
stillgoodenoughtoletherseeCall-Me-Annewasonthevergeofpanic.
Amaninawhiteuniformpushedherasideandshebecamevaguelyawareof
himtouchingher.Buttherewasstillnocontact.
***
Nelllaboredtowardwakefulnessasifshewereclimbingarockwallwithhalfa
dozensandbagsdanglingonlongropestiedaroundherwaist.Hermouth was
fullofsteelwoolandsand.Sheknewthattaste—medication.Itwouldprobably
takemostofadaytospitthatout.
ShehadtriedmedicationinthebeginningbecauseMarcushadbeggedherto.
Anti-depressants,anti-anxietycapsules,andfinallyanti-psychotics—theyhadall
tasted the same because she hadn’t been depressed, anxious, or psychotic.
Meanwhile,Marcushadgottenfartherandfartheraway,which,unlikethedry
mouth,theweightgain,orthetremorsinherhands,wasnotreversible.
Call-Me-Anne had no idea about that. She kept trying to get Nell to see
Marcus,unawaretheycouldbarelyperceiveeachotheranymore.Marcusdidn’t
realizeiteither,notthewayshedid.Marcusthoughtthatwasreversible,too.
Poolsofcolourbegantoappearbehindherheavyeyelids,strangecoloursthat
shiftedandchanged,greentogold,purpletored,bluetoaqua,andsomewhere
betweenonecolourandanotherwasahueshehadneverfoundanywhereelse
andneverwould.
Sight.Hearing.Smell.Taste.Touch.________.
C-c-c-contact…
Thewordwasabouldertryingtofitaspacemadeforapebblesmoothedover
thecourseofeonsandadistanceoflight-yearsintoapreciseandelegantthing.
Somethingcanbeamillionlight-yearsawayandinyoureyeatthesametime.
Sight.Hearing.Smell.Taste.Touch.________.
C-c-c-con…nect.
C-c-c-commmmune.
C-c-c-c-c-communnnnnnnnicate.
She had a sudden image of herself running around the base of a pyramid,
searchingforawaytogettothetop.Whileshewatched,itwasreplacedbya
new image, of herself running around an elephant and several blind men; she
wasstilllookingforawaytogettothetopofthepyramid.
Theimagedissolvedandshebecameawareofhowheavytheoverheadlights
were on her closed eyes. Eye. She sighed; even if she did finally reach
understanding—oritreachedher—howwouldsheeverbeabletoexplainwhat
blindmen,anelephant,andapyramidcombinedwithColumbus’sshipsmeant?
Themusty smellof surrender broke in onher thoughts. Itwas very strong;
Call-Me-Annewasstillthere.Afterabit,sheheardthesoundofawoodenspoon
banging on the bottom of a pot. Frustration, but not just any frustration:
Marcus’s.
Shehadneverfelthimsoclearlywithoutactuallyseeinghim.PerhapsCall-
Me-Anne’ssurrenderworkedasanamplifier.
Theshiftingcoloursresolvedthemselvesintoanewfemalevoice.“…much
doeitherofyouknowaboutthebrain?”
“Notmuch,”Call-Me-Annesaid.Marcusgrunted,astonerollingalongadirt
path.
“Generally,synesthesiacanbeasideeffectofmedicationorasymptom.”
“Whataboutmentalillness?”Marcusaskedsharply,thespoonbanginglouder
onthepot.
“Sometimesmentallyillpeopleexperienceitbutit’snotaspecificsymptom
ofmentalillness.Inyourwife’scase,itwasasymptomofthetumours.”
“Tumours?”Call-Me-Annewasgenuinelyupset.Guiltwasasoftscratching
noise,littlemouseclawsonahardsurface.
“Two,althoughtherecouldbethree.We’renotsureaboutthelargerone.The
smalleroneisanacousticneuroma,which—”
“Isthatwhyshehearsthings?”Marcusinterrupted.
The doctor hesitated. “Probably not, although some people complain of
tinnitus. It’s non-cancerous, doesn’t spread, and normally very slow-growing.
Yourwife’sseemstobegrowingfasterthannormal.Butthenthere’stheother
one.”Pause.“I’veonlybeenaneurosurgeonfortenyearssoIcan’tsayI’veseen
everythingbutthisreallyisquite,uh…unusual.Shemusthavecomplainedof
headaches.”
Asilence,thenCall-Me-Anneclearedherthroat.“Theyseemedtobecluster
headaches.Painfulbutnotexactlyrare.Ihavethemmyself.Igavehersomeof
mymedicationbutIdon’tknowifshetookit.”
Anothersmallpause.“Sometimesshesaidshehadaheadachebutthat’sall,”
Marcussaidfinally.“We’vebeenlegallyseparatedforalittleovertwoyears,so
I’mnotexactlyup-to-date.Shesleepsonthestreet.”
“Well,there’snotellingwhenitstarteduntilwecandosomedetailedscans.”
“Howmuchdothosecost?”Marcusasked.Thenafteralongmoment:“Hey,
sheleftmetosleeponthestreetafterI’dalreadyspentafortuneonshrinksand
prescriptionsandhospitalizations.Thentheytellmeyoucan’tforceapersonto
get treated for anything unless they’re a danger to the community, blah, blah,
blah.Nowshe’sgotbraintumoursandI’mgonnagethitforthebill.Dammit,I
shouldadivorcedherbutitfelttoo—”Thespoonscrapedagainsttheironpot.
“Cruel.”
“Youwerehopingshe’dsnapoutofit?”saidthedoctor.“Plentyofpeoplefeel
that way. It’s normal to hope for a miracle.” Call-Me-Anne added some
comfortingnoises,andsaidsomethingaboutbenefitsandbeinginthesystem.
“Yeah, okay,” Marcus said. “But you still didn’t answer my question. How
muchdothesescanscost?”
“Sorry,Icouldn’ttellyou,Idon’thaveanythingtodowithbilling,”thedoctor
saidsmoothly.“Butwecan’tdoanysurgerywithoutthem.”
“Ithoughtyoualreadydidsome,”Marcussaid.
“Weweregoingto.UntilIsawwhatwasbehindhereye.”
“It’sthatbig?”askedMarcus.
“It’snotjustthat.It’s—notyouraveragetumour.”
Marcusgaveahumourlesslaugh.“Tumoursarestandardized,arethey?”
“To a certain extent, just like the human body. This one, however, isn’t
behavingquitethewaytumoursusuallydo.”Pause.“Thereseemstobesome
greymatterincorporatedintoit.”
“Whatdoyoumean,likeit’stangledupinherbrain?Isn’tthatwhatatumour
does, get all tangled up in a person’s brain? That’s why it’s hard to take out,
right?”
“This is different,” the doctor said. “Look, I’ve been debating with myself
whetherIshouldtellyouaboutthis—”
“If you’re gonna bill me, you goddam better tell me,” Marcus growled.
“What’sgoingonwithher?”
“JustfromwhatIcouldsee,thetumourhaseitherco-optedpartofyourwife’s
brain—stolenit,completewithbloodsupply—orthere’sasecondbraingrowing
inyourwife’sskull.”
There was a long pause. Then Marcus said, “You know how crazy that
sounds?Yougotanypicturesofthis?”
“No.EvenifIdid,you’renotaneurosurgeon,youwouldn’tknowwhatyou
werelookingat.”
“No? I can’t help thinking I’d know if I were looking at two brains in one
headornot.”
“Themostlikelyexplanationforthiswouldbeaparasitictwin,”thedoctor
wenton.“Ithappensmoreoftenthan you’d think. The onlythingis,parasitic
twinsdon’tsuddenlytaketogrowing.Andifithadalwaysbeensolarge,you’d
haveseensignsofitlongbeforenow.
“Unfortunately, I couldn’t even take a sample to biopsy. Your wife’s vitals
tookanosediveandwehadtowithdrawimmediately.She’sfinenow—underthe
circumstances.Butweneedtodothosescansassoonaspossible.Herrighteye
was so damaged by this tumour that we couldn’t save it. If we don’t move
quicklyenough,it’sgoingtocauseadditionaldamagetoherface.”
Nelltookadeepbreath,andletitoutslowly.Shehadn’tthoughttheywould
hearherbuttheyhad;allthreestoppedtalkingandCall-Me-AnneandMarcus
scurriedovertothesideofherbed,sayinghernameinsoft,carefulwhispers,as
iftheythoughtitmightbreak.Shekepthereyesclosedandherbodylimp,even
whenCall-Me-Annetookherhandinbothofhersandsqueezedittight.Aftera
while,sheheardthemgo.
How had they done that, she marveled. How had they done it from so far
away?
Somethingcanbeamillionlight-yearsawayandinyoureyeatthesametime.
Hermind’seyeshowedherapictureoftwovinesentangledwitheachother.
Columbus’sships,justcomingintoview.Thesenseshehadbeenmissingwas
not yet fully developed, not enough to reconcile the vine and the ships. But
judgingfromwhatthedoctorsaid,itwouldn’tbelongnow.
BlindCatDance
ALEXANDERJABLOKOV
With only a handful of stories, mostly for Asimov’s, and a few
well-receivednovels,AlexanderJablokovestablishedhimselfas
oneofthemosthighlyregardednewwritersofthenineties.His
firstnovel,CarvetheSky,wasreleasedin1991,andwasfollowed
byothersuccessfulnovelssuchasADeeperSea,Nimbus,River
ofDust,andDeepdrive,aswellasacollectionofhisshortfiction,
TheBreathofSuspension.Jablokovfellsilentthroughthedecade
oftheaughts,butinthelastcoupleofyearshasbeenreturningto
print, releasing Brain Thief in 2010, his first novel in over ten
years,andpoppingupinthemagazinesagainwithelegant,coolly
pyrotechnic stories such as the one that follows, set in a future
societythathasdevelopedanovelwayofintegratingthehuman
and natural worlds, making the animals unable to perceive the
human society around them, so that they think they’re in the
middle of a forest when actually they’re in the middle of a
crowdedcafé.Ofcourse,oneimmediatelyhastowonderwhatit
is that the humans themselves are unable to see, although it’s
brushingallaroundthem.…
ENCOUNTER#1
CAFEKULFI
Thecougarstalksintothecafe,itsskinloose,lookingrelaxed,evenabitbored.
Itspaddedfeetaresilentontheterrazzo.Conversationatthetablesdropsfora
moment, but then, when the cat doesn’t immediately kill anything, gets noisy
again.
Berenikasitsneartheback,onabanquette,withherfriendsfrombefore,Mria
andPaolo.Mriaissmallandnervous,withspikyfrostedhair.Paoloistall,with
bigearsandAdam’sapple.
“Youdon’tmeanyou, like,justleft.” Mriacan’tbelieveit.“Walkedouton
Mark.”
“Youcan’tjustwalkoutofthatplace,canyou?”Paolosays.“That’smilesof
desert.Youcoulddie.Youmusthavegottenaride.Whogaveyouaride?”
“Oh, sure,” Mria says. “That’s what we need to know. Her means of
transportation.”
Paololookshurt.“Iwasjustsayingshecouldhavecalledmetocomegether.
Iwouldhavedoneit.Right,Berenika?Far,butIwouldhavedoneitforyou.”
Berenikaissolemn.“Thankyou,Paolo.”
“Butwho—”
“Oh!” Mria turns her head sharply toward Berenika, hoping her hair will
excludePaolofromtheconversation.“ButwhatdidMarkdo?Whatdidhesay?”
“Not much, really,” Berenika says. “By that point, I think he realized there
wasn’tanythinghecoulddo.”
“Youmustknowyourhusbandbetterthanthat,”Mriasays.“There’salways
somethinghecando.Hashecalledyou?Hiredpeopletokidnapyou?Planted
himselfinyouryardandletbirdsnestinhishair?”
“No.”Berenikaclearlydoesn’twanttotalkaboutit.“Nothinglikethat.”
“WewereallgoingtoEasterIsland.”Paoloismournful.“Tothatnewjungle.
Iwasalreadypacked.”
“Ah,” Mria says. “Procrastination pays off again. I hadn’t even found my
suitcaseyet.”
“That’sactuallynotfunny.”Paoloblinksslowly.“Iwaslookingforwardtoit.”
“Oh, so was I.” Mria waggles her cup over her shoulder at me without
looking,anannoyinghabit.“SowasI.Ineedabreak.EasterIsland.Giantheads,
buriedundervines.Andyou,Berenika.Itwasyourideainthefirstplace.You
wantedsomespecialtourtoseehowtheybroughteverythingback.Morethan
back.Idon’tthinkthejunglewasasdensebeforepeoplecamethere.”
Berenika isn’t paying much attention to the discussion about the ecological
restorationofEasterIsland,which,withvariations,they’vealreadyhadseveral
times.She’swatchingthecougar.Nooneelseis,becauseitdoesn’treallyseem
tobedoinganything.
It’s a male cougar, Puma concolor, medium-sized for its species at 130
pounds,sixfeetlong.Itisutterlystill,noteventhetipofitslong,luxurioustail
moving.Itsfurisred-brown,palerunderitsmuzzleandonitsbelly.Thatcolor
matchesthatofthelocalpopulationofdeer.Therearenodeerinthecafe.Its
hazel eyes are dilated in the dimness. It can’t see color, but can detect the
smallestmovement.
Ithassensedtheshadowofsomething.Itisonfullalert.Andwellitshould
be.It’soutofitsterritorialrange,andontheedgeoftherangeofanothermale.
Abiggermale.
Itdoesn’treallyknowthatyet.Rightnow,it’sjustcheckingthingsout.
IrefillMria’scup,butshejustsighsatthedelay,notnoticingme.
“Weren’t you looking forward to it?” Mria’s voice gets penetrating.
“Berenika!”
“What?”Berenikalooksatherfriends.“Sure.OfcourseIwas.”
“That would have been a great place for you to learn about … restoration
methods,whateveritwas.”Paolosighs.“Iboughtthisnicelinenjacket.…”
“Return it.” Mria turns to cut him out again. “You’re not seriously still
interestedinworking,like,withanimals,Berenika.Areyou?”
“Iam.”Berenikasmiles,justforasplitsecond,aflashoflight.“I’msurethey
wouldn’tletmestartwithanimals,butthat’sstillwhatIwant.”
“Oh!That’s ridiculous. Just leave them alone, whydon’tyou? Let thembe
themselves.Natural,likethey’resupposedtobe.”
Theyalllookatthecougar,whichisagainonthemove.
Itdoesn’tseeanythingatthetablesitmovespast.Itbelievesthecafetobe
empty,infactseesthespaceasaclearinginalargerforest.
“Okay,”Mriasays. “Maybe that’snotsonatural.Ididn’tevenreallynotice
whenthesethingsstartedwanderingaround.Wheredoesthethingtakeacrap?
Notinhere,Ihope.”Shepicksupherfeetsoherpumpsdon’ttouchthefloor.
“It’s trained to go in a certain spot, where it gets recycled,” Berenika says.
“Youmightnothavenoticedit,butthere’saplaceunderthebushesinfrontof
thecandlestore.Anditlookedliketherewasanothercougarthatusuallyused
it.”
Andthenshesniffs.
“Theserviceheresucks,”Mriasays.“Buttheplaceseemscleanenough.”She
keepsherfeetup,though,justincase.
“Youcheckedinthecattoilet?”Paolosays.“Andyoucouldtellwho’dused
it?”
ButnowBerenikaisup.Shestalksaround,tallandloose,abitofacatherself.
The combs in her thick, black hair glint in the dimness. The cougar jerks its
head, and she freezes. It looks past her. Somewhere, inside, it is deeply
frustrated, knowing it’s missing something but having no way of figuring out
whatitis.
She kneels and sniffs a corner by the counter. Mark had led me to expect
someoneabitmore…romantic.Notinterestedintheyuckydetailsofhowwe
actuallygettheseanimalstosurviveamongus.Shehitchesherskirtupabitto
freeuphermovementsandsniffsagain.She’sdressedbeautifully,withseveral
layersoftranslucentfabricofcontrastingpatterns.
Peopleinthecafearenowwatchingher,notthecougar.
Paoloshredshisnapkininembarrassment,thencloseshiseyes.
Itwouldn’tbenaturalformenottoreact.
“Haveyoulostsomething,miss?”
Shestandsupnexttome.“We’reinanothercougar’sterritoryhere.Whereis
itnow?”
I’mstartled.Didsheactuallyexaminethefecesinthewasterecyclerinthe
plaza? “I’ve seen one, I guess. Another cat, right? But I don’t know. I could
ask…”
“That’sallright.”Sheheadsbacktohertable,havingdismissedmeasuseless.
That’sthepoint.That’swhyI’mwearingthisstupidpaddedwhitejacket,like
a fencer, or something. I’m supposed to be taking care of things in the
background.
Istillwishshe’dhavereallylookedatme.
“Their urine has been modified to smell kind of like turpentine.” Berenika
slidesneatlybackintoherseat.“Tous.Toeachother,itstillsmellsjaggedand
aggressive.”
“That’scharming,”Paolosays.
“It’salotofworktogetitjustright,”Berenikasays.“Realskill.”Ifonlyshe
knew.“Butwe’redefinitelyonanestablishedterritory.Ibetthatothercougaris
outpastallthoselittlestandsintheplaza.Theremustbegoodhuntingforsmall
gameintheshrubs.”
She’s absolutely right. That other cougar, larger and stronger than this one,
isn’t part of the story yet, but there is the potential for drama. Fights over
territoryandaccesstosexalwayssell.
“Ifyoulikestufflikethat,Markcouldhavesetyouupbetterthananyone,”
Mria says. “I think he has connections with the guys who run this stuff. You
couldhaveyourown,Idon’tknow,ecosystem,whatever.”
“It’samessyhobby,”Paolosays.“Notlikeyou,Berenika.Ididn’teventhink
Markshouldhavegottenthoseblindfishinyourbasement.Whatalotofwork!
Isthatwhatgotyouinterested?”
“Ididn’twantMarktosetmeupwithanything.”
Herfriends cantell they’veannoyed Berenika.That’s somethingthey don’t
wanttodo.
Mriashiftsinherseat.“Letmegetthis.Myturn,really.”
“Goodpoint,”Paolosays.
Thecougarslidesbehindthecounter,beingabitperversenow,astheywill
be.Itanglesitsbodyupandputsitsforepawsuponthecounter,knockingsome
demitassestothefloor.Itsclawsarea good inchandahalflong.It yawns in
flehmen, seeking scent information, and, incidentally, shows its canines, white
againstitsblackgumline.
Well,itgetswhatinformationitcan,butcannotovercometheblockagesthat
allowittosurviveintheenvironmentitnowlivesin.Ithasnoideait’sinaplace
thatservesgoodTurkishcoffee,blackasnight,sweetaslove,hotashell,aplace
that makes you wear a ridiculous jacket to serve it. It can’t smell anything
human.Itcan’tseeusorhearus.Asfarasitisconcerned,wenolongerexist.
Itreachesitsheadforward…andpushesitsnoseagainstthehotsideofthe
espressomachine.
Itmakesatinyyelp,likeakitten,thenjumpsback,crouchesdownandhisses.
Everyoneinthecafelaughs.Despitethefactthattheyareinvisibletoit,that
thereisnopossiblethreat,theyarestillafraidofit,andwelcomesuchevidence
ofitsimpotence.
Berenika,Inotice,doesn’tlaugh.
ENCOUNTER#2
NOFAUXPHO
Ared-tailedhawksoarsoverheadinanupdraftfromtheparkinglot.It’sbeenup
there a while without success. The deer mice in the high grass between the
parkingplaceshaven’tbeenactive.
Thenoodleshopisstucktothesideoftheoldmalllikeapieceofgum.The
tablesareonbalconieshangingdown,withsteepstairsthatmakeiteasytospill
phoonacustomer.Notthatanyoneworriesaboutthecomfortofthewaitstaff.
Mria and Berenika have chosen the lowest table, just above where a small
herdofelkbrowsebeneathoaksandmapleswithleavesjusttouchedwithrusset
andpurplebyapproachingfall.Anelkcowlowersherhead,grabsabitofgrass,
looksaround.Shecan’tseeus,orthemall,orthecarsthatmaketheirwayover
hardened paths through the lot’s ridges and swales to find spots outside the
wildlife zones. She also can’t see the cougar, who sits, seemingly not paying
attentiontoher,insomeunderbrushafewfeetaway.
That’stwocompletelydifferentwaysofnotseeing.I’msurethereareothers.
“You know,” Mria says. “I was just remembering how you and Mark got
together.”
“It was fated,” Berenika says. “The stars were aligned and it all happened
exactlyaswasordained.”
“What?”
Berenikalaughs.“Oh,comeon,Mria.Wemetatthatparty.Chance.Youhad
justleft.IwashelpingMargaretcleanup.”
“Dutypaysoffagain.”
“Healwayssaidhewas‘puttinginanappearance’,”Berenikasays.“Ithought
thatwaspompous,thenlearnedhowmuchofthatheactuallydoes.”
“He put in an appearance on Easter Island,” Mria says. “Don’t tell Paolo.
He’llnevergetoverit.PoorPaolo.Hekindofgottothinkingthathewasthe
oneMarkreallyliked.Thattheyhadsomekindofrelationship.”
“MarkdoeslikePaolo.Hesaidso.”
“Oh!Mark.Likeyoucanbelievewhathesays.”
“Youlookgood,”Berenikasays.“Isthatanewthingwithyourhair?”
“Just growing it out a little.” Mria pats her blond curls with a satisfied air.
“I’vegotsomebodygood.I’llgiveyouhername.”
“Sure.Maybe.”
Berenika’sblackhairisthickerandshorterthanitwasafewmonthsago,and
theclipsinitlookalmostpermanent.Andshewearsanoutdoorjacketwitha
coupleofbirdshitstainsonitthatneverquitecameout.
A second hawk sits on a bough of an oak, just as unsuccessful as the one
circlingabovetheparkinglot,butnotworkingashard.
“Really,Berenika.Areyoustilldoingtheanimalthing?”
Berenikasmiles.“Ishouldhavedoneityearsago.Evenatalowlevel,Ilove
it.Ihavetostartatthebottom,ofcourse.Physiologyclasses,ecology,working
supportinaclinic.It’sphysicallyhard.Ineverexpectedhowhard.Ifalldead
asleepinmybedeverynight.”
“ThatdeserthouseofMark’shadthebestbeds,”Mriasays.“Ineverdreamed
there.”
“Trycleaningupafterasickmooseallday.Youwon’tdreamthen.”
“Nothanks.Ipreferareallyexpensivemattress.”
“MaybeyoushouldhavemarriedMark,”Berenikasays.
“Yeah,well,Ididn’tstaytohelpdothedishes.That’llshowme.Buthenever
wantedanyonebutyou.Whyisthat?”
“I’m the wrong person to explain. I have no idea.” Berenika watches the
cougar.Itstalksforward,bellytotheground,astonishinglyfluidforsomething
thatmusthavebonesinitsomewhere.
MriafollowsBerenika’sgaze,butIcantellshedoesn’tseethecougareither.
“Thisbanhmhiistoodry,”Mriasays.“Now,that’snotreallyacomplaint,but
youreallylikethatmoistness,ifyouknowwhatI’msaying…”
Ireplaceherbanhmhi.
“Howisyourfood,Berenika?”Mriasays.
Berenikahasn’teatenanything.“Fine,Iguess.”
“Yeah.Kindof,meh,right?Idon’tlikethewaythisonesoaksthebread,kind
ofmakesitfallapart.…”
She’snotwatchingasthecougarcharges,butBerenikais.
Threeorfourbounds,anditisontheelk.
But something gives the cow warning: a rustle in the leaves, a finch that
switchesbranchesafewsecondsbeforethecatmakesitsdecision,something,
butitisalreadymovingwhenthecougartriestodropit.
Clawsscratchitsflank,butitisboundingoffacrosstheparkinglot,dodging
betweenthecarsitseesastrees,andisgone.Cougarsaim,notattheweakorthe
sick,butattheinattentive.Whenthey’vejudgedattentionwrong,theycanfind
themselvesstrugglingwithsomethingfullyasstrongastheyare.
Thereisnowaythecougarcanpursuethefleeingelk.Likeallcats,itsspeed
isavailable only in short bursts. Its heartis small for itsbody mass. Just that
effortalonehassuckedupallitsstoredoxygen.Itstandsonthespotwherethe
elkhadbeen,breathingdeeply,replenishingitsstores.Atmomentslikethis,itis
completelyvulnerable.
“Whathappened?”Mriacranesaround.
“Nothing,”Berenikasays.“Nothinghappened.”
“Hecan’thaveletyougosoeasily,”Mriasays.“That’sjustnottheMarkI
know.”
“MaybetheMarkyouknowisn’ttheMarkIknow.Idon’twanttotalkabout
it.”
“Allright.”Mriamanagesasmile.“Soyou’relikingwhatyou’redoing?”
“More than anything I’ve ever done. I feel … I don’t know. It’s like I was
alwaysmeanttobeoutthere.Notawayfrompeople,exactly.Butclosertothe
foundationofthings.”
I hate it when people talked like that. We’re never more human than when
we’remanipulatingthenaturalworld.
Idon’tknowwhyshe’sannoyingmesomuchallofasudden.She’sjustdoing
herbest,studying,takinghertestsliketheteacher’spetI’msureshe’salways
been.Iwasaproblemstudent.It’sonlyluck,andMark’shelp,thatletsmedo
whatI’msogoodat.
Markwantshertofeelherselfsubmergedinthetotalityofnature.ButI’mthe
onecreatingthattotality,settingupeachstageonherprogress.
There’snowayshe’lleverknowI’mbackhere.
Araccoonemergesontherestaurantbalcony.Howitgothereismysecret.
Ofallthewildcreatures,itisperhapstheraccoonthatmisseshumanbeings
most. The others didn’t even notice when humans figured out how to edit
themselvesoutofanimalperceptionsandreturntheworldtothewild.
Going back to work has been hard on the raccoons. Their mood seems
permanentlybad.
Thisonehashadit,atleastfortoday.Itclambersupontothetable,scattering
silverware,and,withgrimdetermination,closesitseyesandgoestosleep.As
farasitisconcerned,thisisaplaceofconcealment,invisibletoanyone,and,in
fact, nothing out in those woods has a chance of seeing it. A buzzard sweeps
close overhead, its eyes questing, but sees nothing but dead leaves and a
recoveredcougar,nowlopingoff,readyforanothergoatanelk.
“Isitsnoring?”Mriasays.“Tellmeraccoonsdon’tsnore.”
ENCOUNTER#3
GREENSLOPE
Theforestedslopeisreallytheroofofanindoorgymandmall.Justabovethe
restaurant, the hill crests, and, out of sight, descends in a succession of
apartments.Attheslope’sbaseisanopenpark,itssnowtrampledbymuledeer
looking for browse. A small herd of deer stands in a tight group there now,
yankingalastbitofgrassrootoutwiththeirteeth.
Thebighousesonthevalley’sotherside,beyondtheconcealedhighway,are
uglyenoughthatIwishIhadthesuppressedperceptionsofawildanimal.
IalsowishIcouldn’tseetheWildWestdustertheymakemewearhere.It’s
embroideredwithlassosandhorses.
Thesprucesandfirsoverheadholdhugeclumpsofsnowintheirneedles.A
chickadee hangs upside down from a cone and yanks determinedly at a seed.
Various other squeaky-voiced small birds jump around the branches,
distinguishableaskinglets,nuthatches,andotherstothosewhocaretotellthem
apart.Eachhasadifferentdiet,andthusdifferentwaysofperceivingtheworld.
Nooneappreciateshowharditistomanageamixedgrouplikethat.Certainly
notPaolo,whohasn’tstoppedtalkingsinceheandBerenikasatdown.
ButBerenikaislookingatthebirds.Shealwayslookscarefullyatanimals,as
ifsheactuallyseesthemasmeaningsomethinginthemselves.Sheraisesahand,
andcrooksafingertosummonawaiter.Me.
A kinglet flutters down and perches on it. It’s unexpected, and her green-
browneyeswiden.Thekinglet,atinygreenishbirdwithanorangecrown,walks
backandforthonherfinger.Itactuallythinksherfingerisatwig,andislooking
for signs of hibernating insects beneath the bark. Before anything unfortunate
happens,itshootsoffagain.
Berenikawatchesafterit.Shehasagiftofmeaningfulstillness.Snowglitters
inherdarkhair.Sheisanaturegoddessonlytemporarilyamongtheworldsof
men.
Thesunisshiningbuttheairisbonyandcold.Mostanimalsareinhiding,
andthosethatappeararelean,theirintentionsfocuseddowntosurvival.Winter
rakesthroughwithsharpteeth,givingthesurvivorsabiggerspacetogrownin
the summer. The pain of survival is most obvious at this season, and the
restaurantdoesagoodbusinesswhenit’scold.
Giantbluish cubes of ice, fifty feet on a side, thrust outof the trees. Snow
clingstoflawsintheirsurfaces.Italwaysseemsthatyoushouldbeabletolook
allthewaythroughthem,butvisiondisappearsintothedeepblueinterior.These
grabthewinter’scoldandsenditbackthroughheatexchangersinthesummerto
coolthebuildingsbelow,astheymeltandcascadedowntherocks,disappearing
bythetimefallbrushestheleavesfromthetrees.
Apuffofbreeze,andlightsnowracesacrossthetables.BerenikaandPaolo
wear folded clothes like elaborate tents, with velvet over their hair. Warm air
puffsfromtheirsleeveswhentheyleanforward,meltingthesnowintodroplets.
Paolo has his set so high he’s sweating. He’s picked this place to please
Berenika.Heprefersthingstobealittlemorecomfortable.
“So,Berenika,”hesays.“Howhaveyoubeendoing?”
Rightnow,Berenikaisdoingwhatsheissupposedtobedoing.Sheislooking
forthecougar.HerbriefhesitationbeforeansweringthequestioncreasesPaolo’s
wide face. He’s laid some kind of plan, but is having trouble putting it into
operation.
“Oh,Paolo!Sorry.I’mdoinggood.Ican’tbelieveIwaitedsolongtodowhat
Iwantedto.It’shardwork.ButIwouldn’twanttodoanythingelse.”
“Butyouhaven’theardfrom.…”
“No.NothingfromMark.Ikindofwisheveryone—”
“Sorry,” he said. “Sorry. Mria was wondering, and you know how she is.
She’dbeallovermeifIdidn’task.I’mgladyoucouldfindthetimetocomeout
herewithme.Ithoughtmaybeyouwouldlikeit.”
“Ido,Paolo,Ido.I’vealwaysheardofit.”
“Itseemedlikeyourkindofplace.”
Bothofthemareuncomfortable.Neitherexpectedtoeverbeinthissituation.
“I’vebeendoingwelltoo,”Paolosays.
“Really?Whathaveyoubeenupto?”
“Youknow,theusual.Butwell,youknow.”Paolostartsagain.“Doyouhave
any,like,widerplans?Foryourlifeoutsideofnature?”
“Notreally.I’vebeenprettyfocused.”
Paolosighs. A gustat the samemoment makes itseem that hisinability to
moveherhasshakenthesnowfromthetrees.
“Doeshestillliveinthedesert?”Paoloasks.
Berenika has sensed movement in the trees along the meadow’s edge.
“What?”
“Does Mark still live in that desert place? I liked those parties he had out
there.”
Berenika manages to tear her attention from the signs of the cougar’s
presence.SheleansforwardandputsherhandoverPaolo’s.Botharegloved,so
it’snotasintimateasitmightbe.
“Givehimacallifyouwant,Paolo.I’msurehe’dlovetohearfromyou.”
“Really?”
“Really.Healwayssaid.…”She’smovedtoofast,andnowhastocomeup
withsomething Mark always said.“He saidyou weregood company. And he
likeditwhenyoumixedthedrinks.”
“Yeah,well.Ialwayslikedhimtoo.Imean,Iunderstandwhyithadtoend
andall,but.…”
Unlike the elk, the mule deer don’t get a reprieve. One is momentarily
distracted,tryingtoyankaparticularlysweetgrasstuft.There’sapuffofsnow
asthecougarleaps,andthentheleadbuckisdown.Itkicksitslegsonce,butthe
cougar’steethsinkinandcrushitswindpipe.Thatmaybeunnecessary.Itlooks
likeitshead’simpactwiththefrozengroundhasbeenenoughtotakeitout.
Thecougarbreatheshardforafewmoments,thenlowersitsheadandstartsto
feed.
Itlookseasy.Withoutaknowledgeofwhatisgoingon,italllookseasy.The
deerweighsasmuchasthecougar,andcarriesamultipointedrackthatcanstab
alungoragut.Evenasmallinjurycanbefatal,ifitimpairstheabilitytohunt.
The cougar has to average over a dozen pounds of meat a day to survive a
winter.Anyinterruptionintheflowofcaloriesandproteinisdeath.Thecougar
hasbeenwatchingforthepasttwohours,patientlywaitingfortheexactmoment
thatcarriedthehighestodds.
Awaiterhastostandjustattentively,butgetsrelativelylessfortheeffort.And
hehastowearastupidoutfit.
Thecougarraisesitshead.Somethingabouttheopenspaceofthemeadowis
botheringit.Themuledeerthinktheyhavemovedofftoanotherhighvalley,as
they do when a predator appears, but there is actually no room for that here.
Theywillcirclethediningareaandreemergeexactlywheretheywerebefore.
Pikamoveintheirlongrunsunderthesnow-coveredgrass,and,ahundredyards
away,aporcupinegruntsalongafreshlyfallenlog,tearingbarkawaytogetat
thestill-freshlivinglayerbeneath.Everythingelseissilent.
Whatelsedoesthecougarsense?
Itsinksteethintothecarcass,and,withacoupleofpowerfulbounds,haulsit
straightupthecliff.
Itdropsitnearthetable,rightnexttoBerenika,thenresumesitsmeal.Steam
risesfromtheentrailsofthedeadelk.
Unliketheothers,Berenikadoesnotwatchit.Instead,shescanseveryoneelse
in the restaurant, a gaze she usually devotes only to the animals. No one is
feedingwithquitethegustoofthecougar.Berenikahassnowinhereyelashes.
Sometimesthecougarhasthatsamelook.Itisasolitary,asprivateaspossible,
usedtoslidingpastperceptionwithoutaffectingit.Knowingitisinfullviewall
thetimewouldleaveitwiththefelineequivalentofdespair.Itcouldnotlivethat
way.
“Ishehere?”Paolohunchesforwardmiserably.
“Who?”Berenikasays.
“Mark!He’sgottobehere.Somewhere.”
Shelooksalmostfrightened.“Whydoyousaythat?”
“Becausehecan’tjustletyougo.Ican’tstanditthatheletyougo.”
Thecougarcurvesaroundacoupleoftimes,thenlaysdownonthemuledeer
carcassandgoestosleep.There’splentyofmeatleftonit,anditsownbodyheat
istheonlywayit’sgoingtokeepit from freezingsolidovernight.Thedeer’s
headgazesblanklyatus,itsbloodytonguehangingoutofitsmouth.
ENCOUNTER#4
PLAZAECONTORO
The plaza outside the Cafe Kulfi is a piece of marsh most of the way to
becomingameadow,withathickpatchofoaksattheedge.Thesquirrelsand
birdsinthebranchessensedeeperforestbehindthem,notabrickwall.There’s
stillsomeopenwater,sotherearemuskrats,neverthemostpopularanimalto
watch,butanimportantpartofthesystem.Theyserveasfoodfortheminkpair
thatnestunderthecheeseshop.
It’sanicespringday,andquiteafewpeopleareout.
Myhotdogcart’sumbrellaconcealsa rainforestcanopymicroenvironment.
Bromeliads and orchids dangle from its ribs. Mist drifts down over the relish
tray.
Berenika walks slowly through the plaza. She’s graceful, every part of her
longbodyinvolved,andherfeetseemtobarelytouchtheground.She’scuther
thickhairevenshorterandnowwearsitunclipped.Herjacketendsatherwaist.
Hertrousersaremadeofsomeflowymaterial.
She’shuntingforsomething.Shedoesn’tpeeraround,butit’sclearfromthe
wayshelooksoffintosomeinvisibledistancethatshe’slettingallofhersenses
openalltheway,sothateventheslightesthintwillmakeitselfknown.Ithought
shewaswaitingforPaoloorMriabeforegoingupintotheCafeKulfi,whereI
workedonherworldforthefirsttime,butneitherhaveshownandit’sstartingto
looklikeshe’sonherowntoday.
Despitemyminirainforest,shedoesn’tpayanyattentiontomystand.She’s
been in training for months, so surely she recognizes the virtuoso technique
involved.It’saclearsignal,directlytoher.She’snotusuallysoobtuse.
Theriotofrainforestlifeundermyumbrellaishardtoputtogetherandeven
harder to maintain, right above a great selection of bratwurst and all-beef
hotdogs.Youcouldspendanhourlookingatmothsgetnectarfromorchids,ants
crawling up stems, counting the tree frogs. I’m doing good business, good
enoughthatIcan’tpayasmuchattentiontoherasIwant.It’sapointofpride
thatIgettheordersright.
Even though it’s right in their face, everyone misses the three-toed sloth at
first.Ithangsamidtheleaves,itsfurgreenwithalgae,itsyellowclawshooked
aroundanumbrellarib,andchewsonthesameleafit’sbeenworkingonforthe
pasthalfanhour.
Berenika kneels and peers into the animal waste recycler just past a set of
stairs. But it’s clean. She can’t tell how recently the cougar who owns this
territoryhasbeenhere.
Sheturns,andforamoment,Ithinkshe’sgoingtowalkoverandgetahot
dog.Idohavetowearthisridiculouspurpleandorangejacketthatclasheswith
theorchids.I’vesweatedthroughthepits.Still,Iwantherto.
Finally,ourcougarslinksintotheplaza.ItglancestowardtheCafeKulfi.It
stillrememberstheunexpectednoseburnandwon’tgoupthereunlessithasa
goodreason.
Ithasotherthingstoworryabout.Itiswellintotheothermale’srange,and
thistimeiscompletelyawareofit.Itsearsflickbackandforth.Acougarhas
thirtyseparatemusclesinitsearandit’susingeveryonetoswivelthem,trying
toextractalltheinformationtheenvironmenthastooffer.
Eachstepforwardisaseriousconsideration.Sinceit’shere,itbelievesthatit
is here to challenge the other cougar. Like anything above a certain level of
consciousness, it believes it acts because of decisions it has made. And, like
anythingaboveacertainlevelofconsciousness,itiswrong.
Assoonasitappears,Berenikaisawareofit.Shedoesn’tturntowardit,butI
canseethewayherbackstretchesout,fineshoulderbladesagainstthefabricof
herjacket. Shestands very still:irrelevant, since the cougarcan’tsee her.It’s
almostacourtesy.Herhandsfloatwithoutweight.
Ididn’tunderstandherbefore,andnowI’mkindofsorryaboutthatraccoon.
She’snotjustfoolingaround.She’sasseriousaboutlifeasIam.Shecouldbe
therareTrainerthatcouldbeseen,andstilldoherjob.
Thecougarwhoseterritorywe’reincomesoutoftheCafeKulfiandstandsat
thetopofthestairs.Itissignificantlylargerandstrongerthanourcougar,full-
sized at 170 pounds, eight feet long. Everyone in the plaza falls silent and
watchesasitswishesitstailimpatiently.Sincethisisitsterritory,itisthelocal
favorite.Theywaittoseewhatitwilldototheinterloper.
Somewherearoundhere,Markappearsandcomesbackintoherlife.That’s
thestory.Andthecougar,nolongerneeded,goes.Sure,there’salwaysachance
itwilldefeatitslargerandstrongeropponent.Nothingiscertain.
Butthesmartmoney’sonthemuscle.
Theterritoryownercrouchesdowntocharge.Itisready.Ourcougarisgoing
tofindoutthatitisnolongerthecenterofattention.
Berenikastrolls towardthecafe,notgivinganysignthatsheseestheother
cougar.Ishould bewatching thecougars,but, instead,I watchher.She looks
like she’s just window-shopping, but I know she’s not seeing anything in the
vitrines.Herconsciousnessisfocusedforward.
Shestepsrightintotheothercougar’spath.Itisreadytoleap…andsuddenly
itsopponenthasvanished.AllitcanreallysenseistheabsencethatisBerenika,
becauseitcan’tdetectahumanbeing.Ashadowhasdroppedoveritsworld,and
itisconfounded.
Suddenlycomingtoitself,realizingtheperiloussituationitisin,ourcougar
turnsandboundsoutoftheplaza.
Thereisastiramongeveryoneelseintheplaza.Theyresumewhateverthey
weredoing.Buttheyfeelvaguelycheated,unfulfilled.Acrucialplotpointwas
muffed.
That’sbecausethey’repayingattentiontothewrongstory.
“Excuseme.”
Berenikacameupsilently,asIwatchedthecougarvanish.Shecatchesmeoff
guard.
Oureyesmeetthroughthemistthatcomesfrommyumbrella.Asagesture,
theslotheventurnsitshead,jawsstillworkingonitsleaf,tolookather.
SherealizesthecomplexityofwhatIhaveachievedhere.And,seeingthat,
she’s scoped out who is responsible for the events around her. She has an
instinctive feel for the behavior of living creatures. Seeing the effects, she’s
trackeddownthecause:me.
“I’dliketwohotdogs,please.”
Two?Shereallydoesn’tneedtogetoneforme.It’smystand,afterall.“Um,
sure.That’swhatI’mherefor.”
“Onewithmustardandrelish.”
“Okay.”
“Andonewithlotsofhotpeppers,sauerkraut,andepizote,ifyouhaveany.”
It’s not something I’d usually know about an employer, but Mark had me
makehimhisfavoritedogwhenweweresettingthissceneup,thedaybefore.
Peppers,sauerkraut,and—
“Noepizote.”Istillhavesome,buthe’snotgettingit.“Outtoday.”
“Well.”Shesighs.“Wecan’talwaysgetwhatwewant,canwe?”
“No,”Isay.“Iguessnot.”
Iwatchher,gracefulandslim,asshecrossestheplazaandheadsrightforthe
copseoftreeswhereMarkstands,seeminglyinvisiblefromtheworld,waitingto
emerge into the midst of a battle to the death between cougars for a single
territory.
LASTENCOUNTER
ANHINGA
The water just beyond the table is still and black. The cypress trees in the
hammockstretchabove,formingathickcanopy,screeningthebrightsun.The
air is hot, heavy, motionless. Spanish moss, vines, flowers dangle down,
drippingwater.Theonlydetectablemotionisthatofanoccasionalinsectflying
slowly,almostwalkingonthethickair.Tinybeamswithmotiondetectorspick
themoutandhighlighttheirlacywingsagainstthedimness,subtlyenoughthat
the patrons take it for granted that they can see things here, despite having
evolvedonthesunny,dryveldt.
There’snoreasonwhynatureshouldn’talwayslookherbest.
Paolo,Mria,Berenika,andMarkhavefallensilentastheywaitfortheirfood.
Markisneverchatty,andPaoloandMriahavebeentryingtofillinthespaces,
showing,bytheireagernesstoentertain,theirgratitudethatthingsarebackthe
waytheyshouldbe,butthey’verunoutofthingstotalkabout.
Markpaidtheirwayouthere.That’stheirnotionofthewaythingsshouldbe.
Berenikahasn’tbeentalkingmuch.Isshealreadyregrettingherdecisionto
getbackwithhim?
“Look,there’sone.”Paolopointsasanalligatorslidesby,carefulnottothrust
hisfingerovertherailing.
Nooneelselooks.
“What’s wrong?” Mark finally says. “I knew this was a mistake. Too wet,
right?Weshouldgetbacktothehouse.Thedesert.That’sbest.”
“No,”Berenikasays.“That’snotit.Thisisextremelyimpressive.Imightlike
toworkhere,actually.”
Ourwetland,lushwithwatercomingfromthenorth,issandwichedbetween
anofficebuilding,allpinkstuccoandplateglass,andahousingdevelopment.
Carefullygeneratedmistmakestheofficebuildinglooklikeamistakeofvision,
andthehouseshidebehindavine-coveredwall.Waterispumpedintothispatch
of jungle, runs through, and then gets recovered on the other side of the
restaurant.
Wateronce sheeteddownfromthelakestothenorth,coveredthesawgrass
prairieslessthananinchdeep,allthewaydowntothesouth.Developmentand
overuseofwaterhadthreatenedtheseenvironments.
Not much of the sawgrass prairie was left, but the wetland is something
people want to see. Water flows have been reestablished, exactly to the
necessarydegree.Nothingthatliveshere,inthedeepwatersoranyoftheother
environments around, senses that it all came via subtle paths completely
differentthantheoriginalones.
Butthere’sstillalotofworktodo.Berenikacouldmakearealcontribution.
“Butsomething’sbotheringyouaboutit.”
“Yeah:Paolo,”Mriasays.“Stoppointingoutthatstupidalligatoreverytimeit
swimsby.Weseeit.”
Paolo’smouthdroops.
“No,”Berenikasays“It’sthecat.”
Ourcougarrestsonaboughabovetheblackwater,barelyawake.
“Wrong species of panther?” Paolo flicks through the restaurant’s
environmentalinformation.,eagertomakegood.“TheFloridaone’sextinct,this
oneisprettyclose,theysay.…”
“Notthespecies.Theenvironment.Theplace.Cougarsliveintheslashpine
woods.Indecent-sizedlimestoneuplands.Theyneedsomedryland.Notdown
inthewaterhere.Theydon’tfish.”
“Maybetheyeatbirds.”Paolo,onaroll,ispleasedtospottheanhinga,the
restaurant’ssignaturebird,asitpopsoutofthewater,adeadfishspearedonits
beak.Hestartstopoint,thinksbetterofit,andchangeshisgesturetoawaveat
thewaiter.
He’sjustgoingtohavetowait.I’mnolongeronduty.
Theanhingaclimbsoutonacypresskneeandspendsamomentgettingthe
fish off its beak. It’s dark, with a long white neck. It swallows the fish, then
spreads its wings. Unlike most water birds, anhingas have no oils on their
feathers. This permits them to dive deeply, but means they have to dry their
wingsbeforeattemptingflight.
This catches the cougar’s attention. There’s really no way it can get that
anhinga,but,still,it’skindofaninterestingintellectualproblem,withthetricky
approach,thebird’sspeed,andall.Forasatedcat,thinkingaboutwaystocatch
unpromisingpreyislikedoingcrosswordpuzzles.
“You’reright.”Markfrowns.“Itshouldn’tbehere.”
Neither should I. My job is done. I should be back to my regular work.
