The Infinite Future

by Tim Wirkus

  “This is dreadful, isn’t it?” she said.

  “It’s really not so messy,” I said, looking theatrically around her rom.

  “I don’t mean my room,” said Sister Beatriz in a small voice, almost a whisper.

  “I know that,” I said. “A small joke.”

  Sister Beatriz managed a weak smile, the corners of her eyes wrinkling almost imperceptibly.

  “Yes,” she said. “Of course.”

  Hands on her hips, she looked at the empty suitcase sitting on her bed, at the piles of clothing, books, tools, and knickknacks that lay in hopeless drifts about the room, and her narrow shoulders sagged.

  “Well, as I said, I don’t mean to interrupt,” I said. “I’m only stopping by to see if you might still have the pocketknife I loaned you a while ago.”

  Unexpectedly, the question seemed to revivify her flagging spirits.

  “Yes,” she said, springing into action. “It’s funny you should mention it. I saw it just a moment ago while I was emptying my closet. I was going to bring it by your bedroom as soon as I’d finished packing.” She moved around the room like a scavenging bird, pecking and prodding at one heap of belongings and then another. “Now where has it gone?”

  As she rummaged through a pile of sundries in the corner of the room, I stole a glance at her bustling form. I’ve often thought of the middle-aged body as a thing to be pitied, no longer possessing the sprightliness of youth and not yet earning the gravitas of old age. But as I watched Sister Beatriz in that moment, I experienced an unexpected and overwhelming illusion of atemporality brought about by that very liminality. In Sister Beatriz’s middle-aged visage I could see the fresh-faced youth with whom I had become so ardently infatuated, as well as the familiar friend I currently loved so deeply, as well as the elderly woman she might never have a chance to become.

  “Here it is,” she said, and the illusion passed. She handed me the knife.

  “Thank you,” I said. I knew that this would be my last chance to unburden myself of my long-concealed secret.

  “Is everything all right?” said Sister Beatriz. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  My hands trembled and my heart beat furiously.

  “Would you sit down for a moment?” I said. “I have something to say.”

  Sister Beatriz took a step back and nodded warily. She sat down on the edge of the bed, bracing herself with her arms and narrowing her eyes, as if anticipating a physical blow.

  I had no idea where to begin, so I simply started talking.

  “Do you remember,” I said, “the story of the three bandits who encountered Death?”

  Sister Beatriz’s face regarded me cautiously. “I’m not sure,” she said.

  “It’s a very, very old story,” I said. “A pre-Sertôrial folktale that dates back to the early days of the Imperial Space Age. Balinetti uses it to illustrate a minor point in his theory of dynamic historical displacement in Understanding Time, Standing under Time. And a somewhat modified version of the story is told by the Woman of the Hillside in Mori’s account of Sertôrian’s blindfolded pilgrimage. Does that ring any bells?”

  “No,” said Sister Beatriz. “It doesn’t.”

  “All right,” I said. “Then I’ll tell it to you.”

  “All right,” said Sister Beatriz, her arms still braced against the bed, her eyes still alert.

  To keep my hands from trembling, I held them tight against the sides of my legs.

  • • •

  There were once three bandits (I began) who pillaged and plundered their way across the galaxy. Their ruthlessness was exceeded only by their loyalty to one another, and space travelers far and wide quivered with fear at the very thought of them.

  One day, after narrowly escaping an imperial constable, the bandits’ longship touched down on a strange new planet. The three bandits disembarked and, not far from their ship, found Death sitting outside a weathered wooden shack at the edge of a clear and sulfurous pool of water.

  Death rose to greet the bandits, welcoming them with a courtly gentility and asking if they would care to join him for a restorative soak in the warm mineral waters of his pool. Not wishing to offend their host, the bandits accepted Death’s invitation.

  “Very good,” said Death, shucking off his heavy robe and lowering his ashen body into the pellucid waters of the pool. The bandits followed his lead, unencumbering themselves of their gear and their spacesuits, and stepping cautiously into the steaming water.

