Babylon Sisters

by Paul Di Filippo

  “The refectory,” announced Jezzie.

  I watched a slippery amphibian creature stride in, then turned to Jezzie.

  “I thought we were going for something to eat.”

  Jezzie looked puzzled. “We are. That’s why we’re here.” She looked me up and down, and obviously TAPPED for something. “Did you want to eat—alone? Why, how strange! No, we don’t do that here. What did you think ‘Commensality’ means? You just come with me. You’ll enjoy it, you’ll see.”

  Before I could assert myself, Jezzie had grabbed me strongly by the wrist and pulled me in—

  Mist and steamy water billowed from dozens of showerheads at the far end of the tiled anteroom and humans and other sophonts, all naked, were washing themselves and each other and the noise of voices and falling water echoed off the hard walls and I pulled away and, confused, ran not outside but through an inner door which let out onto a balcony down from which stairs ran, and from which I could look down and away into a cavernous two-story room filled with troughs and tables and stalls and racks and cushions around/at/over/in which a horde of humans and nonhumans clambered/relaxed/groped and ate, and I let out a visceral noise midway between scream and grunt which went unnoticed amid the general prandial clamor and I turned blindly and fled back out and past the showers and into the streets and thrust past anyone who got in my way and ran and ran and ran.

  When I was out of breath I stopped, panting, and collapsed.

  I shut my eyes and tried to forget.

  Ivory hooves on ceramic morsed a message to my ears.

  I looked.

  “I give up, Jezzie,” I said to the woman standing over me. “You can put that thing in my brain, but don’t make me go back to that hellhole.”

  The woman smiled. “I’m not going to make you do anything. But I do have to tell you that you’re surrendering to the wrong person.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m Judy,” she said.

  6.

  Doubletalk

  I lived with Jezzie and Judy for a week before I realized, from various oddments of talk, that they were thieves.

  Con artists. Sisters in scam. Pickbrains and cutcortexes.

  Of course they didn’t see themselves that way. They had a view of their own unconventional activities—which emerged in conversation over time—that glorified and justified what they did.

  The act of conversation with the two women itself, however, was so distracting that it took me longer than it should have to piece together what they meant. If Jezzie’s darting, elusive, unpredictably shifting solo talk had been analogous to the flight of a drunken hummingbird, then the verbal gymnastics of the two women together resembled an aerial ballet between two trapeze artists in a hall of mirrors.

  Judy (who had taken her latest name from the Biblical Judith, she who had driven the nail through Holofernes’s head) and Jezzie had developed a habit common among mates and partners in the Commensality. They conducted all their discussions via TAP when alone together. When a third person—me, say—was dealt into the game, the women simply mentally agreed to split their common thoughts in half, alternating sentences and fragments of sentences. Combined with the fact that my new roommates were totally identical to the eye and ear, this way of speaking nearly drove me crazy.

  Lying on a thick cushioned biopolymer mat on the floor of one of the rooms of my new home, I now regarded the women who had somehow come unexplainably to adopt me. Judy and Jezzie were reclining unclothed on two organiform couches. (I had yet to overcome my repugnance to mocklife, hence the mat.) Biolites diffused a blue-green glow that seemed like the light in an undersea coral hall. I was completely unable to tell which was the woman who had first approached me on the day of my arrival in Babylon, seemingly so far in the past.

  We three had come to an impasse in our talk, and I was now considering how to circle around the topics I was interested in and sneak up on them from the rear.

  “Let me get this straight,” I began. “No one in the Commensality has to work.”

  “Right,” said Jezzie or Judy.

  “Because of unlimited power—”

  “—from monopole furnaces—”

  “—and intelligent management—”

  “—of trade and resources—”

  “—on the part of our AOI—”

  “—all the necessities—”

  “—are disbursed free—”

  “—such as food and clothing—”

  “—and shelter like this—”

  “—you see.”

  My gaze had been ping-ponging back and forth between the two women while they spoke. Much as I had tried to suppress this reflex, I still found myself swivelling my attention between stereophonic interlocutors. Now I forced myself to concentrate my vision on a spot midway between the two and not move it.

  “Okay. I can see that you could arrange a society that way, although it violates all the Conservancy’s principles about encouraging self-discipline and hard work.”

  Judy or Jezzie sniggered, while the other reached down to scratch among the hairs at the interface between horse and human, her breasts shifting provocatively. (Many conversations had been sidetracked this way too. The women had lost little time in seducing me. I had, out of mingled loneliness, lust and fear of refusing these captors-cum-rescuers, complied eagerly. Despite the relationship rapidly falling into a curiously normal-feeling stability, I still found many aspects of it puzzling. Such as what had initially attracted the interest of the two women, and why they continued to be willing to foster me.)

  Ignoring both the sarcastic noise and the pendulous flesh, I stuck to the intellectual plane.

  “But you also maintain that Babylon keeps track of everyone’s credit rating, and that you can supplement it by work—or in your case, theft.”