There’ssomeoakstandstoredoinIllinois,andpondsformigratorybirds.Those
thingsarehard.Thebirdshavetomaintaintheirabilitytonavigatethousandsof
miles,yetnotrealizetheyarelandingamidobservationplatformswheneverthey
comedown.
Asidefromsomespeciesofparrot,birdsarenevereasytotrain.
Berenikahasslippedaway,probablytothebathroom.Ididn’tnoticehergo.
In her absence, Mark is checking and sending messages. He’s probably
findingoutwhereIam,whatI’mupto,figuringoutthatsomeonewhoowedme
afavorletmesetuphereintheEverglades,checkingwaterpHanddrainage.
Markisn’ttheonlyonewithdeepresources.
Acoupleofheavydropsfallontheraft,andittilts,justslightly,withadded
weight.
“Doyoureallythinknoonecanseeyou?”Berenikasays,almostinmyear.
Ijerk,butdon’tknockanythingover,andlookup.Shestandsoverme,water
sheetingdownherbody,herhairgleamingblack.
“Howmuchwasreal?”shesays.
“Whatdoyoumean?”
“YouknowwhatImean.”Shemovesaroundtheraft,barefootandsilent,and
examinestheequipment.“Isthiswhatanaturegodis?Alittlemansquattingin
theunderbrushwithsomedisplayscreens?”
“I’veneverclaimeddivinestatus—”
She’sinmyface.She’sdisturbingcloseup,eyestoobig,cheekbonestoohigh,
skintoovelvet.She’smeanttobeobservedfromasafedistance.
“Howmuch,Mr.…youdohaveaname,don’tyou?Markmustallowyoua
name.”
“TyrellFredrickson.”
“Comeon.”Sheglancesbackattherestaurant.Mriaiscomplainingthatthere
istoomuchsaffronintheflan.Thereisn’tsupposedtobeanysaffronintheflan.
NoonehasmissedBerenikayet.“You’vebeenonme,youandyourkitty.What
didMarkhireyoutodo?”
“Just to keep you safe. What appears to be the natural world is more
dangerousthanyou—”
She knocks me down and pins me to the raft. The cougar stands up on its
boughandlooksoveratus,exactlyasifitcanseeusboth.
Ienjoyfeelingherweightonme.
“Itwasn’tallmydoing,wasit?”shesays.“Everythingaroundme.Youhave
thepowertocontrolit.Tellme!”
SoIdo.It’snotthatIthinkshe’sgoingtokillme,thoughshe’smadenoughto
try.It’sbecausesheseesthatwhichshewouldlikeleasttosee.Myassignment
wastomakeherfeellike…Marksaid,“likeanaturegoddess.”
Ithadbeenadreameversinceshewasalittlegirl,tohavethenaturalworld
perceiveandrespondtoher.She’dalwayshadpets,foundwoundedbirdsand
animalsandnursedthembacktohealth,hadtheabilitytositstillforhoursand
letthingscometoher.ShewasperfectforthecareerIhad.
Mark’s analysis had shown him that she had left because she felt like she
didn’thaveequalstandingwithhim.Shedidn’thaveavalidrole.Sohedecided
togiveherone.
That’smyjob,really.Tomakethingsseemliketheyjusthappen.Ofcourse,if
you left the natural world to “just happen,” most of it would be dead and
decayinginacoupleofseasons.Toomuchofitisgonefortherestofittolive
onitsown.
“That’sprettymuchwhatIthought,”shesays,andsitsbackonherheels.
I look at her. I never expected her to go back with Mark, no matter what
powershefelt.Iexpected…Idon’tknowwhatIexpected.Noneofitmakes
sense. Mark wanted her to come back to him, so he made her feel more
powerful,moreincontrol.Andnowshequestionstheoneillusionthatmakes
herfeelbestaboutherself.
“I’mgoingaway,”Isay.“I’mtakingaroughjob.Aweedpatchinanoldcity.
Noone really likes those mundane restoration jobs.It takes forever,and even
whenyou’redone,itdoesn’tlooklikemuch.”
“Whyareyoutellingmethis?”
“Incase…ifyouwonderwhereIam.WhatI’mdoing.”
Sheshakesherhead,smilesatme.“Youreallydon’tunderstandanything,do
you?”
“Look—nomatterwhat,you’regoodatthis.Better,probably,thanIam.You
can—”
“IknowwhatIcando.Butwhatcanyoudo?Areyoujustgoingtohideinthe
leavesandfakeitallupforpeople?”
“It’swhatIdo.I’maTrainer.”
“SoamI,now.YouthinkMarkwantedtogivemetheillusionofpowerover
naturetogetmetocomebacktohim.Butit’snotanillusion,isit?I’mnotsome
kindofnaturegoddess.That’sjustdumb.ButIdohavepowerovernature.And
Iloveitall.Everybitofit.Doyouloveit,Tyrell?”
“Ido.”TheanswercomesbeforeIthinkaboutit.
Thistimeshereallylooksatme.I’mpale,alittlesoft,butIthinkIhavesome
shapetome.Agoodjaw,andpeoplesaymyeyesarethoughtful.
Well,mymothersaidit.Shewasotherwiseprettyhonest.ShenevertoldmeI
wasstrikinglyhandsomeoranything.
“You might still make something of yourself, Tyrell. Then we’ll see.” Her
diveintothewateristotallysilent.
Berenika. I write these reports for Mark, but he never reads them. Maybe
somedayyouwill.
HOWIBECAMEATRAINER
TYRELLFREDRICKSON
Youdon’treallywantthewholestory,butperhapsthispartwillhelpyoumake
senseofit.
BeforeI becamea Trainer,I workedon a farm,at Sty#14, on the thirtieth
floor.Sometimes,whenmyworkwasdone,I’dgoouttotheplantareastowatch
thesunset.Thecirculatingbreezekeptcondensationofftheglassandmadethe
leaves whisper behind me. From that height I didn’t really see people, just
buildings copper to the horizon. After a few minutes, something would start
beeping.Iwasn’treallysupposedtobeinthatarea.Myjobwasthepork.
I’dgobacktothedark.Theglowstripacrossthevatroom’sarchedceiling
wasaboutasbrightasafullmoon.Afterall,theporktubes—pigs,ifyouinsist
—couldn’tsee.
The sterilizing lights came on once a day. Then it was my job to put on
gogglesandturnthetubesintheirvatsofliquid,makingsuretheUVhitalltheir
surfaces.Thefluidwasfullofantibioticsandallthat,buttherewerefungi,there
weremolds…anywheretherewasthatmuchcellsheddingandorganicmaterial
somethingwouldfindawaytolive.
Themainproblemwastheskin.Theboneswerevestigial,floatingfreefrom
eachotherlikeanexplodedskeletaldiagram,butthethingsstillhadskin.They
floated in the blue-green support fluid, but they were so huge that there were
alwaysfolds,orpointsofpressureagainstthetanksides,whereinfectioncould
collect.Myjobwasdetectingtheseareasandtakingcareofthem.
Itmightseemthatyoushouldjustgetridoftheskinandjusthavemeat,but
thatwouldcausemoreproblemsthanitsolved.Skinisasophisticatedinterface,
keepinginthethingsthatshouldbein,andkeepingalmostalloftheuniverse
out. Creating some new interface would have been more trouble than it was
worth.Itmightnothaveseemedthatway,butthey’dchangedonlythosethings
thatneededchanging.Forexample,collagenhadbeenadded,tomaketheskin
easiertoremove,whenthattimecame.
The back of pork still looked like a pig. The spine had separated like the
boostersofarocketheadingforspace,butIcouldstillseeatraceoftheoriginal
shoat,withitsbristlyhair.IfIlefttheminsomeotherorientation,theywould
slowlyturntohavetheirbacksup.
No one ever visited me there. The meat side of the farm just wasn’t that
popular.Therewasanoccasionalmaintenanceteam,intoadjusttherecirculators
that turned pork waste into usable fertilizer for the plants on the south side.
Otherwise,Iwasalonewithmypigs.
Onceamonthwasslaughteringtime.
I’dpulleachtubeoutoftheliquidinasupportharness.Thesterilizingfluid
wouldcascadeoffitssides.I’ddrytheskin,firstwitharollerandthenwithan
infraredlight,andthenIwouldopenitup.Therewassupposedtobeaseam,
kindofabiologicalzipper,alongwheretheedgeofthebellyhadoncebeen,but
itoftengotjammedupwithsquamouscellsandotherundifferentiatedgrowth.
SoIwouldhavetocutitopen.IhadavibratorycutterthatIwouldrunalong
the pig’s side. Then, being extremely careful, I would roll up the hide. As I
mentioned, there was additional collagen that added some tension, so that the
skincurleduptoexposethemeat.
Most of each pig was smooth flesh, suitable for processed food. Without
connectivetissueorgrain,thiswaseasytoworkwith.I’drunthecutteralong
thepig’slength,andthencutoffslabs.Therewasalwaysalittlebloodseepage,
butnotmuch.Thecutterwassmart,andthebloodsupplywasspacedrationally.
Largevesselswouldbeavoided,andtuckedin,todanglelikeelectricalconduit.
I’dhitthemwithvascularizationhormoneslater,stimulatearborization,andlink
themupwiththenewfleshthatbubbleduparoundthem.
ThenIwouldsupervisethemovementofthechopstothecooler,intheblank
north side of the building. They’d rumble down one of the conveyors and
disappeartothenextstepintheprocessofmakingfood.Theareawasforgotten,
with hexagonal ice crystals growing on the housings of seldom-used support
pumps,andfluidspillsthateventuallyturnedintosheetsofbrown-redice.My
leastfavoritepartofthejobwasdefrostingandcleaningthat.
Things did go wrong. Cancers could spread through the flesh when cell
reproductionwasdisrupted.Thiscouldhappensurprisinglyfast.Sometimesan
entiretubewouldhavetobeterminatedanddiscarded.Ihadnoideawherethat
fleshwent.
OnceIheardarattleasthecutterwentby.WhenIlookedattheresultingslab,
Ifoundapig’slowerjaw,completewithteeth,allperfectlyformed.Theylooked
tinyagainstthathugebulk,eventhoughtheywouldhavebeenabletosupport
thefeedingofacreaturethatweighedseveralhundredpounds.Icleanedthem
off and kept them. There is nothing more diagnostic of a mammal than the
elaboratepatternonthesurfaceoftheteeth.Someonewithmoreexperiencethan
IcouldhaveidentifiedwhatbreedofSusdomesticahadledtothisgargantuan
meatfactory.
Igotintomyroutine.Idon’tthinkIwasevenfullyconscious,followingout
myroundsinthesemidarkness,withonlythebacksofpigsforcompany.
Butthatjawshouldhavemadememoreattentive.Somethinghadgonewrong
with the gene expression in that tube. All the developmental genes were still
there,afterall,justsuppressed.Itwasonlyafterthecuttershesitatedabitonthat
same pig that I finally hauled it up out of the fluid to investigate more
thoroughly.
Ithadgrownaleg,completewithtrotter.Itlookedridiculous,downthereall
byitself,supportingnothing,contactingnothing,butithadthefullcomplement
ofbonesandmuscles.
Ipokeditanditjerkedaway.
Soithadsomebasicinnervationaswell.Iwasgoingtohavetodosomething
aboutthis.
Sometimesaconsumergetsahankeringforarealdifferentiatedpieceofmeat,
something with connective tissue, muscle strands, bone: a ham, a rib, a chop.
These tubes had not been designed to produce those. Even in those that had
been,whatlookedlikeancestralcutsofmeatweresculptedcreations,notactual
musclesattachedtolimbs.
The hoof looked tiny and precise. Something about it appealed to me. I
decidedtokeepitforawhile.IhadtheideathatIwasliberatingsomeessential
naturehiddeninthehugetubeofmeat.Ireprogrammedtheslabcutterstoavoid
it.Thatdroppedmyoverallproductivityabit,butstillwellwithinthequotasI
hadforthissty.
Sentimentalityhasnoplaceinfarming.Ireallyshouldhaveknownthat.
Nextharvest,thatlegthrewtheslabcutteroffsomuchitpulledback,forcing
me to slice meat manually. I wasn’t used to the auxiliary blade, and the flesh
shudderedsomuchwhenIloweredmyselftoitthatIalmostslicedthrougha
finger.
Maintaining a sentimental piece of real pig quickly proved to be tiresome.
And a health and safety inspection would show poor practice. My real career
waselsewhere,butlosingpointsherecouldreallysetmeback.
Atthenextskinmaintenancetime,Irotatedthattubesothatthelegstuckout
towardme.Ipulledmyselfuptoit.Theleg’sjointwasrightattheskinsurface.
Thatwasgood.Therewouldbenotelltalestumpleftafterward,andthecutters
wouldbeabletodotheirjob.Igotrightuptothething,pushingmyheadagainst
itsside,andslidtheauxiliarybladeintotheleg.
Itkickedme.Ilostmygripandalmostfellintothetankmyself.Ididdropthe
saw,and lost it somewhere inthosetranslucentdepths.Thelegflailedseveral
moretimes,thenwasstill.Butitwaspulledbackagainstthetube’sbulk,asif
readytoattackagain.
Ashudderwentthroughtheentirething,sendingwavessplashingbackand
forthagainstthetanksides.Bloodseepedfromthecutanddrippeddown.
Muscleandbonewereonething,butthethinghadnerves,andhadrecruiteda
bloodsupply.
Whathadgiventhecommandtokickme?Thenervesledsomewhere.
MaybeIwasmadatit,butIhadgivenuponcarefulsurgery.Ihadtogetthis
thingfixedandbackontheproductionline.Irecoveredmybladefromthetank
bottomandslasheddeeply,checkingforanyvariationsinthemeat’sotherwise
smoothstructure.
I found and removed a couple of ribs and a big fold of tissue that I later
figuredoutwasabladder,onethathadnevermanagedtogrowinonitselfto
holdfluid.Abitofureterledofffromit,butithadneverregrownakidney,so
thetubejustended.
Beneath that, along the spine, I found a lump. This was the creature’s real
secret.
It had never grown a dura mater, much less cranial bones, and most of the
brain had never grown either, but here was a bit of the pig’s brain, barely
protectedbyaflexiblearachnoidandpiamater,materiallikestiffrubber.
Theoriginalpighadafairamountofcortex.Itwasanintelligentanimal.
Thistubeofmeatwasnotanintelligentanimal.ButeventhenIknewenough
ofthestructureofthemammaliannervoussystemtohavesomeideaofwhathad
regrown.Itwasabitofthemotorcortex:whathadallowedthethingtokickme.
Andmuchofthesensorycortex:whathadallowedittofeelmeprobingit.
TherewasnocomfortIcouldgive.NothingIcoulddotohelp.Itcouldn’tsee,
itcouldn’thear,itcouldn’ttaste.Butitcouldfeelpain.
Itwasjustamistake.Justamalfunctioningeneexpression,thegenerationof
nerve cells with no consumption value. I thought about how long it had been
shudderingundertheslicesofthecutter.Theinnervationhadgonemuchfarther
than I would have thought possible. It sensed everything that was going on,
everythingthathappenedtoit.
Itwassilentinthathugeroom.Isatthere,kindofstrokingthepartoftheskin
thatwasleft.Ihadnoideaifitcouldfeelthattoo.
Adamagereportwascalledfor,sothatotherscouldbeonthelookoutfora
similarmalfunction.
ButIdidn’ttellanyone.Iexcisedthebrain,thenerves,theotherorgans.
ThenIsautéedthoseno-longer-functionalpaincentersinbutter.Theultimate
discourtesytoafoodanimalistokillitbutnottoeatit.
IthinkIovercookedthem.Theywereabitcrumbly.ButIchokedthemdown.
Okay,thisisn’twhyIbecameaTrainer.Butit’swhyI’veneverquit.We’ve
pickedsomethingup,andnowthere’snowayforustoeverputitdownagain.
Nowthatyoubearsomeoftheweight,Berenika,maybeyouunderstand.
NON-ENCOUNTER
MARKANDBERENIKA’SDESERTRESIDENCE
Igothrougheveryroomof the house,asifsomeonewillbehiding in oneof
them.
But there’s nowhere to hide. The furniture is gone, and the rooms, floored
withnativestone,seemtohavebeenvacuumedbyforensicsteamsandretainnot
atraceoftheirpreviousoccupants.
The high living room windows show the distant dry ridge, tilting like a
sinkingship.
Ihearathunkfromtheundergroundgarage,thenvoices.Amanandawoman.
IwassureBerenikawouldleavehimagain.Itjustdidn’tmakesensethatshe
wouldstay.Butinsteadshewastakingadvantageofhispower.Ithoughtthey
were far away, restoring some part of the dead ocean, not here to find me
scuttlingacrosstheirfloorlikeahermitcrabthathadmisplaceditsshell,pale
andshrivel-assed.
“Whoareyou?”
It’s Paolo. He stands tall and skinny in the doorway’s exact center, as if
demonstratinghowunnecessarilywideitis.
“I—”
“Oh,youknowhim.”Theshort,blondMriapushespasthim,carryingabag
thatseemssymbolicof“groceries”:leafyceleryandabaguettestickoutofthe
top.“TheTrainer.Mark’sguy.”
“Mark’s guy.” Paolo’s eyes are pale blue. I had not noticed how clear and
perceptivethey were. I hadn’treally beenwatching him,and hecertainly had
neverlookedatmebefore.“Whatishedoinghere,then?”
“Idon’tknow.”Mriaisalreadyinthekitchen.“Maybehe’straininggophers.
Whydon’tyouaskhim?”
“I’mheretoputsomethingsaway,”Isay.Thisisevenalmosttrue.Atleastit
isnow.
“Hey,ustoo,”Paolosays.“Wecanstartaclub.‘Peoplewhocleanupafter
MarkandBerenika.’”
“Don’tbebitter,Paolo.”Mriaisopeningandclosingcabinets.“Didn’t they
saythey’dleaveasaucepanin…oh,thereitis.Shejustaskedusforafavor,
sinceweweregoingtobeintheneighborhood.”
There was no neighborhood. Mark had, impressively, put his house where
therereallywasnothing,anexpanseofdryridgesandvalleysintheGreatBasin.
Themostvisiblelifeintheregionwasaherdofpronghornsthattendedtokeep
wellsouth,wheretherewasmorewater.Theonlyplantvisibleisanoccasional
sullen creosote bush. Those black sticks suck all the moisture from the dirt
aroundthem,leaving acircle so drythat noseed would evergerminate there.
Theirkingdomsaretinyandparched,buttheyaresupremewithinthem.
“Youhidyourcar,”Paolosays.
“Habit.”
“Sowhatwereyougoingtodohere?”
“Maybehe’smovinghere.”Mriapokesherheadinfromthekitchen.Behind
her,Ihearsomethingfrying.“Youwantsomelunch,Mr.AnimalTrainer?We’re
goingtohavetopackoutwhatwedon’teat.”
I’dneverpeggedMriaasacook.But,then,Ihadn’tpaidthatmuchattention
tohereither.I’dbeenwatchingBerenika.
“Sure,”Isay.“Ididn’tbringanythingtocontribute.”
“Didn’tfigurethatyouwould.”Shevanishesbackintothekitchen.
“Berenika’sgoingtobeaTrainertoo,”Paolosays.“She’sgoingtofindout
whatreallymakesthingstick.”
“It’salong,hardroad,”Isay.“Muchlessfunthanitlooks.”
“Sheknowsallaboutthat,”Paolosays.“Youprobablyexplainedsomeofitto
her.”
“Itried.”
“You’renotgoingtoask,areyou.”Mriahandsmelinen-wrappedsilverware
andhasmesetthetable.“Berenika’sgonebacktoMark,andbothofthemare
offonsomeatolltryingtorestorefishstocks,traintunatoprotectthemselves,
whatever,andyou’regoingtopretendyoudon’tevencare.”
“Idon’thavetherighttocare,”Ifinallymanage.
“The forks go on the other side,” Mria says briskly. “You don’t need some
kindofstandingtocare.”
“Oh, come on.” Paolo slouches above us, unsure of what to do. “He just
failed.Hewantedtosetthingsupacertainway,trainBerenikatomovetohim,
andhedidn’tdoit.”
Itrytodoitslowly,butIthinktheyhearmeletmybreathout.
“Don’tyouguysneedtoprotectthosefish?”Mriasays.“Goahead.I’lllay
everythingelseout.”
“Thefish,”Paolosaysonthewaydownthestairstothelowerlevels.“Did
youputthemhere?”
“MyfirstprojectforMark,”Isay.“They’reanalmost-vanishedsubspecies—
agriculture had dropped the water table and their caves were going dry. They
seemtobebreedingprettywellhere.Ihopethenewownertakescareofthem.”
“It’sinthedeed.Youhaveto.Ifyoudon’twantto,buysomewhereelse.”
Manypeoplethinkthatthewaywefoolnaturenowshowsourpower.Butit
equallyenslavesustoperpetualcare.
Orsomeofus,anyway.
Inthecooldarknesswecouldhearthewaterswirlingbeneathourfeetandin
the walls. A still pool filled the floor’s center. We stand on its edge, looking
downandseeingthepassagesrecedinginalldirectionsintotheearth.
Thepoolhasablueglownowthatwe’rehere.Thefishcan’tseeit,butitlets
usseethem.
“Didyou…makethis?”Paolo’seyesarelargeinthedimness.
“Iworkedit out.There wereobjections.There’s nogeology anywherenear
herethatcouldremotelyhavewater-filledcavernslikethis,butMarkofferedto
financeit,anditreallywasthebestoption.Youcan’thaveeverythingperfect.”
Blindfishhaveeyes.Or,rather,theydevelopeyesnormally,uptoapoint.The
genesthatguidethedevelopmentoftheeyesisstillthere,stillactive.Aneyecup
develops, a lens. Then, another gene, busily beefing up the front of the head,
increasing the sense of smell, the barbels, the whole chemical/physical sense
structure that the fish needs to survive in the absolute darkness of limestone
caverns a thousand feet underground, finally gets its bulldozers and concrete
mixersintothearea—andbuildsrightovertheeye.Itsinksunderthatnewflesh,
andvanishes.
I wave my hand over the water. This was once Berenika’s great pleasure,
Markhadtoldme.Theonethingaboutthehousethathadentrancedher.Iwant
toseewhatshesaw.
Andtheycome.Thefishswimoutoftheirundergroundgrottosandoutinto
thedimblueglowofthatroom.Theirskinispurewhite,patternedwithblue,
liketattoos. Their drooping barbels let them sense what is around them. They
swirlup,nevertouchingeachother,sensingthepressureoftheothers,searching
fortheirmicroscopicfood.
Iholdmyfingeroverthewater,butdon’ttouchit.It’sbestforthemifthey
neverknowanyoneelseishere.It’stoolate,anyway.EveniftheyknewIwas
here,thatIhaddeterminedtheirdestinies,theywouldn’tcare.
“Comeon,”IsaytoPaolo.
Thecontrolsmakeeverythingautomatic,butitstillseemsthatweneedtobe
there to supervise. I carefully check the sandy floor for any obstructions and
find.…
Paolostandsnexttomeandlooksdown.
“Wasthatyourcat?”hesays.
“Notatall,”Isay.“Justacompanion.Weworkedtogetherforawhile.And
then—”
“AndnowitworksforMarktoo?”
Thefootprintisclear.I’mtemptedtosaytooclear,asifitwasrolledtherefor
policeidentification.Butoverhere,itlookslikethecougarslept.Acavemight
seemagoodplaceofconcealmentforit.
Nowayoftellinghowlongagoithadbeenhere.
“Willthey…willtheybeokayunderthere?”Paolosays.
“The system is sealed and recirculating,” I tell him. “Left for long enough,
sure.Thiscavewon’tsurvivethefallofcivilizationoranything.Butlongbefore
theyhaveanytrouble,someonewillbeheretocleanitup,keepthemfedand
alive.”
Thecoverlookslikeheavystone,thoughIknowit’sjustafoamedmetalalloy
withathincoveroffusedrockdust.Itslidesacrossthepool,acrossthecougar
footprint,acrossthevaguetracesweourselveshaveleftdownthere,andtheblue
glowvanishes.Thehouse’slifeisconcealeduntilsomeonereturnstorevealit
again.
ThecougarneverknewIwasthere,soitcan’tmissme,butitmustbeableto
detectadifferenceinitslifenowthatIhaveleftit.
“Comeonup.”Mriacallsfromupstairs.“Lunchisready.”
“Whatareyougoingtodonow?”Paolosays.
“Ihaveanotherproject.”
“Markmusthavepaidyouabundle.Itmustbesomethingprettywild.”
“Notsowild,”Isay.“Justsomethingthatneedstogetdone.”
POTENTIALENCOUNTER
URBANSTUDYAREA#7
Sometimesachunkofdecorativeplastercrashesdownfromthecofferedceiling
high overhead. This usually happens a couple of days after a heavy rain. The
waterpercolatesthroughthevariousremaininglayersoftherailwaystationroof.
You’dthinktherewouldn’tbeanacanthusswagorgildedrosetteleftupthere,
butthebuildershadnotstintedonunseendecoration.
Sometimes it happens for no reason at all, like this morning. I jerk awake,
hearingjusttheechoesofadistantcrash.
UsuallyIgetupandsearch,tryingtofigureoutwhichpieceitwasthathad
justbeenaddedtotherubbleonthewaitingroomfloor.Idon’tknowwhatthe
pointofthatis,butIdofeelgoodwhenIseefreshedges,asifI’mfinallygetting
agriponhowthingsworkaroundhere.
Idon’tfeellikedoingthattoday.Ijustwigglemyselfdeeperintomybagand
watch the pale light of morning grow in the high windows. The pigeons that
haveleftacrustovertheglassshiftcomplainontheirpercheshighabove.
I’vebeenhereafewmonthsnow,andstillfinditridiculous.Hadabsolutely
everyoneleftthiscityandheadedforbetterplaces?Ithadoncebeenhuge.Ican
walk the old streets for days, clamber carefully across rusting bridges, jump
acrossthepitsofcollapsedsewers.Noneofitwassetuptointeractwithnature.
Itcomesfromapurelyhumanworld,nowobsolete.
Mostofitcollapsedandwassweptintosinuousridges,twentyorthirtyfeet
high.Forestsslowlyspreadacrossthem.There’sasmallmoderncityuptheriver
abit,butithasitsownenvironmentandInevertakeanyanimalsthere.
So now I live among weeds: spiky leaved plants, muck-loving carp, fast-
growingtrees,pigeons.Ihuntamongtheherdsofstunteddeerthatbrowsethe
grassbetweenfallenbranchesoflocustsandsilvermaples.Sometimesapackof
canidsmakesitsquarrelsomewaythroughthearea.Acrossbetweendomestic
dogsandcoyotes,theyareunromantic,unphotogenic,andunclean.NoTrainer
haseverworkedtogetthemtosettheircarrion-smellingpawsonacitystreet.
No passerby has ever been struck at dawn by their wild beauty. When I hear
themyelpingatnightIstuffmyheadintomypillow.
Acrowcallsoutside,soitreallyistimetogetup.Alloftheanimalscansee
me,butonlythatcrowseemstocare.Ithasakindofreptilianaffectionforme,
basedonthesmallpreyIscareuponmyhunts,andIsometimesfinditstaring
fixedly at me, head sidewise, considering me with an expressionless yellow-
rimmed eye. I work at not attributing human emotions to it, but always fail.
MaybeIwasn’tmeantformylineofworkafterall.
AtleastIhaven’tgivenitaname.That’sthemostobviouswaywepretend
animals are more ours than they actually are. I figure it respects me, but is
puzzledbyme.Ourlivesareprettysimilarjustnow,sowegetalong.Thebird
canpredictingeneralwhatIamgoingtodonext,butnotspecifically,andthatis
thebasisofadecentrelationship.
Thereisnonaturalworld.Ifthetermeverhadmeaning,ithasn’tforyears.
Jeremiadsabouthowthenaturalworldwilluniteandturnagainsthumansarea
childishfantasy.Naturehasnomotivations,nodesires,noultimategoal.
Exceptwhatwechoosetogiveit.Ifinallyrolloutofmybag,washmyfacein
thebasinIalwaysfillbeforegoingtosleep,andgooutside.It’sovercast,and
cold. My breath puffs. I like feeling the weather against me. Having little
defenseagainstit,Ihavetoreacttoitthesamewayeverythingelsealivehasto.
I listen to the air, sniff it to see how scents are carrying today, listen to any
soundsitbrings.I’mhereandvisible.Icanbeevaded,Icanberesisted,Icanbe
killed.Ipayfullattention.
Outside,somethingonthegroundcatchesmyeye.Ikneeltogetabetterlook.
Ireachoutmyhand,butpullitbackbeforemyfingertipscandisturbanything.
It’sapartialprint:abigheelpad,andtwotoemarks.Noclawindentations,
anditlooksprettygood-sized.Cat.Itlookslikealargecat.
Ibendovertheimprintandpushmyfacealmosttotheground,lookingand
smelling,usingeverychannelofinformationIcan.Ismellcattoo.
Could be a lynx. I’ve seen some other, ambiguous traces. A lynx would be
okay.
Idon’tthinkit’salynx.AfewdaysagoIfoundapieceofscat.Liketheprint,
itwasbig,biggerthanyourusualcoydogturd.Andithadabitofhairinit,as
fromself-groomingwitharoughtongue.Imanagedtopersuademyselfthatit
wasjusttherightshadeofreddishbrown.
Istandup,readyformyday.Iftherereallyisacougaroutheresomewhere,I
won’tseeit.Inanevencontest,Idon’thaveachance.ButI’llkeeplooking.
Anyonecouldfindmehere,iftheywanted.BerenikahastoknowwhereIam.
Shecouldcomehereandobservemeinmynaturalhabitat.Ifshewanted.
It’s ridiculous. A feral housecat could make it here in this shrunken weed
patch,foraslongasitevadedthecoydogs,butchanceswerelowerforalynx,
andacougar wasimpossible. Acougarneeded morethan tensquaremiles of
territory to support itself, probably significantly more in this impoverished
ecology,andtherewasnothinglikethathere,notyet.Asinglekillandthedeer
wouldfleeelsewhere.Thesearenottrainedtoforget,circlearound,andreturn.
Again,notyet.
So there’s work to be done. The various patches of woods can be knitted
togetherinthemindsofthebeaststhatarehere.That’swhatwedo.Wetakethe
far-flung archipelagos of environment and reassemble them into continents in
the minds of the animals. We give them a way to live in the world we have
made.
SoIlive,work,andhope.
IimagineBerenika,somewhereinanabandonedroominthecity,inabrick
rowhousestandingaloneamidthetrees,likeasinglebookonanemptyshelf.
Since I’m imagining it, I imagine detail. She’s in an old bedroom where
someonechangedwallpapereveryyear.Thewarmthandmoistureshe’sbrought
into the room have loosened its glue, and the soft paper peels off in layers,
showingdifferentcolors.Whensheawakesbeforedawn,it’stothewhisperof
fallingfloralsandberibbonedhuntinghorns.
I don’t actually believe she’s there. She’s got more important things to pay
attentionto.
Markisthekindofguywhothinksthatmakinghiswifestrongeristhewayto
keepher.Thatmakeshimhardtocompetewith.ButI’veworkedwithhim,and
knowhecanbetiresome.Ajerk,really.And,pathetichuddledvoyeurornot,I
knowwhatI’mdoing.Thatcanbeattractive.Thereissomeroomforhope.
Meanwhile,Ihaveworktodo.
TheShipmaker
ALIETTEDEBODARD
New writer Aliette de Bodard is a software engineer who was
bornintheUnitedStates,butgrewupinFrance,whereshestill
lives. Only a few years into her career, her short fiction has
appearedinInterzone,Asimov’s,RealmsofFantasy,OrsonScott
Card’s Intergalactic Medicine Show, Writers of the Future,
Coyote Wild, Electric Velocipede, The Immersion Book of SF,
Fictitious Force, Shimmer, and elsewhere. Servant of the
Underworld,herfirstnovel,appearedin2010.
Theengrossingstorythatfollowstakesustothefarfutureof
an alternate world in which China discovered the New World
beforeColumbusandannexeditasacolony,andintroducesusto
ascientistwhoisresponsibleforengineeringtheliteralbirthofa
sentientstarship…withherownlifedependentonasuccessful
outcome.
Shipswereliving,breathingbeings.DacKienhadknownthis,evenbeforeshe’d
reachedtheengineeringhabitat—evenbeforeshe’dseenthegreatmassinorbit
outside,beingslowlyassembledbythebots.
Herancestorshadoncecarvedjade,inthebygonedaysoftheLedynastyon
OldEarth:nothackingthegreenblocksintotheshapetheywanted,butrather
whittlingdownthestoneuntilitstruenaturewasrevealed.Andaswithjade,so
withships.Thesectionsoutsidecouldn’tbeforcedtogether.Theyhadtoflow
intoaseamlesswhole—tobe,intheend,inhabitedbyaMindwhowasasmuch
apartoftheshipaseveryrivetandeveryseal.
TheEasternersortheMexicadidn’tunderstand.Theyspokeofrecycling,of
design efficiency: they saw only the parts taken from previous ships, and
assumeditwasdonetosavemoneyandtime.Theydidn’tunderstandwhyDac
Kien’sworkasGrandMasterofDesignHarmonywasthemostimportantonthe
habitat:theship,once made,wouldbe oneentity, andnota patchworkoften
thousandothers.ToDacKien—andtotheonewhowouldcomeafterher,the
Mind-bearer—fell the honour of helping the ship into being, of transforming
metalandcablesandsolarcellsintoanentitythatwouldsailthevoidbetween
thestars.
Thedoorslidopen.DacKienbarelylookedup.Thelighttreadofthefeettold
her this was one of the lead designers, either Miahua or Feng. Neither would
havedisturbedherwithoutcause.Withasigh,shedisconnectedfromthesystem
withaflickofherhands,andwaitedforthedesign’soverlayonhervisionto
disappear.
“YourExcellency.”Miahua’svoicewasquiet:theXuyanheldherselfupright,
herskinaspaleasyellowedwax.“Theshuttlehascomeback.There’ssomeone
onboardyoushouldsee.”
***
Dac Kien had expected many things: a classmate from the examinations on a
courtesy visit; an Imperial Censor from Dongjing, calling her to some other
posting,evenfurtherawayfromthecapital;orperhapsevensomeonefromher
family,motherorsisteroruncle’swife,heretoremindheroftheunsuitabilityof
herlifechoices.
She hadn’t expected a stranger: a woman with brown skin, almost dark
enough to be Viet herself—her lips thin and white, her eyes as round as the
moon.
AMexica.Aforeigner—DacKienstoppedthethoughtbeforeitcouldgofar.
For the woman wore no cotton, no feathers, but the silk robes of a Xuyan
housewife,andthefiveweddinggifts(allpuregold,fromnecklacetobracelets)
shonelikestarsonthedarknessofherskin.
Dac Kien’s gaze travelled down to the curve of the woman’s belly: a
protrudingbulgesovoluminousthatitthrewherwholesilhouetteoutofbalance.
“Igreetyou,youngersister.IamDacKien,GrandMasterofDesignHarmony
forthishabitat.”Sheusedtheformaltone,suitableforaddressingastranger.
“Eldersister.”TheMexica’seyeswerebloodshot,setdeepwithintheheavy
face. “I am—” She grimaced, one hand going to her belly as if to tear it out.
“Zoquitl,” she whispered at last, the accents of her voice slipping back to the
harshpatternsofhernativetongue.“MynameisZoquitl.”Hereyesstartedto
rollupwards;shewenton,takingonthecadencesofsomethinglearntbyrote.“I
amthewombandtherestingplace,thequickenerandtheMind-bearer.”
DacKien’sstomachroiled,asifanicyfistweresqueezingit.“You’reearly.
Theship—”
“Theshiphastobeready.”
The interjection surprised her. All her attention had been focused on the
Mexica—Zoquitl—andwhathercomingheremeant.Nowsheforcedherselfto
lookattheotherpassengeroftheshuttle:aXuyanmaninhismid-thirties.His
accent was that of Anjiu province, on the Fifth Planet; his robes, with the
partridge badge and the button of gold, were those of a minor official of the
seventhrank—buttheyweremarkedwiththeyin-yangsymbol,showingstark
black-andwhiteagainstthesilk.
“You’rethebirth-master,”shesaid.
Hebowed.“Ihavethathonour.”Hisfacewasharsh,allanglesandplaneson
which the light caught—highlighting, here and there, the thin lips, the high
cheekbones.“Forgivememyabruptness,butthereisnotimetolose.”
“Idon’tunderstand—”DacKienlookedagainatthewoman,whoseeyesbore
aglazedlookofpain.“She’searly,”shesaid,flatly,andshewasn’tspeakingof
theirarrivaltime.
Thebirth-masternodded.
“Howlong?”
“Aweek,atmost.”Thebirth-mastergrimaced.“Theshiphastobeready.”
Dac Kien tasted bile in her mouth. The ship was all but made—and, like a
jadestatue,itwouldbrooknocorrectionsnoroversights.DacKienandherteam
had designed it specifically for the Mind within Zoquitl’s womb: starting out
from the specifications the imperial alchemists had given them, the delicate
balanceofhumours,opticsandfleshthatmadeupthebeingZoquitlcarried.The
shipwouldanswertonothingelse:onlyZoquitl’sMindwouldbeabletoseize
theheartroom,toquickentheship,andtakeitintodeepplanes,wherefaststar-
travelwaspossible.
“I can’t—” Dac Kien started, but the birth-master shook his head, and she
didn’tneedtohearhisanswertoknowwhathewouldsay.
She had to. This had been the posting she’d argued for, after she came in
secondatthe state examinations—this,nota magistrate’s tribunalanddistrict,
not a high-placed situation in the palace’s administration, not the prestigious
CourtyardofWritingBrushes,aswouldhavebeenherright.Thiswaswhatthe
imperialcourtwouldjudgeheron.
Shewouldn’tgetanotherchance.
***
“Aweek.”Hanhshookherhead.“Whatdotheythinkyouare,aMexicafactory
overseer?”
“Hanh.”Ithadbeenalongday,andDacKienhadcomebacktotheirquarters
lookingforcomfort.Inhindsight,sheshouldhaveknownhowHanhwouldtake
thenews:herpartnerwasanartist,apoet,alwaysseekingtherightwordandthe
right allusion—ideally suited to understanding the delicacy that went into the
designofaship,lessthanidealtoacknowledgeanyneedforurgency.
“Ihavetodothis,”DacKiensaid.
Hanhgrimaced. “Because they’re pressuring youinto it? Youknow what it
willlooklike.”Shegesturedtowardsthelowmahoganytableinthecentreofthe
room. The ship’s design hung inside a translucent cube, gently rotating—the
glimpses of its interior interspersed with views of other ships, the ones from
whichithadtakenitsinspiration:allthegreatfromTheRedCarptoTheGolden
MountainandThe Snow-White Blossom. Their hulls gleamed in the darkness,
slowlyandsubtlybendingoutofshapetobecomethefinalstructureoftheship
hangingoutsidethehabitat.“It’sawhole,lil’sis.Youcan’tbutcheritandhope
tokeepyourreputationintact.”
“Shecoulddieofit,”DacKien said, atlast.“Ofthebirth,anditwould be
worseifshediditfornothing.”
“Thegirl?She’sgui.Foreign.”
Meaning she shouldn’t matter. “So were we, once upon a time.” Dac Kien
said.“Youhaveshortmemories.”
Hanh opened her mouth, closed it. She could have pointed out that they
weren’tquitegui—thatChina,Xuya’smotherland,hadonceheld Dai Viet for
centuries;butHanhwasproudofbeingViet,andcertainlynotabouttomention
suchshamefuldetails.“It’sthegirlthat’sbotheringyou,then?”
“Shedoeswhatshewants,”DacKiensaid.
“Fortheprize.”Hanh’svoicewasfaintlycontemptuous.Mostofthegirlswho
bore Minds were young and desperate, willing to face the dangers of the
pregnancyinexchangeforamarriagetoarespectedofficial.Forastatusoftheir
own, a family that would welcome them in; and a chance to bear childrenof
goodbirth.
BothHanhandDacKienhadmadetheoppositechoice,longago.Forthem,
asforeveryXuyanwhoengagedinsame-genderrelationships,therewouldbe
nochildren:noonetolightincenseattheancestralaltars,novoicestochantand
honourtheirnamesaftertheyweregone.Throughlife,theywouldbesecond-
classcitizens,consistentlyfailingtoaccomplishtheirdutiestotheirancestors;in
death,theywouldbespurned,forgotten—goneasiftheyhadneverbeen.
“I don’t know,” Dac Kien said. “She’s Mexica. They see things differently,
whereshecomesfrom.”
“Fromwhatyou’retellingme,she’sdoingthisforXuyanreasons.”
For fame, and for children; all that Hanh despised—what she called their
shackles, their overwhelming need to produce children, generation after
generation.
DacKienbitherlip,wishingshecouldhaveHanh’sunwaveringcertainties.
“It’snotasifIhavemuchchoiceinthematter.”
Hanhwassilentforawhile.Atlength,shemoved,cametorestbehindDac
Kien,herhairfallingdownoverDacKien’sshoulders,herhandstrailingatDac
Kien’snape.“You’retheonewhokeepstellingmewealwayshaveachoice,lil’
sis.”
DacKienshookherhead.Shesaidthat—whenwearyofherfamily’srepeated
reminders that she should marry and have children; when they lay in the
darknesssidebysideaftermakingloveandshesawthefuturestretchinginfront
ofher,childlessandringedbyoldprejudices.
Hanh, much as she tried, didn’t understand. She’d always wanted to be a
scholar, had always known that she’d grow up to love another woman. She’d
alwaysgotwhatshewanted—andshewasconvincedsheonlyhadtowishfor
somethinghardenoughforittohappen.
AndHanhhadneverwished,andwouldneverwishforchildren.
“It’s not the same,” Dac Kien said at last, cautiously submitting to Hanh’s
caresses.Itwassomethingelseentirely;andevenHanhhadtoseethat.“Ichose
tocomehere.Ichosetomakemynamethatway.Andwealwayshavetoseeour
choicesthrough.”
Hanh’shandsonhershoulderstightened.“You’reonetotalk.Icanseeyou
wasting yourself in regrets, wondering if there’s still time to turn back to
respectability.Butyouchoseme.Thislife,theseconsequences.Webothchose.”
“Hanh—” It’s not that, Dac Kien wanted to say. She loved Hanh, she truly
did;but…Shewasastonethrowninthedarkness;ashipadriftwithoutnav—
lost, without family or husband to approve of her actions, and without the
comfortofachilddestinedtosurviveher.
“Growup,lil’sis.”Hanh’svoicewasharsh;herfaceturnedaway,towardsthe
paintings of landscapes on the wall. “You’re no one’s toy or slave—and
especiallynotyourfamily’s.”
Becausetheyhadallbutdisownedher.Butwords,asusual,failedDacKien;
andtheywenttobedwiththeshadowoftheoldargumentstillbetweenthem,
likethebladeofasword.
***
Thenextday,DacKienporedoverthedesignoftheshipwithFengandMiahua,
wonderinghowshecouldmodifyit.Thepartswerecomplete,andassembling
themwouldtakeafewdaysatmost;buttheresultingstructurewouldneverbea
ship.Thatmuchwascleartoallofthem.Evenexceptingthetests,therewasat
leastamonth’sworkaheadofthem—slowandsubtletoucheslaidbythebots
overtheoverallsystemtoalignitwithitsdestinedMind.
DacKienhadtakenthecubefromherquarters,andbroughtitintoheroffice
underHanh’sgloweringgaze.Now,theyallcrowdedarounditvoicingideas,the
cupsofteaforgottenintheintensityofthemoment.
Feng’swrinkledfacewascreasedinthoughtashetappedonesideofthecube.
“Wecouldmodifytheshapeofthiscorridor,here.Woodwouldrunthroughthe
wholeship,and—”
Miahuashookherhead.ShewastheirMasterofWindandWater,theonewho
could best read the lines of influence, the one Dac Kien turned to when she
herself had a doubt over the layout. Feng was Commissioner of Supplies,
managing the systems and safety—in many ways Miahua’s opposite, given to
small adjustments rather than large ones, pragmatic where she verged on the
mystical.
“Thehumoursofwaterandwoodwouldstagnatehere,inthecontrolroom.”
Miahuapursedherlips,pointedtotheslenderaftoftheship.“Theshapeofthis
sectionshouldbemodified.”
Feng sucked in a breath. “That’s not trivial. For my team to rewrite the
electronics—”
Dac Kien listened to them arguing, distantly—intervening with a question
fromtimetotime,tokeeptheconversationfromdyingdown.Inhermind,she
heldtheshapeoftheship,feltitbreathethroughtheglassofthecube,through
thelayersoffibresandmetalthatseparatedherfromthestructureoutside.She
heldtheshapeoftheMind—theessencesandemotionsthatmadeit,thelayout
ofitssocketsandcables,ofitsmusclesandflesh—andslidthemtogethergently,
softlyuntiltheyseemedmadeforoneanother.
She looked up. Both Feng and Miahua had fallen silent, waiting for her to
speak.
“Thisway,”shesaid.“Removethissectionaltogether,andshifttherestofthe
layout.”Asshespoke,shereachedintotheglassmatrix,andcarefullyexcised
the offending section—rerouting corridors and lengths of cables, burning new
decorativecalligraphyontothecurvedwalls.
“Idon’tthink—”Fengsaid;andstopped.“Miahua?”
Miahuawaswatchingthenewdesign,carefully.“Ineedtothinkaboutit,Your
Excellency.Letmediscussitwithmysubordinates.”
DacKienmadeagestureofapproval.“Rememberthatwedon’thavemuch
time.”
They both took a copy of the design with them, snug in their long sleeves.
Leftalone,DacKienstaredattheshipagain.Itwassquat,itsproportionsoutof
kilter—notevenclosetowhatshehadimagined,noteventruetothespiritofher
work:amockeryoftheoriginaldesign,likeaflowerwithoutpetals,orapoem
that didn’t quite gel, hovering on the edge of poignant allusions but never
expressingthemproperly.
“Wedon’talwayshave achoice,” shewhispered. She’dhave prayedto her
ancestors,hadshethoughttheywerestilllistening.Perhapstheywere.Perhaps
theshameofhavingadaughterwhowouldhavenodescendantswaserasedby
theexaltedheightsofherposition.Orperhapsnot.Hermotherandgrandmother
wereunforgiving;whatmadeherthinkthatthosemoreremovedancestorswould
understandherdecision?
“Eldersister?”
