Nature Futures 2 (18 page)

The suicide note of the world's first immortal ended simply enough:

I cannot live without her.

Richard P. Grant: scientist, gadfly, poet. Now carving out a science-writing career in London. Find him at
http://rg-d.com
.

Midnight in the Cathedral of Time

Preston Grassmann

Walking through the crowded streets in Canvas Town, I pass a booth that claims to sell the god-ware of angelic systems; codes that open gateways to palaces of corporate data. I pass the aisles of snake-oil salesmen, hawking the latest nanotech cures for assorted ailments, from back pain to cancer. Through the aisles, the gold and silver relics of archaic religions are nestled among the silicon and plastic wafers of data-chips.

The man I'm searching for sits in the corner of the tent and looks up slowly. His eyes catch a glint of light from mechanically modified plasma-eels that swim in a tank at the entrance of his shop. As I enter, he smiles and hunches slowly forward, a conspirator waiting to whisper a secret. Towers fall and cathedrals break apart across his chest, streets narrow across his ribs to make room for buildings; his skin altering in the movement.

“You finally made it back,” he says, his lips turning a mountain ravine into a cave of broken stalactites. He watches me with grey-green eyes.

“What made you think I would?” I ask, watching as two eels collide in a surge of blue light, plasma flickering around their bodies. A few people stand at the entrance, placing their hands on the surface of the tank to watch the storm surge around their fingers.

“Lucid dreamers always return.”

I begin to see the illustrations spreading outwards from his body, an artist's outline that turns into solid shapes. The mountain across his cheekbones begins to melt, spreading down his chest, colours pouring across his skin like watercolours.

The DJ stays where he is, unmoving, as if waiting for me to act.

“One reading is all it takes for some,” he says, reaching out for the data-chip. I place it in his open palm. “Before they become…”

“Dream junkies?”

He nods slowly.

A crowd begins to gather outside the shop. He replays the images of dreams from previous customers. Another image forms across his chest; bright green palms swaying among a village of burning homes, spires of smoke rising across his shoulders like wings.

The data-chips were dreams rendered into code. There were only a few technicians who understood how such data could be used, and even fewer who could render them into coherent forms. This man had chosen to turn it into an art. As he read the data-card, the images would be distilled and remixed, projected on his skin in high resolution.

“Shall we keep this private?” he asks, the pictures on his skin shifting too quickly to be seen.

“Yes.”

He rises for a moment to move the audience away and pulls a low Japanese panel-screen across the entrance.

“There are more details here than before,” he says, as the shadows across his chest begin to resolve, her face becoming clearer, chiaroscuro lines opening into the shadowed hollows of her eyes, the twist of a red mouth, the familiar angles of her cheeks. She stands at the entrance. “It's midnight…,” she says, the voice of the DJ altering to let hers come through.

She is wraith-thin and dressed in a silk robe and she retreats back into the cathedral, moving as if part of some clockwork mechanism. Through a sequence of images, I watch myself enter, searching for her through the aisles. Everything inside is turning with rusted clockwork parts and the corroded mandalas of half-broken gears. In the pews, worshippers hold the remains of broken clocks. The springs and cogs are spread across their open palms like hymnals.

“Horo-shippers,” the DJ says softly, smiling. “Clever.”

And then I find her, staring up at the altar. She doesn't turn away as I approach. Even as I put my hand on her shoulder, she remains still. All at once, everything stops. The DJ is motionless, his smile fading as the images of the gears stop turning and the parts fall out of the worshippers' hands and clatter on the floor. And then there is only stillness inside and I run to the altar and beat my fists against its walls, striking out against the mechanism. “Not yet,” I say, my own voice echoing around me. “Come back.”

That's when the face of the man begins to shift and flow, and she is there, the slope of her cheeks, the curve of her mouth, the soft line of her eyebrows, eyes rendered in the space of eyelids; the same bright, piercing blue-green that I remember so well. And then her body forms, shaping itself across the terrain of his arms, his chest, flowing down the length of his body, until the DJ's skin is only a faint outline around hers. For a moment I can still see the gears, as if she has become the cathedral, the movements of time, her heart the mechanism that makes the gears turn, but they soon fade until it is only her body reaching out for mine.

