The Wandering World

by B C Woodruff

  “He’s gone and poisoned himself! Get me Doctor Emerson!” It was too late. Martin was on the floor, foaming at the mouth. He would not let them win. Although, for those looking on, it was hard to see that he was smiling while the blood and bile oozed from his mouth. He was prepared for this, as the others were prepared to carry on without him.

  The painful world receded. His mind held onto its last thought. The others had made it. The work of the Forgotten – of the Revisionists – would continue, and true knowledge would be preserved against the ravages of human nature and time. The truth would persist and they would rebuild again.

  There would be another Alexandria.

  JELLY BEANS

  “Heather?” the GenCell nurse asked quietly. She did not respond. “Miss Lambert?” The nurse knelt, adjusting her traditional red and blue habit. They were the colours of the GenCell Corporation. Her hair, neatly tucked below a deep crimson bonnet, and a face with only the slightest hint of coverup gave her an old-fashioned aura of propriety that inspired reverence and respect.

  They weren’t nuns, though. The GenCell Nurse’s Manual told them to respond to nun or even sister if someone addressed them as such. For better or worse, it was an echo of a simpler time. GenCell called it Neo-Orthodoxy, a carefully-triangulated rebranding that struck a chord with those overwhelmed by a changing world. Unlike much of the competition, GenCell had already begun to change the conversation, transforming their corporate image to reach a growing global market.

  The resurgence of religion after the events of L-Day inspired some inventive marketing ploys on GenCell’s part. They unironically called their ever-expanding array of medical and social services Good Works, which provoked surprisingly little backlash from traditionalists. At the end of the day, as stock markets closed and consumer reactions were analyzed, the evidence was clear – the imagery they appropriated seemed to be helping their cause and extending their reach.

  Heather was quiet, but had clearly heard the woman’s question. “It’s okay to be nervous,” the nurse said. “A lot of people get nervous before the procedure.” She sat down on the chair next to her and wrapped her gloved hands around Heather’s pale flesh. They were still now, and this stillness extended into the silent choir of the waiting room.

  “I... I don’t know if I want this,” Heather blurted out. “It’s okay, honey. It’s covered. The suit will keep you healthy until better treatments are developed.” Heather didn’t like that the woman was touching her. She’d always hated being touched. She had traced it back to a memory when she was younger. One that haunted her like a rustling in the walls of her mind. Like a rat chewing away at her innards. Like the disease she now carried. “Alright,” Heather said after a moment. “Let’s go.” She stepped up and the nurse helped her along the long hall leading to the hermetically-sealed, aggressively sanitary room she had seen in all the tutorial videos after orientation.

  “You’ll see. Most people actually enjoy being encapsulated.” The nurse smiled. “My brother had it done last year. He’s never been better and he gets to watch his kids grow up. Do you have any–”

  “No,” Heather said abruptly. “Sorry. Yes. Of course not.” The nurse went a little flushed. “I’m... sorry.”

  “It’s fine. I don’t think I would have made a very good mother.” Heather almost shrugged but the pain kept her from following through. She was beginning to hunch over, a sure sign that the painkillers were wearing off.

  She thought about that: Painkillers? But they don’t really kill the pain, do they? They just make it go away for a while. You can’t say you’re killing something when it just comes back. At best, it’s a pain wall. Like a flimsy storm barrier holding back a torrent of neuron-flaring agony from drowning you. In the end the pain always comes back, though, doesn’t it? Unless you do something to stop it altogether.

  She didn’t like thinking about that ultimatum. “We’re here.” The nurse pressed the small green button and eased Heather into the airlock between the anteroom and the operating theater.

  Between two worlds, Heather thought, imagining what awaited her on the other side. She lingered in that thought, unaware at first that she had sent herself spiralling through her memories on a journey that would cut through the pain. Physically, she was unchanged, eyes staring ahead like blank canvases.

  Suddenly, the ache and agony slid off her because her mind had taken her far enough away that it could focus on the time before.