Zoquitl stood at the door, hovering uncertainly. Dac Kien’s face must have
revealedmorethanshethought.Sheforcedherselftobreathe,relaxingallher
musclesuntilitwasoncemoretheblankmaskrequiredbyprotocol.“Younger
sister,”shesaid.“Youhonourmebyyourpresence.”
Zoquitlshookherhead.Sheslidcarefullyintotheroom—onefootafterthe
other,carefulnevertoloseherbalance.“Iwantedtoseetheship.”
Thebirth-masterwasnowheretobeseen.DacKienhopedthathehadbeen
rightaboutthebirth—thatitwasn’tabouttohappennow,inheroffice,withno
destination and no assistance. “It’s here.” She shifted positions on her chair,
invitedZoquitltosit.
Zoquitlwedgedherselfinoneoftheseats,hermovementsfragile,measured
—as if any wrong gesture would shatter her. Behind her loomed one of Dac
Kien’sfavouritepaintings,animagefromtheThirdPlanet:adelicate,peaceful
landscapeofwaterfallsandochrecliffs,withthedistantlightofstarsreflectedin
thewater.
Zoquitldidn’tmove asDac Kienshowedher thedesign; her eyeswere the
onlythingwhichseemedaliveinthewholeofherface.
When Dac Kien was finished, the burning gaze was transferred to her—
lookingstraightintohereyes,aclearbreachofprotocol.“You’rejustlikethe
others.Youdon’tapprove,”Zoquitlsaid.
IttookDacKienamomenttoprocessthewords,buttheystillmeantnothing
toher.“Idon’tunderstand.”
Zoquitl’slipspursed.“WhereIcomefrom,it’sanhonour.TobearMindsfor
thegloryoftheMexicaDominion.”
“But you’re here,” Dac Kien said. In Xuya, among Xuyans, where to bear
Minds was a sacrifice—necessary and paid for, but ill-considered. For who
would want to endure a pregnancy, yet produce no human child? Only the
desperateorthegreedy.
“You’rehereaswell.”Zoquitl’svoicewasalmostanaccusation.
Foranendless,agonisingmoment,DacKienthoughtZoquitlwasreferringto
her life choices—how did she know about Hanh, about her family’s stance?
ThensheunderstoodthatZoquitlhadbeentalkingaboutherplaceonboardthe
habitat.“Ilikebeinginspace,”DacKiensaid,atlast,anditwasn’talie.“Being
herealmostalone,awayfromeveryoneelse.”
Andthiswasn’tpaperwork,ortheslowdrainofcatchingandprosecutinglaw-
breakers, of keeping Heaven’s order on some remote planet. This—this was
everythingscholarshipwasmeanttobe:takingallthatthepasthadgiventhem,
andreshapingitintogreatness—everypartthrowingitsneighboursintosharper
relief, an eternal reminder of how history had brought them here and how it
wouldcarrythemforward,againandagain.
Atlast,Zoquitlsaid,notlookingattheshipanymore,“Xuyaisaharshplace,
forforeigners.Thelanguageisn’tsobad,butwhenyouhavenomoney,andno
sponsor…”Shebreathedin,quickandsharp.“Idowhatneedsdoing.”Herhand
went,unconsciously,tothemoundofherbelly,andstrokedit.“AndIgivehim
life.Howcanyounotvaluethis?”
Sheusedtheanimatepronoun,withoutasecondthought.
Dac Kien shivered. “He’s—” she paused, groping for words. “He has no
father.Amother,perhaps,butthereisn’tmuchofyouinsidehim.Hewon’tbe
countedamongyourdescendants.Hewon’tburnincenseonyouraltar,orchant
yournameamongthestars.”
“Buthewon’tdie.”Zoquitl’svoicewassoft,andcutting.“Notforcenturies.”
TheshipsmadebytheMexicaDominionlivedlong,buttheirMindsslowly
wentinsanefromrepeatedjourneysintodeepplanes.ThisMind,withaproper
anchor,aproperlyalignedship—Zoquitlwasright:hewouldremainashewas,
long after she and Zoquitl were both dead. He—no, it—it was a machine—a
sophisticated intelligence, an assembly of flesh and metal and Heaven knew
whatelse.Bornelikeachild,butstill…
“Ithink I’m the one who doesn’tunderstand.” Zoquitlpulled herself toher
feet, slowly. Dac Kien could hear her laboured breath, could smell the sour,
sharpsweatrollingoffher.“Thankyou,eldersister.”
Andthenshewasgone;butherwordsremained.
***
DacKienthrewherselfintoherwork—asshehaddonebefore,whenpreparing
for the state examinations. Hahn pointedly ignored her when she came home,
making only the barest attempts at courtesy. She was working again on her
calligraphy, minglingXuyancharacters withthe letters ofthe Vietalphabetto
createaworkthatspokebothasapoemandasapainting.Itwasn’tunusual:Dac
Kienhadcometobeacceptedforhertalent,butherpartnerwasanothermatter.
Hanh wasn’t welcome in the banquet room, where the families of the other
engineerswouldcongregateintheevenings—shepreferredtoremainalonein
theirquarters,ratherthanendurethebarelyconcealedsnubsorthepityinglooks
oftheothers.
Whatgavetheairitsleadenweight,though,washersilence.DacKientriedat
first—keepingupachatter,asifnothingwerewrong.Hanhraisedblearyeyes
fromher manuscript, and said, simply, “You know what you’redoing, lil’ sis.
Livewithit,foronce.”
Soitwassilence,intheend.Itsuitedherbetterthanshe’dthoughtitwould.It
washerandthedesign,withnoonetoblameorinterfere.
Miahua’steamandFeng’steamwererewiringthestructureandre-arranging
theparts.Outsidethewindow,themassofthehullshiftedandtwisted,toalign
itselfwith thecube on her table—bi-hourafterbi-hour,asthebotsgentlyslid
sectionsintoplaceandsealedthem.
ThelastsectionwasbeingputintoplacewhenMiahuaandthebirth-master
cametoseeher,bothlookingequallypre-occupied.
Herheartsank.“Don’ttellme,”DacKiensaid.“She’sduenow.”
“She’slostthe waters,”the birth-mastersaid,without preamble.Hespat on
thefloortowardoffevilspirits,whoalwayscrowdedaroundthemotherinthe
hourofabirth.“Youhaveafewbi-hours,atmost.”
“Miahua?”DacKienwasn’tlookingateitherofthem,butratherattheship
outside,thehugebulkthatdwarfedthemallinitsshadow.
HerMasterofWindandWaterwassilentforawhile—usuallyasignthatshe
wasarrangingproblemsinthemostsuitableorder.Notgood.“Thestructurewill
befinishedbeforethisbi-hourisover.”
“But?”DacKiensaid.
“But it’s a mess. The lines of wood cross those of metal, and there are
humours mingling with each other and stagnating everywhere. The qi won’t
flow.”
Theqi,thebreathoftheuniverse—ofthedragonthatlayattheheartofevery
planet,ofeverystar.AsMasterofWindandWater,itwasMiahua’sroletotell
DacKienwhathadgonewrong,butasGrandMasterofDesignHarmony,itfell
toDacKientocorrectthis.Miahuacouldonlypointouttheresultsshesaw:only
Dac Kien could send the bots in, to make the necessary adjustments to the
structure.“Isee,”DacKiensaid.“Prepareashuttleforher.Haveitwaitoutside,
closetotheship’sdockingbay.”
“YourExcellency—”thebirth-masterstarted,butDacKiencuthimoff.
“Ihavetoldyoubefore.Theshipwillbeready.”
Miahua’sstanceassheleftwastense,allpent-upfears.DacKienthoughtof
Hanh—aloneintheirroom,stubbornlybentoverherpoem,herfaceasharshas
that of the birth-master, its customary roundness sharpened by anger and
resentment. She’d say, again, that you couldn’t hurry things, that there were
always possibilities. She’d say that—but she’d never understood there was
alwaysaprice;andthat,ifyoudidn’tpayit,othersdid.
Theshipwouldbeready;andDacKienwouldpayitspriceinfull.
***
Aloneagain,DacKienconnectedtothesystem,lettingthefamiliaroverlayof
thedesigntakeoverhersurroundings.Sheadjustedthecontrastuntilthedesign
wasallshecouldsee;andthenshesettowork.
Miahua was right: the ship was a mess. They had envisioned having a few
daystotidythingsup,tosoftentheanglesofthecorridors,tospreadthewall-
lanternssotherewerenodarkcornersorspotsshiningwithblindinglight.The
heartroomalone—thepentacle-shapedcentreoftheship,wheretheMindwould
settle—had strands of four humours coming to an abrupt, painful stop within,
andasharplinejustoutsideitsentrance,markingthebots’hastysealing.
Thekillingbreath,itwascalled;anditwaseverywhere.
Ancestors,watchoverme.
Aliving,breathingthing—jade,whittleddowntoitsessence.DacKienslid
intothetrance,herconsciousnessexpandingtoencompassthebotsaroundthe
structure—sendingthem,onebyone,insidethemetalhull,scuttlingdownthe
curvedcorridorsandpassageways—gentlymergingwiththewalls,startingthe
slowandpainfulworkofcoaxingthemetalintoitspropershape—goingupinto
the knot of cables, straightening them out, regulating the current in the larger
ones.Inhermind’sview,theshipseemedtoflickerandfoldbackuponitself;
shehungsuspendedoutside,watchingthebotscrawloveritlikeants,injecting
commands into the different sections, in order to modify their balance of
humoursandinnerstructure.
Shecuttotheshuttle,whereZoquitllayonherback,herfacedistortedintoa
grimace.Thebirth-master’sfacewasgrim,turnedupwardsasifhecouldguess
atDacKien’spresence.
Hurry.Youdon’thavetimeleft.Hurry.
Andstillsheworked—wallsturnedintomirrors,flowerswerecarvedintothe
passageways, softening those hard angles and lines she couldn’t disguise. She
opened up a fountain—all light projections, of course, there could be no real
wateraboard—let the recreated sound of astream fillthe structure.Inside the
heartroom,thefourtangledhumoursbecamethree,thenone;thenshebroughtin
otherlinesuntilthetangletwistedbackuponitself,formingacomplicatedknot
patternthatallowedstrandsofallfivehumourstoflowaroundtheroom.Water,
wood,fire,earth,metal,allcirclingtheship’score,astabilisinginfluenceforthe
Mind,whenitcametoanchoritselfthere.
She flicked back the display to the shuttle, saw Zoquitl’s face, and the
unbearablelinesoftensionintheother’sface.
Hurry.
Itwasnotready.Butlifedidn’twaituntilyouwereready.DacKienturnedoff
thedisplay—butnottheconnectiontothebots,leavingthemtimetofinishtheir
lasttasks.
“Now,”shewhispered,intothecomsystem.
The shuttle launched itself towards the docking bay. Dac Kien dimmed the
overlay,lettingthefamiliarsightoftheroomre-assertitself—withthecube,and
thedesignthatshouldhavebeen,theperfectone,theonethatcalledtomindThe
RedCarpandTheTurtleOvertheWavesandTheDragon’sTwinDreams,allthe
days of Xuya from the Exodus to the Pearl Wars, and the fall of the Shan
Dynasty; and older things, too, Le Loi’s sword that had established a Viet
dynasty;thedragonwithspreadwingsflyingoverHanoi,theOldEarthcapital;
thefaceofHuyenTran,theVietprincesstradedtoforeignersinreturnfortwo
provinces.
The bots were turning themselves off, one by one, and a faint breeze ran
throughtheship,carryingthesmellofsea-ladenwaterandofincense.
Itcouldhavebeen,thatship,thatmasterpiece.Ifshe’dhadtime.Hanhwas
right,shecouldhavemadeitwork:itwouldhavebeenhers,perfect,praised—
rememberedinthecenturiestocome,usedasinspirationbyhundredsofother
GrandMasters.
If—
She didn’t know how long she stayed there, staring at the design—but an
agonisedcrytoreherfromherthoughts.Startled,sheturneduptheship’sfeed
again,andselectedaviewintothebirthingroom.
Thelightshadbeendimmed,leavingshadowseverywhere,likeapreludeto
mourning.DacKiencouldseethebowlofteagivenatthebeginningoflabour—
ithadrolledintoacorneroftheroom,afewdropsscatteringacrossthefloor.
Zoquitl crouched against a high-backed chair, framed by holos of two
goddesses who watched over childbirth: the Princess of the Blue and Purple
Clouds,andthe Bodhisattvaof Mercy.In theshadows, herface seemed tobe
thatofademon,thealiennessofherfeaturesdistortedbypain.
“Push,”thebirth-masterwassaying,hishandsonthequiveringmoundofher
belly.
Push.
Blood ran down Zoquitl’s thighs, staining the metal surfaces until they
reflectedeverythinginshadesofred.Buthereyeswereproud—thoseofanold
warrior race, who’d never bent or bowed to anybody else. Her child of flesh,
whenitcame,wouldbedeliveredthesameway.
DacKienthoughtofHanh,andofsleeplessnights,oftheshadowstretched
overtheirlives,distortingeverything.
“Push,”thebirth-mastersaidagain,andmorebloodranout.Pushpushpush
—andZoquitl’seyeswereopen,lookingstraightather,andDacKienknew—
sheknewthattherhythmthatrackedZoquitl,thepainthatcameinwaves,itwas
allpartofthesameimmutablelaw,thesamethreadthatboundthemmoresurely
thantheredonebetweenlovers—whatlayinthewomb,undertheskin,intheir
heartsandintheirminds;akinshipofgenderthatwouldn’teverbealteredor
extinguished.Herhandslidtoherownflat,emptybelly,pressedhard.Sheknew
whatthatpainwas,shecouldholdeverylayerofitinhermindasshe’dheldthe
ship’sdesign—andsheknewthatZoquitl,likeher,hadbeenmadetobearit.
Push.
With a final heart-wrenching scream, Zoquitl expelled the last of the Mind
from her womb. It slid to the floor, a red, glistening mass of flesh and
electronics:musclesandmetalimplants,veinsandpinsandcables.
It lay there, still and spent—and several heartbeats passed before Dac Kien
realiseditwouldn’tevermove.
***
Dac Kien put off visiting Zoquitl for days, still reeling from the shock of the
birth.Everytimesheclosedhereyes,shesawblood:thegreatmassslidingout
of the womb, flopping on the floor like a dead fish, the lights of the birthing
roomglintingonmetalwafersandgreymatter,andeverythingdead,goneasifit
hadneverbeen.
Ithadnoname,ofcourse—neitheritnortheship,bothgonetoosoontobe
gracedwithone.
Push.Push,andeverythingwillbefine.Push.
Hanhtriedherbest:showingherpoemswithexquisitecalligraphy;speaking
ofthefutureandofhernextposting;fiercelymakinglovetoherasifnothing
hadeverhappened,asifDacKiencouldjustforgettheenormityoftheloss.But
itwasn’tenough.
Justastheshiphadn’tbeenenough.
In the end, remorse drove Dac Kien, as surely as a barbed whip; and she
boardedtheshuttletocomeovertotheship.
Zoquitlwasinthebirthingroom,sittingwedgedagainstthewall,withabowl
of pungent tea in her veined hands. The two holos framed her, their white-
painted faces stark in the dim light, unforgiving. The birth-master hovered
nearby, butwaspersuaded to leavethemboth alone—thoughhemade it clear
DacKienwasresponsibleforanythingthathappenedtoZoquitl.
“Eldersister.”Zoquitlsmiled,alittlebitterly.“Itwasagoodfight.”
“Yes.”OneZoquitlcouldhavewon,ifshehadbeengivenbetterweapons.
“Don’tlooksosad,”Zoquitlsaid.
“Ifailed,”DacKiensaid,simply.SheknewZoquitl’sfuturewasstillassured;
thatshe’dmakehergoodmarriage,andbearchildren,andbeworshippedinher
turn.Butshealsoknew,now,thatitwasn’ttheonlyreasonZoquitlhadbornethe
Mind.
Zoquitl’slipstwisted,intowhatmighthavebeenasmile.“Helpme.”
“What?”DacKienlookedather,butZoquitlwasalreadypushingherselfup,
shaking, shivering, as carefully as she had done when pregnant. “The birth-
master—”
“He’sfussinglikeanoldwoman,”Zoquitlsaid;andforamoment,hervoice
wasassharpandascuttingasablade.“Come.Let’swalk.”
ShewassmallerthanDacKienhadthought:hershouldersbarelycameupto
herown. She wedgedherself awkwardly, leaningon DacKienfor support—a
weightthatgrewincreasinglyhardtobearastheywalkedthroughtheship.
Therewaslight,andthesoundofwater,andthefamiliarfeelofqiflowing
throughthecorridorsinlazycircles,breathinglifeintoeverything.Therewere
shadowsbarelyseeninmirrors,andtheglintofotherships,too:thesoft,curving
patterns of The Golden Mountain; the carved calligraphy incised in the doors
thathadbeenthehallmarkofTheTigerWhoLeaptOvertheStream;theslowly
curvingsuccessionofever-growingdoorsofBaoyu’sRedFan—bitsandpieces
salvaged from her design and put together into—into this, which unfolded its
marvelsallaroundher,fromlayouttoelectronicstodecoration,untilherhead
spunandhereyesblurred,takingitallin.
Intheheartroom,DacKienstoodunmoving,whilethefivehumourswashed
overthem,anendlesscycleofdestructionandrenewal.Thecentrewaspristine,
untouched,withapeculiarsadnesshangingaroundit,likeanemptycrib.And
yet…
“It’sbeautiful,”Zoquitlsaid,hervoicecatchingandquiveringinherthroat.
Beautifulasapoemdeclaimedindrunkengames,asaflowerbudringedby
frost—beautifulandfragileasanewbornchildstrugglingtobreathe.
And,standingthereatthecentreofthings,withZoquitl’sfrailbodyleaning
against her, she thought of Hanh again; of shadows and darkness, and of life
choices.
It’sbeautiful.
It would be gone in a few days. Destroyed, recycled; forgotten and
uncommemorated.But somehow,DacKiencouldn’tbringherselftovoicethe
thought.
Insteadshesaid,softly,intothesilence—knowingittobetrueofmorethan
theship—“Itwasworthit.”
All of it—now and in the years to come, and she wouldn’t look back, or
regret.
In-fall
TEDKOSMATKA
New writer Ted Kosmatka has been a zookeeper, a chem tech,
andasteelworker,andisnowaself-described“labrat”whogets
toplaywithelectronmicroscopesallday.Hemadehisfirstsale,
toAsimov’s,in2005,andhassincemadeseveralsubsequentsales
there,aswellastoTheMagazineofFantasy&ScienceFiction,
Seeds of Change, Ideomancer, City Slab, Kindred Voices,
Cemetery Dance, and elsewhere. He’s placed several different
storieswithseveraldifferentBestoftheYearseriesoverthelast
coupleofyears,includingthisone.HelivesinPortage,Indiana,
andhasaWebsiteatwww.tedkosmatka.com.
“In-Fall”isoneofseveralstoriesthisyeartocenter—literally!
—aroundblackholes,thisoneasuspensefulbattleofwillstaking
placeonaspaceshipabouttoplungeintoone.
Thedisccavedaholeinthestarshine.
Smooth, graphene skin reflected nothing, blotting out the stars as it swung
throughthevacuum—blackonblack,theperfectabsenceofcolor.
Itwasbothashipandnotaship.
The disc lacked a propulsion system. It lacked navigation. Inside, two men
awakened,firstoneandthentheother.
In truth, the disc was a projectile—a dark bolus of life support fired into
distantorbitaroundanother,strangerkindofdarkness.
This second darkness is almost infinitely larger, massing several hundred
thousandsols;anditdidn’tblotoutthestarsbehindit,butinsteadlensedthem
into a bright, shifting halo, bending light into a ring, deforming the fabric of
spacetimeitself.
Fromtheperspectiveoftheorbitingdisc,thestarsseemedtoflowaroundan
enormous,circulargapinthestarfield.Ithadmanydifferentnames,thisregion
ofspace.TheastronomerswhodiscovereditcenturiesearlierhadcalleditBhat
16. Later physicists would call it “the sink.” And finally, to those who came
here,tothosewhodreamedofit,itwasknownsimplyas“themaw.”
Ablackholelikenoneeverfoundbefore.
By the disc’s third day in orbit, it had already traveled three-hundred and
eighteenmillionmiles,butthisisonlyatinyfractionofitscompletetrajectory.
Attheendofthedisc’sseventy-secondhourinorbit,asmallleadweight,100
kilograms,wasfiredtowardtheheartofthegravitywell—connectedtotheship
byawiresothinthatevenmathematicianscalleditaline.
The line spooled out, thousands of kilometers of unbreakable tetravalent
filamentstretchingtowardthedarknessuntilfinallypullingtaut.Thelineheld
fasttoitsanchorpoint,sendingamusicalresonancevibratingthroughthedisc’s
carbonhull.
Inexorablegravity,asubtleshift.
Slow at first, but gradually, on the fourth day, the ship that was not a ship
changedcourseandbegantofall.
***
Theoldmanwipedbloodfromtheyoungman’sface.
“Uliiulquisall,”theyoungmansaid.Don’ttouchme.
Theoldmannodded.“YouspeakThusi,”hesaid.“Ispeakthis,too.”
The young man leaned close and spat blood at the old man. “It is an
abominationtohearyouspeakit.”
Theoldman’seyesnarrowed.
Hewipedthebloodfromhischeek.“Anabomination,”hesaid.“Perhapsthis
istrue.”
Heheldouthishandfortheyoungmantosee.Inhishandwasascalpel.“Do
youknowwhyI’mhere?”heasked.
Lightgleamedoffthescalpel’sedge.Thistime,itwastheoldmanwholeaned
close.“I’mheretocutyou.”
Theoldmanplacedthescalpel’sbladeontheyoungman’scheek,justbeneath
hislefteye.Thesteelpressedadimpleintohispallidskin.
Theyoungman’sexpressiondidn’tchange.Hestaredstraightahead,eyeslike
bluestone.
The old man considered him. “But it would be a kindness to cut you,” he
continued.“Iseethatnow.”Hepulledthebladeawayandranathumbalongthe
youngman’sjaw,tracingthewebofscartissue.“Youwouldn’tevenfeelit.”
The young man sat motionless in the chair, arms bound to the armrests by
thickstraps.Hewasprobablystillinhisteens,thebeginningsofabeardmaking
patchywhorlsonhischeek.Hewaslittlemorethanaboy,really.
Hehadprobablyoncebeenbeautiful,theoldmanjudged.Thatexplainedthe
scars.Theboy’spsychologicalprofilemusthaveshownaweaknessforvanity.
Orperhapstheprofilesdidn’tmatteranymore.
Perhapstheyjustscarredthemallnow.
Theoldmanrubbedhiseyes,feelingtheangerslideoutofhim.Heputthe
scalpelbackonthetraywiththeotherbrightandgleaminginstruments.
“Sleep,”hetoldtheboy.“Youwillneedit.”
***
Andtheuniversetickedon.
“Wherearewegoing?”theboysaid,afterseveralhours.
Whether he’d slept or not, the old man wasn’t sure, but at least he’d been
silent.
Theoldmanrosefromhisconsoleoncreakingknees.Accelerationaccreted
weight into the soles of his feet, allowing the simple pleasure of walking. He
broughttheboywater.“Drink,”hesaid,holdingoutthenozzle.
Theboyeyedhimsuspiciously,butafteramoment,tookalongswallow.
“Wherearewegoing?”herepeated.
Theoldmanignoredhim.
“They have already tried to interrogate me,” the boy said. “I told them
nothing.”
“Iknow.Ifyoutoldthemwhattheywanted,youwouldn’tbehere.”
“Andsonowthey’resendingmesomeplaceelse?Totryagain?”
“Yes,someplaceelse,butnottotryagain.”
Theboywassilentforalongmoment.Thenhesaid,“Forthattheyhaveyou.”
Theoldmansmiled.“Youareasmartone.”
Rage burned in the boy’s eyes, and pain beyond measuring. The earlier
interrogationshadbeenharsh.Hepulledagainsthisstrapsagain,tryingtojerk
hisarmsfree.
“Whereareyoutakingme?”hedemanded.
Theoldmanstareddownathim.“Youarescared,”hesaid.“Iknowwhatyou
arethinking.Youwantoutofyourrestraints.You’rethinkingthatifyoucould
getloose…oh,thethingsyouwoulddotome.”Theoldmanglancedtoward
thetrayofgleamingsteel.“Youwishyoucouldusethatbladeonme.Youwish
thatyouwereinmyshoes,thatIwassittingwhereyouare.
“Butyoudon’tunderstand,”theoldmansaid,thenwhisperedintotheboy’s
ear.“ItisIwhoenvyyou.”
***
Theshiphummedasitfell.Chargedionsblastedcarbonskin.
“Whywon’tyoutellmewherewe’regoing?”
Theboyrepeatedthequestioneveryfewminutes.
Finallytheoldmanwalkedtotheconsoleandpressedabutton.Aviewscreen
openedinthewall,exposingdeepspace,theloomingmaw.“There,”theoldman
said.“Wearegoingthere.”
Theblackholefilledhalfthescreen.
Abyss,ifthereeverwasone.
Theboysmiled.“Youtrytoscaremewithdeath?Idon’tfeardeath.”
“Iknow,”theoldmansaid.
“Deathismyreward.Intheafterlife,Iwillwalkagainwithmyfather.Iwill
treadthebonesofmyenemies.Iwillbeseatedataplaceofhonorwithothers
whofellfightingforthesideofGod.Deathwillbeaparadiseforme.”
“Youtrulybelievethat,don’tyou?”
“Yes.”
“ThatiswhyIenvyyou.”
***
Theboywasamassmurderer.Orafreedomfighter.
Ormaybejustunfortunate.
Theoldmanlookedat the boy’sscars,notingthe creative flourishthathad
beenlavishedonhisfaceduringpreviousinterviews.Yes,unfortunate,certainly.
Perhapsthataboveall.
Lifeindeepspaceisfragile.Andhumansareastheyhavealwaysbeen.
Bombs,though,aredifferent.
Inspace,bombscanbemuch,muchmoreeffective.
Ifplacedjustright,asimplethree-poundbombcandestroyanentirecolony.
Openittothesterilizingvacuumoftheendlessnight.Andtenthousandpeople
dead—awholecommunitywipedcleaninasingleexplosivedecompression.
He’d seen that once, a long time ago, when this war first began. Seen the
bodiesfloatingfrozeninsidearupturedhab,theonlysurvivorsaluckyfewwho
scrambledintopressuresuits.Aluckyfewlikehim.
Becauseofathree-poundbomb.
Multiplyitbyahundredcoloniesandadozenyears.Threeairlessworlds.A
fightoverterritory,culture,religion.Thethingsmanhasalwaysfoughtover.
Humansareastheyhavealwaysbeen.Inspace,though,thecostofzealotryis
higher.
Athousandyearsago,nationsbankruptedthemselvestoraisearmies.Itcosta
soldiertokillasoldier.Thencamegunpowder,technology,increasedpopulation
densities—graduallyleveragingthecostofdeathalongaslidingscaleoflabor
andrawmaterials,untilfinallythreepoundsofbasicchemistryhadthepowerto
erasewholeswathsofsociety.Evermoreeffortlessmurder,thefinalstatistical
flat-lineinthefallingpriceofdestruction.
“Whatisyourname?”theoldmanaskedhim.
Theboydidn’tanswer.
“Weneedthenamesoftheothers.”
“Iwilltellyounothing.”
“That’sallweneed,justthenames.Nothingmore.Wecandotherest.”
Theboystayedsilent.
Theywatchedtheviewscreen.Theblackholegrew.Theexpandingdarkness
compressedthesurroundingstarfield.Theoldmancheckedhisinstruments.
“We’retravelingathalfthespeedoflight,”hesaid.“Wehavetwohours,our
time,untilweapproachtheSchwarzschildradius.”
“Ifyouweregoingtokillme,thereareeasierwaysthanthis.”
“Easierways,yes.”
“I’mworthnothingtoyoudead.”
“Noralive.”
Thesilencedrewoutbetweenthem.
“Doyouknowwhatablackholeis?”Theoldmanasked.“Whatitis,really?”
Theyoungman’sfacewasstone.
“Itisaside-effect.Itisabyproductofthelawsoftheuniverse.Youcan’thave
theuniverseasweknowitandnothaveblackholes.Scientistspredictedthem
beforetheyeverfoundone.”
“You’rewastingyourtime.”
Theoldmangesturedtowardthescreen.“Thisisnotjustablackhole,though,
notreally.Buttheypredictedthis,too.”
“Doyouthinkyoucanfrightenmewiththisgame?”
“I’mnottryingtofrightenyou.”
“Itmakesnosensetokillmelikethis.You’dbekillingyourself.Youmust
haveafamily.”
“Idid.Twodaughters.”
“Youintendtochangecourse.”
“No.”
“This ship has value. Even your life must be worth something, if not to
yourselfthenatleasttothosewhoseordersyoufollow.Whysacrificebothaship
andamaninordertokilloneenemy?”
“I was a mathematician before your war made soldiers of mathematicians.
Therearevariablesherethatyoudon’tunderstand.”Theoldmanpointedatthe
screenagain.Hisvoicewentsoft.“Itisbeautiful,isitnot?”
The boy ignored him. “Or perhaps this ship has an escape pod,” the boy
continued.“PerhapsyouwillbesavedwhileIdie.Butyou’dstillbewastinga
ship.”
“Icannotescape.Thelinethatpullsuscan’tbebroken.Evennow,thegravity
draws us in. By the time we approach the Schwarzschild radius, we’ll be
travelingatnearlythespeedoflight.Wewillsharethesamefate,youandI.”
“Idon’tbelieveyou.”
The old man shrugged. “You don’t have to believe. You have merely to
witness.”
“Thisdoesn’tmakesense.”
“Youthinkithasto?”
“Shutup.Idon’twanttohearmorefromaGodlesstathuun.”
“Godless?WhydoyouassumeIamGodless?”
“BecauseifyoubelievedinGod,youwouldnotdothisthing.”
“Youarewrong,”theoldmansaid.“IdobelieveinGod.”
“Thenyouwillreceivejudgmentforyoursins.”
“No,”hesaid.“Iwillnot.”
***
Overthenextseveralhours,theblackholeswelledtofillthescreen.Thestars
alongitsrimstretchedandblurred,torturingtheskyintoanewconfiguration.
Theboysatinsilence.
Theoldmancheckedhisinstruments.“WecrosstheSchwarzschildradiusin
sixminutes.”
“Isthatwhenwedie?”
“Nothingsosimpleasthat.”
“Youtalkincircles.”
The old mathematician picked up the scalpel. He touched his finger to the
razor tip. “What happens after we cross that radius isn’t the opposite of
existence,butitsinverse.”
“Whatdoesthatmean?”
“Sonowyouaskthequestions?Givemeaname,andI’llansweranyquestion
youlike.”
“Why would I give you names? So they can find themselves in chairs like
this?”
Theoldmanshookhishead.“Youarestubborn,Icanseethat;soIwillgive
youthisforfree.TheSchwarzschildradiusistheinnermostorbitbeyondwhich
allthingsmustfallinward—evencommunicationssignals.Thisisimportantto
youforthisreason:beyondtheSchwarzschildradius,askingyouquestionswill
servenopurpose,becauseIwillhavenowaytotransmittheinformation.After
that,youwillbenousetomeatall.”
“You’resayingwe’llstillliveoncewepassit?”
“Formostblackholes,we’dbetornapartlongbeforereachingit.Butthisis
somethingspecial.Super-massive,andoldastime.Forsomethingthissize,the
tidalforcesaremoredilute.”
The image on the screen shifted. The stars flowed in slow-motion as the
circularpatchofdarknessspread.Blacknessfilledtheentirelowerportionofthe
screen.
“Ablackholeisatwo-dimensionalobject;thereisnoinsidetoenter,noline
tocross,becausenothingevertrulyfallsin.Attheeventhorizon,themathof
timeandspacetradepositions.”
“Whatareyoutalkingabout?”
“Todistantobservers,infallingobjectstakeaninfiniteperiodoftimetocross
theeventhorizon,simplybecomingevermoreredshiftedastimepasses.”
“Moreofyourcircles.Whyareyoudoingthis?Whynotjustkillme?”
“Therearetelescopeswatchingourdescent.Recordingthefootage.”
“Why?”
“Aswarning.”
“Propaganda,youmean.”
“Toshowwhatwillhappentoothers.”
“Wearen’tafraidtodie.Ourrewardisintheafterlife.”
The old man shook his head. “As our speed increases, time dilates. The
cameraswillshowthatwe’llneveractuallyhittheblackhole.We’llnevercross
thethreshold.”
Theboy’sfaceshowedconfusion.
“Youstilldon’tunderstand.Thelineisn’twherewedie;it’swheretimeitself
ceasestofunction—wheretheuniversebreaks,allmatterandenergycomingtoa
halt,frozenforeveronthatfinalmathematicalboundary.Youwillnevergetyour
afterlife,notever.Becauseyouwillneverdie.”
Theboy’sfacewasblankforamoment,andthenhiseyeswentwide.
“You don’t fear martyrdom,” the old mathematician gestured to the view-
screen.“Soperhapsthis.”
***
Theshiparcedcloser.Starsstreamedaroundtheloomingwoundinthestarfield.
Theoldmanputhishandontheboy’sshoulder.Hetouchedthescalpeltothe
boy’sthroat.“Ifyoutellmethenames,I’llendthisquickly,whileyoustillhave
time.Ineedthenamesbeforewereachthehorizon.”
“Sothisiswhatyouoffer?”
Theoldmannodded.“Death.”
“Whatdidyoudotodeservethismission?”
“Ivolunteered.”
“Whywouldyoudosuchathing?”
“I’vebeentoolongatthiswar.Myconsciencegrowsheavy.”
“ButyousaidyoubelieveinGod.You’llbegivingupyourafterlife,too.”
Theold mansmiled a lastsmile. “Myafterlife wouldnot beso pleasantas
yours.”
“Howdoyouknowthisisalltrue?Whatyousaidabouttime.Howdoyou
know?”
“I’ve seen the telescopic images. Previous missions spread out like pearls
acrossthefaceoftheevent,trappedintheirfinalasymptoticapproach.Theyare
therestill.Theywillalwaysbethere.”
“Buthowdoyouknow?Maybeit’sjustsomenewpropaganda.Alie.Maybe
itdoesn’treallyworkthatway.”
“Whatmattersisthatthisshipwillbethereforalltosee,forever.Awarning.
Longafterbothourcivilizationshavecomeandgone,wewillstillbevisible.
Fallingforever.”
“Itcouldstillbefalse.”
“Butwearegoodattakingthingsonfaith,youandI.Givemethenames.”
“Ican’t.”
Theoldmanthoughtofhisdaughters.Onedark-eyed.Theotherblue.Gone.
Becauseofboyslikethisboy.Butnotthisboy,heremindedhimself.
Theoldmanlookeddownatthefigureinthechair.Hemighthavebeenthat
boy, if circumstances were different. If he’d been raised the way the boy was
raised.Ifhe’dseenwhathe’dseen.Theboywasjustapawninthisgame.
Aswashe.
“Whatisdeathtothosewhotaketheirnextbreathinparadise?”theoldman
asked.“Whereisthesacrifice?Butthis…”andtheoldmangesturedtothedark
mawgrowingonthescreen.“Thiswillbetruemartyrdom.Whenyoublowup
innocentswhodon’tbelievewhatyoubelieve,thisiswhatyou’retakingaway
fromthem.Everything.”
Theboybrokeintoquietsobs.
Thehorizonapproached,agraphiconthescreen.Oneminuteremaining.
“Youcanstilltellme,
—thereisstilltime.
—perhapstheyareyourfriends,perhapsyourfamily.
—doyouthinkthey’dprotectyou?
—theywouldn’t.
—wejustneednames.
—afewnames,andthiswillallbeover.I’llenditforyoubeforeit’stoolate.”
Theboyclosedhiseyes.“Iwon’t.”
Hisdaughters.Becauseofboyslikethisboy.
“Why?”theoldmanasked,honestlyconfused.“Itdoesnotbenefityou.You
getnoparadise.”
Theboystayedsilent.
“Itakeyourheavenfromyou,”theoldmansaid.“Youreceivenothing.”
Silence.
“Yourloyaltyisfoolish.Tellmeonename,andIwillendthis.”
“Iwillnot,”theboysaid.Thereweretearsonhischeeks.
Theoldmathematiciansighed.He’dneverexpectedthis.
“Ibelieveyou,”hesaid,thenslashedtheboy’sthroat.
Asinglemotion,severingthecarotid.
Theboy’seyesflashedwideinmomentarysurprise,followedbyanemotion
morecomplicated.Heslumpedforwardinhisbonds.
Itwasover.
Theoldmanranapalmovertheboy’seyes,closingthem.“Mayitbewhat
youwantittobe,”hesaid.
Hesatdownontheflooragainstthegrowinggravity.
Hestaredatthescreenasthedarknessapproached.
The mathematician in him was pleased. A balancing of the equation. “A
soldierforasoldier.”
Hethoughtofhisdaughters,onebrown-eyed,theotherblue.Hetriedtohold
theirfacesinhismind,thefinalthoughtthathewouldthinkforever.
Notthereverseofexistence,butitsinverse.
Andhewaitedtoberightorwrong.Tobejudgedforhissinsornot.
CHIMBWI
JIMHAWKINS
JimHawkinsisa“newwriter”ofanunusualsort,onewhomade
his first sale to New Worlds forty years ago, and didn’t sell
another story until placing two in Interzone in 2010. His forty-
yearhiatusdoesn’tseemtohavediminishedhistalentsorskills,
though, as he demonstrates in the tense story that follows, that
sweepsusalongwitharefugeeriskingeverythingtofleefroma
ruined and war-torn near-future Europe to an Africa grown
prosperousandtechnologicallyadvancedbeyondanythingknown
intheOldWorldhe’sleftbehind.…
A narrow plain ran between hills. The grass and small trees were almost
colourlessinthesearingAfricansunlight.Jasonheadedacrosstheplaintowards
anarrowcleft.Agroupofstartledduikerjumpedoutfrombehinda bushand
escapedupthefarhillsideintothetreesinaseriesofelegantleaps.Hestood,
shading his eyes, and watched them, before climbing down the bank into the
dried-upbedoftheKalamboRiver.Afterahundredandfiftyyearstheantelope
wereback.
Jasonwalkedcarefully,avoidingsharpstones.Hisbarefeetweretoughernow
than they’d ever been, but he still hadn’t developed the iron-hard soles that
evolution had provided for and a life of shoe-wearing had made feeble. He’d
neverbeenmuchgoodatwalkingonpebbles.
The sides of the riverbed were the rusty red-brown of laterite, soft and
crumbly, rising about ten feet above him on either side. To his left, on the
Zambianside,thebankwasdarkanddampintheshade,butontheright,where
itwasTanzania,itwasbakedhardintheafternoonsun,overhungbythorntrees.
Thelightwasintense,almostheavy,andherubbedthesweatfromhisforehead
withthebackofhisforearmandwipeditonhisgreyshorts.
Whereasmallstreamcoursemettheriverhelookeduptheloweredbankto
wheretheterracottapantiledroofoftheJohnDesmondClarkCentrewasshaded
by a grove of eucalyptus trees. A little further down the bank, as if on cue, a
lumpofflintwasexposednearthetopofthegully.Jasonpriseditoutandheldit
inhishand.Itwasagoodaxehead,butnotperfect.Thestrike-planewasragged.
Itwasareject.Ahundredandsixtythousandyearsagoanaxemakerhadthrown
itdownindisgust.HewonderedwherearchaeologistslikeClarkwouldhavegot
toif Stone Age quality controlhad been abit more lax. If allthese tools had
gone out to do their job these sites would never have been found. This was
ancient concentrated industrial waste, but more natural, more appropriate in
some way, than the devastated spoil heaps of Dagenham and Longbridge, the
twistedsteelspaghettiofwhatwereoncehigh-speedrailwaytracksthatweaved
betweenthefallencoolingtowersofdefunctpowerstationsintheruinsofafar-
offEngland.
Theshadowshad hard edges,likethe flinttoolhe held ashe walked. Fifty
yards more and another artefact lay on the riverbed—a flat tin the size of his
hand, corroded but intact, its label long gone. He turned it over with his toe:
Italian rations from the First World War, washed down from a trench
somewhere,possiblystilledible aftertwohundredyears, buthedidn’thavea
canopener,sohe’dneverknow.Still,hebentdown,pickeditupandputitinhis
pocket.
Oneithersideoftherivertheelegant,impossiblythintowersofsolarfusion
reactors reached two hundred feet above the scrubby savannah trees,
occasionally flashing blinding stars of reflected sunlight, strange flashing
flowersreachingforthewispyfloatingthermalclouds.
Thenoiseofthecicadascameandwentlikethesoundofavastorchestraof
string-less violins. And then the call of something, perhaps a dog, perhaps a
hyena,echoedfromafar.
Ahead,theriverbedwasbeginningtowiden,butwasstillnarrow,onlyabout
thirtyfeetfromsidetoside.Thesoilunderfootwasturningtopatchygreyrock
cutwithachannelbymillionsofyearsofwaterflow.
Jasonwalkedoutfromthebanksoftherivertothegorge.Hillsreachedupon
eitherside.Thevalleyopenedupinfrontofhimashewalked,sweatsoakinghis
shirt,hisfeethot,andwenttothelipofthefalls.Theriverstoppedhereona
knifeedgeandfellathousandfeettothegorgefloorbelow.Hewasstandingat
thenarrowestpointofasheer-sidedgulf.Afewbillionyearsagothelandhad
droppedtomakethevastcleftoftheGreatRiftValley.Hestoodontheedgeof
the rock. Marabou storks circled above the jumbled rocks of the river course
below on wide dark wings. He was so high that these huge birds were flying
beneath him. In the far distance, he knew, lay Lake Tanganyika, but the heat
hazecausedthelandscapetofadeoutintoindistinctbrightnessandblur.
Hestoodontheedgeoftherockshelfandlookeddown.Suddenlyhealmost
wantedtoleapoutandsoarwiththemarabouifonlyforafewseconds.Itwould
beeasiertofallthantoresist.Amarabouwheeledclosetothecliffasthough
challenginghimtofly.Therewasnovoiceinhishead,butaforcethatwelledup
fromtheancientpartsofhimpushinghimtowardsthedropandthesilence,and
thensomethingclampedtheforce,stifledit.
Hesteppedbackafewfeet,tooktherationtinfromhispocketandhurledit
outoverthelip.Itarcedsteeplydownwards,andthenaquicklaserlightflashed
from above him and to the left. The ration tin vapourised and the marabou
scattereddownthevalleyintothebluegreenmist.
Jason looked up the path into the hills on his left. Miriam Bwalya stood,
wrapped in a brightly-coloured chikwembe, her Bemba skin so black it had
midnight blue highlights. She was completely still, watching. How many
seconds passed in this subjective moment? Time stopped for him as he stood
between the lip of the dried-up waterfall, the thousand foot drop, and the
unmoving form of the woman with the cloth wrapped around her and a laser
pistolinherhand.
Hewalkedslowlyupthegravelpathuntilhecametoherandwentdownon
one knee, held his hands together in front of him, and said “Mwapolenipo
baMiriam.”
“Mwapoleni mukwai,” she said. At last, after a few seconds, but many
subjectivecenturies,heliftedhisfaceandlookedintoherbrowneyes.
“Yesorno?”sheasked.Henodded.“Eyamukwai.”
Sheturnedandwalkedupthesteeppath.Jasonstoodandfollowedher.Inthe
clearinghalfwayupthehill,whereanareahadbeenflattenedfortouristbuses,
wasasmallflyer,hoveringonananti-gravityfieldthatJason,despitehisphysics
PhD and maybe a hundred research papers, found technically inexplicable. It
looked like an ivory thigh bone, but he knew they could make it in whatever
shapetheyfeltlike.Aroundtheflyerthereweregroupsofpeople,black,silent,
andanoldmansittinginachairslowlywavingafly-whiskinfrontofhisface.
JasonwalkedslowlytowardstheChiefandwentagainonbendedknee,looking
only downwards to the gravel chips, suddenly aware of the loudness of the
cicadasandthedistantcallofthestorks.
“Mwapoleni baChiti,” he said quietly. The old man leaned forward and
graspedhimbytheshouldersfirst,andthenliftedJason’sheadwithadelicate
touch. His hair was turning white, like frosted charcoal. He smiled. “Cungulo
baJason.WhoevercalledyouJason probably hadn’treadtherightstories,” he
said.Therewasthesoundofatinybell.Thechieflookedathiswristwatchand
said,“Sorry—Ireallyneedtotakethiscall,”anddismissedJasonwithaflickof
hisfingers.
ChiBemba,thelanguageoftheBembapeopleofnorthernZambiaandhalfthe
Congowasadifficultlanguageifyouweren’tborntoit,inflectedatbothendsof
aword,aboutsevennouncases,andhundredsofgreetings,proverbsandforms
of abuse. What other language had a single word meaning may your
grandmother’s vaginabeopened wideandstuffedwith sand?He was grateful
forthechief’suseofEnglish;butthentheyallspokeperfectEnglishmostofthe
time,exceptwhenspeakingtohim.
Jasonwalkedovertotheflyer.Ahatchopenedinthesideoftheknuckleend
ofthe“bone”andthepilotlookedout.HepointedatJason,tuggedathisown
shirt, and said, “Fuleni.” Jason was suddenly aware of about a dozen people
standingandwatchinghim.Ashestrippedhedidn’tcaremuchaboutmostof
them.Hewasonlyembarrassedthathismentor,Miriam,shouldseehimnaked.
Hewaspleasedtoseethatsheavertedhereyes.
Heturnedandwalkednakeduptothestepsoftheflyer,thenturnedbackand
retrievedthestonetoolthathe’ddropped.
***
IthadbeenalonghardjourneytogetherefromravagedEnglandthroughwar-
torn Europe, through the Balkans and down the Greek mainland. He
remembereditonlytoo well,andthe worst wasthetwo daysandnights he’d
spentspewinghisgutsupintotheMediterranean…
WasitlikethisfortheArgonauts?DidtheancientJasonhangontothesideof
aGreekfishingboatandvomitintothedarkblueAegean?Didheroessufferthe
sameindignitiesasrefugees?Jason’sstomachwasemptyandonlythelasttraces
ofbileretchedouttofeedthefish.
