Relativity

by Robert J. Sawyer

  There! Up ahead! Something moving! Big, whatever it was: an indistinct outline only intermittently visible behind a small knot of fir trees.

  A quadruped of some sort, its back to him/it/them.

  Ah, there. Turning now. Peripheral vision dissolving into albino nothingness as the rex concentrated on the head.

  Three horns.

  Triceratops.

  Glorious! Cohen had spent hours as a boy poring over books about dinosaurs, looking for scenes of carnage. No battles were better than those in which Tyrannosaurus rex squared off against Triceratops, a four-footed Mesozoic tank with a trio of horns projecting from its face and a shield of bone rising from the back of its skull to protect the neck.

  And yet, the rex marched on.

  No, thought Cohen. Turn, damn you! Turn and attack!

  Cohen remembered when it had all begun, that fateful day so many years ago, so many years from now. It should have been a routine operation. The patient had supposedly been prepped properly. Cohen brought his scalpel down toward the abdomen, then, with a steady hand, sliced into the skin. The patient gasped. It had been a wonderful sound, a beautiful sound.

  Not enough gas. The anesthetist hurried to make an adjustment.

  Cohen knew he had to hear that sound again. He had to.

  The tyrannosaur continued forward. Cohen couldn’t see its legs, but he could feel them moving. Left, right, up, down.

  Attack, you bastard!

  Left.

  Attack!

  Right.

  Go after it!

  Up.

  Go after the Triceratops.

  Dow—

  The beast hesitated, its left leg still in the air, balancing briefly on one foot.

  Attack!

  Attack!

  And then, at last, the rex changed course. The ceratopsian appeared in the three-dimensional central part of the tyrannosaur’s field of view, like a target at the end of a gun sight.

  “Welcome to the Chronotransference Institute. If I can just see your government benefits card, please? Yup, there’s always a last time for everything, heh heh. Now, I’m sure you want an exciting death. The problem is finding somebody interesting who hasn’t been used yet. See, we can only ever superimpose one mind onto a given historical personage. All the really obvious ones have been done already, I’m afraid. We still get about a dozen calls a week asking for Jack Kennedy, but he was one of the first to go, so to speak. If I may make a suggestion, though, we’ve got thousands of Roman legion officers cataloged. Those tend to be very satisfying deaths. How about a nice something from the Gallic Wars?”

  The Triceratops looked up, its giant head lifting from the wide flat gunnera leaves it had been chewing on. Now that the rex had focussed on the plant-eater, it seemed to commit itself.

  The tyrannosaur charged.

  The hornface was sideways to the rex. It began to turn, to bring its armored head to bear.

  The horizon bounced wildly as the rex ran. Cohen could hear the thing’s heart thundering loudly, rapidly, a barrage of muscular gunfire.

  The Triceratops, still completing its turn, opened its parrot-like beak, but no sound came out.

  Giant strides closed the distance between the two animals. Cohen felt the rex’s jaws opening wide, wider still, mandibles popping from their sockets.

  The jaws slammed shut on the hornface’s back, over the shoulders. Cohen saw two of the rex’s own teeth fly into view, knocked out by the impact.

  The taste of hot blood, surging out of the wound…

  The rex pulled back for another bite.

  The Triceratops finally got its head swung around. It surged forward, the long spear over its left eye piercing into the rex’s leg…

  Pain. Exquisite, beautiful pain.

  The rex roared. Cohen heard it twice, once reverberating within the animal’s own skull, a second time echoing back from distant hills. A flock of silver-furred pterosaurs took to the air. Cohen saw them fade from view as the dinosaur’s simple mind shut them out of the display. Irrelevant distractions.

  The Triceratops pulled back, the horn withdrawing from the rex’s flesh.

  Blood, Cohen was delighted to see, still looked red.

  “If Judge Hoskins had ordered the electric chair,” said Axworthy, Cohen’s lawyer, “we could have fought that on Charter grounds. Cruel and unusual punishment, and all that. But she’s authorized full access to the chronotransference euthanasia program for you.” Axworthy paused. “She said, bluntly, that she simply wants you dead.”

  “How thoughtful of her,” said Cohen.

  Axworthy ignored that. “I’m sure I can get you anything you want,” he said. “Who would you like to be transferred into?”

  “Not who,” said Cohen. “What.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “That damned judge said I was the most cold-blooded killer to stalk the Alberta landscape since Tyrannosaurus rex.” Cohen shook his head. “The idiot. Doesn’t she know dinosaurs were warm-blooded? Anyway, that’s what I want. I want to be transferred into a T. rex.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Kidding is not my forte, John. Killing is. I want to know which was better at it, me or the rex.”

  “I don’t even know if they can do that kind of thing,” said Axworthy.

  “Find out, damn you. What the hell am I paying you for?”

  The rex danced to the side, moving with surprising agility for a creature of its bulk, and once again it brought its terrible jaws down on the ceratopsian’s shoulder. The plant-eater was hemorrhaging at an incredible rate, as though a thousand sacrifices had been performed on the altar of its back.