  She was here, but had bridged the mind to then. She was alive with optimism. Her adolescent years were filled with the expectations that the future would be... wonderful. It was a simpler time when GenCell was a name that only came up in conversation amongst the most diehard science enthusiasts. But all the while, it was lurking and positioning – and insinuating – itself into everything.

  It was a shadow at noon. Hidden. Waiting. Barely anyone had heard of them except in a general sense in those days. Now... Well, now you could find a GenCell branch in every major city across the planet. They even had facilities on those lavish floating habitats – no surprise, given that they’d financed them in the first place. They still owned most of them, didn’t they?

  In fact, hadn’t she read that the habitats’ annual GNP had superseded both the United States and China last year? It was possible. Her trailing memory brought her back to an age of wonder and curiosity.

  Sixteen years old. A bright future ahead. Friends at the park watching the boats pass through the locks separating the Great North American Canal from the Atlantic Ocean. They liked to sit there and drink stolen alcohol and pretend they were on one of the ships heading out to sea. There was one in particular she recalled in vivid detail. Wasn’t it called The Parrot? She thought so.

  Her friends, Timothy Wilson and his sister Cherish, were laughing when Heather breached the barrier between her present self and this much younger, healthier version.

  It was like escaping into a dream. Swallowed by a chain of memories, she had a lifetime of possibilities to explore, and like any author of presence and power she was free to be her own god – to sift through important points without losing a moment in the present.

  If only her future self were able to command the past again, to pierce the temporal shell. She could have been warned about what fate had in store with her.

  Such are the illusions of memory; and like ghosts, we are doomed to smile or scream at the decisions we made in passion and patience, long before the weight of years settled on our shoulders.

  Heather observed her younger self shake free of reverie, pulling away from the size of the ships ahead of her and the green trees that stood between.

  “Where’s that one heading, Heather?” Timothy asked. “Probably out to Australia. I bet they have a bunch of seeds for their plantations in New South Wales. There’s a man on board; he’s wondering what the hell’s the point of it all! Hmm. He definitely left his wife back in Chicago. She’s cheating on him. It’s all going downhill.” She reached for the bottle of sticky, sweet ice wine and gave it a good pull. “He’s thinking about killing himself but they’re expecting a baby, and even though he knows she’s unfaithful, there’s a small chance that the kid is his. He wants to wait to find out. This trip is good for him, though. His bunk- mate is a Frenchman from Québec. He’s brought a lot of booze and some cheese. Now, our guy’s lactose intolerant but he’s willing to risk it. You know, to keep life interesting?”

  The two looked at her, entranced. They loved hearing Heather talk about almost anything. She had a penchant for grabbing the attention of those around her. It was a talent that evolved into a short career as a novelist prior to the invention of Seemore.

  These days her work revolved around correcting computerized mistranslations and minor syntax errors.

  They don’t need writers anymore. Not real writers, at least. Someone went ahead and made them obsolete.

  The programs turned out stories, and good ones at that, which were well-liked almost entirely due to their
simple, formulaic grasp of convention. It’s what the people wanted, and it just so happened that all we had to do was derive a clever algorithm or two to achieve what no government had ever accomplished: to take the written word away from the human mind.

  Heather, like other writers, was relegated to working behind the scenes. Editing or adjusting elements here and there for flow and consistency. Creativity at the cost of creativity, but at the end of the day she didn’t mind. It was still writing, even if it could only really be called that in a stretched and sort-of way.

  Eventually, even Seemore was optimized to the point that her job was rendered redundant – and her employers found themselves struggling to keep out of the red. The closure of their central content office followed, and many of her people found themselves living in government-provided shelters, unable to make ends meet.

  She had been one of the fortunate ones. Her friends at the parent company had eyes on her well before they trimmed the fat. Welcomed with open arms, she found herself standing on the brink of new opportunities, and accepted a managerial position for a new division they were going to open in China. She could never say that the company treated her poorly.