“Come,” she says, and though I know this can't be part of my recorded dream, that it's only an offering, I will hold her for as long as I can.

Preston Grassmann became a freelance writer after working as a regular reviewer for
Locus Magazine
. He was born in California and educated at the University of California, Berkeley, where he lived on the same block as Philip K. Dick. His first published science fiction story, ‘Cael's Continuum', appeared in
Bull Spec
in 2011. His recent stories and poems have been published in
Daily Science Fiction
,
Mythic Delirium
,
Caledonia Dreamin'
, and
Apex
.

The Best of Us

Lee Hallison

Wind howled over blackened trees as Ginja picked her way to me over broken highway lumps. A tough cookie, the kind that sometimes broke. Hard to judge on the first day. On the other hand, soft ones didn't even get to try. Like the boy I'd refused yesterday? He had no idea the favour I'd done his sorry ass.

I train recruits for scavenger duty. If this one passed the first-day test, she was in luck. I hadn't always been a teacher, but I'd be goddamned if I wasn't a good one.

“Ears hurt,” Ginja complained when she reached the bus. The wind out here was painful, a never-ending screech, as if Earth itself was moaning. The nearly useless helmets we wore had way-too-thin ear pads and faceplates that barely protected us from the sharp debris and swirling dust.

Faded lettering across the tilted bus announced “Panorama Tours!” Ginja set her half-filled sack by the left wheel. The bus seemed stable. Two wheels on the cracked asphalt, two in a long furrow in the bare median strip.

I swung my rifle butt into the Greyhound's door. The glass shattered. I reached in and yanked the inner handle. A musty-sour smell wafted over us as I opened the door.

The wind dropped as I climbed in. Ginja stepped up. This was the moment when some would-be scavengers freaked out.

“Look at all this stuff!”

Hand luggage was strewn in the aisle. Skeletons draped with decayed clothing slumped in the seats.

“Yes, a good haul.” She'd do. I shifted my rifle to the side to let her by.

Vehicles sometimes hosted rats or feral dogs. This bus seemed empty, so I pointed the rifle down — but stayed ready. I wasn't about to break my track record. My trainees came back.

“Stinks!” Ginja pulled her faceplate back down. She reached over the driver's headless skeleton and yanked the window open.

“Jeez, shut it! Are you stupid?” I yelled. She pushed, but the frame stuck. Now we were in a mini-windstorm inside a bus filled with dead people's dust. Maybe I was mistaken. Tough was good but smart was better.

I forced the window closed.

“Ask me before you do shit. Wind comes from this side. If you need air, open one on the lee side.”

She nodded, worry that she'd blown it written on her face. I ignored her dismay and told her what to search for. I'd stay up front as guard.

“Batteries, books, all electronics and toys,” I said. “Any medicines or creams, even open tubes. Clothing if it looks strong, check for quality — thin or torn-up stuff ain't worth saving. Pass on food. It won't be good anymore.”

“Even cans?” She unzipped a large athletic-style bag.

“Nobody brought food cans on tours. Use your brains.”

She picked up a skull that was resting on a purse snuggled between two bony knees. Before I could stop her, she opened a lee-side window and tossed it out.

“Hey! No desecrating the dead. That's important.”

“Surviving is important. Finding stuff to haul back is important. Where does giving a shit fit in?” Ginja stood, skinny arms akimbo, chin out.

“Being human, that's where.”

She snorted but didn't throw away any more body parts. She worked quickly, tossing a mobile phone and a cosmetics bag into the growing pile in the aisle, then pulled a black leather duffel from underneath the seat.

A small “oh” drew my attention away from the windows.

Ginja held up a dirty white ball.

“Soccer.”

“Yeah, so?”

“My brother played soccer. That could have been him.” She looked at the seated skeleton.

I stayed quiet, letting her chew on the idea.