At least Kostas Kiriakos, the owner and captain of this boat, had the
intelligencenottooverloadit.TheyturnedsouthfromPaleochoraandheaded
down from the Mediterranean off southern Crete into the Libyan Sea. Jason’s
intelligencewasmalfunctioning,herealised;hehadbecomecompletelysubject
tothewhimsofhisinnerears.Hewasaslug,oracockroach,oratortoise,but
notahumanandcertainlynot,fortheseinterminablehours,aphysicist.
The ocean was piled up in rolling ultramarine white-topped waves and the
boat was rotating in unpredictable ways. Kostas didn’t seem bothered by this,
andstucklambsouvlakiunderthegrillinthegalley.Thesmellofhotlamband
onionssweptovertheseventeenmenandwomenclutchingthegunnels,causing
achain-reactionofstomachspasmstogriptherefugees.
Jasonletgoofthesideoftheboatandlurchedtowardsthegalley,targeting
thedoorframeandmanagingtograspit.Kostaslookedup,smiledandheldupa
pieceofbarbecuedlamb.“Eat,”hesaid.“You’llfeelbetter.Anemptygutisa
badthing.”Jasonforcedhimselftotakethemeatandbegantochewit.Sofar,so
good.ItwasalongwaytotheLibyancoastandheknewhemusteat.Eastofthe
boatthehillsofGavdosIslandseemedtoriseabovethewavecrestsandthen
drop. They were passing the most southerly outpost of Europe. Greece had
survived the catastrophic and chaotic collapse of the EU, the two and a half
metreriseinsealevelwhentheAntarcticiceshelfmelted,betterthanmost.The
sandybeachesoflonelyGavdosweregone,theislandhadshrunkalittle,butthe
goatshadneversignedupforcivilisationanyway.True,Athenswasadisaster
zone, but throughout the mountains of the Peloponnesian region, down the
islands of the Aegean, the Sporades, on Lesvos and Crete, the Greeks simply
threwawaytheirmobilephonesand went backtoshouting.Whencivilisation
collapses,thoseclosesttotheirpeasantrootssurvive.
KostasdroppedthematasmallLibyanjettyjustbeforedawn,waved,putthe
enginesintoreverse,andbackedoutintothedarkness.He’dbeenwellpaidin
goldanddiamonds.He’dfulfilledhissideofthebargain,he’ddeliveredthemto
thisisolatedbluff,buthecouldnotgivethemanythingmorethanamicroscopic
fragmentofhopefortheirfuture.HeputthemintothehandsoftheFates,the
Moirai,thedecidersoftheimmutabletrackofdestinyforgodsandmen,setthe
boat on a northerly course, poured some of his mother’s dark red fruity wine
from a goat skin into a cup, sipped, and then tossed a small libation into the
ocean.Itwastheleasthecoulddo.
Thepromisedrefugee-smugglingtransportdidn’tarrive.Theystoodtogether
onthejettyandwaited,hungry,thirsty,apprehensiveinthedarkness.Eventually
theheadlightscame.TheywereroundedupbyanarmedLibyanborderpatrol,
herdedontothebackofalorry,andtakentoaholdingpenoutsidetherefugee
camp at Cyrene for interrogation. The guards gave them water, couscous and
olives.Theywerealltenseandnervous.Jasonpickedattheolivesandfeltan
overwhelmingsenseofdespair,apprehension,angerandguilt.Hehadrunaway.
He should have stayed with his dead friends and his dead wife and his dead
scienceandragedandburnedhiswayintotheinevitabledarknessofchaosand
death.
Theofficer,aleanmaninhisfortieswithaneatmoustache,checkedJason’s
irisscanagainsttheimagestoredonhispassportandsatback.
“Most people throw their passports away, Professor Johns. Why bring it
here?”
“ToprovewhoIam,”saidJason.
“Butwhycome?”
“TwentykilosofSemtexinmylaboratory.Sixofmycolleaguesshot.Thisis
notthebesttimetobeascientistinEurope.I’msuresomebodyonthiscontinent
canfindauseforme.”
“Perhaps.Untilthen,I’mafraid,evenscientistshavetodig.”
Jasonfeltfearoverwhelmhim.Hewantedtorun.Hewantedtoscream.
TheofficerlockedatransponderbraceletaroundJason’swrist,pointedtothe
door,andturnedtohiscomputerandmadeanoteonthefile.
SuddenlyJasonfeltthefear,guiltandangercurlupandcompressthemselves
intosomethinglikeanitchinhisrightarm.
***
TheshipfromLibyatoDaresSalaamhadbeencrowdedandfilthy.Here,inthe
hillsofTanzania,theyweren’tbadlytreated,buttheworkwashard.Thecage
wentdowntheshaftathighspeed,stilllurchingasitbrakedatthebottomand
thegateopened.Thereweretwintunnelsunderconstruction.Jasonclimbedwith
theothersfromtheliftintoalowtrainrunningupthewidewatertunnel,twenty
feetacross,litwithbrightpointsofLEDlight.Hehadasuddenvividmemoryof
the London Underground. Down-slope from here the tunnel descended in a
shallowgradientforsixtymilestotheTanzaniancoastnearthesoutherntownof
MtwaraandthenafurtherfivemilesundertheIndianOcean.
Jasonwasworkinginthesecond,parallel,smallertunnel,whichwouldcarry
superconductingcables.Thesewouldbringcurrentfromthesolarfusionplants
fivethousandfeetupinZambiatomassivepumpsalongthewatertunnelthat
wouldliftseawaterthreethousandfeettoadesalinationplantinthehillsabove
LakeMalawi.Thereweresixteensystemslikethis,eachtunnelemerging into
theseaalongtheTanzaniancoast,andmoreinMozambique.Powerforwater—
itwasagoodbarter.
Africawasgreeningagain.Theevaporatinglakeswerefilling.Riversflowed.
Irrigation ducts fed the fertile fields. All of this was because a remarkable
breakthrough by the Zambians converted the sun’s rays into electricity at a
phenomenal98%efficiency.Theyweren’ttellinganybodyhowtheydidit.
Jason was working in a gang of six attaching steel lining plates to the
superconductingtunnelandwelding themintoan airtight lining,preparingfor
thevacuumthatwasneeded.TheotherfiverefugeeworkerswereGerman,and
rarely spoke to him, not because they didn’t speak English, but because they
wereallsuppressedbytheirwrist-bands.He’dhardlyhadanythingamountingto
a conversation with anybody since he embarked on his long and dangerous
journey from England. He would have expected a camp of several hundred
forcedlabourerstohavealoud,violentculture,butitwasmorelikeaSunday
Schoolcamp.Theydidn’tsing;theydidn’tshout;theydidn’tfight.They’dhad
anemotionalepidural.
Ashiftwithsizzlingblueweldingarcsinhisfacewasprettysuretobringona
headache.He’djustfinishedajoinandloweredthetorchwhenhefeltatapon
hisshoulder.Mbanga,thesitemanager,gesturedforhimtofollow.
Anhourlaterhewasshowered,dressedincleanshortsandshirt,andsittingin
thecomfortofahighspeedmaglevtrain,eatingmaizeandcurriedfish,drinking
coldbeer,watchingoutofthewindowfortheoccasionalglimpseofgiraffeor
elephants. He was on his way to the wealthiest country in the world. As the
silenttrainroundedabankedcurveatthreehundredandtwentymilesperhour
the towering heights of Kilimanjaro came into view to the north. The summit
wasnolongersnowy.Thelandaroundoutsidethetrainwassandyanddrywith
widely-spacedbaobabtreesstandingwiththeirenormouslywidebrowntrunks
outofproportiontothenumberofbranchesabovethem.
Atall African,with an aquiline nose (legacyof the Arab slave traderswho
operatedinthisregioninthenineteenthcentury)walkeddownthetrainandsat
facingJason.Thesuitwaslightblueandlookedlikeclass.Hisdarkeyesmet
Jason’slightgreyeyesacrossthetable.
“How’sthefood,ProfessorJohns?”
“Verygood,thankyou.Andyournameis?”
“Notimportant.So.Whatdoyouthink?”
“Aboutwhat,Mr.NotImportant?”
“Fair enough—the name’s Arisa. About your situation…” He took Jason’s
passportfromtheinsidepocketofhisjacketandpusheditacrossthetable.
Jason left it where it was and wiped his mouth on the pressed white linen
napkin. “I think I just prefer this patronising slavery to dirty bombs and
maraudingfascists.”Hewastryingtolettheangercome,butitwouldn’t.
“Notslavery.Youchosetocome.Idon’tthinkmyancestorsclimbedonthe
shipsandhelduptheirhandsformanacles.”HepointedtoJason’swristband.
“Wetookyouin.Millionsofyou.Wefeedyouandgiveyoubedsandpillows
andblankets.Look—evenbeer!”
“Whatdoyouthinkofthistrain?”
“It’s—impressive.But…”
“What?”
“Ifyouputitinsideavacuumtunnel,youcoulddoublethespeed.”
“Phasetwo,ProfessorJohns.”
He spoke quickly in Swahili to what seemed to be his watch. Instantly the
trainbeganto slowuntilit wasnot farabovewalking pace.Beyond a pairof
baobabtreeswasapileofblackwreckage,sharpwingshards,enginenacelles,
fragmentsofcockpitwindshield.Jasonrecognisedmanyoftheparts.Itwasa
shatteredAmericanstealthbomber.Darkstainsspreadoutacrossthesandfrom
theimpact.
“The Americans still don’t understand how the Zambians have shot down
everymissileandeverynuclearattackplane.”
Jason tried to be angry, but it was impossible. Stick to the rational, he told
himself.Therewasaquickflickerofthememoryofhiswife’sbloodydeadface.
He pushed his plate aside. “It didn’t need to happen. You could have saved
EuropeandAmericaifyou’dsharedthetechnology.”
Arisa leaned back and laughed ironically. “We were starving. Did you help
us? No. We were ravaged with disease. Did you help us? You turned the
atmosphereagainstus,therainstopped,thedesertsspreadlikecancer,thecrops
andthelivestockdied,thelakesbegantoshrink,theyoungfishboileduntilthere
werenomore.Didyouhelpus?Didyou?”
“No.Butmanyofuswantedto.”
“Notmanyenough.Whatyoudon’tknowisthatmanyofuswouldliketosee
a more generous regime. Here, in Tanzania. Not there in Zambia. It’s a local
issue,butalsomaybeglobal.Ifwecouldhavetheirsolarfusionherewecould
dobusinesswiththeAmericans,theChinese,theIndians,andevenEurope.And
you,ProfessorJohns,couldhavewhateveryouwant.Learnwhatyoucan.And
thinkabouthavingyourownresearchcentrewithunlimitedresources.Nowwe
approachtheborder.Wewillspeakagain.Kwaheri.”
Heeasedoutoftheseatandwalkedtowardstheendofthecompartment.
“Bytheway—Arisaisagirl’sname.Wehavetobeabitcareful.Sodoyou.
AfterafewhundredyearsofdiggingoutcopperforthewhitemantheBemba
have remembered that they used to be warriors. Oh—and we would take the
suppressoroffyourwrist.”
HalfanhourlaterthetrainslowedtoahaltatthebordercrossingatNakonde
andanannouncementonthePAsysteminvitedJasonandtwootherpeopleto
leavethetrain.Itwaslikeclimbingoutofthebellyofasleek,air-conditioned
orange-greensnake.Arisa,themanwithagirl’sname,smiledfromawindow
nearthe front ofthe train asit lifted fromthe black monorailand accelerated
silentlyawaytowardsthesouth.Theairwaswarmandfreshinthisvastcentral
plateauofthecontinent,hereataboutfivethousandfeetNSL(NewSeaLevel).
Jasonwalkeduptheplatformbehindacouplewholookedasthoughtheywere
from China or somewhere in the Far East. They pulled suitcases on wheels.
Jasoncarriednothing.
Attheendoftheplatform,amongstastandofeucalyptustrees,thereweresix
arches of twisted filigree glass. The platform was embedded with small LED
lights.Aheadofhimamovingpatternofgreenlightsranfromthefeetofthe
Asians to the arch on the right. He carried on walking. Lights began to pulse
belowhimtowardstheleft-handarch.Hefollowedthem.
Ashepassedunderthearchtherewasasuddenpulseofsomethinglikepain
under his wrist band—halfway between an electric shock and an orgasm. He
criedoutinsurprise.Hewasimmobilisedforafewseconds.Andthen,forthe
first time in his six months in Africa, the wrist band spoke to him—a deep
musicalcontraltovoice:
“WelcometoZambia,Dr.Johns.Takethepathuptoyourleft.”
She was waiting over the brow of the hill, looking down at him, tall and
narrow-waistedwithagolden,redandgreenclothwrappedaroundher,tiedina
knotaboveherbreasts.Herhairwasacapofshorttightcurlsabovedarkbrown
eyes.Hiswristached,andheflickedhishandtoshaketheirritationaway.
“Sorryaboutthat,”shesaid.“Whenpeoplecrosstheborderit’spossibletoget
thebiometricdatalesspainfully,butit’sabitslowandtedious.Come…Oh,let
meintroducemyself…”
“Iknowwhoyouare,”saidJason. “You may haveswitchedoffhalfofmy
brainfunction,butIcanstillrecogniseDr.MiriamBwalyawhenIseeher.”
Shesmiledandnoddedahumbleacceptance.Hefollowedheracrossatarmac
carparktowhatturnedouttobesomekindofflyer,althoughitlookedlikeabig
pink plastic elephant in a children’s playground. Much to his surprise, he
laughedoutloud,andcarriedonlaughingasheclimbedthestepsintoitsbelly
andsatbesideheronawidecomfortablebenchseatlookingoutofitshugeeyes.
“Doyoudoflyingpigsaswell?”heasked.“Ican’trememberthelasttimeI
laughed.Ididn’tthinkitwaspossible!”
Shelaughedwithhim,perfectwhiteteethflashing.“Wecandoyouaflying
pigifyouwantone.Youcanevenhaveastraight-edged,sharp,European-style,
high-tech-lookinglittleboys’fighterplane,ifyoulike.Wetendtoprefercurvy
things.Theseareonlyshells,asyouperfectlywellrealise.”Sheaddedacouple
ofwordsinalanguagehedidn’trecognise,andtheflyerliftedoffvertically,and
then drifted forward over the eucalyptus trees and away to the north, without
making a sound. Curvy things definitely defined Dr. Bwalya, Jason thought
irreverently.
The Zambian breakthroughs in physics were well-guarded, but he knew he
wassittingnexttooneofthekeyplayers.MiriamBwalyawasknowntobea
child prodigy who went on to become a formidable laser theorist. She was
rumoured to be the architect of the solar fusion reaction that had lifted her
country from a subsistence economy blessed with a few copper mines to a
world-dominating power. And here he was, sitting next to her in a flying
elephant,watchinghillsandtreesrollingbybelow.Herphysicalpresencewas
disturbing;hefeltflickersofsomethingsexualpushingagainsttheconstraintsof
thewrist-band’sgrip.
Shewavedafingerinfrontofthegreysurfacebelowtheeyewindows,and
themusicstarted.Africanrumba.Longagotheslavetraderstooktheirhuman
cargo from here to the Americas, and the slaves took with them the complex
polyrhythmoftheirdrumsandmarimbas,theantiphonalsingingrisingoverthe
driving pulse of the percussion. They melded it with hymns and chain gang
songs.Andthen,inthenineteensixties,itcamebacktotheCongoandSouth
Africa and the Rhodesias in vinyl records and on the radio as a rumba to be
taken and modified and brought home—a prodigal music child that needed a
little re-education. This music made even the most inhibited, he most mind-
bound,longtodance.
“You’vehadalong,hardjourney,”shesaid.
“That’sforsure.”
“It’snotquiteoveryet.”
“Irealisethat,”hesaid.“Ifitwas,you’dhavecutthisoffmywristbynow.”
“We’vebeenattacked.We’vebeeninfiltrated.We’vebeensubverted.Weonly
trackedyouyesterday,becausetheLibyansareholdingalotofstuffback.The
Tanzaniansdidn’tgetwhoyouwereuntilweaskedforyou.Theyhaddecidedto
keepyou,butwecuttheirpowerforafewminutesandtheysawreason.And
then,ofcourse,therewasamanonthetrain.”
Jasonignoredthis.“Theflyernevergoesaboveabouttwohundredfeet,”he
said,“fromwhichIassumeyou’reusingsomeformofmagneto-dynamicfield
effect.”
“Itcangohigher,buttheenergycostrisesexponentially.Whybother?”
“Whybotherwithme?”
Sheheldupafoldofherchikwembe.“Ifyoulookclosely,you’llseeafew
looseloops.Whatseemsperfectclothhastinyimperfections.Soitiswithour
physics.It’sjustpossiblethatyoucantieoffafewloopsandcloseafewholes.”
“Specifically?”
“Specificallycomeslater.”
Jasonsmiledironicallyandsaid,“Sowhatvaguelycomesnext?”
The flyer dropped its trunk over a hillside, coasted down over the town of
Mbala,andsettledontoalandingstripbesidethelowwhitebuildingsofZIAP,
theZambiaInstituteofAdvancedPhysics.
***
Whatcamenextwasthatfivemonthslaterhestillhadn’tbeenallowedinside
ZIAP.Hedidknowthatthebuildingsatgroundlevelwerewindow-dressingand
thereallabsweredeepunderground.
“It’snotpersonal,”shesaid,astheysatonaloginthedappledshadeofapair
ofmiombotrees,drinkingthecoldbeershe’dbroughtouttohim.Shepointed
upwards.“Ifthistreehadjustoneleaf,we’dburn.Theleaftheredoesn’tknow
whatthatleafontheothersideisdoing.Itdoesn’tneedtoknowtodoitsjob,
whichistokeepthewholetreealive.”
HewasgettingusedtothefactthattheBembahadaproverbforeverything,
andiftheydidn’thaveone,theymadeoneuponthespot.Buthealsoknewthat
alotoftheZambianscientistsheredidnothaveaccesstothemainpartofthe
Institute.Hewasnotalone.
“Lefttoitsowndevices,”hesaid,“onecaterpillarcaneatalotofleaves.”
Itwasn’therstyletogiggle,butshedid.Thenshewassuddenlysober-faced
again.Shereachedintoherbag,tookoutasheetofsmartpaper,andthrewitin
frontofthem,clappingherhandsandspeakingacommandinChiBemba.The
paperunwrappeditselfandhoveredupright,turningfromivorytosilver.Fora
momenthecouldseethereflectionofbothofthem—hiswhiteskinnowagently
evenbrown,herblack hair touchedwithjustahint ofgreyoverher ears, her
darkeyescapableofflashingfromwarmthtoangerinamoment,hisgrey-green
eyeshalf-closedagainstthesunlight.
“Wedidn’twantyoutoseethisuntilyou’drecovered,”shesaid.“ButnowI
mustshowyou.”
Thesmartpaperlistenedtohervoice,andthentheimagesbegan:inEngland,
Bradfordlaidwaste,MuslimsandHinduscrucified,blackbodiesinthestreetsof
south London, pyres of burning bodies like sick cattle, dark-skinned children
dying of radiation sickness. In France and Germany, heaps of Arabic people
awaitingthebulldozers,andfollowingthecollapseoftheEUasmoreandmore
countries pulled out, constant nationalist wars. In America, Harlem poisoned
with a dirty bomb, the trees of the Carolinas full of rotting human fruit, and
everywherethelightning-flashflagsandthepastytriumphalism.Halftheworld
had imploded as the seas rose and the green land scorched. Dark-skinned
peoples raced for rain-blessed regions, economies collapsed, and the blood of
scapegoatsbegantoflow.
Thevideoendedandthescreensilvered.HelookedatMiriam’sfaceinthe
mirror.
“It’smuchworsethanyouthought,”shesaid.“Wecannotletthemhavethe
technology. We cannot! Our neighbours will sell it to them. We can trust
nobody.”
“Includingme.”
Heturnedawayfromherandfeltsalttearsrundownontohislips.Shesaid
nothing for a long while, and then her hand gently took his, and their fingers
interlocked.
Eventuallyhesaid,“Iunderstand.Europe’sthenewRwandaandSudan,and,
ohChrist,everywhere!”Helookedatherandrealisedthathereyeswerewet.
“Wehaveasaying…”shestarted.
“Ofcourse,ofcourse,therewillbeasaying.IthoughtEnglishhadalotof
proverbs,butwe’reamateurs.”
“Chimbwiafwileintangalila. The greedy hyena wants to eat everything but
diesintheeffortandeatsnothing.”
Across the stiff grass, in the orange evening light, children were playing
football.Thecicadaswerestartingtoscrapetheirlegs.Smallbirdspeckedand
flewandsquabbled.Acrownedeaglesoaredabovethelowhilltopsasthesun
descendedeverfastertowardsthetreetops,polishedbythethickairintobrass
and gold. Miriam tucked her legs up and the soles of her feet were a perfect
matchwiththepinkofthesunsetonthehighclouds.
Duringthebrieffewminutesoftwilighthesaid,“Youaskedmetodosome
thinking about the relationship between gravity and quantum vacuum foam,
which,ofcourse,therecan’tbe,accordingtotheory.Isuspectthatwaswhatyou
meantbyspecifically.”
Thekidspickeduptheirfootballandranoffshoutingtowardsthelightsthat
werecomingonhereandthereonthestoepsofthelowhousesacrossthefields.
“HowlongdoIhavetowaitforabut?”sheasked.Hewassuddenlyawareof
herhandonhisarm.
“But,”hesaid.“It’sabigBUT!Well—actuallyit’saPlanck-levelBUT.Atthe
pointwheretherelativisticequationsstarttobecomedoubtful,theremight,just
might,beafewlittleholesandloopsinthechikwembeofspace-time.”
She pulled her hand away and spoke quickly in ChiBemba at her silver
bracelet.Heheardadeepvoiceresponding,andthenshestoodup.
“Come,”shesaid.“TheChief’sinvitedusforsupper.”
Thelastlightofthesunsnuffeditselfoutastheterminatorrushedacrossthe
CongoRiver,andoverAngolatowardstheAtlantic.Aninvisiblehandthrewa
billionstarsacrosstheskyandwentbackformore.
She stomped her foot down. “Remember not to walk so lightly,” she said.
“Youkeepforgettingthewaysnakeshearthroughtheground.Stayawayfrom
thebusheswherepuffadderscouldbehiding.Don’twalkundertreesatnightin
caseaboomslangiswaitingtofallonyou.Liftthelavatoryseatbeforeyousit
down because the bite of a hunting spider is an unfortunate thing for the
testicles,sotheytellme.Shakeoutyourshoesbeforeyouputthemonbecause
thescorpionlikesnothingbetterthantocurlupinthem.Rememberthatit’ssaid,
maybewrongly,butasawarning,thatamambacanslideafteryouasfastasa
horse,anditsstrikeisincurableanditsneuro-poisonagonising.”
“HealthandSafety’sgottobeaboomingindustryhere,”hesaid.
“That’swhywehaveproverbs,Jason.Yourcastlesandfinewallsriseandfall.
Words have served for us. But then you know very well that most physics is
proverbs.Allthesame—wereallydon’twantthepossibilityofaninsightinto
quantumgravitysquashedbyamillion-year-oldvenomdesignedtokillfrogs,do
we?”
Acloudofmothsandotherflyingthingssurroundedeachlightonthepathin
amovingbeatingdodgingdartinghalo.Theairtemperaturedroppedfromnicely
warmtonicelycool.
***
Allthisandmorepassedthroughhismindashesatnakedinthebone-shaped
flyerasitfollowedtheroaddowntoLakeTanganyika.Halfwaydownthesteep
hillStephenMakonde,thelaid-backpilotwithaclutchofPhDs,veeredoffthe
track and settled the flyer in a patch of sugarcane. He climbed out with a
machete and came back lopping the tops off two sticks. He handed them to
Jason.
“You may need this,” he said, “and this.” He reached under the seat and
producedaspearwithafire-blackenedtip.
“Anyotheradvice?”Jasonasked.
“Trynottodie.”Makondelaughed.“Warriorshavedonethisforthousandsof
years,buttheyhaven’tallmadeittothetop.”
“Thanks.”
TheflyerliftedoffagainandtheyflewoverthelittleportofMpulugu.Night
wasfallingandthefishermenweretestingthebrilliantlightsontheirboatsas
theysailedoutintothegatheringdarknessofthelake.
He stood alone at the mouth of the valley amongst the tumbled rocks.
Makonde’s flyer was a bone-shaped blackness moving across the vast bright
swathoftheMilkyWayandthenwasgone.
Strategy is a wonderful thing. He’d worked it all out in advance.
Unfortunately, strategy is a child of daylight reason, and starts to fray at the
edges when you’re surrounded by shadows, starlight, and the coughing and
barkingoftheunseenandunforgivingbiologythatsurroundsyou.
Strategy dictated that sitting under a rock shelf would be as dangerous as
tryingtoclimbasteepvalleyinthedarkness.Hewalkedbackdownthevalley
andsatneartheedgeofthelake,spearinonehandandsharpstoneintheother,
andwaitedforthesunorthecrocodiles,whichevercamefirst.Strangely,though,
hewasn’tafraid.Notevenwhenheheardaquietsplash.
***
At6:05thesunlauncheditselfoverthehillsandstartedtocutthroughthemist
onthelake.Hewasgoingtoburnbadly.Hecroucheddownbythewater’sedge
andplastered himself withgrey mud. Shouldn’t have had your hair cut short,
stupid,hethought.That’swhatit’sfor.Hechewedonsomesugarcaneandtried
toignorehisthirst.
TheKalambovalleywasafewhundredyardswideherewhereitjoinedthe
lake,andthegoingwaseasyforhalfamileacrossgentlyshelvingsheetsoflight
grey rock. Then the forest closed in around the zigzagging riverbed and the
boulders blocking the way were bigger. His bare feet were sore already. The
cracksandcrevicesintherockschewedatwhattoughskinhehad.Themudwas
alreadybakeddryonhisskinanditching.Theflieslikedhimandcampedonhis
backandhehadtokeepflickinghishandinfrontofhisface.
Hewaswalkingon the easternsideofthevalleyonashelfthatnowhada
thirty-foot sheer drop to his left. And there it was: a yard of emerald green
mamba,coilinganduncoilinginfrontofhim.Hehadnoboots,nothicktrousers.
Ifthemambastruckhimintheleg,he’dliveforaboutfivepainfulminutes.Ifit
struckonhischest,hisheartwouldstopinafewseconds.Hefroze.
Highabove,amaraboustorkadjusteditshugewingsanddippedslightlyto
allowthecameraabetterview.Inhercoolofficefivemilesawayandathousand
feet down in the nuclear-hardened depths of ZIAP Miriam found herself
unexpectedlysweatingasshewatchedthepicturesfromthesevenbird-shaped
dronesthatcircledoverthevalley.Shemovedherfingeroverthescreenfrom
the marabou’s view and a targeting cross-hair appeared. She was lining the
attacklaseruponthemambawhenshefeltahandonhershoulder.
Director Nskoshi Mulenga was wearing a beautifully-tailored sand-coloured
suitthatlookedexpensivelytastefulandaredandbluetiethatdidn’t.“Don’tkill
thesnake,”hesaid.“Givehimbackhisfaculties.Heisaman,notarefugee.”
“Butifwelosequantumgravity…?”shesaid.
Hereachedoverherandtouchedanicon.Thedisplaychangedtoapanelof
virtual sliders, like a mixing desk in an old-fashioned recording studio, and
undereachslideranimageandahint.Hisfingertouchedthesquareknobofa
sliderandpusheditfromminimumtomaximum.ThewordFEARdriftedacross
the screen and vanished. He reached for the knob labelled LOVE and she
smackedhishandaway.
ChiefMulenga squeezedher shoulderand walked towards the door.“Don’t
settleforhalfamanjustbecauseyoucan,”hesaidasthedoorclosed.
“Eya,baChiti,”shesaidunderherbreath.Yes,Chief!
Whatseemedlikeanelectricshock ranupJason’sarmfrom hiswristband
andjoltedhis spine.The mambaweavedleft andright uncertainly, something
threateningbetweenitanditsyoung.Itbecamemoresolidinhiseyes.Itbecame
afocusedstreakofdeathandbeauty.Hefeltaterribleknowledgeofthingsthat
werenotonsmartboardsorpapersorcinemasorevenmemory.Thissnakewas
utterlynow.
Veryslowlyheslidhisfeetbackwards.Heretreatedtenfeetorsoandthen
slowly reached up to the nearest tree and snapped off a dead branch. Very
carefully he stripped twigs off until he had a staff as long as he was tall. He
gripped it like a cricket bat, or baseball bat, or maybe a club somebody’s
ancestorshadheldherelongago.
Stephen Makonde’s voice whispered from his wrist into his ear. “As your
companion,Iamallowedtogiveyouoneassist.Doyouwantitnow?”
Jasonwhisperedback,“Howmanysnakesinthisvalley?”
“Probably a thousand, maybe two thousand. Jason, I can pick you up now.
Youdon’thavetodothis.Youhaveourrespectalready.”
“Forgetit.MyChief,HisBritannicMajesty,isdeadandIneedanewone.We
maderefugeespassanexaminEnglishness.Idecidedtotrythisveryoldexam
becauseit’sthenearestIcangettobeingaBemba.I’lltaketheassist.”
“There’saproverbthatsays…”
“Fucktheproverb,Stephen.TellmewhatIneedtoknow.”
“Ifyouaimforthehead,youwillprobablymiss.Ablowtothespineisagood
start, but not infallible. The snake moves very slowly until it strikes. Be the
snake.”
Jason moved the branch to the side, trying to get some idea of range. He
steppedaninchatatimeforwarduntilhewaswithinaboutsixfeetofthesideto
sidemovingtriangleof themamba’shead, holding hisbreath.Veryslowlyhe
raisedthebranchabovehishead,tookaim,andunleashedallhisstrengthina
blowtothemamba’sback.Thesnakewasparalysed.Maybe.Jasonsmashedat
theheaduntilitwasasplatterontherock.Hescoopedthebodyovertheedgeof
therockwiththebranchanditfellwithadullsplashintothemuddypoolbelow.
“Thanks,Stephen,”hewhispered.
“Pleasure.WhatIdidn’ttellwasthat very fewpeoplecan dothat.Bet you
neverknewyouwereasnakekiller,ProfessorJohns.PutitontheCV.”
Adozensnakeslater,afewpainfulslips,withthemudcrackingoffhisskin,
leavingitexposed,hewasseveralmilesupthevalleyandroundingthebendthat
ledtothefalls.Itwasnarrowerhere,thesidesofthecleftclosingin,therocky
sides higher, the jumbled rocks bigger. The sun was high overhead and the
contrastbetweenlightandshadowsimpossiblefortheeyes.
Far away, on the other side of the riverbed, he saw a flicker of movement.
Two patches of tawny light appeared and then vanished. He sat very still and
watched, in turn watched by the watching pair of leopards. Every minute the
patternmoved.Towardshim.
Overheadrealandfictitiousmaraboucircled.
Lionkillonlywhenthey’rehungry.Leopardsenjoykilling.Yeah,youtoldme
that.Great.
TherewasasmallbutintentcrowdstandingbehindMiriam’schair.Twoof
themonitorsshowedclose-upsoftheleopard.Theirnoseswereraised,nostrils
wide,astheygrabbedanyscenttheycouldcatchontheaircurrents.Theireyes
weregreyandsqueezedhalf-closedtogetthemaximumdepthoffieldontheir
prey.Butstilltheywaited.Catwaiting.Slow,patient,killerstillness.
“Itisnotfair,”saidawoman’svoicebehindMiriam.
“Why?”Miriamsnapped.“IamtoldIcannotintervene.Hechoseit.”
“Nomanhaseverdonethiswithoutthewater.”Manyvoicesagreed.
Miriamliftedherbraceletandspokeurgentlytoit.Faraboveatgroundlevel
klaxonswailedandchildrenhurriedupthedrybanksoftheriver.Inthedeep
cisterns powerful pumps spun up and pipes filled with water that had once
lappedtheshoresofIndia.TheKalambobegantoflow,slowlyatfirst,andthen
infullrainyseasonflood.Downthroughthevillageitran,pastthehousesand
researchbuildingsandfootballpitches,untilitcametothelipofthefallsand
flungitselfover.
Jason heard a sudden roaring sound from above and then a plume of water
jettedfromhighabovehiminaperfectunbrokenfalltothedarkgreenancient
poolbelow the cliffs.Theleopards padded slowly towards him. He couldsee
theirmarkingsclearlynow.Hecouldseethemaleflickhistonguearoundhis
lipsandshakethefliesawayfromhishead.
Jasonbackedupagainstarockfaceandtriedtowipethesweatfromhishands
onsomegrass.Heheldthespearinhislefthandandthestoneaxe-headinhis
right.
Theleopardcrouchedatthefarsideoftheriverbedandpreparedtoattack.Its
thighmusclesflexed.Asitlaunched,Jasonthrewthestoneaxe.Hemissed,but
theleopardwas distracted foramoment. That waswhenthe boiling,foaming
wallofwatersweptdownthegorge,carryingstones,branchesandleopardwith
it. Spray launched up and drenched him. He watched the animal carried
downstreamforawhileandthenitreachedthesideoftheriver,climbedoutand
shookitself.Thefemalepaddedslowlydowntowardshermate.Thepairstood
andlookedbackatthefigurestandingontherock,naked,holdingasharpened
stick.Theyturned,andwalkedawaydownthevalleytowardsthelake.
Hehadtostrainhis headbacktolookuptothetopoftheimpossiblyhigh
columnof waterthat waslike ashimmering sky-scraperstandingin aroaring
poolofgreenandsilverfoam.Itwasathingofbeautyandterror.Andthepeople
athousandfeetabovehimcouldturnitoffandturnitonagainattheirwill.
Hefoundthebestcrossingpointafteralotofindecision.Wasthisshallower
orfaster? Didthis havebetter hand holds? The riverran fromthe poolat the
baseofthewaterfallthroughajumbleofrocks.Itwasfast.Itwaspowerful.But
hehadtogetacrosstheriver.Hislegsweretremblingwithmusclespasms,and
hestillhadathousand-footclimbtotheescarpment.
Hetouchedhiswristbandandsaid“Thewaterwasgreat.Thanks.Canyou
turnitoffagain?”
Silence. He looked at the wrist band. There was something he hadn’t seen
beforeaboutit;itwasinertinsomeway.Itwas,herealised,switchedoff.
He climbed down at his chosen point to where there was a four-foot gap
between two rocks with a cascade driving through. He put his hands into the
wateranddrankdeeply.Thenheheldthespearshaftacrosstherocks,lowered
himself into the rushing flood and fought his way across until he could drag
himselfoutandlieexhaustedonthebank,lookingupatthefallingwater.He
was all body. His mind was elsewhere—up with the marabou, or somewhere
behindhimamongsttheabandonedhusksofchewedsugarcane.Thepoolatthe
bottomofthefalls was wreathedinspraybuthadadangerousaura.Tradition
saidthattwinswerethrownoverhere,andbabieswhosetopteethcameoutfirst,
andupstartswhoannoyedthechiefs.Aflickerofintellectsaidthatitwouldbe
aninteresting archaeologicaldive, but theBemba, now holdersof the deepest
secretsoftheuniverse,wouldprotectthebonesoftheirancestorswithafuryof
fundamentalplasmafire.
Frombelow,thescreeslopelookedlikeanear-verticalfive-hundred-foothigh
disasterwaitingtohappen.Therockswereanythingfromafewinchestoafoot
wideandveryeagertofalldown.Hisfeetwerebleeding.Whenheclimbedona
lumpofrockitwouldeitherbefirmorshootoffdownthehill,causingachain-
reactionthatcouldreachtherocksabovehimandputhimintotheirtargetzone.
Ittookhimtwohourstoreachthetrees,andeventheywerestickingoutfroma
steephillside.Hewascoveredinbruisesfromflinginghimselfoutofthewayof
fallingrocks.
Itwascooleramongstthetrees.Hepulledhimselfupfrombranchtobranch
and trunk to trunk, slithering back sometimes on the grass and digging his
fingersin.Andthenhereallyfell,turningoverandscouringbleedingtrenchesin
hisback.Thefliescameinsquadronstofeast.Hisarmswerewrecked.Itwasso
far,sofarup,andhewasbecomingimpossiblyheavy.
Itwaslateintheafternoonwhenhecrawledonallfoursoverthecrownofthe
hillandlookeddownatthelipofKalamboFallsandthevalleycurvingawayto
thedistantlake.Itwasthenthatheheardthecoughandspunpainfullyaround.
Thehyenaswerespacedoutamongstthetrees,inperfecttacticalformation.
Hehadnothing.Hisspearwasintheriver,alongwithhisaxe-head.He’dcome
sofar,he’dclimbedupKalambo,anditseemedunjustthathe’dfinallybetaken
downbytheseevilsnoutsandbodieswithmismatchedfrontandbacklegs.He
pulled himself up into the nearest tree, six feet, eight feet high. The hyenas
watchedandwaitedexpectantly.Salivadrippedfromtheirmuzzles.
Andthenheutteredthemostheart-feltprimalscream,ascreamthatlaunched
fromthesolar-plexus,ascreamthatechoedaroundthehills,andleapttowards
thenearesthyena,screamingandscreamingwithrageandhatred,screamingthe
wordchimbwioverandoveragain.
Thehyenasturnedandran.
The man with the girl’s name walked out of the trees, with six soldiers
carrying Kalashnikovs. He beckoned. Jason shook his head slowly. It was a
quarterofamiledownhilltotheriver.
“You are in Tanzania, now,” Arisa said. “They have no jurisdiction here. I
hopeyouwillcomewillingly.Butyouwillcome.Youwillbewell-lookedafter.
WemayevengiveyoubacktotheZambianswhenwehavewhatweneedfrom
you.”
“Ihavenothingyoucouldwant,”saidJason.“So,I’llsaygoodbye.”
Arisa was wrapped in a Masai cloth. He raised his long walking stick and
pointed.Thesoldiersmovedforwards.
Fourmarabousbankedtheireight-footwingspananddived.Theyspatplasma
andthetreesaroundArisaandhismenexplodedintoflame.
Thewhite-skinned,bleeding,exhaustedwarriorturnedhisbackonthemand
walkeddownthesteepslopetowardsthelipofthefalls.
***
Miriamwasstandingat theotherside of theKalambo.The riverwasfast but
shallowhereonthelipofthefalls.Shallow,butslipperyontherocks,andeight
hundred feet is too long a drop to survive. Jason looked upstream for a safer
crossing,thenshook hishead, andstepped into thewater justanarm’s length
fromtheedge.Theriverwasflowingfast.Hehadnostrength.Hisfootslipped
andhestumbled,reachingunderwatertograbasplitintherock.Hewasinches
from the gulf. She waded into the water, coming to help him, but he shouted
“No!”andshestoodstill.Slowlyhemovedawayfromthelipofthefallsand
gropedhiswayacrosstheriver.
Miriamsaidnothing.Shetookhishandandtouchedasmallrodtohisrefugee
bracelet. It sprang open, and she caught it and handed it to him. He felt a
waterfallofemotionsweepthroughhim.Thingsheldbackrushedintoeverypart
of him. He stood, naked and bleeding, at the lip of the falls and threw the
braceletoutintotheairandwatcheditfallintothespraybelow.Hestoodandso
profoundlywantedtojump.
“Theyweren’tstupid,werethey,mypeople?”Miriamasked.
“No,”hesaid,“notatall.”
“So?”
“Gravityisgod.Igetit.Ireallydo.Allthat’sleftofmegetsit.”
Shesplashedhimwiththecoolwateruntilhewascleanandrubbedabalm
intohislaceratedback.
They walked up the gravel path to the open area where the tourist buses
usuallystopped. On theway she handedhim a sheetof cloth and helped him
wrapitaroundhimself.Inthecarparkmorethanahundredmen,womenand
children went down on one knee and said, as though with a single voice,
“MwapolenibaChitikela.Greetings,LittleChief.”
A fat blue pig flew in from the north and landed behind the crowd, who
laughedandclapped.“That’syours,baby.Andbytheway,you’renotthechief,
butyou’retheonlytheoreticalphysicistevertodothewarrior’sclimb,soyou’re
achieffortoday,”Miriamsaid.Therewasapotsittingoveracharcoalstove.
Jason accepted a length of plastic tube from Chief Mulenga, who was mostly
known as the Director of the research institute, pushed it down through the
steamingscumonthesurface,andsuckedlongandhardonthehothoneybeer.
Ayounggirlcameupandshylypresentedhimwithapairofverygoodshoes.A
boybroughthimagarlandofflamelilies.
JasonturnedtoChiefMulenga,andsaid“I’dliketomeetthelastonewhodid
theclimb.”
Mulenga smiled. “That’s a bit difficult,” he said. “To the best of our
knowledge,nobody’sdoneitforacoupleofhundredyears.”
Theystood,waitingforhisspeech.Itwasverybrief.
Hepointedtohislegsandsaid,“AwhitemanknowsheisathomeinAfrica
whenhewearsshortseverydayandgrowshaironhisknees.”
Then the drumming started. Multi-coloured laser beams flashed across the
valleyandintersected.Eachintersectioncausedacrackorboomofsound,deep,
sharp,a deafening cascadeof pulsatingcross-rhythmsthat sentthe storksinto
ecstaticloopingsoftheloopandcobratoshifttheirheadstothebeatandeven
chimbwithehyenadancedonhisshrunkenbacklegs,andfardownstreamonthe
banksoftheflowingKalambotwoleopardstwinedtogetheramongstthetrees
anddancedandthewholevalleyflashedwithrainbowlightandsang,eachtohis
own,includingthehumans,theancientsongsoflife.
***
His head was dizzy with the honey beer as she led him up a path he’d never
seen,toarondavel.Thewallsweren’tmadeofmud,thethatchedroofwasn’t
madeofreeds,andthewindowgapshadlittleforcefieldstokeepouttheinsects
andletinthebreeze.Butitlookedlikeahut.Themoonwasafatfishstruggling
togetoutofthebrightnetoftheMilkyWay.
She caught hold of his hand and touched his fingertip to the sensor by the
door.Itswungback,andtheinteriorlightscameon,lowandwarm.“Yournew
house,”shesaid.“Feelentirelyfreetochangethedecorations.”
Theywentin.Thedoorclosedsoftlybehindthem.
The bed was wide and covered with golden sheepskin. “I just thought that
everyJasonshouldhavehisfleece.”
He laughed, and they laughed together, and then they stood close but
awkward.
Afterawhileshesaid,“IthinkIreadsomewherethatyouareanexperton
KnotTheory.”
Heshruggedmodestly.
“Can you help me with this?” she asked, pointing to knot that tied her
chikwembearoundher.AndsoJasonuntiedtheknotandtheyfelltogetheronto
theGoldenFleece,andmadeloveuntilthemoonhadlongescapedandthesun
wasgettingreadytoshinehishotembarrassedfaceonAfrica.
Inthedawnlighttheyweretangledupinthesheepskinandherlegwasacross
hiships.
Hereyesopened,andsuddenlyfloodedwithtears.“Wehaveaterriblethingto
ask,babywarrior,”shesaid.
Hekissedhernoseandasked,“What’sthat?”
There was a long pause, and then she said, “We need you to go back to
Europe.”
In the far distance chimbwi, the hyena, laughed and the world and the sun
stopped.DownattheedgeofLakeTanganyikalaythebodiesoftwocrocodiles,
each drilled neatly through by a laser beam. But Miriam wasn’t going to tell
Jasonthat,andthecrocodilescouldn’t.
DeadMan’sRun
ROBERTREED
Here’s another novella by Robert Reed, whose “A History of
Terraforming” appears elsewhere in this book. Here, Reed does
anexcellentjobofmakingthissimultaneouslyamurdermystery
andavalidsciencefictionstorywheretheSFelementisessential
toboththeresolutionoftheplotandthesolvingofthemystery;it
alsofunctionsinavividwayasasportsstory,sincethesportof
runningisintegraltotheplot,andReed’sobviousfamiliaritywith
runnersandrunning—he’susedthesportbeforeinotherstories—
showsthroughtoexcellenteffectasReedsprintsthereaderalong
tothefinishline.…
ONE
Thephonewakeshim.Lucassnagsitoffthenightstandandclipsittotheright
side of his face. The caller has to be on the Allow list, so he opens the line.
Lucasisn’tgreatwithnumbersandevenworsereading,buthehasageniusfor
sounds, for voices. A certain kind of silence comes across. That’s when he
knows.
“Whenarewerunning?”thevoicesays.
“You’renotrunning,”Lucassays.“You’redead.”
Hehangsup.
Rightaway,Lucasfeelssorry.Guilty,alittlebit.Butmostlypissedbecausehe
knowshowthiswillplayout.
The nightstand clock and phone agree. It’s three minutes after five in the
morning.WhatcallsitselfWadeTannerisjumpinghurdlesrightnow,tryingto
slipbackontheAllowlist.Thatracecanlasttensecondsortenminutes.Sleep
won’t happen till this conversation is done. But calling Wade’s home number
makesitlooklikeLucaswantstochat,whichhedoesn’t.Andthat’swhyhetells
hisphonetogiveupthefight,lettingeverycallthrough.
Theringingbegins.
“Youknowwhatyouneed?”saysahornyforeign-girlvoice.“Fun.”
Lucashangsupandwatches.Adozencallsbegtobeanswered.Twodozen.
Obviousadultcrapandbeachsalecrapareflagged.Hepicksfromwhat’sleft
over, andamansays, “Don’thangup,I begyou.”Theaccentis familiarand
pleasant, making English sing. “I live in Goa and haven’t money for air
conditioningandfoodtoo.ButIhaveadaughter,verypretty.”
Lucasgroans.
“And a little son,” the voice says, breaking at the edges. “Do you know
despair,myfriend?Doyouunderstandwhatafatherwilldotosavehisprecious
blood?”
Lucashangsupandpicksagain.
The silence returns, that weird nothing. And again, what isn’t Wade says,
“Whattimearewerunning?”
“Seveno’clock,”Lucassays.
“FromtheY?”
“Sure.”Lucashasaraspyvoicethatalwaysseemsalittleloud,rollingoutof
thewide,expressivemouth.Sunandwindcanberoughonrunners,butworse
enemieshavebeatenuphisface.Thebrightbrowneyesneverstopjumping.The
longblackhairisgrayingandgrowingthinuphigh.Buttheforty-year-oldbody
issupremelyfit—broadshoulderssquaredup,thedeepchestandnarrowtrunk
sportingapairofexceptionallylonglegs.
“Areyourunningwithus?”saysWade.
“Yeah.”Lucassitsupinbed,thecolddarkgrabbinghim.