  All of this led to the reason she found herself here today. When she discovered the cancer it was too far along for conventional treatment.

  There was another way, though... Heather eased herself into the present but focused on Timothy and Cherish, placing a finger slowly upon and then pushing down the airlock button. With a swirl of sterilized air passing her by, she stepped forward.

  She focused on her resurfaced adolescent memories again.

  Cherish smiled. “And? What happens next?” “Well, he eats the cheese and has some real nasty diarrhea that gets him out of deck work. This is probably on purpose, but people believe him that it was a mistake. They make it out to sea and somewhere around New Caledonia they’re boarded at night by a very organized group of pirates.”

  “Pirates!” Timothy yelped. “I love those guys.” “Not those kind of pirates, well, not really. These guys are New Caledonian separatists. They want to hold the cargo and the crew as ransom to fuel their war against the government.”

  “What do they want from the government?” a man, who had been sitting not far from them asked. Next to him sat...her.

  “Uh...” Heather wasn’t sure what to do. He nodded. “I didn’t mean to upset your process. It’s quite an imagination you got there, little lady.” The man put his hand on her. “Truth is, back in the day my Margot used to be a writer. She had the same spark and talent to just–bam–make things interesting.”

  “Excuse me... sir?” Timothy asked, trying to make the three of them seem more innocent than bellowing around a bottle would suggest. The older man saw through the ruse and, in a condescending tone that made them feel terribly out of place, answered.

  “Yes, boy?” “Can... can she talk?” Timothy went a little pale. “Tim!” Cherish slapped him. “Don’t be rude!” Words flashed across the strip of moulded plastigel that covered her mouth.

  “i can speak. i can listen. your story is fun, little girl. please, would you finish it for us?” Under the mask she was smiling, her teeth shaded wine-red by the suspension fluid. To others, she looked something like a woman who had been placed in a flexible, plastic fish tank form-fitted to move along with her. A few inches of liquid and a plastic coat, transparent except as needed to preserve modesty. Like leftovers wrapped in clingfilm. At her hip, a small box with a tube leading into the side of her suit whirred and hummed. If Heather looked carefully, which she could hardly help, she could see the liquid inside was circulating somehow, maybe taking in oxygen.

  “I... guess,” Heather said, and went on. “So, the pirates board their ship, right? Well, our friend the Frenchman, he’s not really a Québecer is he? No, he’s part of the New Caledonian separatists! Been that way all along. As the rest of the crew is swept away into the cargo holding area, he turns to the out-of-luck would-be hero and tells him to hide in their shared bathroom. When the patrol comes around, the Frenchman lies. Then, as the others are rounded up, well, he gets the man off the ship, doesn’t he? He helps him to a lifeboat and tells him to get as far away as possible. He doesn’t need to be told twice. So he does.” The others looked on, interested.

  “He’s about halfway to the New Caledonian coast when the air- strike happens. That whole ‘we don’t negotiate with terrorists’ thing. The ship sinks to the watery depths. It’ll be a diving site in a few years with a story attached to it. Meanwhile the man makes landfall and finds himself a nice little bar. He sits down and explains what’s happened to him. A woman along with a group of her friends listen to his story and what do you know it, she finds herself talking to him. They hit it off and he decides to stay in New Caledonia. He gets a job that he likes. They have a couple kids together. Happy endings for everyone who deserves it.”

  “lovely story!” The red words moved across the bubble-woman's face.

  “What happened to his other wife?” Cherish wasn’t impressed. “He just up and leaves her without a word?”

  “I dunno. I guess everyone else thought he was dead. Maybe she got life insurance or something?” Young Heather shrugged in memory as she was trying to do in the present. It was a sarcastic gesture, her broad shoulders halfway to her head. She’d always been flexible, so this was hers alone – a way to cope in times of stress or boredom. It relayed a message to those around her that she was done with whatever was happening. Even if she happened to be the one to start it in the first place.