  Though Death’s manners were impeccable, his conversational preferences were undeniably grim. As the bandits’ skin grew wrinkled and hot in the waters of the pool, he spoke of war, pestilence, famine, and disease.

  Eventually, growing weary of Death’s bleak company, the three bandits thanked their host for his hospitality and began to take their leave of him.

  “My hospitality I give without price,” said Death. “But you have looked directly upon my face, a bold and foolish act for which there must be consequences.” He lifted a pale, dripping hand from the water, index finger raised. “First, the punishment: Exactly one year from today, I will snatch the breath from your mouths and leave your cold, lifeless bodies to molder and to rot.” Death’s great gray eyes flashed with something resembling pleasure, and the three bandits felt a chill in the deepest part of their being.

  “Second,” continued Death, “the reward. Before you depart, each one of you will meet with me in private and reveal the dearest wish of your heart. I will fulfill this wish and you will enjoy its fruits for the remainder of your life.”

  He rose from the pool, skin drying instantly, and beckoned to the first bandit.

  “Come,” he said.

  She followed him into the wooden shack, her wet skin prickling as it touched the cool air.

  Over the course of so many years of shared adventures, the first bandit had fallen deeply in love with the second bandit, and in her heart she knew exactly what her request would be.

  While the other two bandits waited in the sulfurous pool, the first bandit sat across from Death inside the wooden shack.

  “What is your wish?” said Death.

  The first bandit told Death of her love for the second bandit. She explained that if this meeting had taken place years earlier she might have wished for the second bandit to love her in return. But now her love for him had grown so pure that she only desired his happiness. Her wish, then, was for the second bandit’s death sentence to be lifted.

  “Granted,” said Death. “Now go.”

  She stepped out the door and, shivering violently now, hurriedly dressed herself as the second bandit rose from the pool and, beginning to shiver himself, entered the shack.

  Unfortunately, the second bandit cared nothing for the first bandit, having fallen in love with the third bandit. Like the first bandit, though, his love had grown so pure that he only desired his beloved’s happiness. And so, sitting across from Death, the second bandit explained his love for the third bandit and asked for her death sentence to be lifted.

  “Granted,” said Death.

  Then came the third bandit’s turn. The third bandit, for her part, adored nobody, the love of wealth having entirely consumed her avaricious heart.

  “What is your wish?” said Death.

  “Money,” said the third bandit. “Lots and lots of money.”

  “Granted,” said Death.

  As the third bandit got dressed, Death wrapped himself in his dark and heavy robe and turned his back to the bandits.

  “Until we meet again,” he said.

  The bandits left as quickly as they could.

  Though they all put on a brave face, each bandit inwardly trembled at the possibility of such an early death. Over the ensuing months, the lives of the three comrades gradually drifted apart as they sought to resolve as much business and fu
lfill as many aspirations as they could before the coming of the baleful deadline.

  Unavoidably, the anniversary of their meeting with Death arrived.

  That morning, the first bandit stood in a sunlit greenhouse admiring a spotted orchid that she had tenderly cultivated for months. It had bloomed only the day before and was as lovely as the first bandit had hoped it would be.

  Death walked in through the door of the greenhouse.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Hello,” said the first bandit. She had forgotten how fathomless Death’s eyes were.

  “Open your mouth, please,” said Death, ever the gentleman.

  Warmed by the thought that her earlier wish would spare her beloved bandit comrade a similar fate, the first bandit opened her mouth. Death reached inside and snatched her breath. The woman’s lifeless body fell to the ground among the plant trimmings and the spilled soil.

  The second bandit passed the day in great trepidation. Though, like the first bandit, his heart was warmed by the thought that his wish would spare the life of his beloved, he felt great sorrow at the thought of leaving this life behind so soon.

