Shuteye for the Timebroker Page 10
“I was trying to think if I knew of trouble in this place before we came. But if we don’t know the name of the place …”
They watched the fighting for some time longer. Then Brian said, “It’s not coming near us. We should sleep. In the morning we can see more things.”
“Yes.”
As the couple huddled together in the shelter that suddenly seemed so flimsy, the chorus of animal voices, apparently irked by the distant human activity, resurged.
But far from being comforting now, the noises only made Brian and Cindy Rose squeeze closer together.
* * *
Three suns had come and gone.
When it was light, the two humans wandered around the neighborhood of their shelter, investigating the land and looking for others of their kind. Loping in a partial crouch, they appeared at ease amid the waving grasses and scrub, although at times they would pause and sniff the wind uneasily, nostrils flaring wide, as if smelling the death of something enormous and distant.
So far they had found none like themselves.
The man and woman dared not roam too far from their hut. Some instinct told them that they must return to it each night. When they did return, they cooked an evening meal from their mysterious but unquestioned cache of food over the undying fire they would not now be able to restart. They watched the sun fall and the twinkling lights in the sky emerge. Each night the big dark birds came and laid their fire eggs. This was a frightening time. The humans held each other. And they talked as best they could.
“When it stop?” asked the woman.
“Sometime.”
“I—you remember?”
“Our time before this?”
“Yes.”
“No. It feels like another person.”
“I still see pictures of strange things. Inside here.” She tapped her head. “But even those going.”
Silence, except for the cacophony of animal cries and coughs, screeches and screams, accompanied by the breaking of the faraway fire eggs.
The woman spoke. “Will others come for us? Once someone said something …”
“Yes. Yes. When bad birds are done.”
A killer howled his triumph then across the veldt. The humans huddled closer together. The male stoked the fire with twigs and limbs gathered from the oasis trees. It seemed to keep the beasts away. At least after dark.
When they grew tired of sitting and had said all that they could say, they moved inside, where they impulsively coupled. The bout lasted under a minute. Vigilance could not be abandoned for long. Then they dropped off into an uneasy sleep.
* * *
The Long Necks came to browse at the trees around the watering hole. The female saw them first and grunted for her mate.
Emerging from the hut with a strange thing he had been idly handling, he joined the female.
Together they watched, apprehensive at first, then more relaxed. A pleasant odor came from the droppings of the Long Necks. Seeing them eat, the humans thought also to eat. Raw meat from their supply satisfied them.
The male began to count the Long Necks.
“One, two, three—”
With an expression of frustration on his face, he stopped and turned to the female.
“Many,” she said.
* * *
The herd of Shaggy Manes came thundering across the plain. Many, many steps from the shelter, the male and female could see the huge dust cloud raised by the herd.
It was moving right across their camp.
The male bolted for the river of animals.
Chasing after him, the female caught up after a short distance. She grabbed him roughly, halting him.
She began to grunt. The sounds were simple but varied.
The male grunted back dispiritedly and hung his head, acknowledging defeat.
Together they sank to the ground to wait.
To pass the time they groomed each other, plucking parasites from scalp and groin.
When the sun was halfway down from its height, the last of the herd straggled by, and the pair of humans returned to their camp.
Their shelter and their supplies were trampled into the earth, pounded beyond recognition by myriad hooves. The fire pit was indistinguishable from the morass.
The female sank down and began to wail. Summoning up some remnant of courage, the male began to beat his chest. When this did not cause the female to cease her keening, the male reached down and cuffed her.
The blow sobered her. She began to search the ground where she was crouching. After a time, she grunted excitedly and lifted up a bright scrap of not-stone.
The male took the piece of debris and tested its edge on his thumb, drawing forth a line of bright blood. Grunting with satisfaction, he moved toward the muddied watering hole. The female followed.
Several Shaggy Manes had perished at the hole, crushed in the general melee. The male selected a carcass and began to saw meat off it.
As he worked, the female swiveled her gaze nervously around. The smell of death was thick in the air. So much meat issued a loud call—
Suddenly she screamed.
The tawny killer, moving low to the ground, had blended perfectly with the grasses until the last seconds before its leap. With unerring accuracy and grace it launched itself at the laboring male.
Somehow the female found herself up one of the thorn trees, her flesh torn by the spikes.
Below, the sleek killer had her mate by the neck.
Screaming, the female broke branches off and tossed them at the beast mauling her mate. Then she switched to hurling her own dung.
But it was no use.
Soon the watering hole was a churning mass of predators and scavengers, winged, clawed, and fanged.
In the tree, the female wept.
Around dusk, the frenzy subsided somewhat, as did her tears.
The female thought she could see the tattered naked ribs of her mate’s corpse, smaller than those of the Shaggy Manes. But it was hard to tell in the fading light.
Crouching in the fork of the tree, the female wrapped her arms tightly around herself and began to whimper.
