Shuteye for the Timebroker (14 page)

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, 1.7
¹⁰
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.

From elsewhere in the fluid, chemo-pressure waves reach the human. He reads them as those of one of his commensal nonhuman fellow voyagers, swimming toward him from his-her stint in the navigation blister. He-she is lacing the common fluid with both anxiety and mating pheromones. The human finds himself responding.

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.

In the still pool, he thrashes gently back and forth, wondering how to quell this emotional warpspace he is suddenly traversing. How untasting of the omnipresent fluid of life 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—

Activating transcription subroutines, the human begins to externalize —into a secretion that others can savor—his story:

… science fiction … time … human … pause … bafflement … fear … old … oblivious … incomprehensible … amazement … sex … inner … outer … past … mating … memory … captivates … chaotic … deeper … fate … nothing … smiling … dust … forgotten … changes … shattering … wondering … future … threatened … understand … story:

… time … past … changes … future … wondering … story:

… time …

On all my previous collaborations, I felt as if the other author and I split the heavy lifting equally. But this story is an exception. Mike Bishop did at least two-thirds of the work involved here. Will that little fact stop me from reprinting this fine story in a collection of mine? Of course not!

I do feel that I played a semi-invaluable part in getting this story into print. Mike had finished one draft and was unhappy with it, but could see no place to take it I rejiggered the narrative conceptually, wrote a few hundred words, and away Mike went!

This might be the one time I functioned as a muse instead of being on the receiving end of celestial inspiration.

We’re All in This Alone

[Cowritten with Michael Bishop]

Bam!
The morning newspaper hit the screen. Harry Lingenfelter sloshed coffee onto the mess littering his tabletop: two weeks’ worth of prior editions of
The Atlanta Harbinger
, all creased open to the same damned page; stacks of unpaid bills and scary envelopes from his wife’s lawyers; dishes crusted with the remnants of sour microwave bachelor meals. Lingenfelter gulped a calming breath and raked the stubble on his jaw with well-bitten fingernails.

Blast old Ernie! Couldn’t he—for once—plop the paper gently on the grass? Every morning, Ernie Salter nailed the screen door. And every morning since the acrimonious departure of his wife, Nan, Lingenfelter jumped. Nan’s decamping to her sister’s house in Montana, almost a continent away, had not surprised him, but it still rankled. His gut never stopped roiling. In fact, nowadays even the trill of a house finch could unnerve him.

But what most rankled, even shamed, Lingenfelter was his intolerably foolish preoccupation with a feature in the
Harbinger
called “The Squawk Box.” How much longer could he indulge his crazy, self-generated obsession with a few column inches in a two-bit newspaper? “The Squawk Box” ruled his waking life. Sometimes it invaded his dreams. Work on his latest Ethan Dedicos mystery novel had almost stalled, even as his deadline neared, and one look at the kitchen—hell, at any room in the house—disclosed the humiliating magnitude of his bedevilment.

“The Squawk Box” ran daily in the
Harbinger
. It resembled similar columns in newspapers across the nation. A friend in Illinois had forwarded Lingenfelter copies of a feature called “The Fret Net,” and at airport newsstands he had run across others titled “The Gripe Vine” and “The Complaint Department.” An outlet for pithy bons mots and rants, these columns consisted of anonymous submissions from the paper’s own readers. The
Harbinger
’s readers generally squawked via telephone or e-mail. An unnamed staff member, self-dubbed the “Squawk Jock,” winnowed these quips down and printed the wittiest. Although the Squawk Jock never interjected private opinion, Lingenfelter had concluded from the evidence of the columns that he had right-of-center leanings and no taste for controversy. You rarely encountered a squawk about abortion, gun control, ethnicity, the death penalty, or religion.