She set the ball on the pile. Gently, though, and her hand lingered. I looked out front, giving her space. I wondered, idly curious, if she would break this soon.

She coughed and pulled out a shopping bag, dumping the papers it held. I heard a scritch from the back and turned to see a fat furry shape streak over a seatback.

“Rat! Get behind me!”

Ginja jumped up and we swivelled around each other in the narrow aisle. The rats were fearless, vicious and carried disease our meagre antibiotics couldn't fight. I aimed the rifle and waited. Soon enough, it poked a head up and stared at me. I let it nose up higher and squeezed the trigger.

Ginja yelled at the echoing boom and we both fell back a bit. I'd seen the blood spray. I kept the gun aimed towards the back and motioned to her pile.

“Grab it, we'd better get out. Gunshot might bring the curious.”

Her face was ashen. She stepped around me, squatted down and scooped her finds into the shopping bag. The soccer ball rolled slowly away and she looked up at me.

“Yeah, sure, get it.”

She duck-walked towards the ball and grabbed it before it got too far. She squeezed it to her chest, her lip trembling. She jabbed her chin at the disarrayed skeletons.

“All these people. Oh, jeez. They're all people!”

I cocked my head.

“What did you think they were?”

She shuddered, stuck the ball in the bag and stood up.

“Stupid, I know.”

“No, you're not stupid. It's hard to care and it's hard not to care.”

As she reached the front steps, she turned.

“Cap?” She blinked as if something were in her eyes. “Do we have time to bury them?”

We didn't, but I was pleased. The best of us knew just exactly what we were doing.

I passed her, of course.

Lee Hallison is a writer living in the Pacific Northwest. She blogs at
leehallison.com
.

Press ‘1' to Begin

Nye Joell Hardy

Andrew? Andrew? Are you there?

I know this is an online class, but the reason you have an audio interface is so that you can talk. Andrew? Can you hear me? Hello?

If you're frightened, I want you to know you're not alone. ‘Social Interaction 101' is designed for people just like you. It's not an uncommon difficulty these days, not since everyone started telecommuting. Even people who come from the largest families lose their verbal skills if they spend just a few years communicating only by e-mail, blog and tweet. And you haven't been outside your house since — let me look at your profile — oh, my. Well, never mind, Andrew. Can you just say “Hi?” Andrew? No?

Okay. I'll just talk and you can listen. No … don't type your response. Just listen. Over the duration of the course we will cover History of Social Interaction; Breathing and Talking at the Same Time; Paying Attention to What People Say; Common Greetings; Uncomfortable Silences; What is Rudeness?; Communicative Emotions to Avoid — Silliness, Salaciousness and Sarcasm; The Ten Commandments of Manners; Weather and Sports; and Eye Contact.

Eye Contact used to be in the advanced course, but it really is an important component of social interaction, so we decided it belonged in 101. Facial Expressions are still in the advanced session, of course, and Being A Shoulder to Cry On, but I'm getting off topic here. Still with me?

You could burp or cough, if you want, even though it's not good manners. We'll cover all that in a later class, but I think you just need to get used to making sounds in front of others, Andrew. How about if you just clap your hands?… No?

Don't worry then. Some people need to go through the first few classes before they're comfortable with me reacting to the sounds they make. But think about this, Andrew: wouldn't you like to be able to put ‘Conversationalist' on your résumé? Let's see what you do for a living — Human Resources Director — well. I think conversing could be a powerful tool in your management arsenal, don't you? Andrew?

Never mind. Would you mind if I start our first topic?

Would you?

All right. The very first humans were probably non-verbal, but they needed a code to understand their relationships to one another — who was boss and who had to do all the nasty chores. For this code, they created words, as they were illiterate and didn't have computers. Different tribes of people quickly developed different codes: Chinese, Latin, Farsi, Rap … and all the other languages, you know, that were in the world. But, they had no technology. Then, someone invented Semaphore and Morse Code and DOS, and people quickly realized that talking wasn't as efficient at communicating data.