  “You understand about the credit—”

  “—but please don’t call us thieves.”

  I shook my head. “I can’t see why I shouldn’t. You take things from other people that don’t belong to you.”

  “Not physical things, really—”

  “—just information—”

  “—which is different—”

  “—as you’d realize—”

  “—if you knew anything at all—”

  “—about information theory—”

  “—which you really should—”

  “—since the Commensality is based on information—”

  “—as a source of wealth—”

  “—although information has its limits, of course—”

  “—because you can’t eat it—”

  “—or wear it—”

  “—or screw it.”

  “Although sex of course—”

  “—in its own unique way—”

  “—is information transfer too.”

  “And let’s not forget—”

  “—that there’s a limit—”

  “—on the utility of information—”

  “—when dealing with deterministic systems—”

  “—that nevertheless exhibit inbuilt randomness—”

  “—also known as chaos—”

  “—which describes the Commensality—”

  “—to a tee!”

  I buried my face in my hands. I felt a headache blooming. Voice muffled, I said, “Tell me about it again.”

  “Information has to breed—”

  “—copulate in a way—”

  “—to produce new information—”

  “—more valuable than the old.”

  “But people are jealous of the information they possess—”

  “—although Commensality sensibilities minimize jealousy in all other areas—”

  “—yet no society’s perfect.”

  “But anyway—”

  “—individuals are selfish—”

  “—because they feel others will profit more than they will if they share—”

  “—which is probably correct—”


  “—because we certainly profit—”

  “—from the information we garner—”

  “—and recombine—”

  “—and sell—”

  “—to Babylon itself—”

  “—and anyone else who offers a fair price.”

  “So we’re definitely not thieves—”

  “—even though we have to resort to trickery—”

  “—and craft—”

  “—and guile—”

  “—and wiles—”

  “—to get people to share—”

  “—what isn’t doing them any good anyway hoarded up.”

  “No, our role is vital—”

  “—because we synthesize—”

  “—and synergize—”

  “—collate—”

  “—and collimate—”

  “—anticipate—”

  “—and aggregate—”

  “Enough, enough!” I shouted. “You’re not thieves. You’re wonderful, civic-minded, essential people. Absolute saints. Even though I don’t understand what you do.”

  Judy and Jezzie were kneeling by my side before I realized they had moved. Their breasts bookended my attention.

  “Poor boy—”

  “—don’t worry—”

  “—tomorrow we’ll show you what we do—”

  “—and right now—”

  “—just to soothe you—”

  “—we’ll show you—”

  “—we’re not saints—”

  “—by any stretch—”

  “—of your—”

  “—imag—”

  “—i—”

  “—na—”

  “—tion.”

  Much later, lying back downward on my mat with two armfuls of warm Babylonian information-bawds, I said, “Those hooves are sharp.”

  “We didn’t hear you complaining—”

  “—at the time.”

  “Well...” I figured I’d change the topic. “How come you like it so much when I touch that painted spot below your spine?”

  “We thought you’d never ask.”

  “It marks a biofabbed erotic patch—”

  “—with more nerve-endings—”

  “—than another spot—”

  “—you usually go for.”

  I was genuinely shocked. “That’s, that’s—”

  “Wonderful?”

  “Exciting?”

  “Hedonistic?”

  “Libidinous?”

  Realizing the hypocrisy of the condemnation I had been about to utter, after what I had just enjoyed, I refrained. Instead I slid both hands lower along parallel knobby spinal roadways.

  “You mean all I have to do is this?”

  “Oh—”

  “—yes—”

  “—just that—”

  “—is fine!”

  7.

  Interruption Number Three

  The wall had absorbed the first half of what I had written, and my stick of charcoal was worn to a nub. I stopped to reach for a new one, and the Sisters jumped in.

  “Well, the narrator is starting—”

  “—to develop some character anyway.”

  “Even if he is—”

  “—pretty tedious.”

  “But why don’t you get down—”

  “—to the brass tacks?”

  “Namely, how we work.”

  “After all, it was our work—”

  “—that got us into this mess with Babylon—”

  “—where we know something so big—”

  “—so stupendous—

  “—so monumental—”

  “—that it could change the whole universe—”

  “—and we can’t even make any credit off it!”

  Making no reply—I should let these two think they could dictate even my memoirs?—I resumed writing.

  8.

  Working the City

  I ran a finger along the inner rim of a biopolymer tub; it came up coated with gravy and I licked it clean. I didn’t know what I had just eaten, but it had tasted great. Standing, I crossed the soft floor of the room the women had granted me as my own. The floor was warm and alive beneath my bare feet, but I was beginning not to mind mocklife so much. At least the nonsentient varieties. I still distrusted the purity and intelligibility of the motives of an enormous mass of paraneurons such as Babylon. Just thinking about being fitted with a TAP and entering into communication—however restrained and channeled by the user such an information flow might be—still gave me a queer, invaded feeling.

  I came out into the room where Judy and Jezzie were waiting. The women were brushing out their pasterns and touching up their body swirls prior to setting out.

