Futures Near and Far (12 page)

“How about tomorrow night?”

She pursed her lips. “How about Tuesday instead?”

She laughed at his tiny frown of disappointment. “You
northern boys are
so
impatient.” She
lifted her hand up. Recognizing the gesture, he kissed her knuckles.

A trace of a shiver rolled along her arm.

“We have plenty of time,” Nadine said. She gave him her Link
access number and turned to go.

Yes, Neil thought, watching the wiggle of her hips as she
disappeared down the street. Time. Deep inside himself, he turned from the
trophies and record books and team photos on his shelf, and looked toward the
open track ahead. His feet were in the starting block.

What did one hundred twenty years of the past matter,
compared to a thousand years of the future? Heading home, Neil repeated
Nadine’s number under his breath until it became part of him.

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This story
happens to feature a self-driving automobile. While I was writing this in 1992
for Mike Resnick’s anthology
Deals with the Devil,
I wondered to myself which would arrive first in the real world — the
vehicle or the runaway cascade of global warming that informs the background of
this piece. I guessed the car would come second, but those darn guys at Google
seem to have other ideas.

The limousine accelerated up the ramp onto southbound 280.
Inside the sleek black shell, Charles Berthold folded his hands and wondered
when he had last visited San Jose other than to catch a flight at the airport.
Four years? Five? That excursion had been on account of Bennie as well.

One last time,
Charles thought pensively.

A brown haze hung across the South Bay like pond scum two
thousand feet deep, eating away at Mt. Hamilton and its eroded companion peaks.
Merciless sunshine ricocheted off the freeway. Weeds and shrubs were dissolving
into desiccated stubble, fuel for another Great Silicon Valley Fire. The trees
planted on the hills to the west after that event were struggling to keep their
foothold, belying the name evergreens. The region needed a good rain to rinse
the skies and recharge the earth.
No use in
anyone holding their breath waiting
, thought Charles.

He’d forgotten how much he hated it out here. His tongue
pressed the insides of his lips, ready to utter the command that would cause
the automobile to return to its berth. He didn’t have to do this. He could
remain in his sanctuary, in the company of his beautiful wife and children.

But he’d said he would come. The vow was forty-nine years
old, a naïve first grade promise, but some covenants were not meant to be
broken. Charles rubbed his forehead, memories peeling up layer by layer.

In his mind’s eye Mrs. Harris
— her support pantyhose no longer able to restrain her middle-aged girth — stalked
the classroom, assigning seats. Charles did not realize it until years later,
but Mrs. Harris was a missionary for social change. Her class contained large
numbers of children of Vietnamese, Mexican, and African heritage, and she
zealously mixed the races and genders. Probably the only reason two white boys
like Charles and Bennie had ended up beside each other was because, with a
surname like Goldman, Mrs. Harris was convinced Bennie was Jewish. All Charles
and Bennie cared about was that they liked each other. Within a month, they declared
themselves blood brothers for life.

All too short a life, for one of them. Bennie had punctured
his thumb on a rose thorn, developed a staph infection, and failed to go to a
doctor in time. A tough break, some would call it. Charles knew better. After
all the times Bennie had put himself in danger bucking the powers-that-be,
after all the death threats, the asshole had simply used up his share of good
luck.

“What time is it?” Charles asked the car.

“One oh nine pee em,” came the reply from the speaker on the
dash. The pitch, tone, and delivery left the impression that an alert, cordial
young man operated the vehicle despite the empty seat behind the steering
wheel. Charles rather preferred the soft female voice of the hostess
interactives of, say, a Boeing 887, but he understood why the limousine company
had chosen as they had. A few of the older generation still didn’t trust
“women” drivers.

“ETA?” Charles asked.

“At current speed and road conditions, we will arrive at the
cemetery at one thirty-eight pee em.”

He had time. “Change the route. Take the Meridian exit, go
south on Lincoln.”

“Travel on surface streets is not advisable,” the car
reminded him.

“Are there any barricades up today?”

“No, Mr. Berthold.”