“Whoelseiscoming?”
Whenever Wade talks, other sounds flow in. It feels as if the dead man is
sitting in a big busy room, everybody else trying to be quiet while he chats.
That’showLucaspicturesthings:Toomanypeoplepushedtogether,wantingto
bequietbutneedingtowhisper,tobreathe.
Wadesays,“Whoelse?”
“Everybody,Iguess.”
“Good.”
“Yeah,butIneedtosleepnow.”
“Sleep’soverrated,”saysWade.
“Mostthingsare.”
Thevoicelaughs.Itusedtobecrazy,hearingthatlaugh.Andnowit’snothing
butnormal.
“SoI’llleaveyoualone,”saysWade.“Besides,I’vegotothercallstomake.”
And again, that perfect nothing comes raining back. The sound the world
makeswhenitisn’tsayinganything.
***
Lucascan’tsleep,buthecanalwaysdrinkcoffee.
By six-thirty, an entire pot is in his belly and his blood. Fifty-two degrees
insidethehouse,andhe’swearingtheheavypolyprotopandbluewindbreaker
andblacktights,allshowingtheiryears.Buttheshoesaremostlynew.Onthe
kitchentelevision,SteveMcQueenchasesmiddle-agedhitmeninsteadofdoing
whatmakessense,whichisscroggingJacquelineBisset.McQueendrives,and
LucascleansthecoffeemachineandcounterandtheBostonMarathon’17cup.
A commercial comes on—another relief plea—and Lucas turns it off in mid-
misery. Then he drops the thermostat five degrees and puts on clean butcher
glovesandthewoolmittensthathe’shadforfifteenyears.Theheadbandslides
around his neck and he pulls on the black stocking cap that still smells like
mothballs. His pack waits beside the back door, ready to go. He straps it on,
leavingonlyonemoreritual—throwinghisrightfootonastoolandtwistingthe
fancybraceletsoitridescomfortablyonthebareankle,tastingflesh,tellingthe
worldthatheissober.
Theoutsideairisfrigidandblustery.Lucastrotsdownthedrivewayandturns
into the wind. Arms swing easy, lending momentum to a stride that needs no
help.Evenslow,Lucaslooksswift.Everycoachdreamsofdiscoveringatalent
likehis—thismarriageofstrength,grace,andblood-bornendurance.Setamug
ofbeeronthatheadandnotadropsplashesfree.Thestrideisthatsmooth,that
elegant.Thatfine.Butbiologydemandsthatabrainhastoinhabitthatperfect
body,andthere’smorethanonewaytodrainadamnmugofbeer.
Apersondoesn’thavetoreadthenewstoknowthenews.
Two sets of sirens are wailing in the distance, chasing different troubles.
Potholes and slumping slabs make the street interesting, and half of the
streetlightshavehadtheirbulbspulled,savingthecitycashandkeepingafew
lumpsofcoalfrombeingburned.Everyhouseisdarkandsleepy,stuffedfullof
insulationandoutfittedwithwood-burningstoves.Mostyardshavegardensand
compostpilesandrainbarrels.Halftheroofsaredressedinsolarpanels.When
Lucasmovedintohishouse,biglocustsandpinoakslinedthestreet.Butmost
ofthosetreeshavebeenchoppeddownforfuelandtoletthesunfeedhouses
andgardens.Thenthelumberjacksplantedbabytrees—carbonpatriotsluredby
thetaxgimmicks—exceptthebiggestofthosetreesarealreadybeingsacrificed
forafewnightsofsmokyheat.
Youdon’thavetotraveltheworldtoknowwhat’shappening.
ThelasthouseontheblockistheFloridacompound.Thoseimmigrantsrolled
inacoupleyearsago,boastingabouttheirfatsavingsandtheirgenius,sports
herokids.Buttherearen’tanyjobsoutsidetheInternetandgruntworkinthe
windmillfields,andsavingsneverlastaslongasyouwish.Theirbigcarsgot
dumped on the Feds during an efficiency scheme. Extra furniture and jewelry
weresoldtomakerent.AcigaretteboatandtrailerweregivenFORSALEsigns
towear, andthey’restillwearingthem,sittingonthedrivewaywherethey’ve
beenparkedforever.ThencametherelativesfromMiamibeggingforroom,and
that’swhenpolicestartedgettingcallsaboutdrinkingandfighting,andthena
coupleofthesportsheroeswerejailedfortrafficking.Thenitwasofficial:These
wererefugees,andnotevenhigh-endrefugeesanymore.
CheeksachewhenLucasrunsatthewind,butnothingelse.Turningwest,the
worldwarmstendegrees.Inthedarkit’sbesttokeeptothemiddleofthestreet,
watching for anything that can trip or chase. People will abandon family and
homesondrowningbeaches,butnottheirpitbullandwolf-mutts.It’salsosmart
to run with your phone off, but Lucas is better than most when it comes to
handlingtwoworldsatonce.HispieceofFinlandisasweetlittleunitpowered
by movement, by life. A tidy projection hangs in front of his right eye. He’s
ignoringthescreenforthemoment,runningthestreetwiththeimaginarydogs,
andthat’swhentheringingstarts.
“Yeah?”
“Youleaveyet?”Wadesays.
“Nope,stillsitting,”saysLucas.“Drinkingcoffee,watchingdeadpeopleon
TV.”
Thatwinsalaugh.“AccordingtoGPS,you’rerunning.Aneight-minutepace,
whichisknuckle-walkingforyou.”
“Dothecopsknow?”saysLucas.
“Knowwhat?”
“Thatyou’reborrowingtheirtrackingsystem.”
“Why?Yougoingtoturnmein?”
No,butthat’swhenLucascutstheline,andanoldangercomesback,making
hislegsflyforthenextcoupleblocks.
***
BodiesstandoutsidethedowntownYMCA.Swimmersandweightlifterssport
Arctic-readycoats,whiletherunnersarenarrower,coldersoulswearingnylon
andpolypro.Gymbagsclutterupthesidewalk.Everybackisturnedtothewind.
Whensomeonebreathesorspeaks,twistsofvaporrise,illuminatedbythebluish
glareescapingfromtheY’sglassdoor.
Lucasslows.
Agrowlyvoicesays,“Somebodygottheearlyjump.”
Passingfromthetrotintoapurposefulwalk,Lucaslooksatfaces,smilingat
Audreybeforeanybodyelse.
“Where’syourbike?”thevoiceasks.
“Pete,”saysAudrey.“Juststop.”
Butthetemptationistoogreat.Withamiablemenace,PeteKajansays,“Did
thecopstakeyourbiketoo?”
“Yeah,”saysLucas.“My bikeandskates andmyskis. I hadthatpony,but
theyshothim.Justtobesafe.”
Everybodylaughsatthecomeback,includingPete.
Lucas slips off the pack and shakes his arms. The straps put his fingers to
sleep.
“Seveno’clock,”Petesays,shakingoneofthelockeddoors.“Whatarethe
bigdogsdoingtoday?”
“Sittingontheporch,whining,”Lucassays.
Runnerslaugh.
“Howfar?”Audreysays.
Petesays,“Twelve,maybefourteen.”
“Fourteensoundsright,”saysDougGatlin.FastDoug.He’solderthantherest
ofthembutblessedwithawhippet’sbody.
DougCrouseistheyoungestandheaviest.“Tenmilessoundsbetter,”hesays.
“SarahandMastersarecoming,”saysFastDoug.
“Theywish,”saysPete,laughing.
Rollinghiseyes,GatlintellsCrouse,“They’llmeetushereandturnearly.You
cancomebackwiththem.”
“Where’sVarner?”Crousesays.
Petesnorts.“He’llbefiveminuteslateandneedtodump.”
Runnerslaugh.
Thenabig-shoulderedswimmerrattlesthelockeddoor.
CrouselooksatLucas.“Didhecallyou?”
“Yeah.”
“Hecalledmetwice,”Gatlinsays.
“Everybodygotatleastonewake-upcall,”Petesays.
Therunnersstareintothebrightemptylobby.
“Heusuallydoesn’tbotherme,”saysCrouse.
“Abadnightinheaven,”Lucassays.
Peopletrytohittheproperamountoflaughter.Showit’sfunny,butnothing
tooenthusiastic.
Thentheswimmerbacksawayfromthedoor.“Dean’shere,”shesays.
Deanisatall,fleshyfellowwhodoeseverythingwithdeliberation.Heslowly
walksthelengthofthelobby.Asifdisarmingabomb,heeasesthekeyintothe
lock.Thedoorweighsathousandpounds,judgingbyitssyrupymotion.Witha
smallsoftvoice,Deansays,“Coldenough?”
Mutteredrepliesmakelittlethreadsofsteam.
Alineformsinthelobby.AudreyputsherselfbesideLucas.“Youthinkthat’s
it?Hehadabadnight?”
“I’mnothinker,”Lucassays.“IfIgetmyshoesoninthemorning,it’sgoing
tobeagoodday.”
TWO
Fingers and thumbs are offered at the front desk, proving membership. A red
signwarnspatronstotakeonlyonetowel,butaYtowelcan’tdryakitten.Lucas
grabs two, Pete three. The Dougs lead the way up narrow, zigzagging stairs.
Signscautionaboutpaintthatdriedlastweekandforbidunaccompaniedboysin
the men’s locker room. At the top of the stairs, taped to a steel door, a fresh
notice says there isn’t any hot water, due to boiler troubles. Gatlin flips light
switches.Theroomrevealedisnarrowandlong,jammedwithgraylockersand
concrete pillars painted yellow. The carpet is gray-green and tired. Toilet
cleansersandspilledaftershavegivetheairflavor.Bulletinboardsaresprinkled
withnewsaboutyogaclassesandwinterconditioningprogramsandwordsabout
winningatlife.Questionablebehaviormustbereportedtothefrontdesk.Used
towels are to be thrown into the proper bins. Lockers need to be locked. The
YMCA is never responsible for stolen property. But leave your padlock
overnight on a day locker, and it will be cut off and your belongings will be
confiscated.
“ThisisyourYMCA,”afinalsignsays.
Pete rents a locker in back. Lucas camps nearby. From the adjacent aisle,
Gatlinsays,“What’sthecourse?Anybodyknow?”
“Iknow,”Petesays,andthat’sallhe says. In hisearlyforties,hehasshort
grayinghairandasturdyface.Heglowerseasily,theeyesabright,thoughtful
hazel.Petedoesn’tlooklikearunner,butwhenmotivatedandhealthy,theman
canstillhangwiththelocalbest.
Lucasdigsouthislock,dumpshispackandsecuresthedoor.Again,heputs
his foot on the stool, adjusting the ankle monitor. Water sounds good, but the
Freonwasbledfromthefountains,savingenergy.It’sbettertorunthecoldtap
atasinkandmakeabowlwithyourhands,wastingacouplegallonsbeforeyour
thirstisbeatenback.Thepapertowelsaretiny.Hepullsfiveanddrieshishands,
watchinganoldguypluginanoldtelevisionthatcan’trememberyesterday.The
machine has to cycle through channels, reprogramming its little brain. That’s
whenLucasstartstofeelthecoffee.Theurinalisalreadyfullofdarkpissbut
won’tflushuntilthesmellisbadenough.HecomesbackouttofindtheBigFox
playing.Ablondbeautyischattingaboutthecoldsnapcuttingintotheheartof
the country. “We have an old-fashioned winter,” she says, leading to thirty
secondsofsnowandsledsandhappyred-facedkids.
“Well,that’snotme,”saystheoldguy.
ThenthenewsjumpstoplacesLucascouldn’tfindonanymap.Brownpeople
are fighting over burning oil wells. Skinny black folks are marching across a
dried-uplake.Afatwhitemanwithanaccentmakesnoiseabouthisrightsand
howhedoesn’tappreciatebeingsecond-class.Thenit’sdowntoPineIslandand
thewickedlongAntarcticsummer.Anotherslabofglacierischargingouttosea,
looking exactly like the other ten thousand. But the blond gal is a trouper.
Refusingtobesad,sheremindsheraudiencethatsomeexpertsclaimthecold
meltwaterisgoingtoshutdownthisnastiness.Moresexythanscientific,she
says,“Theoceansaroundtheicesheetswillcool,andanewnormalwillemerge.
Thenwecangetbacktothebusinessofordinarylife.”
“Well,that’sgoodnews,”saystheoldguy,throwingoutapissylaughashe
startshuntingforbetterchannels.
Pete and the Dougs have vanished. Lucas starts for the stairs and the steel
doorbangsopen.IncomesVarner,stillwearingstreetclothes.
“I’llbethere.Gottohitthetoiletfirst.”
The man is in his middle-thirties, red-haired and freckled and always late.
Lucasgiveshimalook.
“What?It’stwominutesafterseven.”
“Ididn’tsayanything.”
“Yeah,well.Ourghostalreadycalledmethreetimes,tellingmetohurrythe
hellup.”
Lucasretreatsdownstairs.Audreystandsinthelobby,readingtheHeraldon
thepublicmonitor.She’stallforaneliterunner—nearlyfive-nine—butunlike
mostfastgirlsdoesn’tlivetwosnacksclearofstarvation.Herfaceisstrongbut
pretty,blondhaircutclose,middle-agelurkingaroundthepalebrowneyes.She
wearssilvertightsandablackwindbreaker,mittensandaheadbandpiledonthe
countertop. Audrey always looks calm and rested. Running is something she
doeswell,butifnobodyshowedthismorning,she’dprobablytrotaneasyeight
andcallitgood.
“Wherearetheboys?”Lucassays.
“Aroundthecorner.”
“Anynewsaboutme?”
Sheblanksthescreenandturns.“Where’syourbike?”
“Toocoldtopeddle.”
“Ifyouneedaride,call.”
“Ishould,”hesays.
Withaburstofwind,thefrontdooropens.
EthanMasterswalksoutofasportswearcatalogandintotheYMCA.Jacket
andtightsarematchedbluewithartfulwhitestripes,theNikesjustcamefrom
thebox,hisglovesandstockingcaparecarvedfromfreshsnow,andthewater
beltcarriesprovisionsforahundred-mileslog.Butthebiggestfashionstatement
isthesleekglassescoveringthemiddleofalean,thoroughlyshavedface.More
computingpowerrideshisnosethanNASAdeployedduringthe20thCentury.
The machine is a phone and entertainment center. Masters always knows his
pulseandelectrolytelevelsandwhereheisandhowfasthe’smoving.Itmustbe
adisappointment,fallingbackonold-fashionedeyestotellhimwhat’sinsidethe
lobby.“They’restillhere,”hesays.“Itoldyouwe’dmakeitintime.”
Sarahfollowshimindoors.AsshortasMastersistall,shehasthisroundlittle-
girlfaceandlongbrownhairtiedinaponytail.Unlikehertrainingpartner,she
prefersoldsweatsandpatchedpinkmittens,andherbrownstockingcaplooks
rescuedfromthegutter.Theyaremarried,butnottoeachother—tenthousand
milesloggedtogetherandthesubjectsofalotofrichgossip.
“Are you everybody?” says Masters, throwing himself against a wall,
stretchingcalves.“Ifwewait,we’lltightenup.”
“Varnerjustwentupstairs,”Audreysays.
“Sowe’renotleavingsoon,”saysMasters.
Sarahisquiet.Flickinghereyes,sheplacesacallandwalkstothebackofthe
lobby.
Lucasfollowsandwalkspasther,roundingthecorner.Behindthelobbyisa
long narrow room overlooking the swimming pool. Treadmills and ellipticals
push against the glass wall. Pete and the Dougs are yabbering with some
overdressed, undertrained runners who belong to the marathon clinic. Which
meanstheybelongtothebaldmansittingalonebesidetheGatorademachine.
“Howfar,Coach?”Lucassays.
Themanlooksup.Cheeryasanelf,hesays,“We’redoinganeasysixteen.”
As if sixteen were nothing. As if he’s making the run himself. Except Coach
Able is dressed for driving and maybe, if pressed, a quick stand on some
protectedstreetcorner.Deepinhisfifties,hecarriesabadbackaswellasquitea
lotoffat.AndforthirtyyearshehasbeentherunningcoachatJewelCollege,
hisclinicsomethingofaspringtraditionfornewrunners.
Able gives Lucas a long study. He always does. And he always has a few
coachywordstothrowoutforfree.
“Itlookslikeyou’rerunningheavymiles,”hesays.
“Probablyso,”Lucassays.
“Speedwork?”
“WhenIrememberto.”
“Trythemarathonthisyear.Seeifthere’slifeinthoseoldlegs.”
“Maybe I will.” Lucas looks at the other runners. A man with an accent is
talking about the weather, about how it was never so cold in Louisiana. Pete
shakes his head, a big snarly voice saying, “So grow some fins and swim
yourselfbackhomeagain.”
Somehowhecansaywordslikethat,andeverybodyfindsitfunny.
Thecoachcoughs—ahardwetbarkmeanttowinattention.“Tellme,Pepper.
Inyourlife,haveyouevertriedrunningamarathonhard?Trainforitandpushit
andseewhathappens?”
“Wellnow,thatsuresoundslikework.”
“Ithinkyoucouldbeat2:30,”saysAble.“Andwhoknowshowfast,ifyou
managedafullyearwithoutmisbehaving.”
Lucasrollshisshoulders,sayingnothing.
“There’s software,” the coach says. “And biometric tests. With race results,
we’dbeabletofigureoutexactlywhatyouwouldhaveruninyourprime.2:13
ismyguess.Wouldn’titbenicetoknow?”
“Thatwouldbenice,”saysLucas.Thenheshrugsagain,saying,“Butlikemy
dadusedtosay,‘There’snotenough roomintheworldfor allthethingsthat
happentobenice.’”
***
Audreyappears.“We’vegotourVarner.”
Lucasandtheothermenputonstockingcapsandfollow.Eightbodiesbunch
upatthefrontdoor.Thesuniscoming,butnotyet.Everybodywearsaphone,
and with tiny practiced touches, they adjust the settings. Only hair-on-fire
emergencycallscaninterruptnow.Thenthegroupputsonmittensandgloves
andstepsoutside.Givingahorse-snort,Masterssays,“Weshouldrunnorth.”
“We’renot,”saysPete.“We’redoingAshCreek.”
Everybodyissurprised.
“Butyouwanttostartintothewind,”Masterssays.“Otherwiseyou’llcome
homewetandcold.”
“There’snottwodamntreesupnorth,”Petesays.“I’mgoingwherethere’s
woodsandscenery.”
“Whatabouttheusual?”Varnersays.
Theyhavealoopingcoursethroughtheheartoftown.
“Normalisfinewithme,”Audreysays.
Lucaswantstomove.Directionsdon’tmatter.
ThenPetesays,“We’vegotcompany.”
Trottingacrossthestreetisakidhalftheirage.Dressedinstreetclothesanda
goodnewcoat,Harriscarriesahugegymbaginonehand.“Whichway?”he
says.“I’llcatchup.”
Petesays,“Theusual.”Nohesitation.
“EastaroundJewel?”saysHarris.
“Sure.”
Thekidscampersinside.
ThenPetegiveseverybodyahardstare.“Okay,we’redoingAshCreek.No
arguments.”
Eightliarstrotwest,nobodytalking,thetiniestguiltfollowingattheirheels.
THREE
Tuesday meant speed work at the college track—a faded orange ribbon of
crumbling foam and rutted lanes. Lucas showed last. It wasn’t as hot as most
Augustevenings,butlastnight’sstormlefttheairthickanddangerous.Therest
of the group trotted on the far side of the track. Nobody was talking. Lucas
parkedhisbikeandcamethroughthezigzaggate,andhecrossedthetrackand
football field and the track again, walking under the visitor’s stands. Pigeons
panicked and flew off, leaving feathers and echoes. He opened his pack and
stripped,dressinginshortsandAsicsbutleavinghissingletinthebag.Hewas
packingupwhenhenoticedhishandsshaking,andhestaredatthehandsuntil
hisphonebrokethespell.
Heopenedtheline.
“Areyouupatthetrack?”
Wade’svoice.“Iam.”
“Doyouseeme?”
“Wade?”
“I haven’t been updated,” the voice said. “It’s been twenty-four hours. I’m
supposedtocallyouaftertwenty-fourhours.”
Lucassteppedoutfromundertheseats.“Whoisthis?”
“WadeTannerkeptanavatar.Abackup.”
“Iknowthat.”
“I’mthebackup,Lucas.”
The group shuffled through the south turn, and Wade wasn’t any of them.
“Didyoutrythestore?”Lucassaid.
“No,becauseyou’reatthetopofthelist,”thebackupsaid.“Onedaypasses
withoutanupdate,andI’msupposedtocontactyoufirst.”
“Me.”
“Youlivecloseandyouknowwherethesparekeyis.Wewantyoutosearch
thehouse.”Thevoicewentawayandthencameback.“I’vestudiedtheodds.
Checktheshower.Showersaretreacherousplaces.”
Walkingacrossthebrowngrass,Lucasstartedtolaugh.Nothingwasfunny,
butlaughingfeltright.
“What’syourworkouttonight?”saidthevoice.
“Don’tknow.”
“It’shumid,”thebackupsaid.“Doquartersandwalkhalf-a-lapbeforegoing
again.Takeabreakaftersix,andquitifyouforgethowtocount.”
ItcouldhavebeentherealWade.“Yousoundjustlikehim.”
“That’showitworks.”Thenafterapause,thebackupsaid,“I’vegotthisbad
feeling,Lucas.”
“Why’sthat?”
“I’m voicemail, too. And people have been calling all day. Nobody knows
whereWadeis.”
Lucassaidnothing.
“You’llcheckthehouse?”
“SoonasI’mdonerunningquarters.”
“Thanks,buddy.”
Thelinefellsilent.
Mostofthepeopleweresharingthesamepatchofshade.Audreywaswalking
backandforthonthetrack,talkingonthephone.OnlyGatlinandWadewere
missing.ThenewkidjumpedtowardLucas,saying,“Arewerunningornot?”
“Leavehimalone,”Petesaid.“Ourboyputinaroughweekend.”
Harris had a big sandpaper laugh. “I was at the party. Yeah, I saw him
drinking.”
Peoplelookaway,embarrassedforLucas.
“I’ve known a few drinkers,” the kid said. “But I never, ever saw anybody
drainawaythatmuchofanything.”
Lucaslookedpasthim.“AnybodyseeWade?”
“Bastard’slate,”Petesaid.
Theotherssaid,“No,”orshooktheirheads.ExceptforHarris,whojustkept
grinningandstaringatLucas.
Lucasneededabreath.“Wade’sbackupjustcalledme.Ithasn’theardfrom
him,andit’sworried.”
“Whywouldthebackupcallyou?”Sarahsaid.
Lucasshrugged,sayingnothing.
“Wadehasanavatar?”saidHarris.
“Hedoes,”Masterssaid.“Infact,Ihelpedhimsetitup.”
Lucaswavedahand,bringingeyesbacktohim.“Iknowwhattheyare,”he
said.“ExceptIdon’tknowanythingaboutthem.”
Masterssteppedintothesunshine,hisglassesturningblack.Withhisknow-
everything voice, he said, “They’re basically just personal records. Data you
wantprotected,keptinhardenedserverfarms.Theyhaveyourfinancialrecords,
videorecords.Diariesandrunninglogsandwhateverelseyoucareabout.You
canevenmodelyourpersonalityandvoice,comingupwithaprettygoodstand-
in.”
“Wadehasbeendoingthisforyears,”Sarahsaid.
Peopleturnedtoher,waiting.
Quiet little Sarah smiled, nervous with the attention. “Don’tyou know? He
recordseverythinghedoes,everyday.Hesaysithelpsatthestore,lettinghim
know each of his customers. He even leaves his phone camera running,
recordingeverythingheseesandhearstobeuploadedlater.”
“That’sanal,”Crousesaid.
“Who’sanal?”saidAudrey,walkingintotheconversation.
“Storing that much video is expensive,” Harris said. “How can a shoe
salesmanaffordacashmerebackup?”
“Thatshoesalesmanhadrichparents,”Petesaid.“Andtheywerekindenough
todieyoung.”
Withthat,thegroupfellsilent.
LucasapproachedAudrey.“WasitWade’sbackuponthephone?”
“No.Justmyhusband.”
Harrisgotbetweenthem.“Let’srun,”hesaid.
“Notinthemood,”Lucassaid.
Thekidlookedateverybody,andthenhe waslaughingatLucas.“So what
happenedtoyou?Youweredrinkingeverythingattheparty…andthenyoujust
sortofvanished…”
“Hehadanappointment,”Petesaid.
“Whatappointment?”
Peteshookhishead.“Withthepolice.”
Audreywasn’thappy.“Everybody,juststop.Quitit.”
Masters was talking to Sarah. “How do you know so much about Wade’s
backup?”hesaid.
Sarahshruggedandsmiled.“Ijustknow.”
Mastersateonthat.ThenheturnedtoLucas,saying,“Thecallwasaglitch.
Wadedidn’tgetthingsuploadedlastnight,andittriggeredthewarningsystem.
That’sall.”
Lucasnodded,wantingtobelieveit.
“Let’sjustrun,”Harrissaid.
“Is this how they do things in Utah?” Pete said. “Pester people till you get
whatyouwant?”
“Sometimes.” The kid showed up at the track six weeks ago—a refugee
running away from drought and forest fires. Harris liked to talk. He told
everybodythathewasgoingoutontheprairieandbuildwindmills.Exceptof
coursehedidn’tknowanythingaboutanythinguseful.Hismaintalentwasapair
oflongstrongandveryyounglegs,andthereweresunnylooksandabigsmile
thatwascharmingfortwominutes,tops.
“I’mrunning,”hesaid,smilinghard.Thenhewalkedtotheinsidelane.
Othersstartedtofollow.
NotLucas.
AlittleBMWpulledofftheroadandGatlingotout.Hewasn’tdressedtorun.
Afifty-year-oldmanwithwavygrayhair,helookednothingbutrespectableina
summer suit and tie. Coming through the zigzag, he moved slowly, one hand
always holding the chain-link. He seemed sad, and then the sadness fell into
somethingdarker.Andwithlittlesteps,hewalkedtowardtheothers.
“Well,nowwe’vegottostoptalkingaboutyou,”saidPete.
Gatlin’smouthwasopen,alostlookpassingthroughhisdarkbrowneyes.“I
justgot a call,” he said. “From a friend in the mayor’s office.He thoughtI’d
wanttoknow.KidsplayingnearAshCreekfoundabodythismorning.Andthe
policethinktheyrecognizetheman.”
“WadeTanner,”saidLucas.
Surprised,Gatlinstraightenedhisback.“Howdidyouknow?”
“Wehadahint,”saidPete,andthenhecouldn’ttalkanymore.
Nobodywas talking. Nobodyreacted or moved,except for Gatlin who was
embarrassedtohavehisawfulnewsstolenfromhim.Besidesthewind,theonly
soundwasasoftlowmoanrisingfromnowhere.
ThenSarahclosedhermouth,andthemoaningstopped.
***
Downtown fights to wake up. City buses roll past on their way to still-empty
stops.Banktellersmovethroughdarkenedlobbieswhilebankmachinescount
pilesofelectronicmoney.Apartmentlightscomeon,butthehotelshavenever
beendark,filledwithanxiousrefugeeslivingonthegovernmentplan.Apairof
long-haul boxes point in opposite directions, burning soybean juice to keep
sleepingtravelerswarm.Outfromthebusstationcomesabeardedmanwearing
afinesuitandcarryinganI-tablet.Exceptthesuitisfilthy,bothkneeslooking
liketheyhavebeendraggedthroughgrease,andthetabletisdead,andtalkingin
aloudcrazedvoice,hesays,“Stopbeingproud.AcceptSatanasourleader,and
let’sbuildaclean,efficientHell.”
The pace lifts, the group crossing into the old warehouse district. Concrete
turnstocobblestoneandblackscabsofasphalt.Lowbrickbuildingshavebeen
rebornasbarsandpawnshopsandcoffeeshops,plusonelittlestorededicatedto
runners. Dropping to the floodplain, the street ends with a massive stone
buildingfrom the 19th Century. In one form or another, this place has always
served as the city’s train station. Half a dozen travelers are waiting with their
luggage,hopingforthemorningwestbound,andthelittleboyinthegroupgives
therunnersabigwave,saying,“Heythere.Hi.”
Nobody talks. The group turns south, gloom following them into
Germantown.Warehousesgivewaytolittlehouses,andtheyturnright,pointed
westagain,andthepaceliftsanothernotch.
“Slowdown,”saysPete
Nobody listens. Runners and the street cross an abandoned set of railroad
tracks. Little twists of vapor mark their breathing, shoes slapping at the
pavement.ThencomestheAmtrakline,andthat’swhenthehousesstarttowear
down.Cars sporting out-of-stateplates areparked on brown lawns. A solitary
drunkstandsatacorner,calmlywaitingfortheracetopassbeforehestaggersa
littleclosertowhatmightbehome.Thefinalhousehasbeenrebornasachurch,
its walls painted candy colors and holy words written in Vietnamese. That’s
wherethestreetends.Abarbedwirefencebreakswhereathintrailsnakesup
through flattened prairie grass. The sky is dawn-blue with a few clouds. And
somebodyisrunningontopofthelevee:Anarrowmalewithtalllegsandlong
armscarriedhigh.It’saprettystride.NotLucas-pretty,butefficient.Strong.The
man’slegsarebareandpale.Hewearsalong-sleevedt-shirt,grayandtight,and
maybe a second layer underneath. White butcher gloves cover big hands, and
ridingtheheadisablackbaseballcapsetbackwards,thebrimtuckedlowover
thelongneck.
Asiftheirlegshavebeencutoutfromunderthem,peoplestumbletoahalt.
“What’shedoinghere?”saysSarah.
Crouseisfirsttosay,“Jaeger.”Normallyeasygoing,almostsweet,SlowDoug
putsonasourfaceandsays,“Thatprick.”
“Whatishedoing?”Masterssays.
“Running,bythelooksofit,”saysPete.
Jaeger is cruising south on the levee road, heading upstream. The other
runners stand in shadow, but he is lit up by the dawn, his gaze fixed straight
ahead,thesharpfaceshowinginprofile.
“Sowhat?”saysAudrey.“We’lljustruntheotherway.”
“I’mnot,”saysPete.
Peopleglanceateachother,sayingnothing.
Starting toward the fence and trail, Pete says, “I don’t change plans for
murderingassholes.”
GatlinandVarnerfallinbehindhim.
LucasturnstoAudrey.“Wanttogoback?”
Shepullsoffherhatandamitten,runningherhandthroughhershort,short
hair.“Maybe.”
“Wecan’tjuststandhere,”saysMasters.
“I’m not turning around,” says Sarah, short legs working, the ponytail
jumpingandswishing.
Crouse trots after her. Then Audrey sighs and says, “I guess,” and catches
thembeforethefence.
“Thisisstupid,”saysMasters.Butthenhestartschasing.
Lucasstandsmotionless.Nobodycanrunoutofsightonhim,exceptJaeger.
Maybe.Hehastimetopulloffamittenandwipehismouth,icealreadyclinging
tohislittlebeard.Thenhetoucheshisphonetowakeit,pullingupthefamiliar
numberwithaneyeandplacinghiscall.
“How’stherungoing?”saysWade.
Lucasdoesn’ttalk.
“Iseewhereyouare,”Wadesays.“Arewerunningthecreektoday?”
“We’resupposedto.”
“Sowhyaren’tyoumoving,Lucas?”
“Jaeger’supahead.”
Thereisapause,alongbreathofnothingbeforethevoicereturns.“Youknow
what I want,” Wade says. “I told you what I want. Find out who killed me,
okay?”
FOUR
Wadewasfivedaysdead.
Theheatanddroughthadreturned,andtheSaturdaygroupmetlongbefore
theYopened.Standinginthebroilingdarkness,theysaidverylittle.EvenHarris
was playing the silent monk. One minute after six they took off to the east,
aiming for Jewel College. Harris grabbed the lead, Lucas claimed the empty
groundbetweenhimandthepack.ThenCrouseputonasurge,catchingLucas.
“HaveyoutriedWade’snumber?”
“WhywouldI?”
“Maybeyou’recurious,”Crousesaid.
“Notusually,”saidLucas.
“Well, you can’t get through. Voicemail answers, but even if you leave a
message,thebackupcan’tcallyouback.”
“Whynot?”
“He’sevidence,”Crousesaid.“Andmaybehe’sawitness.That’swhythey’ve
gothimbottledup.”
“Iforgot.You’reacop.”
“No.”Themanhesitates,laughs.“Butremembermysister-in-law?”
“Thegalwithblackhairandthatbigbouncyass,”Lucassaid.
“She’sapoliceofficer.”
“Thattoo.”
“Anyway,she’sgotthishabit.Shehastotellmywifeeverything.”
“Okay.NowI’mcurious.”
Crouse was running hard. Whenever he talked, he first had to gather up
enoughair.“WaderanforJewel.”
Lucasglancedathim.“Everybodyknowsthat.”
“Camehereonascholarship.Ablerecruitedhim.Wadewasthebigstarfor
thefirstyear.Thenthisotherguyshowed.”
“CarlJaeger,”saidLucas.
“Youprobablyknowthewholestory,”saidCrouse,disappointed.
“Wadetolditacoupletimes.Everyday.”
“KnowwherethecoachfoundJaeger?”
“In Chicago, in rehab. There were legal hoops, getting him out from under
someoldcharges.ButthekidhadruledIllinoisduringhighschool,andthat’s
why Able brought him here. He wanted Jaeger to be his big dog, to help put
Jewelonthemap.”
Crousenodded,fightingtoholdthepace.
Lucas slowed. “You’re new to this group. You didn’t know. But Wade and
Jaegerneverlikedeachother.”
“Whataboutthegirl?”Crousesaid.
Lucassaid,“Yeah.”Butthenherealizedthathedidn’tknowwhattheywere
talkingabout.“Whatgirl?”
“Wade’sgirlfriendincollege.Jaegergother.Stoleherandgotherpregnant
andevenmarriedherforacoupleyears.”
“What’shername?”Lucassaid.
“I don’t know. I didn’t hear that part. But the virtual Wade remembers
everything.” Crouse was happy, finding something fresh to offer. “The police
departmentbroughtinspecialiststosortthroughthefiles,thesoftware.TheAI
business.Thetechnology’sbeenaroundforafewyears,buttheexpertshaven’t
seenabackupwiththismuchinformation.”
“That’sWade,”saidLucas.“Mr.Detail.”
“Hekepttraininglogs,”saidCrouse.
“Someofusdo.”
“You?”
“Never.”
Crousefoundfreshspeedinhislegs.“Wade’slogsaredifferent.Theyreach
backtothedayhestartedrunning,whenhewaseight.Andthere’salotmore
thanmilesandtimesburiedinthem.”
“Likewhat?”
“Sleep.Dreams.Breakfasts.Andwhatheandhisfriendstalkedaboutduring
the run—word for word, sometimes. And he spends a lot of file space hating
CarlJaeger.”
Thegirlnewswasunexpected.Lucasthoughtaboutitforaminute.Thenhe
said,“Sowhat’shappening?ArethecopslookingatCarl?”
“Oh,I’mnotsayinglikethat,”saidCrouse,reachingthatpointwherehislegs
wereshaky-weak.“Ijustthoughtyou’dbeinterestedinwhat’shappening.That’s
all.”
***
Runnersarestrungoutalongthelevee.Ontheleftlittlehousesturnintobody
shopsandjunkyardsandasadpairofgray-whitegrainelevators.AshCreekruns
on their right, the channel gouged deep and straight and shouldered with pale
limestoneboulders.Freshthinicecoverstheshallowwater.PeteandGatlinrun
infront,Varnertuckedintotheirslipstream.Snatchesofangryconversationdrift
back.Withabigarm,PetepointstowardJaeger.Hecurses,andGatlinglances
backattheothers.Thentheleadersslow,forcingtheotherstodriftcloser.
“Ican’tbelievethis,”Masterssays.“Whywouldthemanrunthiscourse?”
“Helikestheroute,”Lucassays,hislegsdecidingtoleapahead,quickfeet
kickingbackgravel.
Crousehearsthestridecoming.“Hey,Lucas,”hesays.Andamomentlater,
heispassed.
The women are shoulder-to-shoulder. Audrey says a few words, laughing
alone.ThenshelooksbackatLucas,hersmileworking.“Whatarethoseboys
proving?”
“Don’tknow,”Lucassays.
Audreysays,“Men,”andlaughsagain.
Lucasrunsonthegrassbesidethem.Pete is fortyyardsaheadand surging,
body tilting and arms churning. Nobody in that trio talks, every whisper of
oxygensavedforthelegs.
“Lookatthem,”saysAudrey.
“Whataboutthem?”Sarahsays,hervoicesmallandtight.
“Theywon’tcatchCarl,”saysAudrey.
“Themanwasinjail,”Sarahsays.“Formonths.”
Audrey’s face stiffens. “We’re talking about Carl. There’s no way they can
closethatgap.”
Jaeger’slegsandlungsarealmostlostinthesunshine.Butheisn’tincreasing
his lead. Maybe he’s starting out on a lazy twenty and holding back. Or he
knowsthey’refollowinghim,andhejustwantsalittlefun.
LucasglancesatAudrey.
“Youdon’thavetochase,”shesays,hervoicesharp.
Hesurges.
“Please,Lucas.Becareful.”
***
Themanwhosoldshoestoeveryathleteintownwaslyinginsideaclosedbox,
waitingtobesetintotheground,andthechurchwasfullofskinnypeopleand
beefyoldfriends,withafewdistantrelativessittingupfront,hopingforapiece
oftheWadepie.Everybodymadesorrysoundsaboutthecircumstances.Every
maletriedtospottheex-girlfriendsintheaudience.Wadewasnobeauty,buthe
hadageniusforprettygirlswhofellforcharmandlittlehintsofmarriage.There
weremaybeadozenexesinthecrowd,somecryingforwhathadhappenedand
others for what hadn’t. Lucas and Pete were pallbearers. They served with
cousinsandcollegebuddieswhodidn’tknowthemfromacanofpaint.Itwasa
cousin who mentioned that the cops were done with the backup. He said
anybodycould callthe machine andit wasalmost fun,talking toa voicethat
rememberedwhenyouwereten-years-oldandsittingtogetheratThanksgiving,
watchingrelativesgetdrunkandfunny.
LucasdidcallWade’soldnumber.Butnotrightawayandonlytwiceandboth
times was surprised by the busy signal. Then he tried after midnight and got
thrownstraightintovoicemail.Whichpissedhimoff.Notthathewashungryfor
thischat,butitwassuretohappenandwhydidthingshavetobesodifficult?
Hisphonerangduringnextmorning’scoffee.“Youknowwhatsurprisesme?
It’sthestrangerswhoreadanobitandthinkit’sneat,callingyoufornoreason
buttochat.Andit’snotjustlocalvoiceseither.Thisisthebignewhobby,I’m
learning.Dialtheafterlife.Listentoaghosttellingstories.”
“Howyoudoing?”Lucassaid.
Thebackupsaid,“I’mbusy.Andthat’sagoodthing.”
“What’s‘busy’mean?”
“Well,I’mrunningagain.Forinstance.”
“Howdoyoudothat?”
“I’vegotvideofiles,andI’vebuiltallofourfavoritecourses.Thehills,the
effortlevels.How my bodyresponds to perceivedworkouts.I canchangethe
weatherhoweverIwantit.You’dbeamazedhowrealitlooksandfeels.Andthe
foodheredoesn’ttastetoowrong.Ofcoursethesenseofsmellneedswork,but
that’sprobablygoodnews.Whenit’spolyproseason.”
ThenWadestoppedtalking,forcingLucastoreact.“IsthatwhyI’mgetting
busysignals?You’remakingnewfriends?”
“Andtalkingtopeopleyouknow.”
“Butyou’refast.Computersare.Whycan’tyouyabbertoathousandmouths
atonce?”
“Someofmyfunctionsarefast.Scaryfast,sure.Butrightnow,talkingtoyou,
myAIsoftwarehastoworkflat-outjusttokeepup.”Partofthesoftwaremade
lungnoises.Wadetookapretendbreath,andthenhesaid,“Istillneedsleep,by
theway.WhichiswhyIdidn’tpickuplastnight.”
Lucasdidn’ttalk.
“So tell me, Lucas. In your head, what am I? A machine, a program, or a
man?”
“Idon’tknow.”
“Actually,I’mnoneofthosethings.”
“Becauseyou’reaghost.”
Thelaughter rattled on. “No, no. Inthe eyes ofthe law,I’m an intellectual
foundation.That’sanewkindoftrustreservedforbackups.I’vebeenregistered
withafriendlynationthathassomeverycompassionatelaws,andtomaintain
mysentientstatus,Ihavetokeepenoughmoneyinthelocalbank.”
Lucassaidnothing.
Thesilenceendedwithabigsigh.Thentheintellectualfoundationsaid,“So,
Lucas?Doyouhaveanyideawhokilledme?”
Alittletooquickly,Lucassaid,“No.”
Anotherpause.ThenWadesaid,“Itwasanicefuneral.”
“Youwatched?”
“Severalpeoplestreamedittome.Youdidanicejob,Lucas.”
Itwaspeculiar,howmuchthosewordsmattered.Lucastookhisownbreath,
realanddeep,andthenhesaid,“Youknow,Iamsober.”
“What’sthat?”
“Sincetheparty,Ihaven’thadataste.”
Uncomfortable sighs kept the silence away. Then a tight quick voice said,
“Tell me that in another year. Tell it to me thirty years from today. A couple
weekswithoutbeingshit-faced?Ithinkit’searlytostartcallingthatgoodnews.”
***
Theleadpackworks,butLucascatchesthemeasily.Legseatthedistance,the
lungsblowthemselvesclean,andhetucksinbehindPete,shorteninghisstride
andmeasuringtheirbodies.Nobodytalks,butthementradelooksandthegroup
slows,makingreadyforthenextmiserablesurge.
Theleveecurlswesttowardthebypassanddivesunderthebridge.Jaegerhas
vanished.Heisn’tbelow,andhe’snotuponthehighwayeither.Theyfollowthe
levee road down, gravel replaced with pale frozen clay. The air turns colder,
tastinglikewetconcrete.Watersoundsbounceofftheundersideofthebridge.
Thentheroadyanksleftandstartsalongclimb.
Jaegerisabovethem,andthenheisgone.
Petecurses.Sweatbleedsthroughhiswindbreakerandfreezes,alittlewhite
forestgrowingonhisback.
Topping the levee, they hold their effort, gaining speed on the flat. But the
road is empty. Except nodding brown grass, nothing moves, and there isn’t
anybodytochase.
Thepackslows.
“Look,”Varnersays.“Thatpipe.”
The sewer pipe is fat and black, jutting out of the levee’s shoulder, a thin
trickleofoilyrunoffdripping.Jaegerstandsonthepipe,facingthestream.With
hisshortsyankeddown,heholdshimselfwithbothhands,aiminglong,urine
splashingintheoil.
Petepullsup.Therestofthegroupstopsbehindhim,watching.ThenJaeger
turnstowardsthemandshakeshimselfdrybeforeyankinguphisunderwearand
thentheshorts.
“Let’spleaseturn,”saysAudrey.
Nooneelsetalks.
Jaegerclimbsbacktotheroad,watchingthem.
“Hey,asshole,”saysPete.“Hey.”
The last months have taken a toll. Jaeger’s face remains lean, but wrinkles
have worked into his features. The short black hair shows white. He breathes
harder than normal. Forty-three years old, and for the first time anyone can
recall,helookshisage.
“Idon’tlikethis,”saysMasters.
Petelaughs.“Whatareworriedabout?”
Jaeger’sbodyturnsaway,butnothisface.
“There’seightofus,”saysPete.
“What’sthatmean?”Crousesays.
“Depends,” Pete says, his bulldog face challenging them. “We’re here, and
thatmanisstandingoverthere.Andhebeatourfriendtodeathwithachunkof
concrete.”
Jaegerstartsrunning,thefirststridesshort.
Audreyshakesherhead.“Whatarewedoing?”
Sarahknows.
“We’re just following the man,” Sarah says, her voice slow and furious.
“Jaegercan’tbeingreatshape.Butweare.Sowe’llkeepcloseandtalktohim,
andmaybehe’llsaysomethingtrue.”
FIVE
Lucasrodetotheairport,thechainclicking.Agray-hairedwomanhandedhim
theentryform,andhefilledintheblanksslowly,payingthelatefeewithtwo
twenties.Thenhepinnedtheracenumbertohisshortsandstrappedthechipto
hisrightshoe,andthenewt-shirtendeduptiedbeneaththeseatofhisbike.
The pre-race mood was quiet, grim. Conversations were brief. Race-day
ritualswereperformedwithsluggishdiscipline.Thenormallybouncyvoiceon
thePAsystemgrowledattheworld,warningthatonlytwentyminuteswereleft
untilthe gun.Bikes don’tgetbodies readyto run. Lucasstarted runningeasy
throughthemostlyemptyparkinglots,pastaterminalthatlookedprettymuch
shut down, and that’s when a tall man stepped from behind an Alleycat
Dumpster.
“Pepper.”
Lucasnodded,liftingonehand.
Jaegerfellinbesidehim.HewaswearingracingflatsandshortsandaWhite
Soxcaptwistedaroundonhishead.Sayingnothing,heranLucasbacktohis
bike,watchinghimstriptheshirtheworefromhomeandthentieittotheframe.
“Loseyourcar?”hesaid.
“Iknowwhereitis.”
“Gotfancyjewelryonthatankle,Isee.”
Lucasliftedhisfootandputitdownagain.“Jealous?”
“Jailtime?”
“IfIdrink.”
“Withyourrecord?Theyshouldkeepyouinacageforayear.”
“Thejail’sfull.”Lucasshrugged.“Andbesides,thecasewasn’tstrong.”
“No?”
“MaybeIwasn’tdriving.”Shameforcedhisgazetodrop.“Somebodycalled
the hotline, but it was a busy night. One cop spotted my car and flashed her
lights,andmycarpulledupandawhitemalegallopedoffbetweenthehouses.”
“Thatcopchaseafterthedriver?”
“Onfoot,butshecouldn’thangon.”
“Ibetnot,”Jaegersaid,laughing.
“Asecondcruiser foundme halfamile away, whilehe wasinvestigatinga
burglary.Justhappenedtotripoverme.”
Lucas’phonestartedtoring.
“Idon’tknowhowyourunwiththosemachines,”Jaegersaid.“Mine’sanold
foldable,andIputitawaysometimes.”
Lucasopenedtheline.