  “Hey,” I said, “thanks for bringing back breakfast.”

  Still dabbing and currying each other, the women replied:

  “You’re—”

  “—welcome—”

  “—even if it is—”

  “—the biggest—”

  “—most juvenile—”

  “—stupidest—”

  “—waste of time—”

  “—we’ve ever participated in!”

  “When are you going to accept—”

  “—that if you want to live here—”

  “—you have to behave—”

  “—in certain matters—”

  “—like everyone else?”

  “Yeah!”

  “Right!”

  “And what’s so distasteful—”

  “—about the refectories—”

  “—anyway?”

  I glared at the two primping women. “Don’t rush me. I’m trying my best, you know. Look.” I lifted an unbooted foot and wiggled my toes. “I don’t even mind walking around on this living floor anymore, do I? And I sleep on an organiform couch just like you. So I am changing. But these other things—” I shook my head. “I can’t just toss myself into that, that food-orgy, like someone who was born here. And as for letting someone pump my brain full of nanodevices—no way.”

  Jezzie and Judy seemed to relent somewhat. Their moods were changeable as the colored patterns in the poisonous atmosphere beyond the dome, and I suspected that they were incapable of being angry at me for long, no matter what I did—or failed to do.

  But sometimes I wondered if their quicksilver personalities also insured that their loyalty and interest in me were equally fluid.

  “I suppose we should be glad—”

  “—that in just a couple of weeks—”

  “—you’ve gone from completely anti-em—”

  “—to only two-thirds.”

  I thought about it. Mocklife, modifications (to the “human norm,” that was), and miscegenation: the triple bugaboos of Conservancy thinking. I supposed I had loosened up a bit with regards to the first, and the second seemed within the bounds of possibility. But as for the third—

  Unwilling even to think about it, I said, “Let’s go. I’m anxious to see you two at work.”

  Several days had passed since the women had promised to show me how they operated as catalyst in the exchange and exfoliation of information. They had kept putting me off, however, saying that the timing wasn’t just right yet.

  This morning, though, they had announced that certain mysterious conditions—things they could only “feel”—were now propitious.

  “All right,” said Judy.

  “But first—” added Jezzie.

  “—we have to get you decorated.”

  “You’re too conspicuous—”

  “—as you are.”

  Before I could react, the Sisters had grabbed a pressurized bottle and begun to spray me from head to foot (I wore only shorts by now, my coverall having disintegrated under use.)

  It was body paint, and it came out tartan plaid.

  “How the—?” I began.

  “Oh, Sandy, you dope.”

  “It’s nanopaint—”

  “—and
assembles itself.”

  “Why the Conservancy bans this tek—”

  “—we’ll never know.”

  “Just ’cause a planet or two—”

  “—went grey goo—”

  “—before they perfected it—”

  “—we suppose.”

  So, Judy and Jezzie having gotten every hair on heads and shanks into place, and me looking like a Truehome kilt, out we went, into the teeming streets of the capsuled city.

  Babylon was shaped like a fat, blobby U that sprawled over many square kilometers. Enclosed by its arms was an inlet of the deep liquid methane ocean, whose tides—generated by the jovian hidden above—often lapped right against the dome. Jezzie and Judy lived a bit away from the city’s center, along the bend of the U. Today, they set out down one of the arms.

  I trotted behind my escorts, hanging back to marvel at the sights. The mix of sophonts still bewildered me, and I was constantly trying to make sense of the various ways in which the humans and nonhumans related.

  As I still did from time to time, I looked around me for signs of minions of the Conservancy, come to haul me back to the cramped and constricted life I seldom thought about now. Even this reflex was dying in me. Reaching up to the two chops hung about my neck —coin and dragon—I fingered the last two tokens of my old life, and thought once more about discarding them. But it was so inbred in me never to let my chop out of my possession, that I still hesitated. As for the ambassador’s device, I retained it more as a reminder of my guilt than of my liberty.

  Ahead, the doubled hoofbeats of my guides on the syalon pavement sounded like a giant’s four fingernails drummed regularly on a china plate.

  We passed a null-gee natatorium, and I wished they would stop for a swim. Denied the communal showers in the refectories, I was forced to employ the natatoriums to freshen up. At least there one could swim unmolested, wearing a minimally decent outfit, and not worry about some scaled stegasoid offering to scrub one’s back.

  A springboard compressed beneath the weight of a man, then shot him upward, into the free-floating globe of water, where he cavorted with the other swimmers, all of whom wore the temporary gills that allowed them to utilize the hyper-oxygenated fluid. A few drops from the man’s entry-point escaped the shaping and supporting fifth-force field and splattered the pavement below.

  Watching the sporting swimmers, I bumped into the backs of the halted women.

  Recovering, I saw that they had stopped to converse in low tones with a big smiling black man wearing a leather harness and little else. Before I even quite realized a conversation was going on, the man was saying, “So long, Sisters. Catch you later.”