The night would be long.
But the dawn of the seventh day and the chemical enlightenment it would bring would be even longer.
In those long-gone days before cyberpunk, when the SF field seemed moribund, my friend Scott Edelman decided to create a magazine to shake things up. Titled Last Wave, in homage to the New Wave of the 1960s, Scott’s zine succeeded in publishing several very provocative and/or experimental stories. I wrote “Distances” specifically to be a part of this scene, and Scott graciously accepted it. Of course, that’s also the point at which he ran out of the money and energy to produce another issue.
The orphaned story sat for many years until Ed McFadden asked me for a contribution to his zine, Pirate Writings, and I dug it out. Ed accepted it, and its long journey to print reached its end.
This history is not quite as recursive or metafictional as the story itself, but it’s sufficiently deep and tangled, I think, to have dissuaded me from writing another such tale. Who knows how long the next one would take to get published?
This story, by the way, owes a debt to Frederik Pohl’s great piece, “Day Million.”
Distances
One day in the future, seventy-five years from now, a man will sit down at his desk to write a science fiction story.
He will not be a professional writer. Neither money nor fame will spur him on to compose his tale. What will motivate him will be simple bafflement that will segue into fear, and a need to grapple with it.
Cleaning out a storage pod, he comes upon a simple object: a flat photo from the last century. The yellowed color snapshot shows the man’s grandparents, clad in the ridiculous clothes of their era, posed before an internal-combustion vehicle underneath a sunny spring sky. They are smiling heartily, oblivious to time’s swift passage, which has rendered them and their entire civilization into something almo
st incomprehensible, antique and quaint.
The man sits back on his haunches, studying the photo with sheer amazement. Now, he wonders, could people ever have lived this way? Wearing and eating raw organic by-products, racing about under the naked sky in the grip of indescribable urgings, believing all sorts of nonsense about so many things: sex, war, nature, the very future he now inhabits, their own undisciplined minds. He exerts his imagination and empathy in an attempt to understand their era. The mental straining does little good, however. No clear insights into their inner or outer lives can be won from out of the misty, locked-away past.
From the next room, sounds reach the man. It is one of his consensual partners, home from her day’s work in the protein factories. She is cleaning up with a sonic strigil prior to assembling their evening meal. The man himself has been home all day, having finished his weekly quota of work in just two busy days of repairs at the rectenna farm.
The man’s partner, naked, enters the room, disturbing the man’s concentration on the scrap of paper with curled edges in his palm. Sensing her wordless desires, the man drops the photo back into the storage pod, orders it shut, and leaves the room with the woman.
Even her adept and exciting tenderness fails to completely drive the disturbing memory of the photo from his mind, however. That night, with the lights out, lying among his partners, the man continues to ponder the past. For a time, he believes that what captivates him about the old flat portrait is that it represents a chaotic, incredible period which, save for the randomness of birth, might have been his lot. This is a comfortable theory, but one that does not completely satisfy him. Considering further, he discovers another, deeper aspect of the photo.
It represents his own sad fate. Just as he embodies his grandparents’ future, so will his prospective son in the biobank eventually foster descendants who will bear the same relationship to him. Someday, he too will be nothing but a smiling, foolish image in a hologram, his body and the world he knew and loved and took for granted all vanished, turned into irrelevant dust, forgotten by everyone expect a few drowsy historians.
Everything changes so fast.
The thought is so shattering, so jarring to his normal placidity, that he sits up in the dark, causing his partners to stir uneasily, as if he has psychically contaminated them with his unease. He leaves them to sleep if they can.
In the other room he paces back and forth, wondering how to quell this emotional storm he is suddenly weathering. How blind he was, not to understand immediately that it was not the past that threatened, but the future! How can he deal with it? Perhaps if he could envision the hostile, dreaded future, he might not feel so threatened by it—
Moving to sit at his desk he activates his voicewriter, and begins his story:
One day in the future, seventy-five standard cycles from now, a man will float before his interface to write a science fiction story.
He will not be a registered writer. Neither comserve credit nor sociorank will spur him to compose his tale. What will motivate him will be simply bafflement that will segue into fear, and a need to grapple with it.
Cleaning out a possession nexus, he comes upon a simple object: a blurry holo from the last century. The fuzzy tridi-shot shows the mans grandparents, clad in the ridiculous clothes of their era, posed before a fuel-cell vehicle underneath a citydome. They are smiling heartily, oblivious to times swift passage, which has rendered them and their entire civilization into something almost incomprehensible, antique and quaint.
The man hangs quizzically in zero-gee, studying the holo with sheer amazement. How, he wonders, could people ever have lived this way? Wearing and eating crude synthetics, scurrying about under their plastic domes in the grip of indescribable urgings, believing all sorts of nonsense about so many things: sex, intergroup aggressions, the extra-human biosphere, the very future he now inhabits, their own undisciplined minds. He exerts his imagination and empathy in an attempt to understand their era. The mental straining does little good, however. No clear insights into their inner or outer lives can be won from out of the misty, locked-away past.