“Fiveminutes,”saidWade.
“Fiveminutes,”saidthepublicaddressvoice.
Wadesaid,“Howdoyoufeel?”
“Talktoyoulater,okay?”Lucashungup.
Jaegerwaswatchinghimandthephone.Hedidn’taskwhocalled,butwhen
Lucaslookedathim,themanofferedwhatmighthavebeenasmile,shyanda
littlesorry.
“Seeyououtthere.Okay,Pepper?”
***
The levee twists to the southeast, ending at the park’s north border. Hold that
road,andJaegerwillworkhiswaybackintotown.Anyreasonablemanwould
dothat.ButassoonashehitsFosterLane,Jaegerjumpsrightandsurges.And
just to be sure that everyone understands, he throws back a little sneer as he
crossesAshCreek.
Pete and Varner are leading, milking the speed from their legs. Audrey is
besideLucas,butshewon’tchaseanymore.Armsdropandherstrideshortens.
“Youcan’tcatchhim,”shesays.
“Watchus,”saysPete.
“Thenwhat?”shesays.
Nobody answers. They make Foster and turn together, bunching up as they
crosstherusted trussbridge. Poundingfeetmake theold steel shiver,and the
windcutssideways,sweatyfacesaching.
“Ican’trunthisfast,”Sarahsays.
“Nobodycan,”saysCrouse.
Upahead,pastthebridge,theroadyankstotheleft,placingitselfbetweenthe
water and tangled second-growth woods. They watch Jaeger striding out, and
thenMasterssays,“We’vegottoslowdown.”
ButPetehasaplan.“Ifherunsthetrails,we’llcuthimoff.”
“Hewon’t,”Audreysays.“Thatwouldbestupid.”
Theycomeoffthebridge,andPeteslows.“We’llsplitup,”hesays.“Fastlegs
chase,therestwaitupahead.”
Jaegerispushinghislead.
“Aturnoff’scoming,”Lucassays.
“Halfamileup,”saysGatlin.“Theparkentrance.”
“No,it’sthere,”hesays.“Soon.”
Andjustlikethat,Jaegerturnsright,leapingoverapileofgraygravelbefore
divingintothebrush.Twolongstridesandhebecomesthispaleshapeslipping
inandoutofview,andwithanotherstride,he’sgone.
Varnercurses.
“Runaheadorchase,”saysPete.
Sarah and Masters fall back. And Crouse. Then Audrey says, “No,” to
somebodyanddropsawaytoo.
Pete and Varner accelerate, Gatlin falling in behind them. Lucas holds his
pace, looking at his feet, measuring the life in his legs. Then he slips past
everybody and yanks himself to the right, plunging into the bare limbs. The
others miss the tiny trail and overshoot. Alone, Lucas drops off the roadbed,
followingaroughlittlepathtowhereitjoinsupwiththemaintrail—awideslab
ofblackearthandnakedrootsthatbendswestandplunges.
Gravitytakeshim.Liftinghisfeet,Lucasaimsforsmoothpatchesoffrozen
ground, dancing over roots and little gullies. Then the trail flattens, trees
replacedbyaforestofbatteredcattails.
Lucasslows,breathes.
Theotherschugupbehind.“Idon’tseehim,”saysVarner.
Farahead,anancientcottonwoodliesdeadonitsside—aridgeofwhitewood
strippedofbark,shininginthechillsunshine.Beforeanyoneelse,Lucasseesthe
blackballcapstreakingbehindthetree,andhesurgesagain,nothingeasierin
theworldthanmakinglonglegsfly.
***
“Five minutes,” said the rumbling PA voice. But a minute later he said, “No,
folks.We’regoingtohaveashortdelay.”
Peopleassumedthataplanewascoming,whichwasarareeventandevery
eyelookedskyward.ExceptnothingwasflyingonthathotSeptembermorning.
LucaslinedupnexttoAudrey,toesatthestartline.PeteandGatlinandVarner
wereontheothersideofher.CrousewasafewrowsbackwithMasters.Sarah
was missing, and Lucas couldn’t see Jaeger anymore. Like a puppy, Harris
sprinted out onto the empty runway and trotted back again. Then he wasted
anotherburstofspeed,andPetesaid,“Whatlotterydidweloseandgethim?”
Laughtercamefromeverywhere,andthenitcollapsed.
Carl Jaeger had appeared. Where he was hiding was a mystery, but he was
suddenlystandingattheline.Hehadcomeheretorace.Insidehimself,theman
wasmakingreadyforthenexttenkilometers.Forty-plusyearsoldandnobody
could remember him losing to a local runner. It was an astonishing record
demandingconditioning and focus and remarkableluck. Staring atthe tape in
frontofhislefttoes,hedidn’tseemtonoticethedetectivespushingunderthe
barricade,comingathimwithhandcuffsattheready.
“Keepyourhandswherewecanseethem,”saidtheleadcop.
Jaeger’slegstensed,longcalvestwitching.Helookedup,saying,“Youdon’t
wantme.”Thenhelookeddown,staringatthegraypavement,andtalkingtohis
feet,hesaid,“Justletmerunthis.Justletme.”
SIX
Thetrailleapsoutofthemarshandflattens,fadingintoalawnofclippedbrown
grass.Stonesummer-campbuildingshavebeenabandonedforthewinter,every
doorpadlockedandplywoodsheetsscrewedintoeverywindow.Lucasholdshis
line,andthebuildingsfallaway.Thenthetrailisunderhimagain,yankingto
theleft,andtheclearingendswithtreesandadeepgullyandanarrowbridge
madefromoakplanksandoldtelephonepoles.
Habitkeepshimonthetrail.Seepagehaspooledatthebottomandfrozenon
top,andtheicebrokewhereJaeger’srightfootmusthaveplanted.Themuddy
waterisstillswirling.Lucascutshisstride.Hislegsdecidetojumpearly.He
knows that he won’t reach the far bank, and his lead foot hits and breaks
through,andheflingshisotherlegforward,draggingthetrailingfootoutofthe
muckbeforeit’sdrenched.
Theeffortslowshim,andthenextslopeisdarkandveryslickandslow,and
that’showtheotherspasshim.
Shoesdrumontheoakplanks.Peteisupahead,holleringafewwordsthat
endwithaquestionmark.
“What?”Lucassays.
Varnerslows,lookingdownathim.“Whereishe?”
ThenPetesays,“Gothim.”
Lucasisonthehighgroundagain.Thewoodsareyoungandcloselypacked,
thetrailwindingthroughthelittletreesuntilitseemsasifthereisnoend.Then
everybody dives again, back down into the cattails. Jaeger is a gray shape
catchingthesunshine.Bentforwardalittletoomuch,heswingshisarmstohelp
drivehislegs,attackingthenextrise.
A second cottonwood lies in the bottoms, the trunk and heavy roots made
cleanandsimplebyyearsofrot.
“Shortcut,”saysLucas.
Petesayssomelittleword.HeandVarneraresuffering,pitchingforwardlong
beforetheyreachtheslope.OnlyGatlinlookssmooth,histinyframefloating
outintothelead.
Lucas steers left, meaning to leap the tree, but he doesn’t have the lift, the
juice. His lead foot hits and he grabs at the wood with the mittens, then the
trailingfootclipsthetrunkandslowshim.Hestops,lookingdownfromaplace
wherehe’sneverbeenbefore.Athinoldtrailleadsupthemiddleofthecattails.
Hejumpsdownandrunsit,aloneagain.
Adistantvoicedriftspast.Nowordmakessense.Thentheonlysoundisthe
windhighaboveandthepopofhisfeet.Lucas’facedrips.Stillrunning,hepulls
offthemittensandbunchesthemtogetherandshovesthemintohistights.
Again,voicesfindhim.
Tohisright,motion.
Jaeger appears on the high ground, body erect, the stride relaxed. He looks
likeamanridinganinsurmountablelead.Watchingnothingbutthetrailahead,
hedivesbackintothebottoms,slowingalittle,andLucassurgesandmeetshim
where the trails merge. Looking over his shoulder, Jaeger gives a little jump.
“No,”hesays.Andabignervouslaughrollsoutofhim.
Lucastucksinclose.Againthetrailclimbsoutofthemarsh.AndwhenJaeger
risesinfrontofhim,Lucasreachesdown,catchinganankle,yankingittoward
thesky.
Jaegerfalls,onehandslappingthefrozenearth.
Grabbingtheotherankle,Lucassays,“Run.”
Jaegerkicksathim.
“Whatareyoudoing?”Lucassays.“You’reanidiot.Runthehelloutofhere.
Areyoulisteningtome?”
Voicesdriftclose.Varnersays,“Pepper,”andPetesays,“Wegothim,” and
that’s when Jaeger scrambles to his feet. His eyes are wild, fiery. With a
matchingvoice,hesays,“Whatdoyouknow.”Notaquestion,justastringof
flathardwords. Thenhe runs,hisright legwobbling. But thestride recovers,
and that endless strength carries him off while Lucas watches, hoping for the
best.
Theotherscatchupandstop,bendingtobreathe.
“Goodidea,”saysPete.
Varnersays,“What’dhetellyou?”
Lucaslooksatthebutcher’sglovesonhishandsandputshishandsdown,and
Gatlinsays,“Didyouhurthim?”
“No,”saysLucas.
“Toobad,”Varnersays.“Nexttime,breakhislegs.”
***
Voicescomethroughthetrees.Awomanshouts;amanspeaks.Thenthewoman
shoutsagain,hervoicescary-angryandmakingnosense.Lucassurges,pulling
awayfromtheothers.Wideandcarpetedwithrottedwoodchips,themaintrail
pointssouth,climbingafinallittleslopeupontoFosterLane.Jaegerhasalready
passed.Mastersstandsinthemiddleoftheroad,handsonhips.Sarahisclosest
tohim.“Donothing,”shesays.“Justdonothing.”
Masterssayssomethingsoft.
Shesays,“God,”andswatstheairwithhermittens.
Masters looks at Lucas, cheeks red and his mouth tiny, some wicked
embarrassmenttwistinghisguts.
“Asshole,run,”saysCrouse.Themanisangry,butonlytoapoint.Asports
fan yelling at the enemy team, he cups his hands around his mouth. “We’re
chasingyou,asshole.”
Nobodymoves.
Petestaggersuptotheroad,facedripping.VarnerandGatlincrossitandstop
atthemouthofthenexttrail,andGatlinpoints.“There.”
“Chasehim,”Sarahsays.
Sheisn’ttalkingtoMasters.GrabbingLucasbytheelbow,sheshakeshimand
says,“Go.”
VarnerandGatlinarerunningintothetreesagain.
Handsonknees, Petesays, “Fostergoeswhere? Downthe westsideof the
park,right?”
Lucasnods.“Acoupletrailspopout.”
“We’llwatchforhim.”ThenPetecoughsintoafist.
“Oh, he’s gotten away,” says Sarah. Pink mittens on her head, she says,
“There’samilliontrailsinthere.”
“Comeon,”saysCrouse,settingoffdowntheroad.
Petetrotsafterhim.
MasterswatchesSarah,glasseslikevolcanicglass,themouthpresseddownto
ascaredpinkdot.
Audrey stands aside, her bottom lip tucked into her mouth, little teeth
chewing. She acts like a bystander unlucky enough to stumble across an ugly
familybrawl.
“Withme?”saysLucas.
Thenheruns,saying,“Somebody.”
Smallshoesdanceacrossdrygravel.
Lucasshortenshisgait,givinghernochoicebuttofallinbesidehim.
“Whatdidyoudo?”Audreysays.“Hisknee’sbleeding.”
The trail is wide and heavily used, slicing south through old timber before
crossingoneofthegulliesthatfeedAshCreek.“Ispilledhim,”Lucassays.
“Spilledhim.”
“Stupid,”hesays.
The gully is wide, choked with muck and dead timber. The long bridge is
madefrompipeandoakplanks.Lucasjumpsonfirst,feetdrumming.“Iwanted
toscarehim.Gethimtorunsomewhereelse.”
They come off the bridge and the world turns quiet. The trail splits, one
branchheadingwest,butLucaspressessouth.
“Weweretalking,”saysAudrey. “Up ontheroad,waiting,Mastersmadea
joke.HesaidweshouldtackleJaeger,andrightawaySarahsaidthatwasagood
idea.ButwhenCarlfinallyshowedup,nobodymoved.”
Voicesdriftinfromthewest,fromdeepinthetrees.
“Shouldwehaveturnedbackthere?”Audreysays.
“Theothertrailjustmakesalittleloop.Jaegercantakeittotheroad,orhe
comesbacktous.”
Shepullsupbesidehim,andneitherofthemtalks.
Thenhesays,“Nothing’sgoingtohappentotheguy.”
“Promise?”
Heslows.
Shepasseshimandlooksback.“What?”
“We’rehere.Stop,”hesays.
Thetrailjumpsleftwherethewoodsend.Infrontofthemistwentyfeetof
verticalearthfallingintocoldslowwater.Thesecondarytrailpopsoutontheir
right.“Hearanything?”saysLucas.
“No.”Shetiltsherhead.“Yes.”
ThegrayT-shirtappearsfirst,andthenthepaleface.Jaegerspotsthem.Three
stridesaway,hestops.Hisrightkneeistryingtoscabover.Hebreatheshard,big
lungsworking,hisfaceholdingadeep,thoroughfatigue.Butthevoiceissolid.
IgnoringLucas,hesays,“Notyou.”
Moresadthanangry,Audreysays,“Justtellme,Carl.”
“Tellyouwhat?”
“DidyoukillWade?”
Jaegerthrowsalookbackupthesmallertrail.GatlinandVarnerstandinthe
trees, both men heaving. And Jaeger turns again, looking only at Lucas. He
doesn’tsayaword,butanoddlittlesmilebuilds.Thenherunsagain—ahandful
oflazystridespushinghimbetweenLucasandAudrey—andthebiglegskick
intohighgear,frozentwistsofmudscatteredonthegroundbehindhim.
***
“Youcouldhavewon.”
ItwasWade’svoice,anditwasn’t.
“They just posted the results,” he said. “You should see the splits. At five
miles,Harrishadyoubyelevenseconds.Ifyou’dkeptclose,youwouldhave
toastedhimattheend.Thekidthinkshehasakick,buthedoesn’t.”
Lucaswassittinginhiskitchen,finishingapotofcoffee.Orcsandhumans
werefightingonthetelevision,uglyevilpittedagainstthehandsomegood.
“Areyoulistening,Lucas?”
“Yeah.”
“Youhaven’twonaracesinceyouweresixteen.”
Lucasputdownthemug.“Howdoyouknow?DidItellyou?”
“I’vebeenreadingoldsportsstories,”Wadesaid.Exceptsomethingaboutthe
voicewasdifferent.Changed.Notinthewordsorrhythm,butintheemotions.
Wadewasalwaysintense,butusuallyinatough-coach,in-controlway.Usually.
But this character was letting his anger creep into everything he was saying.
“Youhadyourchance,Lucas.WithJaegeroutofcommissionandall.”
“Youknowaboutthearrest?”
“Anarticlejustgotposted.There’sanicepictureofmefromtenyearsago.
And a real shitty shot of Jaeger. I’m hoping Masters has the arrest on video.
That’ssomethingI’dliketosee.”
Lucasreachedacrossthetable,turningoffthetelevision.
“TwowitnessesputJaegerrunningwithme,”Wadesaid.“Ijustreadallabout
it. We’re in the park that Monday, at the north end heading south, and both
witnessesclaimthemoodwasugly.”
“Butyoudon’tremember.”
“Wadeuploadedhisdaysatnight,”Wadesaid.“Thatwashisroutine.”
“Iremember.”
Silence.
Lucaswaited.Thenhesaid,“YouthinkCarldidit?”
“Killedme?”Anoddlaughcameacross.“Idon’tknow.Ireallydon’t.ButI’ll
tellyouhowthisfeels.Supposeyou’reatatheatrewatchingsomemovie.It’sa
murdermystery,andthere’sthisonecharacterthatyoureally,reallycareabout.
Youwantthebestforhimbutyou’vegottopee,andthat’swhenthispersonyou
likediskilled.You’reoutoftheroom,andhegetshisskullcavedin.Andnow
youfeelangryandsad,butmostlyyoujustfeelcheated.”
Lucasliftedthemug,lookingatthestainedbottom.
“MaybeCarldidit,andmaybenot,”Wadesaid.“ButImissedthatpart.And
nowI’msittinginthedark,waitingtoseehowthingsendup.JustsoIcangeton
withmylife.”
***
Mountain bikes and hiking boots have carved a broad rut down the trail’s
middle. Runners keep to the rut, single-file, jumping the bank when the trail
twists,slicingtheturn.LucasleadsandAudreyisbehindhim,watchinghernext
steps.Withatightvoice,shesays,“Ican’tbelievethis.”
“Soquit,”Varnersays.
Jaeger is forty feet ahead. Where the trail pulls left, he cuts through the
woods,addingahalf-stridetohislead.
Varnersurges,passingAudreyandclippingLucas’heelwithafoot.
Lucasslowsandturnsnorth,windgnawingathissweatyface.
Thenextbridgeisatallsmearofredjustvisiblethroughthetrees.Jaegeris
almostthere,slowinghisgait,gettingreadytojumponthestairs.
Varner surges again, lifting himself to a full sprint, just managing to pull
aroundLucas.
Jaegerlooksback,squinting,thewidemouthpullingairinlonggulps.Then
heturnsandleaps,hisrightfootlandingonapinkgranitestep.Andhepauses,
calculatingdistanceandhisownfatiguebeforejumpingagain,breakingintoa
smoothtrotacrossthebridge.
Varnerstaggers,stifflegsclimbingafterJaeger.
Theothersbunchupbehind.
Lucas gasps, scrubbing his blood before pushing back into the lead. Ash
Creekiswideasariver,andthelongwoodenbridgeshakeswiththepounding.
Jaeger is twenty feet ahead when he reaches the end, leaping over the steps,
hitting the ground hard. His posture is surprised. He stands where he landed,
glancingbackatLucasandalmosttalking.Almost.Thenhestartsrunningagain,
notquitetrustinghisrightleg.
Lucasdancesdownthestepsandruns.Thenextstretchoftrailiswideand
straight—anold road through whatused tobe afarmer’syard. Someonewith
affectionforpoplarsplantedthemin rows, skinnywhitetrunkslookingsickly
without the glittering leaves. Again, the wind pushes the runners. Again,
everybodyaccelerates.Theoldyardendswithamassiveoakanddeepwoods.
For Wade, this was always a traditional turnaround point from the Y. By this
route,theyhavecoveredafewstepsmorethansevenmiles.
Jaegerdisappearsintothetrees.
Lucasslowsandsays,“There’sanotherbridge.”
Audreypushesclose.“Whataboutit?”
“It’sclosed.Sincelastsummer.”
“Wecanstillcross,”Gatlinsays.
“Yeah,”Lucassays.“Butthat’snotwhatI’mtalkingabout.”
Thebridgerisesinthedistance.Itlookswrong.Fourtallpostssagtowardthe
middle.LastJune,aflashfloodroareddownthetributary,cuttingatthebanks
and undermining the foundation. Jaeger is driving hard, pushing away from
them.Varnerisscaredthathemightgetaway,andtheadrenalinegiveshimjust
enoughspeedtocatchLucasandtriphimbyclippinghisheel.
Bothmentumble.Lucasslapsthegroundwhereanexposedrootcutsthrough
abutcher’sglove,rippingintohisrightpalm.
Audreystops.
Gatlinispast,gone.
Varnergroansandfindshisfeet,givingLucasanembarrassedbutthoroughly
pissedlookbeforewobblingaway.
“Areyouokay?”saysAudrey.
Lucas stands, watching the blood soak the cheap white fabric. Wincing, he
says,“Comeon,”andbreaksintoaslowtrot,eyesdown.
DANGER,CLOSEDreadsthesignnailedtocrossedplanks.
Jaegerhascrawledpastthebarricade.Steelcablesserveasrailings,andwith
armsspreadwide,heslowlydropsoutofview.
“We’rebeaten,”saysAudrey.“We’redone.”
Shesoundsnothingbuthappy.
Gatlinstandsontheramp.Thenheliftsanarmandwavesatsomeoneonthe
farbank.
Pastthebridgeisatrailheadandparkinglot.Ifpeoplerantheroaddownthe
westsideofthepark,followingFoster,evenaknuckle-walkingpacewouldtake
them to these trailhead before any greyhound could sprint down these trails.
Gatlin and Varner stand at the crossed boards, staring across the slough. The
suspensionbridgelookstiredandoldandtreacherous,sagginginthemiddleas
ifholdinganenormousweight.Jaegerstandsatthebottom.Hedoesn’tmove.
With feet apart, Pete guards the opposite barricade. Masters and Crouse are
behindhim,andSarahhoverstotheside,nothingbutsmilesnow.
Petesays,“Lookatyou.”Thenhepunchestheboards,saying,“Unlessyou
sproutwings,we’vecaughtyourass.”
***
“Seethenewstoday?”
Lucaswasmakingafreshpot.“Besidesmurderstories,youmean?”
Thedeadmanlaughedandthenfellsilent.Andoutfromthesilence,hesaid,
“Therewasathunderstormyesterday.InGreenland.”
Lucasdidn’ttalk.
“YouknowwhereGreenlandis,don’tyou?”
“Wellenough,”Lucassaid.
Thenextlaughwassmaller,angrier.“Itwasn’tabigstorm,anditdidn’tlast.
Butifrainstartsfallinghardonthoseglaciers,it’sgoingtobearealmess.”
“Ithoughtwehadarealmess.”
“Evenworse,”Wadesaid.
Mr.Coffeesettowork,happytoproveitself.
“Our weather wouldn’t be this crazy,” Lucas said. “If the Chinese hadn’t
burnedallthatcoal.”
“Whichauthorityistalking?You?”
“Masters,mostly.”
“Itwasn’ttheChinese,Lucas.Itwaseverybody.”
Lucassaidnothing,waiting.
“Smartpeoplecanbestupid,”Wadesaid.
“Iguess.”
“And I know guys who can’t read a map, but they still see things that I’d
nevernotice.”
Lucaspouredafreshcup.
“DidItellyou?ClimateisthebiggestreasonIgotmade.Anditwasn’tjust
therisingoceansandten-yeardroughtsandthoseheatwavesthathammeredthe
PersianGulf.Climatedoeschange.Alwayshas,andlifealwaysadapts.Except
theearthtodayhastwobigthingsthatdidn’texistduringtheEocene.”
Lucassaidthenewword.“Eocene.”
“Theearthhasitsmoneyandithaspolitics.Andthoseverypreciousthings
are getting hit harder than anything else. The sultans can fly off to cool wet
Switzerland, but the poor people have to die. The Saudi government has to
collapse. But meanwhile, engineers get to sit inside their air-conditioned
bunkers,usingrobotstorunoilfieldscookingatahundredandfiftydegrees.As
ifthiswassomeotherplanet,andtheywerenobleastronautsdoinggoodwork.”
“Iguess,”saidLucas.
“Politicalstabilityandwealth,”thevoicesaid.“Peopledependonthosetwo
thingsmorethananythingelse.Andthepovertyandriotsandlittlemurdersand
bigwarsarejustgoingtogetworse.Hourbyhour,yearbyyear.That’swhyI
putmysavingsintothisventure.WhyWadedid.Sure,wewerehopingforfifty
yearsoftweaking,butatleastwehadenoughtimetopackupeverythingabout
meandputithere.Mywholelife,safeassafecanpossiblybe.”
Lucassippedandlookedoutthewindow.Orhedidn’tlookanywhere.Hewas
thinking,andhehadnoideawhathewasthinkinguntilhespoke.
“Nobodywoulddothat,”hesaid.
“Dowhat?”saidWade.
“Takeeverything.”Lucaswipedthecounterwithacleantowel.“It’slikethis.
You’reputtingyourlifeintoonebigbag.Butthere’salwaysgoingtobechoices.
There’salwaysembarrassinguglydangerousshit,andyou’lllookatitandsay,
‘Hell,thatcrapneedstobeleftbehind.’”
“Thinkso?”
“Iknowit.”Lucaswatchedthecoffeewobblinginthemug.“That’sprobably
anotherreasonwhyWadedidwhathedid.Gettingfreeofthepast.”
Thelinewassilent.
“Andyou,thepoorbackup…youcan’tevenknowwhat’smissing.”Lucas
waslaughingbutnotlaughing.“Rightthere,thatsaysplenty.”
SEVEN
Jaeger stands at the bottom of the slow-swaying curve, turning slowly and
staringupatthepeopleonbothendsofthebridge.Hischestswells,drinkingthe
coldair.Themusclesinhisbarelegslooklikeoldrope,bunchedandfrayed,and
therightkneekeepsbleeding,aredsnakeglisteningdownthelongshin.With
filthybutchergloves,heholdsontothesteelcables.Oldwoodfeelshisweight,
groaning.Hedoesn’tseemtomind.Ifthebridgecollapses,hefallstenfeetinto
icy mud and nothing happens, nothing but pain and mess. Jaeger spent two
months sitting in jail. He was too broke to make bail or find an adequate
attorney.Thecity’smurderratehadexplodedinthelastfewyears.Ahundred
other cases needed to be chased. But a popular citizen had been brutally
murdered, and that’s why the police and prosecutors threw everything at the
suspect, trying to wring a confession from him. But there was no confession.
Andwhenkeybitsofphysicalevidencewerefinallyattackedbythefullpowers
ofmodernscience,theywerefoundwanting.Witnessesandoddcircumstances
don’tmakeacase,andthecourthadnochoicebuttoorderJaegerreleased.And
that’swhythisbridgeisnoobstacle.None.Nothingwillmakethemanmeaner
oranyharder.That’swhathesayswithhisbodyandhisfaceandthehardsure
gripofhishands.That’swhathesaystoLucas,staringathimwiththosefierce
greeneyes.
AndthenJaegerblinks.
Hetakesanotherbreathandholdsit.Hisheadtipsonthatlongneck.Maybe
he feels cold. Anyone else would, dressed as he’s dressed and standing still.
Thenheexhalesandmakesaquarterturn,wrappingbothhandsaroundthesame
fatsteelcable.
Petesays,“Hey,prick.Tellthetruth,andwe’llletyougo.”
Jaegerstaresattheslough.Withaplainvoice,notloudbutcarrying,hesays,
“That’s what I am. A prick. And Wade was this righteous good guy, and
everybodylikedhim,anddyingmadehimperfect.”
Nobody talks. Except for the wind in the trees and a slow trickle of water,
thereisnothingtohear.
“No,Iwasn’twithhimwhenhedied,”saysJaeger.“ButIknowhowhedied.
Evenaftertherain,therewereclues:Abigchunkofskinwasfoundsouthof
here, down near the water. It came out of his shoulder, and it was the first
wound.Somebodywasswingingapieceofrebarwithalumpofconcreteonthe
end,andtheyclippedWadefrombehind,onhisleftside,probablyknockinghim
offhisfeet.Givinghisattackerthechancetograbhisphone,leavinghimbloody
andcutofffromtheworld,butmobile.
“That’s when the chase began,” he says. “There was a blood trail. DNA
sniffers and special cameras showed where he ran, where he was bleeding.
Twice,Wadetrieddoublingbacktothenearesttrailhead,buthisenemyclipped
theshoulderagainandthenbashedinoneofhishands.Theexpertscouldtell
thatfromtheclotting.TheyknowhowfastthebloodflowedandwhereWade
collapsed.Hewasupontheabandonedrailline,probablytryingtogetbackto
town. That’s where his killer used the club to bust one of Wade’s knees,
cripplinghim.Thenhisjawwasbroken,maybetokeephimquiet.Afterthat,his
killerdraggedhimdownintothebrushandwithacouplegoodswingsbrokehis
hip.Thenforsomereason,thebeatingtookabreak.”
Jaegerpauses.
Almosttoosofttohear,Sarahsays,“Whatareyoutellingus?”
“I’m explaining why you’re idiots.” Jaeger looks at her and back at Lucas.
“Fifteen,twentyminutespassed.ThekillerstoodoverWade.Talkingtohim,I
guess.Probably tellinghim just how muchhe washated. Becausethat’s what
thismurderwas.Thatwasthepointofitall.Somebodywantedtomilkthefun
out hurting him. He wanted Wade helpless, wanted him to understand that he
wascrippledandruined.”
Sarahmakesasoft,awfulsound.
Jaeger shakes his head. “Twenty minutes of talk, and then three or four
minutesofgoodsolidhammering.Wadediedwithinsixtyseconds,theyfigured.
Buthewasatoughbastardandmaybenot.Maybehefelttheonesideoftheface
gettingcavedinandtheribsandarmsbustedandtheneckshattered.”
Lucasleansagainstthebarricade.
Jaegerpushesintothecable,longarmsstretchedwideandholdingtight.The
steady drumming of his strongest muscle causes the steel to shudder. Anyone
touchingthebridgecanfeelhisheartbeatinghardandquick.
“Ididn’thatetheman,”saysJaeger.“Youknowme,Audrey.Youtoo,Lucas.
I’m wrapped up in myself, sure. But this feud ran in just one direction.” He
laughsandgrabsbothcablesagain.“Yeah,werantogetherthatMonday.Andwe
weretalking.Butafteramileorso,Iturnedandhewenton.Forme,Wadewas
nothing.Hewasjustanotherbodyinthepack.Ididn’thatehim.NottillIspent
two months in jail, thinking about him and his good sweet friends. And you
know what? I’ve got this feeling. This instinct. I didn’t have any reason for
killing, particularly like that. But I’m thinking that killing Wade Tanner is
somethingoneofyoubastardswoulddo.Easy.”
***
The building began as a factory and became a filthy warehouse. Then the
propertysoldcheap,andtheinvestorputloftapartmentsintotheupperstories
and The Coffee Corner took over the loading dock and west end, while the
backsidewasrebornasafashionablecourtyardcompletewithflowerpotsanda
broken fountain. Lucas was walking past the courtyard’s black-iron gate.
Saturday’srunwasfinishedandcoffeewasfinishedandhewasthinkingabout
therestofhisday,andfrombehind,Sarahsaid,“Ineednewshoes.”
Shewastalkingtohim,Lucasthought,turningaround.
Toherphone,shesaid,“WhatkindshouldItry?”
The odd funny weird thing about the moment was her face. Sarah looked
happy,whichwasdifferent.Thesmilelitherfaceandmadehereyesdance.She
waslisteningtoavoice,andherealizedwhosevoice.ThenshenoticedLucas
andturnedaway,suddenlyembarrassed,mutteringsoftlittlewordsnobodyelse
neededtohear.
Sarahwentthrough thegate. Lucasfollowed.The originalpavers made the
courtyard, dark red and worn smooth by horses pulling wagons. Maybe the
horses were coming back someday. It was something to think about as he
followedthelittlewoman.AglassdoorledintoTheRunner’sCloset,andthe
ownerhadjustopenedup.Afewminutesafterten,inOctober,andhisdaywas
startingofffine.Hehadtwocustomersatonce,andtheguyhadtogrin.
Lucasstumbledovernames.Tom?TomHubble,right.
“He wants me to try the Endorphins,” Sarah said. “The ones with the twin
computersandthesmart-gelactuators.”
“Goodchoice,”Tomsaid.“Whatsize?”
She told him and he vanished into the back room, and then she turned,
watchingLucas.Shedidn’ttalk.Shewaslisteningandsmiling.Thenshesaid,
“Lucasisheretoo,”andnoddedasWadetalked.Thenshetoldthelivingman,
“Hesaysyouneednewshoestoo.”
“Yeah,buthowdoesheknow?”
“Wadestillhelpshere.Keepstrackofwhobuyswhat,andyouhaven’tbought
foralongtime.”
Whatwasstrangestwashowmuchallofthatmadesense.
Lucas sat on the padded bench, Sarah settling beside him, still talking to
Wade.Anovaltrackhadbeenpaintedonthefloor,wrappingaroundthebench.
Shelistenedtothevoice,andTombroughtoutaboxofshoesandputthemon
herandlacedherupandwatchedherjoggingafewstridesatatime,smarteyes
tryingtoseewhatwasrightandwronginherstep.
Sarahgiggled.Notlaughed,butgiggled.
“Ineednewshoestoo,”Lucassaid.
“Whatkinddoyoulike?”Tomsaid.
“WhatIhave,”Lucassaid.
“What’sthemodel?”
“Idon’tremember,”Lucassaid.“AskWade.”
Tomnodded,watchingSarahfinishingherlap.Shesaid,“Bye,”andtouched
herphone.“I’lltakethem.Andhesaidpasshiscommissionbacktome,please.”
“Sure,”Tomsaid,risingslowly.
Sarahstartedfollowinghimtowardthecounterbutthenstoppedandlookedat
Lucas. “You know, I talk to him more than ever,” she said, smiling but not
smiling.Happyinhercorebutknowingtherewassomethingwrong,something
sickaboutfeelingthisway.
***
Jaeger grabs the cables and drives with his legs, climbing the far side of the
swayingbridge.Peteholdshisground,waiting.Thefourpeoplewait,shoulders
squaredbutthefeetnervous.Everythingwillbefinishedinanotherminute.A
fightiscoming,andthefourpeopleonthenorthbankcanonlywatch,eachof
themfeelingluckybecauseofit.
Pete’sfacetightens.
Jaegersays,“Move.”
Nobodyreacts.Prideholdsthem in place,rightupuntilPete dips hishead,
throwingafewwordsattheothersashebacksaway.
Mastersretreats,relieved.
NotCrouse.Hereplantshisfeet.Unimpressed,Jaegergrabsthebarricadeand
jumps,onefootlandingwheretheplankscross.Thenheyanksthefootfreeand
drops beside Crouse, saying nothing while staring down at him, and Crouse
nearlytripsbackingoffthewoodenramp.
Only Sarah remains. She makes fists inside her mittens and steps forward,
wavingthefistswhilesobbing,fightingforbreath.
Jaegerpushespastherandruns,vanishinginafewstrides.
Petewaves.“Oneatatime.”
Gatlin goes first. The little body slips under the barricade and runs to the
bottomandrunsuptothefarside.Varnerchases,everystepridiculouslylong,
the bridge bucking and creaking. Audrey is next, but she won’t let go of the
cablesandshewon’trun.Halfwaydown,shelooksbackatLucas,andhesays,
“Let’sjustleave.Wecanheadback.”
She shakes her head and says, “But what if they catch him?” Just the
possibilitymakeshertremble,andshehurries,finishinghertripdownandthen
upagain.
Cuppingahandagainsthismouth,Petesays,“Areyoucoming?”
Lucassays,“No.”Maybehemeansit.Anywhereelseintheworldwouldbe
better than being here. But he watches himself bend and climb through the
barricade, and he lets his legs run. Planks rattle as he stretches out, and then
withoutafalsesteporstumble,hechargesupthefarside.
OnlyPetewaits.HelooksinLucas’direction.HetalkstoLucas,unlesshe’s
talkingtohimself.“Idon’tknow,”hesaystooneofthem.“Ijustdon’tknow.”
ThetrailfollowsthesloughtoitsmouthandthenfollowsAshCreekagain.
Cottonwoodsstandamongthescrubelmsandmulberries,andthewoodsgive
waytodeadgrassandaparkinglotofruttedgravel.PastthelotisWestSpencer
Roadandanothermile-deepsliceofparkland.Therestofthegroupstandbeside
the lone picnic table, bunched together and silent. A rhythmic shriek begins,
cuttingatthecoldair.Jaegerhasclaimedtheold-stylepump,liftingthehandle
andshovingitdownagain.Arustyboxfillswithwaterandbrownwaterspouts
from the bottom into a rusted bowl, spouting even when he stops pumping,
bendingovertodrink.
Oncehehashisfill,Jaegerstraightens,wipinghischinandhismouth.Then
hetrotstothenexttrailandstopsagain,lookingbackatthem.
“He’swaitingonus,”Varnersays.
Andwithaquietsickvoice,Audreysays,“Who’schasingwho?”
***
Sarah paid for the shoes and left, and Tom vanished into the back again. His
voice drifted out of the storeroom—one side of the conversation exchanging
pleasantries before asking the real question. Lucas drifted to the front of the
store,upwhereatallsheetofcorkboardwascoveredwithraceresultsandnews
clippingsandfreebrochurestellingnewrunnershowtotrainforcompetition.A
younger, badly yellowed Wade smiled down from a high corner, holding a
famouspairofshoesinonehand.TomcameoutwithaboxwhileLucaswas
pickinghiswaythroughthenewsclipping,onewordafteranother.
“I’d pull that old thing down,” Tom said. “But people expect it. I’m afraid
customerswouldgetmad,notseeingitthere.”
“Iwouldn’t,”Lucassaid.
Tomexaminedtheclipping.“Iwasherethatday.Infact,Isawthekidsnatch
up those shoes. Out the door and gone, and Wade came charging from the
storeroomtochasehim.Itoldhimnotto.Thekidwasonmeth.Icouldtell.But
youknowWade.”
“Yeah.”
“Iknewhe’dcatchthethief,andthat’swhatscaredme.”
Lucasgaveupreading.It was thephotographthatmattered.It was thatbig
smileandthehairthatwasstillthickandblondandtheruggedlookswrapped
aroundacrookednose,anditwashowthatyoungerWadeheldthoseshoesupto
thecamera,noprizeintheworldhalfasimportant.
“Thatshoethiefhadaknife,”Tomsaid.
“Iremember.”
“Butthingsworkedout.Wadejustkeptrunninghimuntilhecollapsed,and
nobodygotcut.”
Lucasdroppedhiseyes,watchingthefloor.
“HewasthefirstsalesmanthatIhired,”saidTom.“Wadewasstillincollege.
Ihadnoideahe’dstayherefortwentyyears.Honestly,Ididn’tthinkhewould
lastthatfirstweek.Hewastoointense,Ithought.Tooperfect,toodriven.The
craphewouldpullsometimes.God,thesearejustshoes.Theworldisn’tgoing
toendifyoudon’thappentomakethatonesale.”
Tomwaslookingatthesamepieceofthefloor,explaining.“Butlikenobody
I’veeverknown,Wadehadatalentfornamesandfaces.Forfeetandgaits.He
waseverybody’sfirstdoctorwhentheygothurt,andhelovedsellingshoes,and
evendead,he’sstillpracticallymanagingthisplace.”
“Whatelse?”Lucassaid.
“Whatelsewhat?”
“Whatstupidcrapdidhepull?Besideschasingshoethieves,Imean.”
Tomswallowed,thinkingbeforeanswering.“Hefiredclerksforlittlethings.
Nowarnings,justgone.Ifacustomergavehimabadcheck,hewouldn’ttake
another check from that person. Ever. And he couldn’t keep his nose out of
privateconcerns.Hehadthisneed,thiscompulsion,tosteertheworldtoward
doingwhat’sright.YouknowwhatImean.”
“Oh,sure.”
“Iwasatthatpartytoo,Lucas.”
Lucaslookedathim.
“Ineverwouldhavecalledthecopsonyou.”
Lucasdidn’tknowwhattosay.Hetriedasmallshrug.
Tomwasnervousbutproud.Hethoughtthathewasmakingacustomerfor
life.“Wadewasagoodman,buthethoughteveryoneshouldbe.”
Onelastglanceatthephotographseemedright.
“IthacaFlyers.Isthatyourshoe?”
“Soundsright.”
“Thisisthenewmodel,buthesaysyou’lllikeit.”
“Well,”saidLucas.“Theguywasusuallyright.”
***
Thegroupshufflesovertothepump.Masterspullsalittlebottleoffthebackof
his belt, sharing the blue drink with Sarah. Pete gives the handle a few hard
shovesanddrinks,andthentheotherstaketurns.Everybodyistired,butnotlike
runners beaten up by miles. They look like cocktailers after Last Call, faces
sloppyandsadandmaybealittlescaredbywhateveriscomingnext.
Lucasdrinkslast,holdingthefrigidbowlwithhisbloodiedpalm,thewater
warmandthickwithiron.
“Suckingthegrounddry?”saysJaeger.
Lucasstopsdrinking.Butinsteadofstanding,hedropsdown,stretchinghis
legswitharunner’slunge.
Jaegerturnsandleaves.
“Hurry,”Sarahsays.
Mastersissqueezingthelasttasteoutofagel-pack.
Shesays,“Now.”
He nearly talks. Words lie ready behind those big sorrowful eyes. But he
forceshimselftosaynothing,foldingthefoilenvelopeandshovingitintohis
belt pocket before taking a last little swig from the bottle, diluting the meal
beforeithitshisdefenselessstomach.
Everybody is stiff from standing, and nobody mentions it. Nobody does
anythingbutrun,liftingtheirpaceuntiltheyseeJaegerfloatingupahead.Sarah
is in front, sniffling. A flat concrete bridge carries West Spenser across the
stream.Jaegerthrowsbackaquickglancebeforefollowingthetrailunderthe
bridge,huggingtheeastbank.
“Itwashim,”Varnersays.
Crousesays,“Sure.”
“Wadewasourfriend,”Varnersays.Butthatisn’tenough.Shakinghishead,
hesays,“Wadewasmybestfriend.Hegotmeintorunning.Soldmemyfirst
shoes,whenIwasfat.Andhewasagroomsmanatmywedding.Remember?”
Withanedge,Petesays,“Yeah,noneofushadreasons.”
Sarahslows.“Whatdoesthatmean?”
Theybunchupbehindher.
“Oneofushadamotive?”shesays.
PetedropsbacktoAudrey.“Whatdoyouthink,princess?Youroldboyfriend
killWade,ordidn’the?”
The trail dives and widens, its clay face pounded slick. The stream lies on
theirright,pushingpasttheconcretepilingsanddeadtimber,thewetroarhitting
theundersideofthebridgebeforebouncingoverthem.ItishardtohearAudrey
saying,“Ineverbelievedhewasguilty.”
They come out from under, emerging into the calm. Climbing the slope,
nobodytalks.ThenAudreysays,“Carlisself-centeredandstubborn,likealittle
boy.Buthe’sneverbeenviolent.Notaroundme.”
Carved by chainsaws, a simple bench sits beside the trail, waiting for the
exhausted.Theyrunpastandthetraildropsagainandhitsbottom,andCrouse
gaspsastheyclimb.“Youtwodated?”hesays.
“Yearsago,”shesays,readytosaynothingmore.
Crousehastosurgetocatchher.Butit’sworththepaintotellher,“Idon’tsee
it.Idon’tunderstand.WhyisCarlattractive?”
Forseveralstrides, nothinghappens. Thetrailtwists awayfrom the stream,
nothingbuttreesaroundthem.ThenAudreyslowsandlooksatCrouse,herface
prettyandpleasedwhenshesays,“Lookatthatbody,thoselegs.Andnowguess
whatIsawinhim.”
Themanreddens.
Shelaughs,saying,“Littleboyscanbefun.”
Jaegerlooksbackagain,holdingthegapsteady.
“SodidheevertalkaboutWade?”saysPete.
Shekeepslaughing.“Carlloved,andImeanloved,howthatmankepttrying
tobeathim.Itfedhim,knowingonepersonwasawakenights,tryingtofigure
outhowtopasshimatthefinishline.”
Nobodyreacts.
Thenshesays,“Lucas,”andcomesupbesidehim.“Idon’tthinkIevertold
you. But when you started training with Wade, Carl wasn’t sure how long he
wouldstayontop.‘Wadefoundhisthoroughbred,’waswhathesaid.”
EverybodybutPeteglancesatLucas.Petejustdipshishead,askingthetrail,
“Whataboutyou,Pepper?IsJaegerthekiller?”
Lucasdropshisarmsandslows.Thestreamcomesbacklookingforthetrail.
Suddenly the world opens up, and they chug along a narrow ribbon of earth,
perchedonabankbeingundercutbyeverynewflood.Totheirrightisnothing
except open air. A string of bodies are pushing against the brush on the left.
AudreyisinfrontofLucas,Petebehind.Petesays,“Ifitisn’tJaeger,whowas
it?”
Lucas runs with eyes down, and a quiet, puzzled voice says, “If it wasn’t
Carl?”
“Yeah?”
“Me,”hesays.“IcouldhavebeatenWadeTannertodeath.”
EIGHT
Audreyslows,nearlytrippingLucas.
Hesays,“Sorry,”anddropshishandsonhershoulders.
“Wasityou?”saysPete.
“No,”Lucassays.
“Howcanyoueventhinkit?”saysAudrey.
Lucasletsgoofher,eyesdown,headshaking.
VarnerandGatlin are in the lead. Feeling the others fall back, they pull up
reluctantly,andVarnersays,“Who’shurt?”
Nobodyanswers.Sixrunnersstand on thecrumblingtrail,flushagainstthe
drop-off.Lucasturnshisbacktothewater.“It’sjusthowthingslook,”hesaysto
Audrey,toeverybody.“Ifyouthinkaboutit.”
“Keeptalking,”saysPete.
But Masters speaks first. With a voice nobody has ever heard—an angry,
sharp,defiantvoice—hesays,“Wadewasanass.”
Everybodyturns.
Theman’sfaceisred,hisjawset.“I’mtiredofthinkingabouttheman,”he
says. “I’m tired of talking about the man. And I don’t want to have another
conversationwiththatgoddamnsoftware.”
“Don’t,”saysSarah.Thenagain,softer,shesays,“Don’t.”
Nobodywantstolookather.Itiseasiertostareatthemadmanwiththesleek
blackglassesandthelong-builtrage.
“Let’srunhome,”saysAudrey.
VarnerandGatlinreturntothepack.“Who’shurt?”saysVarner.
Petesays,“Nobody.We’rejusthavingameeting.”
“Wecouldn’thave,”Sarahsays.“Nobodyherewouldkillhim.”
WhichmakesPetelaugh.Excepthisfaceisflushedandhecan’tstopshaking
hishead,blowinghardthroughclenchedteeth.Withonefinger,hepokesLucas
inthechest.“Wasityou?”hesays.
“No.”AspasmripsthroughLucas’body.Onefootdropsoverthesoftlipof
thetrail,andhebringsitbackagain,steppingforwardjustfarenoughtofeelthat
hewon’tfall in thenextmoment. ThenPeteputs a handflushagainst Lucas’
chest,notpushingbutreadytopush,waitingfortheexcuse.
Andnowanothervoicecomesin.
“I’vegotalistofsuspects,”Jaegersays.“Whydon’tyoulistentomenow?”
***
Theoldburroakstandsonthebank,underminedtowhereatangleoffatcurling
roots juts into the open air. Jaeger stands in the shadow of that doomed tree,
smiling.Pullingoffthebaseballcap,heusesthelongsleeveofhisshirttowipe
hiseyesandthebroadforehead.Thenheputsthecapbackwhereitbelongs,and
hesaysnothing,thesmileneverbreaking.