“Then do it.”

“As you wish.”

Presently the car left the streamlined artery of concrete
and Nu-asphalt and descended into the bowels of San Jose. Charles’s eyes
narrowed as he saw, for the first time in years, what had become of Willow
Glen.

Broken bottles and derelict vehicles littered the sidewalks.
Empty pots, pans, and fifty-five gallon drums lined the yards and stoops, ready
to catch the rain if it came. Graffiti streaked the walls of every business,
their owners having given up the effort to repaint. The abandoned shell of
Berman’s Department Store sported a particularly large cartoon of three men and
a dog engaged in various carnal acts — the artist had not been skilled enough
to bring out details. Not that Charles cared to know.

People haunted the avenue, clad in long sleeves and full
pants even in the 95°F heat. They clustered beneath the ubiquitous awnings or
stood alone beneath umbrellas. A few brave souls depended on mere clothing,
hats, and dark glasses to fend off the sun’s double-edged gift.

Every last person tracked the limousine as it motored by.
Momentarily Charles feared they might rush into the street, blocking his path
as they had cut off vehicles during the last insurrection. But no one moved. No
one seemed capable of movement. Their expressions were full of the hopelessness
of people who witness evidence of prosperity, but know that that wealth will
never be theirs to share. Charles had first seen such Third World despair
during that trip to Mexico he and Bennie had taken during their late teens.

Go inside, you idiots,
Charles silently lectured them. Few, if any, seemed to have any reason to be on
the street. It was as if they were daring the sky to blight their health, like
Persephone nibbling the pomegranate in Hades.

Human nature, Charles supposed. Act as if nothing can hurt
you, and nothing will. Didn’t they know life required more insurance than that?

The staring faces receded as Charles continued south. “Turn
right at the next intersection,” he commanded.

“That residential area is not coded for automobile guidance
systems,” replied the limousine.

Charles pursed his lips. How primitive. “Take me as far as
you can and engage manual override.”

“Your driver’s license is expired, Mr. Berthold.”

Charles sighed. “Do it anyway. Log the fine to my account.”

“Yes, sir.”

The vehicle executed the turn and, fifty yards along the
side street, pulled to the curb. Preferring not to unlock the doors, Charles
clambered over the driver’s seat.

He pulled out slowly, angling to avoid one of many
king-sized potholes. The layout of the avenues and cul-de-sacs was familiar,
but little else was as he had known it. The charred stump on the corner — had
that been where that magnificent walnut tree had stood? Hadn’t there been a
fire hydrant near it?

Plywood boards covered the windows of the better-preserved
homes. Some of them still had lawns, though they were brown. About half of the
automobiles parked in front of them looked as though they might still be
capable of travel. A few small, filthy children played in the life-preserving
shade of a carport.

Coming to the address that had once been his, Charles found
only rubble overtaken by star thistle. The only item not stolen by scavengers
was the ornamental boulder in the front yard — too heavy to move without a
large truck and winch.

Charles and his first wife had lived here for nearly eight
years. He had thought he would feel loss, to view the spot now, yet all he felt
was mild relief that he did not have to confront current residents.

Straightening his spine, Charles continued on. Two curves
later he came to Bennie’s house.

The adjacent houses were weedy, the cement of their
driveways cracked, their walls the color of dirt. Bennie’s house was no larger,
but it boasted new paint, swept gutters, a yard rich with composted soil,
mulch, and hand-placed rock borders. The plants were a careful selection of
drought-resistant species, artfully xeriscaped. The only concessions to the
sub-culture of the neighborhood were the wrought iron bars on the windows and,
next to the front door, a plainly visible portrait of the two Doberman
pinschers that lived inside. The house was an oasis. Any homeowner would have
been proud of it.

“Take what you have, and make it better,” Charles murmured.
That was Bennie.

“Mr. Berthold,” chimed the limousine, “to reach your
destination at the appointed time, you must leave within ten minutes.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Charles furrowed his brow, annoyed by the
automatic feature. “Give me a moment,” he added, though it did no good to
admonish an interactive.