  But the anniversary came and went, and not even the shadow of Death crossed the second bandit’s threshold. Days went by, and with no sign of Death, the second bandit grew confident that a long and happy life lay before him.

  For her part, the third bandit had dreaded the arrival of this ominous anniversary. Over the previous months, she had acquired quantities of money so vast that they had sated even her prodigious cupidity. Recognizing that half of Death’s promise had indisputably been fulfilled, she felt certain that her demise lay close at hand. But when the designated day came and went without incident, she breathed a sigh of relief and laughed at her own credulity. The curse had been nonsense after all.

  Years later, the second and third bandits encountered each other by chance in a dark and smoky tavern. Both had learned of their colleague’s death on that long-ago anniversary, and both had long been troubled by the uncanny coincidence of it. The surviving bandits each spoke a brief, spontaneous eulogy for their deceased friend, and then, after an uncomfortable moment of silence, the two old friends fell to talking of happier things, which they did with relish until the small hours of the morning. At dawn, they parted ways with a backslapping embrace and a lingering recollection of their long-ago encounter with Death.

  • • •

  For several moments, neither Sister Beatriz nor I spoke. I had become so caught up in recounting the story that I’d nearly forgotten my purpose in doing so. My hands, which had been steady throughout the tale, began again to tremble.

  “I have heard that story once before,” said Sister Beatriz, glancing at my shaking hands. “A long time ago.”

  I folded my hands in my lap, fingers tightly clasped to steady the tremor. I could still back out of this; I had not yet said anything that I could not explain away.

  “I recognize that this tale is a fanciful one,” I said, screwing my courage to the sticking place, “but one element has always rung false to me.”

  “And what would that be?” said Sister Beatriz.

  Though the usual brusque vigor had returned to her voice, a palpable wariness remained about her eyes.

  “The bandits,” I said. “That the bandits would work together so closely and be so unaware of the romantic feelings developing in one another.”

  “Really?” said Sister Beatriz.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I have no trouble believing that,” she said, punctuating the sentence with a sad, sardonic laugh that evaporated as quickly as it had appeared. Lips tightening as if to stifle any further outburst, Sister Beatriz fixed her gaze downward on a sweater lying next to her on the bed.

  “Very interesting,” I said, eyeing her stolid face. “Very interesting. So in your opinion, two intelligent people—or three people, in this case—might harbor these kinds of feelings without their colleagues being any the wiser?”

  “Yes,” said Sister Beatriz, her fingers worrying at a loose thread in the sweater’s sleeve.

  “You see, I find that very improbable,” I said. “What I mean to say is, an intelligent person must perceive feelings of that nature in a close colleague—how could they miss them?—and to not acknowledge those feelings could only be interpreted as a diplomatic yet firm rejection of the sentiments in question.”

  “I disagree,” said Sister Beatriz.

  I waited for her to provide the kind of cogent support for her position that she always summons so effortlessly, but she did not elaborate or even seem willing to. So I went on.

  “But to work together so closely, and to know each other so well in so many respects,” I said. “How could they keep something like that hidden?”

  Refusing to meet my eye, Sister Beatriz said, “I suppose, Úrsula, that you’re asking whether my feelings for you might be in the least bit romantic.”

  And here was the Rubicon, daring me to cross it. Whether I waited seconds or minutes to make my final decision, I do not know. Whatever the quantity of time, however, so saturated was it with dread and anticipation that the moment threatened to engulf me like a flood.

  “Yes,” I finally managed to say.

  Sister Beatriz turned her body away from me in what I presumed to be revulsion, and at that moment I felt that death could not come quickly enough. Worse still, as I stood to leave, I saw that Sister Beatriz was crying, a thing that I had never before seen her do. The sight momentarily arrested me. Was the disgust she felt at my confession really so great? Ashamed and devastated, I hurried toward the door.

  “Where are you going?” said Sister Beatriz through her tears.