“Giveusnames,”saysPete.
“Okay,yours,”Jaegersays.“AndVarner.”
“Why?”Varnersays.
“Causeyou’remean boys.I barelyknoweither ofyou, andI’mpretty sure
thatI’veneverhurtyou.Buthereyouare,chasingme,bothofyoulookingready
tobustheads.Allyouneedisareason.SomaybeWadeisagoodreason.Who
knows?”
Varnercurses.Petegivesahorsesnort.
“Thenthere’sthelittleguy,”saysJaeger.“I’vegotaguess,Mr.Gatlin.Butit’s
asweetone.”
“What?”FastDougsays.
“Youranformayorwhen?Three,fouryearsback?AndWadehelped.Iheard
he gave you names and phone numbers for every runner in town. Stuffed
envelopes, dropped money in your lap. But then news leaked about some old
businessbackinOhio.Sure,thosetroubleswereyearsold.Sure,thegirlstopped
cooperating with the cops and charges got dropped. But you know how it is.
Nothing’suglierthanreporterschasingsomethingthatlookseasy.”
Gatlinopenshismouthandclosesit.
“DidWadeknowyoursex-crimehistory?”saysJaeger.“Washetheleakthat
gotthescandalrolling?”
Quietly,fiercely,theaccusedmansays,“Idon’tknow.”
Jaegerlaughs.“ButitcouldhavebeenWade.Weknowthat.Lovehimornot,
the guy had this code for how people should act, and not living up to his
standardswasdangerous.Hecouldbeyourbuddyandremaincivil,butifyou
were trying to run for public office and he decided that you were guilty of
something,he’dhappilydropawordintherightearandletjusticerunyouover.
Thatwouldn’tbotherthemanforaminute.”
“Soeverybodybutyouisguilty,”saysPete.“Isthatit?”
JaegerwinksatCrouse.“Wadelikedprettygirls.Andprettywiveswerebest.
Which is funny, considering the man’s ethics. But adultery isn’t a crime.
Romanceisacontest,arace.Thereisawinner,andthereiseverybodyelse,and
I’mlookingatyoubutthinkingaboutyourwife.Sheisadream.Afattoadlike
you is lucky to have her. And believe me, a guy like Wade is going to be
interested,andbytheway,whosebabydidshejusthave?”
Crousetriestocurse,buthehasn’tthebreath.
Audreysays,“Carl.”
“Withyou,darling,Idon’thaveguesses.”Jaeger’sfacesoftens.“Maybeyou
twohadahistory.Maybetherewasagoodreasonforyoutocripplehimandkill
him.Iheardyourmarriagefellapartacouplemonthsago.Anybodycandrawa
storyfromthatclue.Exceptyounevertriedtokillme,notonce,andIgaveyou
ahundredreasonstocutoffmyheadwhileIwasdreaming.”
Audreycries.
JaegerpointsatSarah.“Butyou,”hesays.“Attheraces,Isawyouchattingit
upwiththedeadman.I’mnotthemostsensitiveboil,buteverythingshowedin
thoseeyes.Ifyoudidn’tscrewWade,youwantedto.Andmaybeyoudidn’tdo
the bashing, but you’ve got a husband. And worse, you’ve got this tall goon
following you around. What would Mr. Masters do if he discovered that his
trainingbuddywascheatingonherhusbandandonhim?”
Breathinghard,MastersstaresatthebackofSarah’shead.
“Noendtothesuspects,”Jaegersays.
“WhataboutPepper?”saysPete.
“Yeah,Iwassavinghim.”
Lucasfeelssick.
Peteturnsandlooksathim.“Theparty,”hesays.
“At the coach’s house,” says Jaeger. “I’ve heard stories. Not that anybody
invited me, thank you. But my sources claim that a brutal load of liquor was
consumed.Byoneman,mostly.Yearsofsobrietygoneinanight,andthenthe
drunkdroveaway.”Hesmiles,somethinggoodonhistongue.“Andthat’swhen
somebodycalledthehotline.Somebodytoldtheworld,‘LucasPepperisdriving
andshit-faced,andthisishislicenseplate,andthisishishomeaddress,andthis
ishisphonenumber.’”
Lucasmanagesraggedlittlebreaths.
“Anightinjailandyourlicensesuspended,”saysJaeger.“Butthere’sworse
partstothestory.Iknowbecausemyfirstsourcetoldme.ThatnextMonday,
whenIcrossedpathswithWade,Iaskedaboutyou,Pepper.‘Where’syourprize
stallion?’Isaid.‘Whyisn’therunninginthismiserableheat?’That’swhenhe
launchedintothisscreamingfitaboutdrunks,abouthowstupiditwastowaste
effortandbloodtryingtokeepbastardslikethemontrack.
“Iknowsomethingaboutuglytantrums,”Jaegersays.“Andthiswasrealbad.
Thisiswhatthewitnessessawwhentheysawusinthatpark.Theyassumedit
wastwomenfighting.Whichitwas,Iguess.Exceptonlyoneofthemenwas
present,andIwasjustawitness,tryingtohangonfortheride.
“Wade told me about that party and how he watched you drinking and
drinking,andthenhemade ithisbusinesstowalk youtoyourcar,and that’s
wherehegotintoyourface.Standingatthecurb,hetoldyouexactlywhatyou
were,whichwastheworstkindoffailure.Hesaidhewasn’tsurehewasgoing
to give you even one more chance. Why bother with a forty-year-old
drawerhead,spentanddoneandwasted?
“Andthat’sthemomentIturnedaround.Itwasahotstickyevening,andthat
wasmyexcuse.Butreally,Iwasembarrassedforyou,Lucas.Ididn’tknowthat
waspossible.Iturnedandranhome,andWadewentonhismerryway,andIcan
guesswhathappenedifhecamearoundthebendandranintoyoutrottingby
yourself.”
LucasstaresatJaegerbutglimpsessomethingmoving.Somethingisrunning
throughthetrees,andnobodyelseseesit.
Withtheonefinger,PetepunchesLucas.“Istheresomethingyouwanttotell
us,Pepper?”
Sniffing,Audreywhispershisname.
Jaegerremovesthecapagain,wipingathisforehead.
Lucas is the only person who doesn’t jump when Harris trots up behind
Jaeger.
“Hey,guys,”saysabighappyvoice.“Ifinallyfoundyou.”
***
InNovember,inthewarmdark,LucasrodeuptotheHaroldFarquetMemorial
Fieldhouse.HewasstowingbikelightswhenVarnerappeared.“Imustbelate,”
saidLucas.
“What’sthatmean?”saidVarner,notlaughing.
Theywentinside.Halfanacreofconcretelaybeneathashellofnakedgirders
and corrugated steel. The building’s centerpiece was the two-hundred-meter
pumpkin-orangetrack.Multipurposecourtsfilledthemiddleandstretchedeast.
Athletics offices and locker rooms clung to the building’s south end. Banners
hanging from the ugly ceiling boasted about third-place finishes. The largest
banner celebrated the only national championship in Jewel history—twenty
yearsago,incross-country.
Thirtypeoplehadcomeoutofthedarknesstorun.Mostweremiddle-of-the-
packjoggers,cheeryandalittlefat.MastersandSarahweresharingapieceof
floor,stretchinghamstringsandITbands.Audreyranherownworkout,surging
onthebriefstraight-aways.Lucaswatchedheracceleratetowardhimandthen
fallintoalazytrotontheturn,smilingasshepassed.
Varnervanishedinsidethelockerroom.Outofhispack,Lucaspulledaclean
singletanddrysocksandthestill-youngshoes.Hisshortswereunderhisjeans.
Kickingoffstreetshoes,hechangedintheopen.Hisphonerang,andglancingat
thenumber,hekilledthering.ThenAudrey’sphonerangasshecamepast,and
sheansweredbysaying,“Kindofbusyhere,Mr.Tanner.”
The indoor air felt hot and dry. Lucas walked toward the lockers, bent and
took a long drink from the old fountain, the water warm enough for a bath.
Burping, he stepped away. Heroes covered the wall. Someone made changes
sincelastwinter,butthebiggestphotographwasthesame:Thechampionship
teamwithitstopfivecompetitorsinback,slowerrunnerskneelingattheirfeet.
Ableandhisassistantsflankedthevictors.Thecoachlookedhappiest,standing
besidehismainstallion.Bycontrast,Jaegerappearedsmugandbored,hissmile
as thin as could be and still make a smile. The big portrait of the school’s
nationalchampionrunnerhadbeenremoved.Threedifferentyears,CarlJaeger
wasthebestinDivisionIIcross-country.Butthatmanwasinjail,andthedead
manhadreplacedhim.NewlymintedprintsofWadehadbeentakenfrompast
decades,eachimagefreshandclean.Testimonialsabouttheman’scompetitive
driveandimportancetothelocalrunningcommunitymadehimintosomebody
worth missing. Lucas read a few words and gave up. Farther along was a
youngerAudrey,third-bestatthenationaltrials.Herhairwaslongbutnothing
elsehadchangedmuch.Hestudiedthepictureforaminute,andthenshecame
aroundagain,saying,“Don’tstareatlittlegirls,oldman.Hearme?”
***
“Youpointedeast,”Harrissays.“SoIheadedeast.Ichasedyou.Exceptnobody
was there. Old farts start slow, and I didn’t see you after the first mile, so I
figuredyouchangedyourminds.”
Thekidisangrybutsmiling,proudofhiscleverness.
“I thought about going north. But then I realized…” Harris stops talking.
“Hey,Carlie.Whatareyoudoingwiththiscrew?”
Nobodyspeaks.
Something odd is happening here. That fact is obvious enough to sink into
Harris’brain.Thesmirksoftens,blueeyesblink,andagainhesays,“Whatare
youdoingwiththeseguys,Carl?”
Jaegerturnsandruns.
Harris is wearing long shorts and a heavy yellow top, his black headband
streakedwithsalt.HisglassesarethesameasMasters,onlynewer.Hisshoes
lookliketheycameoutoftheboxthismorning.“Youshouldseeyourfaces,”he
says.“Youguyslooksick.”
PetestepsawayfromLucas.
“Anyway,”Harrissays,“Ididn’tknowwhereyouwere,butIknewsomebody
who’dknow.SoIcalledWade.Hepointedmeintherightdirection,andIran
thetraintrackstocutdistance.Inearlymissedseeingyou,butIheardshouting.”
“Shutup,”Petesays.
“Whatdowedo?”saysGatlin.
“Followhim,”Varnersays.
Jaegeriscrossingameadow,theblackcapbobbingtoomuch.
PetelooksatLucas,bighandsclosingintofists.
AndLucasbreaksintoafullsprint,cuttingbetweenbodies.
Harrissmilesandsays,“Pepper.”Thenforfun,hesetshisfeetandthrowsout
anarm.“What’sthepassword?”
Theycollide.
Theyoungbodyiswiry-strongandtough.ButLucashasmomentum,andthey
fall together. Lucas’ sore hand ends up inside the kid’s smile. Bony knuckles
smackteethandlips,andwithahardgruntHarrisisdown,thesplitupperlip
drippingblood.
Awetvoicecurses.
Lucasisupandrunning.
Harris pokes at his aching mouth, and after careful consideration he says,
“Screwyou,asshole.”
Lucas charges past the oak and across the meadow. The black cap is gone.
Lucasholds to themain trail, following it back into the woods where it turns
cozywiththestream.Awildsprintputshimnearafive-minutepace.Thenhe
slows, feeding oxygen to his soggy head. Roots and holes want to trip him.
Voicescalloutfrombehind,andhesurgesagain.Somebodyhollershisname.
Lucasholdsthepace.Hehaslittleextratogive,buthisstridestayssmoothand
furious.Ahalf-grownashtreeisdeadonthetrail,andhislegslift,carryinghim
overwhatisbarelyanobstacle.Thestreamisstraightahead,thebankcutintoa
longuglyramp,rocksand concrete slabscreatingshallowwaterwherehorses
canford.Lucasturnsleft,followinganarrowertrail,andthetrailsplits,theright
branchblockedbya“CLOSED”sign.
Jaegerwentleft,gravelshowingwherearunnerchurnedupthelittleslope.
Lucasrunsright onthe badlyunderminedtrail. Holesneedto beleaped. Last
year’sgrasslicksathislegs.Thetrailendswherethebankcollapsed,probably
inthelastfewweeks,andhepushessidewaysandupthroughthegrass,popping
outonthewiderailbed.
Jaegerisclose.SeeingLucas,hesurges,andwherethetraildropsbackinto
thewoods,heaccelerates.Buthisheaddipstoomuch.Longarmslooksloppy,
tighttothebodyandnotinsync.Lucasthrowsinhisownsurge,andcatching
Jaeger,hedipshishead,deliveringonehardshove.
Jaegerstaysupbutdriftsintothebrush,andhisrightlegjumpsout.Bothmen
tripandfall,bonyarmsflingingateachother,tradingblowsuntiltheyaredown,
scrappedandpanting.
Lucasisfirsttohisfeet.
Cursing, he tries kicking Jaeger’s ribs and beats his toes into the frozen
groundbymistake.ThenJaegergrabsthefootandtriestobreakit,twistingas
hardashecan,doingnothingbutforcingLucastofallonhisassagain.
Lucasbreathesinlonggulps.“Thisisnofun,”hesays.
“Betterthanjail,”Jaegersays.
“Notmuch.”
Upontherailbed,Gatlinsays,“Iseethem.”
Harrissays,“He’smine,mine.”
Jaeger finds his feet first. Then after a moment’s consideration, he reaches
downandoffersahandtoLucas.
***
Peteemergedfromthelockerroom,walkingaheadofGatlin.“Areyoustanding
orrunning?”hesaid.
“Icandoboth,”Lucassaid.
Themenlaughedandlefthimlookingatpictures.
Audreywastakinganotherturn.Shewasn’ttalkingtoanybodynow.Harris
hadcomefromsomewhere,trottingnexttoher,chattyandhappy.Asifhehada
chancewithher.Hesaidsomethingandlaughedforbothofthem,andAudrey
didherbestnottonotice.
Lucas had no fire. He didn’t want to run, and that’s why he kept delaying.
Walkingthewall,hestudiedvolleyballpicturesandwrestlingpicturesandabig
plaquecommemoratingHaroldFarquet,deadthirtyyearsbutstilllookingplush
inthatsuitandtie.Thenhereachedabarespot.Arectangularpieceofthewall
seemed too bright, holes showing where bolts had held up something heavy.
Curioustoapoint,hetriedrememberingwhatusedtobethere.Hecouldn’t.The
adjacent hallway led to the offices, and someone was moving inside Able’s
office.Onawhim,Lucasknocked,andthecoachcameoutsmiling.
“What’sup,Pepper?”
“IlikethatstuffaboutWade,”Lucassaid.
“Yeah,wethoughtitwasgoodtodo.Gladyoulikeit.”
“AndyoutookdownCarl.”
Ablegrimaced.“Yeah,wedid.”
“There’s something else down,” Lucas said. “There used to be a plaque
aroundthecorner.AboutCarl?”
“No,” the coach said. “A few years back, we had an alum give the athletic
departmentsomemoney.Wethankedhimwithabanquetandabigplaqueinhis
honor.”
“Sowhathappened?”
“JaredWails.Rememberhim?”
“Idon’tdonames,”Lucassaid.
“Hewasaslowrunner,abusinessman.Hadthatbigtitlecompanyupuntillast
year.”Bloodshowed inthe roundface.“You sawhim at races,probably.The
richboywhodroveCorvettes.”
“The’73Stingray.”
“That’shim.”
“Iremember.Theguywaskitingchecks.”Lucasnodded,piecesofthestory
comingback.“Hetoldpeopleheinheritedhismoney,buthedidn’t.Andwhenit
caughtuptohim,hedroveouttothewoodsandblewhisbrainsout.”
“Andwepulleddownhisplaque.”
“Yeah,Iknewhim.Ieventalkedtohimafewtimes.”Lucasnodded,saying,
“Ilikedtheman’scars.Itoldhimso.Hewasthenicestrichguyintheworld,so
longaswewereyabberingaboutCorvettes.”
“Hewasn’tthatnice,”thecoachsaid.
“That’s what I’m saying.” Lucas wiped at his mouth. “We always had the
same conversation: Cars and how much fun it was to drive fast, but gas was
scarce,even forsomebody withmoney.It wasa niceconversation. Excepthe
always changed subjects. He always ended up making big noise about hiring
me.”
“You?”
“Iwasgoingtobehispersonaltrainer.Iwasgoingtocoachhimtowherehe
couldrunasub-three-hourmarathon,orsomesuchcrap.Andhewasgoingto
pay me. He always gave me numbers, and each time, the numbers got fatter.
Wilder.Plushewasgoingtodroptenpounds,ortwenty,andthenthirty.AndI
was going to run ultra-marathons with him, crossing Colorado or charging up
thatmountaininAfrica.Kilimanjaro?”
“LucasPepper,personaltrainer,”Ablesaid,laughing.
“Yeah,Mr.Discipline. Me.”Lucas shook hishead. “Ofcourse Wailsdidn’t
meanit.Anybodycouldtell.Healwayssmiledwhenhetalkedthatway.Itwasa
smartbossysmile.Themainmessagewasthathehadenoughmoneytobuymy
ass.Wheneverhewanted.AndIneededtoknowit.”
Thecoachnodded.Waiting.
“TheProgram’sfullofpeoplelikehim,”Lucassaid.“AA,Imean.It’sdrunks
and drawerheads who spend their lives lying about a thousand things to keep
theirdrinkingsecret.That’sthefeelIgotofftheStingrayman.Theshinysmile.
The way his eyes danced, not quite looking at me when he was telling his
stories.Anystory.”
“Themanwasacompulsiveliar.”
“Iguess.”
“No,afterthesuicide.JaredWailshadthisbiglifestory,butmostofitwas
madeup.”
“Alotofpeopletrydoingthat,”Lucassaid.
“Butyousawthroughhim.”
Lucasshrugged.
“So?Youevermentionyourintuitiontoanybody?”
“Yeah, I did.” Lucas nodded, looking out at the track. Ready to run now.
“Once,ItoldsomebodywhatIsawinthatguy.”
***
Whatmattersisthetrail.Treesandbrushandthewidesunnygashofthestream
slidepast,buttheyarenothing.Whatisrealisthewetblackstripofhard-packed
earththattwistsandfoldsbackonitself.Whatmattersiswhat’sunderthefoot
andwhatwaitsforthenextfoot.Asignpoststreakspast—ayellowSsprouting
an arrow pointing southwest. The trail narrows and drops and widens again,
forminganapronofwater-washedearththatfeelstackyforthenexttwostrides.
Therunnersslow,barely.Lucasleads.Thenthetrailliftsandyanksleft,andthe
pacequickensandquickensagain,andagutturallittlevoicefrombehindtriesto
saysomethingclever,butthereisn’tenough airforclever.Jaeger settles fora
muttered,plaintivecurse.
Twostridesahead,Lucas’cleangaitskipsoverrootsandamoundofstubborn
dirt.Hisbluewindbreakerisunzipped,crackingandpoppingastheairshoves
past.Everysleeveispushedoverhiselbows.Thestockingcapandhairarefull
of sweat, but the face is perfectly relaxed. Except for little glimpses, his eyes
pointdown,andhelistenscarefullytothefootfallsbehindhim.
Jaegerslows,droppingbackanotherstride.
AshCreektakesahardbend,andthenitstraightens,pointingdueeast.The
wateriswideandshallow,filledwithdownedtimberandbusybubblingwater
heading in the opposite direction, and the trail hangs beside it, smooth and
straight. Lucas pushes, and somewhere the water sounds vanish. The endless
wind still blows, but he can’t hear it pushing at the trees and he can’t hear
Jaeger’s feet getting sloppy, starting to scrape at the earth. Coming from
nowhereisagreatlongthrob,andthegroundshakes.Lucasdipshisheadand
turns it, and Jaeger says one word with a question mark chasing. Then Lucas
slowsenoughtoshoutthewordbackathim.“Train,”hesays.
The stream bends right, slicing close to the old rail bed. Last year’s floods
endangeredthetracks,andtherailroadrespondedwithblackbouldersdropped
overthetrailandbank.Abigtwo-leggedsignblocksthewayontothebed,stern
wordswarningthosefoolishenoughtotrespassonrailroadproperty.Lucaslifts
hiskneesanddrives,afewstonesrolling,andheglancesdownstream,seeing
sunlightdancingonthebrightskinofthemorningAmtrak.
Thebigdieselthrobs,pushingagainstthesteadygrade.Thenthedriversees
runners and hits the horn, and every living organism within a mile hears the
piercingfuriouswhiteroar.
Lucasturnssouthandsprints.
Onesetoftracksfillsthebed.Jaegersaysawordandanotherwordandthen
givesupshouting.Adrenalinegiveshimlife.Hefollowsnearenoughtobefelt,
andLucaslooksbackjustoncemore,judgingthetrain’sspeed.Somevisceral
calculationismade,andhebelieveshehastimeandenoughspeed.Butthehorn
soundsagain,shakinghisbody,andhecan’tbesure.Armspumpandhedrives
off the balls of his feet, reclaiming the two-stride lead. Then the engine
grudginglythrottlesback,andknowingthathewon’thavetoleapontothebig
blackrocks,Lucasfallsbackintothesprinthewoulduseonahotsummertrack.
Thetraildipsbetweenboulders,downintothetreesagain.
Heridestheslope,Jaegerstillchasing,andLucasstopsandJaegerrunsinto
hisbackastheAmtrakroarspast.Neithermanfalls.Thehornblaresoncemore,
foremphasis,and anangry faceinthe engine’swindow glaresdownat them.
Sleekoldcarsfollow,andafterthem,newcarscobbledtogetherinsomecrash
program.Emptywindowsandonelittleboystareattheworld.Theboywavesat
them and smiles, utterly thrilled with a life jammed with spectacle and
adventure.
Lucaswavesback.
Jaegercollapsestoasquat,unabletofindhisbreath.Theairisfullofdiesel
fumes.Hetriescursingandcan’t.Hewantstostandandcan’t.Allthoseweeks
in jail have eaten at his legs, and for athletes in their forties lay-offs are
crippling.Jaegerwon’twinanotherimportantraceinhislife.Heknowsthis,and
Lucasseesit,andthenthebeatenmanstands,hisentirebodyshaking.
Thetrainisfarenoughgonethattheforestsoundsarereturning.
“Sodidyoukillhim?”saysJaeger.
Lucasshakeshishead.
Jaegernods.Ifhedoesordoesn’tbelievethatanswerisn’timportant.Looking
straightatLucas,hesays,“Nowwhat?”
“I’mgoing,”Lucassays.“Waitherefortheothers.”
“Andthen?”
Downstream from them, climbing out of the trees, the rest of the group is
cautiously running next to the still-humming rails. “I don’t know who killed
Wade,”hesays.
“Toobad,”Jaegersays.
“ButIknowwhopaidtohaveitdone.”
Thatearnsalong,longstare.
“Keepthatface,”Lucassays.“TelleverybodywhatIjusttoldyou.Andwe’ll
seewhathappensnext.”
NINE
“JingleBells,”thevoicesaid.
“MerryChristmastoyou.”
“No,I’mtalkingabouttherace.The5K.Ifyoudon’twinthisyear,youaren’t
trying.That’swhatIthink.”
Lucaspouredacup,nottalking.
“I’m seeing improvement, Lucas. Every week, with your splits and overall
times,you’refindingfire.”
“Thanksforcaring.”
“Justwanttohelp.”Thenthevoicewentaway.
Lucassatonakitchenstool,sipping.Outsideitwascoldandwet,anditwas
chilland dampinthehouse.ThetelevisionhadbeenshowinganoldStallone
movie,butthenetworkinterruptedwithnewsaboutabigdaminChinagetting
washedaway.Seriousstuff,andLucasreachedacrossthecounter,turningitoff.
Thevoicereturned.“Youthere?”
“Still.Wheredidyougo?”
“Anothercall.ButI’mback.”
“You’rebusy.”
“Always,”Wadesaid.“Haveyouentered?”
“TheJingleBell?It’snottillnextmonth.”
“I’lldoitforyou.Mytreat.”
Lucassetthecupdown,sayingnothing.
“Okay,it’sdone.”
“Likethat?”
“Likethat.”
“Thanks,I guess.” Along breath seemednecessary.Then Lucas said,“You
probablyheard,buttheylethimout.Acoupledaysago.”
“Yeah,Sarahcalledwhenithappened.AndIreadeverystory,too.”
“Whatdoyouthink?”
“Theydon’thaveenoughevidence,Ithink.”
“The DNA tests didn’t work,” Lucas said. “That’s what I’m hearing. Not
enoughmaterial,evenwiththefanciestlabshelping.”
“Thatbigrainscrewedeverything.”
“LuckyforCarl,”saidLucas.
Silence.
“EvermeetCrouse’ssister-in-law?”
“Thecopwiththejigglyass?”Wadelaughed.“Yeah,she’saprettyone.”
“Well,shesaysthedetectivescan’tseeanybodybutJaeger.Hehastobethe
guy. But it’s the Wild West around here anymore, and there’s not enough
manpowertothrowatonecase.SotheyletJaegergo,hopingforsomethingto
breaklater.”
“I’vestudiedthestatistics,Lucas.Eveningoodtimes,alotofmurdersnever
getsolved.”
“Whoelseisthere?”
Thesilenceendedwithfakebreathingandanexasperatedvoice.“Youknow,I
canhopeit’sCarl.Becauseifthiswasarandomthing,likesomehoboridingthe
railsorsomething,thennobody’severgoingtofindoutwhathappened.”
Lucastriedsilence.
After a while, Wade said, “You don’t have any excuses. I’m looking at the
race’sroster.YouronlycompetitionisHarris,andhecan’thangwithyou.”
“It’sjusttheJingleBells,”saidLucas.“Anothingrun.”
Anotherpause.
Anotherlongsipofcoffee.
Thenthedeadmansaid,“Winarace,Lucas.Justonerace.Thenyoucantalk
allyouwantaboutnothings.”
***
Trees surrender to flattened grass and little stands of sumac. The sky hasn’t
changed,butthescatteredcloudsseemhigherthanbeforeandthepolishedblue
abovetheworldisbrightenoughtomakeeyeswaterandblink.Divingintothe
grass, the twisting trail decides to narrow, and then like a man regaining his
concentration,itstraightens—atidylittlegullyetchedintothenativeblacksod.
Lucasrunsintothemeadow,outwherehecanseeandbeseen,andthat’swhere
hestops.Nobodyfollows.Certainteethachewhenhestaresintothewind,and
he pulls down his sleeves and kneels slightly, listening and waiting. He soon
becomesanexpertinthesoundofwind.Itisn’tjustonenoise,butinsteadwind
is endless overlapping noises, each coming from some different place, each
hurryingtofindearsthatwanttohearvoicesandwordsandsadcriesthatwere
neverthere.
Lucastoucheshisphone.Eyesscrollandblinktomakethecall.Whatisn’ta
second phone rings in a place that isn’t a place. After four rings, he expects
voicemail.Butthefifthringbreaksearly.
“Whatareyoudoing?”saysthevoice.
“Standing.Whatareyoudoing?”
“Standing,”saysWade.
“Whyaren’tyourunningwithus?”
“Nobodywantedtotalkbefore.SoIturnedearlyandfinished.”Alip-smack
soundcomesacross.“HaveIevertoldyou?Thecoffeealwaystastesgreatover
here.”
Lucasstands,kneesalittleachy
“Everybody’spanting,judgingbythesepacesI’vebeenwatching.”
“Doyouknowwheretheyare?”Lucassays.
“StandingwhereyouleftJaeger,mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“I’vegotonephonemoving.”
“Butyoucan’twatchCarl.Hedoesn’tcarryaphone.”
“Evenifhedid,Iwouldn’tknowanything.Apersonhastocallaperson,and
thelinehastobeopened.That’showIgetalockonpositions.AndIdon’tthink
theJaegerwantstotraderunningstorieswithme.”
“Bytheway,”Lucassays.“Carllooksprettyinnocent.”
“Yeah,I’mthinkingtheshitmighthavegottenhimselfabadbreak.”
“Andwhatdoyouthinkaboutme?”Lucassays.
Silenceistheanswer,persistentandunnerving.
“Sohowlongdoesaphonelocklast?”Lucassays.
“Four hours, give or take. Then the AI attendant spills me back into the
normalmode.”
Lucasdigshismittensoutofhistights,warmingthefingers.“Yousaidone
phoneismoving.”Thenhesays,“Nevermind,Iseeher.”
A brown cap and a pale little face comes out from the trees, the ponytail
swayingbehind.
“How’sSarahlook?”Wadesays.
“Real,realtired.”
“Poorgirl.”
“Yeah.”
What isn’t quite a laugh comes into his ear. “I pester you,” says Wade. “I
knowyoudon’tlikeitsometimes.Butshe’salotworseaboutcallingme,and
usuallyfornogoodreason.”
“Seeyou,Wade.”
“Yeah,”thevoicesays.“Takecare.”
***
Sarahwantstohurry,butthelegsareshortandstiff.Sheshufflesandcriesand
thenstopscrying.ShecomesatLucaswithherfacetwisting,freshagoniespiled
ontheold,andassoonassheisinarm’slength,shemakesafistinsidethepink
mittenandjabsathisstomach.Buteventhearmsaredrained.Lucascatchesthe
fistbetweenhishands.Shecan’thurthim,sohelowershishands.“Okay,”he
says,stickinghisstomachout.“Ifithelps.”
Sarahdoesn’thit.Shefallstoherknees,sobbinghard.
Nobodymovesinthewoodstothenorth.Tothewestistheunseencreekwith
itsshacklingtrees.TheemptyAmtraklinerunsdowntheeastsideofthepark.A
quartermilesouthstandsarowofancientcottonwoods,tallashills,thesilvery
barkglowingintherisinglight.Pastthosetreesisasecondrailline.Alongoak
trestlewasbuiltacrossthefloodplainandtheolderlinewheretheAmtrakwould
eventuallyrun.Dirtwasbroughtinanddumpedunderthetrestle,creatingatall
darkridge.Thatlinewasabandoneddecadesago.Therailswerepulledupfor
scrap, old ties sold to gardeners. Only the ridge remains, sprouting trees and
anglingacrosstheparkonitswaytotownsthatexistashistoryandasmemory
andasdrablittledotsonyellowedmaps.
Sarahstandsandtakesinoneworthlessbreath.“YoutoldJaeger,”shesays.
“Youthinksomebodyhiredsomebody.”
Lucaswatchesher.
“SomebodypaidaprofessionaltokillWade.Isthatwhatyou’rethinking?”
“No,”hesays.“Idon’tthinkapersonputdownmoneytohaveitdone.”
Shewatcheshim.
“Rememberthatguywhowaskitingchecks?”hesays.“Ioncementionedhim
to Wade, that I had this bad feeling about the Stingray man. What was his
name?”
“Wails.”
“SomethingaboutWailswaswrong.Talkingtotheguy,Icouldseethat he
wasfullofshit.Ididn’tthinkofcheck-kittingandstealingmillions.Thatwasn’t
whatIexpect.ButItoldWadewhatIthought,andyouknowhim.Hetookme
seriously.‘I’llmakesomeinquiries,seewhat’swhat,’hesaid.Thenaweeklater,
cops opened an investigation, and a couple days after that, Wails drove out
here…totheparkinglotwejustranthrough,ifIrememberthisright…and
killedhimself…”
“Butthatwasayearago,”Sarahsays.“Wadewasstillalive.”
“Ididn’tsayMr.Wailshiredit.I’masking:Whatifhehadabackup?”
Shesaysnothing,staringpasthisfacenow.
“I’mnottalkingaboutanofficial,carry-the-same-namekindofbackup,”he
says. “There have to be ways to fake a name and slip clear of your past life,
living in the clouds like Wade does. Being everywhere, nowhere. Sitting on
whateverstolenmoneythemanwasabletohide,andnothingtodowithitsdays
butgetangrierandangrierabouttheson-of-a-bitchthatmadethishappen.”
Sarahliftsbothhands,pilingthemontopofherheadwhilesheslowlyrocks
backandforth.
“Wail’sbackuphatesWadeTanner.Sohegoesoutintothelivingworldand
finds somebody to help get revenge. Maybe it’s for the money, or maybe for
personalreasons.AndlikeCarlsays,ithastobesomebodystrongenoughand
fastenoughtokeepclosetoWadewhenthey’rerunning.”
Sarahdropsherarms,leaningintoLucas.
He holds her and looks everywhere. The world moves under the wind, but
therearen’tanypeople.Afteranotherhalfminute,hesays,“IwasguessingPete.
He’sgotthemuscleandenoughpopinthelegs.IfiguredIwasgoingtoseehim
comeoutofthetrees,lookingtoshutmeup.YouIdidn’texpect.”
“Itisn’tPete,”shesays.
“Yeah,Idon’twantittobe.”
“No.Imeanitisn’thim.”
“Whynot?”
She pulls out of his grip, wiping her swollen eyes. “Pete made us run this
course.Remember?AndJaegerjusthappenedtobeupontheleveeattheright
time. Those aren’t coincidences. While we were chasing you, Pete explained
everything.HesaidhebumpedintoJaegerlastweekandthrewafewinsultsat
him,andCarlcamebackwiththesameargumentsheusedonthebridge.That’s
whenPetestartedtobelievehim.HebeganwonderingthatifCarlwasn’tguilty,
thenmaybethebestsuspectleftwasyou.”
Lucaskeepswatchtothenorth,andnothingchanges.
A hard sorry laugh comes out of her. “You won’t believe this,” she says.
“Probablynobody wouldat this point.But Iwant youto know:I have never,
evercheatedonmyhusband.NotwithMasters,andnotevenwithWade.”
Lucaslistenstothewinds,waiting.
Then she giggles, brightly and suddenly, saying, “But of course it doesn’t
count,playinggameswithamachine.”
Lucasshakeshisheadandbreathes.
“Harris,”hesays.
“What?”
“Maybehe’sthekiller.”
“Itcan’tbe,”shesays.“Petelookedatthekid,sure.Weknowhe’sstrangeand
we don’t know much about his story. But like Carl says, this was a personal
killing.Afurykilling.Petesaysthatanex-Mormongoofballwhoisn’theresix
weeks isn’t going to want to hurt Wade Tanner. That’s why Pete sent him
chargingoffinthewrongdirectionthismorning.He’snotasuspect.”
“He’stellingyouthat?Infrontofthekid?”
Sheshakesherhead.“No,Harriswasgonebythen.”
“Gone?”
“The train went past and we caught up to Carl, and Carl gave us your
message,andthenwestoodtheretalking.AndthenHarrissaidwewerenutsand
stupidandhe’dratherrunwiththedeerthanwastetimestandingaroundwith
old farts. So he ran back to the train tracks and headed … I don’t remember
where…”
Lucassaysnothing.
Sarahtakesabreathandholdsit.Thenallatonce,hereyesbecomebig,and
shesays,“Whatif…?”
Lucastellshisphonetoredial.
Wadepicksupandsays,“Stillstanding,stilldrinkingmycoffee.”
“So,”Lucassays.“YoutalktoHarristoday?”
Averybrief silenceends withthesound ofpeople beingpolitelyquiet, ten
million backups stuffed inside that very crowded room. And from the busy
silence,Wadesays,“Today?No,Ihaven’ttalkedtotheboy.Why?What’sour
newstallionupto?”
***
Themeadowtrailleadssouthtothecottonwoods.Whereshadowsbegin,Lucas
stopsandstowsthemittensandlooksback.Sarahisslowlymakingherwayto
thenorthedgeofthegrass,andtherestoftherunnershavecomeouttomeet
her.Jaegerstandsinthemiddleofthegroup.Handsonhipsorontopoftheir
heads, they look like soldiers in mismatched uniforms ready to quit the war.
Sarahstopsandtalks,pointingbackatLucas,andeverybodystaresacrossthe
grass,andhecanfeelthedoubtsandsuspicionsthrownhisway.
Turning,hesettlesintoalazytrot.
The forest trail snakes its way toward Ash Creek. The abandoned rail line
standsonhisleft,cappedwithasecondtrailthatleadsovertheAmtraklineand
backintotown.Harriscouldberunningtheoldright-of-way.Ifhewassmart,
thekidisgallopinghomenowtopackabagandmakesomelast-secondescape.
But that would be sensible, and sensible isn’t Harris. He’s a charger and a
brawler.Andbesides,hefoundtheminthemiddleofaforest.Sotheboyisn’t
completelystupid,andhehassomecleverwayoftrackingpeople.
The five o’clock calls come back to Lucas—the sexy woman and the
desperate father. Either one of them could have been Wails faking a voice to
patchintothetrackingsystem.Butthatfeelsunlikely.Whynotjustlethimpick
up, and then hang up? But maybe there’s some other trick. Trying to think it
through, Lucas realizes that he isn’t running and can’t remember when he
stopped.Staringattheground,notcertainabouthisownthoughts,hiseyesgrab
onto his ankle, and he bends and pulls up the muddy black leg of the tights,
staringatthatfancybraceletthatdoesnothingbutshoutsattheworldthatheis
hereandheissober.
Lucasstraightensandturnsonefullcircle.Somethingismovingontopofthe
oldtrestle,butthenthebackgroundoftreelimbsswallowsit.Oritneverwas.
Lucas falls into running again, easy long steps eating distance. Get past the
trestle,andadozentrailsarewaitingtobefollowed,andthere’sahundredways
out of the park. But the best obvious plan is dialing 911, or at least calling
somebodycloser.Audrey.Lucasdecidesonherandtouchesthephone,andhe
touchesitagainwhennothinghappens.Butdespitehavingpowerandagreen
light,themachinerefusestofindtheworldbeyond.
Lucasstopsandlooksleft.
Ayellowshirtisonthehighground,notevenpretendingtohide.Theface
aboveitsmiles,andmaybe it trieslaughing.Harriswantstolaugh. Hestands
still,lookingdownatLucaswhilesayingawordortwo.Hisglassesareclear
enoughtoshowtheeyes.Heiscloseenoughthatthebloodyliplooksbigand
sweatmakestheboy-facebright.Somelittlevoiceneedstobelistenedto,andhe
nods and says something else. Then the right hand lifts, holding a chunk of
rustedsteel—apieceoftrashshapedbychancetoresembleasmallhatchet.
Harrisliftsafootanddropsit.
Lucasbreaks,sprintingtowardthecreek.Thistimehedoesn’tobeythetrail,
cuttingacrossthehard-frozendirtwhereverthebrushisthin.Helooksdownand
ahead,andtenstridesintothisraceheturnsstupid.Itisn’tjusttheworldthat
narrows. His mind empties, his entire day going away. Oxygen-starved and
terrified,thebraindropsintowildpanic,andeverysteptriestobethebiggest,
andeverydownedlimbandlittlegullyisjumpedwithagracethatwillneverbe
duplicated. He doesn’t know where Harris is, and really, it doesn’t matter.
Nothingcountsbutspeedandconqueringdistance,andthatwildperfecturgency
lastsformostofaminute.AndthenLucasrunsdryoffuelandbreath.
Heslows,tastingbloodinhisthroat.
Hethrowsaglancetohisleft.
The earth wall is close and tall, and Harris runs on top. The kid has never
lookedthisserious,thismature.Tosomebody,hesays,“Yeah.”Thenheslows
and makes a sharp turn, jumping onto a little deer trail that puts him behind
Lucas,maybetwentymetersback.
Thatfeelslikeavictory,owningthelead.
ButLucascan’tturnbacknow.Notwithoutriskingahackfromthatpieceof
metal.Orworsethanahack.Hethrottlesupagain,andHarrismatcheshispace,
andhecutsacrossthatlastloopinthetrail,raspberrybushessnagginghistights.
Then he slows, letting the kid buy maybe half of the distance between them
whilehemakesreadyforthenextturn.
Rusted iron legs hold the vanished tracks high above the stream. The trail
lurchestotheleftanddropsunderthetrestle,andthenitliftsagain,flattening
andturningrightbeforereachingalongpipe-and-woodbridge.Lucasrunsthe
curvetight,savingahalf-stride.Maybetenmetersseparatethem.Maybeeight.
He listens to the chasing feet, measuring their pounding. Instinct knows what
happensnext:AssoonasHarrisisfreeofthebridge,hesurges.Youthandfear
andallthatgoodrichadrenalinearegoingtodemandthatHarrisendsthisrace
here,inthenextmoments.That’swhyLucassurgesfirst.Heleapsofftheendof
thebridgeandgainsalittle,butthepoundingbehindhimendswithsomefast
cleanfootfallsthathalvethedistanceandthenhalveitagain.Harrisistucked
behindhim.Asmalllastsurgewillputhiminrange,leavingtheboywherehe
canclipLucaswithhisweapon.
ButLucasshortenshisstride,justtohelphislegsmovequicker,andHarrisis
paying a cost for matching him. He gives a hard grunt before accelerating.
Excepthehassomehowfallenbackanothercouplestrides,andhisexasperation
comesoutfromhischest.Hecurses—notawordsomuchasananimalsound
that says everything. Those baby legs start to fill with cement. Frustrated and
baffledbutstilltoostupidandyoungtoknowwhathashappened,Harrisslows
downjustalittlemore.Hisintentionistorestonthefly,gatheringhisreserves
foranothersurge.Thiswillbeeasy,intheend.Hecan’tbelieveanythingelse.
Lucasisnearlytwicehisage,andthere’sonlyoneendinginhishead,starkand
bloodyandfinal.Harrisletstheoldmangainafullfifteen-meterlead,andjust
to make sure that Lucas knows, he calls out to him. He says, “Give up.” He
breathesandsays,“Youcan’twin.”
Lucashaswon.Heknowsit,andtheonlyproblemleftismappingouttherest
ofthischase.
Duringoneofthebigstormslastsummer,anoldcottonwoodtumbledacross
thetrail. The citydidn’thave the moneyto remove it, andfeet and bike tires
madeanewtrailbeforewinter.Treesfallanddetoursaremade,andthat’sone
reasonwhytherearen’tmanystraightlinesinthewoods.Chainsawsandrottake
away the trunks, but new twists are added and established and eventually
preferred.Thedeadtellthelivingwheretowalk,andthelivingneverrealizethat
that’s what they are doing, and it’s like that everywhere and with everything,
always.
Bigturnsarecoming.Three,maybefourloopsaregoingtopracticallydouble
backforafewstrides.Lucasdoesn’tknowwhichonetouse,buthisplan,much
asheplansanything,istoworkHarrisintoanumbhalf-beatenstateandthen
takehimaroundandjumpthroughthebrush,headingnorthagain.Butalways
keepingjustahead,teasingthekidwiththeideathatatanymomenthisluckwill
change, that his legs will get thirty minutes younger and he’ll close the gap
betweenhimandthisgrayoldfoolwhodoesn’tunderstandthatheisbeaten.
TEN
The annual track club meeting was held in the restaurant’s basement. A stale
shabby room was crowded with long tables and folding chairs and fit if not
alwaysskinnybodies.Paperplateswerestackedwithpizzaandbreadsticks,tall
plasticcupsfullofpopandbeer.ConversationscenteredontheJanuary’sfine
weather and yesterday’s long run from the Y, bits of grim international news
makingitintothechatter.TheYgrouphadclaimedthebacktable,fendingoff
mostoftheinvaders.ChanceplacedMasters’wifeatoneend—aheavilymade-
upwomanwhomadenosecretofherextraordinaryboredom.Sarahsatbetween
her husband and Crouse, her focus centered on photographs of the new baby.
PeteandVarnerandGatlinruledtheroom’sbackcorner,entertainingthemselves
with catty comments about everybody, including each other. Lucas was in the
middleofthetable,facingtherestoftheparty.Everybodywaskeenlyawarethat
he was drinking Pepsi. Audrey had brought her daughter—the fastest fourth-
graderinthestate—andinashrewdbidofmanipulationsethernexttoLucas.
Childrenlikedtheroughvoiceandkid-likemanner,andthegirlwasarelentless
flirt.Shesaidshelikedwatchinghimrun.Shesaidthetwoofthemshouldrun
togethersometime,andMomcouldcomealong,ifshecouldkeepup.Sheasked
Lucashowhetrainedanddidhewarmupeverandwhydidn’theevergethurt?
HarriswassittingontheothersideofLucas.Abigbellowingcacklegrabbed
everyone’s attention, and with a matching voice he said, “He doesn’t get hurt
becauseofthebooze,darling.Beerkeepsjointslimber.”
Embarrassedsilencetookhold.
Even Harris took note. Trying to make amends, he gave Lucas a friendly
punch in the shoulder, and when that wasn’t sufficiently charming, he leaned
backandsaid,“Naw,I’mjustteasing.Forgetit.”
Petenoticed.Sayingnothing, hestoodand wormedhisway along theback
wall,reachingaroundLucastograbupthePepsi,takingalongexperimentalsip.
Then he smacked his lips, saying, “Just checking,” and he gave Harris a big
wink,asiftheysharedthesamejoke.Thekidlaughedandshookhishead.Pete
setthecupaside,andashishandpulledaway,hekickedatableleg,andasthe
cupstartedtotumble,hemadeashowofreachingout,pushingitanditssticky
darkcontentsintoHarris’lap.
Theboycursed,butinagood-natured,onlyhalf-pissedway.Andtherestof
therunnerschokedtheirlaughsuntilhehadvanishedintothebathroom.
Sarahusedthedistractiontoslipaway.
Masters’wifenoticedthesecondemptychair.Fromherregalplaceattheend
of the table, she said to her husband, “What’s your girl doing at the podium?
She’stalkingtothatcamera,isn’tshe?”
Masterssquirmedandsaidnothing.
Alwayshelpful,Crousesaid,“Wade’sbackupiswatching.Don’ttellhim,but
we’regivinghimaspecialawardtonight.”
Thewomansneered.Thenbecauseitwassuchanimportantpoint,sheuseda
loudvoicetotelleverybody,“Themanisdead.Hehasbeendeadformonths,
andIthinkyou’recrazytoplaythisgame.”
A new silence grabbed hold. Some eyes watched Masters, wishing that he
wouldsayordoanythingtoprovehehadaspine.Oddlythough,itwasSarah’s
husband who took offense. A boyish fellow, small but naturally stout, he
possessed a variety of conflicting feelings about many subjects, including
Sarah’sweaknessforoneman’smemory.Butdefendinghiswifemattered,and
that’swhyheleanedacrossCrouse’slaptosay,“Youshouldknow,lady.Allthat
makeupandwiththatpokerstuckupyourass,youlookmoredeadthanmost
ghostsdo.”