He was just about to leave when, to his surprise, the front
door opened. Out stepped a vision from his past, one he had not expected to see
until the burial. She waved and approached.

“Left window down,” he stated. The car obeyed.

Deep streaks of gray scored her raven hair. Other than that
and the tear tracks in her mascara, she looked much like the beauty he’d known
in college.

“Hello, Melanie.”

She smiled wanly. “I didn’t think you’d stop by the house.”

“Not my usual neighborhood anymore, no,” he said, coughing.
“I won’t be here later. Just thought I’d take a quick glimpse.”

“Well, as long as you’re here, mind if I ride with you to
the service? No sense taking two cars. My sister can bring me back.”

Ride-sharing with Melanie. Who would have thought such a
thing were still possible? “Of course,” Charles said, and unlocked the
passenger side.

“Let me get us back to Lincoln, then we can talk freely,” he
said once they were rolling. In short order it was done. He joined Melanie in
the rear and the guidance system carried them smoothly down the avenue past the
old stone church. The church showed scars, but was intact.

“So,” Melanie said, placing a hand on his knee in a fond,
almost sexual manner most unlike a widow in mourning. “Still raping small
Central American nations for a living?”

Her warm body language had made him that much more
vulnerable to the dagger of her words. Charles sighed and turned away from her
cold gaze.

“I’d hoped we might put that argument aside for the day,”
Charles said. “I’m just a lawyer, Mel. Just like Bennie was. I do what I’m hired
to do.”

“You did quite a job for Bechtel last year against the class
action suit in Panama. Those peasants—”

“Mel. Please.”

She turned away. “That son of a bitch I married. He can’t
just croak on me. First he has to give me a last request to pass on to ‘an old
pal’.” She cleared her throat as if something bilious had risen. “I guess I
should be grateful I can take care of it now, instead of at the gravesite.”

The tie and collar around Charles’s neck felt like a noose.
“What are you talking about, Mel?”

She rummaged through her purse, and pulled out an eighty
gigabyte datacoin. She pressed it into Charles’s palm so firmly he suspected
she was trying to brand him with it.

“It’s a copy of Bennie’s files for the
Save Alaska
suit.” She shrugged. “You
know Bennie. He never gives up on anybody. He wanted you to take his place,
Charles. It’ll be a difficult suit to win. It’ll take the best. Even I have to
admit, you’re the best. At your job.”

“I don’t—”

“Take it, you ass. Think of it as a chance for redemption.” Eyes
misty, she turned fully toward him, and finally, her voice was not cold. “Do it
for me, if you can’t do it for Bennie.”

Charles swallowed, and tucked the datacoin in his coat
pocket. “I’ll get back to you on it.”

She nodded. He knew she knew nothing had been decided. She’d
made her point. That was all that could be asked of the moment.

Given the awkward silence that followed, Charles was
surprised how soon the limousine reached the cemetery. As the car had warned,
they were barely in time. Most of the mourners were already gathered around the
gravesite.

The vehicle swung to a parking place in the semi-circle
reserved for AutoGuide traffic. “I’ll be there in a moment,” Charles said
softly. Melanie, eager to be away, joined the gathered family.

Charles hesitated, wondering if he should simply leave. No.
He’d come too far now. He rubbed sunblock on his face, neck, and hands, put on
his hat and dark glasses, and opened his black umbrella as he stepped out.

He sniffed the caustic outdoor air. A few of the mourners
wore their face masks, but Charles decided he didn’t need his today. He strode
to the fringes of the crowd. He didn’t mingle — no one here wanted to know him,
and he knew it.

Much to Charles’s relief, the minister started right on
time. Those who had been aiming suspicious glances at Charles turned to render
their respect and attention. Charles stared hard at the casket, as if he had
x-ray vision and were taking a last, long look at his blood brother.

Soon the minister stood aside. A man vaguely familiar to
Charles moved forward to offer a eulogy.

“Bennie Goldman,” said the man with a strained voice, “was a
crusader for the planet.”