  The Triceratops tried to lunge forward, but it was weakening quickly. The tyrannosaur, crafty in its own way despite its trifling intellect, simply retreated a dozen giant paces. The hornface took one tentative step toward it, and then another, and, with great and ponderous effort, one more. But then the dinosaurian tank teetered and, eyelids slowly closing, collapsed on its side. Cohen was briefly startled, then thrilled, to hear it fall to the ground with a splash—he hadn’t realized just how much blood had poured out of the great rent the rex had made in the beast’s back.

  The tyrannosaur moved in, lifting its left leg up and then smashing it down on the Triceratops’s belly, the three sharp toe claws tearing open the thing’s abdomen, entrails spilling out into the harsh sunlight. Cohen thought the rex would let out a victorious roar, but it didn’t. It simply dipped its muzzle into the body cavity, and methodically began yanking out chunks of flesh.

  Cohen was disappointed. The battle of the dinosaurs had been fun, the killing had been well engineered, and there had certainly been enough blood, but there was no terror. No sense that the Triceratops had been quivering with fear, no begging for mercy. No feeling of power, of control. Just dumb, mindless brutes moving in ways preprogrammed by their genes.

  It wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

  Judge Hoskins looked across the desk in her chambers at the lawyer.

  “A Tyrannosaurus, Mr. Axworthy? I was speaking figuratively.”

  “I understand that, my lady, but it was an appropriate observation, don’t you think? I’ve contacted the Chronotransference people, who say they can do it, if they have a rex specimen to work from. They have to back-propagate from actual physical material in order to get a temporal fix.”

  Judge Hoskins was as unimpressed by scientific babble as she was by legal jargon. “Make your point, Mr. Axworthy.”

  “I called the Royal Tyrrell Museum of Paleontology in Drumheller and asked them about the Tyrannosaurus fossils available worldwide. Turns out there’s only a handful of complete skeletons, but they were able to provide me with an annotated list, giving as much information as they could about the individual probable causes of death.” He slid a thin plastic printout sheet across the judge’s wide desk.

  “Leave this with me, counsel. I’ll get back to you.”

  Axworthy left, and Hoskins s
canned the brief list. She then leaned back in her leather chair and began to read the needlepoint on her wall for the thousandth time:

  My object all sublime

  I shall achieve in time—

  She read that line again, her lips moving slightly as she subvocalized the words: “I shall achieve in time…”

  The judge turned back to the list of tyrannosaur finds. Ah, that one. Yes, that would be perfect. She pushed a button on her phone. “David, see if you can find Mr. Axworthy for me.”

  There had been a very unusual aspect to the Triceratops kill—an aspect that intrigued Cohen. Chronotransference had been performed countless times; it was one of the most popular forms of euthanasia. Sometimes the transferee’s original body would give an ongoing commentary about what was going on, as if talking during sleep. It was clear from what they said that transferees couldn’t exert any control over the bodies they were transferred into.

  Indeed, the physicists had claimed any control was impossible. Chronotransference worked precisely because the transferee could exert no influence, and therefore was simply observing things that had already been observed. Since no new observations were being made, no quantum-mechanical distortions occurred. After all, said the physicists, if one could exert control, one could change the past. And that was impossible.

  And yet, when Cohen had willed the rex to alter its course, it eventually had done so.

  Could it be that the rex had so little brains that Cohen’s thoughts could control the beast?

  Madness. The ramifications were incredible.

  Still…

  He had to know if it was true. The rex was torpid, flopped on its belly, gorged on ceratopsian meat. It seemed prepared to lie here for a long time to come, enjoying the early evening breeze.

  Get up, thought Cohen. Get up, damn you!

  Nothing. No response.

  Get up!

  The rex’s lower jaw was resting on the ground. Its upper jaw was lifted high, its mouth wide open. Tiny pterosaurs were flitting in and out of the open maw, their long needle like beaks apparently yanking gobbets of hornface flesh from between the rex’s curved teeth.

  Get up, thought Cohen again. Get up!

  The rex stirred.

  Up!

  The tyrannosaur used its tiny forelimbs to keep its torso from sliding forward as it pushed with its powerful legs until it was standing.

  Forward, thought Cohen. Forward!

  The beast’s body felt different. Its belly was full to bursting.

  Forward!

  With ponderous steps, the rex began to march.

  It was wonderful. To be in control again! Cohen felt the old thrill of the hunt.

  And he knew exactly what he was looking for.

  “Judge Hoskins says okay,” said Axworthy. “She’s authorized for you to be transferred into that new T. rex they’ve got right here in Alberta at the Tyrrell. It’s a young adult, they say. Judging by the way the skeleton was found, the rex died falling, probably into a fissure. Both legs and the back were broken, but the skeleton remained almost completely articulated, suggesting that scavengers couldn’t get at it. Unfortunately, the chronotransference people say that back-propagating that far into the past they can only plug you in a few hours before the accident occurred. But you’ll get your wish: you’re going to die as a tyrannosaur. Oh, and here are the books you asked for: a complete library on Cretaceous flora and fauna. You should have time to get through it all; the chronotransference people will need a couple of weeks to set up.”

  As the prehistoric evening turned to night, Cohen found what he had been looking for, cowering in some underbrush: large brown eyes, long, drawn-out face, and a lithe body covered in fur that, to the tyrannosaur’s eyes, looked blue-brown.