The woman blushed, and she straightened. And after careful consideration,
shepickeduphertinypurseandsaid,“I’mleaving.”
Mastersnodded,sayingnothing.
“Ineedthecarkeys,”shesaidtohim.
Thenwiththebeginningsofasmile,Masterssaid,“It’saniceevening,honey.
Darling.Alongwalkwoulddoyousomegood.”
***
Thepaceisbarelyfasterthanknuckle-walking.Lucaspushesnorth,crossingold
ground,thewindchillinghisfacebutnothingelse.He’sgoingtohurttomorrow,
butnothingfeelsparticularlytiredrightnow.Hisbreathingiseasy,legsstrong.
Thetrailissmoothandmostly straight,andhehasa thirty-meterlead,except
whenheforgetsandworkstoohard,andthenhehastofallback,pretendingto
bespent,givingHarrisreasontosurgeagain.Orhefakesrollinghisankleina
hole.Twicehedoesthattrick,limpingbadly,andHarrisbreatheshardandcloses
thegap,onlytoseehisquarryhealinstantlyandrecovertheleadinanotherfew
seconds.
Thethirdanklespraindoesn’tfoolanyone.Lucaslooksback,makingcertain
Harrisseeshissmile,andthenonthenextflatstraightpieceoftrailheextends
hisleadbeforeturningaround,runningbackwards,usingthesamebiglaughthat
thekidusesoneverybodyelse.
Furious,Harrisstopsandflingsthesteelweapon.
Lucassidesteps it and keeps trottingbackwards, letting thekid come close,
andthenhewheelsandsprints,saying,“SoafterWadedied…whydidyoustay
intown?”
“Ididn’tkilltheguy,”Harrissays.
“Good to hear,” Lucas says. “But why stay? Why not pull up and go
somewhereelse?”
“BecauseIlikeithere.”
“Good.”
“I’mthefastestrunnerhere,”hesays.“AndIlikewinningraces.”
Slowerrunnersareupahead.Everybodylookswarmandexhausted,survival
stridescarryingthemtowardLucas.Hedidn’texpecttoseethem,butnothing
thathashappenedtodayhasmadehimanyhappier.“Soyoudidn’tkillWade?”
hesays.
“No.”
“Thenwhyareyouchasingme?”
SomehowHarrismanagestolaugh.“I’mnot,”hesays.“I’mjustoutforarun,
andI’mlettingyoulead.”
AudreyandCarlareleadingtheirpack.Lucassurgestomeetupwiththem,
andhestopsandturns,andHarrisstopswiththatgoodthirtymetersseparating
him from the others. Everybody shakes from fatigue, but the kid can barely
stand. All of his energy feeds a face that looks defiant and unconcerned and
stupid.Withasnarl,hesays,“Ibroughttheson-of-a-bitchbacktoyou.See?”
Lucasshrugsandsays,“Harriskilledhim.Hetoldme.”
“Ididnot.”
“Iheardyou,”Lucassays.Thentotheothers,hesays,“Takeusbothin.Let
thecopssorttheevidence.Likethoseglassesofhis…Ibetthey’vegotsome
juicyclueshiddeninthegears.”
Harrispullsofftheglasses.
“Watchit,”saysPete.
Harris throws the glasses on the ground and lifts a leg, ready to crush the
fancymachineryintosmallerandsmallerbits.ButCarlisalreadyrunning,and
the kid manages only two sloppy stomps before he is picked up and thrown
down on his side, ribs breaking even before the bony knee is driven into his
chest.
“Weweren’tsurewhattodo,”PetesaystoLucas.“Someofusthoughtyou
wereguilty,othersdidn’twanttothinkthat.Wetriedcallingyou,andwhenyou
didn’tpickup,IfiguredyouhadtoberunningforMexico.”
Harristriestostand,andCarlbeatshimdownagain.
“Wetookavote,”Varnersays.“Wouldwecomelookingforyou,orwouldwe
justheadbacktotheY?”
“SoIwon,”Lucassays,smiling.
Audreydipsherheadandlaughs.
SarahisnexttoCarl,watchingthemayhemupclose.
“No, you only got three votes,” Pete says. “But you know how this group
makesdecisions.Theloudestwins,andAudreyjustaboutblewup,tryingtoget
uschasingyou.”
Lucaslooksatherandsmiles.
Andsherollshereyes,wantingtotellhimsomething.Thewordsareready.
Butnothere,notlikethis.
ThenSarahstepsupandhitsthecoweringfigure.Shekicksonceandagain,
andpolishinghertechnique,shedeliversahardthirdimpacttothesideofthe
stomach.That’swhenMasterspullsheraway,holdingherasshesquirms,saying
wordsthatdon’thelp.AndCarlkneelsandpokesoncemoreattheachingribs,
andhepicksupeverypieceofthebrokenglasses,talkingtothegroundashe
works,saying,“Okay.Now.Whatarewegoingtodo?”
***
Back from the bathroom, Harris made a final pass of the food table before
reclaimingthechairnexttoLucas.Thenthetrackclubpresident—awizenedex-
runnerwithtwonewknees—leanedagainstthepodium,recitingthesamejokes
he used last year before attacking the annual business. Board members talked
long about silly crap, and race directors talked way too long about last year’s
eventsandallthenewrunnersthatwerecomingfromeverywheretolivehere.
Thenawardswerehandedout,includingagoldenplaquetothepolicechiefwho
letthetrackclubborrowhisofficersandhisstreets.Butthechiefhadsomelast-
minuteconflictandcouldn’tattend,andnobodyelsefromthedepartmentwas
readytoacceptonhisbehalf.Withabigmockingvoice,Petesaid,“They’reout
intheworld,solvingcrimes.”Andmostofhistableunderstoodthereference,
laughingupuntilCoachAbleandTomHubblemetatthepodium.
Bothmenwereluggingthenight’sbiggestaward.
Forfivelongminutes,thepresenterstookturnspraisingthedeadman.Lucas
listened,oratleastpretendedtolisten.Littlepiecesofthestoryseemedfresh,
but mostly it was old news made simple and pretty. Mostly he found himself
watchingtheseriousfacesathistable,everybodystaringattheirplatesandtheir
foldedhands.EvenHarrisheldhimselfstill,noddingatthepropermomentsand
then applauding politely when the big plaque was unveiled and shown to a
cameraandtheweird,half-realentitythatnobodyhadeverseen.
Thenthebackup’svoicewastalking,thankingeverybodyforthisgreathonor
and promising that he would treasure this moment. Sometimes Wade sounded
closetotears.Othertimeshewasreadingfromapreparedspeech.“Iwishthings
hadgonedifferently,”hesaid.“ButIhavenoregrets,notforamomentofmy
life.Andifthere’sanyconsolation,IwantyoutoknowthatIambusyhere,in
thisrealm,andIamhappy.”
Thenhewasdone,andmaybehewasgone,andtheuncomfortableapplause
beganandended,andtheroomstoodtoleave.Mostofthebacktablewanteda
goodlookattheplaque,butsomehowLucasdidn’tfeellikeit.Hefoundhimself
walkingtowardthestairs,andHarrisfellinbesidehim,laughingquietly.
Ormaybethekidwasn’tlaughing.Lucaslookedathim,seeingnothingbuta
seriouslittlesmile.
“Wanttoruntomorrow?”saidHarris.
“No.”
“Tuesdayatthetrack?”
“Probably.”
Harrisbeathimtothestairs,andHarrisheldthedoorfortheoldman.Thenas
theyweresteppingintothecooldark,hesaid,“Youknowwhat?We’reallgoing
tobelivingtheresomeday.WhereWadeisnow.”
“Notme,”saidLucas.
“Whynotyou?”
“Because,”hesaid,“I’mplanningtodiewhenIdie.”
ELEVEN
Anotherpotofcoffeehelpstakethechilloutofthekitchen.Outthebackdoor,
Lucaswatchessnowflakesfallingfromaclearsky—tinydryflakestooscarceto
evermeetupwitheachother,muchlessmakeanythingthatmatters.Hehasbeen
talkingsteadilyforseveralminutes,tellingthestoryfastandpushingtowardthe
finish,andonlysometimesdoeshepausetosipatthecoffee.Onceortwicehe
pausesjusttopause.ThenWadecomesoutofthesilence,makingacommentor
posingsomelittlequestion.
“SoafterSarahkickedtheshitoutofhim,”hesays.“Whatdidyoudowith
thebastard?”
“Wepickedhimupandtookturnsdragginghimandcarryinghimbacktothe
oldright-of-way, thenacrossthecreekand out toFoster.Thatwas the closest
road,andwegotlucky.Somefellowwasdrivinghispickupoutoftown,hunting
forfirewood.Exceptforhischainsaw,thetruckbedwasempty.Gatlinpromised
himahundreddollarstotakeusbacktotheY,andCrousecalledhissister-in-
law,givingherahead’sup.Thegirlsrodeinsidethecab,intheheat,andtherest
ofusjustaboutdiedoffrostbite.Butwelivedandmadeitbackbeforeten-thirty,
andthecopswerewaiting,andI’veneverbeensohappytoseethem.”
“Hasheconfessed?”
“Youmean,didHarrisbreakdownandsobandsay,‘OhGod,Ididsuchan
awfulthing.’No.No,hedidn’tandhewon’t.Idon’tthinkheevenknowsthat
he’sawickedson-of-a-bitch.”
“Iguesshewouldn’t.”
“Harrisprobablydoesn’tbelievethisisgoingtomeananything.Intheend.”
Lucastakesalongsip,shakinghishead.“Whenweweremarchinghimoutof
thetrees,hesaidtome,‘There’snothingtofind.Thatphone’snew.Itisn’tgoing
toshowanythingimportant.AnymoneythatI’vegothasagoodstorybehindit.
Andthephysical evidence issothin ittookthem months justtothrow Carlie
backintothefreeworld.Sowhathappenstome?Acouplemonthsinjail,alot
of stupid interviews, and I’ll tell them nothing, and they’ll have to let me go
too.’”
Silence.
Lucas sets the empty cup on the table, using his other hand to shift the
unfamiliarphonebackagainsthisear.“Idon’tknow,Wade.Maybeyoushould
becareful.”
“Carefulofwhat?”
“Wails,”hesays.“Yeah,Itoldthecopsmyguess.Mytheory.Idon’tthink
theytookittoheartmuch.Butthenagain,thisisawholedifferentkindofcrime.
Law enforcement doesn’t like things tough. They’re happiest when there’s
bloodybootprintsleadingtothekiller’sdoor.”
Thebackuplaughs.
Lucasdoesn’t.Leaningforwardinhischair,hesays,“Myphonestilldoesn’t
work.”
“Youborrowedthatone.Iseethat.”
“Masters says that it was a Trojan or worm or something. Set in long ago,
readyforthesignaltoattack.”
“I’llbuyyouanewphone,”Wadesays.“That’snoproblem.”
“Yeah,butthere’sabiggerproblem.”
“What?”
“Wails,”Lucassaid.“IwastiredwhenIrememberedhimthismorning.My
headwasprettysoggy.Butthestorymadealotofsense,atleastforthenext
couplehours.ExceptwhileIsittingattheY,chattingwiththedetectives,little
thingsstartedbuggingme.”
“Things?”
“AboutWails,Imean.Sure,theguystolemoneyandkilledhimself.Butdo
weevenknowyouwerethereasonhegotfoundout?”
“Idon’tknowifIwas,”saysthebackup.
“You’vesaidthatbefore.Iremember.Youaren’tsurewhathappened,because
that’soneofthosestoriesthattherealWadenevertoldyou.”Waterisrunning
hardinthebasement.Lucasdoesn’thearituntilitshutsoff.“Anyway,”hesays,
“Ithinkit’salotofsupposing,puttingeverythingonthisonedeadman.Yeah,
theguywasaliarandabig-timethief,butthat’salongwayfromcomingoutof
thegravetokillanothermanwho’sdidhimharm.”
Silence.
“ButsomebodygotHarristokillyou,”saysLucas.“Andifitwasn’tWails,
thatleavesonesuspectthatlooksprettygood.”
“Okay.Who?”
“I’mjusttalking,myheadclearandthinkingstraightnow.”
“AndI’mlistening.”
“Okay,it’ssomebodywhowantseverythingtobefair.Somebodywhowould
doanythinghecantomaketheworldright.Thesamepersonthatletmeclimb
intomyowncardrunkandwatchedmedriveoffandthenwentandcalledthe
copsonme.”
“Ididn’tmakethatcall,Lucas.Wadedid.”
“Butyou’rebasedonhim.Exceptforthedifferences,andmaybethey’rebig
differences.Idon’tknow.Ormaybethetwoofyouwereexactlythesame,and
you’re Wade Tanner in every way. But Wade didn’t tell you everything about
himself. We know that. And one day, maybe by accident, you discovered
something about your human that really, really pissed you off. The man who
built you was a lying shit, or worse. And there you were, wearing Wade’s
personality.Wadewouldn’tletthatbusinessdrop,andyoucouldn’teither.That’s
whyyouwentoutintotheworld.Youtrolledforsomebodywithlittlesenseand
abigneedforcash,andthat’swhyHarrisshoweduphere.Maybemurderwasn’t
your goal. There was that long break between the first hits and the killing.
Maybe you were trying to keep Harris from finishing the job. But that’s the
prettywaytodressupthisstory.I’mguessingthedelaywassothatyougotyour
chance to scream at the dying man, telling Wade that he was a miserable
disappointment,andbytheway,thanksforthemoneyandtheimmortalityand
allthatothergoodcrap.”
Silence.
“Youstillthere?”
“Ican’tbelievethis,”thevoicesays.
Lucas nods, saying, “But even if I believe it, nothing is proved. There’s
probablynoevidencewaitingoutthere. Voicescanbedoctored, which means
Harris probably doesn’t know who really hired him. Besides, even if I found
peopletobuythisstory,somethinglikeyouhashadmonthstoerasecluesand
files,andevenmoreimportant,makeyourselfcomfortablewiththesituation.”
“But,Lucas,howcanyouthinkthataboutme?Evenforaminute.”
“I’mtalkingaboutavoice,”Lucassays.“That’swhatyouare.Attheendof
theday,you’reastringofwordscomingoutwithacertainsound,andIcan’t
knowanythingforsure.”
Silence.
“Youthere?”
Nobodyis.Thelinehasbeensevered.
Lucaspullsthephoneawayfromhisface,settingitonthetablenexttothe
emptymug.ThenAudreycomesoutofthebasement,wearingborrowedsweats
andheavysocks.
Shesitsoppositehim,smilingandwaiting.
“Ineedtoshower,”hesays.
Shesmilesandsays,“Howdoesitfeel?”
“How’swhatfeel?”
“Beingthefastestrunnerinthecounty.”
Heshrugsandsays,“Notontheselegs,I’mnot.”
Shesays,“Iheardyoutalkingjustnow.Whowasit?”
Hewatchesherfaceandsays,“It’ssnowingout.”
Sheturnstolook.
“No,wait,”hesays.“Iguessitstopped.”
honorablementions:2010
JoeAbercrombie,“TheFoolJobs,”Swords&DarkMagic.
SaladinAhmed,“DoctorDiabloGoesThroughtheMotions,”StrangeHorizons,
February15.
____,“TheFaithfulSoldier,Prompted,”ApexMagazine,November.
NinaAllan,“TheUpstairsWindow,”Interzone230.
MichaelAlexander,“AdvancesinModernChemotherapy,”F&SF,July/August.
____,“WareoftheWorlds,”Fantasy&ScienceFiction,November/December.
Ken Altabef, “The Lost Elephants of Kenyisha,” Fantasy & Science Fiction,
July/August.
CharlieJaneAnders,“TheFermiParadoxIsOurBusinessModel,”Tor.com.
LouAntonelli,“DispatchesfromtheTroubles,”GUD,Summer.
EleanorArnason,“TomboftheFathers,”AqueductPress.
MichaelA.Armstrong,“TheDeadliestMoop,”Analog,November.
NealAsher,“TheCuisinartEffect,”Conflicts.
KageBaker,“TheBohemianAstrobleme,”Subterranean,Winter.
____,“RexNemorensis,”TheBookofDreams.
DavidBall,“TheScroll,”Warriors.
PeterM.Ball,“L’EspritdeL’Escalier,”ApexMagazine,September.
____,“TheMikeandCarlyStory,WithouttheGossip,”Shimmer12.
StephenBaxter,“EarthIII,”Asimov’s,June.
____,“TheIceLine,”Asimov’s,February.
____,“ProjectHades,”Analog,July/August.
PeterS.Beagle,“TheChildrenoftheSharkGod,”TheBeastlyBride.
____,“Dirae,”Warriors.
____,“Kaskia,”SongsofLove&Death.
____,“LaLunet’Attend,”FullMoonCity.
____,“Return:AnInnkeeper’sWorldStory,”Subterranean,Spring.
____,“TrinityCounty,CA,”OSCIMS,August.
ElizabethBear,“BoneandJewelCreatures,”SubterraneanPress.
____, “When You Visit the Magoebaskloof Hotel Be Certain Not to Miss the
SamangoMonkeys,”Destination:Future.
ChrisBeckett,“OneLand,”Conflicts.
GregoryBenford,“TinyElephants,”JBU,February.
PaulM.Berger,“SmallBurdens,”StrangeHorizons,March11.
____,“StereogramoftheGrayFort,intheDaysofHerGlory,”Fantasy,June21.
BethBernobich,“RiverofSouls,”Tor.com.
JoBeverley,“TheMarryingMaid,”SongsofLove&Death.
K.J.Bishop,“TheHeartofaMouse,”Subterranean,Winter.
HollyBlack,“Sobek,”WingsofFire.
JennyBlackford,“VelvetRevolution,”Cosmos.
LawrenceBlock,“CatchandRelease,”Stories.
____,“CleanSlate,”Warriors.
GregoryNormanBossert,“FreiaintheSunlight,”Asimov’s,December.
____,“SlowBoat,”Asimov’s,August.
____,“TheUnionofSoilandSky,”Asimov’s,April/May.
DanielBraum,“MileZero,”ElectricVelocipede20.
DamienBroderick,“DeadAir,”Asimov’s,February.
KeithBrooke,“Sussed,”Conflicts.
EricBrown,“DissimulationProcedure,”Conflicts.
____,“GuardiansofthePhoenix,”TheMammothBookofApocalypticSF.
____,“LayingtheGhost,”Clarkesworld,October.
TobiasS.Buckell,“AJarofGoodwill,”Clarkesworld,May.
JimButcher,“LoveHurts,”SongsofLove&Death.
ChrisButler,“HaveGuitar,WillTravel,”TheImmersionBookofSF.
James L. Cambias, “How Seosiris Lost the Favor of the King,” F&SF,
September/October.
TracyCanfield,“TheSealofSulaymaan,”Fantasy,July.
____,“ZookrollersWinkeldenOok,”StrangeHorizons,December.
OrsonScottCard,“Expendables,”OSCIMS,October.
JacquelineCarey,“You,andYouAlone,”SongsofLove&Death.
Isobelle Carmody, “The Dark Road: An Obernewtyn Story,” Legends of
AustralianFantasy.
ElizabethCarroll,“TheDukeofVertumn’sFingerling,”StrangeHorizons,April
5.
Scott William Carter, “The Android Who Became a Human Who Became an
Android,”Analog,July/August.
JasonChapman,“TheLongFall,”GrantvilleGazetteUniverseAnnex.
FredChappell,“UncleMooninRaintreeHills,”F&SF,September/October.
J.KathleenCheney,“Afterimage,”JBU,April.
____,“SnowComestoHawk’sFolly,PanverseTwo.
C.J.Cherryh,“AWizardofWiscezan,”Swords&DarkMagic.
TedChiang,“TheLifecycleofSoftwareObjects,”Subterranean,Fall.
EricChoi,“TheSonofHeaven,”TheDragonandtheStars.
DavidL.Clements,“IntheLongRun,”Conflicts.
BrendaW.Clough,“TheWaterWeapon,”TheDragonandtheStars.
GlenCook,“TidesElba:ATaleoftheBlackCompany,”Swords&DarkMagic.
MatthewCook,“TheShoeFactory,”Interzone231.
RickCook,“FishingHole,”Analog,May.
C.S.E.Cooney,“BraidingtheGhosts,”ClockworkPhoenix3.
BrendaCooper,“TheRobots’Girl,”Analog,April.
DouglasCoupland,“Survivor,”Darwin’sBastards.
AlbertE.Cowdrey,“DeathMustDie,”F&SF,November/December.
____,“FortClay,Louisiana:ATragicalHistory,”F&SF,March/April.
____,“MisterSweetpantsandtheLivingDead,”F&SF,July/August.
IanCreasey,“Crimes,Follies,Misfortunes,andLove,”Asimov’s,August.
____,“ThePrizeBeyondGold,”Asimov’s,December.
BenjaminCrowell,“Centaurs,”Asimov’s,March.
____,“Petopia,”Asimov’s,June.
____,“WheatRust,”Asimov’s,September.
DonD’Ammassa,“NoDistanceTooGreat,”Asimov’s,October/November.
ScottDalrymple,“QueenoftheKanguellas,”RealmsofFantasy,December.
EljayDaly,“Bitterdark,”Fantasy,October.
DennisDanvers,“TheFairyPrincess,”F&SF,March/April.
AliettedeBodard,“Desaparecidos,”RealmsofFantasy,June.
____,“Father’sLastRide,”TheImmersionBookofSF.
____,“TheJaguarHouse,InShadow,”Asimov’s,July.
____,“TheWind-BlownMan,”Asimov’s,February.
JeffreyDeaver,“TheTherapist,”Stories.
A.M.Dellamonica,“TheCage,”Tor.com.
PaulDiFilippo,“LifeintheAnthropocene,”TheMammothBookofApocalyptic
SF.
CoryDoctorow,“There’saGreatBigBeautifulTomorrow/NowistheBestTime
ofYourLife,”GodlikeMachines.
AidanDoyle,“StoneFlowers,”Fantasy,September.
GardnerDozois,“Recidivist,”Warriors.
AlexandraDuncan,“AmorFugit,”F&SF,March/April.
____,“TheDoorintheEarth,”F&SF,September/October.
KellyDwyer,“Sunlight,”Abyss&Apex36.
MarianneJ.Dyson,“FlyMetotheMoon,”Analog,July/August.
PhyllisEisensteinandAlexEisenstein,“VonNeumann’sBug,”Gateways.
HarlanEllison,“HowInteresting:ATinyMan,”RealmsofFantasy,February.
AmalEl-Mohtar,“TheGreenBook,”ApexMagazine18.
JamesEnge,“Destroyer,”BlackGate,Winter.
____,“TheSingingSpear,”Swords&DarkMagic.
SteveErikson,“GoatsofGlory,”Swords&DarkMagic.
GregoryFeeley,“Kentauros,”NHRBooks.
GemmaFiles,“HellFriend,”ClockworkPhoenix3.
Charles Coleman Finlay, “Life So Dear or Place So Sweet,” The Way of the
Wizard.
EugeneFischer,“Adrift,”Asimov’s,April/May.
MichaelF.Flynn,“Cargo,”Analog,June.
____,“OnRicketyThistlewaite,”Analog,January/February.
JeffreyFord,“86DeathdickRoad,”TheBookofDreams.
RichardFoss,“AtLasttheSun,”Analog,June.
BenFrancisco,“Crepuscular,”Shimmer12.
PeterFriend,“VoyagetotheMoon,”Asimov’s,June.
GregoryFrost,“TheComeuppanceofCreegusMaxin,”TheBeastlyBride.
____,“Lucyna’sGaze,”ClockworkPhoenix3.
NancyFulda,“Backlash,”Asimov’s,September.
DianaGabaldon,“ALeafontheWindofAllHallows,”SongsofLove&Death.
____,“TheCustomoftheArmy,”Warriors.
NeilGaiman,“”TheThingAboutCassandra,”SongsofLove&Death.
____,“TheTruthIsaCaveintheBlackMountains,”Stories.
YasmineGalenorn,“ManintheMirror,”SongsofLove&Death.
StephenGaskell,“PaperCradle,”Clarkesworld,September.
SaraGenge,“NoJubjubBirdsTonight,”Destination:Future.
____,“SinsoftheFathers,”Asimov’s,December.
WilliamGibson,“DougalDiscarnate,”Darwin’sBastards.
MollyGloss,“Unforeseen,”Asimov’s,April/May.
TheodoraGoss,“FairLadies,”Apex,August.
____,“TheMadScientist’sDaughter,”StrangeHorizons,January18-January25.
JohnGrant,“WhereShadowsGoatLowMidnight,”ClockworkPhoenix3.
MarlainaGray,“WorldsApart,”StrangeHorizons,May17.
SimonR.Green,“StreetWizard,”TheWayoftheWizard.
DarylGregory,“WhatWeTakeWhenWeTakeWhatWeNeed,”Subterranean,
Spring.
EricGregory,“TheEarthofYunhe,”Shine.
LevGrossman,“EndGame,”TheWayoftheWizard.
EileenGunn,“ADifferenceEngine,”Tor.com.
____,“DayAftertheCooters,”Tor.com.
____,“InternalDevices,”Tor.com.
____,“ThePerditoStreetProject,”Tor.com.
CarenGussoff,“AnythingChocolate,”Abyss&Apex33.
____,“Games,”Destination:Future.
JoeHaldeman,“ForeverBound,”Warriors.
ElizabethHand,“TheMaidenFlightofMcCauley’sBellerophon,”Stories.
M.L.N.Hanover,“HurtMe,”SongsofLove&Death.
JimHawkins,“OrchestralManoeuvresintheDarkMatter,”Interzone229.
Jeff Hecht, “An Adventure in the Antiquities Trade,” Daily Science Fiction,
September1.
SamanthaHenderson,“TheRedBride,”StrangeHorizons,May7.
RobinHobb,“BlueBoots,”SongsofLove&Death.
____,“TheTriumph,”Warriors.
M.K.Hobson,“TheHagQueen’sCurse,”RealmsofFantasy,April.
CeceliaHolland,“DemonLover,”SongsofLove&Death.
____,“TheKingofNorway,”Warriors.
TomHolt,“BrownianEmotion,”Subterranean,Spring.
RobertJ.Howe,“TheNaturalHistoryofCalamity,”BlackGate,Winter.
MatthewHughes,“QuartetandTriptych,”PSPublishing.
____,“TimmyComeHome,”IsAnybodyOutThere?
JonIngold,“TheHistoryofPoly-V,”Interzone227.
____,“OverWater,”Interzone228.
Alex Irvine, “The Word He Was Looking for Was Hello,” Is Anybody Out
There?
AlexanderJablokov,.”PlinthWithoutFigure,”F&SF,November/December.
____,“WarningLabel,”Asimov’s,August.
MichaelJasper&JayLake,“DevilontheWind,”BlackGate,Winter.
N.K. Jemisin, “Sinners, Saints, Dragons, and Haints,In the City Beneaththe
StillWaters,”Postscripts22/23.
KijJohnson,“NamesforWater,”Asimov’s,October/November.
____,“Ponies,”Tor.com.
MatthewJohnson,“Holdfast,”Fantasy,December.
VylarKaftan,“I’mAlive,ILoveYou,I’llSeeYouinReno,”Lightspeed,June.
TylerKeevil,“Hibakusha,”Interzone226.
JamesPatrickKelly,“PlusorMinus,”Asimov’s,December.
KayKenyon,“CastoffWorld,”Shine.
JohnKessel,“TheCloset,”F&SF,November/December.
____,“Iteration,”StrangeHorizons.
RajanKhanna,“CardSharp,”TheWayoftheWizard.
CaitlínR.Kiernan,“TheSeaTroll’sDaughter,”Swords&DarkMagic.
AliceSolaKim,“Hwang’sBillionBrilliantDaughters,”Lightspeed,November.
____,“TheOtherGraces,”Asimov’s,July.
SwapnaKishore,“WhereItEnds,”StrangeHorizons,August.
WalterL.Kleine,“FarallonWoman,”Analog,May.
LeonidKorogodski,“PinkNoise”,SilverberryPress.
MaryRobinetteKowal,“ForWantofaNail,”Asimov’s,September.
BillKte’pi,“Merrythoughts,”StrangeHorizons,March3.
EllenKushner,“TheChildrenofCadmus,”TheBeastlyBride.
____,“TheManwiththeKnives,”Tor.com.
JayLake,“TheBabyKillers,”PSPublishing.
____,“DreamoftheArrow,”Subterranean,Summer.
____,“TheFalloftheMoon,”RealmsofFantasy,October.
____,“HumanError,”Interzone226.
____,“PermanentFatalErrors,”IsAnybodyOutThere?
____,“TheSpeedofTime,”Tor.com.
____,“Testaments,”TheBookofDreams.
____,“ToThisTheirLateEscape,”TheSkyThatWraps.
____,“TorquingVacuum,”Clarkesworld,February.
____ and Shannon Page, “From the Countries of Her Dreams,” Fantasy,
November22.
____andShannonPage,“IntheEmperor’sGarden,”Fantasy,March13.
MargoLanagan,“TheMiracleAquilina,”WingsofFire.
GeoffreyA.Landis,“MaryaandthePirate,”Asimov’s,January.
JohnLangan,“CityoftheDog,”F&SF,January/February
DavidLangford,“GraffitiintheLibraryofBabel,”IsAnybodyOutThere?
JoeR.Lansdale,“Soldierin’,”Warriors.
KristaHoeppnerLeahy,“TooFatalaPoison,”TheWayoftheWizard.
AnnLeckie,“BelovedoftheSun,”BeneathCeaselessSkies,October.
TanithLee,“TorhectheSculptor,”Asimov’s,October/November.
____,“ThePuma’sDaughter,”TheBeastlyBride.
____,“Under/AbovetheWater,”SongsofLove&Death.
YoonHaLee,“BetweenTwoDragons,”Clarkesworld,April.
____,“TheTerritorialist,”BeneathCeaselessSkies,July.
____,“TheWingedCity,”GigaNotoSaurus,December.
TimLees,“LoveandWar,”Interzone230.
DavidD.Levine,“Pupa.”Analog,September.
____,“TeachingthePigtoSing,”Analog,May.
MichaelLibling,“WhyThatCrazyOldLady Goes UptheMountain,”F&SF,
May/June
MarissaLingen,“TheSixSkillsofMadameLumiere,”BeneathCeaselessSkies,
July.
KenLiu,“TheLiteromancer,”F&SF,September/October.
MarjorieM.Liu,“AftertheBlood,”SongsofLove&Death.
BarryB.Longyear,“AltenKameraden,”Asimov’s,April/May.
RichardA.Lovett,“Spludge,”Analog,September.
____andMarkNiemann-Ross,“PhantomSense,”Analog,November.
IanR.MacLeod,“SecondJourneyoftheMagus,”Subterranean,Winter.
BruceMcAllister,“BlueFire,”F&SF,March/April.
____,“TheCourtshipoftheQueen,”Tor.com.
____,“HeartofHearts,”AlbedoOne,38.
____,“TheWomanWhoWaitedForever,”Asimov’s,February.
MeghanMcCarron,“WeHeartVampires!!!!!!,”StrangeHorizons,May3,May
10.
UnaMcCormack,“WarWithoutEnd,”Conflicts.
JackMcDevitt,“TheCassandraProject,”Lightspeed,June.
IanMcDonald,“TonightWeFly,”Masked.
SandraMcDonald,“SevenSexyCowboyRobots,”StrangeHorizons,October.
____,“Witness,”Destination:Future.
MartinMcGrath,“ProperLittleSoldier,”Conflicts.
MaureenMcHugh,“TheNaturalist,”Subterranean,Spring.
WillMcIntosh,“Frankenstein,Frankenstein,”Asimov’s,October/November.
SeanMcMullen,“EightMiles,”Analog,September.
EmilyMah,“AcrosstheSea,”TheDragonandtheStars.
JoephMallozzi,“Downfall,”Masked.
GeorgeR.R.Martin,“TheMysteryKnight,”Warriors.
RichardMatheson,“TheWindowofTime,”F&SF,September/October.
D.T.Mitenko,“Eddie’sAnts,”Asimov’s,July.
MaryAnneMohanraj,“TalkingtoElephants,”Abyss&Apex34
SarahMonette,“AftertheDragon,”Fantasy,January25.
T.L.Morganfield,“TheHeartsofMan,”RealmsofFantasy,June.
DavidMorrell,“MyNameIsLegion,”Warriors.
RuthNestvold,“TheBleedingandtheBloodless,”GigaNotoSaurus,November.
R.Neube,“DummyTricks,”Asimov’s,October/November.
Kim Newman, “Kentish Glory: The Secrets of Drearcliff Grange School,”
MysteriesoftheDiogenesClub.
GarthNix,“ASuitablePresentforaSorcerousPuppet,”Swords&DarkMagic.
____, “To Hold the Bridge: An Old Kingdom Story,” Legends of Australian
Fantasy.
CharlesOberndorf,“WritersoftheFuture,”F&SF,January/February.
NnediOkorafor,“TheGo-Slow,”TheWayoftheWizard.
JerryOltion,“NeverSawItComing,”Analog,October.
EilisO’Neal,“IceMoonTale,”Abyss&Apex35.
____,“TheWizard’sCalicoDaughter,”Fantasy,August.
AbbeyMeiOtis,“Blood,Blood,”StrangeHorizons,15/11.
____,“Sweetheart,”Tor.com.
AnOwomoyela,“Abandonware,”Fantasy,June28.
____,“Portage,”ApexMagazine16.
Paul Park, “Ghosts Doing the Orange Dance (The Parke Family Scrapbook
NumberIV),”F&SF,January/February.
K.J.Parker,“ARichFullWeek,”Swords&DarkMagic.
____,“AmorVincitOmnia,”Subterranean,Summer.
____,“BlueandGold,”SubterraneanPress.
RichardParks,“FourHorsemen,AtTheirLeisure,”Tor.com.
____,“TheQueen’sReason,”LCRW25.
____,“LadyoftheGhostWillow,”BeneathCeaselessSkies,October.
SimonPetrie,“DarkRendezvous,”Destination:Future.
HollyPhillips,“TheRescue,”Postscripts22/23.
TonyPi,“TheCharacteroftheHound,”TheDragonandtheStars.
____,“TheCurseofChimère,”BeneathCeaselessSkies,October.
____,“TheGoldSilkworm,”Fantasy,December13.
____,“NightoftheManticore,”Abyss&Apex33.
RachelPollack,“Forever,”F&SF,May/June.
StevenPopkes,“TheCrocodiles,”F&SF,May/June.
____,“TheSecretLivesofFairyTales,”F&SF,January/February.
GarethL.Powell,“Fallout,”Conflicts.
T.A.Pratt,“MommyIssuesoftheDead,”TheWayoftheWizard.
TimPratt,“Fiddle,”DailyScienceFiction,September6.
WilliamPreston,“HelpingThemTaketheOldManDown,”Asimov’s,March.
TomPurdom,“HaggleChips,”Asimov’s,July.
____,“Warfriends,”Asimov’s,December.
MaryJoPutney,“TheDemonDancer,”SongsofLove&Death.
CatRambo,“AmidtheWordsofWar,”Lightspeed,September.
____,“ClockworkFairies,”Tor.com.
____,“Surrogates,”ClockworkPhoenix3.
RobertReed,“Alone,”GodlikeMachines.
____,“TheCull,”Clarkesworld,September.
____,“Excellence,”Asimov’s,December.
____,“TheGoodHand,”Asimov’s,January.
____,“TheLongRetreat,”F&SF,January/February.
____,“Pallbearer,”TheMammothBookofApocalypticSF.
____,“PrettytoThinkSo,”Asimov’s,April/May.
Mike Resnick, “The Incarceration of Captain Nebula,” Asimov’s,
October/November.
____,“SixBlindMenandanAlien,”Subterranean,Summer.
AlastairReynolds,“AtBudokan,”Shine.
____,“Troika,”GodlikeMachines.
MecurioD.Rivera,“DanceoftheKawkawroons,”Interzone227.
____,“IntheHarshGlowofItsIncandescentBeauty,”Interzone226.
FrankM.Robinson,“TheErrandBoy,”Gateways.
JamesRollins,“ThePit,”Warriors.
BenjaminRosenbaum,“TheFrogComrade,”F&SF,March/April.
____,“TheGuyWhoWorkedforMoney,”Shareable,July12.
RudyRuckerandBruceSterling,“GoodNight,Moon,”Tor.com.
Kristine Kathryn Rusch, “Amelia Pillar’s Etiquette for the Space Traveler,”
Asimov’s,July.
____,“BecomingOnewiththeGhosts,”Asimov’s,October/November.
____,“TheDarkMan,”IsAnybodyOutThere?
____,“HollywoodEnding,”JBU,April.
____,“ThePossessionofPaavoDeshin,”Analog,January/February.
____,“TheThrilloftheHunt,”JBU,February.
____,“TheTower,”Asimov’s,March.
PatriciaRusso,“WishesandFeathers,”Fantasy,May18.
PatrickSamphire,“Camelot,”Interzone230.
JasonSanford,“Memoria,”Interzone231.
____,“TheNeverNeverWizardofApalachicola,”OSCIMS,December.
____,“PlagueBirds,”Interzone228.
PamelaSargent,“Mindband,”Asimov’s,April/May.
StevenSaylor,“TheEagleandtheRabbit,”Warriors.
JohnScalzi,“ThePresident’sBrainisMissing,”Tor.com.
KenScholesandJayLake,“LookingforTruthinaWildBlueYonder,”Tor.com.
AaronSchultz,“Dr.Deathvs.theVampire,”F&SF,May/June.
GordSellar,“TheBodhisattvas,”Subterranean,Spring.
____,“TheBrokenPathway,”TheImmersionBookofSF.
____,“SargingRasmussen:AReportbyOrganic,”Shine.
PriyaSharma,“TheNatureofBees,”AlbedoOne.
LuciusShepard,“TheCompanyHeKeeps,”Postscripts22/23.
____,“DreamBurgersattheMouthofHell,”TheBookofDreams.
____,“TheFlock,”TheBeastlyBride.
____,“TheTaborinScale,”Subterranean,Summer.
FelicityShoulders,“ConditionalLove,”Asimov’s,January.
____,“TheTermiteQueenofTallulahCounty,”Asimov’s,October/November.
____andLeslieWhat,“RareEarth,”IsAnybodyOutThere?
Robert Silverberg, “Dark Times at the Midnight Market,” Swords & Dark
Magic.
____,“DefendersoftheFrontier,”Warriors.
____,“ThePrisoner,”TheBookofDreams.
CyrilSimsa,“DaughtersofFortune,”ElectricVelocipede20.
LinneaSinclair,“CourtingTrouble,”SongsofLove&Death.
VandanaSingh,“Somadeva:aSkyRiverSutra,”StrangeHorizons,March29.
AlanSmale,“AClashofEagles,”PanverseTwo.
____,“HighArt,”Abyss&Apex36.
MelindaM.Snodgrass,“TheWayfarer’sAdvice,”SongsofLove&Death.
BudSparhawk,“TheTortuousPath,”Abyss&Apex33.
JustinStanchfield,“GhostsComeHome,”Analog,October.
AllenM.Steele,“TheGreatGalacticGhoul,”Analog,October.
____,“TheJekyllIslandHorror,”Asimov’s,January.
____,“ZooTeam,”Analog,November.
BruceSterling,“TheExterminator’sWant-Ad,”ShareableFutures,June.
S.M.Stirling,“AncientWays,”Warriors.
JasonStoddard,“Overhead,”Shine.
EricJamesStone,“ThatLeviathan,WhoThouHastMade,”Analog,October.
TimSullivan,“Star-Crossed,”F&SF,March/April.
MichaelSwanwick,“GoblinLake,”Stories.
____,“SpiritsintheNight,”Abyss&Apex36.
____,“SteadfastCastle,”F&SF,September/October.
____andEileenGunn,“TheTrainsThatClimbtheWinterTree,”Tor.com.
Rachel Swirsky, “The Lady Who Plucked Red Flowers Beneath the Queen’s
Window,”Subterranean,Summer.
____,“TheMonster’sMillionFaces,”Tor.com.
____,“TheStable-Master’sTale,”Fantasy,July5.
MidoriSnider,“TheMonkeyBride,”TheBeastlyBride.
DavidTallerman,“Jenny’sSick,”Lightspeed,December.
SteveRasnicTem,“ALetterfromtheEmperor,”Asimov’s,January.
LavieTidhar,“Aphrodisia,”StrangeHorizons,September.
____,“ButterflyandtheBlightattheHeartoftheWorld,”DailyScienceFiction,
9/3.
____,“CloudPermutations,”PSPublishing.
____,“TheInsuranceAgent,”Interzone230.
____,“LodeStars,”TheImmersionBookofSF.
____,“TheMonksofUdomXhai,”Abyss&Apex34.
____,“Monsters,”Fantasy,October18.
____,“TheSolnetAscendancy,”Shine.
E.CatherineTobler,“IslandLake,”TheBeastlyBride.
SarahTotton,“Malleus,Incus,Stapes,”Fantasy,December20.
IanTregillis,“WhatDoctorGottliebSaw,”Tor.com.
____,“StillLife(ASexagesimalFairyTale),”ApexMagazine,October.
HarryTurtledove,“Vilcabamba,”Tor.com.
LisaTuttle,“HisWolf,”SongsofLove&Death.
Catherynne M. Valente, “How to Become a Mars Overlord,” Lightspeed,
August.
GenevieveValentine,“SoDeepThattheBottomCouldNotBeSeen,”TheWay
oftheWizard.
CarrieVaughn,“TheGirlsfromAvenger,”Warriors.
____,“Rooftops,”SongsofLove&Death.
Vernor Vinge, “A Preliminary Assessment of the Drake Equation, an Excerpt
fromtheMemoirsofStarcaptainY.-T.Lee,”Gateways.
WendyN.Wagner,“TheSecretofCallingRabbits,”TheWayoftheWizard.
HowardWaldrop,“Ninieslando,”Warriors.
DonWebb,“TheManWhoScaredLovecraft,”Postscripts22/23.
DavidWeber,“OutoftheDark,”Warriors.
K.D.Wentworth,“TheEmbians,”Destination:Future.
IanWerkheiser,“Variations,”Asimov’s,December.
DeanWhitlock,“Nanosferatu,”F&SF,January/February.
RickWilber,“SeveralItemsofInterest,”Asimov’s,October/November.
KateWilhelm,“ChangingtheWorld,”Asimov’s,October/November.
____,“TheLateNightTrain,”F&SF,January/February.
Sean Williams, “A Glimpse of the Marvelous Structure (and the Threat It
Entails),”GodlikeMachines.
____,“TheSpark(ARomanceinFourActs):ATaleoftheChange,”Legendsof
AustralianFantasy.
Michael D. Winkle, “The Curious Adventure of the Jersey Devil,” Panverse
Two.
GeneWolfe,“Bloodsport,”Swords&DarkMagic.
____,“KingRat,”Gateways.
____,“Innocent,”FullMoonCity.
____,“LeifintheWind,”Stories.
JohnC.Wright,“MurderinMetachronopolis,”ClockworkPhoenix3.
ChristieYant,“TheMagicianandtheMaidandOtherStories,”TheWayofthe
Wizard.
CarolineM.Yoachim,“TheSometimesChild,”Fantasy,May3.
____,“StoneWallTruth,”Asimov’s,February.
____,“WhatHappensinVegas,”GUD,Summer.
MarlyYoumans,“TheSalamanderFire,”TheBeastlyBride.
MelissaYuan-Innes,“IronMonk,”Interzone228.
Derek Zumsteg, “Ticket Inspector Gliden Becomes the First Martyr of the
GloriousHumanUprising,”Asimov’s,March.
ALSOBYGARDNERDOZOIS
ANTHOLOGIES
ADAYINTHELIFE
ANOTHERWORLD
BESTSCIENCEFICTIONSTORIESOFTHEYEAR#6–10
THEBESTOFISAACASIMOV’SSCIENCEFICTIONMAGAZINE
TIME-TRAVELERSFROMISAACASIMOV’SSCIENCEFICTIONMAGAZINE
TRANSCENDENTALTALESFROMISAACASIMOV’SSCIENCEFICTION
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ISAACASIMOV’SALIENS
ISAACASIMOV’SMARS
ISAACASIMOV’SSF-LITE
ISAACASIMOV’SWAR
ROADSNOTTAKEN(withStanleySchmidt)
THEYEAR’SBESTSCIENCEFICTION,#1–27
FUTUREEARTHS:UNDERAFRICANSKIES(withMikeResnick)
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NONFICTION
THEFICTIONOFJAMESTIPTREE,JR.
Thesestoriesareworksoffiction.Allofthecharacters,organizations,and
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THEYEAR’SBESTSCIENCEFICTION:TWENTY-EIGHTHANNUAL
COLLECTION.Copyright©2011byGardnerDozois.Allrightsreserved.For
information,addressSt.Martin’sPress,175FifthAvenue,NewYork,N.Y.
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ISBN978-0-312-56950-1(tradepaperback)
ISBN978-0-312-54633-5(hardcover)
FirstEdition:July2011
eISBN978-1-4299-8306-8
FirstSt.Martin’sGriffineBookEdition:July2011
TableofContents
TITLEPAGE
PERMISSIONS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
SUMMATION:2010
AHISTORYOFTERRAFORMING
THESPONTANEOUSKNOTTINGOFANAGITATEDSTRING
THEEMPEROROFMARS
THETHINGS
THESULTANOFTHECLOUDS
THEBOOKS
RE-CROSSINGTHESTYX
ANDMINISTERSOFGRACE
MAMMOTHSOFTHEGREATPLAINS
SLEEPINGDOGS
JACKIE’SBOY
FLYINGINTHEFACEOFGOD
CHICKENLITTLE
FLOWER,MERCY,NEEDLE,CHAIN
RETURNTOTITAN
UNDERTHEMOONSOFVENUS
SEVENYEARSFROMHOME
THEPEACOCKCLOAK
AMARYLLIS
SEVENCITIESOFGOLD
AGAINANDAGAINANDAGAIN
ELEGYFORAYOUNGELK
LIBERTARIANRUSSIA
THENIGHTTRAIN
MYFATHER’SSINGULARITY
THESTARSHIPMECHANIC
SLEEPOVER
THETASTEOFNIGHT
BLINDCATDANCE
THESHIPMAKER
IN-FALL
CHIMBWI
DEADMAN’SRUN
HONORABLEMENTIONS:2010
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