From the adjoining bubble, sounds reach the man. It is one of his assigned resident stim-soothe mates, home from her day’s work in the crystal-growth plexus. She is changing her skin, prior to assembling their evening meal. The man himself has been home all day, mediating sociodisputes via his interface.
The man’s s-s mate, newly skinned, enters the bubble, disturbing the man’s concentration on the shimmering, primitive artifact floating before him. Primed to respond at this hour, the man shoves the holo back into the nexus, gestures it shut, and leaves the bubble with the woman.
Even her adept and exciting rituals fail to completely drive the disturbing memory of the holo from his mind, however. That night, with the stars shining outside the darkened bubble and black space crowding close, floating among his partners who cluster in a sphere of flesh, the man continues to ponder the past. For a time, he believes that what captivates him about the old tridi-portrait is that it represents a chaotic, incredible period which, save for the randomness of decanting, might have been his lot. This is a comfortable theory, but one that does not completely satisfy him. Considering further, he discovers another, deeper aspect of the holo.
It represents his own sad fate. Just as he embodies his grandparents’ future, so will his prospective son lurking in the heritage matrices eventually program descendants who will bear the same relationship to him. Someday, he too will be nothing but a smiling, foolish image in a memostim, his body and the world he knew and loved and took for granted all vanished, turned into irrelevant dust, forgotten by everyone except a few conscientious machines.
Everything changes so fast.
The thought is so shattering, so jarring to his normal placidity, that he kicks out in the dark, causing his partners to stir uneasily, as if his bioaura has contaminated them with his unease. He leaves them to sleep if they can.
In the other bubble he ricochets gently back and forth, wondering how to quell this emotional nova he is suddenly undergoing. How blind he was, not to understand immediately that it was not the past that threatened, but the future! How can he deal with it? Perhaps if he could envision the hostile, dreaded future, he might not feel so threatened by it—
Moving to hover at his interface, he activates his memtrans, and begins his story:
One day along the timegyre, 1.710 x 113 local proton-decay events from now, a human will pause on his journey to another star to externalize a science fiction story.
He will not have been issued writerly genes, yet somehow he will transcend this lack. Neither interpersonal exchange secretions nor illustrious timegyre repute will spur him to externalize his tale. What will motivate him will be simple bafflement that will segue into fear, and a need to grapple with it.
Mentally cleaning his catalog of internal memostims, he comes upon an unsuspected entry: a clear transcription at least three generations old. The sensory blast hiding behind the cue is of the human’s gene-linked predecessors, clad in the inefficient skin of their era, posed inside a primitive intercolony transport against a viewscreen that reveals a starscape. They are smiling heartily, oblivious to time’s swift passage, which has rendered them and their entire civilization into something almost incomprehensible, antique and quaint.
The human swims quizzically in his ship’s transport fluid, replaying the stim with sheer amazement. How, he wonders, could people ever have lived this way? Wearing crude skin, eating through their mouths, scurrying about among space-colonies in the grip of indescribable urgings, believing all sorts of nonsense about so many things: sex, gene-determined outerness, the scintillant, multidimensioned plenum, the very nowness he inhabits, their own unstructured neurofields. He triggers his imagination and empathy routines in an attempt to understand their portion of the timegyre. The routines must have a bug, however. No clear insights into their inner or outer lives can be won from out of the misty, locked-away past.
The human’s commensal, at peak excitement, enters the human’s personal radius, disturbing the human’s concentration on the internal sensory transcription. Awash in the diluted pheromonal mix, the human stores the stim in his mental queue of matters to attend to, and couples with the alien.
Even her-his fine performance in the negotiated common truce-mating fails to completely drive the disturbing memory of the stim from his mind, however. That downtime, with the maddening warpspace safely hidden away beyond the ship walls, breasting the exercise current with powerful strokes of arms and flippers and a wriggle of his sinuous body, the human continues to ponder the past. For a time, he believes that what captivates him about the old full-spectrum stim is that it represents a chaotic, incredible period which, save for the wisdom of the Human Creation Agency, might have been his lot. This is a comfortable theory, but one that does not completely satisfy him. Considering further, he discovers another, deeper aspect of the stim.
It represents his own sad fate. Just as he embodies his gene-linked predecessors’ future, so will he eventually be linked through his prospective son lurking in the plans of the HCA to descendants who will bear the same relationship to him. In some forward portion of the timegyre, he too will be nothing but a smiling, foolish image in a memostim, his body and the plenum he knew and loved and took for granted all vanished, turned into irrelevant dust, forgotten by everyone except a few keenly tasting organisms. Everything changes so fast.
The thought is so shattering, so jarring to his normal placidity, that he ceases to swim, allowing the current to drive him back into a calm eddy.