  “Sometimes you don’t need to tell everything,” the old man said, easing himself to his feet using a cane for leverage. “Well, we’d better be going. If we don’t get Margot’s suit to a recharge station, her gel will start to get cloudy, and...” He stopped at that, held the thought, and continued. “It was wonderful to meet you kids. I hope your future is as bright as it can be! No. As it should be!” And with that, off the two went, hand in suit-sheathed hand.

  “I’ve never seen a jelly bean that could talk before!” Timothy laughed. “Did you see the words appearing on her face? Man! It was like she was living inside a water mattress. Like... like a reverse scuba-suit!” He kept laughing.

  The other two didn’t laugh. At least, she didn’t remember herself laughing. It was only a memory, and her present self could have easily contaminated it with the knowledge of what was waiting for her on the other side of the door. It swooshed closed and the doors ahead rushed open. Ahead, her eyes confirmed that the doctors were preparing a much more modern and slimmer model of GenCell’s Cellular Preservation Suit®. She shuddered, squeezing her eyes shut for a long moment, hoping she would be drawn back again through the ages to a time when she was young and the world wondrous. This time, however, the Wilsons did not surface.

  This time, she would not find consolation from her memories. She looked ahead at the CPS. It would provide her body with the means to keep the cellular replication process at bay. It would stop the cancer. It would lock her body in the state it was at this moment. Better even. She would be able to walk again. With practice, she would be able to run.

  She would live, but was it really the life she wanted? Pride struck her. Humility embraced her. Vanity caressed her. And yet she chose to live. “We’re ready to begin.” The doctor, a man in GenCell vestments – royal purple and deep red – smiled and motioned her towards the encapsulation table.

  She shrugged, shoulders momentarily reaching up to her ears, and went forward to lie down.

  SIMPLETON

  “So, what can you do?” The blonde bartender with brunette roots showing sipped her cocktail and leaned in further. “Come on. No need to be shy, hun. Look, lemme show you mine and then you’ll show me yours, alright?” She slowly dipped her finger into the beer and looked up with a piercing gaze that demanded attention.

  Maxime was unmoved, even as the liquid began to twist and twirl like a tiny alcoholic tornado. The amber whirlpool turned silently under its
own power as the bartender’s stare became a playful smile. Small miracles like this could no longer move the striking Asian woman, her thirty-some years having refined her cynicism to a knife’s edge.

  She shrugged at the bartender’s grin, reached over and with a tug, promptly pulled the finger out.

  “Please don’t do that.” “Why not? It’s fun, isn’t it?” She put her head in her hands. “Now. Tell me, stranger... What’s your thing?”

  Maxime shrugged. “I can’t do anything.” Her look turned to disgust as she watched the bartender, apparently without shame, lick her dripping finger. “Do you make a habit of going around finger-banging people’s beverages?” She pushed her beer away. “Not the best way to keep customers, is it?”

  “Sheesh. I wouldn’t have done it if I thought you’d bitch like this. Fun people get a kick out of it.” She sighed off the debate. “Look. Just tell me what you do, alright?”

  Maxime leaned forward. “Nothing.” “Uh-huh. Right. Nothing’s not a thing! Everyone here’s got one.” She looked at her still-drying finger, momentarily distracted, and then concentrated. “Come on, it was perfectly clean.” Slowly, carefully, and with a practiced motion, the bartender traced a simple heart on the bar top, then smiled innocently.

  “Look. We got off to a bad start. I get that. But, come on, look at this place. I’m bored.” The bartender drew the word out with a smoky purr. “Just let me in already! I bet you’ve got a neat trick, don’tcha?” Maxime was rapidly losing her patience with the bartender. She tried a different tactic to restore the peace: old-fashioned awkward silence. Looking around, she hoped to catch the eye of someone nearby to drag into the spotlight. Her neck craned to scan the room, and spotted the only other patrons sitting in the corner booth. The couple kept to themselves, eyes locked together, whispering under the hypnotic beat of a song from before.