  The question caught me completely off guard, as did what happened next. In three long strides, Sister Beatriz crossed the room to where I stood. Taking my face in her slender hands, she leaned in and kissed me, her lips soft and salty with tears.

  Relief blossomed in my shattered heart and grew into something even greater, something even more sublime. With still-trembling fingers, I unbuttoned Beatriz’s blouse and slid it down her arms. Stepping briefly away from each other, we both undressed—not gracefully—shedding first our simple cenobitic uniforms and then, with awkward twists and hops, our remaining underthings.

  Beatriz’s skin against mine was cooler than I’d expected, bristling with tiny goose bumps. Kissing again, we sidestepped to the bed, easing ourselves down onto Beatriz’s cluttered mattress, sweeping aside piles of clothes and heaps of knickknacks in the process.

  Historiography has trained me well to depict sweeping battles, multigenerational dynastic conflicts, and the spread of revolutionary ideas, but it is at this point in my account, as I attempt to describe the thrill and relief I felt at Sister Beatriz’s touch, that I realize my powers of more intimate representation are sorely lacking. On the one hand, a precise anatomical description of what transpired between us fails to capture the moment’s thrilling mysticism. On the other hand, I might, as others have done before me, employ metaphor to capture that ecstatic thrill—exotic flowers? white lightning?—but I know that to metaphorize such bodily experience is to annihilate it, and so I reach a narrative impasse.

  “It breaks my heart,” said Sister Beatriz later that evening, the two of us lying side by side in her narrow bed. “It breaks my heart that we didn’t have that conversation years ago.”

  But so it goes.

  The truth is, Sister Beatriz and I should count ourselves lucky. To paraphrase ancient scripture, we have found, however briefly, our own insular Tahiti, a land of peace and joy amidst the appalling ocean of this half-known life. Many people live and die and never find such a pleasant refuge, although I would be lying if I didn’t admit that I, like Sister Beatriz, feel no small loss when I consider what might have been.

  FIFTEEN

  And now, reader, I bid you a hasty fa
rewell. The ship has docked, the gate has opened, and our fate has been decided.

  At the pivotal moment, Beatriz and I sat at the edge of her bed, our legs touching, her elbow gently prodding my side as she scribbled feverishly in her notebook to record the last of her experimental findings. When we heard the massive docking gate open, though, she stopped writing and looked over at me, her sharp eyes both seeking and offering consolation.

  For a moment, neither of us breathed. In fact, I was so frightened in that vast and gaping silence that all conscious thought briefly ceased, overwhelmed by pure animal death fear. All I could do was grip Beatriz’s proffered hand with all my faltering strength.

  The spell was broken, though, when our ears were met with the unmistakable sound of happy laughter echoing through the halls of the convent.

  We were—we are—rescued.

  I must confess that my melancholy soul doesn’t quite know what to make of so many happy developments occurring in such a short period of time. Soon enough, I’m certain I will find new and compelling reasons to revive the feelings of gloom and foreboding to which I’ve grown so accustomed, but for now, I suppose, I will make do with this foreign sentiment in my heart, this unexpected joy.

  In a few minutes, Beatriz and I—along with the rest of our sisters—will board the rescuing spacecraft and depart for safer shores. With the brief time that remains, then, let us turn our attention to the final paragraphs of the Rhadamanthus IX episode:

  • • •

  Ultimately, Captain Sertôrian did not so much outwit Ruth Aylesbury and the secret police force of Rhadamanthus IX, as outwait them. For seven long years she worked tirelessly within the organization, a model employee, applying the full extent of her talents to the execution of her duties, bringing to each tactical operation she oversaw a flair and precision that produced success after success after success. Her superiors interpreted such hypercompetence as zeal for the cause, and she quickly won their trust. The relentlessly shrewd Ruth Aylesbury remained the one holdout, always keeping a wary eye on Sertôrian, suspecting—and rightly so—that her star recruit might not be as devoted as she seemed.