  A mammal. But not just any mammal. Purgatorius, the very first primate, known from Montana and Alberta from right at the end of the Cretaceous. A little guy, only about ten centimeters long, excluding its ratlike tail. Rare creatures, these days. Only a precious few.

  The little furball could run quickly for its size, but a single step by the tyrannosaur equaled more than a hundred of the mammal’s. There was no way it could escape.

  The rex leaned in close, and Cohen saw the furball’s face, the nearest thing there would be to a human face for another sixty million years. The animal’s eyes went wide in terror.

  Naked, raw fear.

  Mammalian fear.

  Cohen saw the creature scream.

  Heard it scream.

  It was beautiful.

  The rex moved its gaping jaws in toward the little mammal, drawing in breath with such force that it sucked the creature into its maw. Normally the rex would swallow its meals whole, but Cohen prevented the beast from doing that. Instead, he simply had it stand still, with the little primate running around, terrified, inside the great cavern of the dinosaur’s mouth, banging into the giant teeth and great fleshy walls, and skittering over the massive, dry tongue.

  Cohen savored the terrified squealing. He wallowed in the sensation of the animal, mad with fear, moving inside that living prison.

  And at last, with a great, glorious release, Cohen put the animal out of its misery, allowing the rex to swallow it, the furball tickling as it slid down the giant’s throat.

  It was just like old times.

  Just like hunting humans.

  And then a wonderful thought occurred to Cohen. Why, if he killed enough of these little screaming balls of fur, they wouldn’t have any descendants. There wouldn’t ever be any Homo sapiens. In a very real sense, Cohen realized he was hunting humans—every single human being who would ever exist.

  Of course, a few hours wouldn’t be enough time to kill many of them. Judge Hoskins no doubt thought it was wonderfully poetic justice, or she wouldn’t have allowed the transfer: sending him back to fall into the pit, damned.

  Stupid judge. Why, now that he could control the beast, there was no way he was going to let it die young. He’d just—

  There it was. The fissure, a long gash in the earth, with a crumbling edge. Damn, it was hard to see. The shadows cast by neighboring trees made a confusing gridwork on the ground that obscured the ragged opening. No wonder the dull-witted rex had missed seeing it until it was too late.

  But not this time.

  Turn left, thought Cohen.

  Left.

  His rex obeyed.

  He’d avoid this particular area in future, just to be on the safe side. Besides, there was plenty of territory to cover. Fortunately, this was a young rex—a juvenile. There would be decades in which to continue his very special hunt. Cohen was sure that Axworthy knew his stuff: once it became apparent that the link had lasted longer than a few hours, he’d keep any attempt to pull the plug tied up in the courts for years.

  Cohen felt the old pressure building in himself, and in the rex. The tyrannosaur marched on.

  This was better than old times, he thought. Much better.

  Hunting all of humanity.

  The release would be wonderful.

  He watched intently for any sign of movement in the underbrush.

  Immortality

  Janis Ian is a wonderfully popular folk singer, best known for “Society’s Child” and “At Seventeen.” Turns out, though, that she’s also a big science-fiction fan, and she began attending World Science Fiction Conventions in 2001. Soon, she and Mike Resnick hatched the idea of having all of Janis’s favorite SF authors write stories inspired by her song lyrics. The resulting anthology, Stars, turned out to be one of the major books of 2003, and I was very honored, and very proud, to be asked to contribute to it.

  Still, I found this a very difficult story to write, since my point-of-view character was obviously, and presumptuously, based at least in part on Janis. Although I had finished a draft of this story on the day I left Toronto for the 2002 Worldcon in San Jose, I’d actually planned to tell Janis that I hadn’t been able to come up with anything—I just wasn’t comfortable with the story. B
ut Janis greeted me with a big hug and told me how much she was looking forward to my submission. With great trepidation, I polished it up and sent it in after the Worldcon, and, to my infinite relief, Janis loved it. Whew!

  Baby, I’m only society’s child

  When we’re older, things may change

  But for now this is the way they must remain

  —Janis Ian

  Sixty years.

  Sweet Jesus, had it been that long?

  But of course it had. The year was now 2023, and then—

  Then it had been 1963.

  The year of the march on Washington.

  The year JFK had been assassinated.

  The year I—

  No, no, I didn’t want to think about that. After all, I’m sure he never thinks about it…or about me.

  I’d been seventeen in 1963. And I’d thought of myself as ugly, an unpardonable sin for a young woman.

  Now, though…

  Now, I was seventy-seven. And I was no longer homely. Not that I’d had any work done, but there was no such thing as a homely—or a beautiful—woman of seventy-seven, at least not one who had never had treatments. The only adjective people applied to an unmodified woman of seventy-seven was old.

  My sixtieth high school reunion.

  For some, there would be a seventieth, and an eightieth, a ninetieth, and doubtless a mega-bash for the hundredth. For those who had money—real money, the kind of money I’d once had at the height of my career—there were pharmaceuticals and gene therapies and cloned organs and bodily implants, all granting the gift of synthetic youth, the gift of time.